Unspoken Pleasure

‘I haven’t asked you if you’re married,’ I asked, eventually, although I’d checked out her wedding ring finger and it was bare; in fact she wore no jewellery at all, and just a hint of makeup. She didn’t need much with her colouring. ‘I suppose I thought if you were married you wouldn’t have come for a coffee,’ I added.

‘I’m divorced,’ she said, ‘a long time ago.’ She gave me a level gaze. ‘And you’re single?’

‘Yes, I’m single,’ I confirmed.

‘Can I ask why you wanted to have a coffee with me?’ Abigail’s face was serious. ‘I mean you’re a lawyer and I stack shelves in a DIY store and I’m guessing that I’m between twenty and thirty years older than you.’

I was a little taken aback, but she was right to bring the subject up. It had been lying unspoken on the table between us. ‘I’ll tell you after I’ve got us another coffee,’ I said. It gave me a chance to collect my thoughts and decide what exactly I was going to say to her. In the end I chose the truth.

‘I thought you were lovely,’ I began. ‘You had a great smile and you’re attractive and I just had a strong feeling that I wanted to get to know you. And I’ve really enjoyed talking to you this evening,’ I added.

‘That’s very flattering, thank you.’ She hesitated. ‘And I’ve enjoyed meeting you.’ It sounded like a preamble to a goodbye.

‘I’d very much like to see you again, Abigail,’ I said quickly. ‘Maybe we could go for a walk together. The Long Mynd or the Stiperstones.’

Abigail paused again, looking at the table. Then she looked up at me with her clear, hazel eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said, slowly, ‘I’d like to do that.’

My head was in a whirl again, my heart thudding with excitement, which I was trying not to show too obviously. We arranged to meet a week on Sunday and I offered to drive but Abigail said she’d meet me in the car park outside Church Stretton, at the foot of the Long Mynd. But she did give me her mobile number. Shortly after that we finished our coffees and stood up.

Outside in the car park I wasn’t sure whether to hug Abigail, kiss her or just shake her hand. In the end we had an awkward little peck on each other’s cheeks and said our goodbyes.

A week on Sunday, the weather was appalling, even by the undemanding standards of a British summer. The skies were leaden and the rain sheeted down, flooding the roads and turning the gutters into little rivers. At nine o’clock I had a text from Abigail suggesting cancellation. I wondered about suggesting a pub lunch but decided that that sounded too needy. She proposed the following Sunday and I agreed.

That next Sunday was gorgeous. Wall to wall sunshine and a gentle breeze. I was nervous and I got to the car park a good half-an-hour before the meeting time, which gave me time to have some butterflies and try to think what we were going to talk about for four or five hours. At five minutes to ten a little hatchback pulled up alongside my BMW and Abigail waved at me from the driver’s seat. We got out and said hello and put our walking boots on and hefted our knapsacks and set off up the broad track that led to the summit ridge of the vast, crouching bulk of the Long Mynd.

It was a perfect day. The breeze on the top was stronger and refreshing and we walked and talked and it felt like we were strangers and intimates all at the same time. We talked about work and politics and sport and a myriad of other topics. She told me about her divorce and the fact that she had a daughter, called Freya, who was only two years younger than me. And we found that we both had a deep love of books and had read a lot of the same authors and so we talked passionately about literature. At midday we stopped for lunch at a pub in Little Stretton and then headed north, back to the car park, which we seemed to arrive at all too quickly.

We changed shoes and slung our bags in the back of our cars and stood looking at each other. We hadn’t discussed further dates during the walk.

‘Thank you,’ I began, ‘I really, really enjoyed your company and I’d very much like to see you again.’

‘Well, thank you for asking me,’ she replied with a smile. ‘I’d like to do something together again too.’

I stepped up to her and held my arms out and she came into my embrace and we hugged, heads on each other’s shoulders. I could smell her shampoo and a light, lemony scent. I pulled my head back and we looked at each other from six inches apart and then we kissed for the first time. And it was slow and gentle and didn’t involve any tongues but it nevertheless felt extremely intimate. I stroked her hair and she tightened her arms around me and we kissed regardless of the groups of walkers going past.

‘You don’t mind about my age?’ she asked, quietly, when we eventually broke the kiss.

I could hardly tell her that that was one of the things that had attracted me in the first place. ‘It is of no consequence,’ I stated, boldly, which was bollocks really because a twenty-five-year age gap (we’d swapped ages) was always going to have consequences in a relationship. But if I knew one thing, it was that I wanted a relationship with her. I wanted to be with her, to know her, to explore her personality, and her body. I felt myself become hard in my walking trousers. ‘Are you ok with it?’ I asked.

