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WHAT’S IN A DRY OLD FUCK?
By The Tall Man

Chapter One: Len’s Bar, early days…a self-made man…Jenny…the gang bang

Len’s Bar on a Friday evening after a hard week was the place to go in those days. Everybody and his secretary and his brother and his mistress (or his would-be mistress) were there. At the end of the working week, it was the popular den of iniquity to go to unwind, relax, flirt, pick up people for unsavoury purposes. Most hedonists' kind of scenario.

A chance meeting with Jenny, one of the secretaries at the firm where I used to work, and the vague possibility of sinking my dick into her voluptuous lower body, persuaded me to go to Len’s Bar for the first time.

Lunch break, a summer day, walking along the city centre street back towards my new office clutching my pretentious 12 inch jambon and salade baguette, there she was, teetering along on the other side of the street. I saw her breasts first, that’s the way I always see women, close up or at a distance. Jenny’s breasts were spectacular, almost bursting through the buttons of her crisp white secretary’s blouse. Her too-skinny legs below her too-tight black skirt wobbled on her too-high heels, and right at that moment, in my period of sexual drought she looked like the sexiest dollybird in the entire universe.

Twice married, twice divorced, sexually insatiable according to purportedly reliable office legend, and approximately half my age. Jenny spotted me and crossed over unsteadily to my side of the street, smiling broadly. I remarked for the first time that she was sort of pretty as well as desirable in her discreetly tarty way. Her almost deafening body language made it clear she was pleased to see me.

“Well hello handsome” she grinned up at me, “Long time no whatsit. That’s a big one Ken” she breathed, grinning down at my 12 inch baguette then up into my face.

I smiled my own pleasure back, glancing at her bulging chest again as she came closer, then trying to fix on her eyes. I smelt tobacco, suppressed my dislike.

“I hear you’ve become a self-made man.” Jenny was not known for her high cerebral capacity, which everybody at work knew didn’t measure up to her very impressive mammarial dimensions.

Just a couple of months earlier, in a moment of not so well thought out folly, and at the ripe old age of 50, divorced and resting between girl friends, I’d set up my own very small business in financial counselling, and it looked like it was going to work out alright. Well, self-employed, yes, but ‘self-made’ was still a long way from the truth. I was nevertheless hopeful, and agreed with her interpretation of the news she’d heard.

Mesmerised by her fluttering eye lashes, her wobbling tits tugging at my eyes and having a certain effect on my dick, I listened to Jenny’s update of office news, which of course, was of absolutely no interest to me whatsoever any longer. I gave my own body signals to move on and tackle my baguette, but I guess she was mono-lingual; she missed the signals completely, stopped me a couple of times, squeezed my arm softly. I noted long, blood-red finger nails. Dropping my baguette lower to cover a potentially rising tent in the front of my trousers, I listened somewhat distractedly as she said: “You ought to come down to Len’s Bar one Friday evening straight after work. It’s a really great atmosphere, and we always have a lot of fun.”

I knew the place, which was just a few hundred yards from my office, but I hadn’t been inside. It looked kind of seedy; not that it mattered to me if it was the seediest joint in the whole city, but in any case, when you work for yourself, you just have to make some sacrifices. Work sometimes comes first.

“You’d love it. Lots of people you know go there after work. Mike’s a regular. We have a few drinks, a few laughs. Sometimes we do the gang bang.”

I began to pay closer attention, raised my eyebrows, squeezed my baguette, then stopped in case the butter or the sliced tomatoes squirted out of the sandwich and into the paper bag. I tilted my head in curious fashion, moved an inch or two closer to those wondrous breasts. I’d long ago given up trying to guess bra sizes, so let’s just say Jenny’s were huge and kind of mesmeric.

“Gang bang” I repeated.

“Yes, it’s a kind of dance, we all get in a line and dance, like having a gang bang.”

“Ah” I muttered. “Well, maybe I’ll drop by one of these Fridays, when I’m not working late. Being a self-made man places demands on your time, you know” I mocked, but with my winning smile. “But have to go now, Jenny. I need to gulp this down and tidy myself up before my two o’clock appointment.”

“It’s a big one too!” said Jenny, squeezing my arm again much harder and winking before she let me go, then: “Bye Ken, see you on Friday.”

I watched her cross-wobble back over to her side of the street and continue her trajectory, noted she had a small but very cute and firm bum, like two tennis balls battling inside a handkerchief. Her legs were too skinny, sure, but what the hell, the effect was already noticeable. It would be a few minutes before my stretched underpants deflated and my cock settled down to position number one in my trousers. I mulled over for about 30 seconds what Jenny had said, then set aside all ideas of Len’s Bar and its gang bang dance whatever that might be. My immediate preoccupation was my forthcoming appointment and making money from it.

Two weeks later, in a quiet moment at the end of the week, remembering the alarming reaction in my trousers to Jenny’s close and insistent presence, and having had absolutely no sexual sustenance for some considerable time, my resistance weakened, and I stuck my nose into Len’s Bar.

A hot summer evening, I left my jacket and tie in the car and descended the steps into what seemed like a noisy black hole, cut my way through the ‘heat, the smoke and haze’, to the bar. It was already past seven o’clock and the place was heaving with business people. While I was there waiting for someone working behind the bar to discover I wasn’t invisible so I could order a beer, I noticed Jenny on the other side leaning against a wall with her tongue stuck down some pin-stripe throat – or was it someone with his tongue down Jenny’s throat? Both, probably. No matter, it seemed to go on forever. What seemed like an hour or two later, I got my beer, turned round, and there they were, still with their mouths glued together. Discreetly, I moved a little out of range, saw Michael, one of my former close colleagues at the old firm. Twice married and still captive in the second, Mike was one of the best of a very bad bunch of bankers and shysters, and a well known womaniser, like me. Only better looking, I have to admit, and younger.

Mike saw me, came directly over and we shook hands; he always had a warm, soft handshake, like a wet dishcloth, summer or winter. He smiled and we expressed our appropriate mutual pleasure, genuine or not. Mike was none too tall, barrel-chested and always wore immaculate business suits. Women found him very attractive. True, he was good looking, with blue eyes and long eyelashes that the girls said they would die for, but he had a weight problem, and had to work very hard to maintain an exercise r?me so he could keep fit enough for winter ski-ing, and for his first and foremost sport – chasing skirt.

“I was hoping you’d come down one of these days, Ken” he said, “Jenny told me she’d bumped into you. How’s the new business coming along?”

