Fallon rsquo s Ballet Lesson
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Almost All Lived Happily Ever After free porn video
"Pete. It's too much."
"I can afford it."
"No, it's not that. Its just... There's no way that I... How can I repay you."
I had just taken Sal into one of the chain stores to get her a decent warm coat. It was the week between Christmas and the New Year. We were in amongst the sales crowds. I had told Sal to to choose a coat for herself, and she had done so, had seen the price, and then picked out the cheapest in the shop. I'd picked up the one she had chosen first.
"Sal, please don't make a scene. You agreed that you needed some new clothes, some warm clothes."
She sort of nodded, but held on to the cheaper coat. I slipped the warmer one over her shoulders. She squirmed out of it, threw the other over a rack, and ran from the shop. I thrust the coat into the hands of a passing sales assistant, picked up Sal's own old torn waterproof, and ran after her.
Waterproof? I remembered the first time I saw Sal, a few days earlier, as she shivered in the snow watching her bus disappear into the distance. (See my earlier narration:- Blue Christmas.) She had been wearing this coat, but her clothes underneath had still got soaked.
The street was packed. There were thousands of people, mostly women, rushing around trying to outdo each other in bargain hunting. A few men trailed after them carrying their spouse's purchases. I could not see Sal, but I heard a shout. People had collided, and carrier bags had burst. I walked towards the commotion, and she was there. She was weeping. I put her old coat round her and led her into a snack bar.
She cupped her hands around coffee and sobbed and sniffed. Two or three times she started to speak, but could not find the right words.
"I can't..."
"What will I do when..."
"Pete?..."
I sipped my coffee. Hers was just getting cold. She put a spoonful of sugar into it and stirred and stirred and stirred it.
She eventually picked it up and drained it in a couple of gulps.
She made to get up. I grabbed her wrists.
"Sit down, my love."
"Love?" She looked surprised. "You can't love me, Pete, I'm not the sort of girl who does love. I just do it for money."
It was my turn to look worried.
"So the last few days?" I asked, "You have been doing it for money?"
"Well no. I do like you. You're different. You're kind, and gentle and nice. You're different."
"So?"
"The future? In a few days we have to go back to work, you and me."
"Me, yes. After the New Year I'll go back. But you don't need to."
"But that's what I do. I'm a tart, a scrubber, a lady of the day and night."
"Do you want to do that?"
"Of course not. But it's what I do."
"You don't have to. Stay with me."
"But other people?"
"What do you mean,"
"Do you want your friends, your staff to know about me?" She paused. "To know what I am?"
"That is, what you were. You don't have to do that now. You're with me."
I paused. I thought about what I was saying.
"You can be with me if that's what you want."
"Yes, of course, but...? What if...?"
"I think I understand. You are scared about it going wrong."
"Yes. Thanks Pete."
"OK." I suggested. "Lets see how it works out. I enjoy your company. You seem to enjoy mine. No guarantees, no promises, and you let me have the fun of buying things for you."
"OK."
"Like that coat?
"OK."
It wasn't to be, though. By the time we got back to the store the coat she had initially chosen had gone. However we found another that I think suited her better. It had a big fake fur trimmed hood, and when she put the hood up her impish eyes were particularly seductive peering from its shade. She let me buy her some shoes and jeans and tops as well. She even asked me for some money so she could buy some other stuff as well.
We were both thoughtful as I drove back to my flat. As the lift carried us and our shopping up to my floor I asked her. "What would you really like to do with your life?"
"I don't know. I've never had a choice. I've never thought about it."
"What did you do at school?"
"Not a lot. Messed about, mostly."
"Was there anything you liked?"
"I quite liked maths. Only..."
"Only?"
"The maths teacher had wandering hands. He tried it on me and I complained, and so I got into trouble, and they kicked me out."
"Do you want to study again?"
"I've never thought about it."
By this time we were unloading the carrier bags, and she was hanging her new clothes in her room.
"What about computers?"
"What?"
"Did you do anything with computers at school."
"Na," she slurred, "Our school didn't have enough books. No chance of computers. The whole place was falling down. Anything good would have been knicked"
She had persuaded me to buy some things for myself, so I went to my room to put them away. I was just closing the cupboard doors when she came in. She was wearing the coat, with the hood up. Her feet and legs were bare.
I grinned. "What is it they say? Fur coat and no knickers?"
She laughed, and opened the coat to reveal new matching bra and panties.
"But if you prefer?"
I lunged towards her and put my arms round her under the coat. I hugged her.
"Thank you Pete ... But..."
"But?"
"Your hands are cold."
"That's why I put them under your coat. To warm them up."
She struggled and squirmed. I tickled her, and she squealed and struggled. Her new bra seemed to come undone. (I was learning new skills.) In a matter of moments we were close together under my duvet.
"Slow down a bit lovey."
She slipped out of the bed, and came back from her room with a new box of condoms.
"It should only be another day or so."
The 'sauna' where she had worked insisted that all their workers were tested regularly for various infections. She was awaiting the results from her most recent tests. My fears of venereal disease had meant that I was still a virgin until soon after I had met Sal on Christmas Eve.
Before I knew any more she had fitted the condom, and we were again lying close together, as close together as two people can ever be. We were unhurried. There was no rush. We gently moved together, held each other, kissed each other, until we fell asleep, tired and satisfied.
***************************
"Can you teach me?"
