Louise

I grew up on a small farm. On a hilltop. In The Cotswolds. Our nearest neighbours were about half a mile away, tucked behind a small wood. They were close enough if you needed someone, but far enough away if you didn't. Of course, when I moved to Oxford, all that changed. And when I moved to London, it changed times ten.

When I began working in London, I sort of inherited a flat from my cousin Tony. I paid for it of course. Nothing's for nothing in this world. But, happily, I didn't have to pay the full market rate. Tony had acquired the flat for a song from his mother. She had acquired it for even less than a song from her father.

The flat was part of the lower ground floor of a late-Georgian terrace. The entrance was below street level. But, as the estate agents would say, the flat had location, location, location. It was handy to three Tube stations. Also, the otherwise dark dwelling 'benefitted' (another word favoured by estate agents) from a small secluded courtyard at the rear.

The part of the terrace to the right of my place was still a complete house. However, since the house was the end-of-terrace, its entrance was around the corner. In another street. The part of the terrace to the left of my place was part of a flat that encompassed the ground and lower-ground floors. From the outside, it gave every appearance of being uninhabited.

'What do we know about next door?' I asked Tony when we were sorting the sale and purchase agreement.

'Not a lot,' he said. 'For the first two or three weeks that I was living here, there was an old chap living there. Harry. A nice old bloke. But then I think he was taken into care. A few months after that, the builders moved in for a couple of weeks. But since then... nothing.'

Number 33A was not exactly The Cotswolds, but it wasn't bad, especially if you were of limited means and you needed to live in central London along with eight million or so neighbours.

I had been living at Number 33A for about six weeks when I arrived home one evening, reached into my pocket for my keys, and found the cupboard bare. Damn! What had I done with my keys? If I'm wearing a jacket, I always carry my keys in the righthand pocket. And if I'm not wearing a jacket, I carry my keys in the right hand pocket of my trousers. Always.

I checked my other pockets -- even though I sort of knew it was likely to be a fruitless exercise. And then I had the sickening feeling that I had somehow managed to lock the keys inside the flat, probably leaving them in the bowl on the small table near the door.

I tried to peer in through the kitchen window. It was a bit of a chore. There was a steel security grill over the kitchen window. And, as I pressed my face against the security grill, a stern no-nonsense voice rang out from somewhere above and behind me. 'Can I help you?'

I turned around. Standing at the top of the iron staircase that led down to my place there was a woman. Late thirtyish; or perhaps early forties. With the light behind her it was hard to tell. She was holding a golf club. A seven iron, I think.

'I'm trying to see if I can see my keys,' I told her. 'This security grill. It's getting in the way.'

'The security grill is there for a reason,' the woman said. 'Security. The clue is in the name. Now... raise your hands and make your way, quietly, back up the steps. The flat you are trying to break into is currently unoccupied.'

'Unoccupied? No, no,' I said. 'It's my place. I bought it. Just recently. From my cousin. Tony.'

'Can anyone corroborate that?' the woman asked.

'Well... umm... Tony, I suppose.'

'Tony. And where is Tony, may I ask?'

'He's....' And then I realised that I didn't actually know where Tony was. After Tony had handed over the keys to me (the keys that were probably now reclining in the Chinese bowl on the small table near the door), he was going to visit some friends somewhere up north. And then he was flying across to The States to drive Route 66 in an open-topped Mustang. 'I suppose we could try phoning him,' I said.

The woman looked at me through narrowed eyes and swung the golf club a couple of times. 'How will we know that it's him?' she asked. 'How will we know you're not just calling some fellow scrote?'

She had a point. Still.... 'We can ask him?' I suggested.

For a while the woman said nothing. Then she instructed me to dial Tony's number. 'And put the phone on speaker,' she said.

I followed her instructions while trying not to think too much about whether she would aim the head of the golf club at my own head or at my body.

For a while, Tony's phone just rang. I was beginning to worry that he had parked it somewhere out of earshot. But then his voice came through loud and clear. 'Jack! How are you, you old bastard? Settling in?'

'Umm... sort of,' I said. 'But I have a bit of a problem.'

'Oh?'

'I think I may have locked the keys inside the flat. And I'm on the outside.'

