Author's note
This story was inspired by Mary Granger, a Literotica author who began a correspondence with me about our stories. I have no idea who she really is, but I imagined that she was an Englishwoman in her late 40s or early 50s living a conventional village or suburban life. The way she wrote, both in her stories and in her messages, made me wonder what would happen if she proposed that I visit. Would I take the risk? Would I want her to enact a fantasy with me even if I could ensure that it never leaked into my real life? I suspect that the answer would be no, but the thrill of the possibility still tantalises.
*****
A fantasy too far
Between the rain spotting the windscreen and the steam from my Thermos it was impossible to see the station platform anymore. I checked the clock again.
"Six minutes away," I said to the empty car.
I drank the tea and opened the door to flick the Thermos lid. It wasn't too bad, the rain. More spit than drizzle. I mounted the steps to the deserted platform. The rails hissed their warning of a train's approach and I checked the buttons of my raincoat. I had no idea what to expect from the man coming to visit us but I felt that it would be better to dress up a little for him if he turned out to be right for our outlandish fantasy.
I could scarcely believe it was happening till the train doors opened and three men stepped out. Please don't let it be the beardo with the fleece gilet, I thought. Nor the tracksuit boy with the earring and Burberry cap. The man in the tweed jacket and open-collared white shirt met my eye. I smiled in greeting, a show of composure over my thrill and relief.
He stopped, slightly too far away for a handshake, readying himself to talk. This was my moment to establish our roles from the off.
I placed my hands firmly on his cheeks and stopped his mouth with a kiss. "I'm Mary," I said, offering a warmer smile as I looked up at him. "Miriam is expecting us at my house. We mustn't keep her waiting."
Miriam and I had joked that she should be the bad cop in our encounter with our guest but the idea persisted beyond the laughter. If this was going to work then we would need strategies to control him.
I walked ahead of him down the roughened concrete slope to the car park, offering pleasantries over my shoulder about him coming all this way and whether the Bank Holiday timetable had caused him too much bother. I gathered my first impressions. He was a nervous laugher, expensively educated, tall with thinning hair but well-defined cheekbones and lively eyes. I could only guess what was he making of me.
I held his door for him and helped him with his safety belt as if he might not know how to do it. We had agreed, Miriam and I, that we should mark our territory in his personal space.
I unbuttoned my coat as I strode back to the driver's seat. The black sequin top really was too jazzy for this time of day but if it made him stare then that was all to the good.
He complimented me, slightly awkwardly, his eyes flickering briefly downwards.
"Here," I said. I ran my thumb along his lower lip where I had left behind a smudge of pale pink lip gloss. I showed him my thumb by way of explanation and started the engine.
You know, he was saying, he'd never done this kind of thing before.
This kind of thing was wholly novel to us, too, though I didn't want him to know it. For all he knew, Miriam and I might regularly have made contact with men on erotic fiction websites and invited them to visit us for tea and a writerly chat. We had exchanged emails for months, complimenting one another's fantastical ideas. His published stories all had men's submission as a common thread, which he described as an exploration of male sexual guilt. His characters were often frightened of society's assumption that they should initiate and lead sex, preferring instead to be meek and passive.
He wrote of their encounters with women who contrived to dominate them, willfully or accidentally rendering the men helpless before taking advantage.
We admired the ideas behind the contrivances, especially the control the women were able to exert through taboo. Our own stories reveled in powerful women as they coaxed inexperienced characters to admit their arousal at forbidden thoughts.
It occurred to Miriam first: wasn't our correspondent like one of our characters? A man harbouring sexual fantasies that he dared not live out? An author who would be helpless with desire when told that he was expected to fulfil them?
For our part, we never let our stories intrude into real life, but the chance to meet this would-be plaything would at least help us write better characters.
I could see as I drove that he was judging when he might sneak another glance at my neckline. My pulse quickened at the thought that we really might reel him in.
I began laying the groundwork for obliging him, as Miriam had termed it. We should be such gracious hosts that he would be duty bound to avoid rudeness at all costs, even if that meant abiding by rules that put his dignity at our mercy.
