On Demand

by Justine Elyot

  This position was quite new to Lynnie, who was used to doing it as quietly and quickly as possible in the upstairs bedrooms of family homes, but even the novelty of this paled beside Mr Gregg's next move.

  He pulled apart the cheeks of her bottom and plunged a thumb directly into her unsuspecting anus.

  Lynnie screamed and wiggled her hips furiously, desperate to dislodge him from his unwelcome excavations. 'What are you DOING?' she yelled, close to tears, when he didn't immediately desist.

  'Don't you like it, Lynnie? Lots of girls do.'

  'It's . . . ugh . . . it's WRONG! Stop it!'

  Mr Gregg sighed and popped his thumb out of the tight little hole. 'I'm disappointed in you. I thought you were more open-minded than that,' he said, still pumping away at her more conventional orifice.

  'I am open-minded!' protested Lynnie, mortified and on the verge of crying, wanting nothing more than to run and hide in the state-of-the-art shower cubicle. 'I just don't see why any woman would want to do . . . THAT.'

  Mr Gregg moved his fingers down to Lynnie's clitoris, giving it a desultory flick. 'Sadly, neither does my wife.'

  For the second time, Lynnie screamed. 'Your what? You BASTARD! Get OFF me!'

  Mr Gregg tried to persuade her that she was his wife in name only, that he was preparing to leave as soon as the children were in college, that she was a cold fish who resented him, but Lynnie stood firm and he reluctantly withdrew.

  As did she. From Mr Gregg and his estate agency.

  Then she had met Mr Ross, fallen in love, got married, had children, and the whole débâcle had been forgotten. Until now.

  The cream in her coffee swirled like a flashback sequence in an old film, taking her back to those elusive seconds on the show-home leather.

  Why did he do it? Were there really women who enjoyed it? Was she one? And, most importantly and frustratingly of all, How had it felt?

  She could not quite remember, and she wanted to. She recalled feeling shock, which had distracted her from the sensation, and then her anger at finding out he was married had superseded the significance of his prying thumb. But the thumb was still there, lurking in the less browsed pages of her mental back-catalogue. And, for good or ill, the page lay open now, demanding detailed perusal.

  Had it hurt a little? She cast her net again and again over that fragment of her sexual past, but it would not be captured. Had it not hurt at all? Had it, in fact, felt good? Could it feel good? Why did she want to know?

  It was the very shockingness of it that appealed to her now. There was something so elementally rude about the notion of a thumb in one's bum; it was certainly not something she would have told her husband. Or was it?

  She wondered if he would like to try it – just to assuage curiosity, of course. It wasn't as if she really wanted to. It would just . . . scratch that nervous itch. There was no way she was going to broach the subject with him, though, so she tried to shelve it.

  She tried very hard to shelve it. She really did.

  But that thumb would not stay where it was put; it broke the surface of her consciousness like an obscene jack-in-the-box a dozen times a day. She could be on the phone, or pruning a bush, or brushing her teeth, and the snippet of filled-pussy-and-thumbed-arse would flash into her brain, causing her to gag on the toothpaste or prick her finger or cut off the call accidentally. It was no good. She had to get it out of her system.

  On sex nights (Wednesday, Friday, Saturday), Mrs Ross started wearing an abbreviated satin slip, bending over at every opportunity to show off a portion of cheeky cheek beneath the lace before events got into their full swing. She incorporated a heavy sway into her walk up the stairs, making sure she was in front of her husband, who would get an interesting view of her.

  When this did not seem to shift his traditional focus, she began positioning herself unusually on the bed – instead of lying down on her back, she took to rolling over, tucking a leg against her stomach so that her posterior was tautened and her lips opened temptingly.

  'I can't get at you from there, love,' reproved her husband.

  She pouted. 'Of course you can.'

  'But I want to see your face.'

  'Oh.'

  There was the rub. He always wanted that slow, sensual, full-eye-contact type of lovemaking, when what she wanted was something earthy and rough that didn't go with champagne and light soul music on the stereo.

  'Wouldn't you like to try something different?' she asked, several weeks into this regime of unsatisfying romance.

  'Different? I'm not up for wife-swapping, if that's what you're driving at,' he said jokingly, giving her hair a little stroke. She yanked her head away, uncharacteristically.

  'Don't be daft. Just . . . a new position or something.' She hesitated to say anything as coarse as 'doggy-style' and settled on: 'From behind, for instance.'

  'Oh, Lynnie, I have too much respect for you. You're my princess, and princesses don't get treated like that. Princesses deserve lots of spoiling and stroking.'

  And he proceeded to spoil and stroke until Mrs Ross had to restrain herself from hitting him.