He allowed me a few minutes while I gave him an inflated account of my modest success, then changed the subject to anything and everything but business. Mainly women, for that’s why he was in Len’s Bar usually. Or any other bar, come to that. We had made a ton of business journeys during our ten years working together, and had always managed to track down the right female company, whatever city we found ourselves in. Usually it was Mike who had done the hunting, and the game was shared out accordingly.

“Have you seen Jenny over there?”

I nodded, then turned around to have another quick look at the amorous couple, discreetly fondling each others buttocks whilst clinking glasses at chest level. The pin-stripe moved his beer sideways, so that the back of his hand was brushing Jenny’s left tit.

“Apparently, she’s insatiable. But selective, it seems. I’ve tried to get her into my car a few times after closing, but no go. Look at her with that yuppy over there, she was eating him alive a few minutes ago.”

“I saw”, I replied.

We talked on for a while, raising our voices above those of all the inebriated people around us, then I remembered the gang bang.

“What’s all this gang bang stuff”, I asked.

“Oh, the gang bang. It’s just a bit of fun. You get to stick your dick up against some woman’s arse, and behind you there’s another woman doing the same to you – without the dick, of course.” He laughed out loud, a bit too loud, it seemed to me, continuing: “If you feel a dick against your arse, then it’s time to change places with someone, quick! Oh, and we do it to music. A great ice breaker, known to produce remarkable results amongst the still sexually active.”

Mike carried on laughing for a while, the volume of which attracted Jenny’s attention over against the wall. She tore her hands off her beau’s bum and his hands off hers and staggered over to us, grinning broadly. I just knew she was glad to see me there. Her protuberances were as magnificent as ever under her now less-than-crisp, clinging office secretary’s blouse. I noticed a small beer stain on the place where I calculated her left nipple would be.

“Kennneee baybeeee!” she drooled, “Soooo glad you came at last, as the arts mistress said to the gardener. How are you? What are you naughty boys talking about?”

Her arms were instantly around my waist and I felt one of those wonderful, solid globes against my ribs. My cock began to fill up for the first time in a long time and I smiled my pleasure, ignored the smell of cigarettes, dipped my head and kissed her cheek. I think she got the message, as she twisted slightly and pressed closer, almost flattening both her tits against my chest. Poor Mike was left looking at the back of her head while Jenny peered up at my face, smiling in a sort of half drunken, half seductive way. I smiled my winning smile back. I smelled tobacco again.

“I think I’ve had a little too much this evening already. I need to calm down a bit. It’s early yet, and I don’t want to lose control of what I’m doing.” I remarked to myself: she was already out of control by normal standards, but I wasn’t going to tell her. Her smile and the tone of her voice and the feel of her breasts against my chest were turning my knees to jelly and my cock to iron. She turned to Mike:

“Are we doing the gang bang tonight, Mikey?”

“I hope so” Mike replied, “C’est obligatoire” he added, putting on his oh-so-familiar pseudo-French accent, clearly to impress Jenny, or the barmaid, or both. But it went over Jenny’s head, and she turned back to me and continued pressing her now rigid nipples against my chest, this time with her hot thigh against the outside of mine, rubbing lightly. I was harder than I’d been since the night before I opened the doors of my new office for the first time, and reminded myself that two and a half months without a fuck was way too long. Jenny couldn’t fail to feel the inflexibility of my dick against her belly.

Mike turned away, leaned over the bar and said something to the French-Algerian barmaid. In French, I wagered. She disappeared behind the scenes, and a minute later the music started.

The whole bar exploded with cheers, arms in the air and whoops of “Gang Bang!”.

Male and female bodies moved quickly, and it seemed, purposefully in all directions, and began to form a line the whole length of the bar, several lines when they ran out of space. I turned round to the counter to order another beer, but Jenny grabbed my hand and squeezed it; just what I needed at that instant, a hot sweaty hand in mine. She tugged hard, and I found myself slipping into small pattering steps behind her, trying not to stamp on her high heels, towards the centre of the bar floor. In the semi-darkness I sneaked a look at her ass. Lovely, I thought. My swollen cock was twitching freely, and I didn’t care now if my trousers were tented. I was enjoying the feeling, and reminded myself not to let business get in the way of sex quite so often in future.

I tried to concentrate on what the others were doing, the formation seemed important. Jenny pressed back and thrust her bum against my enlarged groin, turned her head and whispered: “Stay behind me, okay? Don’t change places, whatever you do.”

I promised, allowed myself to be pulled into her buttocks, and grabbed onto her waist as she joined a line of man-woman-man-woman, cock to bum, pubes to bum and so on. Jenny pressed her buttocks back hard against my cock, which was now unmistakeably and unrelentingly rigid against her bum cheeks. At the very same same moment, I felt something hard press itself against my bum, turned round rapidly, remembering what Mike had said. It was a grinning woman, not pretty, but I was relieved it was a sizeable pubic bone I had there in my ass, and not a dick. I then noticed Mike grinning and grinding, positioned several persons behind my new bum-hugger and clinging onto a female waist.

The music was almost unbearable, the lyrics almost unintelligible. I heard vaguely:

We’re having a gang bang, we’re having a ball
We’re having a gang bang, against the wall

Then I forgot about all about trying to hear or interpret the lyrics, as I gave myself up to the sensation of having my turgid and throbbing cock thrust against Jenny’s extremely accommodating ass and rubbing it freely in the crack of her skirt-covered bum cheeks, as she pressed them back enthusiastically against me. Being an adept at this weekly gang bang, Jenny got quickly into the rhythm, moved her ass forward and back, then from side to side, obliging me to move my cock sideways in time with her or lose the haven of her crack.

Each and everybody in the gang bang line moved his and her lower body backwards and forwards in a fake fucking action to the rhythm of the so-called music, and I remarked that, if this went on for long, there would soon be a number of inebriated men on the verge of creaming their trousers this evening. But I didn’t care about the others; I just hung in there and enjoyed the sensations of Jenny’s silky bum crack pleasuring my delighted and, up to now, much-neglected cock.

Everybody was having a thoroughly debauched time it seemed.

A gang bang is a game we play
It's something of joke
It's lots of hokey-pokey
Less hokes and lots of pokes

I couldn’t believe the appalling lyrics. As this outrageous dance progressed, I dared move my hands further around Jenny’s waist, until they lay just under her breasts and I could feel their amazing softness and heaviness against the tops of my hands. Jenny, moving her hips back and forth a little harder against my crotch, and without letting go entirely of her other partner in sex-crime in front, slipped her hand onto one of mine, moved it up and discreetly placed it fully on her tit.

