Sally

Short story from Roué 1.

It looked as if the rain had set in for the afternoon. Keith peered out from his awning and up at the heavy, scudding clouds, and decided to call it a day. People didn’t stop to buy flowers in weather like this. He’d be wasting his time, and anyway there was work to be done in the nursery, in the shelter of the greenhouses.

He cast an eye along the busy main road, on the lookout for a last potential customer. The traffic swished by, unheeding. The slim figure on the far side of the road, sheltering under a tree with her bike, seemed familiar. She was wearing a navy blue mac, and had a waterproof hat on, so he couldn’t see too much of her. Nevertheless, he thought, it looked like Sally. He watched her for a moment, but she showed no sign of recognition. He decided it couldn’t be her. Sally lived about four miles away, and anyway she’d be at school this time of the day.

Keith took down his awning and packed the pots and plants into the front of the stall, getting wetter than he’d thought he would in the process. He padlocked the stall, fumbling in his pocket as he put the key safely away, not wanting to lose it again.

A bicycle ticked up the path behind him as someone wheeled it along. He turned. Sally’s rain-pinkened face peeped out from under the rain hat.

‘Hello. What’re you doing here?’

She smiled, though not quite convincingly. ‘Just passing,’ she said.

He looked at her, wondering why he should think she seemed nervous. She smiled again, almost apologetically.

‘Er — well, I was just packing up.’

‘Yes. I can see.’

Keith looked at her mac, buttoned up to the neck. ‘You look wet,’ he said, rather unnecessarily.

‘ ‘Fraid I am,’ she said.

‘Want to come in till it stops?’

‘If you like.’

‘OK then. Come on.’

‘Thanks.’

He led the way down the path behind the stall. He turned to look back over his shoulder, still walking. ‘What d’you want to do with your bike? You can put it in one of the greenhouses if you like.’

‘No point,’ she said, ‘It’s wet anyway.’

He let himself into the little shed which he used as a place to make tea and to put his feet up occasionally. Her bike clonked against the wooden wall as she propped it up, then she too came in a moment later.

He half turned towards her, as if making a pretence of welcoming her to his humble little shelter.

‘Close the door then,’ he said.

‘Sorry,’ she shut the door, then took her hat off, splashing the drips onto the floor. Wisps of blonde hair clung damply to her cheek. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she asked, seeming unsure of herself.

‘Course not. You’re welcome anytime.’

He found the matches and fiddled with the wick in the paraffin heater. It lit smokily, its pungent fumes quickly filling the small, single room.

‘You want tea or coffee?’

‘Don’t mind.’

‘Tea then,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you take your mac off?’

He lit the calor gas ring, filled the kettle. He heard the rustle of her mac behind him.

He left the kettle to boil, and turned to Sally again. It was something of a shock to find her in a school blazer. He’d never seen her dressed like that before. All at once she seemed younger.

‘You’re home early,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she sounded non-committal.

‘What are you doing over this way, anyway,’ he asked. ‘Should have thought it was a bit out of your way really, coming home from school.’

‘Where shall I hang this?’ she asked, holding out her mac.

‘There’s a hook over there,’ he said.

She pushed past him, her hips brushing against him as he washed the cups. Her body felt soft and full.

He poured milk into the cups, and remembered her, back in the summer holidays, when she’d been working with him. Her slim, suntanned legs. The little shorts. The narrow aisles in the greenhouses, the tight squeeze it was for two people to pass. The warm, smooth touch of her thigh, the plumpness of her bottom pushing into him.

‘How d’you like it, being back at school?’ he asked.

‘Not much,’ she said calmly. ‘Got to work like hell this year, or I won’t get my A-levels. Then it’ll be goodbye to university, if I don’t get them.’

‘Yes, I s’pose it will.’ He poured the tea, handed her a cup. ‘Sit down then.’

He took the only chair. She sat on the bed.

‘This didn’t used to be here,’ she said, patting the bed.