"Teach you what?"
"Anything?
"Well, up until Christmas all I'd thought and dreamt about and worked at has been computers."
"Could you teach me computers?"
"What do you want to do?"
"I don't know. What can you teach me?"
"More coffee? You can have tea if you want."
"Coffee please."
"I'll find a laptop for you. Get you started, and see how you get on."
A shadow crossed Sal's face.
"No, I'm not going to buy one for you. There are always spare ones at work."
Breakfast finished, we went out. First we went to her old home. We put her few remaining possessions, a couple of boxes and an old suitcase tied up with string, into the boot of the car and picked up some letters that were waiting for her. She ripped one open, read it, and smiled. I guessed what it meant, and I grinned back at her.
Then we went to my works, and I found two of the older laptops. I grabbed some CDs with operating systems, and a few of the beginners text books we gave to our trainees.
Back home, we sat together and I guided her through the process of installing the system. She followed my lead, and did the installation on her own machine. We set up networking, and I showed her the web browser, and then the search engine.
I showed her how to write a simple programme. It was simple. It counted up to 10 and printed squares and cubes. She copied it. She made mistakes. I helped her to fix them. I gave her a reference leaflet for the language. I used a highlighter to mark the bits of the language I had shown her.
She seemed fascinated. I left her typing with two fingers. The newspaper had been delivered, and I put on some music and started to read it. I started trying to do the crossword.
She appeared a couple of times. She had chosen one of the text books, and came through to ask me to explain some points.
We had tinned soup and chunks of bread for lunch. Somehow it was evening. I looked over her shoulder at the screen. It was clumsy and awkward, but she had written quite a long programme, and had discovered how to do some simple graphics.
We had slept together every night except the first, since we had met. This night we slept apart. She was exhausted. I lay thinking. Was she right? could the two of us really share our lives? Were we too hasty? I slept eventually, and dreamt of her. I dreamt of her leaning over the keyboard, her tongue just sticking out as she concentrated.
When I awoke it was to the smell of coffee and the warmth of Sal snuggling up against me.
"My turn," she whispered.
"Uh?"
"I'm teaching you."
Her head disappeared beneath the duvet. I was soon fully awake. She kissed and fondled, stroked and licked.
"Now your turn." I looked puzzled. "Your turn. Now you learn how to excite me."
She guided me. Squeaked and purred when I got it right. She made me stop when I was too vigorous.
"Lick me there."
"Suck me."
"Stroke me, again, again."
"Press. More. Deeper. Press upwards. Yes, tickle thererererererererer. Yes."
She was squirming in response to my attentions.
"Kiss me again."
She rocked, I licked and sucked to her rhythm. Her voice became louder and shriller and less coherent. She lost control. She was quivering and sweating.
I had done that to her.
Wow.
That was powerful.
We hugged.
She relaxed, lay back, spread herself, and smiled. I crawled up the bed, and she guided me inside her.
I told you a lie earlier. Now, without the condom I was even closer that ever before. It was my turn to lose control. She locked her legs behind me. I was going nowhere, but I was soon cumming in spurt after spurt into that warm smooth velvet passage of love. Of love and lust and passion and exhaustion and love and love and "I love you Sal."
Then we were laughing. Why? Not a clue!
"Thank you teacher."
"Well done Pete, but we will have to have more tests again later."
We were laughing. We were sweating, and we were sticky.
She saw a look of concern cross my face. She kissed me.
"I'm on the pill."
I kissed her.
Eventually we got as far as the coffee. Then Sal started to unpack the boxes and the suitcase. I read some techy journals.
"Pete," she called from her bedroom, "Will this still be valid?"
"What is it?"
She brought through an old bank book. According to the records there was still £1-00 left in the account.
"It was my savings account when I was a k**. When I left home, well, when he kicked me out, It was all I had."
"Kicked you out?"
"Yes, my step-dad."
"I thought you said you had been kicked out of school."
"Yes, but then I sort of pushed my luck. It wasn't fair, I'd been blamed. If I was taking the blame then I might as well be blamed for something."
I did not want to ask the question.
"I stole stuff. I bought and sold stuff. That's what they jailed me for."
"Jail?"
"Yes. A few months. It brought me to my senses. I'd been lucky, but some of the women in there couldn't read or write. What chance? It sorted me out ... But then."
"What?"
"When I came out and went home. My Mum. My Step-Dad said that the shame had killed her. He went ape, and started trying to beat me up."
"Did he hurt you?"
"No, Ann, my sister, my step-sister stopped him, but I had to get out of the house."
"Where did you go?"
"I hid in a friend's garden shed for a bit. Then I came here to try and work in shops. And then, well, stuff."
I flicked through the bank book. The bank was no longer on the High Street but it had been taken over by one of the big ones. She had saved a good sum to start with, but it has disappeared gradually, pound by pound over a couple of years.
"In the bank they told me that if I took it all out they would close the account, so I left a pound in it. I'd forgotten about it."
"It will have earned a bit of interest by now."
I banked at the successor bank. They kept telling me that I was a valued customer. I rang the number that would put me in contact with my personal account manager. At least it was a number that led to a call centre that could eventually connect me to my personal account manager.
Passwords, secret questions and introductions complete, I asked, "Please could you do something for me. A friend has found an old bank book, and we were wondering what had happened to the account."
