“Why are you looking at me like that? Was that the first time you’ve experienced a woman having a real orgasm and not a fake one?” Gordon Lister didn’t reply. He was not only lost for words, but his jaw and tongue ached.
He had no idea how long he’d been pinned to the carpet by Mrs Hargreaves, but his wrists were numb from the force of her knees pressing onto them, and the back of his head ached from the repeated jarring against the hard floor.
She unhooked her fingers from the inside leg of her pants and slid slightly backwards down his chest, just enough for her skirt to move slightly so that he could now see her face, but not far enough to release the pressure from his hands.
“Cat got your tongue?” She said laughing, before adding with a grin “Or have you had too much wine?”
Gordon Lister still said nothing. He knew Mrs Hargreaves’s question was purely rhetorical. The two small glasses of wine he’d drunk at her husband’s wake wouldn’t have had any noticeable effect on any man unless they contained something extra and her actions just after the last of the other mourners left suggested that wasn’t at all likely.
It was almost twenty four hours after his mother had asked him to send condolences to the family of an old friend on her behalf as they had been neighbors for many years when Gordon was a child, and she was recuperating in hospital after a minor operation.
His family had moved in the middle of his teenage years, but he could remember Mr and Mrs Hargreaves quite clearly. He’d been ill when Gordon last saw him, and over the last five years had apparently wasted gradually away from the effects of some degenerative muscle disease, but his wife had been somehow alluring to an adolescent beginning to find women interesting, even though she’d been distinctly heavier than any of his friends’ mothers.
He’d accepted the invite to the wake which followed his offer of condolences, and had politely made small talk with many people he’d never met before while the crowd gradually thinned until just the two of them remained. Mrs Hargreaves was more than thirty years older than Gordo, but dressed in a black blouse, black gloves and a knee-length black skirt that almost touched the tops of a pair of over-the-calf leather boots; he’d still found her strangely attractive.
He’d taken her hand and looking directly into her eyes and said, “If there’s anything I can do for you Mrs Hargeaves, just let me know.” trying to sound like the people he’d heard saying the same thing at the last two funerals he’d been to.
“That’s very kind of you Gordon, but I’ve been getting used to being on my own for the last five years. I’ve had to. Since my Ken was taken ill I’ve had to learn how to take care of pretty much all of my needs ……” She’d smiled for the first time that day, and Gordon could tell that there was something not said. Some thought had crossed her mind, but for some unspoken reason she’d decided not to elaborate.
Gordon didn’t know whether it was out of politeness or his own curiosity, but he’d felt compelled to ask “I mean it Mrs Hargreaves, whatever you want. I really don’t mind.”