What's happening next? Angus is getting involved . . . slowly, very slowly . . . .
Old Dick and the Sea
Part 4
A flash to the present . . .
“You’re not exactly boring me,” said Angus from behind his Times of London, in response to my extended pause. “I rarely get ‘Deetz, the slutty years’”. His voice betrayed the smirk likely on his face as he pretended to be reading the paper like some stately aristocrat lounging in an afternoon sort of way, like all the minted use to do in the 19th century. He liked to play the role of the country gentleman, as if his Earldom was some throwaway tedium he tolerated because, well . . . what else was a blue blood supposed to do? I knew it was a practice veil he used to lure unsuspecting potential business rivals – using their prejudice and ignorance of the UK against them to get an upper hand. It was only one of his tricks. And it was one of the reasons that, after the Great War, the Glamorgan line along with its fortune didn’t disappear as they did in many other the aristocratic families. However, this façade wasn’t being used for that reason right now. He was just annoying me.
And I found myself feeling embarrassed, as one does recounting one's life prior to marital bliss - as if all the fucking you did before was a waste of time compared to the bliss now. “Nothing. There isn’t anything else really to tell.” I brushed his request aside, hoping I could return to my work. This was an unusual Thursday afternoon with both of us home at Redrow Cottage (more like a small mansion on the Morganwg Estate) – him with a rare day off from his duties as an MP for the House of Lords and me back from America on summer break from rabbinical school. I was supposed to be writing a lecture on ‘envisioning sexual relationships in light of Torah and tradition’ for my sister’s ‘Progressive Jewish Women of Cardiff’ group. I don’t recall how we got here but now that we were, I lamented being lured to the outdoor patio by the smell of him and not doing my work in the study as I originally intended. In my defense, Angus had just returned from a run, so the scent of testosterone and sandalwood had jammed up my frontal lobes. Plus, he is just a nosy bugger.
“So, you didn’t screw 'em, eh?” he asked, casually turning the page and refolding the newspaper. “It’s a ‘fish that got away’ story?”
I looked at him askance, somewhat offended. “Oi! Are you kidding? I wasn’t yet ‘Bruce Lee’s brother-from-another-mother’ but I was a hot twink commodity back then, I’ll have you know.”
He shook his paper as if straightening it so he could see some section better. He cut me a look, rolled his eyes, then said, “Then keep talking.”
I sighed, accepting the fact that I was now committed, and pushed aside my laptop and tablet full of rabbinical treatises. My face flush, I sat back on the wicker love seat to quench my husband’s thirsty imagination.
∞∞∞∞
Returning to the story . . . .
Sorting passed out acquaintances is easy when the acquaintance is rich. I leaned out the door, hailed his driver, who pulled the car - an oversized American luxury sedan – in front of the club. The old man was surprisingly strong and nearly single-handedly tossed the intoxicated man in the backseat. “I’ll call you,” Rory slurred as I closed the car door. As I’d done many times in the past, I’d dodge his calls for days, knowing that the only reason he would want the details of the encounter was so he could masturbate – a particularly yucky kind of phone sex.
Once the old man and I were done, I looked up to see his wife waving us over to a standard black rent-a-limousine. I looked at him wondering the type of “import-export business” he was involved and hoping it didn’t involve Tony Soprano. “The company rents this for me when I travel,” he shrugged. “Frankly, I’d prefer to drive myself but, . . . “he pointed toward his wife “she won’t have it any other way. You know how women are – always wanting to make an appearance when they go out.” While got into their ride, I thought to myself, with a body like hers, she made an entrance by breathing.
I settled in a seat across from the old man and next to the wife. She instructed the driver, shut the privacy window then turned around and looked me over like a 60s housewife reviews a deal on meat at the butchers. “Il semble petit mais savoureux (Small but tasty)!” she cooed and shimmied closer. She pinched my inner thigh and added, “Je ne sais pas s'il faut le nourrir ou avoir des relations sexuelles avec lui (I do not know if it is necessary to feed or have sexual relations with him). She giggled, squeezing my thigh again, a bit closer to my balls.
“Honey, English!” replied the old man, as if he was chastising a naughty child. “You’re being rude.”
She waved him off with her free hand while the long, elegantly manicured brown fingers of the other expertly massaged me through my jeans. “Ce garçon peut être l'anglais, mais il connaît assez le français pour se rendre compte que je taquine (This boy may be English but he probably knows enough French to realize I'm teasing).”
“I said, I’m Welsh,” I added winking at her. We all laughed. “My French is pretty rudimentary – I understand more than I speak.”
I placed her accent and light brown complexion as Haitian. “Doudou je n'ai pas besoin de toi pour parler, juste gémir (Sweetie, I don't need you to talk, just groan),” she purred. Moving her hands from my thighs to my bare arms, stroking each freckle and fine hair like she planned to pleasure them individually. My slight shiver led to a big smile across her full, red lips that would look just fine around my head about now. She must of read the BBC News crawl speeding across my chin as my mouth dropped and I could feel the brand on my back become inflamed. “I wonder . . . ,” she started as she let her fingers run an outline around my lips. After studying me seriously for some time, she continued, “I wonder if you’re ready to swim in the sea instead of playing in a pond.”
I was about to feel insulted again, tired of being reminded that I was young but the subtle, persistent stroking of her hand made it easy to let go of that initial feeling. “You picked me. So, I must be at least a worthy student.”
“He’s got you there, my love!” the old man interjected before opening another bottled water. She squinted then stuck her tongue out at him playfully. He chuckled then added, “Remember dear, don’t point that thing at me unless you plan to use it.” He looked her in the eye knowingly, smiled a little more, and seemed to squirm in his seat.
She turned back at me, placed her whole hand around my package like shrink wrap on a gift basket, then added a pretty ribbon, “Let’s see if you’ll pass the class.” When she let go, my fly popped up as quickly as a balloon fills with helium from a nozzle. She gave my cock’s reaction to her handiwork a grin, more at what she’d done than anything else. “Well, at least you have a pencil ready.”
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