'Bugger!' Tony said, in no uncertain terms. 'Oh well... there's a twenty-four-hour mobile locksmith service. I've probably got their number here on my phone somewhere. Would you like me to send it to you? Their number I mean.'

'Thank you,' I said. 'Also... I have some random woman threatening to knock my head off with a golf club unless you can vouch for me.'

'I am not some random woman,' the golf club-wielding woman said. 'I am the owner-occupier of Number 31A. Louise.'

'Louise? Oh, yes, Harry's granddaughter. Gosh. It's been a while,' Tony said.

'Yeah. I had a project come up. Out in Australia. It took rather longer than I expected. I thought it was only going to be for a couple of months. Anyway... I'm back now. And this fellow? He's legitimate?'

'More or less,' Tony said. 'He does look quite a lot like the woman who claims to be his mother.' And he laughed.

Louise laughed too. Maybe she wasn't so bad after all.

With Tony's assurance that I was indeed who I said I was, Louise invited me next door, to her place, to wait for the locksmith to arrive. 'They say they'll be here in half an hour,' she said. 'But you can bet it will be at least an hour. They just tell you half an hour so that you won't go off to one of their rivals.'

'Were you really going to lay about me with that golf club?' I asked as Louise found a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio and a couple of glasses.

'Only if it became necessary,' she said. And she laughed.

'Fair enough. I suppose. Neighbourhood Watch. We should have some signs made. Although instead of a picture of a London Bobby and a few neighbours, we could have crossed golf clubs.'

'Perhaps with one of the clubs liberally splattered with blood,' Louise suggested. 'Just so the bad guys realise that we're serious.'

Louise was right about the locksmiths being tardy. After what seemed like about an hour, they still hadn't turned up.

'Do you like chicken?' she asked.

'The game in which the first person to blink, look away, or whatever, is adjudged to be the loser?'

'Well, there is that. But, no, I was thinking of the plump and feathered farmyard creatures who, once relieved of their feathers, are rather nice rubbed with lemon juice and herbs and popped under the grill.'

'Ah. Yes. That sort of chicken. Yes, I am a bit of a fan,' I told her.

'Perhaps with a little buttered fettucine,' she suggested.

It sounded pretty good to me.

'I bought a couple of chicken breasts at Tescos today. I was going to put one in the freezer. Just as well I didn't, eh?'

Of course, Sod's Law intervened. Pretty much as soon as Louise started preparing the chicken breasts, my phone rang. It was the locksmith. He said that he was about two minutes away. I told him that I would be waiting at the top of the iron stairs. 'I shall return,' I told Louise.

The locksmith was a surly wretch.

'ID?'

'ID?'

'We accept passport, driving licence, Metropolitan Police Warrant Card, and anything signed by her gracious majesty.'

'I'm afraid that both my driving licence and my passport are inside the flat,' I told him. 'I can show you either -- or both -- once you have opened the door.'

'No ID, no service,' he said.

'But that's ridiculous,' I told him.

'No ID, no service,' he repeated.

And then I had a thought. 'Just one moment,' I said. And I went back next door to Louise.

'All sorted?' she said.

'Umm... no. Not quite. The locksmith is being difficult. He wants ID. He wants to see either my passport or my driving licence -- and they are both locked in my flat.'

'Silly man,' Louise said.

'Exactly. But I thought that you could come and vouch for me.'

Louise frowned briefly. But then she nodded. 'Yes. Of course,' she said.

'And perhaps bring your golf club,' I suggested.

Again Louise frowned. But then she smiled. 'This fellow is very definitely who he says he is,' Louise told the locksmith when we returned.

'Why are you carrying that golf club?' the locksmith asked.

'I like to practice my swing,' Louise said. And she did just that. The head of the club passed a couple of feet away from the now nervous-looking locksmith's head -- although he probably thought it was considerably closer than that.

'Umm... I need to get my tools,' the locksmith said.

'Come on then. Time's a-ticking.' Louise stood back but watched the locksmith like a proverbial hawk.

It took the locksmith no time at all to deal with the keyless lock. And, sure enough, the missing keys were where I hoped that they would be. Thank goodness. And then the locksmith hastily scrawled his invoice and thrust it in my direction. However, before it reached my hand, Louise intercepted it; scanned it; and handed it back to the nervous-looking fellow.