My cock twitched and throbbed, and I wanted to ejaculate there and then. Or better still, slip it under Jenny’s inadequate skirt and plunge it quickly and indelicately into her softness first. Finally, to save me from an embarrassing wet patch in my undies and trousers, the music died down, to yet more whoops of joy from the regulars, and the lines began to slowly disintegrate.

The hubbub continued for a few minutes, then returned to a rather less blatantly uncivilised level again, as everybody found his or her former place in the bar. Jenny, without turning towards me, kept her ass glued to my crotch, her hands now back around onto my bum, pulling me close, to lead me back to the bar and rejoin Mike. Only then did she spin around and press those welcome inflated cushions against my chest again. My long vertical boner was now against her belly and pulsing uncontrollably.

I knew I was going to break my sexual drought that evening. I didn’t know whether it was the pin-stripe guy or the gang bang with me that had worked her up. But I was the chosen one – not the one Jenny had been eating voraciously earlier, and whom I hadn’t seen since. I was more than ready to accept the gift to be bestowed upon me; it had been a very long drought indeed.

A couple of beers later, I was on the way to my second-hand Peugeot 305 with Jenny clinging onto me. I didn’t know if it was to stop herself falling over or because she wanted to pull down my trousers, but she had one hand deep inside my waistband and was squeezing my bum, scratching the flesh teasingly with her long red nails. As we zig-zagged, I had my hand far around her waist and an amazingly large tit in my hand. I felt the nipple grow hard in my palm as I fondled this wonderful globe through her bra. It was the largest tit I had ever held in my life, and my hand was incapable of holding it entirely. I did my best, nevertheless, felt and enjoyed its weight in my palm.

My cock was now begging for release, and I knew this was going to be a very short interlude. No time to reach my office, it would have to be in my car. In the merest hint of time, we were parked in a very dark side-street of the city. I was sitting on the passenger seat, my trousers and boxers were down to my ankles and my rigid organ was pointing to the sky, Jenny was soon astride my thighs with her panty and tights in a pile on the car floor, her blouse open, her bra lifted up and her bare tits almost but not quite covered by my desperate hands. Lifting herself into position with one hand on the seat behind my shoulder, she gripped my swollen rod with the other, squeezed and jerked it a few times and wordlessly begged me to plant it inside her. No-one mentioned a contraceptive, and I briefly thought of the possible consequences as well as Jenny’s and my own reputation, before giving in to the urge to fuck her brains out.

With quite unnecessary encouragement and help from Jenny, I found the right place and slipped my desperately excited rod between her furry cunt lips hard and fast, no thought of finesse; this was an extreme emergency situation, after two and a half months without feeling the moist heat of an experienced cunt around my prick. Jenny’s pussy was very hot and very wet; she was as ready as I was, and immediately started humping herself up and down, groaning into my ear as I groped her jugs and sucked on her nipples alternately, then buried my face in between both tits and pushed them together as though trying to suffocate myself. What a way to die, the thought crossed my mind, as my climax rapidly built up and Jenny’s voice and her tongue thrusting into my ear drove me onwards. All she said was: “Come on! Come on! Come on!”

I don’t remember kissing her mouth. I hate the smell and taste of tobacco. But the word lust is totally inadequate to describe what was going on just at that moment, as a drink-induced, long stored-up seminal eruption prepared itself. Jenny was coming before me, and I knew it, as I struggled to hold back my ejaculation for just a little longer. A few seconds, that’s all it needed as Jenny began to buck and shudder on my solid, aching dick. She screamed in my ear as she sat down hard on my cock and arrived at a half-drunken, loud, uninhibited orgasm.

Gasping for air from between her breasts, I heard the word ‘fuck’ several times very loudly in my ear as her trembling went on and I lifted my ass off the car seat, thrust hard and finally squirted my hot sperm inside her cunt in what seemed like endless, thick, powerful jets. The drought was soon over; at the end of several violent and self-congratulatory spasms, my balls were empty again. At last.

Our breathing slowed. We stopped moving. I inhaled the sickly sweet scent between her tits, my hands still cupping them, my mouth kissing the valley between them, making the most of the post-coital climb-down. Jenny pressed her face against my neck and stayed sitting on my dick as it began to shrink to almost nothing inside her sopping pussy. Then she gave it a cunt-muscle squeeze, milking me of the last couple of drops. Oh how I love that last spasm!

Still we didn’t move, and I felt what seemed like pints of warm seminal fluid running down onto my balls and probably wetting the car seat. Jenny must have felt the same; she lifted her bum up slightly to allow my now pathetically small dick to slip unaided from its paradisiacal prison, leaned back on my thighs. It felt good to have the soft, sweaty flesh of her ass on my thighs. She looked down briefly at my cock, then up at my face, but I had the feeling she wasn’t seeing me. Then, looking around left and right, as though a little lost, she finally sighed, spoke breathlessly, almost impatiently: “Do you have any tissues in this car, Kenny?”

I reached into the glove box behind her back, found a packet of kleenex and handed it to her. She wiped herself down there intently, looking sideways at me in a kind of embarrassed way from time to time; then she dropped the filthy, sopping kleenex onto my bare lap and awkwardly struggled over to the driver’s seat, banging her leg on the gearstick on the way. I heard the word ‘fuck’ again.

There followed an interlude whilst I attended to my own personal mopping up operations, the rustle of clothes being re-arranged before anyone spoke. “That was great, Jenny. You’re really nice.” It all sounded a bit hollow and false after the total and uncontrollable lust which had just manifested itself, so I shut up.

“Yes, same here, Ken” was all she replied, but I didn’t hear anything that sounded like sincerity in her voice. Then she shut up too. I still hadn’t kissed her. Suddenly that stale tobacco smell seemed more repulsive than before. Post-coital disgust had now set in.

Twenty minutes later, I dropped Jenny in front of her apartment. I never knew what she really thought, but we never fucked again, and I saw her less and less at Len’s Bar. Later, Mike told me she had met a guy whom everybody called ‘Clark Kent’, allegedly because of the size of his dick. She finally stopped coming to Len’s on Friday evenings, and as far as I know, on any other evening. I hope she got what she was looking for. I was condemned to keep looking.

Chapter Two: Ten years later…Mary…Helen…pissing trouble

So that’s where I was when I first saw Mary, ten years later. I was still going to Len’s Bar occasionally on a Friday evening after work, though less often. The novelty of years gone by had more or less worn off, and I didn’t show up so often because of work pressures. But I put in an appearance when it suited me, mostly to keep in close contact with one or two clients who frequented the same den of iniquity, and with some of my useful pals in the financial institutions.

