The Ladies Who Lunch Pt. 04

The Jill Sanders Story

Jill was a newbie to the lunch group. She was a teacher so was not free to attend the lunch sessions during term time, but it was half-term, so her friend and neighbour, Brooke had invited her as her guest. Guests were also allowed in the group's after-lunch talks but were obliged to confess a secret sexual adventure from their present or recent-past life as the price of admission.

The luncheon was over, and the ladies had assembled at Brooke Osmond's house for the after-lunch proceedings. There were five women present, other than Jill and the hostess.

Amidst the melee of activities around the preparation and offering of coffee, tea and other warm beverage to her guests, Brooke made the necessary introduction for Jill's maiden speech to the 'Ladies who lunch'.

"Ladies! Your attention please!"

The hubbub died down and Brooke continued:

"For those of you who have not yet been formally introduced, our guest today is Jill.

Jill is a very close friend and neighbour of mine and is with us today to tell us her story, in line with the tradition of such gatherings. I am sure that, like me, you have been waiting with great anticipation in the hope of a jolly good tale of intrigue, and raunchy sex.

On that score, I can assure you, that Jill's tale will not disappoint!"

Suppressed giggles rippled through the assembly.

Brooke closed with, "Jill, you have the floor!"

"Do I have stand up for this?" Jill asked, as a newbie and uncertain of the protocol at these events.

"No, darling, just do it from wherever you are most comfortable," Brooke assured her.

Remaining seated on an armchair, Jill went on.

This is her story:

Oh, good! Thank you, Brooke, and thank you, ladies for welcoming me to your lunch today.

This is a big departure from my usual daily routine, and I am enjoying it tremendously.

Well, my name is Jill and I'm married, have two grown-up children and I teach at a College of Further Education, here in the county. My story is about my recent dalliance with a 'man of colour', for want of a better description. I say, 'man of colour', not as a euphemism for 'black man', because although he is of African descent, his skin colour is not actually 'black'. It's actually a very, light mocha. His name is... well, let's call him 'Clifford', and his parents are West Indian. From Trinidad, to be precise.

I met Clifford during the course of my work. At the time, he was a trainee teacher and doing the compulsory on-the-job training or internship, as it's referred to, for one school term at the Further Education College where I teach. I was assigned as his "tutor" for the duration of his internship.

He was in his early twenties, and he graduated with degrees in maths and economics so, you could say he was very intelligent as well as good-looking. Good-looking, he certainly was - just imagine a young Denzel Washington - yeh, like that!

Every time he walked into the staffroom, all the female staff would wet their knickers, and I don't mean they'd peed themselves - you know what I mean! Yours truly, included!

And, as for the female students, they all, of course, had the hots for Clifford. Many of the students were the same age as him, some were older and married, as well, but regardless of age, their rivalry for his attention verged on the maniacal.

Outwardly, he was totally non-plussed by all the hormone-driven fervour around him, and there was no inkling of any extra-curricular shenanigans between Clifford and anyone amongst the staff or student body. After about the first month of his internship, rumours and whispers started to circulate, rationalising his uncharacteristically moral behaviour.

At first, it was said that he was gay. Certainly, his sartorial style was not what you would expect from a man in the teaching profession. He always wore beautifully tailored suits, with a fresh, crisply ironed white shirt and cufflinks.

He had an aura about him that said, "Male Model", not "Teacher" so, one could be forgiven for jumping to the conclusion that he was gay.

But then, if that were case, wouldn't there be reports of compromising incidents involving Clifford and male students or staff? - Strike that last one, none of the male staff fit the profile - there were none!

So then, maybe he was from a strict sect, like Jehovah's Witnesses, or Seventh Day Adventist, or Born-again Christian, that forbade pre-marital sex, or consorting with members of the opposite sex who were not of the same religious persuasion.

Possibly.

My own observations, and in my conversations with him, backed up the notion, to some extent, about his religious affiliation.

For instance, he did not appear to have any of the vices you'd expect to find in a young man - he didn't drink or smoke and eschewed any form of drug abuse.

And, yes, he was a churchgoer, as was all his family but then, his older sister was married to an Irishman who was a Catholic, to boot!