‘No. It’s just that I’ve been going up to Covent Garden a bit more lately, and sometimes it’s easier to sleep here when I’ve got to get up at four o’clock in the morning.’

‘Oh, I see.’

She sat with her knees together, the cup enclosed between the enveloping fingers of both hands. Her skin, especially on her cheeks, had a fresh, youthful bloom about it, the dampness heightening the effect.

‘Your blazer wet?’ he asked.

‘Yes, it is a bit.’

‘Take it off then, you’ll catch a cold if you sit there like that.’

She put her tea on the floor and stood up. The pleated skirt reached no more than two thirds of the way down her thighs.

‘There’s a nail behind you,’ he said, ‘over the bed.’

‘Thanks.’

The springs creaked as she turned and knelt on the bed to hang her jacket up. Some pens clattered to the floor, falling down between the bed and the wall.

‘Sod it!’ she said, mildly.

Her thighs looked just as slim and suntanned as he’d remembered them. She rummaged around, careless of his eyes. The white stretch of her school knickers caught him by surprise again, full and taut, cutting across the roundness of each cheek, biting gently into the softness, puckering between her legs as she moved.

He caught her eyes as she got back up from retrieving the pens. They were bright and alive.

She sat down again. Her blouse too was obviously wet, especially around the collar, the tie neat and bright red against the white. She kicked off her shoes and curled her legs under her on the bed, leaning back against the wall. She brushed her hair back from her face with a hand, her movements graceful and precise, an automatic gesture.

Keith glanced up at the clock. A quarter past three. He wondered.

‘So, how come you’re over this way?’ he asked, ‘come to see me, did you?’

‘Kind of,’ she seemed unsure of herself again.

‘How d’you mean?’

‘Nothing. I just thought I’d pop in, that’s all. See how business was.’

‘Oh.’ He looked pointedly at the clock again. ‘Shouldn’t you be in school though?’

She smiled, defensively. ‘So? I’m not a kid anymore, am I? I don’t have to go if I don’t want to.’

‘So you’re hopping off then? Eh?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Playing truant?’

‘No, I just didn’t fancy school this afternoon, that’s all.’

It was Keith’s turn to smile. She smiled back, and looked even prettier as her teeth showed between her pink lips. The folding of her skirt in her lap, the push of her young breasts beneath the white blouse, tempted him. Tempted him to say something provocative. He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and, greatly daring, risked saying it.

‘You’ll get your bum smacked if they catch you,’ he said, knowing it wasn’t true.

She could have said ‘Fat chance!’ Or, ‘That kind of thing doesn’t happen anymore, y’know.’

Instead she said: ‘I’ll have to hope they don’t catch me then, won’t I?’

She readjusted herself on the bed. The insides of her thighs disclosed themselves briefly.

He teased her, sensing that he might get away with it. ‘So you mean I’ll have to keep this dreadful secret all to myself.’ He watched her eyes. He added, pushing his luck: ‘Just so you don’t get your pants taken down for being a bad girl.’ Taking the chance of saying it seemed quite exciting, in a mild way.

Her eyes avoided his, but came back again. ‘So you’d better keep the secret then,’ she said quietly.

He smiled just so that he could pretend it was fun. ‘Of course. Price might be high though.’

She seemed strangely serious as she looked at him. She didn’t reply.

They sat in silence for a bit, until Keith felt a little awkward, unsure whether he’d said the wrong thing.

‘Want some more tea?’ he offered, after a while.

‘No thanks.’ She loosened her tie, and tugged at the damp collar, pulling a face as she did so.

‘That’s damp too,’ he said.

‘So’s my skirt,’ she said. He thought about that, wondering what she might mean. He decided that perhaps there was nothing in it after all.

‘Take it off, if you like,’ he said.

She looked at him, unabashed.

‘What? My blouse?’

‘Yes.’ The thrill came again. ‘Or your skirt.’

She said: ‘There’s not much point is there?’ Her eyes were alive again. ‘I mean, not unless they could be dried off. Otherwise there’s no point,’ she repeated.

