Marigolds, Martinis and Musk

Introduction: I don't usually have introductions, as I like stories where it may not be immediately obvious what's going on and hopefully things develop and become clearer in their own way towards the end. I try to build up the background and anticipation and in this story I attempted to play around with the point of view, it may work or (more likely) it may not. Let me know either way.

This is a story of romance focusing more on the characters than the sex. While there is some of that in the story, there isn't a great deal and it isn't all that graphic. If you're looking for long sessions of thrust by thrust detail, please look elsewhere.

Anyway it occurred to me that some people may not know who the 'Cadbury Milk Tray Man' was. He was a character in an advert that ran for many years on UK television, a James Bond type guy who would perform a stunt such as parachuting onto a gin-palace yacht whilst holding a box of supermarket chocolates just to impress a lady. And he always wore black, from head to toe. So there we are.

Are we sitting comfortably? Then we'll begin.

* * *

The old man could only see sky through the window from where he lay on the bed.

White clouds drifted steadily, but he could see no trees, no buildings, no people walking past. Outside of his room that glimpse of sky was his world.

He could sometimes hear noises from the outside world; traffic, sirens, aeroplanes in the distance and sometimes he made up stories to himself about what was around the corner of the window frame, like the children's father did in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Had he ever managed to watch that film all the way through? It was doubtful, parts of it went on far too long for a single sitting. If ever a film needed a decent editor, that was it.

Today he made his brain play tricks, so that it appeared that the clouds were stationary but the room was moving instead. It was as if he was falling through the sky, tumbling to earth. This made him feel giddy, so after several tries he concentrated on the light fitting in the centre of the ceiling. The long straight plastic moulding was unmoving and settled his mind, and when he returned his gaze to the window the blue and white had been replaced by featureless grey. Ah well, no more flying today.

He had a random flashback; scratchy material rasping against his ears and soft welcoming flesh against his mouth. As soon it came, it went and he was back in bed looking at the grey window.

Right now the nurse was due and she would be a welcome distraction from the monotony. She didn't have much conversation, but was handy with the rubber gloves, compensating for her brusque manner and severe haircut. It would be marvellous if he could have a young flibbertigibbet, a blonde with fluttering eyelashes but one mustn't ever complain, that would never do.

Right on time the door opened and she let herself into the room. Janice, she called herself. He could remember that because she had big lips and was a nurse. Like Janice from the Muppets, the one with the big lips who played guitar in the Electric Mayhem band and played a nurse in the Veterinarian's Hospital sketches. He couldn't tell her that of course, that wouldn't be terribly gallant. So - the nurse with the big lips.

He liked to find something to help remember stuff like names. He didn't have a clue about many of the modern shows on TV, but the Muppets was a classic. He wondered if this Janice ever played guitar.

Her face was pretty enough. Some coarse lads of his youth would have described those full lips as 'CS lips'. Cock-Suckers, such a crude and unpleasant term. He mustn't say such things out loud, behave yourself, Sonny Jim or you won't get paid.

Janice dragged the vacuum cleaner behind her and with a brief word of greeting started to clean the floor. The annoying whine from the motor filled his ears, but he had the pleasure of her rear view wiggling as she manoeuvred the machine around unseen obstacles on the floor. Damn, that was a mighty fine ass, tightly covered by her maroon cotton uniform. Did she suck as well as her machine? Behave yourself.

As she bent over to clean under his bed he was able to peer briefly down at her cleavage. The uniform was bulging with gaps showing glimpses of flesh pressing firmly against the material. The top button was undone and he could see soft pale globes nestled in white lace. Did women realise what that sight did to an old codger?

He noticed a movement and averted his eyes, but it was too late. She was retuning his gaze with a slight smile tweaking at the edges of that luscious mouth. She said nothing about his mistake though, just carried on with the tasks.

She retrieved a duster from her basket and went around the room, cleaning the surfaces. Her breasts wobbled vigorously with the movement oscillating in harmony with her ass.