Actually, I came straight out and asked him about his religion - not PC, I know, but I was always a nosey cow! LOL!

He told me that his family were Baptists but he, personally wasn't at all religious, though he did attend church services, but that was more out of a sense of duty than strong religious conviction.

Hence, with all those theories shot down, Clifford remained an enigma in the annals of the College's history, at least so far as the general consensus was concerned. I was soon to discover, first hand, what Clifford's predilections were.

So, it was half-term, and the students usually arranged various social events, one of which was a pub crawl, in this instance. Clifford was very popular with the students so, they'd invited him to join in.

In fact, these events were open to all members of staff, but few, if any, actually participated. This included me. I had never been on one of these student binges.

Although Clifford he did not drink, he went along in the spirit of the event, and volunteered as a nominated driver to convey the participants around the planned course.

Also, he asked me if I'd like to come along, to give him 'moral support' in the midst of the students who were likely to be a little the worse for drink. He offered to bring his car for the purpose.

I'd never been on one of these piss-ups, but I thought, why not? I like a drink, but I wasn't going for the beer. It was more for the company.

By the time the pub-crawl finally wound up, many had already started to disperse, even before closing time, so as to get to a chippie before the crowds descended on the take-away establishments after chucking-out time.

The other two passengers that had come with us had made other arrangements, so it was just me and Clifford, the nominated driver for the evening.

"Well Jill, I'd better get you home, else I'll have your husband after me for keeping you out late!" Clifford joked.

"No, it's okay," I replied, in my husband's defence. In fact, Graeme's not like that. Even though I'm not often out late without him, he's never annoyed if I'm late in if he knows I'm with people that I'm very familiar with, such as work colleagues.

"Tell you what, then," he said, "I know a good place for gyro, not far from here, why don't we stop off on the way and pick up some? My place is close by, we can go back there and enjoy it in comfort, instead of out of a paper wrapping, in a parked car. What do you say? Trust me, I'm not a serial killer, or anything like that. I promise!"

I was dying for a pee, anyway, and I didn't fancy using the loos in any of the pubs we'd been in, so the idea was appealing.

"Okay, it's a deal, so long as I can use your loo!" I replied.

"No problem, madam! I'll ring the shop and ask my mate, Ali, to prepare two Gyro Specials, with all the trimmings. It'll save hanging around," He said, and rang up the kebab place to place the order.

"Don't go too mad on the gyro, I can't eat all of it if there's a lot of stuff on it," I protested.

I smile now, when I think about that, considering the subsequent developments. You'll see the funny side of this later.

Within ten minutes, we'd picked up the gyros and had arrived at Clifford's place.

Clifford's place was a two-bedroom flat on the first floor of a refurbished Georgian townhouse.

He shared the flat with the owner, a 26-year-old futures trader, who was also an old schoolmate. It was a Friday, so his flatmate was not at home. He was away for the weekend, as he was, every weekend.

I was literally, bursting for a wee by this stage, so as soon as Clifford had opened the door, I rushed in, asking for directions to the nearest bathroom. The guest toilet was immediately to the right of the main entrance, so I nipped in and latched the door closed.

Alas, I wasn't fast enough, and I had a small, involuntary escape of pee, which had wetted the crotch of my knickers.

"Shit! Shit!" I proclaimed, and swiftly sat and relieved myself.

Clifford must have heard my profane language. I heard his voice through the door,

"You okay, Jill? He sounded concerned.

"Yes, I'm fine, I just had a small accident!" I replied.

"Okay, let me know if you need anything," he responded.

So gallant, I thought to myself, but unless you have a washing machine with a short cycle and a tumble dryer, there's nothing you can do for me.

I wrapped my soiled undies in a few sheets of toilet paper, so that I could put it in my handbag. It was the soft, 4-ply stuff, which should stop any seepage, I hoped.

Shit! That's all I need now, to have my handbag smelling of wee!

Maybe there's a plastic bag I can use to put it in. What would Graeme say, if I get home without any knickers on?

Luckily, the wee hadn't seeped through to the jeans, which was some comfort, I supposed.

