Mrs.McKinnon's Blow-dry
written by:
Voltre

George McAteer paused a second before entering his mother's hairdressing salon, swept by memories from his childhood. He'd grown up for half his life in this salon that his mother had been running for the past 25 years, here in the middle of their quiet little town. As a fatherless only child, his mother Rita had needed both to keep him under her eye, and well-clothed and fed - so the little salon had a sofa and table at the back where little Georgie could read, do his homework and idle the time between returning from school and closing the salon late in the evenings.

He could smell the familiar odour of hair products mixed with warm bodies even from outside, the smell that had permeated his clothes and even the furniture at home for so many years. It had been long years since he'd smelt it last, after he'd left town for university and the last few months, his first job in the city. His mother had been very good that way, she'd driven over each day to his apartment in the city until he settled in and had been quite helpful. Now that he had got hi first car, he'd decided to come and bring her a gift - a new television set for her salon.

He walked in but was barely noticed by anyone: there were three women and a man, and they were all absorbed by a huge bouquet of roses. They turned out to be from Donnie, his mum's boyfriend - George envied their relationship for a moment. He'd been out on a few dates in the past months and slept with two of those, but each experience was short-lived. Perhaps he was still too absorbed by his new life, or perhaps he needed to find a little maturity in his partner to reflect his own newly acquired ‘responsible-adult' lifestyle.

His mother acknowledged him at last and waddled over to hug him and thank him for his visit. That was the cue for the young woman with the leather pants and the red highlights, who'd just paid, to take her leave - he guessed she must be from a nearby town - his mother's talkative bent and manner of taking charge of making sure the haircut fit the personality of each client had (inexplicably to George's mind) ensured her a dedicated clientele with regular out-of-towners coming in specifically. The man, who'd apparently made the delivery, also left and wished Rita a happy valentine as he closed the door behind him.

George blinked - of course, it was February 14th. He had been so disinterested that he'd entirely missed all the hearts and reds in the shop windows. His mother arranged the roses in vase while he nodded hello to Mrs.McKinnon, who was seated waiting. She smiled back silently, and he wondered whether she'd recognised him at all. Gloria McKinnon was a long-standing regular of his mother's, and she remembered him from when he was little. She'd been in her mid-thirties back then, married to one of the town's five vets - the right one because he made more money than most of the others, but the wrong one because he made it owing to his being some sort of cattle-specialist who visited large farms across the country and was sometimes gone for days on end. Still, the net result was that Gloria had been one of the best dressed women in town, and came frequently to get her hair done. When he'd started puberty and began taking a more detailed interest in women, little Georgie had of course had many to fantasize about - his mother's salon was frequented by a large assortment of women, and he'd actually taken to sketch pencil drawings of some as they sat, unwitting models. He was rather good at that, and sometimes showed his work to the ladies who thought he was very talented and absolutely adorable - he wondered if they'd have been so thrilled if they'd seen the sketches of themselves where they wore no clothes.

Gloria had been his third favourite model. His first had been her younger sister Clara, a fiery redhead who oozed joie de vivre and had startling green eyes, and a rack that was far too large for her petite frame, which he'd found tantalising. She'd married young in a hurry and moved out of town. His second was Nora Solberts, who looked just like Natalie Imbruglia until she got pregnant and had twins - she also married in a hurry and had put on so much flab afterwards that he'd been disgusted at having ever been turned on by her. And there was Gloria, who always dressed in mid-length skirts, tight enough to accentuate her form but loose enough to hike up a few inches when she sat and crossed her legs. Gloria who always had blouses that would be complemented by tops or shirts that either left a crack of her midriff in view or which sat tight enough over her breasts to tell you that she had an enviable pair. Gloria was subtle, quieter than most clients, aloof - just verging on haughty. His mother said she had a good heart, but that her husband forced her to play the part of his wife in public, and his wife needed to be a showcase of his success. She'd always struck him as having an aura of dignified sadness about her, sitting there with her marvellous golden locks getting blow-dried, her deep green eyes staring at nothing, her full lips creased in a nostalgic half-smile.

