Chapter One

 

"If you have to do that, do it in your room with the door locked." That's what Isobel's mum had told her when she was fourteen. Some of her friends called it flapping. But Isobel had only flapped a few times. She didn't feel the need.

Isobel tossed her car keys into the basket on the table in the hall. She dumped her laptop in its case in front of the table. A few steps and she was in the bathroom. The door of the cabinet squeaked as Isobel opened it and reached for the tube. She could hear the scrunching noise made by her heels on the carpet as she walked into the living room. A couple more steps and she was at the window. Isobel yanked the chord and the window blinds tinkled as they vibrated. Tilting them at a downward angle, Isobel could see he was still there.

Without shifting her gaze, her nimble fingers located the waistband of her skirt and she rotated it until she could feel the button was at the front. Still holding the waistband with one hand, she pulled back the material of the buttonhole with one finger and pushed it through with her thumb, on the opposite hand. Locating the handle of the zip, she tugged gently and heard its quick song of descent.

Without averting her eyes, Isobel yanked the skirt down, and elegantly bent her knees. Feeing it was low enough, and now holding the skirt hem in her left hand, she lifted one foot and quickly stepped out of the skirt, followed by the other. The skirt went over the back of a nearby chair. Both thumbs went under the waistband of her tights and pushing downwards, still looking at him, she felt the top of her knickers. There was a quiet swishing noise as fingers and thumbs ran along the top of her tights and knickers, moved to each hip, and gently pulled the material away from her flesh. She felt the light tickle of her knickers crossing her buttocks as she pulled them down to her mid-thigh, and she was free.

With her eyes still transfixed, Isobel picked up the tube of lubricating jelly, the metal stealing heat from her fingers. Holding it in the palm of her left hand she used the finger and thumb of the same hand to hurriedly unscrew the plastic top. It fell off and bounced on the windowsill. The cupped fingers of her right hand caught the large blob of gel which spluttered out of the tube.

The tube was carelessly tossed onto the windowsill and Isobel felt the coolness of the gel as she spread it across the lips of her waiting vagina. A faint, indescribable, womanly scent arose from her down there as she began to smear the gel across her swollen fadge. Bending her knees slightly, Isobel slid the whole of her right palm backwards and forwards in a rocking motion. She soon felt the tension begin to rise. Resting her left hand on the crack of her bum, she reached forwards with her fingers, found the bottom of her wet, sticky fadge, and began to work it from that direction too. She began to slowly moan as she rubbed. Gel from her vagina had worked its way onto her left palm. Turning her left hand to vary the angle made her thumb rub across her anus. Now the smell of woman was tinged with an earthy, sweaty smell from her button and bum-crack.

She felt it rising and began to rub and slide with the fingers and palms of both hands. Isobel tilted her head back as waves of pleasure flooded her tummy and she let out gasps and moans as she wiggled her hips to the music. The afterglow reverberated in her clitoris and tummy, as her fingers buried themselves in her squishy mess.

After about thirty seconds, Isobel straightened up and moved her sticky hands from between her legs. The stickiness clung to her fingers and palms.

'If someone told you about a man stood at the window, masturbating over a woman he was ogling, what would you think Isobel?'

'That he's a creepy pervert? Right?'

'What does that make you then?'

Drying her hands after washing them, still with her tights and knickers down, 'What would Dad think?' surfaced. Looking at herself in the bathroom mirror, lost in thought, Isobel got her answer.

"What on earth are you doing, Isobel!?"

Isobel gasped. Caught with sticky fingers, and grossly embarrassed, she quickly tugged up her tights and knickers.

"I never thought I'd see this day. You're forty-eight years old, and a respectable headmistress. And here you are ... well ... doing something, which, if it must be done, should be done in your room, with the door locked. But you're stood in front of the window, doing it like a council estate slut."

Her next thought made Isobel's cheeks redden and her throat tighten. "Bring the leather tawse, Isobel. I'm going to instruct you on what constitutes acceptable behaviour in this family. And as old as you are, it will be on your bare behind. Fetch the tawse, now!"

Solidity disappeared as Isobel began falling into an abyss of shame. She'd always been quite well behaved. The worst punishment she'd ever had was a spanking over her knickers, from dad, when she was thirteen.