I was asked for the account number. I gave it, but then explained it's age and history."
My personal account manager explained that as it was not my personal account then he could do nothing. I would have to visit the bank in person, and bring in the book and proof of identity and bla and bla and bla. I was not too impressed, but decided that it was time that they should be forced to do a bit of work.
"OK, I will come and see you. Now." My personal account manager spluttered. "What time shall we meet? Gulping was heard. My personal account manager realised that he would be losing some of his bonus if he lost my, and my company's accounts, so he gave me a time and place.
A couple of hours later Sal had shown enough paperwork to convince them that she was the account owner, but they could not access the old records immediately. We left a phone number and the bank book, and in return received a promise of quick service and a receipt. We left them to it.
We forgot about it.
Then we did a task that Sal had been putting off. I drove her to the old farmhouse that had been her workplace. She didn't want me to be involved, so she went in there alone. It all went well, she told me afterwards. Things were quiet. Only Mary and Helga were there. Mary, who was the one who looked after the rota, was used to girls arriving and leaving. Sal left a letter that she had written for the landlord of her flat, who was also the one who owned the farmhouse. She was giving notice.
Mary warned her that he would take it badly, and demand extra rent and claim damage and suchlike. Sal said that she would pick up any letters from Mary. Helga suggested that the bastard was unlikely to put anything in writing. We did not leave a forwarding address or phone number.
New Years Eve. We went out for a meal.
New Years Day. We didn't do much. Well we did, but nothing we have not already described, more or less.
January 2nd. I went back to work. Are you interested? Queues of emails from people trying to sell or to con. The usual crop from single ladies in Russia, and generous folk in Nigeria. Loads of "Happy New Year," and "Have you made any resolutions?" My mind went back to Christmas Eve, and I tried to remember all the questions I wanted to ask others.
There was, of course, something that I wanted to tell everyone, but I was worried about telling too many details.
My secretary realised that something had happened. "Are you all-right, Pete?" She gestured at my screen-full of emails. "The idiots don't seem to be annoying you as much as usual."
I overheard someone saying that someone else had a grin on his face. Did they mean me.
Something Sal had said was puzzling me, and I made some phone calls.
When I got home there was something odd. I opened the door and was assaulted by the smell of, what was it?
Sal was in the kitchen. She was closing the oven door.
When I moved in to the flat I had been assured that the kitchen was fully equipped. I took their word for it. I had opened cupboards and seen piles of pans and bowls, and closed them again. There were even drawers filled with aprons and tea-towels. These had been used -- by the various maids that had cleaned up after me. The coffee-maker, the toaster, mugs, plates, spoons and knives and forks had been heavily used, as had the microwave. You needed these for take-aways and ready-meals. The stove, the oven, and the grill -- not used at all.
"It's ready. Get your coat off and sit down."
I obeyed.
"It's just what I could get in the newsagents. I wish I could have done better."
She lifted the pan lid. Heat, warmth, and smell. No, not smell, aroma.
A bowl was placed in front of me. It was a large bowl. It was full. This was not a nouveau cuisine teaser, it was good grub. Then a plate with fresh hot crusty bread buns arrived in the middle of the table. Sal brought her own bowl, and sat opposite me.
"OK?"
I tasted it. It was rich and tasty; cubes of vegetables swirled in a thick rich yellow/brown soup. The vegetable were crisp and tasty. The carrots and peas and celery tasted of carrot, pea and, ... The soup was rich and spiced and earthy. There was a hint of smokeyness.
"It's bacon and lentil. OK? Have some bread."
I took and tore open one of the bread buns releasing a cloud of steam. This was the aroma that had surprised me when I first entered.
"It's lovely."
"Thank's Pete."
Clinking of spoons. Slurping of soup.
"More? There's only this and a pud."
"Yes please."
She filled our bowls again.
After the soup there was an apple pie. It was not in a foil dish. It had not come from a supermarket. She brought it to the table. It was coloured various shades of gold, and sparkled with crystals of sugar. She gave me a knife and a spoon. She insisted that I cut into it. The pastry was soft and melty. Inside the apple gave off a hint of clove and vanilla.
"The newsagent didn't have cooking apples, so it's not quite right."
I cut and served pie to both of us. We were both gorging ourselves. Well, at least, I know I was gorging myself.
My trousers were too tight. I stretched my legs out and leaned back.
"Where did you learn to cook like that?"
"My Dad, my real Dad, before he died. He was a chef."
We sat, and chatted.
A peaceful trusting friendship -- and a bloody good meal.
"I got a bit of cheese for afters if you want?" She grinned.
I covered my mouth while I burped.
"Thank you Pete. You can't have a clue how special that was."
"What do you mean?"
"Simple pleasures and rewards. To see something you've done give so much pleasure."
"But surely, that has been your ..." I stopped. Her job had been to get men to squirt. From my experience of her, she had been bloody good at it.
She knew just what I was thinking.
"That? It's an act. You pretend that they are good at it. You grunt and squeal a bit. You don't let them see you watching the clock. You pretend that they don't stink of sweat or booze or worse."
I could see the strain on her face for a moment. It cleared.
"But Pete, I made you a meal. Just soup and bread and a pie. I made it for you. You enjoyed it, didn't you."
I decided not to suppress a second burp that was trying to present itself.
We both laughed.
"I take it that you enjoyed the meal."
"Mmmmm."
