Miss Lynette

I looked at my watch. 'Yeah. Maybe I should go home. I can make up the time on Saturday.'

'No. Come over to the house,' Miss Lynette said. Once again, it was more of an instruction than an invitation.

'Are you sure?'

'Of course. I wouldn't have said so otherwise.'

I followed Miss Lynette back to the house, abandoning my boots and my jacket in the boot room, and then following her up 'the servants' stairs' to the first floor. We walked past the door to the studio, and the door to what appeared to be a bedroom, and stopped outside a bathroom.

'I assume that you will want to have a shower,' Miss Lynette said. 'There's a towel on the shelf and a bathrobe behind the door. Just throw your clothes out into the passage and I'll ... well ... I'll sort them out. Dry them off. You know.'

As I started to undress, I discovered that I was indeed soaked through to the skin, so, yes, the prospect of a hot shower was not altogether unwelcome.

I showered, washed the flecks of mud out of my hair, towelled myself dry, and then slipped into the towelling bathrobe that, happily, was large enough to wrap around me and then some. I wasn't sure what to do after that, so I opened the bathroom door and just stood there listening for a moment or two. All was quiet. And so I decided that the best thing to do would be to go back downstairs and wait in the kitchen.

I guess that I had been standing in the kitchen for three or four minutes when Miss Lynette arrived. She was wearing the same deep pink robe that she had been wearing when I had come to see the greenhouse painting. 'That's better,' she said. 'Now I think some tea. And perhaps a sandwich.'

'I can make some tea,' I said.

'No. You just sit there. I'm afraid that I'm no great cook -- unlike my sister -- but I can make tea and things like that.' And then she said: 'Oh! And my sister has arrived at Gold Coast. I think that she's already finding it uncomfortably hot.'

'It may take her a day or two to acclimatise,' I suggested.

Miss Lynette did not seem convinced. 'Perhaps. But she even finds Spain uncomfortably hot.'

I sat at the kitchen table and watched as Miss Lynette made a pot of tea and started to make some chicken, cheese, and tomato sandwiches.

'The tomatoes have been particularly good this year,' I said.

Miss Lynette nodded. 'Yes. Very ... umm ... flavourful.'

'Not storing them in the refrigerator helps too,' I said.

Miss Lynette nodded again. We were getting on famously -- she in her pink bathrobe, me in my borrowed blue one. And then she said: 'Sex. Do you know about sex?'

I must say that I was more than a little surprised by her question. 'Do I know about sex?'

'Yes. Between a man and a woman. I know there are other kinds, but I mean between a man and a woman.'

'Well, yes, I guess so,' I said.

Miss Lynette frowned. 'Have you done it?'

'Umm ... yes.' There was no point in denying it. 'You know, once or twice,' I said.

'Oh.' She sounded surprised. 'Just once or twice?'

'Well, no, quite a few times really. But ... well ... you know what I mean.'

Miss Lynette nodded slowly as she buttered the bread and began assembling the sandwiches. 'Would you ... would you do it with me?' she asked.

'Do it with you?'

'Yes.'

'Is that a hypothetical question?'

She frowned. 'No. I mean would you do it with me?'

'Oh. I see. Well ... umm ... I ... umm.' I really didn't know what to say.

'I think that I would like you to,' she said. 'But, if you didn't want to, then I wouldn't want you to feel that you had to.'

'No. Of course not,' I said.

'If you need to think about it for a bit,' she said.

I still didn't know what to say.

Miss Lynette finished making the sandwiches and poured two mugs of tea. 'Do you have a girlfriend?' she asked. 'I suppose I should have asked you that first.'

'Umm ... no. Not at the moment. I did have. Sandra. But she moved to London. For her work. And she ... well, she met another chap where she works. I guess these things happen. You know.'

Miss Lynette nodded. Slowly.

Just as Miss Lynette placed the plate of sandwiches in the middle of the table, five electronic bleeps sounded from the open door of a room at the other end of the kitchen. 'Our clothes,' she said. 'I put them in the washing machine. I just need to go and put them in the dryer. Help yourself to a sandwich.'

'Thank you.'

While Miss Lynette went to deal with the laundry, my mind drifted back to the night that I met Sandra. It had been at a party at the flat of one of my fellow hort students. There must have been about 30 or so people, mainly students. Drinking beer and cheap wine. Eating pizza. Dancing. I had been introduced to Sandra when she first arrived, but after that we seemed to spend the rest of the evening in opposite corners of the room. And then, somewhere about 11, she suddenly appeared beside me. 'I'm feeling horny,' she said. 'It must be the wine. I was just thinking that I probably need to go home and get myself off. But then I wondered if you might like to come and do it for me. Of course ... you don't have to if you don't want to.'

'Will I need any special training?' I asked.

'Oh, no. I wouldn't have thought so,' she said. 'And anyway, I will be on hand to give useful tips, help you find your way around, that sort of thing.'