His mind drifted back to a physics class from his school days. What was the name of the effect? Resonance. Providing the timing was spot on, one wobble amplified the movement of another. Like two people on a trampoline, one making the other jump higher.

He savoured the vision whilst anticipating what was to come.

There was another memory. An engine chugging steadily. The horizon was rising and falling; he was on a boat. A lady with a bare brown ass was bent over, revealing a clear white tan line at the crease where buttocks met thighs. He knew but couldn't see from this angle that heavy boobs were hanging down, swinging with the motion of the boat.

Strong legs were wide apart, braced for the effort of pulling a heavy weight out of the water. Showing the woman's pussy from behind, between her thighs. A glimpse of crimson against a background of bushy hair. Mustn't stare at her fanny, her husband is driving the boat and can see us. Is that the right word, driver? He doesn't mind people looking at his naked wife but it's rude to ogle.

The boat tilting, then Helen being hauled over the side to land in a sprawling heap on the floor. A laugh on her lips, dripping wet all over. For a moment the two women had been embraced, breast to breast. One lightly tanned, the other deeply. Toffee to coffee.

The coffee-coloured woman now standing upright, the white butt-crease invisible once more and the wind in her hair as the boat accelerated.

Oh Helen, why did you have to leave me?

* * *

Swiftly back to reality.

The nurse Janice was laying down her mops and cloths, stood upright and reached into her basket. This was what he had been waiting for. Snapping on her bright yellow rubber gloves, Janice turned to face him. Swiftly she pulled down his bed-covering and loosened his pyjamas. He couldn't move to resist, but then he didn't want to. This was the high-light of the day.

From underneath his pants his pad was removed. He hated that thing, but he had no choice and it was better than the alternative; lying in the squalor of his own soil for hours on end. Now he was ready for the best part of all. He wasn't disappointed, she produced a large flannel cloth and mopped him down.

It was warm, wet and very pleasurable as Janice washed his nooks and crannies. Around his cock and balls, then deep between his buttocks as she lifted his leg for easier access. She lowered his useless limb, rinsed out the cloth and returned to his cock.

Many years ago he would have been embarrassed by this. He was exposed to her view and couldn't conceal himself even if he had wanted to. However nothing was further from his mind as he felt himself stiffening as a reflex to the scrutiny and contact. The rubber of the gloves was around his penis, rubbing him to full erection.

He could hear her breathing and the slapping noise as her hand moved vigorously against him. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the sensation but knowing what would come.

Suddenly Janice stopped and took her hand away. She always did, leaving him in frustration but proudly stiff. He opened his eyes just as her hand returned swiftly, slapping the end of his knob sideways. She laughed, a gentle cackle. "Look at you, you randy old sod. Still got some lead in that pencil, eh?"

The impact drove the rigidity from him and then she was rubbing him with a rough towel before replacing his pad and pyjamas. All too soon she was collecting her stuff, ready to leave. The woman bent down and picked up her basket, exhaling heavily. He wondered what she would look like without that industrial-strength garment. He always did, it was part of the ritual just as much as the order of the contents of her basket. It came into his view, with the packet of Marigold brand rubber gloves on top. It was always 'Marigold' brand.

He didn't know why she gave him a rub after his wash, it was just something that she did and he wasn't about to complain.

A long time had passed since his wife had passed away but he missed every day. Helen of Troy, the most beautiful woman in the world. He missed the evenings with her, sharing a bottle of Martini, the regular intimacy, the way she would casually reach for him in the darkness to cup his balls and wait for him to stroke her breast until she fell asleep. Or on a cold winter's morning her warm mouth around his cock to wake him, soft and sleepy transforming to hard and eager in a few luxurious seconds. Better than any alarm clock in the world.

Asleep, dreaming of getting ready for work and through the fog of half consciousness hoping that it was for real, that he wouldn't wake up and have to do it all over again. Then a wet warm suction, a tongue working its magic sliding around his glans. Lips tight around his shaft, and when he was up and ready she might climb on top and do all the work for him with her long legs framing her chest and her breasts bouncing between her knees. After he could take no more and released himself into her, she would stand and slowly drip the product of their love-making. A sensual sight without compare.

