Standing in the palatial entrance hall of the City of London bank of which he is chairman, Sir Henry Northrop consults his half-hunter pocket watch, which he has extracted from his waistcoat by its gold chain. It shows 5.18pm. The monthly board meeting has finished later than predicted, somewhat incommoding the tycoon. Sir Henry's next train back to rural Buckinghamshire is not until 6.50pm, leaving him with just over an hour-and-a-half to kill.
"Will you get me a taxi please, Scrubbings?" He barely turns to address his request to the porter.
"Certainly Sir Henry. Where will we be travelling to?"
"The Wallace Collection."
Ten minutes later Sir Henry Northrop alights in front of the museum and art gallery on Manchester Square. He has visited it often to admire its fine collections of French porcelain and its fabled display of armour and weapons. But today he has decided he will reacquaint himself with some of the Old Masters hanging in the Great Gallery. He ascends the long central staircase, walking through the furniture displays until he arrives at the huge richly-decorated picture gallery. There is Frans Hals' 'Laughing Cavalier', Caneletto's famous panorama of Venice, a small Rembrandt self-portrait and also those macabre Dutch School still lives of dead hares and pheasants.
Sir Henry is pleasantly surprised to find that the gallery is completely deserted, save for a dozing woman attendant, seated at the end beneath a Velasquez. He paces slowly along the displays, admiring the pictures in much the same way that he used to inspect his army regiment. He consults his watch - it is now 5.42pm - then settles down on a leather banquette to study the picture directly in front of him. It is not one he is familiar with. French school, probably mid-18th century, subdued colours, but with a composition that is not altogether to his liking. Better suited, he decides, for the lid of a box of chocolates. It depicts an attractive young woman in a pink crinoline, sitting on a swing in a sun-dappled arbour, with a young man lying on the grass admiring her. Sir Henry is about to arise and make his way to the exit when a female voice addresses him from behind.
"D'you like it? It's one of my favourite pictures in the whole gallery."
He turns to observe a smartly-dressed woman who, unnoticed, has seated herself at the other end of the bench and is gazing intently at the picture of the girl on the swing. Sir Henry coughs nervously. He certainly isn't in the habit of being addressed by strangers unannounced. "Not really my cup of tea, I'm afraid." He makes to leave.
Undeterred, the woman continues to enthuse. "I find it terribly erotic. Do you know the story behind the picture?"
"No, I can't say I do."
"Ah well, if you did, I dare say you'd give it a bit more respect. It's by Jean-Honore Fragonard. Painted around 1780, I believe. He went in for informal studies, when most of his contemporaries were doing big set-pieces of dynasties, all lined up under oak trees with their dogs in baronial parks. Well, it seems he was approached by the husband of the woman on the swing, who asked him to do her portrait as a surprise present. Fragonard agreed and visited his client, where he instantly fell in love with the wife."
Sir Henry discreetly consults his pocket watch and is alarmed to find that his homeward-bound train departs in less than 10 minutes. "Really?"
"So he made some informal sketches of her then worked on the picture in his studio. Tell me, how many figures can you see in the painting?"
"No, there's three. There's the girl on the swing and the young man lying on the ground. But can you see the wizened old fellow in the shadows on the right, who's pushing the swing?"
"Oh yes." Sir Henry begins to take more interest.
"That's the young woman's cuckolded husband, and the young blade lying on the grass is Fragonard! What's more," the woman now slides along the banquette until she is almost touching Sir Henry. "he's positioned himself so he can look directly up her skirts!"
"By jove, you're right!"
"Wait, it gets better. See how the girl has kicked off one of her shoes with excitement? She's clearly showing off to her lover, isn't she? Because, and of course this is only supposition, she's not wearing any knickers!"
"Like the can-can dancers in the Folies Bergerre. Did you know some of them used to wear split-crotch panties to excite their gentlemen admirers sitting in the front row?"
"Can't say I did."
The two museum visitors turn to face each other for the first time. Sir Henry Northrop notices that the stranger, though past the last flushes of youth, is extremely attractive. She wears a pale blue ensemble of blouse and skirt, a pearl necklace, pear ear studs and dark blue leather high heel shoes. An expensive blue leather clutch bag lies at her side. At close quarters, her perfume is seductively overpowering. For her part, the woman decides that Sir Henry is certainly a true aristocrat: patricial in bearing, well turned out, well spoken, trim of physique, and in all probability extremely rich.
"It's been fascinating talking to you," he consults his watch again.
"Do you live in London?"
"No, Buckinghamshire. We have a small place outside Andover. I was supposed to get the 6.50 train back, but that's gone now. Next one's not til 8."
"Well look, the museum's due to close shortly. I live just round the corner; why not come back to my place for a glass of wine and some nibbles? By the way, my name's Marjorie, Marjorie Bailey."
"Pleased to meet you. Henry Northrop." Sir Henry graciously accepts the invitation and they leave the picture gallery together just as the sleeping lady attendant rouses herself to go home. As the descend the Wallace Collection's staircase, Sir Henry is pleasantly surprised that Marjorie takes his arm affectionately.
The woman's flat is located on the first floor of a large Victorian mansion block. The interior is tastefully decorated, neat and prim like its owner. She ushers her visitor into the living room, then goes to the kitchen to get the wine. She returns, bearing a silver tray carrying a bottle of vintage Chablis, two crystal-stemmed glasses and a silver saucer of cashew nuts. Sir Henry is standing in front of her mahogany bookcase.
"I say, you've got some fine books here!"
"Thank you. There what I call my 'pension pot'; rare first editions I picked up when I was in business. I'm retired now, of course."
"In the antiquarian book trade, were you?"