"Ta. Just seeing folk enjoying what you've made is wonderful." She hesitated.
"But I am. I'm a bloody good tart. I think I can be proud of that as well! Thank you Pete. bloody thank you. Thanks Pete, you are wonderful. You make me see ... to understand things. Thank you."
We both got up and hugged each other -- carefully. We went to my bedroom, got undressed, and lay, side by side, under the duvet.
I didn't set the alarm. I never oversleep. However when we awoke it was to make slow and gentle love and to drift back to sleep. It was 9:30 when the phone rang us awake.
My contact told me that the farmhouse still belonged to the land development company that had built the estate. It was rented to a Mrs Jones. The land development company was, as I knew, owned and run by my Father and brother.
I covered the mouthpiece.
"Sal, the farmhouse, the sauna, is the boss a Mrs Jones?"
"No, its a bloke. I think Mrs Jones died a year or two back."
I gave this information to my informant. He seemed interested.
I put the phone down. It rang immediately. It was the Bank. Please could we call in.
I rang work. "Something's come up, and I will be late in ... Any problems? ... Fine, see you later."
"Sal, the Bank wants us to speak to them. They were very mysterious. Could there be something wrong?"
All the way into town we discussed what it could be about. When we got there, the manager took us into a side office. He looked serious.
"Miss Foster"
Sal nodded.
"Do you know of a Mr O'Donnell, a Mr Patrick O'Donnell."
"He is my step-father."
"When did you last speak to him."
"Well never. Not since I left home."
"I am afraid that I have some bad news for you. Your step-father died some time ago."
Sal said nothing for a few moments.
"I'm sorry if I do not seem too distressed by this, but he and I did not... He kicked me out you see."
"That's strange. He seems to have been quite generous."
"How do you mean."
He took Sal's bank book from a folder on his desk. Attached to it by an elastic band was a new bank book in the current name of the bank. He opened the new book, and passed it over to Sal, who took one look and dropped the book onto the table. She picked it up and passed it to me. It indicated a credit of almost a hundred thousand pounds.
"But how? Why?"
He handed over a letter. "This was left with the bank with instructions to hand it to you as soon as possible."
The envelope was white, but somewhat yellowed. The manager passed Sal a paperknife. She slit it open and took out a couple of folded sheets. She started to read. She got halfway down the first page when she started to sob. She thrust the letter towards me. I read it.
'Darling Sally,'
'This has been a very difficult letter to write. I am so very sorry about the way that I treated you. I was very wrong, and I now wish so much that I had believed you.'
'I got a letter from your old headmaster a few days ago. It told me that they now realise that they should never have asked you to leave school. They have discovered that Mr Grover, the maths master, had been behaving inappropriately for many years. You were the first pupil brave enough to speak out. Sally, I am very proud of you.'
'I do not know where you are. I know that you had a little money in the Bank. I hope that, if you make a withdrawal, they can give this letter to you.'
I looked at the date on the letter. I picked up the older bank book and compared it with the date of the last withdrawal. The letter was written only a couple of months after the withdrawal.
I continued reading.
'Things cannot be easy for you, Sally, and I am not too well off. I promise that I will deposit whatever money I can afford in to your account whenever I can.'
I scanned through the new bank book. He had been as good as his word. There were small and large sums there. Some were tens of pounds. Some were hundreds. There were a couple in the thousands, and one very large deposit. They had stopped a couple of years ago.
'Dear Sally. I can quite understand that money cannot compensate for us not believing you. You will probably not want anything to do with me in the future. If you feel that you can. Please come home Sally.'
'Yours,'
'Paddy'
I looked at the address on the letter. Sally had mentioned that she'd come from that town.
The manager had brought Sal a cup of water, and was feeding her with paper tissues. He had another envelope placed on top of the folder. This was newer, and the address had been typed. He tried to pass it to Sal, but she indicated that he pass it to me.
'Dear Ms. Sally Foster,'
'Following the death of your Step-Father, Mr Patrick O'Donnell, we would very much like to contact you. If you receive this letter please contact...'
What followed was a member of a Firm of Solicitors.
You can guess the rest. Sal received half the proceeds of the sale of her step-fathers estate, sharing it with Ann, her step sister. She has started a Maths course at the local college, and is enjoying it.
I often take pies, cakes or biscuits (cookies(US)) in to work for my staff (and I often leave some at the farmhouse.)
Mary and Helga enjoy their work.
Almost everyone is happy.
Almost!
A Mr Jones is very put out.
Firstly, he has received final demands for the back rent of a farmhouse. It had, as a condition of the sale of the farm, been let back to the Farmer and his wife at a peppercorn rent, for their lifetimes. After their deaths, a commercial rent was to be charged. Our Mr Jones was the son of the Farmer and his wife. His rental has been terminated, but he was still being held responsible for the dilapidation and for all the necessary repairs. The rental of the farmhouse was now taken on by two ladies known as Mary and Helga. Their rent was minimal. It was let on the same preferential basis as my offices.
Secondly, he was up in Court for i*****l practices, failure to comply with safety and other regulations, and extortion related to the letting of sub-standard housing.
Lastly, walking was difficult, and he was no longer going to receive free sexual favours from Helga. The last time he claimed them, his favoured bondage and spanking session had turned into something else, as Mary joined Helga in subjecting him to more punishment than he could conceivably have wanted. He would probably be incapable of conceiving anything until the swelling and scars had abated.