From what he knew she had little to be sad about. She had raised one boy, older than George, who'd moved on to the city and worked as a lawyer, and had never professed to have wanted more children, nor had she any inclination to work. He'd heard sad stories aplenty at the salon - like Davinia McLeish's. She'd had to have an abortion after her boyfriend had run off on her, and ended up in tears each time she saw Georgie at the salon for a good few months. His mother had asked him to be as nice to Davinia as he could, so he'd allow himself to be hugged and cuddled by her in spite of his being ten years old - and he remembered guiltily that he'd actually used to sneak his hands onto her bum when he ‘hugged' her back.

Looking back, he now understood that some of the women must have had sad and frustrating marital lives indeed, although he'd never have guessed when he was a child - the effusiveness some of them showed in insisting on hugging and cuddling him and sometimes even kissing him unnecessarily on the lips spoke loudly of the kind of desperation that only married life can bring. His mother must have known, but she'd always instructed him to be quiet and be as nice to them as possible.

Gloria though - she'd never been like that, always carried herself with reserve, like a Sphinx who knew secrets she could tell no mortal, towering above them in her quiet beauty. Even when he'd drawn his master sketch of her - a portrait that caught much of her face's quiet sensuality and hinted at her bosom's fullness (he remembered it clearly because he'd taken care not to draw her nipples, which used to show through her thick bras and shirts frequently and visibly - and had done on that day too) and had the temerity to show it to her, she'd only stared at it intently for whole minutes without speaking, and simply told him ‘You're a good boy.' She'd taken the picture along with her though.

"So you've brought me that TV set like you said, haven't you? You really shouldn't have y'know but it'll make this place that bit more lively, eh Gloria?" his mother's words broke his reverie. "You're lucky to get so many gifts on Valentine's, Rita." She smiled faintly, sadly, as she said this, and it struck George that this woman, now in her early fifties, had not changed much since he'd sketched her 8 or 9 years ago. "Oh you'll get your roses too once your hubby's back - when's that then?" "Tomorrow evening." There was no note of accusation in her voice, just resigned fatalism.

"So can I go ahead and bring the TV in and fix it up ma? I'm in no particular hurry but I've got my tools and everything in the car." "Oh sure, you just - hey hang on!" Rita's eyes widened in the way when she remembered something really crucial, and he knew there'd be trouble. "I was supposed to pick up the fish for tonight's dinner with Donnie! Oh my God, the shop'll close in half an hour!" "Where?" "Agadir Fishmonger, in Strentyre." George blinked - that was about three towns away, he had no idea. "Donnie's a bit picky what he eats and it's a got a really good selection." "I'll make a note of that one." Gloria chipped in.

"I'd offer to go for you ma, but I've no idea where the thing is." Rita looked around flustered. "It's about fifteen minutes out and back by car." She looked plaintively at Gloria, who smiled sweetly. "It's alright darling, I can wait." Rita looked relieved. "We could postpone if you like or do it this evening - or maybe you can go home for a half hour til I get back?" "No it's alright Rita, just go and come back, I'll wait here like a good girl. I really need that blow-dry and my feet are killing me so I'll just stay here while you're gone. Besides, Georgie will keep me company." Rita frowned as if she'd heard a great idea. "That's right, and he can wash your hair too until I get back - he's had enough practice, and that's like riding a bicycle - you never forget how it's done, eh?"

She kissed George on the cheek, patted his shaved head as was her custom and winked conspiratorially, though George didn't get the joke. Gloria's face seemed blank too so he contented himself with giving his mother a bad look. He hated washing people's hair.

