Tea in the afternoon
mf oral fist


He sees her first from behind: a woman standing alone at the bus-stop, big,
her left hand resting gently on the pole, lower, a little, than shoulder
high, her weight mostly over her left foot, large, wearing a shoe with a
broad heel of medium height, her centre of gravity almost vertically above,
supported by her thick white thigh---So white...He doesn't need to see, he
knows the whiteness that you only ever find with hair like hers: fine, too
tawny to be red, too auburn to be tawny, and he doesn't need to see it,
though needing to see to know, and desiring to see are very different
feelings---and from her white thigh the load is carried through the white
knee---He's almost swooning, thinking about her knee, anticipating the
dimpled opulence of her knee---locked column-straight above a swelling white
calf, a thick white ankle completing the architectonic progression >from
pelvis to foot, which bearing most of the weight, tilts up the left hip and
the right one downwards.

Her right shin crosses in front of her left, and to the left, beyond her
other foot, her right shoe rests upon its toe. The back of her right hand
fits exactly into the complementary curve of her waist. Her head is turned
to face in the direction of her left arm. She has broad shoulders and hips,
thick legs, and shapely calves and ankles, broad back, certainly
broad-bosomed, deep-bosomed perhaps. She is wearing a grey blouson and a
matching longish skirt of some shiny material, showing off her waist, broad
and proportionate, moulded unexpectedly snugly round heavy buttocks. Though
she ia standing still, he knows the way they sway, the way they shake and
tremble, when she walks, not light upon her feet, but with the heavy poise
of a gigantic cat. He tries to discern the outline of her pants, but cannot
make one out. Seeing her from behind, he wonders about her face. Her hair is
fine, and shoulder-length, turned under at the bottom. She will be a beauty,
he thinks, if she has a beautiful face.

He walks past the bus-stop, and looks into a shop window for her reflection.
First he sees the blouson is open over a high-necked teeshirt, white, tucked
into her skirt, loose over very large, low-slung breasts, that unsupported
hang on her belly, nipples and navel in line, but you would have to part the
breasts to see. Perhaps---He had been surprised once before---her nipples
would be tiny, in rosy little areoles. Below, her skirt is domed out by her
cushion-belly, and then, beneath, belly and thighs, combine to make the 'Y'
that hides the rose beneath a lock of crisp bronze. He always looks at the
body first, but what decides him is the face.

Her hair is brushed to the side across her forehead, an old-fashioned style
he thinks. Her eyes are large, rather round, her eyebrows, surprised in
arches, her nose small and snub, her mouth small, lips full but somewhat
pursed, chin pointed and small, cheeks round, he turns and looks her in the
face. Except for her eyes her features are small and crowded towards the
middle of her face. Her complexion is immaculate, white, peach-downy, he
could drown in her cream, but, at their corners her lips are turned down a
little, and she has a sulky look.

He has to speak. He walks back to the bus-stop. She is still the only person
waiting, in the quiet time in the early afternoon, before the afternoon
shoppers fill the street with bustle. He stands beside her.

'A pleasant day', he says.
'Yes, it is.' she says willingly, smiling. She uncrosses her feet, and lets
go of the bus-stop. 'I prefer it in the Autumn. It gets so hot and sultry in
the Summer.'

She looks less sulky. She stands quite straight as she speaks. He had half
feared that she would have hunched her shoulders forwards as so many women
do who have large breasts.

'Where are you going?'
'Nowhere special, I thought it would be nice to go for a walk along the
esplanade this afternoon.'
'May I come with you?'

She half turned away, and looked back at him beneath the veils of eyelashes.
'If you like.'
'I've got a car. We could go in that.'
'I'll meet you there.'
'We could go at once, and besides if I come with you on the bus I'll have to
come back afterwards to pick my car up.'
'Exactly. I'll meet you there.'
'How will I know that you will be there?'
'You'll have to trust me.'
'Where shall we meet?'
'Wait for me in the Beach Cafe.'
'Come with me in the car.'
'No. I don't know you.'
'Well I don't know that you will go to the Beach Cafe. Why should I trust
you if you won't trust me?'
'I am quite happy walking on my own,' she says.