He watched her expression. She didn’t seem to be offended. ‘We could dry them near the heater,’ he said, reasonably.

She seemed to take him seriously. ‘I s’pose so,’ she answered.

Each of them pretended to smile about it.

‘Well then —’ she said, ‘if you think it’s a good idea —’

He nodded. Then thought perhaps he ought to say something as well. ‘Yes. I don’t mind — if you want to, that is.’

There came a brief hiatus. Sally plucked absently at a button, looked back at him again. He got the feeling that it was a point of no return for her.

‘Alright then, if you’re sure?’ Her voice sounded husky as she said it.

‘Yes.’ He half-turned away, as unsure of himself as he was excited, busying himself with the catch of a window that was letting in a damp draught. He saw her stand up, loosening the tie and unbuttoning the blouse. The crisp white of her little bra shone against the healthy glow of her skin. She didn’t take the blouse off at once. He saw her fingers go to her hip, heard the snap of a fastener, the grating slide of the zip.

She stepped carefully out of her skirt. The tan of her legs slid seductively up under the elastic of her knickers. She stooped, the white pants pulling tight across the back. She stood up again, looking at him a little dubiously, until he realised he was sitting on the only chair. He got up, and placed the chair by the heater.

‘Thanks.’ The skirt was hung over the chair, its dark folds heavy and damp.

For something to say, he remarked: ‘I wonder how that got so wet? Under your mac, I mean.’

She grinned, easing the weight of their mutual uncertainty. ‘The rain goes up your legs on a bike, silly.’

He smiled in his turn. ‘Oh, I see. Didn’t think of that.’

He rearranged the chair by the heater, unnecessarily. Her thigh brushed the back of his hand, firm but soft. Smooth. He pushed his luck again. ‘So you got wet knickers too then?’ he asked, the thrill alive in his loins.

She said nothing, but met his eyes for a moment. The grin had faded to a smile, then to soft lips, a little apart, moist and kissable. He realised with another start that now, perhaps because of what he’d said, or perhaps not, anyway now she was going to take them off too. Her knickers.

He watched as she tucked a finger into the elastic either side of her hips, puckering the white pants across her stomach, drawing them down around the tops of her thighs. Coarse, crinkly hair curled invitingly at the base of her belly. The elastic in the legs made the knickers drag back as she tugged them down her thighs, pulling them inside out. She slipped her feet free, half-turning away from him, her smooth buttocks rounding into sweeping curves as she bent forward.

She didn’t look at him as she stood up with the knickers in her hand, her bottom tried coyly to hide its heavy cheeks under the downward overlap of her blouse. He found himself moving to her, standing behind, a hand slipping under one cheek, cupping its weight, patting, fondling. She didn’t move away. Her bottom was warm and solid in his palm, the cleft between soft and secret. He reached round in front of her with both hands, sliding his fingers down the fold of her groin on either side. She breathed out, heavily and slowly, and seemed to move back into him, as if melting at his touch.

He turned her towards him, his mouth seeking her lips, then slipping down to her neck. She seemed to be suddenly out of breath, the rhythmic pants loud in his ear, and the whispered words: ‘Please! I’ve waited — so long.’

The twang of the makeshift bed had never sounded more welcoming, accepting the two of them as if they were old friends. The blouse seemed to flutter of its own accord up to her shoulders, the clip snapping willingly free behind her back, a solid little nipple thrust itself between his teeth, demanding attention.

Her round, solid bum jostled in his hands, squeezing up and into him, her tightness yielding, caressing his entry. Her hips rolled from side to side, her eyes glinted from under half-closed lids, sweet mouth pleading for his tongue.

She gasped her frantic excitement as the rhythm built, thrusting and grinding the two of them together as if only the rhythm itself existed, honing the pleasure to a fine, keenly knifing point before releasing them, he in a rigid, jerking tension, she with a squeal and a sob of passion which sighed endlessly against his rough cheek.