Things had changed a bit in the intervening years. Len had left his wife for the French Algerian bar girl. Len’s wife, after sleeping with an inestimable number of bar customers, male and female, had finally gone to live with one of them, a young stud ten years younger than her, poor sod. And the bar had been sold to a rich Greek called Tony Vassilikos. He kept the name ‘Len’s Bar’ and took over where Len left off, banging bar girls and customers at every opportunity. But he was a single man, and had no complications to think about of the kind Len had.

Some other minor things had changed, but not much, and it was still a place to go, sort of. Michael still was the major predator in the bar. He was older, weren’t we all, and less successful in the seduction stakes, but it didn’t stop him from trying. Once a lech, always a lech. Everybody and his brother, his secretary and his mistress were still regulars there; and now, with their mobile phones and electronic organisers too. Nobody asked to do the gang bang anymore.

For me, quite a lot had changed in those ten intervening years. My business was flying, I had a bigger office and staff around me, my old second hand Peugeot 305 had become a sleek Mercedes Benz 230, new. I had money. I had Helen in my life. And I had a prostate problem.

Helen didn’t like Len’s Bar. It was not her style; she had nothing in common with its clientele, and after a first and only unhappy venture into the bar with me one Friday, Helen subsequently did no more than wait for my phone call, to meet me outside the bar door sometimes and take me home after a drinking session. The drink-drive laws had been changed too, had begun to frighten us all.

Helen was ten years younger than me and very classy, but not what you’d call highly sexually evolved. Never married, no kids, but in many ways she was quite the ideal public partner for a moderately successful businessman like me: good to look at, intelligent, tall and attractive, always impeccably dressed, and with a body most men would sell their souls for, young or old. But what Helen made up for in class she lacked in sense of adventure in bed. This moderately successful but highly sexed businessman was missing out, so to speak, felt sometimes as though he was in danger of passing alongside the ultimate experience, and very occasionally was known to step off the straight and narrow.

The prostate gave me a problem for pissing, not for having sex. But it needed fixing.

One Friday in summer, I noticed Mary for the first time at Len’s Bar. I saw her arrive with another girl, and the twosome made an odd, ambiguous couple. Mary was quite small and what I might have called in those days ‘dumpy’. She was very pretty with it, though, and very well rounded; her fullest of full breasts and ass were her best features, and simply begged for attention, visual and actual. But it was when I saw her up close for the first time that I became aware of her pretty grey eyes and soft pale skin. She was much better looking than I first thought. Towering above her as we stood side by side at the bar counter, I was able to see a stunning cleavage bursting at her lightweight black dress.

My masculine interest rose, but reflecting quickly on her age, I decided hers was probably way less than half mine, and therefore this most delightful package was, in all probability, a no-go for me. There comes a time in every man’s life when he has to face facts. But Mike and I both had the same problem: we didn’t know quite when that fact-facing, life-changing moment would arrive.

Mary’s friend was a tall and skinny, scrawny short haired girl of no sexual interest, who never smiled and didn’t say much. She seemed at odds with the world.

Curious, I asked Mike about Mary. He didn’t know much at all; he’d heard her talking to a group of people a few weeks earlier, said she was an American who had recently come to work in the city, in finance, like us, but he didn’t know exactly where. Oh, and she was a lesbian. “That’s her regular girlfriend over there, the sad, ugly one lurking behind. You’re wasting your time there, Ken. Anyway, lesbian or not, she’s far too young for an old chap like you. Stick with Helen, she’s a gem.” Everybody thought Helen was a gem.

I nodded my agreement, but as the evening wore on, I couldn’t help looking Mary’s way, taking in her body, her pretty eyes and her sure way of carrying herself. Our eyes met just once, and she gave me what I took to be a peek-a-boo, vacant smile, before looking away again. I knew she’d noticed me, though.

There was a certain confidence in her manner, and I noticed that whenever she was talking to men, they seemed captivated by her eyes, entirely focused on what she was saying. Her lurking, goulish friend showed her obvious dislike of all this male attention Mary was getting, but, if it was common knowledge that Mary was a lesbian, then it didn’t seem to be putting the men off, I thought.

Once, I managed to manoeuvre myself into an eavesdropping position in the bar, but the conversation told me no more about her; there was a hint of trans-Atlantic accent, and no give-away detail about where she worked.

Then someone told me that Helen was waiting for me at the door. I emptied my beer glass and left. I forgot about Mary. Almost.

Chapter Three: Fuck George…a minor operation…male childbirth

“Fuck George”, I thought. “Fuck him to death and beyond. If he’s still alive, which I doubt.”

I was coming round after the operation on my prostate. Eyes half open, I realised I was speaking out loud. All I could think of was old George and what he had said forty years before – words that had troubled me subconsciously ever since, off and on. Mostly off, but now, here in my hospital bed, I wondered whether George’s predictions might finally be about to come true.

It was like this: “You’re always talking and thinking about sex at your age” he had said one day to us young studs, as we played cards in the men’s cloakroom and talked endlessly about IT. “But one day, you’ll wake up, and you won’t want it anymore.”

You might have thought the laughter would bring the whole three storey city centre building down. Waking up and not wanting sex was unthinkable to young men of our age and with what we imagined was our indestructible virility. George, the sixty-odd year old post delivery aid insisted: “You won’t believe it now, of course. But when you get to my age, it’ll just go away quietly, it’ll fade away, and one morning you’ll wake up, and you won’t want it any more.”

More loud laughter. “It happened to me. I know what it’s like. And it won’t matter when it happens to you; you won’t think about it, you won’t even worry about it any more, because you won’t get the same urges. See what I mean? You won’t worry, because you won’t want it. You’ll see.”

George the impossibly inarticulate left the room to get on with his post and when the raucous mirth and whooping had died down, the last word on the subject was mine: “I’ll tell you this much: to wake up without a hardon is a joke. The very day I wake up and don’t want it any more, I think I’ll probably top myself.” In those days, we were always thinking that tomorrow would be better. We survived youth and much more, before we even imagined the reverse could be true.

I realise that after anaesthetic, people can be inclined to say daft things. But now, lying here in my hospital bed, feeling groggy and sore, and with a most unpleasant kind of aching along what seemed like the whole length of my penis and all the way up into my belly, all I could do was talk quietly and absurdly about George and his damned ancient prophesy. And wonder if suicide time would soon be here.

