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Well Being And All ThatChapter 3 free porn video
“I heard you were a big hit with Lady Monica?” chortled Bob in the Tory club.
“Yes, veeary porrsh,” I chuckled, eyeing up a starter red. It middled the pocket, so I lined up the loose pink. That went in too. “Is she a lady?”
“Shit yeah. Big house, Romsey Road, after the bypass bridge. Royalty there somewhere.”
I nodded and we got on with the game. His wife must have not mentioned the nude modelling chat.
My land line buzzed the next day.
“Er Del ... is that your proper name by the way?” questioned the dulcet tones of Monica Passendale.
“It’s Derek actually, hello again Monica, nice to hear from you?”
“Thank you. Apropo our conversation at our club last week... ?”
“Yes, remember it well. Go on,”
“Any decisions yet?”
“Oh yes, I’ll do it, small fee, just for you madam. Just joking.”
“Excellent Derek. Come up to the house, have a coffee and we can talk details. Tomorrow at nine?”
After agreeing and consolidating the whereabouts of ‘the house’ which I knew plus the coded tradesmen’s entrance she rang off a little abruptly. I didn’t need payment knowing I would be entertained royally, if you get my drift and two hours out of my day, one a month? ... well!
She certainly had a nice pad. Huge Victorian place, swish auto gates opened and I drove the gravel drive to park. She was waiting at the top of porticoed granite stars. We shook hands and I followed her indoors, through a long corridor and to a sumptuous lounge. Monica poured coffees and we chatted. I admired many contemporary paintings in the room, she had a good eye, but she said they were all her deceased husband Marcel’s choice. We agreed dates, times and I offered to prepare an invitation email to be circulate to the members outlining my sessions, which Monica accepted.
“We could do that together Derek, here, now on my computer in the office. Save you fiddling at home and us exchanging email back and forth. I do so detest all this high tech stuff and no one talking to each other, don’t you agree?”
Monica’s office was a large room next to a study along the corridor, she told a maid something through a door as we passed, and as she sauntered gracefully ahead of me, I had great opportunity of admiring her stately gait. She walked head high, her arms bent at elbows as if carrying something precious to her chest. She wore an opaque claret coloured satin blouse, which like my memory of our club encounter, was close fitting, emphasising all nuances of her upper torso. There were no brassiere straps visible this time, but her jugs were well supported and held high.
Her well cut pants, were beige, tight, with slightly flared legs and this time very visible panty lines carving over her full wobbling buttocks. They were high cut I noticed. At one point Monica stooped to pick up a stray leaf and there was a slender glimpse of skin and a black sliver of cotton above the waist band.
Her Apple computer was on and ready and I took over, having the same model myself. We formulate the text together, simple stuff really and I impressed her by adding some arty farty images to its body, all the time drinking in the same exquisite scents, which were of course fresh that early time in the day. Although leaning on the desk I had no good views down her blouse. We printed a couple of copies for me, emailed myself with the attachment, leaving Monica to determine who she would circulate.
On the way back to the lounge we passed mostly stuffy family portraits and groups, stopping to discuss one or two. Then she took me upstairs, to show me two of her on the landing. One a head and shoulders, large portrait oil in stiff classical style, the other, a watercolour of her husband and Monica sat on the terrace one summer. I was just thinking she’d be a damn good subject, only thing - I’d have to play down her prominent gnashers if I ever did one, when she nudged my arm.
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