Alternatively she might rub her pussy against his face; rest her entire weight on his nose and mouth and see how long he could stand being suffocated. Either way that salacious, sexy smile, the half-curled lip looking down enjoying the power of her body over the weakness of his flesh. Sometimes he had enough breath left in his lungs to blow a raspberry against her clitoris, guaranteed to make her jump away laughing.

Mostly though he missed just lying next to her listening to her gentle snores in the night. He still kept her nightie on the pillow so that her musky scent lingered in his nostrils whenever he slept.

* * *

Janice had caught him several times peering down her cleavage. She never said anything though, it was amusing and somewhat flattering that she could still hold a man's attention at her age.

She had teased him most days, undoing a button and giving him a show. He had a television in the room but he never watched it. She had offered many times during the early days to switch it on but he never accepted. Perhaps the real show she put on was enough. He was happy with his thoughts and the window. God knew what he found to look at, only a bit of sky was visible.

Her duties were to clean the room, wash him, change his clothes and the bedding as required. The room never needed much, there were no visitors. It was quite a boring job and it always livened up the day to have a bit of banter, even if it was somewhat one-sided. Give an old man a cheap thrill, enjoy the effect that it had on him.

She could give him a hard-on any time she chose, as old as he was. Mop him down with the warm flannel, her Marigolds on her hands. A quick grab of his dick, a rub and he was up. Growing big in her grasp, it was like the old days when she was young, a lad kissing on her neck in a shady corner of town. A bit of fun really, no harm in it. Slap him down when he became too excited.

Today she had some time spare. He had been wheeled out, still in his bed for treatment. It was putting off the inevitable moment and achieve nothing in the long term. Janice picked up some papers that she had found in his bedside drawers, they had been hidden from view as if the neat handwriting was never intended to be read. It was a bit intrusive, an invasion of his privacy but all the same she sat down on the edge of the bed. Idly she started to read the papers.

* * *

Dear Helen.

I write this letter to your memory. I know that you will never read it, but nevertheless I will commit these words to paper. I will start by recalling the retirement function that changed my life and yours. It was the occasion that caused us to meet all those years ago.

It was during that evening that I had a conversation with Steve, a guy who had worked at the company previously but had left, wanting to get rich, be an entrepreneur, own his own empire. What he had ended up doing was owning what he described with a straight face as an escort agency.

That raised my eyebrows but he told me over a pint that it was nothing seedy, no strippers or prostitutes. He arranged accompaniment for unattached ladies. As he explained, well-off females who were not in a relationship found it advantageous to have a male (or female) person to escort them to business events, functions or even on holidays. They felt uncomfortable hanging out in hotel bars alone, looking like they were trying to hook up with inebriated businessmen.

All of the people he employed were smart, bright and without police records. There weren't any overweight convicted sex offenders who didn't know how to eat peas in polite company.

He was building up his portfolio of staff and asked if I had a wife or girlfriend myself, and if I was interested in earning extra cash. I hadn't and I was, so we arranged for a longer meeting between ourselves a few days later.

So I met Steve again and he took some details and photos and laid out some background. The clients were wealthy and paid a lot of money, so expected a certain level of service. When accompanying a client I would have the same menu options in restaurants, the same class of travel, the same level of accommodation. After all, to outside observers we would be a couple.

No corners were to be cut, I would be expected to have a business suit and also a black-tie suit for formal functions. They would be made by an approved tailor, arranged immediately and paid for by Steve. I would also need to maintain my fitness and level of grooming -- no tattoos or piercings. And no peering up their skirts. Any complaints of inappropriate leering or groping meant that there would be no pay and no repeat business. So behave yourself, Sonny Jim. I also had to supply copies of my passport, driving licence and a calendar for when I was available. After all, I had my day job and had to arrange time off as necessary.