The surgeon had, of course, warned me about some possible ensuing effects of this fairly new laser intervention, before persuading me to let him to zap merrily away an ‘uncertain percentage’ of my prostate. The good news: an operation which was allegedly almost pain-free, not a single drop of blood, only one night in hospital afterwards, a quick recovery, a strong flow of piss thereafter. The potential bad news: if you can still get it up afterwards, you’re likely to ejaculate wholly or partially into your bladder. That may be off-putting for some men, he explained, to my initial consternation.

If I can still get it up! If I can still get it up! Frankly, I won’t give a damn where I ejaculate. In my bladder, in my kidneys, out through my mouth, anywhere, as long as I can get it up. Just allow me that, please. I have to be able to cheat old George’s predictions, grant me at least that.

Well, here I was, staring up at the hospital ward ceiling, having established that I was still on this mortal coil, wondering whether I would still be able to get it up. Not right now, but later, when I’d recovered. A full month without sexual activity, the surgeon had instructed. But then, what the hell, I reflected. I still can look good in a business suit. What will anybody know about about stuff going on (or not going on) under my pants? I only have Helen to consider. And Helen, well, she’s Helen.

I looked away from the ceiling towards the window, became aware at last that Helen was in the room, and wondered right then about whether darling Helen would even be interested in my getting it up again. Her libido hadn’t shown any real signs of improving in recent months, even though her stunning body had always managed to excite me sufficiently to be able to plunder her carnal treasures without having to embark upon guilty visions of imaginary partners. Then again, there were moments when Helen sometimes wanted it badly. She had her brief personal needs – they just weren’t precisely the same as mine, nor as frequent.

I closed my eyes again; I didn’t feel like discussing with Helen how I felt right at that moment of my life, and how our already sporadic sex life might or might not evolve henceforth. Thanks to aspirin or similar, the pain was just about supportable and I was drowsy. I looked over at Helen, smiled as though I recognised her, and drifted off into half-anaesthetic sleep.

The extraction of the tube that had been left inside my dick and up into my bladder after the laser intervention, was probably the most painful event of my long life, and at the end I felt I really knew what giving birth meant. Until it started, with two pretty young nurses sitting on each side of my hospital bed, I had no idea just how much it was going to hurt. As the prettier of the nurses took off the sticking plaster which had been holding the tube at the point of entry into my cock-eye, and began to tug on the tube (did they draw lots, I wondered?) she hardly gave me time to take in her words: “This may be a bit painful, but it’ll be quickly over.” Seeing my face contort in agony, the other nurse, surely a childbirth specialist, cried: “Breathe quickly, in and out, pant, pant!”

So I panted and prayed. Try to imagine, if you will, that someone rips out both your testicles, your penis and the major part of your guts in about fifteen seconds flat. That’s how it felt.

Then it was over; I was tubeless again, and looking at my poor shrunken, pubic hairless dick, almost lost between my thighs and leaking blood. It seemed very sorry for itself and certainly very doubtful about its future. The whole episode prompted me to reflect on the condition of my sexagenarian body. Fuck, I thought. I don’t have a fat belly like so many other middle-aged men; my skin’s pretty tight after all. Okay, I admitted to myself: I no longer have those solid, rippling, sportsman’s muscles of yesteryear. I wasn’t the young woman’s idea of a dream lover any more, but I was okay. Finally, I thought: what they see’s what they get. And I’ll settle for what I can get after this. That’s profound philosophy, I reflected, as I reached for a glass of water to wash down the painkillers offered to me by one of the nurses.

Chapter Four: Back to work…Mary

As the days went by, George’s words still haunted me. But I was back at my desk within three days, and pissing better than ever. From that point of view, the surgeon had been right. As for the rest, well, I had to wait. I decided to keep out of Len’s Bar for a while. I didn’t fancy discussing my problems with Mike and his pals.

Then Mary turned up again. At my office.

When she called my secretary for an appointment, I had no idea who she was, this Mary Barry, and she didn’t appear to know me from name either. But her company had told her to come and see me and sell me some investment facilities, so there she was, in front of me in my private office. We recognised each other finally, and quite quickly a sort of empathy began to form, once we had talked about the Len’s Bar atmosphere, although she was, frankly, luke-warm about the place.

One of the first things I learned was that she was not American; she explained with a kind of piqued look, then a smile, that she was Canadian. Easy mistake to make, she commented. More bad marks for Mike, I thought; he should have picked out the vowells, he being so liguistically accomplished (allegedly).

I was once again captivated by Mary’s grey eyes and the softness of her rounded face. Something was fizzing on the surface, I felt. The more I studied her ample body, while she was looking down at her papers and couldn’t see I was ogling at her as I was inclined to do, the more I was stunned by its curves. Her substantial, high-held breasts were hard to hide, forcing out the front of her grey business suit and crisp white blouse. This time, her cleavage was well covered by a button-up blouse, but when the jacket of her business suit fell open, I realised something. Not only did those beauties swell upwards, but they bulged sideways too, giving the impression of two magnificent airbags held together by crisp cotton. Her chubby but shapely legs were placed neatly together against my desk and out of sight, but occasionally she would cross them, and I would catch a flash of stocking covered thigh or calf below her skirt. Chubby, but shapely legs, I thought. My interest rose. I wondered if those stockings went up to the crotch or not.

I realised at this precise moment that, whatever the damned surgeon had done to me during that operation a week or so before, whether or not I would be able to get it up again or ejaculate again, I had not lost my fascination in the female body. And here before my very eyes, here in my own office, was a very fine young specimen of female body. I waited for a sign, a twitch down below, but it didn’t come. I was still feeling a little daily soreness from pissing, and the idea of having once more the pleasure of an erection before the four allotted weeks were up, was not yet quite uppermost in my mind. I just kept secretly hoping and waiting.

My best option right now was to concentrate on what Mary had to say about her company’s investment plans. But this time, as well as her fascinating physical presence, I was also impressed by her maturity and her common sense attitude to investment. I began to enjoy this young woman. I began to think her company had done the right thing sending her to see me. I began to think we could do business together. I began to think about getting my erection back one of these days.