"I can afford it."
"No, it's not that. Its just... There's no way that I... How can I repay you."
I had just taken Sal into one of the chain stores to get her a decent warm coat. It was the week between Christmas and the New Year. We were in amongst the sales crowds. I had told Sal to to choose a coat for herself, and she had done so, had seen the price, and then picked out the cheapest in the shop. I'd picked up the one she had chosen first.
"Sal, please don't make a scene. You agreed that you needed some new clothes, some warm clothes."
She sort of nodded, but held on to the cheaper coat. I slipped the warmer one over her shoulders. She squirmed out of it, threw the other over a rack, and ran from the shop. I thrust the coat into the hands of a passing sales assistant, picked up Sal's own old torn waterproof, and ran after her.
Waterproof? I remembered the first time I saw Sal, a few days earlier, as she shivered in the snow watching her bus disappear into the distance. (See my earlier narration:- Blue Christmas.) She had been wearing this coat, but her clothes underneath had still got soaked.
The street was packed. There were thousands of people, mostly women, rushing around trying to outdo each other in bargain hunting. A few men trailed after them carrying their spouse's purchases. I could not see Sal, but I heard a shout. People had collided, and carrier bags had burst. I walked towards the commotion, and she was there. She was weeping. I put her old coat round her and led her into a snack bar.
She cupped her hands around coffee and sobbed and sniffed. Two or three times she started to speak, but could not find the right words.
"I can't..."
"What will I do when..."
"Pete?..."
I sipped my coffee. Hers was just getting cold. She put a spoonful of sugar into it and stirred and stirred and stirred it.
She eventually picked it up and drained it in a couple of gulps.
She made to get up. I grabbed her wrists.
"Sit down, my love."
"Love?" She looked surprised. "You can't love me, Pete, I'm not the sort of girl who does love. I just do it for money."
It was my turn to look worried.
"So the last few days?" I asked, "You have been doing it for money?"
"Well no. I do like you. You're different. You're kind, and gentle and nice. You're different."
"So?"
"The future? In a few days we have to go back to work, you and me."
"Me, yes. After the New Year I'll go back. But you don't need to."
"But that's what I do. I'm a tart, a scrubber, a lady of the day and night."
"Do you want to do that?"
"Of course not. But it's what I do."
"You don't have to. Stay with me."
"But other people?"
"What do you mean,"
"Do you want your friends, your staff to know about me?" She paused. "To know what I am?"
"That is, what you were. You don't have to do that now. You're with me."
I paused. I thought about what I was saying.
"You can be with me if that's what you want."
"Yes, of course, but...? What if...?"
"I think I understand. You are scared about it going wrong."
"Yes. Thanks Pete."
"OK." I suggested. "Lets see how it works out. I enjoy your company. You seem to enjoy mine. No guarantees, no promises, and you let me have the fun of buying things for you."
"OK."
"Like that coat?
"OK."
It wasn't to be, though. By the time we got back to the store the coat she had initially chosen had gone. However we found another that I think suited her better. It had a big fake fur trimmed hood, and when she put the hood up her impish eyes were particularly seductive peering from its shade. She let me buy her some shoes and jeans and tops as well. She even asked me for some money so she could buy some other stuff as well.
We were both thoughtful as I drove back to my flat. As the lift carried us and our shopping up to my floor I asked her. "What would you really like to do with your life?"
"I don't know. I've never had a choice. I've never thought about it."
"What did you do at school?"
"Not a lot. Messed about, mostly."
"Was there anything you liked?"
"I quite liked maths. Only..."
"Only?"
"The maths teacher had wandering hands. He tried it on me and I complained, and so I got into trouble, and they kicked me out."
"Do you want to study again?"
"I've never thought about it."
By this time we were unloading the carrier bags, and she was hanging her new clothes in her room.
"What about computers?"
"What?"
"Did you do anything with computers at school."
"Na," she slurred, "Our school didn't have enough books. No chance of computers. The whole place was falling down. Anything good would have been knicked"
She had persuaded me to buy some things for myself, so I went to my room to put them away. I was just closing the cupboard doors when she came in. She was wearing the coat, with the hood up. Her feet and legs were bare.
I grinned. "What is it they say? Fur coat and no knickers?"
She laughed, and opened the coat to reveal new matching bra and panties.
"But if you prefer?"
I lunged towards her and put my arms round her under the coat. I hugged her.
"Thank you Pete ... But..."
"But?"
"Your hands are cold."
"That's why I put them under your coat. To warm them up."
She struggled and squirmed. I tickled her, and she squealed and struggled. Her new bra seemed to come undone. (I was learning new skills.) In a matter of moments we were close together under my duvet.
"Slow down a bit lovey."
She slipped out of the bed, and came back from her room with a new box of condoms.
"It should only be another day or so."
The 'sauna' where she had worked insisted that all their workers were tested regularly for various infections. She was awaiting the results from her most recent tests. My fears of venereal disease had meant that I was still a virgin until soon after I had met Sal on Christmas Eve.
Before I knew any more she had fitted the condom, and we were again lying close together, as close together as two people can ever be. We were unhurried. There was no rush. We gently moved together, held each other, kissed each other, until we fell asleep, tired and satisfied.
***************************
"Can you teach me?"
"Teach you what?"
"Anything?