Clutching my wrapped, soiled undies I explained my predicament to Clifford and asked if he had a small, plastic bag I could have, to put it in.

"Don't be silly," he riposted. "You can't be walking around with wet knickers in your handbag. Give 'em here, I'll pop 'em in the washer! They'll be ready by the time we finish our gyros."

I noticed that the dinner table was set. The gyros were laid out, each plate on a place mat, and matching cutlery on each side. Two flute glasses were out set with a chilled bottle of what looked like Perrier.

Hm, he's been a busy boy, I thought.

"Jill, your knickers, please!" Clifford snapped me out of my reverie.

"I beg your pardon!" I snapped. It sounded harsh, which I hadn't intended, especially as he was trying to be helpful. Fortunately, he realised how that sounded and apologised profusely.

I explained to him that I preferred to do it myself if he just showed me how his machine works. I mean, it's not rocket science, is it, ladies? Having said that, in our house, Graeme still hasn't quite got the hang of what cycle to use for each type of load -LOL!

Clifford led me to the small laundry room, just off the kitchen and together, we set the cycle for a quick, hot wash. That, with a short cycle in the dryer, I figured, it'll be ready in 40 minutes, tops!

"Great job," I cooed, "they'll be ready by the time we've finished our gyro."

"Well, let's go eat, then!" Clifford chimed in.

We sat down to eat. Clifford ate his gyro with gusto. He was hungry, though he didn't consume any alcoholic drink. I was also feeling peckish but couldn't eat it all. It was too much for me and I told him so:

"Sorry, Clifford, I told you it would be too much for me."

We washed it down with the chilled Perrier. So, dinner was over in less than twenty minutes. I excused myself and went to check on the progress of my laundry.

The washing machine was on the rinse cycles. It would be another 20 minutes until the knickers would be washed and dried, ready to wear.

It was then, that an improper thought went through my mind, as I made my way back to the dining table: "What can a girl do in 20 minutes, without her knickers on?"

I tried to push away any impure thoughts about the circumstances I was in.

What if Clifford were to come on to me? I knew it wouldn't be in a violent or coercive way, it wasn't in his nature, I knew him well enough to be sure of that.

What would be my response? If I were honest with myself, my first instinct would be to jump into bed with him and have him shag me senseless! "A woman has her needs", is an overused cliché but it is true, nonetheless!

I am sure, all you ladies here share this sentiment, and by all accounts try to live up to it.

Am I right?

(A chorus of whoops and applause, ripples through the oestrogen-loaded assemblage.)

And so, this was certainly the circumstances in which I found myself there, alone with the delectable Clifford, who was lusted over by every female with a pulse!

But then, reality crept in when it dawned on me that, although time was not a constraint here, I didn't want to be starting something over which I could easily lose control as well as track of time which would have me turning up back home at daybreak and not just, in the wee, small hours of night. Then, I would have a problem explaining to Graeme!

In any event, I had already decided that I would not take the initiative, because that would be presumptive of me. It may well be that Clifford did not think of me in that way. So, for starters, that would not only be a terrible blow to my self-esteem, but also diminishing my standing in his eyes, if I came across as a man-hungry, married, middle-age woman.

And there I was, alone with him, and no knickers on!

I sat at the table and gave Clifford a reassuring smile and took a sip of Perrier.

"Yeh, won't be long," I informed him.

Clifford reached across the table and held my hands, one in each hand, and looked at me,

face- on. My heart was fluttering, but I hid any anticipation.

"Jill, I want to talk you about something, and I hope you don't react to the extent that it will spoil our relationship, both as a colleague, or as a friend, which I hope you feel you are."

"Yes Clifford, I am your friend," I added.

"Thank you, Jill, I truly treasure that..."

Imagine that! A man telling you he treasures your friendship! I felt myself moistening. If I'd had them on, I'd have thrown my panties at him!

Anyway, sorry to digress, he goes on:

"Well, you haven't ever demonstrated, one way or other, your feelings towards me. I mean, as a man, not a co-worker. Do you know what I mean?"

"You mean, do I fancy you?" I had to throw that out there.

Men can be so awkward and inept in handling language relating to feelings and emotion!