There was more. I’ve always prided myself on being able to spot whether a female is interested in me or not. I have an eye for it, you might say. I’m a people watcher by nature. I’ve observed so-called body language for years, even before Desmond Morris published certain books about human animal behaviour which resulted in worldwide scandals. In a group of mixed sexes I’ve always been able to spot who fancies whom, detect the eye contact, the body signals. I could spot extra-marital affairs before they even started

And after an hour in Mary’s company, I began to see early signs of interest coming over from this cute young executive, Mary Barry. It was in the eyes first, as is usually the case, a kind of excessive sparkle to enhance the salesperson’s smile. Then it was in the noticeable movements of the upper body, a kind of leaning towards the prey, so to speak, a dipping of the shoulders, the submissive female, with eyes looking up into mine. I had to take a short phone call during our meeting, and I felt her eyes on me as I turned away from her for two minutes to talk to my client discreetly. Yes, I saw all the signs, but kept on thinking about my handicap, wishing and hoping it was just temporary.

Quite against my normal male predatory instincts of yesteryear, I forced myself to try and stay calm.

I’m also no dupe. It would not have been the first time in my long business life that a female sales executive had come over to me with the old seduction tactics, and I’d often used them myself with female clients. As one of my former female colleagues often said: “If I’m going to succeed in this damned job, I know I’m going to get my bottom felt.” And that’s what she set out to do – to succeed by getting her ass felt, over and over again.

I was also aware, since setting up my own business, that a man’s attractiveness to women is directly proportionate to the thickness of his wallet. Add to that the seeming status and power as a businessman, power as an aphrodisiac, and to some women, even an average, ageing looker like me becomes irresistible. Even before I set up my business, I was not short of offers from women. Since the large new brass company plate ‘K E Lawson, Independent Financial Adviser’ had been on my office door, for the last ten years you could say: my cup runneth over.

I often recall the Branch Manageress of a city institution who decided after only a few short meetings and one evening together followed by late coffee at her house, that she was already in love with me. I didn’t refuse her advances, naturally, and we were soon in her bed together. She was a great fuck, and the whole episode was spoiled only by finding myself banging away with, intermittently, the noses of her two young border collies up my ass. Finally, she sent them away and closed the bedroom door. A week or two later, she fell in love with someone else more romantic than me. Here was a girl in love with the idea of being in love, I decided.

Then there was the young blonde trainee sales consultant, half my age who said she always preferred older men. She had a phenomenal body, and had just discovered how to enhance it by pumping iron. She invited me to a business lunch, which went well enough; the usual body language and flashing of knowing looks between us, but I remained the perfect business gentleman. When I got home that evening I found a message on my answering machine, to the effect that she found me extremely charming, and if ever I wanted to repeat our lunch – or maybe have dinner instead – then she would be delighted to see me again. That was quite an experience for about three weeks, before I suggested she find someone her own age. A great body, a satisfactory fuck, but young and boring. I saw her a couple of years later at an industry dinner; she filled her evening gown more like a trained weight lifter than the catwalk model she had resembled before. Her tits were now pectorals and her legs like those of Schwarzeneger. Still pretty tasty looking in a different way, but boring, and femininity lost.

Then there was the rich couple whose financial investments I took care of, at first jointly, then separately when they split up. My first business meeting with the gay divorc?started with gin and tonic on the terrace looking onto the magnificent private garden of her luxury house, and ended with us rolling around at dusk, naked and slightly drunk on the freshly cut lawn under the sprinklers. A great fuck in the circumstances, but my poor back was torn to shreds and bleeding at the end - and it wasn’t the grass that did it. I lost a very profitable client that night.

I didn’t pretend that any of these incidents, the ease with which these women threw themselves in my direction, had a great deal to do with my having some sort of fatal fascination for women. More to do with what I was and my potential power factor, rather than who I was, it seemed to me.

So I stayed calm and controlled with Mary, not wanting to take the risk that this was yet another young female sales executive looking to get her ass or her tits - that is, her astonishing tits, manhandled. And not wanting to take the risk that eventually, I would not be able to get it up for her anyway, I had to be very, very careful. I had both my business and my personal reputation as an ageing stud to think about.

I let her go, with a promise to consider her very attractive proposals. But this time, I didn’t forget Mary.

Chapter Five: Helen…some sort of renaissance?

Well, those four dry, sexless weeks before I was due to see the surgeon again threatened to drag by interminably, but I tried hard to remain optimistic. I had to; I was not ready to give up my previously indestructible sexuality just yet.

Then the minor miracle occurred. On morning twenty two (I was counting), I woke up with a solid hardon. And it wasn’t because I wanted to piss.

In the early morning, out of habit, and without premeditation, I had rolled over onto my side towards Helen’s back and slipped my free hand under the sheets, over and onto her belly, then up, to grasp a generous, fifty year old breast in my palm. The miracle happened as I stroked her warm, firm flesh. I pinched her nipple lightly, and once I got the rubbery swelling reaction, dipped my hand down into her pubes to tickle her clitoris, as I had done many times before in my early morning bleariness and tumescence, to remind her that, though no longer a young stud, this was still a hot blooded male beside her, with desires and needs. Not that Helen always took a lot of notice, but just sometimes, on odd weekends or the thirty fifth of the month, I got really lucky.

To my surprise and, need I say, joy, the old battleship came alive and filled up with genuine sanguine liquid. Within seconds, I was smiling. But now, the doubts crept in: should I take full advantage of my condition? The four sacred weeks were still running. There was a tiny discomfort, as the blood flowed up slowly but surely and stretched the skin of my dick for the first time in a century. I felt a little soreness, but hell, I didn’t care about that; I was HARD again! And hard again meant I could fuck again! Old George could go to hell – if he wasn’t already there.

I began to softly kiss and nibble Helen’s shoulders and lovely neck in a blatantly informative manner, whilst my manual delving into her pubes became a bit more adventurous. My fingers parted her soft, trimmed pussy lips, then I slipped a digit inside, and after a few moments’ wriggling it around, I managed to produce some worthwhile lubricity down there. I heard her moan quietly, and she fidgeted as she began to wake up, so I pressed my now rigid dick underneath, up and into the hot, sweaty cleft of her ample, middle-aged but still firm bum. I was full of doubt alright, but my heart was racing as I began to test the possibilities of proceeding further and consummating this happy event.

Helen moaned again, and pushed her ass back against my probing dick. At this stage, I wasn’t sure whether it was by way of objection, her acquiescence or just annoyance, but I allowed myself to believe I was in luck, and that it was a positive response to my clumsy sexual overtures. I heard her mumble: “Are you sure you’re okay, Ken?”

My affirmative reply was to kiss her neck and shove my hips forward again, further into her ass crack, as I felt the blood flow stronger and the tingling in my proud, reborn dick increase.