Gloria got up from the hairdressing couch and walked elegantly over to the sofa he'd inhabited as a kid, saying "Well, might as well sit comfortably for the next half hour." He watched in semi-fascination as she turned, adjusted her skirt, sat and crossed her legs. It was a routine he'd watched her do scores of times, but she did it with such poise and sensuality that he was thrilled each time. And he realised that her body had retained most of its tone. There were light age marks on her face's contours to betray her, but little else. She was wearing light flesh-colour stockings on her smooth, full legs and her trademark blouse with a white shirt underneath. And no wonder her feet were killing her: her shoes seemed as expensive as they looked uncomfortable, and belonged more to a princess in a fairy tale than a middle-aged woman in a salon. Still, you had to give it to her, she carried it all off with the confidence of a teenage model.

He walked over and put down the ‘closed' sign - effectively lowering the blinds in his mother's door's case, so that nobody else could saunter in, and he felt suddenly aware of the privacy of the situation as the sunshine stopped coming in and the room depended on the lights inside - and the world outside stopped intruding on them. He felt acutely aware of the intimacy as he walked back to sit opposite her on the sofa.

"So..."she began with a smile, "Tell me about yourself..." It was easier to chat with her than he'd imagined, she listened attentively and spurred his conversation on with the right remarks and questions at the right moment. He told her about his studies, about his job, apartment, about his colleagues and even flitted over his love life casually. "You must have met some new and interesting women..." she'd suggested casually, and he'd replied, "Yes, of course but city life is so hectic you don't ever feel like you get to know somebody, even after you've talked to them for entire days." "Or entire nights." She'd quipped, holding a serious expression for a long instant and boring her green eyes into his - at the same time as her hand brushed lightly on his forearm. She withdrew it when that instant ended, raising it to her mouth to laugh softly, and naturally. He smiled and racked his brain to come up with a clever reply, but she'd already changed the subject, to his disappointment. After ten or fifteen minutes of chatting pleasurably, he'd still not learned much about her own situation, though he'd prodded once or twice, so he said, "I'd love to offer you a drink Mrs.McKinnon, but as you know there's no fridge..." "That's alright Georgie, you can buy me one if we ever meet in a bar in the city. I might come some day." She smiled distantly, giving him no clue as to what she meant. "In the meantime perhaps you can keep your word to your mother and start washing my hair. She'll have started on the way back by now." She rose and patted his leg in a friendly way to make him get up too. He waited until she walked past to her chair so he could steal a look at her bum - and suddenly realised that of course, everything was visible in the mirrors in here. Her mouth still held the playful smile as she sat, but couldn't tell if she'd seen him.

He stood up slowly and started making his way over - she had gathered up her long blonde hair and raised it up to leave her neck clear. As her elbows rose up, her breasts stood as well, and their roundness was visible from the contour of her shirt, which as usual fit tightly around them. The sight stopped him for an instant and again he couldn't avoid his gaze lingering long enough for her to turn and look up at him in the mirror's reflection and asking, "Well?" The look in her eyes was knowing but unstirred, as if she was perfectly aware of her sensuality and the effect it had on men but was perfectly happy to keep ignoring it. He took her neck in his fingers gently and lowered her head into the basin, trailing his fingertips slightly too much along her neck. It felt soft and yet he was certain there were age creases softly imprinted there. He mused that she seemed to be a contradiction of beauty, youth and age all rolled into one as he opened the taps and calibrated the heat on his hand, then unthinkingly passed an open palm softly a couple of inches above her upturned face to make her close her eyes.

She blinked and looked at him sideways slowly, deliberately as if challenging him, then righted her head and closed them equally deliberately, her expression betraying none of her thoughts. When he reached for the plastic body-cover, she refused, "None of that, please, it makes feel like a bird in a cage. Anyhow, I know you'll be careful not to get me wet."