'You seem to have made an error,' Louise said.

'An error?'

'Where it says fee, you seem to have written your telephone number. Jack already has your telephone number. He called it earlier. Now kindly replace this exorbitant number with something resembling a reasonable fee. Perhaps with a special new-customer discount.'

'We don't have a new-customer discount. And it's after seven,' the locksmith said.

'So?'

'There's a fifty-percent surcharge after seven o'clock.'

'It is only after seven o'clock because you took your time in getting here,' Louise said. And she took a practice swing with her trusty seven iron. 'It was certainly not after seven when Jack called you.' And she took a second swing.

'Well, that all worked out very well,' Louise said when we arrive back at her flat.

'Thank you,' I said. 'I can see that I shall have to take up golf.'

'Bully,' Louise said. (I assumed that she was talking about the locksmith.)

Louise's simple grilled chicken breast with buttered fettucine was excellent.

'I've tried to do something like this,' I told her, 'but it turned out dry and tough. I don't know... maybe I cooked it too long. What do you think?'

Louise smiled. 'A couple of little tricks,' she said. 'First... before you start cooking, give the chicken a liberal helping of salt. It sounds wrong, but it works. The salt will seal in the moisture. And second... cook it over an open flame for the first eight or ten minutes -- flipping it halfway. And then, for the last two or three minutes, seer it on a hot grill plate. Or in a pan.'

'Thank you,' I said. 'We live and we learn. It was been an interesting evening.'

'It's not over yet,' Louise said. 'At least I hope it isn't. If you are going to be my neighbour, I need to know all about you.'

'Not a lot to know,' I told her. 'I grew up on a small farm in The Cotswolds. Was lucky enough to study English Lit at Oxford. One thing led to another, which eventually led to a junior position at The Institute for a More Informed Society.'

'Where, I suppose, you make the tea,' Louise said with a cheeky grin.

I laughed. 'Not quite. I mainly spend my days translating scholarly thoughts and opinions into everyday English.'

'Valuable work,' Louise said.

'I like to think it all helps,' I told her.

'And do you currently have a wife, a girlfriend, a boyfriend, or some other romantic partner?'

'Not at the moment,' I said.

It seemed to be the answer for which she was hoping. 'Oh good. In that case I don't need to feel bad about inviting you to join me in the bedroom.'

I laughed.

'No laughing matter,' Louise said. 'Had you answered in the affirmative, I probably would have still invited you. But I might have felt a tad guilty. As it is, we can start with a clear conscious.' And, with that, she got up from the table, took me by the hand, and led me to the stairs. 'Down,' she said. 'It's an upside house -- if you see what I mean.'

'We have a choice,' Louise said as she led me into one of the two bedrooms at the bottom of the stairs. 'We can watch each other as we mutually masturbate. I'm not sure how you feel about mutual masturbation, but I find it can be rather fun. In fact, lots of fun. Or... we can fuck. We each get a vote. However, in the event of a tie, I get a casting vote.' And she smiled.

'So, either way, you get to decide,' I said.

Louise paused and then nodded. 'Umm... yes. I suppose I do.' And she threw back the duvet and began unbuttoning my shirt.

As I think I may have already mentioned, Louise was probably in her very late thirties, perhaps early forties. I think I had just turned twenty-four. Up until that point in my life, all of my sexual partners (and there hadn't been many of them) had been younger than me. Louise was definitely older. Quite a bit older. And, to be honest, I wasn't entirely sure what to do. Did one approach things differently with a more mature woman? I wasn't sure. But, as I soon discovered, it really didn't matter. Louise had already decided that she would be taking charge.

Louise finished unbuttoning my shirt and then removed my trousers. And then she removed her own clothes -- all except for her bra. To this day I'm not sure why she kept her bra on, but standing there in nothing but a black lace bra she looked as sexy as fuck. Don't get me wrong: she wasn't a Page Three model or anything like that. Some people might even have considered her a touch on the plump side. And her boobs (what I could see of them) were nothing to write home about. But she was not unattractive.

'Now... how's your cock?'

'It seems to be growing,' I told her.