He agreed, that was what he meant. This was the watershed moment that I was waiting for. My answer would determine what happens from then on.

So, I let him have it, with both barrels:

"Of course, I fancy you! What woman wouldn't? You have to know that the whole female population of the college fancy you and would likely kill to be here now, alone with you!

The fact is, they're all wondering why you aren't fucking any of them! They would all, happily line up, to do just that! And that includes the staff, not only the students."

He looked at me, like a little-boy-lost, with a faint smile on his beautiful face.

"The question is, my lovely boy, do you fancy me?"

He was about to reply, but the fucking washer started beeping, to indicate the end of the wash cycle. I told him to hold that thought and stomped off to the laundry room.

I returned as soon as I'd slung the knickers in the tumble dryer and turned it on.

"Well now, where were we?" I asked.

He reminded me that I had asked him if he fancied me. The answer was in the affirmative, which then prompted my query:

"So, now that you confessed that to me, what am I supposed to do with it?"

"Well, since we are friends and we are talking in direct, unambiguous language, will you sleep with me?" was his reply.

I had to disabuse him of that possibility for that evening. After all, I had a husband waiting at home for me. A "quickie" was also out of the question, as it was getting late, but I convinced him for a rain check.

The following day was the weekend, so I could come over sometime in the next two days and spend several hours with him. In bed, if that was what he wanted, I was up for that.

It was a date. I'd come over on Saturday, that was the best day for him.

The afternoon was best for both of us, since Graeme would be at his football team's match, which was an away game, so he'd be gone the whole afternoon and well into the early evening.

With that settled, he drove me home. It was well after half-one by the time I got in, complete with knickers and all.

Graeme was already in bed - he has his own room so that he gets enough sleep, as I tend to fidget a lot, he says. I didn't disturb him, I just showered, slipped into bed and slept like a baby.

The next morning, I was up early to get Graeme ready for his trip to London for his team's game. I prepared his lunchbox, and I'd dropped him off at the station by half-ten.

All the way to the station, Graeme went on and on about the match, and he was meeting so-and-so, and they'd likely be going for a drink before the match and, maybe after, so I shouldn't worry if he's late getting back.

It was a tirade of the usual banalities he talked about every time he went to an away game, and it drove me to distraction.

My mind was elsewhere. I really felt I needed a good shagging!

"Don't worry about being late," I said, "take your time, I've got lots to do, so take your time. I'll probably be out all afternoon, too. Brooke is taking me out for lunch then some shopping, so I'll be pretty busy myself."

I used Brooke as an alibi, something I'm prone to do from time to time. She's used to it now and goes into automatic lying mode if asked about my whereabouts. Isn't that right, Brooke?'

(Peals of laughter rang out across the room.)

So, I dropped hubby off at the station and headed straight for Clifford's place. The door at the main street entrance was open, so I went in and up the stairs to his flat.

It was after eleven. I had texted him ahead, as soon as I dropped Graeme off so, he opened the door as soon as I rang the doorbell.

His signature, Dolce and Gabbana cologne was the first stimulus to hit my senses. His visual appearance was, as always, very pleasing to the eye.

He was wearing a white, collarless cotton shirt over a loose-fitting beige, linen casual trouser with a tie waist.

I didn't wait to be waved in. I barged in and threw my arms around his waist, hugging him close to me. He was six-foot tall, and I'm barely five-foot-two, otherwise I'd have thrown my arms round his neck

"Hm, I see you're glad to see me!" He said, bowing his head down to kiss me. His full lips felt good against mine and his tongue probed for mine, but I didn't want to dwell too long on necking on the doorstep. I grabbed his shirttail and tugged him into the flat.

"C'mon, where's your bedroom?" I exclaimed.

"This way, madam, this way," he gestured, as he guided me to his room.

He hadn't closed the door by the time I'd shed my shoes and was pulling off my cotton shift.

"Jill, I don't mean to dampen your enthusiasm, but are you in a hurry?" He quite rightly asked. The truth was, I desperately needed to have sex. I needed some respite from the humdrum "domestic bliss" (in inverted commas) of a sexless, middle-class marriage.