The Red Dress

While writing my 'Rachel's Trip To Jamaica' series, I described her choosing a red dress for the party at Naila's when a vivid picture of a woman in a red dress floated into my mind. Her standing outside a London tube station was so clear and realistic that I stopped writing, closed my eyes and tried to remember who she was. It took a while, but the Tube Station told me it was when I was in London in the 70s, and slowly, the whole episode came flooding back.
I closed the page I was working on, opened a new document, and began writing. The words just poured out. It was as if I was back in the moment. It all returned with such clarity.
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The year was 1970. I was living in a flat in London with three girls I had met on the boat travelling from NZ to England. My mates had all found a flat in Kilburn, but the girls had asked me to join them as they wanted a guy to live with them. Kerry also moved in, and he and I shared the lounge while the girls shared one large bedroom.
It was an old Victorian terraced house like the one in Upstairs, Downstairs. However, at some point, it had been split into four flats: one in the basement and one on the other three levels. We had the first-floor flat, which was located in Cornwall Park Gardens.
I became very close with the girls, they were like my sisters, and I am still in touch with all of them today. In fact, I see the Fiona most weeks, and she edits many of my stories. There was never anything romantic between me or any of the three girls, but we were very close and shared all our most intimate experiences.
If you have read my stories, you will know I had more than my share of luck with the ladies. This period of my life was probably when I played the field the most. Most Saturday nights, I would bring a young English rose back to the flat to stay over. After a couple of months of this behaviour, the girls began to rib me about my behaviour. They were partly joking, and their jibes were always good-natured, but I could see they were also half-pie serious when they waggled their fingers at me and said I was dreadful.
It was a very different scene from what we had all left in New Zealand. The girls back home had guarded their virginity like bloody misers. Whereas, the Pommy girls were very free with their favours and often just as keen to get me in the sack as I was them. (Pommy, for you Americans, stands for 'Prisoners of Mother England'. It's an Aussie term. All the English prisoners shipped out to Australia had the letters P O M E stencilled on the back of their clothes. So us, colonials good-naturedly referred to the English as Pom's.)
Anyway, the ribbing I was getting from the girls was beginning to get to me. And I tried to clean up my act by not bringing all the girls I picked up back to the flat. It didn't stop me from chasing every innocent young girl I chanced upon, but I found other places to seduce them.
It didn't stop the girls from giving me shit, but at least I was not getting picked on quite so often.
One day, one of the Aussie girls (Leslie) announced that she had an Aunt and Uncle coming to visit. They asked her to find a cheap hotel for the six weeks they would stay in London. Leslie had the idea that she would get them an apartment and save them some money.
She began pursuing the ads in the local rags but without success. Someone mentioned that she should check out the Tobacconist next to Earls Court Tube Station, as people often placed ads for accommodation in his window. She asked if anyone wanted to walk over to Earls Court with her.
It being a fine Sunday morning and only a fifteen-minute walk, I put my hand up.
We began sorting through the adverts when we arrived outside the Tobacconist. From memory, it cost five shillings to stick a card in the window for a week. I was looking at all the sundry items, like roller-skates, rugby boots, etc., while Leslie was jotting down addresses, some just what she was looking for--Kiwis, Aussies, and South Africans wanting to lease their room for a few weeks over the summer while they were camping/holidaying in Europe.
Suddenly, Leslie burst into laughter, "Look at this. Here is an ad for you, you dirty bugger. Handyman wanted. Must be clean and bring his own tools."
I shuffled across to have a look. I was helping renovate a building in Soho at the time, but I was always up for extra work as living in London was expensive. I read the ad and asked Leslie to note down the number for me.
She laughed again, "You silly bugger, it's a sex ad. Read it again."
So I took a second look. It definitely said Handyman needed to do some work around the house. I looked at Leslie, confused at why she was laughing and giving me shit.
"You dumb idiot. Read it again: what advert for a handyman would say the wife is very attractive and that you must be clean and presentable."
I took a second look and saw that she was right. There was some weird stuff in the advert. Also, it was in amongst the sex ads, that stated stuff varto escort like,' Pretty girls wanting to clean your pipes'.
