a hand over her knees and under her skirt. He reached the smooth warm skin above the stocking tops and playfully tweaked the suspender so that it slapped back on to her leg.
‘Naughty … butler’s don’t do that sort of thing I’m sure,’ she pouted. But there was nothing crude about the way he did things like that. He made it seem so natural.
George withdrew his hand quickly … no point in getting worked up with dinner still to be eaten. The advantage of having it twelve times a year was that when the time came, my God one wanted it. If she knew what it was like to feel such lust … if only … He watched her walk over to the door in front of him; couldn’t be enlarged prostate at his age but the thought of that silky skin moving, rubbing under her skirt made his breath catch and produced an almost painful ache in his chest.
Ridiculous … almost middle-aged and with a none-too-hidden paunch. Not much to do with love … too blunted he thought sadly … they say it isn’t the same without love, must be the most enormous confidence trick ever to keep adolescents off it. In an hour he would be in the warm hutch of lust and forgetfulness … or something pretty near it. Not bad that ‘warm hutch of forgetfulness’ and yet it was damned difficult to forget entirely … must be too practical, too aware of consequences. But who the hell would be able to forget … when even the bed one was sleeping on was paid for by her . Everywhere he looked she was there in some material manifestation. In a life like mine the shackles are always there. Even in my arms she is Sally White from The Fulham Bazaars and I am George and getting fat and tomorrow will be Sunday with fatter papers.
He sat down at the table in front of the lobster salad he had prepared. The single candle in the centre of the table cast sparkling reflections on the dark polished surface.
‘His lordship’s being very quiet this evening. Can I join in?’
‘I was thinking about the warm hutch of forgetfulness …’
‘You sound just like a book … Did you make it up?’
She was so unspoilt, so spontaneous … George didn’t feel that he could boast…
‘Read it in some magazine I think.’ How many men would have sacrificed the reward of merited admiration?
‘Oh, the lobster is good, it really is …’ She leant across the table intimately. Her words seemed wrapped in a seductive softness. How well she had done her hair and that frilly dress … takes one back a bit. Suddenly he had an idea, he got up and walked over to the sideboard. From the bowl of roses there he picked out a particularly dark-red bloom and breaking off the stalk near the top came up behind her.
‘Shut your eyes,’ he murmured; she obeyed. Deftly he slipped the rose into the soft hollow between her small breasts. She opened her eyes and looked down modestly.
‘You are in a funny mood tonight.’
‘Staid old George can get up to some pretty good tricks, eh? … You wouldn’t think it, but I once got a bit tight and pretended to commit suicide to scare them all.’ He sat back and nodded as though with satisfaction.
‘You never … I mean, they must have gone off their heads … Weren’t they hopping mad when they discovered?’
‘No, they took it pretty well. You should have seen Ruthie … cried like a baby … I can tell you, there’s been no trouble since then.’
If only fiction could become fact. Still at least Sally would never know. There she was only a couple of feet away … Her skin above the black dress looked brilliantly white, emphasised by the deep colour of the rose. Just like an old-fashioned Valentine with the lace and the rose. Her arms looked like the slender limbs of a young girl … Must have had too much wine, getting maudlin … George jerked himself back to reality with the sudden awareness of a young and naked body beneath her dress. Not even that could entirely blot out Ruth and Trelawn, but they certainly seemed further away.
In the
‘Naughty … butler’s don’t do that sort of thing I’m sure,’ she pouted. But there was nothing crude about the way he did things like that. He made it seem so natural.
George withdrew his hand quickly … no point in getting worked up with dinner still to be eaten. The advantage of having it twelve times a year was that when the time came, my God one wanted it. If she knew what it was like to feel such lust … if only … He watched her walk over to the door in front of him; couldn’t be enlarged prostate at his age but the thought of that silky skin moving, rubbing under her skirt made his breath catch and produced an almost painful ache in his chest.
Ridiculous … almost middle-aged and with a none-too-hidden paunch. Not much to do with love … too blunted he thought sadly … they say it isn’t the same without love, must be the most enormous confidence trick ever to keep adolescents off it. In an hour he would be in the warm hutch of lust and forgetfulness … or something pretty near it. Not bad that ‘warm hutch of forgetfulness’ and yet it was damned difficult to forget entirely … must be too practical, too aware of consequences. But who the hell would be able to forget … when even the bed one was sleeping on was paid for by her . Everywhere he looked she was there in some material manifestation. In a life like mine the shackles are always there. Even in my arms she is Sally White from The Fulham Bazaars and I am George and getting fat and tomorrow will be Sunday with fatter papers.
He sat down at the table in front of the lobster salad he had prepared. The single candle in the centre of the table cast sparkling reflections on the dark polished surface.
‘His lordship’s being very quiet this evening. Can I join in?’
‘I was thinking about the warm hutch of forgetfulness …’
‘You sound just like a book … Did you make it up?’
She was so unspoilt, so spontaneous … George didn’t feel that he could boast…
‘Read it in some magazine I think.’ How many men would have sacrificed the reward of merited admiration?
‘Oh, the lobster is good, it really is …’ She leant across the table intimately. Her words seemed wrapped in a seductive softness. How well she had done her hair and that frilly dress … takes one back a bit. Suddenly he had an idea, he got up and walked over to the sideboard. From the bowl of roses there he picked out a particularly dark-red bloom and breaking off the stalk near the top came up behind her.
‘Shut your eyes,’ he murmured; she obeyed. Deftly he slipped the rose into the soft hollow between her small breasts. She opened her eyes and looked down modestly.
‘You are in a funny mood tonight.’
‘Staid old George can get up to some pretty good tricks, eh? … You wouldn’t think it, but I once got a bit tight and pretended to commit suicide to scare them all.’ He sat back and nodded as though with satisfaction.
‘You never … I mean, they must have gone off their heads … Weren’t they hopping mad when they discovered?’
‘No, they took it pretty well. You should have seen Ruthie … cried like a baby … I can tell you, there’s been no trouble since then.’
If only fiction could become fact. Still at least Sally would never know. There she was only a couple of feet away … Her skin above the black dress looked brilliantly white, emphasised by the deep colour of the rose. Just like an old-fashioned Valentine with the lace and the rose. Her arms looked like the slender limbs of a young girl … Must have had too much wine, getting maudlin … George jerked himself back to reality with the sudden awareness of a young and naked body beneath her dress. Not even that could entirely blot out Ruth and Trelawn, but they certainly seemed further away.
In the
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