He said nothing and started running the water gently through her hair, carrying it softly in streams along her golden silk strands, when his mobile phone rang. She remained with her eyes shut, and he had an impulse to sprinkle a few droplets of water onto her exposed neck and midriff as he took his hands away to answer. Her face turned and her eyes opened wide in disbelief at him, as if shocked that he'd be so cheeky with a woman her age, but she made no sound and in an instant regained her composure. He turned away slightly as he answered. "Hey Ma, Where are you? What, stuck there still? Oh. You want me to come help change it? Oh, trust you to be so silly...well then, there's no helping that." He turned to face her and saw that she was looking up at him, listening. "I'll tell Mrs.McKinnon and see what she wants to do. Nuh-huh, too late I've started doing her already." Did he catch a flash in her eyes as he said that or was it his fancy? At any rate she shut her eyes and laid her head back again. "Well okay, just wait there and he's done and then drive back safe. See you."

He snapped the phone shut and announced, "Bad news Mrs.McKinnon - my mother's got a puncture and her spare wheel's not there - she lent it to Jimmy Duncan, of all the silly things to do...he's out on a delivery run but should be able to go mend it in a half hour so. Still, it'll mean she won't be back for another hour at least - I'm awfully sorry." "Are you?" His blood froze - she had a way of saying things like that in a completely indifferent tone that flipped his compass. He shrugged noncommittally for want of a better response. "I don't know whether you want to call it off or postpone or-" But he was talking in vain, she had settled herself back down and shut her eyes again and cut him off with a soft ‘ssshh' as she would to a crying baby. "get back to doing me first and I'll think about it while you work. And make sure you massage my scalp, it's the whole point." He wanted to gape at what he'd heard, but then remembered she was echoing his own words - besides, with that bland tone she managed, she could have meant anything or nothing.

So he set about the task silently, doing as she'd asked, washing her hair slowly and massaging her scalp with the tips of his fingers. It was as boring and flat work as he remembered, except that it allowed him to look down into Mrs.McKinnon's breath-taking cleavage, and he could confirm that her skin was as smooth and inviting as it was clearly mature, a contradiction that baffled his very soul. It seemed to him as though he could see more now of her globes than earlier and certainly the edge of a lacy white bra - and wondered whether she'd undone a button perhaps? He also noticed that her old habit of having perky nipples showing through her bra and shirt was still there. She murmured appreciatively as his fingers stroked her hair, saying "That's it, Georgie, keep going" under her breath. He smiled, flattered as he went about the task imagining himself to be doing other things to her, and felt himself taken by the sexuality of the moment - the sexuality he'd no doubt existed only in his mind, and not in hers, indifferent as she was. But one or another, the torpor that had reigned over his libido the past few months was shaken away, and he felt desire building up in him. He took it as a good sign; he'd out to a club that night and with some luck manage to score. And if he did maybe he'd imagine it was Gloria McKinnon.

"Nobody's called me that in years, y'know." He murmured back semi-reproachfully to her. Her eyes remained closed as he kneaded her head. "Little Georgie used to call me Mrs.McKinnon..." He couldn't help admiring her adroitness in any situation, and he desperately wanted her to look upon him as a fellow adult, wanted in an odd way to win her approval. "I'll tell him to call you Gloria when I meet him." "Maybe I'll tell him myself when I get to meet him." A small smile crossed her lips, and she opened her eyes as he finished his work. "Oh, hi George." Her smile spread wider into a grin. "My how all grown-up you look!" He couldn't help himself, and broke out grinning as well at her unexpected playfulness.

He fetched a towel and held it up to her hair, towelling it off lightly. The silence felt comfortable between them now and her expression seemed slightly warmer than her normal look: her eyes were certainly dancing. He mused to himself that her youthfulness probably started from there, those gorgeous deep green-blue eyes until she broke his reverie. "You don't know what solitude is, y'know." She had worn her semi-sad mask again. He looked at her cautiously in the mirror, pulled the stool and sat beside her, brush at the ready. "I don't?" She moved her nose slightly left and right. "That's not solitude, flitting from date to date, one-night stands here and there and mostly your career. Not at your age. It's just what's left in between the thrill of your new life and sleeping. Some people would kill to have that." And seeing her expression, so impassive again seconds after having illuminated the world with its warmth, convinced him that she would. He instinctively reached out with a hand for her cheek, turning her face towards him, still looking at her in the mirror, and brushed a strand of hair aside before taking the brush up. The intimacy was all there, he'd made her look at him from inches away, and yet the distance from where he sat and looked to the mirror stood as a safety buffer between them. He saw her profile softening even as he looked, and realised that he'd done the right thing: the setup and not having to look him in the eye would be like a confessional for her. "Tell me."

