She was a generously built woman with one of those softly plump bodies which is all curves without the bulges and creases which someone who is merely fat has. Generous, as I said, with breasts that sagged only a little and then only in the most appealing of ways, that is to say the nipples remained pointing outwards and forwards in the way men are programmed from birth to think is perfect. Nature and nurture and all that! Generous and more than that, she was also most disturbingly hairy.

We met through a friend of a friend, or even and friend of a friend of a friend if you like. I’m an advisor to people who own old houses, freelance, self employed and my own man all of the time. She began as a client with a worrying dampness problem in a house dating back to fourteen something and ended up being my sometime mentor, my muse and the love of my life.

The damp problem was easily remedied; two days work for a specialist I recommended and another day and a half for a painter. We have the technology, as they say, as well as the knowhow and the contacts. What was not so easily remedied however was the lady’s overall dissatisfaction. No, not with the work that was done – don’t get me wrong, she found no fault with that. Quite simply she was dissatisfied with her sex life.

Or rather the lack of one, as it turned out, which surprised me to say the least. I mean she might have been in her late forties but she wasn’t bad looking……but let me tell you a little more about the damp problem first because it is relevant to the story.

Most of the problem was around a huge old chimney stack and I presumed the cause would be the ingress of rainwater where the stack came up through the roof. A lack of maintenance, frost damage, all the usual things. Those were my thoughts initially and remained so while the Dear Lady led me, via many diverse stairways and corridors, onto the fantastic roofscape of her house.

As I’ve said, most of the house itself dated back to the reign of Edward IV with of course all the usual additions, subtractions and alterations a house of that size and age suffers. Time had not been kind to it neither had a succession of owners been sympathetic, at least not until the ancestors of my client obtained ownership of the estate in the eighteenth century. To say the structure was a hotch-potch would be putting it mildly, it was so much a mixture of styles and types of construction as to be an architects worst nightmare and a roofers paradise. A least a roofer who was the tiniest bit dishonest.

“Those bastards I got out of Yellow Pages ripped me off for five grand!” she’d told me succinctly, part way through our initial discussion. They’d stolen lead apparently and in the process caused more damage than they’d supposed to have cured. Happily for the Dear Lady there was a court case pending. You’ve probably read about it in all the papers so you’ll know who I mean and, as with most things it’s who you know, not what you know, isn’t it?

So had she been wary of me right from the start I could have understood it; the fact is, she wasn’t. The fact is she was just the opposite. She told me why soon enough too; a few moments after we first got into bed together.

“I could tell you were a man I could trust!” she told me “by the way you looked around appreciatively and didn’t seem to mind the mess or try to bamboozle me……”

It began there and then really, that afternoon after I’d listened to her rambles and anecdotes, made a fuss of her King Charles spaniel and drunk vast quantities of her tea. It began then and there, with her arm brushing mine when she poured my tea, with her hair trailing across the pages of the album of pictures she showed me, as I listened to her unravelling and relating the history of that old house. Yes it began at that table in the kitchen with several cats asleep on one end of the AGA and a huge black handled kettle simmering away on the other. I was at a loose end and so was she. As loose as hell, both of us, a situation we didn’t tell each other about though until much later.

………………

There was a huge old four poster in her bedroom. A dark and ponderous, heavily carved oak edifice, you know the kind of thing, about eight feet square and at least ten high standing solidly in the centre of a gloomy, dark panelled bedroom as if it had been there five hundred years. It probably had I thought, if the amount of dust in on and under it was anything to go by.

The room itself was somewhat larger than the average detached house being built today and, bed aside, a fair sized oak forest had gone some way towards creating it. The panelling alone had probably seen the demise of several dozen mature trees and that was before you considered any of the room’s other furnishings.

“A silly man from Phillips once told me I ought to sell some of this stuff” the Dear Lady told me “I laughed at him, told him I knew what it was worth and anyway I didn’t need the money……”

I didn’t ask what the man from the auction house had been doing in her bedroom. I knew she’d tell me eventually.

“It’d be nice if you lit the fire……” she suggested.