***

Sweet birdsongs and woodland sounds echoed in Isobel's head. She rubbed her eyes and glanced at her mobile, as she turned the alarm off. Saturday, 13 March, 2010, 08:00 said the display. Lying on her back, Isobel imagined walking through the local park enjoying the daffodils and crocuses. Her lips drew sideways into a smile, and she felt a warm glow inside. Images of enjoying walks in the park with James, in Spring, danced across Isobel's stream of consciousness, like butterflies. It was four-years now. He'd succumbed to cancer in early summer 2006. After indulging in pleasant memories for a few minutes, Isobel got out of bed and got ready for the day.

The croissant seemed to melt in her mouth. The strawberry jam tasted delightful, and the coffee smelled gorgeous and tasted deep and smooth. Isobel was humming along to some Scottish Country Music playing on the CD player as she relaxed over breakfast. 'Clang.' The sound jarred against the peaceful overtones in Isobel's mind, as she accidentally dropped her teaspoon. Then it started. Tension, deep in her tummy. A plea which wanted to be heard. Isobel sighed.

She deliberately brought her mind back to the music. 'I can't wait to get my tartan skirt and white blouse on and get on the dancefloor with my friends. Tonight, should be a good event.' Isobel smiled as she imagined expressing herself through her body. She'd learned to do this as a child, in her Scottish homeland and was an accomplished dancer. But it was more than fun. This was an essential element in Isobel's culture. It was an expression of who she really was. Dancing helped Isobel to work through her grief as well. 'It's an expression of life,' she thought. 'And like grief, it's a process that takes you somewhere.'

The other dance, the Tango of sexual tension, had been making its claims since around last Christmas. Isobel had done her best to ignore it. Being the kind of strong-minded woman she was, Isobel coped by throwing herself into her work. She felt that she'd come to a place in her grieving process when she'd begun to feel something of the freedom of being an independent woman again. It was time to move on. 'I'll meet somebody when the time is right,' was her approach.

Going onto the balcony, the sun warmed Isobel's face. She put on jeans, a jumper and training shoes. Zipping up her Spring jacket, Isobel put her buff around her neck. She deliberately didn't go to the park but drove to a nearby reservoir for her walk.

As she set off, Isobel pulled her collar up. A coolish wind blew across the reservoir. The wind, rippling on the water, the fratching ducks and geese, and the struggle of the sun and the cool wind combined to bring Isobel a sense of the majesty of Nature. It wasn't long before Isobel was reminded that she is a part of Nature. The brakes were on in her inner being. 'I want to move ahead, slowly and in a controlled manner. But ...' The drake flew over her head quacking and skimmed to a halt on the water, behind a duck. There was a lot of quacking as the duck tried to avoid the drake. But it was not to be. The drake mounted the duck from behind and with loud noises and a lot of splashing, the duck mated. It was all over quickly. The drake got off. The duck shook herself, dipped under the water for a quick clean and then continued as if nothing had happened. The drake swam away quacking and began squabbling with another drake.

Memories of life with James suddenly surfaced. Watching period costume dramas, discussing books. They were both career teachers and had long ago decided not to have children. James shared Isobel's feminist world view. Neither of them placed a high priority on sex. It was something they both enjoyed, perhaps a couple of times per month but it was very vanilla.

Isobel felt warm, as she remembered how sometimes, James would put her in the bath and dry her before making love. She liked that! She liked that he didn't make any demands of her in terms of how she dressed, even for bed. Luckily for him, she was a skirts, blouses, dresses, tights, and heels girl. That suited James. But he took sex as it came, which often resulted in gentle lovemaking with him on top. 'Sex is like butterflies dancing together,' she thought. 'It's like the icing on the emotional cake. A loving, gentle, climax to compliment all the real stuff of love. That's normal, civilised sex.'

She remembered her teenage years. Her parents taught her that masturbation was a last resort if you really couldn't cope. A concession for the weak to stop you doing something worse. But she'd rarely felt the need, either as a teenager or before marrying James. Her sex drive wasn't that strong, or so she thought. Reading romances and watching period costume dramas and longing for emotional contentment, with sex as the pleasant dessert, was what Isobel looked forward to.