She looks at him and touches her teeshirt, by accident it seems, over a
nipple, with the middle finger of her right hand, 'but sometimes company is
pleasant.'
'I'll fetch the car and wait until the bus comes and then I'll follow it to
the beach.'
'If you like.'
She watches as he hurries away, angles and impatience.

He walks briskly until he turns a corner out of her sight and then he runs
from the shops, through the streets of offices, to streets of houses divided
into flats, to the leafy street of houses in large gardens, where he usually
parks his car, away from the centre, away from the carparks, away from the
meters, normally a five-minute walk, savoured usually for the satisfaction
that for a five-minute walk he can park for as long as he likes for nothing;
but not today. By the time he has driven back to the bus-stop the woman has
gone. 'Has there been a bus?' he wonders, still panting from his run. He
checks the timetable and his watch, there ought to have been, but perhaps
she just walked away, prudent, avoiding the strange man.

Indecisive, he stops, waits, decides. In twenty minutes he can be at the
Beach Cafe, in twenty-five he can have searched and found her presence or
her absence, and the pleasure of her presence is worth the time.

The tide is in. The clouds are rolls of grey cotton. The waves are breaking
in an irritable chop. It's not, after all, an afternoon for a walk along the
esplanade. He parks his car at the kerb beside the cafe, Jazz-Modern
classical, in marble, with picture windows facing towards the sea. She is
sitting at a table in the window, conspicuous, waiting, a pot of tea, and
two cups are on the table.

He trips on the threshold as he goes into the cafe. She watches, and
Cheshire-cat-like smiles.

'May I join you?'
'Please do...'
'I didn't think you'd come.' they say together, He looks at the two cups;
and she sees his looking at them.
'Really, I didn't.'
'I hoped you would.' they say together.

They drink their tea. They talk. It's a small town, but not so very small,
and they share acquaintances in common, they go to the theatre, and to the
opera, they like music and painting, they establish themselves in the social
matrix. This is what makes them safe.

The afternoon passes slowly: more tea, some cakes, cream, pastry, chocolate,
petit fours and more cakes. He watches smiling as she nibbles, smiling and
sensual, sweet-toothed, sweet, soft-bodied, heavy woman. He loves it that
she doesn't make excuses, doesn't say 'I shouldn't...' but consumes her
pleasure, in innocence, with her mouth.

Afterwards she looks out. The clouds are now continuous. It's drizzling.

'Time to go home.' she says at last, zipping up the blouson.
'Please let me take you.'
'I'd like you to take me now that I know you.'

They walk together to the car, and half a pace behind he possesses the
vision of her arse, swaying and heaving within her skirt, measuring it,
weighing it with his eyes. He opens the passenger's door and she sits, like
a model-girl, across the seat, and then, daintily pivots, taking her legs
together into the car as she faces the front. She does up her own seat belt
without complaint.

He has been femur-stiff for most of the afternoon and as he sits down he has
to adjust his trousers. His fingers linger longer than perhaps was
necessary. She notices, a corner-of-the-eye glimpse, and perhaps she doesn't
notice.

The house she lives in is rather splendid, with a stairway leading through a
shell-pedimented doorway into the hall, with round-headed niches between
Ionic pilasters to the architrave. She leads him up the curving stair.

'Why was she waiting for a bus?' he wonders, but he does not ask.

'There is the bathroom;' she says 'and this is the bedroom.'

The bed is draped and canopied, the eiderdown turned back, the midnight
velvet curtains are enriched with swags of bullion.

'Do you live her alone?'
'Approximately.'
'Approximately?'
'The cleaning woman comes, and sometimes other people.'

She stands in front of him and unzips her blouson shaking it from her
shoulders. She looks at him. By chance or by foresight the chair he sits in
aligns obliquely with the cheval glass behind her, and he can see most of
her back as well.

She reaches over her head and catching the collar in her right hand she
pulls the teeshirt over her head and off in one quick movement. As he had
conjectured she does not wear a bra---How could a bra be designed to
support, to contain... that superabundance? Instead she wears a kind of
white bodice or cincture with broad white satin straps that go over her
shoulders: it is little more than a broad belt of lace that encircles her
back and the upper parts of her breasts, constraining them quite tightly. It
is closed, in front, with a row of tiny pearl buttons, leaving the lower
halves of her breasts, and her nipples and areoles, quite uncovered.