So I had my suits made and then waited. A couple of months later when I had forgotten about the deal, I had a call; I had a booking for a weeks driving across France with a divorced lady who needed a break. Once I had confirmed that I had time off work, Steve asked me to pop over to his house as he had the car ready. I was to drive it in the meantime to become accustomed to it and find out what all the buttons did.

Steve wasn't kidding about corners not being cut. The motor turned out be gorgeous; it was a deep red Jaguar convertible with a V12 engine that purred at the roadside but transformed into a snarl under load. I made the most of the time available, driving it anywhere and everywhere. The car was designed to munch the miles and deliver the occupants in perfect condition and style so the trips that I made on my daily commute were easily accomplished and I became the envy of my mates at work. It was an arrangement that I could get used to.

So at the appointed time I stashed my own luggage including the suits in the car and made my way to the address given. Steve had been quite explicit about what I should wear; black trousers, black roll-neck sweater, black polished shoes and a gift of a box of chocolates in my hand.

It turned out to be a big old house hidden behind a tall hedge, with a gravel driveway and manicured lawns. When I rang the old-fashioned door bell you appeared, but immediately laughed out loud. That took me by surprise a little, it was the first time either of us had seen the other and hilarity was not what I was expecting.

I saw that you were a little older than me, classically beautiful with expensive hair and possibly the longest legs that I'd ever seen. It was a vision that I will take with me to the end of my days. You were wearing a tightly fitted dress that emphasised your hips and slim waist, and even when you weren't laughing you always seemed to have a smile that hinted at a dirty joke somewhere.

You recovered yourself shortly and explained. You had told Steve that you wanted to be picked up and whisked away on a continental trip, taken away from all your troubles and woes. Now I had turned up dressed as the man from the Cadbury Milk Tray chocolates advert.

Clearly Steve had advised me what to wear as a joke, an ice-breaker. It seemed to have worked anyway even if I did feel like I had been tucked up.

So I added your bags to mine in the back of the car and held the door open like a true gentleman for you. Those stockinged legs stretched out endlessly in a haze of musky scent into the shadows of the floor and out of my sight, your seatbelt nestled across that tight dress in your cleavage in the most distracting fashion and off we went, headed to a south coast port.

Our passage was well away from the truck chaos of Dover -- Calais which only takes a couple of hours, instead we were headed to Normandy via a much more civilised but longer route. On the way we exchanged life stories. I kept mine to the minimum as my job was to listen and not to dominate the conversation. Besides there's not much you can say about working in computer systems architecture which is what I was doing in those days; most people had eyes that were glazed over by the time I finished the description.

You told me your potted history; recently divorced from your husband who was someone big in civil engineering. Designing bridges and tunnels had earned him a great deal of money over the years, you had met while you were a student at university and doing some modelling and promotional work to top up the student grant. At a conference you caught his eye and were soon married.

Your husband (who you always referred to as 'the asshole') had insisted on an extravagant wedding - then on you being a stay-at-home wife, so you ceased your studies and became his arm-candy. You joined him at office functions where he exchanged hilarious anecdotes with his colleagues, his all-time favourite being about a man who laid a driveway to his house with ornamental green glass chips. He had bought a truck-load to the astonishment of the dealer who had only ever sold them by the sack.

It turned out that the chips had been intended to be sprinkled on graves in churchyards and his wife had shuddered every time you saw it glinting in the moonlight. As stories went it wasn't too bad, except that he told this story at every gathering you went to.

Anyway, several months before we met he had traded you in for a younger model.

He had gone to another conference and found another student who had been boosting her standard of living by wearing skin-tight Lycra covered in advertising. When the affair came to light you won the house, a considerable income and expenses. The student lost her bodysuit and any chance of a Nobel prize in her field.

Now mid-life and with a lonely old age looming, you found yourself unattached and seriously bored. After several months of watching day-time television you had decided on this road-trip to rediscover your lost youth.

'Just think', I remember you saying, 'while I was deciding what colour carpet to have fitted, my friends were marching against the bomb, getting stoned and getting laid to the music of Sacha Distel.'