‘I think so,’ she replied, and I kissed her again and we said our goodbyes and drove away from the place where we’d first shared a kiss.

Our next date was a meal in a restaurant in Shrewsbury. This time I picked her up from her house, a modest semi-detached place on an estate on the outskirts of the town. She saw me pull up on the road outside and came out to meet me, so I didn’t get to go inside her house or to meet her daughter, although I was aware of a shadowy figure behind the net curtains, watching us drive away.

Abigail looked superb. She was wearing a black, knee-length cocktail dress and I could see her legs for the first time and they were slim and shapely with graceful calves and ankles. They were also encased in black stockings or tights, which made my heart thump in my chest. Her hair was freshly washed and gleaming and she’d put a bit more makeup on than usual, including a red lipstick. She’d also painted her nails to match. I told her she looked sensational and she gave me a grateful smile.

The meal was good, the service was acceptable and we shared a bottle of the house red. Actually I had one glass and Abigail had three, as I was driving. The restaurant was dimly lit, to encourage the patronage of romantic couples, presumably. There was a candle on the table and we looked at each other over it as we ate and drank and chatted and it felt like we’d been friends for years. It certainly didn’t feel any different to me than when I took ladies of my own age out, and the restaurant staff didn’t bat an eyelid. Perhaps they thought she was my mother.

Afterwards we strolled along the River Severn in the dusk, arm in arm, stopping at frequent intervals to kiss. After the second or third stop, the kissing got more passionate and my tongue slipped into her mouth and she gripped me tightly and pressed her mouth against mine and I got all dizzy with desire.

Towards eleven o’clock, when all the pubs and restaurants were emptying, I said, ‘I suppose I should be getting you home.’ We were sitting on a bench, looking out over the water.

‘I can’t invite you in, Tom,’ she said, quietly. ‘Freya’s got friends round and, well, it’s not the right time for you to meet her.’

‘Are you worried that she’ll think I’m too young?’

‘A bit, I suppose. I do want you to meet her, of course I do. But…’ She paused and I put my arm around her and held her to me, kissing the top of her head. ‘I could come to your house,’ she said, and I wondered if I’d heard right.

‘My house?’ I repeated, stupidly. What, now?’

‘Yes. If you want.’

‘Are you sure?’ I asked.

‘I think so,’ she replied.

So I drove her to my house, which was a three-storey Georgian terrace in the town centre, that I was slowly refurbishing. And when we got there I opened the front door for her and she went in and said how lovely it was and so I showed her round, explaining what I’d done and what I wanted to do and she listened and asked intelligent questions. Afterwards I opened a bottle of wine and drank a large glass almost straight down to settle my nerves. Because I was nervous; I felt like a virgin on his first date. Not that Abigail was in any way intimidating, quite the opposite, it was just that she was here in my house and she was fifty-three and I was twenty-eight and it felt a bit like I was going to take my mum to bed.

But after half the bottle had disappeared, most of it down my throat, I relaxed and we settled onto the big leather sofa in the front room and we kissed and I felt the contours of her body. Her full breasts pressed into my chest and I mashed my lips against hers and explored her mouth with my tongue, tasting her lipstick and saliva and she gently raked her fingernails down my back, making my stomach churn with desire and my cock fill with blood in anticipation.Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

After a bit I cupped one of her breasts and squeezed it gently. They were round and full and grapefruit-sized and it felt heavy in my hand. I stroked it and ran my thumb over the swell, seeking her nipple and Abigail broke the kiss and gave a big sigh and kissed my neck and ear.

I was in heaven; a genuinely mature lady was in my arms, and a strikingly attractive one at that, and we were kissing and I was fondling her breasts and she was showing every sign of enjoyment. I squeezed her breast harder then released it and slid my hand down over her flat stomach and thighs to the hem of her cocktail dress, where I slid my hand underneath the silky material and onto her stockinged leg. Abigail gave a little gasp, of arousal, not shock, as I slowly ran my hand up her stocking to the lacy top, and beyond, slipping my hand between her thighs and exerting just the tiniest pressure to encourage her to open her legs.

Somewhat to my surprise she responded straightaway, opening her legs wide to allow me full access. At first I was slightly taken aback; I was used to the stop-start seduction of younger girls. Then I remembered that I’d read, or been told, that older ladies tend to know what they want and don’t beat about the bush like their younger counterparts.

Her inner thigh, when my hand reached it, was warm and silky-smooth and firm. I massaged her skin for a few moments then my hand was seeking, and finding, her panties and she was breathing faster and kissing me with passionate abandon and I could feel the satin material of her panties and Abigail kicked off her shoes and lifted one leg and put her foot on the settee so that her legs were agape and I could stroke her pubic mound through the material of her knickers.