She glanced down, and he fancied she was staring at his lips as she spoke. "Real solitude is the coldness of a large house for days on end. It's being in that house with a man who doesn't see a real human when he interacts with you, just a burden to endure until the next trip. Solitude is not being able to let anything slip with anyone and having to keep shoving everything inside. It's watching with envy the little things others around you have and then going back to all the big things you couldn't care less about." She paused, and he laid his hand on hers as it sat on the chair's armrest, but she withdrew hers immediately: not in the jerky movement of somebody surprised but in the deliberate motion of somebody who knew what was coming and had already decided against. He felt confused, not understanding why she shied away from human warmth and comfort even as she sat there bemoaning her lack of it, so he just kept brushing her hair.

Her response was to lower her forehead against his cheek and breathe in deep, letting it out in a sigh, then pulling her head up again. "Real solitude is sleeping alone in a large bed so often that you forget how large it is. And it's lying awake in it, kept from sleeping by a beast's snoring in a bed that's too tiny and stifling to afford comfort." Her voice trembled when she said the last phrase, and he sensed that saying that aloud to another human being must have cost her a great deal, so he took a chance and lifted his hand, cupped her cheek softly and stopped brushing. She lifted a hand but didn't shoo him away this time, just kept her hand over his, her fingers slipping gently in the grooves of his own. "Solitude is being made to walk in the sun standing proud and pure as a saint and then treated in the night like a cold and fiendish object." Her voice choked and she lay her head against his shoulder, placed her free hand against his back. He hugged instinctively, remembering the irony of his mother's advice to be as nice a he could to the clients who were going through a bad patch. The next words where whispers, and in spite of the suddenness of her outburst and the gravity of her words, they stirred his body as he felt the gentle weight of her head against him. "It's having to live your wildest dreams in the instant of an ambiguous phrase that nobody can decipher, and denying it to yourself. It's having to feel guilty of flirting with an angel because you're so afraid of the devil's glimpsing at your soul."

He didn't quite understand whether the angel and devil were supposed to be him and her husband, but he was willing to take the chance and interpret it that way. He let the brush drop from his fingers with a clatter and half-rose to be able to hug the rest of her body into him, even as she sat there, instead of just her head, but instead he seemed to have broken a spell.

Gloria sat back up, her hair wet and glistening backwards like Ursula Andress coming out of the sea, and her Sphinx expression was on again. He stood there like a fool, and bent down to pick up the brush, completely incapable of figuring out what he should be doing in the light of all these contradictions she had told him. The odd thing was, it completely explained who she was, the way he knew her. Which of course left him insatiably curious to know what ‘fiendish things' her husband made her perform at night.

He stood there again, not sure what to say or do, but aware that her mask was this time imperfect - her cheeks had a thin line of pinkness, and it looked like it came from a sense of embarrassment - or was it shame? He gazed at her and she gazed back, impassive as always, then he just said, "Well okay then Gloria, I admit defeat - I didn't know what solitude is! You gonna spank me now?" He grinned goofily but it had the desired effect, she broke out laughing outright and the warmth seeped back into her suddenly. Both her hands grabbed his wrist and forearm as she laughed and filled him with warmth. "Oh George" she gasped, "You're such a dear boy, I wish I had met you twenty-five years ago." He shook his head. "No use; I wasn't even Georgie yet back then." She pouted. "You should be grateful you're with me here and now." She gave him an inquisitive look back, not overt but not impassive as before, it was a look he thought was involved. "Your hair would still be all dirty and all." He explained, keeping his face serious.