After a while, they realised that the rain had stopped. The faint haze of steam had ceased to rise from her skirt, draped over the chair. And a little later, in a slow, infinitely gentle way, he eased her again back up the slippery slope to another long, mounting climax. Her bottom wormed easily against his belly, her thighs spread wide, and wider, until she was spread-eagled, panting and face down against the blankets, his hands round and under her breasts, kneading, stroking, clutching as he too revisited the heights of ecstasy with her.

They lay together in the growing dusk, not needing to say anything. She stirred against him, the soft touch of her breast stroking his side. His arm around her cosseted and protected, and she seemed like a child again.

‘Better than getting spanked, for playing truant, wasn’t it?’ he said, patronising her gently.

She seemed to think about that.

‘Depends who does it,’ she said, enigmatically.

‘What d’you mean? Who’ve you been spanked by then, eh?’ The calm seriousness in her voice had surprised him.

‘Mr Tibbett,’ she said, simply.

‘Mr Tibbett? You mean old Mr Tibbett who runs the paper shop down in the village?’

‘Yes, him.’

‘But why? I mean, why did you let him?’

She stirred again. One thigh smoothed across his as she rolled part way onto him.

‘I used to work for him,’ she said. ‘Before I came to work for you. He caught me nicking, and that’s why he spanked me. I didn’t have much choice, did I?’

He didn’t know quite what to say.

‘He took me out the back after he closed one night. I had to take my knickers down, and then — well, he walloped me.’

‘Just like that?’ Keith sounded amazed.

‘Yep. Made me cry.’

‘But you liked it?’

‘No, silly. Not with him.’

‘Who with then?’

She smiled in the gathering gloom. ‘I’m not sure I want to say,’ she teased.

‘Come on. Who else has spanked you?’

She giggled, her slim young body shaking slightly against his. Then she stopped her giggling, and lay quietly beside him again.

‘Anyway, he turns me on,’ she said, with an air of finality.

‘Does he?’ Keith prompted.

Sally changed the subject slightly, nuzzling against his neck. ‘You didn’t know I nicked things, did you?’

‘No,’ he admitted. ‘You never have from me, anyway.’

‘How d’you know?’ she asked, sweetly.

He thought about it, mystified. ‘D’you mean you have?’ he asked at last.

‘Might have, she said, and giggled again. Her full, smooth buttocks moved on the bed, brushing his hand. ‘P’raps you ought to spank me yourself. Just in case.’

He had the feeling she was serious. With finger and thumb he took a fat pinch of her bottom and squeezed it. She squealed obligingly, but with a muted, non-protesting sound, and she moved her bottom away from his hand, sliding up on top of him. Her plump cheeks fitted comfortably into his cupped palms and she squirmed her hips, her soft belly rubbing titillatingly against him. Her whispered words breathed tantalisingly into his ear.

‘You going to smack me then? Eh? Are you?’

He found the words somehow. ‘Yes. I am.’

He spanked, quite hard, bringing first one hand and then the other down on her strong, resilient buttocks. He felt them bounce with every slap. The flat, cracking sound of the smacks rang in the little room, and her short, sharp gasps hissed into his ear.

Then her hand was groping across his belly, down between them, helping him to slip in again. He slapped harder, suddenly finding pleasure and excitement in her quick, squirming movements, and her soft, breathless whimpers close by his cheek. She cried out, the slaps came harder, faster. She pumped unashamedly up and down on him, riding the climax flat out, not pausing even though she was out of breath, drowning him with her milking the ultimate release from the sound and sting and sheer excitement of his hard hands cracking against her helpless, jiggling cheeks. She sobbed a long, gasping sigh, twitching in her ecstasy, giving him the cue and taking him with her into another long, shuddering climax.

He helped her find her clothes in the darkness, not wanting to switch on the light, unsure whether he would find a child or a woman if he did.

Her lips were still soft, still moist as he kissed her goodbye. He listened to the tick of her bike as she wheeled it through the puddles and down the path.

She called ‘Goodnight’ quietly, from down by the gate.

‘See you again?’ he called. He didn’t know if she heard him.

The red light winked out as she rode away out of sight.