  She found herself straying to the scruffier end of town on her shopping trips, pausing in front of the window of 'Desirez', a place she had signed a petition against eight years ago. Behind the scratched perspex window were mannequins clad in shiny black miniskirts and fishnet vests, one of them dangling a pair of pink feather-lined handcuffs from a wrist.

  Could she go in? She looked around nervously. Somebody she knew might be near, though there was little here to interest her fellow PTA members, unless they had secret tastes for pound-shop tat and sordid sex. Which was possible, she supposed. She laughed at herself and made a bolt for the safety of Waitrose.

  'Check the booty on that!' crowed her teenage son to his friends one Saturday afternoon in front of MTV. A selection of amply reared young women shook their sheeny cheeks in skimpy thongs and stack heels.

  'That girl has got a handful!' One of the group cried out.

  'Boys!' remonstrated Mr Ross.

  'They have got lovely bottoms,' conceded Mrs Ross, with a meaningful look at her husband. 'You can't expect a boy not to appreciate them. That's what they're for.'

  Mr Ross coughed and said something about the car engine needing tuning.

  Mrs Ross said she'd forgotten the mayonnaise and needed to pop out to Waitrose.

  Could she? Would she? No, it was ludicrous. After all, what was actually in there? There might be CCTV. She might find her pixellated image all over the local press. But that was silly. 'Respectable Married Woman in Sex Shop Scandal' had never been a headline, as far as she remembered. All the same . . .

  Her hand was on the scuffed paintwork of the door, just below the 'Strictly Over 18s Only' sign. She took it away. She put it back. She took it away. She put it back and the door suddenly swung inwards, causing her to stumble against the person behind it.

  'I'm so sorry,' they chorused in unison, then they looked up.

  'Is it . . . Lynnie?'

  'Oh Christ, Mr Gregg!'

  'I think you can call me Tony. Well, well. Miss Lynnie Speedwell.'

  He took her elbow, ushering her out of the shop to the opening of an adjoining alleyway full of rubbish bins.

  'It's Mrs Ross now,' muttered Mrs Ross, flooded with horror as full realisation of the circumstances dawned.

  'Mr Ross is a lucky man, then, to have such an open-minded wife.' Mr Gregg raised an eyebrow in the direction of Desirez.

  'Oh, I wasn't going in,' rushed Mrs Ross. 'I was just . . . short of breath, so I leaned against the door . . . I was going to Waitrose.'

  Mr Gregg laughed out loud. 'Waitrose, eh? I can see how you'd mix the two up.'

  'Don't tease,' snapped Mrs Ross, noticing at the same time how well Gregg had aged. Silver hair had been the right look for him, just as she used to think. He must be nearing sixty now, but he had kept the weight off and his blue eyes had attractive crinkles at the sides.


  'Not teasing!' he said, holding up his hands. 'Lynnie, seeing you is bringing back all kinds of memories. Fancy a drink, for old time's sake?'

  'I'm a married woman!'

  'I know. I'm not a married man any more though, and I think I owe you at least an apology for the disgraceful way I behaved back then. Come on. Let me buy you a drink. There's a nice place near here, if you can believe it.'

  Mrs Ross crumpled. She had to admit, she felt the need of a strong gin and tonic, and after another two, things began to get interesting.

  They had covered the intervening twenty years, their children, their jobs, their hobbies, their tastes. The one thing they hadn't covered . . .

  'So what were you doing in that shop then?' asked Mrs Ross, making a playful swipe for the brown paper bag on the table. After swaying back from the Ladies', she had sat herself down beside Mr Gregg instead of opposite, and the warmth and closeness of him were adding to her fuzzy intoxication.

  Mr Gregg snatched the bag away. 'Not for a lady's eyes,' he said gallantly.

  'What if I'm not a lady?'

  'Mrs Ross! Are you telling me that you really did mean to go into that shop? I'm intrigued. Tell me more.'

  'Only if you show me what you bought.'

  'You'll think badly of me.'

  'Can't be worse than what I thought of you for twenty years. You cheating louse.'

  'Lynnie!' he remonstrated. 'All right. I'll show you. But it's our secret, all right?'

  'Guide's honour,' she said with a clumsy salute.

  'It's just a magazine,' said Gregg, sliding it halfway out of the bag. 'For a specialist taste.'

  'Oh? Just a porn mag?' Mrs Ross was disappointed, until she saw what came out. A pair of huge pale arse cheeks, held apart by red-nailed hands while the puzzled-looking blonde they belonged to pouted over her shoulder at the camera. The magazine was entitled Backdoor Love Affair.