She shrieked and took the brush from his hand and slapped him playfully with it while he laughed, and as she leaned into him he felt a breast press up against him. He noted again that her nipples were showing when she sat up again. "You're not a good boy at all!" she admonished him. "That's not what you told me when I made that portrait of you." He said quietly. Her expression changed, settled into a soft wistfulness, her eyes glazed slightly as though looking back through the years. "Ye-es," her voice was hesitant, "I can't recall what I told you but I still have that picture."

"Really?!" he stared incredulously. She nodded. "Yes. I'll tell you, but I'm tired of sitting with you looking down at me mister. Let's go back on your sofa." He shrugged and asked her what she intended to do. "I'll just wait around for your mother for as long as it takes - unless you need to be somewhere else." He looked her squarely in the eyes and just smiled and walked back to the sofa, then had an idea and walked to a cupboard full of hair products. He delved around until her found a bottle of Johnny Walker and two small glasses. "They're my mother's emergency drink for people who need it." He explained. The bottle was very dusty and nearly full. "I figure we need it."

Gloria sat back, crossed her legs in that movement he loved so much and sat back, smiling. He started to believe that he'd finally broken her barrier for good, which was odd given his dismal track record lately at breaking through emotionally with women, even the ones he'd fucked. He poured both drinks while Gloria shook her hair out. They took the glasses and prepared them for a toast, leaning in towards each other and locking stares. "To...?" she prompted. "To the pictures kept hidden away in our attics, and the joy that comes from letting them out." He wasn't sure it was a deep thought, but she clinked her glass away merrily and drank away, as did he.

She obliged by looking away again as she explained: "I remember that I was at the start of a phase of my...solitude...that day. I suppose it'd been going on a while already really, but anyway. My self-esteem wasn't that great and the harder I tried to keep it up, the colder I became with everyone around me. I looked in the mirror - that very day while your mother did my hair - and felt that this cold woman in front of me was a stranger. Myself I mean, not your mother." He nodded quickly and vigorously, disappointed that she thought him so slow. "And I was getting very irritated at you because I kept caching you looking up at me while you did your homework. I didn't realise you were sketching and thought you were ogling my tits, just like a grown man." He tried his hardest not to redden, and failed miserably. She chuckled richly. "I asked you to show me what you were doing just so you'd get self-conscious and stop. Then you brought me that sketch...and the woman in there was me as I had been years before, when I hadn't been lonely and bitter." She poured herself more whiskey, sipped it and took off her blouse. She smiled at him. "Hope you don't mind, it's becoming hot in here." He didn't trust himself to answer, and simply concentrated at staying on her eyes rather than her strained shirt. "It was if you had seen through my mask and captured some little bit of me that was slowly dying and kindled it back to life. I wasn't that aware of you having done it as much as the act itself, you understand. It's easy to be self-absorbed when you're beautiful." She raised an eyebrow mock-comically as she said it; it wasn't something she did often and it didn't come across with the effect desired, so she added, "I'm not self-absorbed any more, mind you."

George leaned forward and looked her straight in the eyes, telling her But you're still beautiful telepathically. He knew she understood, so instead he leaned back again and said, "That's great, so I'll get my due credit next time I sketch you." Her face softened further, he knew it was the right response. "Would you?" He shrugged. "Depends on what expression of yours I'm able to catch." She was intrigued. "What are hunting for?" "I've done demure, now I'd like to catch you in an ‘intense' pose." "I'm rarely intense in life." "That's why I'd love to capture it." He took a sip. "Maybe I can coax it out you sometime."

