An antiques fair, that popular mainstay of English weekends, held at venues across the country ranging from opulent stately homes to tatty village halls. Where stallholders display their treasures and genteel haggling ensues, albeit many of the goods aren't yet over 100 years old and consequently not genuine antiques. In Harry's opinion, much of what's on sale is fit only for car boot sales or skips. Despite this, such pop-up markets are a happy hunting ground for the analogue wind-up watches he seeks.
As Harry makes an initial reconnoitre, careful not to show untoward interest - doesn't want sellers putting up prices, he repeatedly glimpses a shapely female in his peripheral vision. On a subsequent circuit, she's frequently one step in front or one step behind him. Harry discreetly makes a closer assessment of the lady, who is wearing a fitted 1940s coat over a retro blouse and skirt, accessorised with a period-authentic hat, handbag, gloves and shoes, even her stockings have seams. No mere enthusiast, the femme fatale has opted for a full-on, post-war sartorial ensemble, French chic meets Hollywood starlet. Eventually, as both peruse the same stall, he speaks up to admire her outfit and suggests they adjourn for coffee, an invitation the mystery woman readily accepts. The country house hosting the sale has a cafe and they're soon ensconced in a corner, americano for him, cappuccino for her and both eating lemon drizzle cake, its consumption apparently compulsory on Sunday afternoons throughout the UK.
"So, what would you like to know about me?" Sat opposite him at a low table, his hitherto mysterious companion quizzically raises an eyebrow and crosses her legs with a deliciously suggestive swish of nylon.
"As much as you care to reveal," replies Harry, already fascinated.
In a Scottish-tinged accent, Julie - they're already on first-name terms - explains she's attending the event to purchase vintage apparel for an increasingly lucrative online side hustle, whereas her husband's hobby is classic cars. Increasingly living different lives of late, and bored by the other's interests, they've arrived at a compromise, separately attending car shows and collector's fairs and taking a hotel room if the event is far from home. An arrangement based not so much on trust as don't ask, don't tell...
Julie favours him with a dazzling smile. Her blonde hair is a little below chin length and Harry notices fine wrinkles around her eyes. Taking a bright red lipstick from her bag, puckering and pouting into a small compact mirror, she retouches her lips and applies mascara with a tiny brush. Make-up repaired to her satisfaction, Julie, a very model of self-possession, leans forward, puts a hand on his knee and enquires politely of Harry.
"Now, tell me all about yourself."
All, no chance. However, Harry does vouchsafe some carefully curated information: Collecting and repairing old-fashioned watches is a welcome respite from his high-powered, unspecified, day job. No, he is not currently in a relationship and, unlike her husband, does not - as Julie candidly reveals: "Own a bloody old Jaguar that gets serviced more often than I do these days, darling. What a waste, a woman my age is in her sexual prime."
"Duly noted," responds Harry, much amused, "although it doesn't fully explain why you were following me?" Significantly, Julie doesn't deny it.
"Initially, because of your clothes."
"They're not vintage?"
"No, but traditionally styled, good quality and cut, worn by someone who clearly considers how he dresses."
"I decided a while back that a man approaching - painful to admit - middle age, can't always wear jeans, hoodies and trainers."
"Well, whatever image you're trying to project, it certainly set my pulse racing." Julie lays her cards on the table. "Plus, if my intuition is correct, and it frequently is, you're a gentleman."
"And you a lady, hence the stylish outfit?"
"Sadly, for practical reasons, this nostalgic garb is for weekends only. I love the fabrics and adore the tailoring. Wearing them is akin to method acting and seems to subtly alter my personality. I become a different person and do things I'd never normally consider. This afternoon, for example. I saw you and suddenly wondered what it'd be like to be fucked by such a gorgeous man."
Julie cuts to the chase. "Hoped my seductive allure might prove sufficient to attract you and I could find out for myself."
"You think that's going to happen?" Harry attempts to play it cool, but inwardly can't believe his luck. Fucked not fuck - a telling, he suspects deliberate, choice of words.
"I'm absolutely, 100% sure it will. High time a classy guy took a sophisticated gal back to her hotel room."
Once there, without taking her eyes off Harry, Julie unhurriedly removes her coat, followed by gloves, scarf and hat; everything folded and placed in a neat pile. Sashays, the combination of high heels and sort carpet making her hips sway suggestively, towards him. Undoes her skirt and lets it fall to the floor. Twirls slowly to showcase a perfect, French knicker-covered bottom framed by stockings and suspenders.
"Classic underwear, too?" asks Harry.
"Alas not," Julie answers huskily, removing her blouse to reveal a flimsy silk chemise. Rising onto tiptoes, she kisses him hard, tongue darting between his lips, bosom pressed warmly against Harry's chest - nipples already erect as, predictably, is his manhood. Momentarily pausing their embrace, Harry slides Julie's blue silk panties down to the tops of her nylons. In response, she takes his hand and pushes it into the apex of her legs.
"You're wet," observes Harry, approvingly.
"Have been for the last hour, squeezing my thighs together in the cafe to contain my arousal." His finger slides easily between slick labia, thumb rotating on her clit making Julie groan with desire. "I need you inside me," she prompts, and Harry swiftly obliges, laying her on the bed, blue eyes shining, mouth provocatively open. Delighted by her enthusiasm, Harry discards his clothes, remembering that a gentleman always removes his socks first.
"We can do the fancy stuff later," Julie says forthrightly, "right now, missionary is fine." To neither's surprise, his cock enters her fully in a single thrust. "Oh...yes, so good! You feel so big in my pussy," she says. Eagerly encompassing his length, Julie tilts her pelvis to force Harry deeper. "Faster," she demands, and he increases the pace. Sensing an orgasm building Julie decides to embrace it, languid sex is lovely but sometimes a girl just wants to get off. She hears Harry groan then feels him come, her earlier question has been answered. Julie now knows what it's like to be fucked by this man. Sublime, and, if she has any influence in the matter this is only the start. Suffused with post-climactic pleasure, the pair plan a date for their subsequent encounter.