“Alright……”

Well the fireplace was about half a mile away from where I stood but I strode over to it anyway, to that yawning space about the size of a modern living room. An iron gated device held in check those parts of the forest that hadn’t been used to panel the room. A further mountain of split timber was stacked neatly to one side.

“There are matches in the trunk……and some firelighters” she called out.

“Okay……”

The trunk she mentioned was one of those you’d only ever see in a museum, an oak and iron monster probably weighing about half a ton. That was the impression I got anyway when I heaved open the lid and peered inside expectantly.

“Alright?” she called, some distance away.

“Yeah!” I replied.

There were several boxes of matches and about two dozen packs of firelighters in that trunk. Along with assorted candlesticks, a hatchet, some odds and ends of what I took to be curtain material, a single leather boot and a million other pieces of junk. Had the bones of a prehistoric man lain untouched in the bottom I would not have been surprised; as it was, with a couple of mixed hands full of the stuff I got a blaze going in record time.

“I love a good fire in my room!” she said gaily, sweeping across an acre of faded Aubusson in pink furry slippers and a violent mauve housecoat.

I had to move back a bit then, away from the fireplace which was already becoming rather too hot.

“Dennis used to love this room!” she told me suddenly “He said its ambiance was exactly right to make love in……”

“Dennis?” I asked, not missing the hint.

“Dennis, my late husband” she said.

“Oh yes…..?”

“Mmmmm!” she looked at me boldly.

“He used to fuck me a lot in front of the fire…...”

“That’s……very romantic” I was going to say but didn’t. Instead I watched as she stepped out of her mules and with an easy movement untied the cord of that horrible housecoat.

I suppose it was ‘very romantic’ in a strange sort of way, me kneeling on the hearthrug like a penitent at some mad mistresses feet. The fire burned hot on my back as I looked up at her and that was when I saw she was very hairy. So hairy in fact that I thought at first she was actually wearing black knickers.

“Nobody has fucked me in here for ages” she informed me quietly.

I don’t recall her taking the housecoat off completely though she must have done at some point I suppose. At least she didn’t have it on, have anything on in fact, when she got down beside me.

“It’s a good fire, isn’t it? she said.

“It is!” I agreed “Hot an’ all……”

She laughed at this.
………………

She is a titled Lady you know, related to royalty distantly. Somewhere about there is a family tree which shows it. The Marquis of this and the Countess of that, married to someone else’s second cousin who in turn was the brother of……all very incestuous as you’d expect, women married into each others families for the sake of status and money.

A titled lady with a ravenous, very nearly insatiable appetite who snorted when I asked if I should address her as “My Lady”

She groaned and shivered when, like an excited schoolboy I explored her jungle

“There are plenty who do but that’s their problem!” she groaned as, like an excited schoolboy I explored her jungle. “No, if you have to call me anything you can call me May”

So May it was from then on. May when I screwed her on the roof of the west turret in the pouring rain and May when she allowed me to lick her lightly on the servants back stairs. It was May, upon whose delicious bottom the flames of the fire reflected brightly and May when that four poster creaked and groaned monstrously to our own steady rhythm and May when, likewise, the refectory table did the same.

“Charles the first dined at this table!” she told me, her feet planted firmly on opposite sides of it and for a moment I almost saw him sitting there with his dinner on a grey pewter plate. She had a thick circle or hair around each nipple, as much fur as a small rabbit under each arm and whatever it was poor Charles the first might have eaten when he’d been sitting there, nothing could have tasted as good as May’s densely jungled fanny, nor anything like as sweet.

I got used to the purple housecoat and the pink furry slippers. I had no say in the matter for she wore it all the time. When she wasn’t starkers that is. A titled Lady with no hang-ups whatsoever and no taboo areas either. Her body was voluptuous and she knew it and, unreservedly she gave it to me.

“Call me May!” she said and I do, now and always but you know, that very first time, in front of the fire in that vast bedroom, no matter what, she will always be “My Lady” to me.



© Aahlu.01.06.10.

Damp Patches

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