He'd gone too far, he realised immediately. She looked away, down, even as her neck was still pointing out towards him. Her was grave, apologetic. "I'm sorry George, I didn't mean to lead you here...you deserve more honesty and I'm just using you to vent a little. Your mother deserves better." He stayed silent until she looked up at him, perhaps expecting him to quickly contradict her so she could mention that she might be his mother, that he should be flirting outrageously with young single women instead of here with her. He resolved not to fall into that trap, so instead he pulled out his mobile and dialled his mother. "Hi ma." He kept looking at Gloria as he spoke, saw the sudden fear in her eyes. "Where are you? Still not huh? Yes, he's always been that way. No, she's no problem. See you."

He flipped the phone shut and looked at her, saw her expression of relief and admiration. He'd flipped her cool and called her bluff for once; he knew that somehow now they'd be on a more level playing field, and her difference in age card would be hollow now. He poured her a third round. "So we still have a good hour together. Now are we going to spend that saying silly truisms that we don'[t care about, or are we going to get back to where we were?" She nodded sombrely. "You had just said that maybe you can coax it out of me sometime." He nodded in turn. "And what would you have answered?" She thought for a bit. "That maybe it'd come rushing out." That stopped his breath. "Or maybe I'd have answered by asking you whether you were still that good with your fingers." There was no humour in her voice now, it was low and thick and serious. He slid his hand over to her knee, brushed it lightly, kept it there. "Those aren't fingers. Those are instruments of pleasure." It'd have been the corniest line he'd ever delivered, if the silence that had fallen between them wasn't so thick, or her breathing wasn't do heavy and ragged.

Her eyes were fixed on his and all he could read in them now was temptation, excitement, and fear. She touched his hand lightly, and he ran it across her thigh. This was the moment to be bold, he decided, even though he didn't want to think of the moral implications. He used his free hand to drain the rest of his whiskey, and sprinkled the leftovers in the glass across her. She caught her breath loudly and stared at him with wide eyes, clearly in his thrall now. The golden-brown droplets settled on her chin and lower lip, on her neck and on her midriff, and she made no attempt to remove them, just watched him like a little schoolgirl watching trapeze artists at the circus.

"Ooops." He said in a very unoops-like voice as his left hand crossed to her left leg, holding the inside of her thigh now. "Looks like I still got you wet, in spite of all the care I took." She had no time to retort; he'd leaned forward and brought his lips squarely against her midriff, just above the cleft of her cleavage. He felt her warm breath gasp onto his forehead, and let his tongue lick a bead of whiskey off her flesh gingerly. His hand moved in a few inches, then he kissed his way up her neck until she'd tilted her head backwards and was at her chin. He suckled her chin lightly and drew back, and she lowered her face slowly until their eyes met, their faces now a bare couple of inches. The sounds that had escaped her were so raw and excited that he could hear half her life in them, with the frustration, repression, want and need permeating each gasp. He thought that no woman deserved to be in that state, and hated her husband a little.

He rested his forehead against hers and looked down at her lips willing her to kiss him as his hand moved slowly in farther. Her expression was plaintive but she held back, and he sensed that there was a fierce inner struggle inside her. He moved his lips onto hers and kissed her slowly, until she kissed him back with her lips first, then snaking her tongue until she'd opened his mouth and had him at her behest. Her hands rose to hold him, grabbed the back of his shaved head and held him into the kiss, her tongue now lapping at his fiercely. His hand felt the hem of her skirt and kept making inwards, pushing it backwards until his fingers felt the stockings give way to skin, and he squeezed her.

She broke the kiss, her eyes unfocused, and moaned. "No, I can't - you can't kiss me like this-" she was frantic and breathless, and he murmured that he could and would and moved to kiss her again, but she kept turning her mouth sideways and saying no. Her resistance threw him off track yet again; this time he was genuinely surprised by her strong moral fibre. She half gasped, half-sobbed that she couldn't make love to him, wouldn't, but even as she spoke she was holding his back and when he was about to withdraw his hand from her thigh she grabbed his wrist savagely and held it there.