While I had been reading the add again, Leslie had written down the number, torn out the strip of paper, and thrust it into my pocket. I went to remove it, but I still was not totally convinced the ad wasn't legit. After all, in my reasoning no husband would ever let a guy touch his wife, so there had to be some mistake.
When we got back to the flat, Leslie raced ahead of me and broadcast, "Dave has a new conquest. He's bringing a married woman and her husband home next week."
I spluttered and growled, saying I would do nothing of the sort. But Leslie just carried on and told them I had her phone number in my pocket.
"You cheeky bitch, that's not fair. You put it there. I didn't want it."
And I stuck my hand in my pocket, pulled out the slip of paper, screwed it up and threw it in the waste bin. The jibes kept coming for the rest of the day. Everything I said, they'd twist and ask what her husband would think of that. By dinnertime, thankfully, their jibes finally petered out. And I forgot all about it.
The following Saturday, we all arose, ready to do our weekly chores. I was on washing, which Kerry had been banned from doing, as the second week in the flat, he had put the machine on with all the girl's lingerie, etc. And at the last minute, he threw in his dirty black rugby socks. The girl's smalls all came out a bland tone of grey. The worst was Diane's lovely brand-new yellow bra and knickers, which were now the colour of grey cat sick. He was not allowed near the washing machine again.
I was cleaning out my pockets, ready to throw them in the machine, when I came across a slip of paper with the name 'Fred' on it, plus a phone number. I stood there puzzled as to what on earth it could be. It took a while, but finally, it came to me that it had to be the number for the Handyman Leslie had stuck in there.
But I had thrown that out! I was absolutely sure I had. Gradually, I concluded she must have torn two pages out of her notepad by mistake and that I had screwed up the bottom piece, not the one I now had in my hand.
I went to screw it up and toss it again but hesitated. I was still not totally convinced it was not legit. Maybe the Tobacconist had copied down the guy's message incorrectly. I placed the slip of paper by my bed and carried on with the morning chores.
After lunch, I found myself alone, the rest of the flat having gone shopping. I saw the slip of paper on my bedside table and, after some deliberation, decided to give it a call and ease my mind. The guy who answered sounded normal but did give me some strange answers to some of my questions. I was beginning to believe that Leslie was correct, but I still could not believe anyone would want to share their partner. He heard my hesitation and offered that I could meet him and his wife outside Earls Court Tube Station at 7:00 that evening. He said she would be wearing a red dress, and if I didn't like the look of her, I could walk away.
I spent the rest of the afternoon mulling over what I should do. It had to be a scam, but I couldn't see how. I finally decided I would go have a look. After all, I could turn and come back home if I sensed anything amiss.
I made the excuse that I was going out with a guy from the office I was renovating. I waited until the others had left, then checked that the road was clear, swung my canvas bag of tools over my shoulder, and walked to Earls Court.
I saw her as soon as I stepped around the corner. An attractive woman in a bright red dress stood beside a rather innocuous-looking guy. He was holding her coat, and she looked cold and nervous. I scanned all around, looking for a gang of thugs that were waiting to beat me up. But saw nothing at all untoward. I'd left my wallet, watch, etc., behind and only had a five-pound note in my pocket, just in case.
She was almost as tall as him, but she was wearing high heels. He was maybe five-six, so being over six foot, I should be able to handle him if he got stroppy. Still I decided I'd seen enough and would clear off home. But when the cross sign began to buzz, I found myself walking across the road, and before I had a chance to sort out what I was doing, I was almost in front of them.
She looked at me momentarily as I approached, then glanced away and scanned the crowd. I stopped before the guy and asked, "Are you Fred?"
He seemed to snap out of a daze, "Yes. Are you Dave?" And when I nodded, he introduced me.
"This is Gail. She's dying to meet you."
She looked a bit startled, then broke into a happy smile. I was not what she had expected, obviously. I took her coat from Fred and held it out for her. "You look cold. Here, put this on."
She turned and put her arms behind her, searching for the sleeve holes. I lifted the coat up her arms and settled it over her shoulders. My hand touched her cheek, viranşehir escort and it felt like a tingle of electricity shot up my arm. Gail also jerked as my hand touched her. And I saw in her eyes that she had also felt the connection.
Fred motioned us to the right, "There is a pub halfway to our flat. Let's get out of this cold and have a pint there."