Here I was, I thought, approaching the unexpected but longed for, habitual heaven again. My neck and shoulder kissing activities increased, plus a flick of my tongue into Helen’s ear, and by now I was dipping two fingers gently but faster into a well lubricated cunt. I suspected Helen should by now be fully awake, so I made my usual gesture for her to turn her body around towards me, bringing my hand up to her shoulder and pressing backwards. No hesitation, she rolled over, threw a free arm around my back to clasp my buttocks; I did the same and pressed my open mouth to hers. Our tongues collided fast and furiously. If we had stale morning breath, neither of us cared, kissing like half-starved animals, fighting to suck the other’s tongue into the back of the throat.

Our lower bodies also slammed together, my swollen cock flat against her belly and her lovely breast cushions against my chest. I drew my hips back enough to be able to manouevre the tip of my twitching organ down between her thighs and pressed forward and upward again, touching her delighful cunt lips with the tip of my cock. Overcoming the slight soreness I felt, I rubbed my cock head there for a while, shunting my hips back and forth against her now moistening pussy lips, before thrusting harder, in an effort to gain entry. Helen opened her thighs, lifted her free leg up under my armpit, wriggled her ass to guide me. I pressed forward with the tip of my now rigid cock; her slippery pussy lips opened under pressure, and I was instantly inside her hot, tight wetness. We both gasped with the pleasure of the sudden, long overdue and very welcome meeting of hard and soft, rigid and pliant, dry and damp, urgent and obliging, flesh.

I pulled firmly with my hand on Helen’s ass to increase the depth of my cock penetration. Without finesse, I banged hard into her dripping cunt, savouring at last this inexplicable pleasure after such a long absence. I thrust strongly and deeply, and my pace increased as we continued to tongue wrestle, both of us mumbling incomprehensible sounds into each other’s throats. Oh happy day!

As though this was not enough, Helen suddenly tore her mouth from mine and burbled: “Quick, get on top, I need you on top of me.” With Helen, it was never hungry, out of control; maybe we thought too much about it. But this was as urgent as it gets, I thought. Throwing off the sheets, she swung her free leg off me, was on her back in an instant, her knees high and wide, head back on her pillow, eyes closed.

Pausing only to admire her neatly trimmed bush and her ample breasts now rolling over onto her ribs on each side, I was straight up on my knees and my rigid dick was sliding easily back inside her depths almost as quickly, to continue my energetic pumping, slapping rapidly in and out of her dampness. Helen’s thighs found their traditional position against my ears, legs dangling over my shoulders, and my hands found their traditional position around her breasts, rolling them together, feeling the lovely weight of each of them against my palms. My thumbs pressed on, and teased her nipples. My eyes were fixed on their ample beauty.

Helen was always quick to come. And once she’d arrived, she usually wanted to get me out of her as soon as possible. She couldn’t stand the eternal fuck like I did. As I sensed Helen’s cunt start to tighten in its unique way, and her climax begin to build, I tried to increase my piston pace to my sixty year old maximum.

It was only then that the doubts began to seep through again. Helen had no need for such doubts; she was almost there. Within a few brief seconds of my momentary lapse of concentration, she was coming and I knew it was going to be what she called “a big one”. A big one for Helen was a knee-jerking, body shuddering orgasm, and it was a rare event. The three week drought had obviously had some effect on her too, I was pleased to see.

I watched her face contort in magnificent passion. Her long, silky left leg began to spasm uncontrollably, wide out, straight and way up above my head, the other leg pressed down firmly on my shoulder, bringing her pelvis up and off the bed. My cock almost slipped out of her cunt, but I raised myself up higher on my knees to thrust back in and regain contact; that last well aimed thrust made Helen cry out and her climax washed over her in several high waves.

It was the big one, the tsunami, you might say. The trembling went on and on, and her moaning got louder as I profited to the maximum by pumping harder. The leg-jerking and then gasping lasted a full two minutes, and I continued to drive into Helen, not knowing whether to allow myself to spurt or not, not knowing if I could spurt or not. Not knowing if anything would come out of my cock-eye even if I did let it happen.

Helen’s body began to calm down, her ass settled back onto the bed, her legs slipped down to my waist, then flopped flat onto the bed. Her moaning died away and her rapid breathing eased off. I slowed down my thrusting to a gentle pace. I looked with tenderness at her lovely face, her eyes closed, her head to one side. I was pleased she’d had a big one; they were rare enough. But I also knew she was losing interest. Perceptibly, my erection began to slacken. Exit left, I thought. Also, I was thinking about the surgeon’s instructions again: no sexual activity for four weeks.

I was not going to ejaculate this time, I thought. I’d just have to save it for another day. I allowed my body to relax on top of Helen, unmoving, pressed my chest against her wondrous cushions, found her mouth and kissed her again, tenderly this time, our wet tongues slipping together in post climactic saliva. Helen always liked that long moment of tenderness after her climax. Then I eased my diminishing erection out of her hot moistness, lay down beside her, ran my hands gently over her undulating belly and breasts, allowed her to regain her calm.

As her breathing settled down, I heard her sigh and mumble: “Are you alright Ken? D’you want to come?”

I reflected for a few seconds. “Not sure if I should, maybe I should wait. I don’t know.” The doubts hung in the air, as I lay on my side of the bed and my erection faded half away. If I did, what would happen? Would I suffer unimaginable and insupportable pain? Would I be paralysed forever? Would I ejaculate blood? Would my balls drop off?

Helen could be so understanding, despite her aversion to multiple orgasms. “What do you think? Want me to help?”

I was almost overcome by her sudden thoughtfulness. She knew her man so well, she knew exactly what was needed at that moment, that’s the kind of woman Helen was. She may be lacking adventure, but she knew how to please. Shuffling around towards me, raising herself up on one elbow, she reached over and placed her hand on my belly, ran her long fingers through my sparse short pubic hairs which had only just begun to sprout again after the hospital.

My cock reacted to her touch; I caressed her neck and shoulder, I relaxed and let the old organ fill up back to full rigidity a second time. It felt too good. And boy, I thought, a moment ago I had thought I was going to come, if only Helen hadn’t been so damned quick to get hers. But that’s Helen.

She continued to stroke my lower belly, then grasped my taught organ in her oh-so-soft fingers, squeezed and began to tease it in her own very special way, running her finger tips lightly along its length, up to the head and back to my pubes, then tickling underneath my balls with her long nails, very slowly. All this attention was guaranteed, normally, to get me quickly enough into ejaculation mode, which would have been perfect unto the day.