'Nice,' she said, taking my growing cock in hand. 'But you can probably stop now. I'm not a size queen.' And she laughed.

'I'm not sure that I have that much control over these matters,' I said, glancing down. 'When it happens, it just happens. Although that's probably about normal now. Well... normal for me.'

'Yes, nice,' Louise said. And she spread her softly-furred cunt lips with the fingers of her left hand and wiped my 'nice' cock along her slippery slot. And then she turned around and presented me with her doggy hind quarters. 'Right... in you go,' she said. 'It's the lower of the two holes. Well, we'll start there anyway. See how things go,'

Slippery slot was something of an understatement. Louise's cunt was as wet as an otter's pocket.

I slipped the blunt arrowhead of my cock into her warm fuck hole and gently pushed. Oh yes. Oh fucking yes. It was heaven. Absolute heaven.

For a moment there, I thought I was going to set a new world record for the most quickly-completed sexual congress. I could feel the tadpoles frantically jostling to be the first among their brothers to take a giant leap into the previously unknown.

'Oh, yes!' Louise moaned -- and that didn't help one little bit. I mean... she was not wrong. 'Oh, yes!' was entirely the right answer. But it just got the jostling tadpoles even more excited. I tried multiplying the first two digits of my telephone number by the third digit thereof, and then dividing the resulting number by the two middle digits of the alarm code at the office. That seemed to help, and I managed to hang on for ten minutes or so. Louise seemed to approve.

'Well... that seems to have worked rather well,' Louise said.

'It did,' I had to admit.

'I think there may still be some wine left,' Louise said. 'Let me go and get it.' And, before I had a chance to say anything, she headed for the stairs -- naked arse and all. Did I watch? Oh yes! As I have already said, Louise was no Page Three model. But she was certainly sexy in a real woman sort of way.

'Manchester,' she said when she returned with the wine.

'Manchester?'

'Yes. Just for a couple of days. I'll be back for the weekend. I hope that you will be available for at least part of it.'

'Manchester's becoming quite trendy,' I said. 'I'm not sure why.'

'Oh? Is it?'

'I think so,' I said. 'Or perhaps they just have good PR people on their case.'

Louise smiled and took another sip of her wine.

'I think I probably need to have a pee,' I told her.

'The lefthand door,' she said. 'The righthand door is a wardrobe. Don't want to get those two mixed up.'

'No.'

'It happens,' Louise assured me. 'A chap at university. Staying in a B and B. Had a bit of a skinful. And the rest, as they say, is history.'

'Left,' I said, hoping to reassure her that I had taken her instructions on board.

When I returned, Louise was propped up against the headboard of the bed with her legs spread. 'How's your cock?' she asked.

'OK,' I said. 'At least I think it is.'

'Ready to go again?'

Was I? I smiled. And Louise leaned forward and patted the surface of the bed, indicating where I should sit. 'I do enjoy watching a chap working his cock,' she said.

'Working my cock?'

'Don't worry. I shall be matching you stroke for stroke. Or whatever.'

It was a bit of a first for me. The women that I had 'known' prior to Louise had not even admitted that they masturbated. And they had certainly not rushed to offer it as a spectator activity.

'I like mutual masturbation,' Louise told me. 'In fact, it may be top of my list. How about you?'

It took me a moment or two to get back into the groove. But I certainly wasn't about to discourage Louise. 'Umm... yeah. I hadn't really thought about it.' (Not true!) 'But, yes, I suppose it could be right up there.'

I didn't return to my own flat that night.

When Louise and I awoke, shortly after six the following morning, Louise said: 'Ideally, you and I would now indulge in a further spot of mutual masturbation. But as I think I may have mentioned, I have to catch an early train to Manchester. Perhaps we can find some time in the weekend.'

'Manchester. Yes. You did mention that. Although I don't think you mentioned what you would be doing there,' I said. 'Or am I not allowed to know?'

'Working. I'm part of the MetraZone mob.'

'MetraZone?'

'We advise councils as to the wisdom -- or otherwise -- of hosting specific sporting and cultural events. You know... what are the real costs likely to be? What revenue can they expect? Stuff like that.'

'And do the councils take your advice?'

'Sometimes. Although, on the whole, they tend to be rather more optimistic than we do. And bang goes another chunk of your council tax.'

