in removing my partner’s clothes, but this chick is such an enthusiast that she is pulling down her tights before I have unzipped a boot. In less time than it takes to sign for a registered envelope from ERNIE she is lying back on the bed with only a small heart-shaped necklet in danger of being crushed out of shape between her boobs.
‘You look lovely,’ I tell her.
‘Shut up with all that flannel,’ she says. ‘I’m not putting up a fight.’
She is right, of course. It is just that I am so used to saying it that it has become a habit with me.
I strip down to my pink candy-striped underpants–everybody is wearing them in Clapham this year–and climb on to the bed. It is not that I am modest. Just that I don’t see why the bird should not do a little work for it. Her greedy little hand slides down over my belly and I close in on her mouth. She has the most fantastic skin. Like a slightly bruised peach. I slide one hand beneath her shoulders and send the other down to do a recce for J.T. Everything seems more than ready so with a quick nibble around the bits that give baby his elevenses, I climb aboard and we motor round the bay a couple of times. She is quite a girl, this Audrey. Very strong in the pelvis and capable of opening Tizer bottles with her belly button, I should reckon. I can see why Petheridge hangs around her bedroom. It must be better than sorting out the early calls. I am trying to control myself but with this girl thudding away underneath you it is like trying to put out a forest fire with a can of petrol. She suddenly starts groaning hoarsely and then squealing so loud that everyone in the hotel must be able to hear her. Nothing turns me on faster than a woman’s moans and in no time at all I am ebbing away between her thighs, beautifully taken out of myself.
‘I can hear your heart beating,’ she murmurs.
‘Thank God,’ I say. ‘I was worried there, for a minute.’
Maybe I am getting old or perhaps it is just that I have had a busy day. Anyway, I immediately begin to feel sleepy and climb gratefully between the sheets as Audrey looks about her wistfully.
‘I think I’ll go and see if that man is still sleeping in our room,’ she says. ‘I won’t be a minute.’
I Mumble something and close my eyes as I listen to the sea hissing against the shingle–we don’t have much sand on our part of the beach. There is a shaded lamp on the table beside the bed and this bathes the room in a soft, warm glow. Lucky Timmy. The door opens and I hear Audrey come in. I do not change my position but nuzzle deeper into the pillow and make ‘I am almost asleep, please do not disturb’ noises. I will catch up with her again in the morning, Petheridge willing.
Strange that I can hear the delicious sound of nylon being peeled away from flesh. Why should Audrey have put on her tights to go up one flight of stairs? I turn my head to take a quick butcher’s and–blimey oh Riley! There, bending forward to shed her bra is the receptionist bird Sandra. The one I took an instant fancy to. She must have an understanding with Petheridge as well. No wonder the bloke sleeps so much!
Without looking towards the bed she slips out of her panties, gives a delicious little shiver that makes her tits wobble invitingly and pulls back the sheets. It is in this far-from-unattractive pose that our eyes meet for the first time that evening.
‘Oh.’ she says. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you.’
‘Me neither.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Come inside and we’ll talk about it’
She gives a little shrug and begins to climb into the bed.
‘Oh well,’ she says. ‘Life’s so short, isn’t it?’
‘Quite like old times, it was,’ says Sid wolfing down half a kipper in one mouthful. ‘Good to know that the old unquenchable magnetism is still coming on like the Chinese cavalry.’
‘Very reassuring, Sid,’ I say, trying to keep my eyes open. By the cringe, but that Sandra is a goer. Maybe it is something to do with the sea air. I reckon someone like her must have had a go at Nelson. He lost his eye and his arm and then he said ‘Right! That’s it!’ and hopped up on his column. Female spiders are supposed to nosh up their mates after having it away, aren’t they?
‘I didn’t tell you what happened, did I?’ continues Sid, who is clearly going to. ‘It was amazing, really. I’ve been in some funny situations in my time, but–hey, wake up! Your rice krispies are going all soggy. What’s the matter with you?–anyway, where was I? Oh yes, I’d just finished driving her into a fit of uncontrollable ecstasy for about the seventeenth time when suddenly the door opens and in pops your one. Before I can say “half-time, change ends”, she’s hopped into bed with us! How about that then? I have to admire her taste but, blimey! It’s brazen, isn’t it? Doesn’t say much for your performance either–stop yawning!’
‘Sorry, Sid. I did have a few problems myself last night.’
‘Sounds like it.’ Sid is obviously dead chuffed with himself and in such moods is considerably less than lovable.
‘Yeah, that receptionist bird Sandra nobbled me–nibbled me a bit as well.’
‘What!’ Sid’s toast quivers outside his mush.
‘Some kind of strange magnetism I exude must have drawn her to me. It was funny, really, just like you say. I had just finished driving my bird into a fit of uncontrollable ecstasy for–oh, I suppose it must have been about the twenty-fifth time–when Sandra springs through the door like a female tigress–’
‘As opposed to a male tigress,’ says Sid.
‘Precisely. “Leave him,” she cries, “that man is mine,” and she picks up Audrey and chucks her through the door like she is a sack of feathers. After that, well I don’t really know how to describe it. She just tears the bedclothes off and has her ruthless way with me until cockcrow–or in my case, cockcroak.’
‘Go on! You’re kidding.’
‘Straight up, Sid–or at least it was to start with.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Please yourself.’
At that moment Sandra comes into the dining room, throwing out more curves than a Scalextric track.
‘Hello tiger,’ she says, raping me with a warm smile as she goes past our table.
‘More toast, Sidney?’ I say politely.
Half an hour later we are outside leaning against the sea wall and admiring the patterns the oil slicks make on the water.
‘One thing I don’t understand, Sid,’ I say. ‘Who is supposed to be running this place at the moment?’
‘A woman called Miss Ruperts. She used to own it once and then sold out to Funfrall. She’s an alcoholic apparently. Goes off to be dried out occasionally.’
‘I can imagine this place driving you to drink. Blimey, what with her and Mrs Caitley, it’s going to be a nice little set-up,