He had been wrong: the areoles are saucer-wide pools of lobster-coral beaten
into cream, encircling white-cherry nipples. Her knickers, French,
high-waisted, satin, white, are partly overhung.

His glance slides to the glass and with his eyes he fondles the majestic
fulness.
She looks at him sharply, and he understands.
'I'm sure you'd prefer it if I washed my hands first.' he says, standing up.
He hurries to the bathroom, everything is large and white, he notices,
washes his hands, and of course, elsewhere as well, and goes back.

While he was away she had taken off the knickers, and the stockings and
suspender belt. All that is left now is the bodice. And she is lying poised
upon the bed.

He undresses---Her turn to scrutinise---quickly; and she sees wire-thin
muscles over knobbly bone, a tall and narrow frame and poker stiff, his cock
vertical against his belly.

He goes and lies beside her. Should he kiss, he wonders and he kisses. He
puts his arm around her shoulder. He feels the softness and the amplitude of
her shoulders. Though her mouth is small, her lips are full and kissable. He
kisses. Their lips burn one another.

He would like to undo her bodice and fondle her breasts, so large, so softly
slack, weighing them, lifting them, shaking them gently in his hands. He
would like to lift one breast up so he could take the nipple in his mouth
and suck and suck until his lips were burning, watching as she took the
other in her mouth to suck and suck until her lips and nipple were burning;
but she had taken off all her other clothes and therefore she must have left
the bodice on for a reason, so he does not try to undo it; but he measures
her extent with his eyes. If she chose to she could tuck her breasts under
her arms and hold them with the nipples pointing backwards. She could touch
her clitoris with a nipple if she chose to, and if she chose to she could
lift her breasts up over her shoulders and touch them nipple to nipple
behind her neck. 'Perhaps', he thinks 'these are the games she doesn't want
to play.'

He is on her right side, reclining on his left elbow. She looks at him. He
slides towards her, slipping his left hand around her shoulder and she lies
down, on her side. He is lying on his. They are close enough to kiss. He
parts his lips, points his tongue and feathers it along the inner margin of
her lips.

'Oh,' she says, 'it burns.'

He inserts the index finger of his right hand just between her lips. She
feels it moving side to side. He finds the inner margin of her lips again.

'Oh,' she says, 'it stings.' Casually, because time is suspended, there is
all the time he couold conceive of needing, deserts of time, he takes the
moistened finger and carefully traces the complexity of her left ear.

'Oh,' she sighs, discovering, remembering something she always knew about,
had never forgotten, but was discovering anew for all that. Slowly he traces
the angle of her jaw firmly enough for her to be aware of the bone.

Suddenly, his fingernail, edgewise, scores a line >from throat to navel. She
gasps, and not with pain, but with surprise. For a moment he pauses circling
the navel, before his hand is at her hair. She parts her thighs, he slips
his hand between, Sea-anemone-soft his fingers comb her hair, part her lips,
and the finger, blind, tentative, nuzzling finds deliquescence, stirs
gently, pausing for a moment, before flying back to her face and
consecrating it with lines of chrism.

'No, don't do that.' she says.

He swims in her perfume, scallop-sweet, marine, Venus from the waves, but he
stops the anointing and streaks the residue above his upper lip.

There is a pause. They look at each other. Should they speak? Should they
ask one another what to do next? Should they discuss matters? Engage in
dialectic?

'Have you a secret wish?' he asks hesitant.
  ------------------------------------------------------------------------

'A scret desire?'
She looks at him, cat-like, under lashes, sidelong.
She sits up, leaning back against the bed-head.
'Yes.' she says, 'Have you?'
He nods and says 'You first...Tell me'.
'Sit up.' she says.
He sits up, aware that the tumescence is subsiding. He feels expectant and
irritable.

She takes hold of his right hand in her right and, flattens her left hand,
palm against his palm, aligning the base of her palm against the base of
his. Her hand is small and soft. He feels the softness of her finger tips.
She feels the hard, dry, heat of his. She leans over and opens the cabinet
beside her bed and takes out a heavy jar of alabaster, and opens the lid.
She plunges her fingers into the contents. She takes them out clotted with
sweetly smelling unguent.