I told him of the lunch we had lovingly prepared, the bottles we had brought up from the cellar, cakes sought from far flung villages and tea ordered from Fortnum's.
"Do you like fancy dress?" I asked, continuing without waiting for an answer. "Don't worry, not at lunch, but I thought we could do something special for high tea. We have divine costumes for all of us, no expense spared."
I pulled sharply off the narrow road onto the driveway, the gravel crackling beneath us and announcing our arrival with a sharp crunch.
I heaved a breath and unbuckled his safety belt. "I do hope Miriam likes you," I said, adjusting his jacket collar. "Let's see what mood she's in."
A retired air hostess, Miriam was still able to summon a calm authority when needed, though it fitted ill with her usually gentle demeanour. She was in full British Airways mode for our guest, though. "You'd better come in," she said. "Shoes off please. We offer our guests slippers."
She indicated a pair of fluffy turquoise ones. "I'm afraid that's the only large pair we have."
We glanced at one another as he responded without hesitation.
Despite her haughtiness, Miriam warmed to him over lunch, brushing off his protests over refilling his wine glass. We chatted about our writing, what we liked about each other's stories and what ideas we had for new adventures.
He had done his homework, spoiling our idea that we might admonish him for not being familiar with our fiction. But his knowledge of our fantasies could help with our narrative that he must have known what he was getting into when he accepted our invitation.
"You've told him about dressing for high tea?" she asked me.
"Yes," I replied in a deferential tone.
"It will take some time to get ready - especially you," she stared at our guest. "Mary, perhaps you can assist?"
I agreed and guided him by the elbow to the bedroom we had set aside for him to dress. This was the moment of truth.
When he saw the 1950s tea dress laid out in the bed he reddened and stammered, trying and abandoning attempts to back out politely. I stood behind him in the doorway. "We do so hope you like it," I interrupted. "I told Miriam not to spend too much but when we saw this we knew it was just perfect."
He took a step towards it. My heart leapt. He stared at the other garments: the opaque white stockings and matching suspender belt, the white satin knickers with a pink bow, the ribboned bonnet. The dress itself was pale pink with large white polka dots and a sewn-in organza petticoat.
He apologised, hesitant at first, then more clearly as he regained some of his composure.
"Don't be sorry," I said sweetly. "Come here."
I sat on the bed and patted the spot next to me. I put my arm around him and placed his head on my shoulder, stroking his hair as he looked down at my chest.
"Here's what we're going to do. I'll give you some privacy for ten minutes and then if you need some help with the finishing touches then I'll come in and make sure you're as good as you can be. Okay?"
I lifted his head and kissed him tenderly on the lips. "I'll be back just after four o' clock."
Miriam was outside as I closed the door. She raised her eyebrows and hands to ask if he'd taken the bait. I shrugged and grimaced. He was on a knife edge.
I looked as best I could through the keyhole but could only see that he was still by the bed, hesitant. I joined Miriam on the landing.
A matter of minutes later he was out of the bedroom, still in his own clothes, heading past us down the stairs. He brushed rudely by me and even laid his hands on Miriam, moving her firmly aside.
He was sorry, he said. He had made a big mistake in coming. He realised that no matter how tempted, he did not want to enact his fantasies, let alone ours.
The front door closed firmly and his footsteps in the gravel receded.
Miriam swore. "Is that it?"
I exhaled through my nose. "Well, it's a long way to the station without a car, and it looks like rain again. What time was the last train?"
"Four forty-five to London. He won't make it. They're closing the line for engineering works after that. I think there are replacement buses, though."
"He might not know that. There were no signs at the station."
We discussed whether I might chase after him in the car but what would I say? No, Miriam said. Better to see if he came back.
As we cleared away the lunch things we wondered whether we should have tried something less elaborate.
Our original plan had just been to read him some of our stories and see if he showed any signs of arousal, then repeat the parts he liked with a reenactment. Miriam would have been happy to have seated him on the sofa and tempted him with views of her knickers while I ran my hand up his thigh. We were ruminating over the lost opportunity when we both started at the sound of the door knocker.
We looked at one another, hardly daring to hope. I stood by the door, listening to the rain drum on the porch roof.
"Who is it?" I asked without opening.
