LITMIR.BIZ

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a bit tricky, this. Follow her upstairs and I could be accused of rushing things. Sit where I am and she probably reckons I don’t fancy it. What would you do? Jot down your answer on the back of a five quid note and – no, don’t bother. There isn’t time. I know! I leap to my feet and trot to the bottom of the stairs.

      ‘Can I use the toilet?’ I holler.

      Not the most romantic invitation to a nooky carnival, but it does sound more convincing than asking if she would like to see my stag beetle.

      ‘First on the right at the top of the stairs,’ she shouts. ‘I’ve got something to show you when you come down.’

      I am getting so excited in the khasi that I have to be very careful not to spoil the décor. What has Mrs. Sinden got to show me that I have not nearly clotted my sporran on already? I pull the chain and race downstairs reckoning that if I get to the bottom before it reaches its crescendo a spot of in and out with Mrs. S. is a certainty. I used to do the same when I was a kid only then my end was slightly different – slightly smaller, too.

      ‘What do you think of this?’ says Mrs. S. coyly as I slink into the kitchen.

      I tear my eyes away from her boobs and focus on the photograph she has handed me. By the cringe! It is none other than her lovely self in a state of undress I can only describe as stark naked. It is not a very good photograph but there is no mistaking our girl’s best features.

      ‘Very nice,’ I say. ‘A bit over-exposed, but – er very nice. When did you have this done?’

      ‘About two months ago. I had a whole lot done. That was the best one. Though the smile’s a bit unnatural, isn’t it?’

      I reckon my smile would be a bit unnatural if I was a tart standing naked with a loaf of French bread between my legs, but I don’t say anything.

      ‘I sent them up to “Bedside Winkie”, but they didn’t publish them,’ continues Mrs. S. ‘I got a very strange letter from a man who said he wanted to retouch my originals.’

      ‘I know just how he felt,’ I husk. ‘Who took them?’

      Mrs. S. blushes and fiddles with her hair. ‘One of my husband’s friends. He got a photograph in the “Royston Crow” once.’

      ‘Not one of these?’

      ‘Oh no. It was of a couple of pumpkins.’

      Not so blooming different, I think to myself.

      ‘What does your husband think of them?’ I ask.

      ‘He hasn’t seen them. He’s a bit old-fashioned. I wouldn’t want him to be upset.’

      Thoughtful, isn’t she? I do like that in a woman – amongst other things. It occurs to me that Mrs. S. is referring herself to me in a professional capacity, obviously reckoning that a man in my line of business must be able to recognise a couple, or three, of good things when he sees them. I am not slow to act upon this thought.

      ‘You’ve certainly got tremendous potential,’ I say, seriously. ‘I just wonder if it has been properly exploited.’

      ‘What do you mean?’ Mrs. S. cranes forward eagerly and it is like peeping over the edge of the Grand Canyon to gaze down between her tits.

      ‘Well, of course, I’ve had a bit of experience of this kind of thing and –’

      ‘ “A bit!”’

      I smile modestly. ‘I’d say his equipment wasn’t up to scratch.’

      ‘There was nothing wrong with his equipment,’ says Mrs. S. firmly. ‘I’ll vouch for that.’

      ‘Must have been the lighting, then. He was flashing, was he?’

      ‘Just to start with.’

      ‘U-m-m-m. What a pity we’re not in my studio at the moment. I could show you what I meant. Maybe when I get out.’

      Mrs. S. leans forward again and I have to avert my eyes.

      ‘Oh yes. That would be marvellous. I’d be ever so grateful.’

      ‘You’re very keen, aren’t you?’

      ‘Well, you get fed up with doing the same thing all your life, don’t you? Being a warder’s – I mean – guardian’s wife isn’t much to write home about. I long for a change sometimes. And I’ve always reckoned I’m as good as those girls you see in the papers.’

      ‘Better.’

      ‘Are you serious?’

      ‘Very. Of course, I can’t be absolutely certain when you’ve got that thing on.’ I smother a non-existent yawn to show that my interest is on the level.

      ‘Would you – would you be prepared to give me your professional opinion?’

      I pretend to give the matter serious thought.

      ‘I don’t know if I should, really,’ I say eventually. ‘I mean, your husband probably wouldn’t like it.’

      ‘He won’t know. He’s picking up a new intake from town.’

      Boy, oh boy! When Percy hears that, he is jumping up and down the front of my jeans like a restless bull mastiff being told it is walkies time.

      ‘We’d better go upstairs,’ I say, a shade too hurriedly. ‘The light’s not so good down here.’

      She leads the way and I can hardly keep my hand on the bannister.

      ‘I’m afraid the bedroom is a bit of a mess,’ she says. ‘You’ll have to forgive me.’

      ‘I won’t look,’ I say skittishly.

      ‘Of course, I know I’ve put on a bit of weight since those photos were taken. I can get that off again if you think I’ve got the potential.’

      You’ve got the potential all right, darling, I think to myself. Lots and lots of it.

      ‘Shall I do some poses?’ says Mrs. S. eagerly.

      Why not? In fact, what a good idea.

      ‘Yes, you do your stuff and I’ll see if I can make any suggestions.’

      Mrs. S. takes a deep breath – and with those knockers the breaths have to be deep, believe me, and wriggles out of one sleeve of her housecoat. A tasty titty pops into view and she cocks her head to one side. I darn nearly head my cock to her side, but manage to restrain myself. With difficulty.

      ‘How’s that?’

      ‘Very good, but a little more posed, if you know what I mean. Try and flex your – yes! That’s it. Smashing.’

      ‘Shall I do another one?’

      ‘Please.’

      This time both bristols gallop out into the open and a spontaneous burst of applause would not be out of order. This girl has certainly got what it takes and I can’t wait to take it. She arches backwards and her robe flops on to the floor. There is not much else flopping, I can tell you.

      ‘How’s this?’ she gasps.

      ‘Unbelievable. Now, careful. Don’t break anything. Let me – that’s it. Now, a bit more. Fantastic! Back a bit more. Hey, wait a minute. I know what. Get on the bed. Yes. Good. Oh, that’s great!’

      ‘Yes it is,’ she squeaks. ‘But should you be doing it?’

      ‘Tones up the flesh a treat,’ I mumble idiotically from the gorge between her breasts. ‘My goodness me, but you’re gollumptuous. I can’t see what “Bedtime Wankie” were on about.’

      ‘Bedside Winkie,’ she corrects me. ‘Oh. Do you really think I’ve got a chance?’

      ‘Chance?’ I tell her, kicking my jeans over my heels. ‘I think you’re a blooming certainty.’

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