'Watch", she says, spreading it covering her hand to the wrist. He watches
as invited: he could not stop watching to save his soul. He anticipates. He
is incredulous, and not incredulous; but he regrets that the sweetness
overwhelms her own more delicate sweetness. She lies back on the bed, and
spreads her thighs. Carefully, the fore and ring fingers part the lips and
the middle one fingers between them, snatching her first, immediate, orgasm,
clitoral-sharp, a single heave of the hips, piercing her, but leaving her
depressed, no more than a sneeze between the legs, leaving her hungry, and
her hand goes lower, the fore and middle fingers enter the vestibulum,
opening it, she feels the muscles tense but relaxing. She parts the fingers
into the 'V', feeling the astonishing resistance of her muscles and then the
sudden yielding. She feels herself fall open.

She takes out two fingers and immediately inserts three. It is already tight
and painful, but painful in the way that does not hurt. Three fingers
removed and replaced with four. This takes the careful parting of the outer
lips and then her hand is sunk inside her, except for the thumb, which lies
relaxed along the line of lips, where beneath, her clitoris is ridged and
taut. He sees the circles darkening round her eyes. She is in some
discomfort, but she waits a while and the muscles relax a little more. He is
amazed, fascinated, intent, heart pounding, aroused almost intolerably. She
withdraws her fingers. She plunges them, pressed together, fore, ring, and
middle fingers tip to tip, thumb in the curving hollow between the fore and
ring finger, little finger completing the beak, into the ointment jar and
then into herself. He watches and excitement and concern vie with one
another as he sees the force she applies to drive the hand inside her.
Ablaze with pain and pressure she allows a question to pass, and at the same
time the widest part of her hand is forced past the narrow band of
restriction into her body. Her forehead, beaded, gleams with cabouchons of
sweat.

He begins to have the feeling that something is going wrong. He looks amazed
at the wrist emerging from her body, at the stretched and straining lips. It
_is_ exciting, but disquieting too.

Using her free hand, and her legs, she pushes herself up the bed once again,
and lolling back against the bed-head her fingers writhe in the darkness,
finding the _place_ and she almost faints with agonising pleasure. She
sighs. She leans forward, easing her wrist, cramped in a tight angle by the
geometry of arm and cunt. She leans back again, her free hand moving to the
nipple of her right breast. As she touches it the areole draws together, the
coral darkening, the nipple standing proud, and as he watches, her index
finger circles it, and he knows without her telling him, and without his
needing to be told, that inside, the fingers are moving in chorus, conducted
by the index finger. The sigh shudders, and she lies back, and he watches as
she slowly withdraws her hand. Almost reverently he takes the hand and
kisses the fingers in turn and then the thumb.

It's almost dark he notices, as he holds her hand. It is softened,
moistened, and compared with this one her dry left hand feels hard, and
coarse.
He puts his arms round her once again and once again their kisses sting each
other's lips.
He reaches for the lowest button on her bodice.

'No.' she says quietly, her eyes dull, 'Please don't'
'Why not? I have a secret wish: to see you naked'
'No, you'll laugh, or sneer or be disgusted. I...flop about...'

But he persists one-handed to undo the button; but at the same time he says
'I won't laugh or sneer or be disgusted.'

'Please don't.' she says half-heartedly, knowing that it won't do any good
to ask. So she reaches for his wrists; but he is strong, and she can't
restrain him; he is not be restrained.
'I won't be ... unkind.' he says, but isn't going to stop. She is uneasy,
but there is nothing she can do. Button by button he opens the bodice and
then at the last one he pauses. She looks at him with the frozen-rabbit
stare of unhappiness and fear. He pauses.

Time passes with his fingers on the button, and then reverses and he
rebuttons them one by one.
'I wouldn't laugh.' he says sadly, 'or sneer, but...' There isn't any more
to say.

He lies back and his hand behind his head.

She leans across, happy forgiving, and kisses him. He feels her softness
through the bodice on his chest.

He is melancholy. His engorgement has seeped away.

