This story was inspired, in part, by a little dilemma that one of the other Lit writers was – and perhaps still is – experiencing.
‘I’m Florence,’ she said when they first met. And she reached out and shook George’s hand. Firmly.
‘Florence? I thought Max said that you were Susan.’
‘He did,’ she said. ‘I don’t want everyone knowing that I’m Florence. I certainly don’t want Max knowing that I’m Florence. But I get the feeling that you are someone who would appreciate something a little more Italianate. Am I right?’
George laughed. ‘All right. Florence it is,’ he said.
‘Now … how are we going to handle this?’ Florence asked.
George and Florence (or whatever her name was) had been given a joint assignment to write a long-form magazine piece on compulsive hoarders. George certainly wasn’t a hoarder himself, but, according to Max, the commissioning editor, Florence was. ‘You should see her flat,’ Max had said.
‘Well, I suppose the first thing is to decide on is an approach,’ George said. ‘Are we in favour of hoarding? Or are more of the Marie Kondo school? Are we flying the flag for minimalism?’
Florence frowned slightly. ‘I think I have a problem with the word hoarding,’ she said. ‘It sounds so negative. So judgemental. Hoarding. Nobody accuses the British Museum of hoarding, do they? Or The Victoria & Albert.’
‘I think they may be a little beyond our remit,’ George said.
Florence frowned again. ‘I think we need some tea,’ she said. ‘My flat is just around the corner.’
‘There’s a coffee shop just across the road,’ George said. ‘I’m sure that they can make a decent pot of tea.’
Florence shook her head. ‘No, we’ll go to my flat. And I can show you my books. I think you’ll be impressed.’
‘Just around the corner’ was a slight exaggeration. It was just around many corners. And then it was up three flights of stairs.
Florence led the way up the stairs and George followed. ‘I’m not wearing any knickers,’ Florence said. ‘Just in case you are wondering.’
‘To tell the truth,’ George said, ‘it wasn’t something to which I had given a great deal of thought. But thanks for the heads up. I think.’
Florence made a pot of fruit tea (she said that it was blackberry and lemon, but George suspected that it was actually raspberry and something), and she suggested that they should go and drink it in ‘the library’. And George could see what Max had meant. Florence’s ‘library’ probably had enough books – in various states of repair – to serve a small town all by itself.
‘Gosh, getting all of these books up the three flights of stairs must have been a challenge,’ George said.
Florence smiled. ‘I had some chaps,’ she said. ‘And I let in be known that I would tip them well. Which I did. Although not in coin of the realm.’ And she smiled again.
In addition to the books, there were numerous ‘collectibles’: glass, pottery, porcelain, small bronzes, and not malatya escort a few examples of printed tin.
‘You realise that some people might suggest that you have the makings of a hoarder,’ George said.
‘Nonsense!’ Florence said. ‘Hoarders hoard junk. Old newspapers. Stuff like that. I collect collectibles. Treasures. Rare examples of … well, rare examples, anyway. You might want to pay more attention to Antiques Roadshow.’
‘Oh. So … are some these pieces valuable?’ George said.
‘I expect so,’ Florence said. ‘But now we should fuck. I assume that you do fuck. You’re not celibate or anything, are you?’
‘Not by choice,’ George assured her.
And that’s where they first did it – on a pile of cushions in the midst of Florence’s collection of books and … well … collectibles. Florence simply pulled up the skirt of her summery dress, lay back, and helpfully spread her sparsely-thatched labia. ‘Trousers off,’ she said. ‘Come on. Here’s your target.’ She didn’t seem to be interested in foreplay.
During the two weeks that it took the pair to research and write the hoarders piece, they did it a couple of more times. The second time that they did it was in George’s flat.
‘Gosh, this place is very neat,’ Florence said. ‘Are you sure that you actually live here? Are you sure that you wouldn’t prefer a little bit more clutter?’
‘No. I think I like it just the way it is,’ George said.
Florence didn’t seem convinced. ‘Personally,’ she said, ‘I think a bit of clutter gives a place character. I think a bit of clutter makes a house a home.’
George poured a couple of glasses of white wine and tried to steer the conversation back to the article they were supposed to be writing.
‘Ooh, wine!’ Florence said. ‘Are you trying to get me tipsy so that you can have your way with me?’
‘Umm … no,’ George said. ‘I just felt like a glass of wine. Don’t drink it if you don’t want to.’
‘Oh, no. Mustn’t waste it. Wine makes me randy. Shandy makes me randy trips off the tongue rather more easily; but, in my case, it’s wine that does the trick.’
George smiled. ‘Can we just agree how we are going to conclude this article?’
‘I think what you have written is just dandy,’ Florence said. ‘See what I did there? Dandy. Shandy. Randy. Now … where’s the bedroom?’
For another five minutes or so, George tried to keep the conversation on topic but, eventually, he conceded defeat, topped up their wine glasses, and led the way to the bedroom where Florence undressed completely and went and stood in front of the window.
‘I think perhaps we should lower the blind,’ George said.
Florence frowned. ‘And deprive your neighbours of a show? Oh, well … if you insist.’
It was the first time that George had seen Florence totally naked, and she was not unattractive. She was quite slim and her breasts were small. In some ways she reminded George of a slightly maltepe escort dishevelled version of a pop star whose name he couldn’t immediately recall.