I laughed.

On Friday, I left the office just after five and headed home via the High Street where I picked up a couple of bottles of wine and some bread and some cheese and some pâté. I wasn't sure that my culinary skills were a match for Louise's. In fact I knew that they weren't. But I liked to think that I could open a decent bottle of wine and arrange a bit of a cheeseboard.

When I arrived home, shortly after six, I put the white wine (a pinot gris) into the fridge, and laid the cheeses out on a board to 'breathe'. Then I took a quick shower and put on some fresh clothes. I was ready to go visiting.

There was no reply when I pressed Louise's doorbell. I returned to my flat and positioned myself at my kitchen window, from where I hoped that I would be able to observe Louise's return. Sure enough, ten minutes or so later, a taxi pulled up and Louise emerged. I allowed her a few minutes to go inside and then I went and pressed her doorbell for a second time.

'Oh!' the voice from the small speaker said.

'It's me,' I told her.

'Yes. I can see that. You haven't locked yourself out again, have you?'

'No, no,' I said. 'I just wondered if I could interest you in a glass of wine. And perhaps a bit of a snack.'

'Umm... wine. When?'

'I was thinking now. You know... Friday night and all that. Well... unless you have something more pressing. I went to the deli,' I told her. 'Bread. Wine. Cheese. Some pâté. Duck. With orange and black pepper. The pâté, I mean. I hope you like duck.'

'I do,' she said. 'I... umm... I only just got home. I was about to take a shower.'

'Well, perhaps after that,' I suggested.

'Yes. Or perhaps you could come over here.'

'I could. Yes. When?'

'Maybe now. You can come and talk to me while I rinse off the Manchester dust.'

'I'll be right back,' I told her. 'I'll just go and get the stuff.'

I was home and back in almost less time than it took to say 'home and back'. And when I pressed Louise's doorbell for the third time that evening, there was a clunking sound and the door opened. When I entered the hallway, Louise was waiting at the open door of her flat. She was wearing a towel. Not a very big towel. 'Let me help you there,' she said, taking the two wine bottles and leaving me with the food stacked on the wooden chopping board.

We went into the kitchen where we placed the wine and the snacks on the table, and then Louise led me to her bedroom.

'I just need to take a quick shower,' she said. 'Come and talk to me.' And she led me to the en suite bathroom where she turned on the shower and abandoned the small towel. I expected her to then step into the shower. But she didn't. Instead, she sat down on the loo with her legs spread. 'So, how was your week?' she asked.

To be honest, I wasn't sure where to look. But since she was looking right into my eyes, I tried to keep my gaze on her face while she peed with all of the noisy exuberance of one of my mother's mares. 'Oh, that's better,' she said when she had finished. 'I needed that. Now... a quick sprinkle and I shall be all yours.' And then she paused and suddenly smiled. 'And, while I'm showering, why don't you go and get the wine and the cheese. I think we should have a picnic.'

'A picnic? In here?'

'No, not in here. In the bedroom. Bedrooms are much under-rated as locations for picnics. Don't you think?'

Did I? I don't think it was something to which I had ever given much thought. But Louise seemed to have.

'You'll find some plates in the cupboard next to the fridge,' she said. 'And the wine glasses are on the shelf next to the door. I won't be long.'

I went back to the kitchen, gathered up the food, the wine, and the utensils, and then returned to Louise's bedroom to wait. Louise was almost back before I was. Almost. But not quite.

That's better,' she said when she arrived from the shower, still drying herself on a thick fluffy towel. 'Now... what do we need? Stockings?' And she pulled open a drawer and fished out a pair of dark chocolatey-brown lace-topped stay-ups. I smiled and watched as she pulled them on.

'Do I need stockings?' I asked.

Louise shook her head. 'Although I suppose you could. If you want to. You have the legs. But, no. Perhaps we'll keep that for another day.' And then she paused. 'Shall I wear a bra?' she asked. 'I think a bra with no knickers can be so sexy. What do you think?'

I just smiled. I hadn't realised that dressing for a boudoir picnic required so much consideration.

'Or you could wear a bra,' she said with a lecherous smile. 'Although perhaps that too should be kept for another occasion. Why don't you just take off your trousers and pour the wine?'