"Well, up until Christmas all I'd thought and dreamt about and worked at has been computers."
"Could you teach me computers?"
"What do you want to do?"
"I don't know. What can you teach me?"
"More coffee? You can have tea if you want."
"Coffee please."
"I'll find a laptop for you. Get you started, and see how you get on."
A shadow crossed Sal's face.
"No, I'm not going to buy one for you. There are always spare ones at work."
Breakfast finished, we went out. First we went to her old home. We put her few remaining possessions, a couple of boxes and an old suitcase tied up with string, into the boot of the car and picked up some letters that were waiting for her. She ripped one open, read it, and smiled. I guessed what it meant, and I grinned back at her.
Then we went to my works, and I found two of the older laptops. I grabbed some CDs with operating systems, and a few of the beginners text books we gave to our trainees.
Back home, we sat together and I guided her through the process of installing the system. She followed my lead, and did the installation on her own machine. We set up networking, and I showed her the web browser, and then the search engine.
I showed her how to write a simple programme. It was simple. It counted up to 10 and printed squares and cubes. She copied it. She made mistakes. I helped her to fix them. I gave her a reference leaflet for the language. I used a highlighter to mark the bits of the language I had shown her.
She seemed fascinated. I left her typing with two fingers. The newspaper had been delivered, and I put on some music and started to read it. I started trying to do the crossword.
She appeared a couple of times. She had chosen one of the text books, and came through to ask me to explain some points.
We had tinned soup and chunks of bread for lunch. Somehow it was evening. I looked over her shoulder at the screen. It was clumsy and awkward, but she had written quite a long programme, and had discovered how to do some simple graphics.
We had slept together every night except the first, since we had met. This night we slept apart. She was exhausted. I lay thinking. Was she right? could the two of us really share our lives? Were we too hasty? I slept eventually, and dreamt of her. I dreamt of her leaning over the keyboard, her tongue just sticking out as she concentrated.
When I awoke it was to the smell of coffee and the warmth of Sal snuggling up against me.
"My turn," she whispered.
"Uh?"
"I'm teaching you."
Her head disappeared beneath the duvet. I was soon fully awake. She kissed and fondled, stroked and licked.
"Now your turn." I looked puzzled. "Your turn. Now you learn how to excite me."
She guided me. Squeaked and purred when I got it right. She made me stop when I was too vigorous.
"Lick me there."
"Suck me."
"Stroke me, again, again."
"Press. More. Deeper. Press upwards. Yes, tickle thererererererererer. Yes."
She was squirming in response to my attentions.
"Kiss me again."
She rocked, I licked and sucked to her rhythm. Her voice became louder and shriller and less coherent. She lost control. She was quivering and sweating.
I had done that to her.
Wow.
That was powerful.
We hugged.
She relaxed, lay back, spread herself, and smiled. I crawled up the bed, and she guided me inside her.
I told you a lie earlier. Now, without the condom I was even closer that ever before. It was my turn to lose control. She locked her legs behind me. I was going nowhere, but I was soon cumming in spurt after spurt into that warm smooth velvet passage of love. Of love and lust and passion and exhaustion and love and love and "I love you Sal."
Then we were laughing. Why? Not a clue!
"Thank you teacher."
"Well done Pete, but we will have to have more tests again later."
We were laughing. We were sweating, and we were sticky.
She saw a look of concern cross my face. She kissed me.
"I'm on the pill."
I kissed her.
Eventually we got as far as the coffee. Then Sal started to unpack the boxes and the suitcase. I read some techy journals.
"Pete," she called from her bedroom, "Will this still be valid?"
"What is it?"
She brought through an old bank book. According to the records there was still £1-00 left in the account.
"It was my savings account when I was a k**. When I left home, well, when he kicked me out, It was all I had."
"Kicked you out?"
"Yes, my step-dad."
"I thought you said you had been kicked out of school."
"Yes, but then I sort of pushed my luck. It wasn't fair, I'd been blamed. If I was taking the blame then I might as well be blamed for something."
I did not want to ask the question.
"I stole stuff. I bought and sold stuff. That's what they jailed me for."
"Jail?"
"Yes. A few months. It brought me to my senses. I'd been lucky, but some of the women in there couldn't read or write. What chance? It sorted me out ... But then."
"What?"
"When I came out and went home. My Mum. My Step-Dad said that the shame had killed her. He went ape, and started trying to beat me up."
"Did he hurt you?"
"No, Ann, my sister, my step-sister stopped him, but I had to get out of the house."
"Where did you go?"
"I hid in a friend's garden shed for a bit. Then I came here to try and work in shops. And then, well, stuff."
I flicked through the bank book. The bank was no longer on the High Street but it had been taken over by one of the big ones. She had saved a good sum to start with, but it has disappeared gradually, pound by pound over a couple of years.
"In the bank they told me that if I took it all out they would close the account, so I left a pound in it. I'd forgotten about it."
"It will have earned a bit of interest by now."
I banked at the successor bank. They kept telling me that I was a valued customer. I rang the number that would put me in contact with my personal account manager. At least it was a number that led to a call centre that could eventually connect me to my personal account manager.
Passwords, secret questions and introductions complete, I asked, "Please could you do something for me. A friend has found an old bank book, and we were wondering what had happened to the account."
I was asked for the account number. I gave it, but then explained it's age and history."