Her behaviour made him wonder uneasily whether he'd just landed himself in a load of shit with a psychopath who'd run off and tell her jealous husband to go after him with a shotgun for raping her. But her plaintive look as she faced him reassured him that she was genuine. "Forgive me George, I'm so bad." She pleaded, "I do want to do this with you, like you wouldn't know, but I can't...I'm still married to that bastard, and..." He tried to look reassuring but he guessed he came across as uncomprehending or confused. She squeezed his erection, as if to prove a point, quickly, and closed her eyes and looked up and breathed in, as if she'd just taken a drag off a cigarette after years of not smoking. Both her hands went back to keeping his wrist in place on her thigh, near her panties. "I need to think this over George, but I can't promise anything, except I can't leave here without..."

He was beginning to guess what she wanted, and figured that it'd be a raw deal for him, but a part of him desperately wanted to see her face twisted in pleasure, and another part of him pitied her too intensely to deny her. So he shushed her slowly as his hand snaked into her thigh until his fingertips lay over her panties, rubbing the folds of her lips underneath, and he saw face writhing in agony. She was beyond words already and he realised that she would be enjoying the intimacy in a silence that was probably part of her complex thought structure. But he was beyond caring really, and instead simply pushed her strongly and suddenly on her back on the sofa and rolled her skirt up. He looked down at her face deliberately, took the panty hem in both hands, bunched up his fists and gave an almighty tug. Mercifully the fabric tore nicely, and he achieved the effect he'd intended - it could easily have ended in embarrassment, and he'd have hated to look inexperienced with a woman who could have been his mother.

As it was Gloria's face was as far from the sober woman he'd spoken to earlier as could be; she was amazed, scared, desirous and completely gone. All she could think of was the long-awaited release his touch would bring and she could only make primitive noises to express that by now. He licked his middle finger and obliged, running it up and down her nether lips, which were satisfyingly wet before inserting it in and out to his knuckle slowly. She moaned and groaned in response and he got up a tempo, reaching back up into her vaginal wall a little each time. He could tell she wouldn't last much, so he brought his thumb immediately to her clit and rubbed it simultaneously. After a few strokes, her moans became ragged, he sensed her hips quivering ad realised she was close, so he removed his thumb and gave her clit a couple of licks. That sent her over the edge and he felt her muscles gripping his finger before she screamed and sprang up, grabbing onto him for dear life.

He hoped nobody outside had heard, but he hugged her while the feeling subsided from her enough that she could lie back and catch her breath. He watched her but couldn't discern what was going on from her face. She turned on her side and sobbed a little, swatted his hand away when he reached out, then her sobs turned to strangled laughter and she rose, wiping tears away. "I'm sorry George, you must be thinking you've just finger-fucked a lunatic." She said. He said nothing, mostly because he was thinking exactly that, and also because hearing her say the f-word was totally unlike what he'd expected. He wondered whether her husband made her talk dirty to him against her will. She smiled a post-coital smile. "It was just all a little overwhelming for me. I guess you could tell it's been a long time since my body's been through that sort of pleasure. My husband he - my pleasure's not his priority any more, I suppose." She said it almost as if ashamed, as though it were her fault somehow.

"You could have a lot more pleasure than that if you let me..." he suggested. She drew back and adjusted her skirt again and grabbed the torn panties from the floor and stood up abruptly. "No, I...I can't do that, it wouldn't be right." She stammered, and grew red and embarrassed, and she turned and cupped his cheek and looked into his eyes shyly. "It's not that I don't want it, please understand..." she said, and kissed him with her lips for a long moment, even as she slid a hand and squeezed his manhood through his jeans again. But then she stood up again and turned away again. "I'm very confused and need to clear my mind, George. I can't do this. I can't make love to you." She took a few steps towards the door and turned, plaintively again. "Not today."

He shrugged and kept looking at her across the room. "I must have you." He said simply. That flustered her even more, and she had to force herself away visibly. She said a strangled goodbye and left.

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