And so that's what I did.

That first boudoir picnic was an absolute delight. We began with a glass of wine, some cheese and some excellent duck pâté, and then moved on to a mutual masturbation session.

I say that first boudoir picnic, because we pretty much did it all over again the following Friday. And the Friday after that. And the Friday after that. Occasionally, we also did it on Saturday. But Fridays were the real days. And the perfect way to finish off the working week.

It must have been a little over six months after we had started our boudoir picnic routine (and it was my turn to furnish the comestibles -- we took turns), when I rang Louise's doorbell to have it answered by a different woman's voice. 'I'm here to see Louise,' I told her. 'I'm Jack. From next door.'

'Oh yes. Louise said to expect you,' she said. And, next thing, I was being buzzed in.

'I'm Nicola,' the young woman who was standing in Louise's doorway, waiting to let me in, said.

'Jack,' I told her.

'Louise is running a bit late. She had to go down to Guildford this afternoon. But she says, trains willing, she'll be back by seven. And I'm to make sure that you have a glass of wine.' And with that, she led me into the kitchen (where I deposited my bag of comestibles on the kitchen table), and she poured me a glass of Pinot Grigio.

Nicola was easy company, and we chatted about nothing in particular for half an hour until, true to her word, Louise returned from her excursion.

'Sorry about that,' she said. 'A little unscheduled meeting. Still, we're all here now. And what are we drinking?'

'I found this Pinot in the fridge,' Nicola said. 'I hope you we're keeping it for a special occasion.'

'Well, this is a pretty special occasion,' Louise said. And she took a wineglass off the shelf and held it out for Nicola to fill it.

When Nicola had done the honours, Louise held her glass up in a toast. 'Here's to... well... here's to Friday nights. And boudoir picnics.' And then she spotted the bag I had brought. 'Is this...?'

'Salmon quiche,' I said. 'Plus a few other bits and pieces. And, funnily enough, another bottle of Pinot Grigio.'

'Excellent,' Louise said. She gathered up the food, the wine, and the necessary platters, and, much to my surprise, led Nicola and me to the bedroom.

If all of this had happened earlier in our relationship, I think I may have been rather confused. Or at least surprised. But, after more than six months of Fridays with Louise, I had learned to just 'go with the flow'. Although I think I was still a little surprised by how quickly Nicola began to partially disrobe. I got the impression that it wasn't her first boudoir picnic.

The salmon quiche was excellent. And the three-way mutual masturbation that followed was even better. I was especially aroused watching the two women (both of whom had opted for bra-on, knickers off) finger each other.

I think that it must have been the first Tuesday of February, one of the few days when it snowed in London that year, when I answered my doorbell to find Louise standing there with a bottle of wine. She was about the last person I expected to see. Apart from Fridays, and the very occasional Saturday, Louise may as well have lived on another planet.

'Come in,' I said. 'Is everything all right?'

'Depends on your point of view,' she said, looking for some wine glasses. 'I'm being sent out to Australia for a few months.'

'Oh.'

'Yes. At least it will still be summer out there. But they've only given me three days notice. I fly out on Thursday night.'

'Oh.'

'Yes.' And, having found the glasses, she poured the wine.

'Do you need me to do anything?' I asked.

'I don't think so. Nicola is going to move into the flat while I'm away. Although you could fuck me if you're feeling up to it. It might be my last carnal encounter for a while.' And she took a hurried gulp of her wine, lowered her knickers, lifted her skirt, and perched herself on the edge of my kitchen table.

We didn't challenge any duration records. Louise said that she needed to go and start packing. But still... it was fun.

'Oh... and Nicola asked me to tell you that she will be expecting you on Friday night. And she said that she'll organise the picnic basket.'

Nicola did organise the picnic basket: Wiltshire ham, brie, Tallyman flatbread, and Tuscan tomato salad. Delicious.

'So...,' I said as we sat, facing each other, atop Louise's bed, watching each other masturbate, 'how do you know Louise?'

'Louise? I thought you knew. Louise is my older cousin,' Nicola said. 'Yes. When my mother died, I was only sixteen. And Louise sort of took me under her wing.' And she smiled.