We found an empty cubicle at the back of the bar. Fred motioned for me to sit with Gail, and he moved away to the bar to buy the drinks. Gail and I sat apart, her looking shy and embarrassed, and I, feeling uncomfortably weird about the whole situation and fighting the urge to run.
I asked her if she was okay with doing this or if Fred was forcing her. She answered that she was all right. Fred wanted it, so she was happy to do what he wanted. That did not exactly settle my concerns. it all seemed terribly wrong.
Fred returned with two pints for us, and a bottle of Baby Champ for Gail. And we sat back and talked. I found they had lived next to one another in Scarborough, up North, and they spoke with broad Yorkshire accents. The accent suited him, but it detracted from Gail's beauty. Her 'Aw wonder how yah can leave your home. I'd nay like to travel away' grated on me at first. I expected the queen's English to flow from such an attractive woman's mouth.
They'd known each other since they were knee-high, and Fred had helped her elope after some 'bother'. The look they passed between them told me the 'bother' had been sexual attention by a relative or men. I did not want to go there and changed the subject.
They had been married for seven years. Gail was twenty-seven, only five years older than me. I had felt she was much older, unsure why, as if anything, she looked younger. I guess it was her demeanour and the fact she was married. Fred was two years older and looked it.
Fred spelled out his conditions. I wasn't allowed to be rough with her nor fuck her up the arse. Only he could do that. And I was not allowed to kiss her. Frankly, the whole thing was beginning to turn me off. So when Fred rose to get us another pint, I indicated to Gail that I was going to leave.
"Please don't," she wailed. "I want you to stay. We have had only two replies before you. One was from Slough. He was horrible and had BO. I wouldn't go with him, and Fred got angry. The second was last weekend. He was about forty and had a nasty look about him. Fred backed out of that, saying he could tell the guy wanted to hurt me."
I tried to explain how I couldn't just flick a switch and become hard and aroused. I needed some romantic involvement. So it was best I leave. Gail leaned over and kissed me. It was wonderful, and I knew I was fucked.
Fred returned with the beers and snapped at her, "Fuck Gail, I said no kissing. We agreed on that."
"Dave was going to leave. I don't want him to go."
Fred angrily shoved the pint over at me. But I declined.
"I don't want any more beer, thanks. I should go."
"No. Stay. Give me a second to drink this, and we'll leave. You can kiss her. I'll bite my tongue.
Gail put her hand behind my head and drew me in for another kiss. I felt extremely awkward and watched cautiously from the corner of my eye to see if the jealous husband would take a swing at me. But Fred showed no more aggression. Instead, he guzzled down both pints in record time and rose to leave. I was so distracted, I nearly left my tools on the seat. But Gail picked them up and handed them to me.
Their place was another block away. It was a tenement tower, and they had a one-bedroom unit on the fourth level. There was no lift, so we had to trudge up the stairs. It was tiny; the four rooms would have fit in the room Kerry and I were sharing.
We stood awkwardly inside the front door, none of us quite knowing how to proceed. So, I asked what jobs they wanted me to do. They both stared at me like I was nuts for a second, and then Fred said a cupboard door needed fixing, and Gail said she wanted the toilet fixed.
Fred led me into the kitchen, where I saw the cupboard door hanging from its hinges. It was a very simple job. The screws were all pulled out of the wood. There was a box of matches sitting above the stove, so I removed the door, inserted a matchstick or two in each screw hole and broke them off flush. Ten minutes later, I had the door tightly screwed back in its frame.
Fred had ordered Gail to get ready while I was fixing the door. She appeared just as I finished, wearing nothing but a towelling robe. She led me into the toilet, which was separate from the rest of the flat, on the back wall of the building. It smelled, and someone had knocked out the louvres in the window to let some air in, which meant the toilet was freezing cold.
"I dread getting up in the night to use this. I have to put my hand in the water and pull on that lever, and I hate it." She said, shuddering.
They had leaned the cistern lid against vize escort the wall, and looking inside, I could see the issue instantly. The rivet holding one of the levers onto the ballcock had worn away. Someone had wired it back together, but this had also crapped out, and the wire was sitting on the bottom of the cistern. It took me only seconds to re-wire it properly. And I flushed it to ensure I'd left enough play for it to work. I was astounded that Fred could not have fixed this.