My personal account manager explained that as it was not my personal account then he could do nothing. I would have to visit the bank in person, and bring in the book and proof of identity and bla and bla and bla. I was not too impressed, but decided that it was time that they should be forced to do a bit of work.
"OK, I will come and see you. Now." My personal account manager spluttered. "What time shall we meet? Gulping was heard. My personal account manager realised that he would be losing some of his bonus if he lost my, and my company's accounts, so he gave me a time and place.
A couple of hours later Sal had shown enough paperwork to convince them that she was the account owner, but they could not access the old records immediately. We left a phone number and the bank book, and in return received a promise of quick service and a receipt. We left them to it.
We forgot about it.
Then we did a task that Sal had been putting off. I drove her to the old farmhouse that had been her workplace. She didn't want me to be involved, so she went in there alone. It all went well, she told me afterwards. Things were quiet. Only Mary and Helga were there. Mary, who was the one who looked after the rota, was used to girls arriving and leaving. Sal left a letter that she had written for the landlord of her flat, who was also the one who owned the farmhouse. She was giving notice.
Mary warned her that he would take it badly, and demand extra rent and claim damage and suchlike. Sal said that she would pick up any letters from Mary. Helga suggested that the bastard was unlikely to put anything in writing. We did not leave a forwarding address or phone number.
New Years Eve. We went out for a meal.
New Years Day. We didn't do much. Well we did, but nothing we have not already described, more or less.
January 2nd. I went back to work. Are you interested? Queues of emails from people trying to sell or to con. The usual crop from single ladies in Russia, and generous folk in Nigeria. Loads of "Happy New Year," and "Have you made any resolutions?" My mind went back to Christmas Eve, and I tried to remember all the questions I wanted to ask others.
There was, of course, something that I wanted to tell everyone, but I was worried about telling too many details.
My secretary realised that something had happened. "Are you all-right, Pete?" She gestured at my screen-full of emails. "The idiots don't seem to be annoying you as much as usual."
I overheard someone saying that someone else had a grin on his face. Did they mean me.
Something Sal had said was puzzling me, and I made some phone calls.
When I got home there was something odd. I opened the door and was assaulted by the smell of, what was it?
Sal was in the kitchen. She was closing the oven door.
When I moved in to the flat I had been assured that the kitchen was fully equipped. I took their word for it. I had opened cupboards and seen piles of pans and bowls, and closed them again. There were even drawers filled with aprons and tea-towels. These had been used -- by the various maids that had cleaned up after me. The coffee-maker, the toaster, mugs, plates, spoons and knives and forks had been heavily used, as had the microwave. You needed these for take-aways and ready-meals. The stove, the oven, and the grill -- not used at all.
"It's ready. Get your coat off and sit down."
I obeyed.
"It's just what I could get in the newsagents. I wish I could have done better."
She lifted the pan lid. Heat, warmth, and smell. No, not smell, aroma.
A bowl was placed in front of me. It was a large bowl. It was full. This was not a nouveau cuisine teaser, it was good grub. Then a plate with fresh hot crusty bread buns arrived in the middle of the table. Sal brought her own bowl, and sat opposite me.
"OK?"
I tasted it. It was rich and tasty; cubes of vegetables swirled in a thick rich yellow/brown soup. The vegetable were crisp and tasty. The carrots and peas and celery tasted of carrot, pea and, ... The soup was rich and spiced and earthy. There was a hint of smokeyness.
"It's bacon and lentil. OK? Have some bread."
I took and tore open one of the bread buns releasing a cloud of steam. This was the aroma that had surprised me when I first entered.
"It's lovely."
"Thank's Pete."
Clinking of spoons. Slurping of soup.
"More? There's only this and a pud."
"Yes please."
She filled our bowls again.
After the soup there was an apple pie. It was not in a foil dish. It had not come from a supermarket. She brought it to the table. It was coloured various shades of gold, and sparkled with crystals of sugar. She gave me a knife and a spoon. She insisted that I cut into it. The pastry was soft and melty. Inside the apple gave off a hint of clove and vanilla.
"The newsagent didn't have cooking apples, so it's not quite right."
I cut and served pie to both of us. We were both gorging ourselves. Well, at least, I know I was gorging myself.
My trousers were too tight. I stretched my legs out and leaned back.
"Where did you learn to cook like that?"
"My Dad, my real Dad, before he died. He was a chef."
We sat, and chatted.
A peaceful trusting friendship -- and a bloody good meal.
"I got a bit of cheese for afters if you want?" She grinned.
I covered my mouth while I burped.
"Thank you Pete. You can't have a clue how special that was."
"What do you mean?"
"Simple pleasures and rewards. To see something you've done give so much pleasure."
"But surely, that has been your ..." I stopped. Her job had been to get men to squirt. From my experience of her, she had been bloody good at it.
She knew just what I was thinking.
"That? It's an act. You pretend that they are good at it. You grunt and squeal a bit. You don't let them see you watching the clock. You pretend that they don't stink of sweat or booze or worse."
I could see the strain on her face for a moment. It cleared.
"But Pete, I made you a meal. Just soup and bread and a pie. I made it for you. You enjoyed it, didn't you."
I decided not to suppress a second burp that was trying to present itself.
We both laughed.
"I take it that you enjoyed the meal."
"Mmmmm."
"Ta. Just seeing folk enjoying what you've made is wonderful." She hesitated.
