Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea

the answer to that one before I open my mouth.

      “It’s on the table by the bed.”

      Oh dear. Mr. Francis is not going to like this, I tell myself. I should not have had all that booze at the Happydrome. Then I would be strong, strong, strong.

      “That’s a lovely nightdress,” I say. It is black and see-through and plunges at the front like Ted Heath’s popularity curve. Avril picks it off the bed and holds it against herself.

      “Do you like it?” she says unnecessarily.

      “Very much. You go in for roses, don’t you?”

      There is a black rose in the middle of the cleavage.

      “Yes. Have you seen this bra?”

      She produces one of those novelty efforts that give you a crick in the neck walking down Shaftesbury Avenue. It has two black fur roses set side by side which, I suppose, is where you would expect them to be.

      “No. It’s very sexy. I’d like to see you in it some time.” That was unnecessary, Lea. Stop asking for trouble and get on with the job.

      I sit down on the bed and switch on the lamp. It works perfectly.

      “That’s funny,” says Avril innocently, “it was flickering like anything last night.”

      “Perhaps your friend’s friend mended it?”

      “No, there’s been nobody else here.”

      “Well, if you’ve got a nailfile, I’ll look at it anyway.”

      “That’s very nice of you.”

      “No trouble, no trouble.”

      She comes and sits next to me on the bed while I unscrew the plug which, of course, has all the leads perfectly connected.

      “Nothing wrong here,” I say. Avril snuggles closer and peers down at the plug like it is some small woodland creature we have found on a country ramble.

      “Oh dear. I’ve brought you all this way for nothing. And I can’t even offer you a coffee.”

      Well, we all know what I should do now, don’t we?

      Stand up and give her the Boy Scout salute and run all the way home without stopping. I know that, too, but when I look down into her guilt-ridden little face resting atop those enormous knockers like a pawnbroker’s sign, it is as if I have been fitted with diver’s boots.

      “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “It’s nice to be here with you.”

      A strange force I can only describe as sheer, naked lust, draws my lips towards hers and we topple back on the bed with me underneath. Honestly, it is like having her separated from me by a couple of melons. What a treasure chest. In this relaxing position, we mingle mouths and I let my hand run up and down the back of her thighs flicking against her garter.

      “How many more roses have you got?” I murmur.

      “Do you really want to see?”

      “Very much.”

      She sits up and turns her back to me.

      “Unhook my dress.”

      I kiss the back of her neck and slide down the zip following the passage with more gentle kisses along the route of her spine. She reaches behind her to undo her bra but I brush her fingers aside and releasing the catch, slide my hands round her body so that I feel the full weight of her breasts drop into my hands. What a pair. They damn near need a safety net underneath them. In this happy position, I nuzzle her neck and stroke her nipples till they swell beneath my fingers. She twists round and shakes herself free of her dress which falls to waist level. The bra she was wearing must be guaranteed by Accles and Pollock and is covered in small red roses.

      “Is that all?” I murmur as her mouth gets in the way of further conversation and I feel her bristols ruckling against my chest like a faulty life jacket.

      “Wait and see,” she purrs and her hand slides down to the front of my trousers creating wild enthusiasm everywhere it goes. My own little bunch of fives is not slow to reciprocate on the appropriate part of her anatomy and her legs spring open like I have pressed a secret button. Up over her tights I go until I can feel the elastic biting into the back of my wrist and my fingers brushing against her pubes. She is not wearing any knickers, which is a surprise in a girl with her obvious enthusiasm for undergarments, so I leave her side for a moment and quickly drop to my knees. In this position I can gently ease the tights over her prime rump and down to the final jerk which clears her heels. She obviously finds this exciting because she starts to twist her head from side to side and fondles the front of my trousers like she is making bread. I swiftly discard my precious blazer and follow with my shoes, socks and pants. I would be quite prepared to follow with my shirt and tie, but once allowed unimpeded access to Percy, Avril seems to lose control. In the manner of someone jacking up a car she raises me from my humble position by the bed and draws herself up so that I can help ease the dress over her shoulders. Now she is naked and it is quite a sight, I can assure you. Like a bird in one of these pictures by that Italian geezer. The ones with fat-cheeked cupids doing their stuff from behind clouds, and gents in tight furry trousers playing harps. Generous is perhaps the best description of her limbs, though some might use the word plump. Not that I am thinking of rushing out and buying her a course of minibisks. Oh dear me no. At this moment Mr. Francis is probably having a nightmare but that is his problem. Ninety nine per cent of my attention is directed towards the flesh palace writhing beneath me. I glance down at the garter enmeshed in her discarded tights and sink into her like a packet of marbles into warm butter.

      What a performer! Her legs cross over behind mine, barring my retreat, and she starts a slow grinding motion that would power the mixing vat in a toffee factory. Thus pleasantly occupied, her hands are free to remove my tie, which has the word ‘Funfrall’ repeated on it about three thousand times. Sir Giles certainly knew what he was doing when he named the company. Pop, pop, pop go the buttons of my shirt and she claws it off so that her fingers can roam lightly over the whole length of my back and down to my dangle-bangles.

      In the hands of such an exquisite performer it is perhaps as well that my exertions with Janet have taken the edge off my natural inclinations because this girl could boil a saucepan of milk in thirty seconds. Slowly and beautifully we grind on until there is a gradual pick-up in our rhythm and we accelerate ruthlessly over the horizon with me smacking against her belly like a speed boat riding rough water.

      Whether Mr. Francis stepped out from behind the curtains and zapped me over the nut with a black jack or whether I was just dead knackered, I don’t know, but the next thing I am fully conscious of is the sunlight streaming through the window and Avril stepping into a pair of rose pink knickers and blowing me a kiss.

      “Good morning, sleepyhead,” she says, brightly. “I thought you were never going to wake up.”

      There is a hint of reproach in her voice which wounds me, but she avoids my grasping hand and quickly zips up her skirt.

      “No time for that now, naughty,” she says, “I’ve got the semi-finals of the volley ball in twenty minutes and I want some breakfast. Ta ra.”

      And so saying, she skips lightly from the chalet leaving me with the unpleasant realisation that another day of non-stop team games demands my attendance. Ted is probably already wondering where I am. Grateful that ’Reen has not appeared, I hop out of bed and start practising my smile in the mirror of the cardboard cupboard. I have completed this exercise and am just knotting my tie when the front door opens. Expecting to see either Avril or ’Reen I turn casually to be faced by a creature who is obviously a chalet maid. The kindest adjective that can be found to describe her is homely, and her suspicious face turns downright malevolent when she sees my blazer lying on the crumpled bed.

      “Oh, ho,” she says, “Mr. Francis isn’t going to like this.”

      A pang of fear knee trembles down my body and I wind up my smile.

      “Just