The noisy antics of another drake skimming across the water as it landed near a duck, and the quacking and splashing dance which followed, registered strongly in Isobel's mind. It stirred up that ache again. It was deep down, in her tummy. It had been dormant but was waking up. It was the brake preventing Isobel driving ahead, business as usual, in her view of relationships and sex.

Isobel sighed. "What the heck is going on?" Recently, she'd been getting aches in parts of her body which had previously thrilled to James' butterfly-like touches. She also knew there wasn't a butterfly alive that could do more than tickle those aches.

The following Saturday, 20 March, Isobel was buzzing. It had been a great afternoon of dancing. Morag had complimented her on how lovely she looked. Isobel wore her Campbell tartan skirt, complimentary jacket, white, lacy blouse, black tights, and black ballerina style shoes. And Sheila and Bob had said, "Wow, Isobel. There was no stopping you today. You were an inspiration."

Isobel drove into the car park complex outside her flat. "Argh!" 'A visitor's in my space, again. Okay Isobel, don't let it get to you.'

Isobel drove the car to where there were some public parking spaces opposite the flat-complex to the left of hers. She parked the car, grabbed her shoulder bag, got out and began to walk towards her flat. Isobel noticed a souped-up car in one of the parking spaces and somebody was working under the bonnet. She walked past what was clearly a young man without paying any attention.

As she passed, he said, "Nice legs, Babe. I'd jig with you anytime."

The heat rose in Isobel's face. 'You cheeky young man. I should tell you off, but I won't. You might say something worse.' She continued walking and totally ignored him.

The following Friday evening, Isobel had a school, social event to go to. It was still light when she left her flat. As she walked to her car, dressed in a navy-blue, knee-length dress, mid-tan tights and four-inch heels, Isobel saw that he was tinkering with his car again. Although he was a little distance away, Isobel knew that he'd seen her, and she could almost sense his eyes looking her up and down.

"Hey Babe. You look gorgeous," he shouted.

Isobel felt the heat in her cheeks and a sense of embarrassment, but for some reason she couldn't resist looking at him. 'Mid-twenties, Mediterranean complexion, dark, curly hair, around five-feet-ten,' was her hurried impression, before looking away again. 'But why do I care what he looks like?' A contradictory shiver of anticipation passed through her whole body. Then Isobel put him out of her mind and headed for the school social.

Easter holiday weekend arrived. On the Saturday, Isobel was going dancing again and went out to her car in her dancing clothes. It was a warm, Spring, day. The trees were in full blossom. It was just the kind of day which fed into Isobel's romantic nature. She got into her car but when she turned the key, nothing happened. 'What?' she thought and tried again. Nothing. Isobel put her hand on her forehead, said "Ahhrg," and got out of the car, feeling frustrated. Just at that moment, the Mechanic drove into the car park. He'd seen what had happened and pulled up beside Isobel's car.

"Won't start?" he asked.

Isobel wasn't in the mood for deterring him, and he seemed to want to help. "Yes, I turned the key, and nothing happened."

"Release the bonnet catch for me then and I'll take a look," he said with a cheeky grin.

Isobel felt embarrassed. "Er, I don't know where it is."

"Let me show you," he answered kindly. He opened the door, scanned the controls, and then found it in the footwell, next to the door. "Look, it's here. Then you know for next time." He propped the bonnet open and began looking at the engine. "Aha," he said, as Isobel watched him do something with an electrical lead which had a rubber cover. Then he took the top off the engine oil filler.

"Got a rag, Babe?"

"Er, no, I'm sorry I haven't."

"No worries, I'll get mine." He got a piece of cloth out of his car, checked the oil level, dipped his finger deep into the engine and brought it out, covered in oil. "Yuck," he said and then wiped his finger on the white rag. He showed Isobel the residue. "You see these black bits? That's contamination in the oil. This oil is long overdue for changing and your engine won't be running efficiently. By the look of your oil and air filter, they've not been changed for a couple of years. Same problem. This car needs to be serviced, and soon." Isobel stood there with her hands folded in front of her as she listened to him. "Hop in and start the engine." Isobel got in, turned the key and the engine started. "One of the electrical leads had come unplugged. That's why it wouldn't start. But you really need to get the car serviced because you'll soon have other problems. I'm the manager of Brett's Tyres and Exhausts on the industrial estate. We service cars and do MoT tests too. I'll gladly service your car and give you a decent price." Glenn was talking to Isobel through her open window.