  She looked at Mr Gregg, then back at the magazine, then back at Mr Gregg.

  'You . . . ?'

  'I think you always knew I was an arse man,' said Gregg with an embarrassed smile, slipping the magazine back into its hiding place.

  'Yes. Yes, I remember,' said Mrs Ross huskily. 'And I remember what you said then . . . ''lots of women like it'' . . . is that true?'

  'You mean you still haven't tried it? After seventeen years of marriage?'

  'No. I must admit, I've been curious. Very curious. But Colin just doesn't seem to want to . . .'

  Mrs Ross looked helplessly at Gregg, suddenly needing a fourth gin very badly.

  'Well,' said Gregg neutrally, draining his whisky and soda. 'If you're ever that curious, you know where to find me.'

  'Are you serious?'

  'Here's my card. The agency is still in Pitt Street. It's up to you.'

  Mrs Ross stared at the business card in her palm. 'Can I get you another whisky?' she asked tremulously.

  'No. You should go home before you do something you regret. You're not sober, Mrs Ross, and I don't take advantage of women these days.' He stood up, took her arm and kissed her on the cheek. 'Another time, though, I'd be more than delighted,' he whispered. 'Don't forget . . . if you're still curious when you've sobered up . . . call me.'

  Mrs Ross weaved out of the bar, wondering how she would explain to Colin that she had to leave the car in town. Bumped into an old friend. Few drinks.

  She forgot the mayonnaise.

  She held on to the card for a month before she did anything.

  In the cold light of day it seemed impossible and wicked to follow up on Gregg's offer. Colin was a good man and she was a good woman; good women did not do things like this.

  But the cover of that magazine was burned into her mind; the secret cleft wantonly exposed, the pinky-brown bud at its centre, tight but apparently not too tight. How would something bigger than a finger get in there? Mrs Ross was not clear on the detail. She thought about looking it up on the internet, but then she worried about Colin finding it on the search history, or accidentally downloading something incriminating. Maybe if she went to Desirez again – but how on earth would she hand a copy of that thing over the counter? Impossible.

  On the last night of that month, she got Colin drunk with the intention of seducing him into exploring her very limits. She wore her new leopard-print basque with stockings and suspenders and performed a lapdance for him (the children were on sleepovers) in the living room. For the grand finale, she turned backwards on his thighs and waved her bottom in his face before pulling it rudely apart from the base of the cheeks.

  'God, Lynnie, what is up with you these days?' he moaned. 'That was very sensual, up to the end. Why don't you light a few candles and I'll give you a foot massage.'

  The next day, at around coffee-break time, she found herself holding Gregg's card in trembling fingers, staring at the numbers as if challenging them to disappear.

  She began to punch the number in three times, abandoned it three times. Took a swig of coffee. Tried again. It rang. 'Gregg and Saunders, Tony Gregg speaking.' She was stumped, unable to think of anything to say.

  'Hello?'

  'Oh . . . Mr Gregg . . .'

  'Lynnie!' She was taken aback at his instant recognition of her voice, and speech temporarily eluded her. 'Great to hear from you! Are you . . . is there a reason for this call?'

  He sounded so hopeful that her courage returned. 'Hello . . . yes. There is.'

  'OK, calm down, love. I understand that this isn't easy for you. Do you want to meet for lunch?'

  'Yes, please. Somewhere discreet. Obviously.'

  'Obviously. How about the Hotel? At one?'

  'Oh, yes, good. I'll see you there then.'

  I saw them arrive separately and leave together. I recognised Gregg, who had booked rooms and attended meetings here on a number of occasions. He isn't a bad shag, actually. I did not recognise Mrs Ross; she wasn't his usual type. Crossing the lobby she looked ready to collapse with nerves, but when he stood up from one of the couches that line the room and held out his hand to her, she seemed to straighten up, smiling at him and accepting his arm as he led her to the restaurant.

  'What you must understand, Lynnie, is that I need some evidence that you are serious about this.'

  'You mean . . . isn't this enough? I've met you in a hotel and you . . . you know what I want, so . . .'

  'Wham, bam, thank you, Ma'am? No. I don't think that's good enough. I like you, Lynnie, and I want this to be a positive experience for you. In my experience, you need to build up to this kind of sex. You need to get into . . . training.'

  'Training? I don't understand.'

  'What I mean, Lynnie, and pardon my French but there isn't really a delicate way of putting it, is that I can't just ram my cock up there from scratch. You need preparation.'

  'What sort of preparation?'

  'I have a little task for you to perform. I want you to go to Desirez.' 'Desirez! No!' 'Yes, and this is what I want you to do there . . .'