"But I am. I'm a bloody good tart. I think I can be proud of that as well! Thank you Pete. bloody thank you. Thanks Pete, you are wonderful. You make me see ... to understand things. Thank you."
We both got up and hugged each other -- carefully. We went to my bedroom, got undressed, and lay, side by side, under the duvet.
I didn't set the alarm. I never oversleep. However when we awoke it was to make slow and gentle love and to drift back to sleep. It was 9:30 when the phone rang us awake.
My contact told me that the farmhouse still belonged to the land development company that had built the estate. It was rented to a Mrs Jones. The land development company was, as I knew, owned and run by my Father and brother.
I covered the mouthpiece.
"Sal, the farmhouse, the sauna, is the boss a Mrs Jones?"
"No, its a bloke. I think Mrs Jones died a year or two back."
I gave this information to my informant. He seemed interested.
I put the phone down. It rang immediately. It was the Bank. Please could we call in.
I rang work. "Something's come up, and I will be late in ... Any problems? ... Fine, see you later."
"Sal, the Bank wants us to speak to them. They were very mysterious. Could there be something wrong?"
All the way into town we discussed what it could be about. When we got there, the manager took us into a side office. He looked serious.
"Miss Foster"
Sal nodded.
"Do you know of a Mr O'Donnell, a Mr Patrick O'Donnell."
"He is my step-father."
"When did you last speak to him."
"Well never. Not since I left home."
"I am afraid that I have some bad news for you. Your step-father died some time ago."
Sal said nothing for a few moments.
"I'm sorry if I do not seem too distressed by this, but he and I did not... He kicked me out you see."
"That's strange. He seems to have been quite generous."
"How do you mean."
He took Sal's bank book from a folder on his desk. Attached to it by an elastic band was a new bank book in the current name of the bank. He opened the new book, and passed it over to Sal, who took one look and dropped the book onto the table. She picked it up and passed it to me. It indicated a credit of almost a hundred thousand pounds.
"But how? Why?"
He handed over a letter. "This was left with the bank with instructions to hand it to you as soon as possible."
The envelope was white, but somewhat yellowed. The manager passed Sal a paperknife. She slit it open and took out a couple of folded sheets. She started to read. She got halfway down the first page when she started to sob. She thrust the letter towards me. I read it.
'Darling Sally,'
'This has been a very difficult letter to write. I am so very sorry about the way that I treated you. I was very wrong, and I now wish so much that I had believed you.'
'I got a letter from your old headmaster a few days ago. It told me that they now realise that they should never have asked you to leave school. They have discovered that Mr Grover, the maths master, had been behaving inappropriately for many years. You were the first pupil brave enough to speak out. Sally, I am very proud of you.'
'I do not know where you are. I know that you had a little money in the Bank. I hope that, if you make a withdrawal, they can give this letter to you.'
I looked at the date on the letter. I picked up the older bank book and compared it with the date of the last withdrawal. The letter was written only a couple of months after the withdrawal.
I continued reading.
'Things cannot be easy for you, Sally, and I am not too well off. I promise that I will deposit whatever money I can afford in to your account whenever I can.'
I scanned through the new bank book. He had been as good as his word. There were small and large sums there. Some were tens of pounds. Some were hundreds. There were a couple in the thousands, and one very large deposit. They had stopped a couple of years ago.
'Dear Sally. I can quite understand that money cannot compensate for us not believing you. You will probably not want anything to do with me in the future. If you feel that you can. Please come home Sally.'
'Yours,'
'Paddy'
I looked at the address on the letter. Sally had mentioned that she'd come from that town.
The manager had brought Sal a cup of water, and was feeding her with paper tissues. He had another envelope placed on top of the folder. This was newer, and the address had been typed. He tried to pass it to Sal, but she indicated that he pass it to me.
'Dear Ms. Sally Foster,'
'Following the death of your Step-Father, Mr Patrick O'Donnell, we would very much like to contact you. If you receive this letter please contact...'
What followed was a member of a Firm of Solicitors.
You can guess the rest. Sal received half the proceeds of the sale of her step-fathers estate, sharing it with Ann, her step sister. She has started a Maths course at the local college, and is enjoying it.
I often take pies, cakes or biscuits (cookies(US)) in to work for my staff (and I often leave some at the farmhouse.)
Mary and Helga enjoy their work.
Almost everyone is happy.
Almost!
A Mr Jones is very put out.
Firstly, he has received final demands for the back rent of a farmhouse. It had, as a condition of the sale of the farm, been let back to the Farmer and his wife at a peppercorn rent, for their lifetimes. After their deaths, a commercial rent was to be charged. Our Mr Jones was the son of the Farmer and his wife. His rental has been terminated, but he was still being held responsible for the dilapidation and for all the necessary repairs. The rental of the farmhouse was now taken on by two ladies known as Mary and Helga. Their rent was minimal. It was let on the same preferential basis as my offices.
Secondly, he was up in Court for i*****l practices, failure to comply with safety and other regulations, and extortion related to the letting of sub-standard housing.
Lastly, walking was difficult, and he was no longer going to receive free sexual favours from Helga. The last time he claimed them, his favoured bondage and spanking session had turned into something else, as Mary joined Helga in subjecting him to more punishment than he could conceivably have wanted. He would probably be incapable of conceiving anything until the swelling and scars had abated.
Grace
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