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The Weekend

My evening with Tilda continues into the next day
Tilda was sleeping, her hair spread luxuriantly across her pillow. I sat up and in the half light looked at her. I had only once had sex with a woman on the first occasion that I met her. That was when I was travelling in Asia and met an Australian woman about my age. We were staying in the same hotel and met in the bar. She said she was alone, as I was, and asked if I would like to have dinner with her. I agreed and we went out into the humid evening air to find a restaurant. Not that it was difficult, restaurants seem to be every other shop in that part of the world. Over dinner she had taken my hand and kissed it rather lasciviously and I think a mix of heat, wine and all too long absence from another’s bed led me to give in. The long absence of sex followed an extremely rancorous end to my previous relationship which left me bruised and determined to stay single forever. Kathy put and end to that.

I stroked Tilda’s face and she stirred, rolled over and continued to sleep. I slipped quietly out of bed, borrowed a long silky robe that was hanging on the bedroom door and walked down to her sitting room. The fire had burned out it was still quite warm enough. I tuned the tv on quietly and watched, without hearing or seeing, some movie that was playing. Her clock showed four in the morning and I was lost in thought. I recalled that first sight of her, the sinuous way she had coiled herself back into her seat, the way her trousers clung to her and the way they had come down. But it was her words that kept coming back to me.

‘Kneeling suits you.’ What did that mean?

‘Didn’t you know that about yourself?’ What didn’t I know about myself?

‘Know what?’

‘Like I said, you’ll learn.’

What did all that mean? I remembered the sequence of events that had led me to be kneeling at her feet. I was eager by then to get at her body and as she said, getting her shoes off was an essential first step to getting those trousers off her. She was sitting, I was kneeling, what could that possibly mean about me that I didn’t know.

I gave up the unequal struggle and looked absently through her dvds. She had loads, arranged like books on a shelf. Nothing caught my eye and so I turned to study her books.

‘You’re not going to ransack my house and clear off are you?’ Startled, I turned, dropping the book I had taken from the shelf. Tilda was naked, standing in the doorway with that enigmatic smile on her face. ‘My robe looks good on you.’

‘I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d watch telly but I was a bit preoccupied.’

Her eyebrow lifted in a wordless question.

‘Oh, nothing, just pondering.’

Tilda came across the room and slipped her arm around me. ‘Come back to bed.’

Once again she led me upstairs, this time holding my hand all the way. We got back into bed and sat side by side. There was a long silence between us.

‘Regrets?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Good, nor have I. In fact I’d rather like to do it again.’ She turned her face towards me, a grin spreading across it. I smiled at her. ‘But I have a rather better idea.’

She moved and sat facing me from the end of the bed. She pulled the duvet away from me. Our faces were the length of the bed apart, her feet between mine and slowly, so slowly, she used her feet to spread mine. Then, with her feet against the soles of mine, the pushed my feet so my knees bent.

‘Open the robe.’

I opened it and she seemed to take me in with her eyes. She lifted her won knees and put her right hand between her legs. She had that stillness I had noticed in the pub, her hand was there at her core but did not move.

‘Do as I do.’

From that moment I copied her actions almost exactly. Her left hand cupped her breast and she rolled her nipple between two fingers. As if looking in a mirror, I could see her puling her nipple slightly, squeezing it. Her right hand curled and her fingers spread her lips, opening her to my gaze. She stroked herself slowly, cautiously almost, a finger just rubbing between her lips. Her large clitoris was showing and she rolled it lovingly between her fingers. Her hand left her breast and caressed her leg with slow sensual movements. Her knees lifted more and her finger slithered down to her second entrance and stroked there too.

I heard myself gasp as I did the same and saw her smile broaden. She stroked her finger back up and curled it inside. Then began a sort of shuttle been pussy and arse, our fingers, wet from our pussies stroking down the short gap between and then pushing gently at the dark pucker before sliding back up then down again. On the fourth or fifth time her finger penetrated her rear and I groaned. Her free hand then curled a finger into her pussy. Both fingers now deep inside worked at us. I could hear my pulse. We kept at it for several moments and then suddenly she stopped and placed her hands either side of her. Her legs were still spread. I, of course, did the same. We sat like that, silent in the soft light of the bedroom, motionless.

‘Ask me if you can lick me.’

‘Can I lick you?’ Her eyebrow did that question thing again. ‘Please?’

She nodded and I rolled forward so my face was at her and I licked, lapping at her, suckling on that large, deliciously visible clitoris. Her hands were in my hair, not holding or forcing me, just there. I licked and licked and pushed into her and down to her arse and back again and suddenly, quite unheralded, she orgasmed. I looked up be she pushed my head down again and I kept licking, tasting her wetness, lapping it clean with my tongue. She tapped the top of my head and I looked up.

‘Sit back.’

Mutely I sat back and she rolled forward to copy what I had done. She licked at me as I had her, opening me, entering me. I placed my hands just as she had. The time I had spent aping her actions and then giving her my face had worked magic and my own climax came as hers had, not really. Unike hers, it was not without warning, but presaged by a rising grunt that became a mewling as it flowed through me. She didn’t stop immediately but kept licking until the aftershocks had ceased then she sat back smiling.

‘Fancy a cup of tea?’

December mornings are dark and we stayed in bed, drinking tea and talking until the daylight had spread. Around nine we dressed, she in clean clothes, I as I had been the night before of course.

‘Why don’t we go and get you some fresh clothes and then go and find a breakfast?’

We went out into the chill morning and, arms linked, walked around the corner to my flat. She sat in my kitchen reading my paper while I went to my bedroom, undressed, went for a pee, showered and changed. I was about to put a pair of jeans on but changed my mind and put on a casual, comfortable dress that I always felt good in. For some reason I didn’t want to be scruffy. Tilda had chosen a pair of dark blue trousers and a pale blue blouse when she dressed. I watched as she brushed her hair and caught her eye in the mirror. I said how beautiful her hair was and she smiled and brushed.

Freshly dressed, I went to the kitchen and she looked up at me as if assessing me.

‘You’ll do. Let’s go.’

Go we did and I knew of a lovely little café close by run by a German lady called, always, Frau Meyer. I introduced my friend to her and she showed us to a table near the window. She had never shown me to a table before, I thought.

‘Ve cannot heff customers of such beauty in ze café vizout ze outside vorld knowink!’

Frau Meyer had lived in England for twenty years to my certain knowledge but her accent had not changed in all the years I had known her. I felt sure it was an act. We sat and she fussed around us, bringing menus, coffee and ultimately two big, English breakfasts which, incidentally, Tilda ordered without reference to me. I rather liked that.

Tilda went to the toilet and while she was gone Frau Meyer came over to collect our plates. ‘Nice lady, you looks good togezzer.’ I looked at her and she smiled, did a little shrug of her shoulders and hurried away.

Over a last cup of coffee and feeling replete I asked Tilda what she did for work.

‘I’m a research scientist at the university.’ Her explanation did not make me understand her work but it sounded impressive even though it was delivered without any attempt to impress.

‘You work in an art gallery, no?’

I wondered how she knew.

‘I saw you and recognised you last night.’

I protested that I would certainly have remembered her if she were a customer.

‘Oh, no, I just saw you through the window and thought, nice.’

As we left Frau Meyer wished us good morning and as Tilda walked ahead she looked at me mouthed ‘gut!’

Tilda had some shopping to do and I had some laundry to deal with.

‘Invite me to supper at your place.’

I did.

‘There, you see, not a one night stand.’

Smiling, she walked off leaving me at the door of my flat and feeling I had won the lottery.

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