1. He Looked Familiar


    Date: 10/16/2015, Categories: Mature, Author: marlowe, Rating: 5, Source: LushStories

    objection....Mrs Morton....I’ll get started on the survey.” Draining the wine from her glass and giving his hand a gentle squeeze she spoke with the confidence and refinement of a TV newsreader. “I can see I’m in good hands,” she said, in a soft melodious voice, playing absently with a silver pendant nestling in her cleavage. “Please call me Brenda. And you must let me know if I can hold something for you.” A door from the kitchen led into a delightful landscaped garden at the rear of the house. “Cigarette,” she offered, interrupting his inspection of the drainage system, the brief interlude for a smoke giving him time to admire the beautiful arrangement of shrubs bordering a manicured lawn and a cluster of mature trees at the bottom of the garden. “I’m afraid some of the shrubs will have to go,” he sighed, stretching a tape measure across the ground and pointing a finger at the proposed building line. “That’s ok,” she said, casually lifting her shoulders, pulling on her cigarette and fiddling with the buttons on her blouse, an impossible cleavage bubbling between two mountainous breasts, her smile mischievous and her voice laden with flirtatious innuendo. “There’s a particular bush that needs some special care and attention,” she smiled, dropping her cigarette into a drain and walking back into the house. A clipboard and a pen in one hand and his tape measure in the other, Brenda following quickly on his heels like a bothersome fly, a glass of wine in one hand and a ...
    cigarette in the other, her life story unfolding in his wake. Stepping from the living-room and into a brightly lit entrance hall, a framed photograph of a man and woman on a small table next to an imposing grandfather clock caught his eye. There was no mistaking Brenda in the photograph. He presumed the man must have been her husband. ‘He looked familiar,’ he thought, pausing to study the photograph, scanning his memory files for familiar faces, trying to remember where he had seen him. “I’ve got all the information I need,” he confirmed, glancing at his watch and picking up his jacket and survey notes from the table. “If there’s nothing more I’ll....” “There is,” she interrupted, a persuasive hand guiding him back into the living-room. “I can’t let you go without giving you something to eat,” she smiled, pointing a finger at a plate of sandwiches and a bottle of Pinot Grigio waiting on a coffee table. “Come and sit down,” she invited, patting a hand on the sofa, smiling into his eyes and pouring wine into glasses. “Cheers,” she toasted, raising her glass and handing him a cigarette. “Let’s not talk business,” she smiled, lighting her cigarette and picking a photograph album from the floor, shuffling up close on the sofa and resting her hand on his thigh. “Okay,” he answered, biting into a sandwich, mindful that she had no intention of removing her hand from his thigh, the intimacy and familiarity a little unexpected, the persuasion of movement meaningful and deliberate, letting him ...
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