She says 'I have a secret wish...' and reaches across his belly and thighs
taking his cock in her fingers. He observes sulkily as it, traitorous,
responds to her caresses, the caresses he is in no mood to enjoy. He watches
the skin stretch, the veins engorge again, the mitre emerging glossy and
purple as the foreskin shroud rolls back.

She is surprisingly unskilful, holding the foreskin tightly and jerking it
too far forward and too far back. He winces and reaches to hold her hand.

'Aren't I doing it right?'
'Yes, yes, but not so hard... more gently, more slowly...'
'I've done this before...' she says; but he is not convinced.
She stops.

'What now?' he wants to ask, but something stops him, politeness?

She moves down the bed. 'Will she?' he wonders and she will. She engulfs the
head of his cock in her mouth. He hardens. He feels her teeth. She is lying
awkwardly on her side, her head twisted round to take him, propped
obliquely, resting her weight on her elbow, propping her shoulder with her
right hand. He wants to say 'Make yourself more comfortable.' His left hand
slips throught the gap between arm and waist and he touches her breast,
lolling against the bodice.

'She only knows in theory', he thinks. 'She's read about this, knows what
ought to take place, but she's had no practise.'

He holds, touches her head gently, feeling the fineness her hair. 'It's not
happening' he thinks incredulously, feeling his detumescence in her mouth.
But somehow, by will-power 'Feel her breasts...She sucking you. You are in
bed with a beautiful woman... he keeps his stiffness, for a while, by force
of will, but somehow she finds her pace and the long, acceleration begins.
For both of them the Universe focusses upon her mouth: she feels the aching
over- opened jaws, he feels the sweetness of her lips and soreness as sharp
little teeth, inexpertly applied, rake him from time to time.

Ironically as he is coming she is tiring, summing the geometric progression,
increment by decreasing increment reaching the total only after an infinity
of bitter sweetness, but suddenly it is on him, the fanfare of delight, the
fountain of pearl. He lies back and looks down at her idly. His hand
autonomous, stroking her head tenderly.

She looks at him, says nothing, and wriggles back to lie, on her side,
against him. She does not speak.

She reaches for his right hand and opens her mouth, and liquid streams on to
his level palm. He is surprised, not that she did not swallow, but that she
should dispose of it in such a way. Still holding his hand level, she
spreads the fluid over the fingers, over the back, a glove of moisture and
then she says 'I have a secret desire... Your whole hand here.' She points.
He understands, he understands the need for moisture, for lubrication.

'It will take some time, perhaps.' he says, as in his turn he slides down
the bed. She knows what to do. She raises herself on her hands and knees,
above his legs, then places her elbows above each of shoulders, and
straddles his body.

It is easy for him to slide his hand between her legs and place a finger
into her body, tightened again after the long delay. He feels the muscles
slacken a little, and he inserts the middle and ring fingers. He works them
gently, and she relaxes still more. To his surprise, she shifts, taking her
weight on knees and left elbow, and she undoes the buttons of her bodice. As
the last button is undone her breasts fall against his shoulders, beside his
face on either side, blocking the light, and he feels them soft against his
cheeks, such heavy bliss. He moves his head between them stirring them as he
forces his little finger into the unyielded passage. There seems to be a
single tight place, a narrow band of tissue that does not relax. He forces
his hand against it, and now she gasps.

'I'm hurting you?' he says.
'No, yes, go on.'
'You're sure?'
'Go on.'

He does not know how to get his thumb inside her. He takes his hand out,
copies the beak shape he saw her make and pushes, gently, firmly,
forcefully, and knuckles past the narrow band---She will tear---It's so
tight!...but she doesn't---then easily, and feels his whole hand inside her
and gripped at the wrist. She sighs in a mighty gust, and subsides over him,
her breasts pressed tightly against his face, he cannot breath, and with his
free hand he lifts her, supporting her weight, propping her up, and at the
same time moving his other hand within her.

For a while she sighs and then subsides, and then she takes her own weight
through her own shoulders and rests on elbows and knees above him.

Carefully, he withdraws his hand, tenser, tenser, as the knuckles pass the
band, and then, free. Afterwards, gathering her breasts to her in folded
arms, she nestles against him.

They lie back together, his arms round her shoulders. They kiss, they
caress, they doze beneath the quilt. They murmur to each other and then she
says:
'That is how spiders mate.'