Gail was over the moon, so she gave me another kiss and looked at me as if I were some god. I could feel her naked body squirming around under the robe, and I got embarrassed about getting caught by Fred. So I broke the kiss and pulled her back to the lounge.
Fred was waiting with two whiskeys on the coffee table. I'm not too fond of whisky, so I declined. He didn't seem concerned that I did not want to drink with him. He motioned Gail and me to sit on the sofa, and he sat on the armchair opposite and sculled one of the glasses. It went through my mind that I would be legless at this stage. He had knocked back three pints and two whiskies in under an hour, and I guessed he may have had a couple to ease his nerves before I arrived.
There was an awkward silence, and then Fred took charge and told Gail to get started. Explaining to me that Gail took forever to cum, and they always started with Gail masturbating.
Gail wrapped her arms around herself, saying she didn't want to.
"I'm embarrassed. I don't want to do that in front of Dave."
But Fred rose, walked over and opened her robe, saying, 'Don't be silly, we always do this. Dave won't mind." He looked at me for affirmation, and when I mouthed 'OK', he took hold of her knees and spread her legs. I couldn't believe my eyes. She had a very tidy figure. And as I was marvelling at my luck, he made her sit up so he could pull her arms from the robe, and he pushed her back down to lie on it.
As awkward as I was feeling, The sight of her generous globes and dark mass of hair between her legs made my cock begin to harden.
She still did not move but looked to me pleadingly to do something. I smiled and mouthed that I wanted to see her do it. At the same time, Fred took her hands and moved them between her legs. He held them until she reluctantly began stroking herself, and only then did he move back to the armchair and pour himself another whisky.
I was intrigued. I had done the same as Fred on numerous occasions - pushed a girl's hands down to her sex and held it there until she played with herself. But I had never sat back and watched her masturbate.
I sat there mesmerised. Gail used two fingers to massage around her clit, and two fingers on her other hand to stroke the entrance of her hole. She kept lifting her hand to her mouth and wetting her fingers, but soon, there was clear fluid oozing around her fingers, and she smeared this around, making her cunt glisten in the low light. I reached over and ran my fingers through it and lifted them to spread it over her nipple. But Gail opened her mouth and eagerly slurped up her mess. Fuck, that turned me on.
I looked over at Fred to make sure he was alright with me touching her and saw he had dropped his pants and was stroking his cock. It was tiny. I've seen dozens of naked guys in the showers at rugby and all shapes and sizes of willies, but this was tiny. I doubt if it was more than four inches.
He saw me looking but wasn't embarrassed. He just motioned me to do some more dirty stuff with his wife.
"Play with her tit's boss. She loves that. Yah'll get her going," he slurred.
At last, he showed some signs of intoxication. I shuffled my butt over beside her, scooped up some more of her cream, and rubbed it on a nipple. Gail released a deep breath, shoved her fingers deep, and then smeared the fluid she had captured over the other nipple. And thrust her tit forward, offering it for some attention. She shoved those same fingers back into her hole and began frigging herself flat-out.
I'd not been lucky enough to see many women masturbate. And none so attractive or enthusiastic. Not for the first time that evening, I wondered how such a plain guy had wound up with such an attractive, horny woman.
Fred spoke again, "Get yah clothes off, boss. Aya, she'll like to see you naked."
I stood and removed my clothes, aware that I was beginning to soften. Having the husband in the room watching was a huge turnoff for me.
"Open your eyes doll. Look at what Yah'll be getting." Said Fred.
Gail opened her eyes and caught her breath when she saw me. People always go on about me having a massive cock. But it's not that big. It's not a lot over six inches, but I guess it must have looked huge compared to Fred's. It was a hell of a lot longer and thicker than his.
I swear she climaxed. Seeing another man's cock so close must have done it for her. I wondered what Fred thought, having only minutes before told me she had difficulty reaching orgasms.
Gail pulled me down beside her, then slipped onto the floor, turned on her knees, and tried to get my whole shaft down her throat. She gagged, rose, took a look, and then had another go at swallowing the entire length. She could only get half in her mouth but kept trying to swallow more and gagging horribly.