"I'll have to think about it," she said, "but I have to go now."

She pushed the button to wind the window up, Glenn stepped back, and Isobel drove off. 'That was a bit rude Isobel,' she thought as she waited at the first set of traffic lights. 'Maybe, but I need to be firm with him. Don't want him getting the wrong idea.' Isobel soon forgot about the incident and had an exciting time dancing.

A few days later, after thinking about it, Isobel bumped into Glenn. She was getting out of her car, and he'd just pulled up in his. It was a lovely, Spring evening and Glenn had just arrived from work.

"Oh hello, there. Glad I bumped into you. I'd like to take you up on your offer to service my car if that's okay."

"Sure. When can I have it?" he said with a grin.

The double-entendre was not lost on Isobel, but she was determined not to be constantly on the back foot. So, ignoring his cheek, she said, "I'm on holiday from school, so I'm pretty flexible." 'Drat! Why did I tell him what I do?' she thought, regretfully.

"You know where we are?"

"Yes, next to McDonald's on the estate."

"That's right. Half-eight, tomorrow morning would be good."

Isobel was about to say, "That's a bit early," but she thought better of it. There was just something about the assertive way he'd said it and the way he was stood.

"Yes, I'll be there."

"Half-eight then, and don't be late." Glenn smiled, turned, and walked off.

Isobel felt her tummy jump at his last comment and her face flushed a little.

She did take her car for a service the next day. Isobel was impressed, that although he was the manager, Glenn oversaw the servicing of her car. As she sat in the waiting room, reading magazines, and sipping her coffee, she couldn't help stealing glances at him through the window into the workshop. She noticed all the laughing and joking that was going on between Glenn and his three mechanics. 'They seem to respect him.'

After about ninety-minutes, Glenn put his head around the waiting room door. Looking at Isobel, he said, "All done. Come on, let's take it for a spin. You'll see how different it feels."

Isobel felt a strange tingling sensation pass through her whole body, from head to foot, at this unexpected request. Objecting wasn't an option, and Glenn told Isobel she was driving. He told her to take it for a spin down the ring road so she could get into fifth gear. As Isobel changed up the gears, she was pleased with how smooth it all felt. And the steering felt more responsive than normal.

"Feels good, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does," replied Isobel, as she looked at Glenn momentarily. She was aware that he'd been looking at her legs in her skirt as she was driving. "You've done a fantastic job," she said appreciatively, at the same time as being aware that she was showing her thigh, each time she changed gear. For the rest of the short journey, Isobel felt as if her thighs were crying out for his eyes to fall on them. She was shocked that she could think such a thing.

She didn't see Glenn again until the following weekend. He passed her slowly in his car as she walked across the car park to her flat. The sound of his car engine sounded so smooth to Isobel. 'It's almost purring. That's impressive.'

"Still happy with the work I did?" he asked after winding his window down.

"Yes, I am. It almost feels like new."

"That's how it should be." Then he smiled. "It's Isobel, isn't it?"

"Yes. I guess you saw my name on the car documents?"

"Cor-rect! I'm Glenn. Nice we know each other's names, now. Have a nice weekend, Isobel." Glenn wound his window up part way, but before he drove his car into the parking space, he spoke again. "I live at number 17, in that block," he said, motioning with his head.

"I know."

"That's a good start. So, Isobel, when you need servicing, you know where I am," said Glenn, with a laugh.

"You're being cheeky now, Glenn," said Isobel, crossly.

He just laughed at her. "Yes, that's me. Cheeky. But it serves me well. I tell women the truth and they don't know whether to laugh or be angry. Just like you, now. But we both know you'll be round to see me." Glenn smiled as he wound his window up and parked his car.

Isobel walked off, trying to seem haughty, but inwardly, she was crumbling.