‘Are you going to get your clothes off,’ Florence asked ‘or do I need to do it for you?’
‘I’m perfectly capable of doing it,’ George said. ‘But since you’re offering.’
Florence helped George out of his clothes and then looked him up and down. ‘Yes, very nice,’ she said. And then she picked up her knickers from where she had abandoned them. ‘Here, put these on,’ she said.
‘Because I would like you to. And I think you might like them.’
‘Humour me,’ Florence said.
George pulled on Florence’s knickers. They were a tight fit and his growing stiffy protruded from the waistband.
‘Yes. Nice,’ Florence said.
George had to admit that the fine silky fabric encasing his growing cock and his balls did add a certain something to the occasion. ‘What now?’ George asked.
‘Now you may eat me,’ Florence told him. ‘Although first you can kiss me and then suck my tits.’
‘Mmm,’ Florence said after they had kissed. ‘And now my tits.’ And then after George had paid due attention to Florence’s almost girlish breasts, she said: ‘And now my cunt.’ Florence was certainly a girl who knew what she wanted.
‘And now can I remove your knickers?’ George asked after he had brought Florence to the edge of orgasm with his tongue.
‘No, just free your cock a bit. You can fuck me while you’re still wearing them. I think that might feel nice for both of us.’
George wasn’t so sure. But it turned out that Florence was right.
The third time that Florence and George got together for a carnal encounter Florence brought along a pair of her open-crotch knickers for George to wear. Funnily enough, George quite enjoyed the feeling. Or was it that he just enjoyed the thought of doing something a bit different, a bit naughty?
When they had finished that third encounter, Florence announced that that was that. That was the last time they would be doing it. It had been fun, but she was moving to Spain. ‘I think it is time that I wrote a novel,’ she said. ‘But I will leave you my knickers. You can use them when you masturbate. And perhaps think of me.’
‘Thank you,’ George said. ‘I think.’
George did sometimes use them when he masturbated. And they did feel good. He even went out and bought another pair. He told the girl in the shop that he was buying them for his girlfriend.
‘But you will enjoy them too,’ the girl said.
Had she rumbled him?
‘Looking at your girlfriend when she wears them,’ the girl explained.
‘Oh. Yes,’ George said. ‘Yes.’
And then George met Muriel, and his mini knickers collection was tucked away – well, hidden really – in a spot at the back of his desk drawer.
‘Tell me,’ George said, one night when he and Muriel mamak escort were lying in bed discussing fetishes, ‘how do you feel about men wearing women’s knickers?’
‘I think it’s weird,’ Muriel said. And she nodded. ‘Weird.’
And that seemed to be the answer to that question.
But it wasn’t the end for George. And, one day after the honeymoon period, when George was working from home, he took a pair of Muriel’s knickers and reminded himself of the feeling of silky-soft fabric on his stiff cock. And, later that night, he again tried to bring up the question of men wearing women’s knickers. But it just didn’t seem to be on Muriel’s list.
A couple of days later, in preparation for a mid-afternoon masturbation session, George went to the secret hiding place at the back of his desk drawer, and discovered that two pairs of the knickers had vanished. His first thought was that they must have fallen down the back. But no. And then, a few days later, Muriel was wearing one of the pairs. Or maybe she had more than one pair of the same design and colour. George couldn’t be sure.
Muriel didn’t mention anything but, the next day, as they undressed for bed, George noticed that Muriel was wearing the knickers that he had bought from the girl at Knicker-Locker. He was going to say something, but he thought he would let Muriel have the first word. However, she didn’t say anything.
For the best part of a week, George wondered what to do. Then he hit upon a plan. He went out to Knicker-Locker and bought the sexiest pair of knickers that he could find. And then he went next door to the card shop and purchased a gift card.
‘Happy Knickers Day,’ he wrote on the card. And he placed the new knickers and the card at the back of his desk drawer.
The following day, George had to go up to Edinburgh. ‘I won’t be back until tomorrow,’ he told Muriel.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Just make sure that you remember to have something sensible to eat. Half a bottle of whisky and a spoonful of haggis does not a supper make.’
When George returned the following evening, Muriel suggested that they go out for a bite. ‘We have things we need to discuss,’ she said. And she seemed concerned.
George felt his stomach perform a small backflip.
‘Dereck wants me to takeover the North London office,’ Muriel said, after they had placed their food order and taken their first sips of wine. ‘It would mean more money. Quite a bit more money, as a matter of fact. But it would add at least an hour to my travel time. I probably wouldn’t get home until seven at the earliest. What do you think?’
George thought that they could work around that. ‘A promotion’s a promotion,’ he said. ‘It would be silly not to take it.’
Later, when they had undressed for bed, Muriel reached under one of the pillows and produced the knickers that George had bought from Knicker-Locker. ‘It seems that today is Knickers Day,’ she said, looking at the gift card. ‘But there’s only one pair. I’m not sure which of us is supposed to wear them.’
‘Perhaps we could take turns,’ George suggested.
Muriel nodded. ‘Sounds fair,’ she said. ‘Yes. Turns sounds very fair. Would you, perhaps, like to have the first turn?’