'In that case, I'll get my coat,' I said.

'That's done. They should only take 22 minutes,' Miss Lynette said when she returned from putting the clothes in the dryer.

I had to smile at her precision. Twenty-two minutes. Not 20 minutes. Not 25 minutes. Not about 20 minutes. Twenty-two minutes. Precisely. 'You didn't need to go to all that trouble,' I said. 'But thank you.'

'You didn't want to sit around in wet clothes, did you?'

'No.' And then, because I was worried that we were going to return to the subject of sex, I asked her how she knew where to put all the little flecks of colour that made her paintings so engaging.

She frowned and studied the plate of sandwiches. 'Practice. I suppose,' she said eventually.

'If somebody had asked me to paint that scene this morning -- not that they ever would, and not that I ever could -- I would have ended up with half a dozen different shades of grey. But you started with yellow. And even your ploughed field had streaks of bright red in it.'

'Well, if you just want to capture the way a scene appears to the eye, a digital camera does a pretty good job. But what I try to do is capture the feeling of the scene. I want the person looking at the painting to not just see what I saw but also feel what I felt. If that makes sense.'

I said that it made lots of sense. And, for the next ten minutes or so, we ate our sandwiches, sipped out tea, and talked about how certain paintings were not only rewarding to look at, but also had the power to remind us of a certain place at a certain time in our lives.

And then, as I swigged the last of my tea, Miss Lynette looked at me and said: 'Have you thought?'

'Have I thought?'

'Yes. Do you want to have sex? With me, I mean.'

'Are you sure that you want to?'

'Yes,' she said. 'That's why I asked you.'

'OK,' I said. 'Then let's see what happens.'

Miss Lynette nodded. 'Yes. Yes, we should see what happens.'

'And if you change your mind ....'

'I won't.'

I nodded. 'And when do you think we should do this?'

'Well, probably now,' she suggested. 'It's too wet for you to work outside. And I've done enough painting for the day.'

'OK.'

'We should probably go upstairs.'

'Lead the way,' I said.

I followed Miss Lynette back up the servants' stairs and back along the wide passage. Just past the bathroom in which I had earlier taken a shower, Miss Lynette pushed open the door to a bedroom.

'Will this be alright?' she asked.

'Looks fine to me,' I said. 'But before we start, we might need a large towel.'

Miss Lynette nodded and went next door to the bathroom. Moments later she was back with a large bath towel.

'Excellent,' I said. 'And I don't suppose that you have any massage oil or anything like that.'

'In the top drawer there.'

I opened the drawer and, sure enough, there was a brand new bottle of Aphrodite Massage Oil. I also noticed three different unopened packets of condoms. Either Miss Lynette was a sex machine, or like a good Girl Guide she was being prepared.

I spread the towel out on the bed and instructed Miss Lynette to lie back and relax.

She hesitated. 'Do I ... do I need to take my bathrobe off?'

'Whatever makes you most comfortable,' I said. 'It's up to you.'

She lay back on the bed, resting her head and shoulders on the pillows, but she kept her bathrobe on. And that was fine. I poured a small quantity of the massage oil into the palm of my hand and smeared some onto each of her feet.

'What are you doing?' she asked, frowning.

'Giving you a massage. It'll help you to relax.' I'm not sure that she was convinced, but she nodded anyway. Slowly, rhythmically, taking my time, I massaged her toes and the tops and soles of her feet, her ankles, her calves and her shins, and then, pushing up the skirts of her robe, I massaged the front of her thighs. I could still feel a hint of tension in her muscles, but that was only to be expected.

After about five minutes, I told her that it was time to roll over onto her tummy. 'And we'll just slip a pillow under your hips,' I said.

With her now lying face down, I revisited her calves -- which were now much softer -- and gradually worked up to the backs of her thighs. And then, gently, and being careful not to alarm her, I raised the skirts of her robe still further, poured a little more oil into my cupped palm, and began to massage her raised buttocks. 'OK?' I asked. In reply, she mumbled something that I took to be in the affirmative.

As she relaxed more and more, I continued to massage her buttocks with one hand while using my other hand to stroke the inside of her thighs, every now and then applying just a little extra pressure, encouraging her to spread her legs slightly. And, as her legs parted, and her buttocks relaxed, I allowed my fingers to occasionally slip along the crevice, over the top of her pink rosebud, and ever closer to her partly exposed vulva.

And then it was time to roll her back over onto her back. But this time, I left the pillow under her hips, and I slipped the tie on her robe to expose her from head to toe. A little more oil, and I worked my way from her beautiful womanly tummy to her full breasts and then back again.

'That's very ... umm ... nice,' she said. 'You were right. I do feel more relaxed.'

'You look relaxed,' I said. 'And you look beautiful. And sexy.'

Miss Lynette smiled but said nothing.