"Lord no! I was 'on the game'. Thought you'd have twigged that. Mind you, I wasn't a street walker. Oh no. I had a very discreet apartment in Savile Row. Many of my gentlemen used to come up to see me after they'd been fitted for a suit." She nonchalantly hands him a glass of wine as if talking about the weather. "Very classy clientele I had, I can tell you."
Dumfounded, Sir Henry studies his glass momentarily then takes a large swig. Marjorie has moved to the sofa. She pats the seat. "Come and sit beside me, dearie. Relax."
Playing for time he consults the half-hunter again and realises that he is in danger of missing another train. Out of courtesy, he joins her on the sofa.
"Would you like to stay the night?"
"Erm...well I did tell Dorothy, my wife, that I'd be back for supper."
"Couldn't you tell her you'd...you'd met an old school chum and that you're going to stay the night at your club?"
He's now warming to the idea of spending the night with an ex-prostitute. "Well...I suppose so."
"Go into the other room and ring her, pet. There's a phone by the bed. I'll pour you another glass of wine."
Sir Henry needs little encouragement to make the call and while he is out of the room, Marjorie replenishes both their glasses, then deftly removes her panties, tucking them behind a cusion on the sofa as he returns.
"Err, yes. As a matter of fact, Dorothy was quite relieved. Said she wanted to watch 'Murder on the Orient Express' again. Then she's going to have an early night. Worked out rather well." He crosses to join her on the sofa, though he sits upright, with some trepidation about what is to follow.
She takes his hand. "Unwind, Henry. Let's have a bit of fun, shall we? Sexy fun?"
Nervously he tries to loosen his shirt collar. The room suddenly seems terribly hot. She leans across him to pick up the wine bottle and refresh his glass.
"Do you like surprises?"
"Not as a rule."
"Marj has got a special surprise for you, dearie. Look..."
With her free hand, she slowly raises the hem of her skirt up to her waist to reveal a black lace suspender belt, black stocking tops and a glorious black bush of pubic hair. "No knickers!"
Sir Henry takes a large swig of his Chablis and stares down. "I say!"
Placing his glass on a side table, he loosens his tie and removes the collar stud of his shirt. Marjorie eases his jacket from his shoulders. "Why not put your jacket and waistcoat on the chair over there? I'll hang them up for you later."
As he returns to the sofa she reaches forward and unbuttons the flies of his trousers. "Might as well get these off too. Then come and kneel on the floor in front of Marj, so's you can get a good look a my lovely pussy." She spreads her cunt lips open enticingly.
Standing before her, he lowers his trousers and then removes his long underepants to reveal an extremely large penis.
Marjorie leans forward enthusiastically. "My word, Henry, that's a might fine piece of meat you've got there! Your wife is a lucky woman. Kneel down on the carpet in front of me, dearie and we'll just pop him into my lovely wet cunnie, shall we?"
Henry Northrop dutifully kneels before her then cautiously guides his knobhead through the dense pubic bush to make contact with the woman's cunt lips, which he immediately senses are very wet.
"Lovely. Now we'll just slip him inside, shall we?"
"I'm afraid there isn't time..." Henry's sentence remains unfinished as his cock cascades great spurts of warm semen all over her suspender belt and stocking tops. His cum decorates her public bush like a snowfall.
She gives her man a wry motherly smile, "Ooops!"
After a short interval, she closes her eyes then slowly and erotically strokes his semi-erect cockhead across her cunt lips with a circular movement, spreading his spunk around the opening and onto her clitoris until she has brought herself to orgasm.
After she has recovered she retrieves her panties from behind the cushion to mop up all the cum still lying on her tummy. Then she grins ruefully at Sir Henry, "Right, sweetie, let's go to bed shall we? Later on you're going to give Marj a good seeing to!"
Sir Henry Northrop is awakened by the aroma of strong, freshly-brewed coffee. Alone in a big double bed, he perceives out of one bleary eye that a well-laden mahagony breakfast tray has been placed in front of him. It contains, toast, butter and a pot of Fortnum & Mason's best marmalade. Marjorie enters, wearing a pink semi-transparent house robe, hanging open to reveal her breasts and uncovered pussy. Behind her back she nervously conceals a folded sheet of notepaper.
"Yes, very well thank you."
"Well you were certainly on top form last night, you old dog! Do you realise you came three times?"
"Did I really, by jove?"
"I'd say there's still plenty of lead left in your pencil, dearie."
Marjorie fiddles with the folded sheet, running her fingernail along its central crease. Producing it from behind her back, she pops it onto the tray.
"Your bill, sweetie. You don't suppose last night was 'on the house' do you? A girl's got to live!"
He opens the paper. "£150! I say that's deuced pricey, isn't it?"
"Cheap at twice the price for the services you got. Plus a bottle of my best Chablis!"
"But I haven't got that much on me."
"Yes you have, I looked in you wallet. Didn't take anything, mind; that would be stealing."
She hands him his wallet, from which he reluctantly withdraws three £50 notes. He places them on the breakfast tray.
"There's a good boy!"
Two hours later, Sir Henry Northrop is seated in a Pullman car on a train headed back to his native Buckinghamshire. He reflects on the extraordinary events of the previous night, smugly gratified that he has come through it relatively unscathed, albeit £150 the poorer, and having really rather enjoyed the experience. He feels his body temperature rise and a slight perspiration form on his forehead. Reaching into his jacket pocket for a handkerchief, he mops his brow...with a heavily cum-stained pair of black panties.
His travelling companion in the opposite seat gives him an old-fashioned look, then returns to reading his newspaper.
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with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.
<a href="https://www.lushstories.com/stories/straight-sex/the-girl-on-the-swing.aspx">The Girl on the Swing</a>