Helen disengaged herself from my continuing caresses, raised herself up onto her knees beside me, not letting go of my pulsing cock for an instant, and looked into my eyes. I liked that look she gave me. I shuffled up, now half sitting. She really was in a cooperative and obliging mood this morning, I reflected. Her superb breasts hung down and swung slightly towards me. As she rubbed my dick, I noticed a glistening, clear liquid had started to show at my cock-eye. False alarm? I reached over and took a full, heavy breast in each hand, enjoying the weight of them, the hard nipples against my palms. I squeezed them lightly, very gently, worshipping their shape and form.

The unspoken decision was made in that instant.

I laid back against my pillow, closed my eyes and waited for that familiar, joyous pressure to build up. I ran my hands over Helen’s shoulders, up onto her neck and face, caressing her in the tender way she liked, as she did the one job she really knew so well how to do. Her mouth dropped onto my belly, kissed me in butterfly kisses, up onto my chest, where she teased my nipples with her teeth. Her own nipples grazed against my belly as she moved up and down again, then trailed my thighs, as she continued to work the old engine with her closed fingers.

I felt the tingling start to happen in that old familiar way. I said nothing. I wanted Helen to take my hardness into her mouth and lick, suck hard. She didn’t do that very often, but I knew she was in the mood to please me today. On the other hand, aroused as I was and ready to spurt, I couldn’t help thinking about what the surgeon had said. What would come out of the old cock-eye, if and when I got there? Time to find out.

I felt the pressure increase down below, I relaxed, I let it come. My balls quivered and contracted; my lower body started to lift up as Helen worked her hand up and down. I felt that surge of power which told me each time I could conquer the world, and suddenly I was coming. At long last, after a century and a half of waiting, I was coming. I squeezed Helen’s breasts hard, the signal.

Helen firmed up her grip around the head of my cock, squeezed more tightly and pumped faster, her other hand cupping my taught balls, as she felt my hips jerk and thrust upwards. Then, keeping her fist tight around my cock, she stopped pumping as my climax started, eyes fixed on my cock end, as though watching and waiting to see what would happen next. She knew I was there at last, but we both knew what the other was waiting for. Helen’s eyes were wide, glued to the end of my cock, and I raised my head to do the same.

My cocked jerked and vibrated along its whole length, I felt the old, old intensity of ejaculation. I felt the head swell and vibrate, the violent pumping of sperm from bottom to top, expected to see that familiar white slippery liquid spurting forcefully out of my cock-eye and over Helen’s hand. But nothing came.

It was a dry climax, a totally dry ejaculation. An ejaculation which yielded nothing but pleasure, no ejaculate. But oh, the pleasure! All those strong feelings of intense orgasmic pleasure that always had been there, and that I was now convinced would always be there. Until the end of the world. My head went back and I began to tremble and at the same time laugh with a feeling of total relief. Whatever my balls had created in recent weeks, had been storing up and had just ejected, was probably swishing around right now in my bladder. But fuck, I didn’t care where it went, as long as I could come again!

Helen looked into my eyes, running her fingers again along the still jerking rigidity of my cock, squeezing the head, began to smile, then laugh with me. “There’s nothing coming out, Ken, just like the man said. But how is it?”

I replied: “Yep. It’s just like the man said. Nothing. Dry as a bone, a total non-ejaculation. But sweetheart, it’s great!” Helen giggled and gave my wilting cock end a last squeeze, making my lower body shudder with belated, dry pleasure. She lay down beside me again, let out a sigh, and we stayed hugging and kissing each other for a while, her hand cupped over my shrunken equipment. Then I said: “At least we’ll save on kleenex bills from now on”.

We both laughed crazily for a full five minutes.

Chapter Six: Back to business…and pleasure…Mary…a dry old fuck

The following week, Mary called again to see where I was on her proposed project, and my secretary arranged a second discussion meeting. I had been thinking about this little Canadian sexpot, but couldn’t honestly decide whether it was because of her delightful, plump little body, her amazing cleavage, her soft face and her pretty grey eyes, or because of my professional interest in her very promising investment bonds, which could be in danger of becoming a great seller amongst some of my more courageous clients.

I came to the conclusion that this almost back-to-form sexagenarian wasn’t quite finished yet. There was more fun to be had, and money to be made. In the time left, business and pleasure in equal measures were my goals.

Mary came over late one afternoon, and it turned out to be a very long and intense discussion in my office. I made sure I wore one of my classiest grey business suits, and I knew I looked good. I was out to impress. I knew the body underneath was getting on a bit in years and imperfect, but the external image was right for now.

I had more or less decided to go for Mary’s project, but made the most of the meeting to have her go all over it again in some detail, while I surreptitiously admired her form. Her immaculate, softly curled hair, her white blouse, grey suit and slim skirt, black stockings and high heels made her appear every inch the financial services professional. The several shirt buttons undone at the top made her every inch the seductress, and now and again I caught a glimpse of pale, flawless breast-skin above a black lacy bra, as she leaned over her files at the other side of my desk. I noticed, too, that those wonderful mammaries were bursting sideways as well as upwards, and began to dream of holding my newly rediscovered erection deeply between them. Now and again, too, I heard the sexiest rustle of stockinged thighs as they rubbed lightly together, and there was a light vanilla odour in the air. Better than tobacco any day, I thought; I was glad she was not a smoker.

I was enjoying this meeting, especially when Mary came back from a brief excursion to the ladies room and made me the gift of another superb view of her cleavage as she bent over her papers. I couldn’t help thinking that just one more button would reveal all, as I saw again the edge of her black satin bra peeking at me. I couldn’t help wondering if she’d done it on purpose, then remembered what Mike had said about her being a lesbian.

My interest was up, in more ways than one, when she invited herself to dinner. That is to say, waving in front of her face some sort of cereal bar and a bottle of mineral water as her proposed evening meal was hardly the thing for such a pretty, highly promising, tasty looking young executive sales woman, so I felt obliged to invite her to my favourite restaurant. Ever the gentleman. I’m not sure whether I really felt that this Mary Barry so-called lesbian was up for seduction. Nor did I know if I was up to the potential challenge if she was. But at least I’d have the pleasure of her company for the rest of the evening, and I knew she would stay with me as long as it took her to get my signature on her project. Just for the moment, future fuck or no future fuck, I held the balance of power.

I phoned Helen to say I’d be late.

We left our cars in my private office parking spaces and walked to the restaurant in the city centre. I knew there would be no fuck-in-car this evening. Mary didn’t know yet, but ‘Les Trois Canards’ was the best French restaurant in the