What Happens in Devon…. T A Williams

coffee machine wheezed into life, he read through the letter. When the green light came on, he made two big cappuccino coffees. He went back into the lounge.

      ‘Here.’ He pushed the cup into Jimmy’s hand. ‘And take a look at this. We have a result!’

      ‘One thanks one, Ariadne dearest. Pray tell me, is this coffee the finest arabica, or is one slumming it with Brazilian?’

      ‘Just read the fucking letter, Jimbo.’

      Jimmy read it through. From time to time, he looked across at his friend. Finally he laid it down.

      ‘Historical, that’s awesome. What the hell do you know about historical sex?’

      ‘I know sex, Jimmy. The historical is just a matter of digging around a bit on the internet. All we’ve got to do is choose a century. You know anything about history?’

      ‘I know it’s light years since I got lucky.’

      ‘I’m serious. I need a time and a place.’

      ‘I’m serious too. What I need is a woman. And you also need what he calls an “encounter”.’

      ‘That’s the easy part. I won’t just write it, I’ll perform it.’ His thoughts flitted briefly back the girl upstairs. ‘If I haven’t already done it.’

      Jimmy had a stroke of genius. ‘How about cavemen? If we go with cavemen, there’s no dates to get wrong, or other stuff. Imagine if we made it, say, only a couple of hundred years ago. Have you any idea what was going on then, who the king was, or stuff like clothes? Hell, the ladies’ underwear was probably whalebone corsets.’

      ‘And chastity belts.’ Clinton really didn’t know much about history. ‘Cavemen is good. I like cavemen. I always thought Barney Rubble’s wife was hot.’

      ‘Wilma?’

      ‘No, the other one, I’ve forgotten her name. Wilma was Fred Flintstone’s wife. But cavemen is good. Now what about where?’

      ‘Does it matter? If we are going back a few million years, anywhere will do.’

      ‘How many million years are we going back?’

      ‘Ten, maybe?’ Jimmy was a good accountant, but he didn’t know much about history either.

      ‘Fine, we’ll make it ten million years ago. As for the place, we’ll need caves. You any idea where there are caves?’

      ‘Underground.’

      ‘Yeah, right,’

      ‘I think this is where we turn to our faithful laptop. We’ll find some caves somewhere easy enough. Cheddar Gorge, maybe? That sounds like the kind of place we want.’

      ‘Now then, all I’ve got to do is to decide what sort of sex to give him.’ Clinton was going to enjoy this part of it.

      ‘Caveman sex. Hit them over the head with a club and drag them into the cave. But he’s probably looking for a bit more than that. All this talk about Fifty Shades of Grey, he probably wants it a bit weird.’

      ‘You don’t get much weirder than hitting a chick over the head and dragging her into a cave.’

      ‘Yes, nowadays. But way back then, they were all doing it. Ten million years ago, stockings and suspenders would have been really kinky.’

      ‘Jimmy, my boy, stockings and suspenders are dead kinky nowadays, too.’

      Chapter Five

      ‘Fancy a walk?’

      The dog’s response to the question was animated. He rushed over to the chair in the corner and fetched his lead. Tom pulled on his heavy jacket and a woolly hat. Outside it was blowing hard, although the rain had stopped. If anything, it was colder than before. It looked like February was going to be bad all the way through to the end. He clipped on the lead and let himself be tugged down the road. By the time they reached the footpath, the rain had started again. He pulled up his collar with grim resignation.

      ‘Well, we’re here now.’

      He released Noah to run in the field, while he reviewed his plans for the new book. Clearly, if they were to convince a publisher to take them on they would need to come up with more than just sex. He needed a compelling storyline, and one that would appeal to women. But what did women want to read? He had hardly so much as spoken to one for two years now. And Cynthia didn’t count. What would Diane have said? He was feeling more and more out of his depth.

      Apart from wading through that damn book, as he found himself calling it he had continued his investigation of erotic literature. There turned out to be hundreds of websites specialising in stories of a sexual nature. Many of the collections were so big that readers were offered the chance to select whatever specific genre they preferred. Underneath the title and brief synopsis of each story, there would be symbols or words, specifying the contents.

      He soon worked out that MM, FFM, FFF referred to the gender of the participants. Some of the descriptors were self-evident, such as Lesbian, Gay or Group. Some were not so clear. For example, BDSM pretty obviously referred to Bondage and Sadomasochism, but Spanking was a category to itself. Hard-core existed as a distinct category, but for the life of him he couldn’t see any difference between it and BDSM. Most unexpected of all, there often appeared to be no classification for traditional sex involving one man and one woman.

      His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the lady from the house by the river and her spaniel. This time, Tom saw them coming and was able to shield himself from the dog’s effusive greeting.

      ‘Oh, hi.’ If only he could remember her name. ‘Surprise, surprise, it’s raining again.’

      ‘Hi, Tom. Sophie, leave Tom alone. She’s really taken a shine to you, hasn’t she? Down, Sophie.’

      Noah returned, now dripping wet. His arrival had the advantage of interrupting the spaniel’s attempts to emasculate Tom. The two dogs embarked upon a steeplechase, while the rain began to fall in earnest. By now they were at the other end of the field, approaching the river. Seeing home at hand, the spaniel abandoned Noah.

      ‘Look, Tom, it’s absolutely pouring. Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea while it passes over?’ She already had the garden gate open. The rain was quite torrential. He did not hesitate.

      ‘That’s really very kind. I think shelter would be wise.’

      The house was more of a cottage, with thatched roof, small windows and a low doorway. She ushered him into a scullery that smelt of wet dog. The spaniel allowed itself to be towelled dry. He hung his coat on the back of the door and stepped out of his boots, while Noah, true to his name, settled himself in a puddle on the floor.

      ‘Come in, come in. The dogs will be fine there.’ She led him through into the kitchen. The noise of the rain beating against the window and onto a tin roof somewhere outside was deafening. She filled the kettle, indicating to him to sit down at the table. It was a cosy room, the low ceiling punctuated by huge beams. A Welsh dresser filled most of one wall, while modern kitchen units ran the length of the other.

      ‘What a day. You’d be soaked through if you were still out there.’

      He turned back towards her. She had removed the jacket and the hat. She was bending away from him, pulling off her woolly socks. Whether it was the result of his recent reading or just a conditioned male reaction, his attention was immediately taken by the perfect proportions of her bottom. She straightened up and turned towards him, a friendly smile on her face. Seeing her for the first time without her heavy outer clothing, he realised that she was truly gorgeous.

      ‘Good lord.’ He was unable to stop himself.

      An expression of concern crossed her face. ‘Is something wrong?’

      ‘No, no, no. Nothing at all. I just got a surprise when