Rags to Riches. Nancy Carson

you girls are the pussycats – of course. It couldn’t be better.’

      ‘I’d better go, Brent. Old Face-Ache outside will be upset if I keep him waiting any longer. See you tomorrow. Thanks for waiting with me.’

      ‘My pleasure, Maxine…really.’

      Brent was becoming ever more aware that Maxine was no ordinary band member. She was a woman and he was warming to her inexorably. He’d always considered her beautiful in a demure way. And that virginal demureness attracted him, especially now she was going to buy a slinky, revealing dress for their stage shows. He was really looking forward to it; to seeing her dressed to kill. The transformation from demureness to out and out glamour promised to be stimulating, and he was reminded of how it had been with Eleanor; a blossoming, innocent schoolgirl suddenly transformed into a bewitching young woman. If Maxine’s complexion was anything to go by, her skin beneath her clothes would be sensational.

      At each rehearsal nowadays, whether it was with the band or the CBO, Brent found his eyes always seeking hers, fishing for her warm smile. Undoubtedly she was attracted to him too, but she was evidently uncertain about him, because of Eleanor. Maxine was so talented, too; so talented that she could do wonders for his own career, and for his bank balance, which was permanently in a precarious state these days.

      It was not good sense to park his car directly outside the house of the woman with whom he had commenced an affair, so he pulled up in a side street about fifty yards away. It was not normally good sense to conduct such extra-curricular activities in her marital home either, but he knew that tonight it was safe enough so long as they left no trace. As he walked furtively from his motor car, his heart was pounding at the prospect of what he knew was to come. This adventure had given him a new lease of life, had put the world in a much brighter light. His hard-tolerated celibacy was at an end, for the foreseeable future at any rate. This woman was so strikingly beautiful and so anxious to let him partake of it, that even thinking about her aroused him beyond his wildest fantasies.

      He tapped on the door. Almost immediately she opened it and his heart leapt with joy at the sight he beheld. The hall was in darkness, to avoid light spilling onto him outside, which neighbours might see. Yet, sufficient light enabled him to see she wore merely a glistening, diaphanous, white nightdress that buttoned down the front. She closed the door quietly behind him.

      At once they were in each other’s arms, seeking eagerly each other’s lips before any words passed between them. As he held her, his hands roamed over the thin film of silky material that was between him and her smooth skin. He detected no underwear beneath. Urgently, he undid the buttons at the front and treated himself to a handful of breast, firm, warm and luxurious. As he kneaded one, her nipple hardened and he was excited even more by this response. She, in turn, unfastened his belt and the buttons of his fly with expertise and he felt his trousers fall and lie around his ankles.

      He opened the flimsy nightdress fully, dived inside and cupped her firm small buttocks in his hands as he pressed her hard against the newel post. While their mouths were hungry for each other, tasting, tongues exploring, she thrust her hands inside his underpants and he sighed with pleasure as she withdrew him and held him as if she were fondling a priceless treasure. Then, without further ado, she parted her legs and gasped with delight as he slid easily into her.

      She threw her head back, sighing, savouring the wonderful sensations, while his mouth explored her, his teeth scratching the tight, smooth skin of her neck. They slumped onto the stairs in their passion and found only minor comfort, she in the support the hard staircase afforded, he in the purchase it provided. They rocked erratically, frequently lying still to try and prolong the ecstasy. But all too soon he had to withdraw, unable to contain himself any longer, and he pumped his semen over her belly.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he breathed. ‘I’m a bit out of practice.’

      She hugged him, but with bitter disappointment. ‘It’s hardly surprising, I suppose.’

      ‘Give me half an hour.’

      ‘What do you expect me to do in the meantime? Read?’

      It troubled him that she sounded impatient. ‘I’ll do better next time…but not here. Can’t we go to your bed?’

      She shook her head slowly, deliberately. ‘The sitting room. The sofa’s fine.’

      He rolled off her and tried to stand but his trousers, still around his ankles, ensured that he lost his balance when he moved, so he stumbled, falling back onto the stairs.

      ‘Oh, Stephen,’ she chuckled. ‘You are funny. Why didn’t you take them off first?’

      He laughed with her, acknowledging how silly he must seem, and sat beside her on the stairs. ‘I forgot I still had them on,’ he muttered, untying his shoelaces. ‘I’m not used to all these shenanigans.’

      ‘Are you suggesting that I am?’

      ‘No, Eleanor, certainly not.’ He kicked off his shoes and reached down to remove his trousers from around his ankles. ‘It’s just that I’ve never found myself in a situation like this before. Not in a hallway as soon as I walk in.’

      ‘Then maybe you’ll have to get used to the idea,’ she said with a gleam in her eye. ‘Come on, let’s go into the sitting room. I’ve opened a bottle of whisky.’

      She stood up and held her hand out to him. He gathered his trousers and his shoes in one hand and took her hand with the other, allowing himself to be led into the sitting room. It was not particularly tidy and the furniture, he knew from previous visits, was past its best and shabby, though comfortable enough. The only light was from a small table lamp standing on a whatnot in the curtained bay window that lent an ambience of intimacy. Eleanor poured him a measure of whisky and leaned over to hand it to him. As she did so, her nightdress fell open, exposing herself.

      ‘Thanks, Eleanor,’ Stephen mumbled, his eyes first catching a tantalising glimpse of the dark triangle of hair between her legs, then her long smooth flanks. He gulped with disbelief. God above, was this real? Was he really so privileged as to be bedding this beautiful girl so soon after they’d been introduced; this girl who had fascinated him from the first moment he saw her? Was he really to be so privileged after all this time of celibacy trying to wheedle the knickers off Maxine Kite? The effort of all that, compared to the lack of effort required to achieve the same result with Eleanor, was unbelievable. That two girls should be so different, should take such different attitudes to sexual contact, was thoroughly confusing. But thank God for it.

      Eleanor sat beside him, leaned against him and he put his arm around her. ‘Why don’t you take the rest of your clothes off and kiss me?’ she suggested.

      He felt like a god. It could never get better than this, surely?

      ‘All right,’ he breathed and nonchalantly took a sip of whisky before removing his jacket, tie, and shirt.

      ‘Don’t forget your underpants,’ she said. ‘And your socks…By the way, I hope you brought some French letters with you this time.’

      He fished an unopened packet from his jacket pocket and showed her proudly, amused that she had given him no chance to use one when he first arrived, that she found him so utterly irresistible that she couldn’t keep her hands off him. As he divested himself of what remained of his clothes, she shifted so that she was lying down on the sofa, then squashed up to its backrest to make room for him. He lay beside her, opened her nightdress and entertained himself with her breasts while he kissed her.

      ‘I wonder what Maxine would say if she could see you now?’ she remarked, trying to stir some life again into his nether regions with delicate fondling.

      ‘I wonder what Brent would say if he could see his dearly beloved spread-eagled almost naked across his own sofa?’

      ‘It’s not his sofa,’ Eleanor replied. ‘It’s mine. Such as it is…’

      Stephen had a mental picture of Eleanor in the stunning dress she wore the first time he’d noticed her at the jazz club. Who would believe