And then it was time for the next stage. I got up onto the bed and knelt between her slightly spread thighs. A little more of the oil, and I began to massage her plump pubic mound. As I watched, I could see her vulva beginning to open up, her outer lips swelling slightly, her inner lips peeping out from within. I slowly ran my thumbs down the inside of her labia majora. Down, and then up, and then down again. I did this perhaps ten or 15 times. And with each pass, I felt her lips puffing out slightly.

By this time, her clitoris was beginning to peep out from under its hood. I was tempted to explore it with the tip of my pleasure finger. But no, that could wait; first I needed to gently massage her inner lips.

'What do you think?' I asked. 'Are we doing OK?'

'Well, I don't know about we; but you are doing very well indeed,' Miss Lynette said.

I took that as a yes. For the next few minutes, I continued to massage Miss Lynette's now-oily inner lips, and then I went to work on her clitoris with the pleasure finger of one hand while I teased the entrance to her vagina with the other. And then -- well, it had to happen -- I slipped a finger inside her. Her vagina was open and ready, but the moment I entered her, I felt her closing, gently, around my finger. 'OK?' I said.

'Oh yes.'

One finger became two and, by turning my hand slightly, I was able to gently massage the spongy magic spot behind her clit. Miss Lynette took a sharp intake of breath, and then smiled and giggled lightly. I think that is the first time that I had ever heard her giggle. In fact, I'm sure that it was.

With my free hand, I gently encouraged Miss Lynette to spread her legs still further and raise her knees. 'Yes. Perfect,' I said. The warm-up was over and I began to finger fuck Miss Lynette, first with two fingers and then with three. And then, noticing that her anus also appeared to be open and receptive, I slipped my little finger in there too.

'Oh, fuck yes,' she said.

Fuck yes? It was another first. Well, another first within my hearing anyway.

As I continued to finger fuck her, and massage her clitoris, Miss Lynette raised her feet in the air, and with each thrust from me she pushed back against my hand. Gradually, her breathing got shorter and shorter. And then, almost without warning, she gave a little yelp and grabbed my hand in hers, pushing it hard into her vagina, and trying to hold it still while she shuddered and writhed about like someone being tickled.

The shuddering and writhing went on for about 20 seconds, and then she relaxed. Totally. Rather like a ragdoll. She smiled, her eyes sparkling, her head moving gently from side to side. 'Yes. You certainly do know how to relax a girl,' she said. 'Who would have thought?'

Slowly, I withdrew my fingers, and then, leaning forward, I covered her flushed and now gaping vulva with little kisses.

For a while, Miss Lynette just lay there, smiling like that cat that had got all the cream. But then the faint frown of old returned. 'We are still ... well, we are still going to, you know, do it -- aren't we?'

'Do you still want to?'

'Oh, yes,' she said, her frown getting even deeper.

'Well, in that case we shall.'

I got up from my kneeling position between her thighs and walked over to the drawer in which I had seen the condoms, taking my borrowed bathrobe off as I went. 'I see we have a bit of a selection,' I said.

'I didn't know which ones,' Miss Lynette said. 'I thought that if I got some different ones, you could choose.'

'Makes sense,' I said. 'And since you are an artist who likes colour, I think that I shall choose one of these coloured ones. Blue, perhaps.'

Miss Lynette nodded.

Fortunately, the bed was quite high. 'Let's just move you around so that your bum is near the edge of the bed,' I said, stretching and stroking my half hard cock. Miss Lynette squirmed around until her bum was just on the bed and her legs were hanging over the edge. And then, just for good measure, I got her to lift up slightly, and I tucked a pillow under her hips. Perfect.

Miss Lynette watched intently as my cock responded to my stretching and stroking, and then even more intently as I tore open the little foil packet and removed the bright blue protective sheath from within. Slowly, watching her watching me, I rolled the condom down over my now hard cock. 'What do you think?'

'I think it looks beautiful.'

Beautiful? I must say that I never really thought of my cock as beautiful. Magnificent perhaps. No, only joking. Just an everyday average cock. Nothing more, nothing less. But if Miss Lynette thought that it was beautiful, that was quite OK by me.

I positioned myself between her spread thighs and, with the thumb of my right hand, I again began to gently massage her clitoris. 'Oh, yes,' she said, propping herself up on her elbows and watching as the head of my 'beautiful' cock began to enter her ready-and-waiting vagina.

We started slowly, my cock sliding all the way into her deep and already slick vagina; and then, after a brief pause, sliding almost all of the way out again. And then back in again. And then out again until just the head was inside her. In. And out. And in. And out. And all the time my thumb continued to massage her clitoris.

And then, for a second time that afternoon, a deep pink flush started to spread across Miss Lynette's upper chest and her breathing began to get shorter. It was time to increase the tempo. Soon, Miss Lynette had taken over clitoral manipulation duties and I was happily focusing on slamming my beautiful blue-clad cock into her hot wet cunt. Come together, The Beatles exhorted; and we did.