I do relax. I melt. I float. And before long I start to purr like a contented cat being fussed over. I’ve never felt so loose and at ease, and yet at the same time I’m a dynamo of excitement. Waves of well-being surge around my body, bouncing from the crown of my head to my toes, and always doubling back again, and again, to my breasts and my sex.

It’s soon impossible to keep still. I squirm slowly against the blanket, rumpling it up, rubbing my breasts and my pussy against the solid earth beneath me.

Patrick hasn’t even touched me in an intimate way yet, but I know in every fiber that he wants to. In silent invitation, I part my legs, waiting and hoping.

He inclines over me, his lips against the side of my face, still softly singing, his breath wafting against my skin as he tucks my hair behind my ear. He settles his lips against my eyebrow, then the arc of my cheekbone, then the corner of my mouth. Then he lets them stray down over my jaw and the slope of my throat. His hands move too. He slips one like silk along the indentation of my waist and over my hip and then the curve of my buttock, while sliding the other beneath me to cup my breast.

Oh boy.

His knees brush against my thigh where he’s angled against me. If I just flexed my fingers a little I could reach out and stroke his penis. The message flies from my brain down to my hand, but before I can act, he’s fondling my breast, his fingers riffing to and fro over my nipple. It’s a delicate caress, not gross or greedy, a pleasure that’s about me, all about me.

“Oh please,” I moan, not entirely sure what I’m begging for. Is it more of his touch? Or maybe his kindness? His warmth? I’m not even sure that I really want him to fuck me… Well, at least not yet.

He plays with my breast, still gently murmuring in my ear, his voice low now, but still musical, almost a coo of encouragement as he moves on, seeking the centre of my pleasure. Drifting, still moving my hips around, I try to imagine the sight of us-me, prone on the blanket, him over me, curved and protecting, his head close to mine as he touches me.

The air around us is latent, magical, and as I shift uneasily, lifting my hips to let him at me, I feel the waft of a sudden breeze blowing around us. It feels close, not part of the garden, but instead a strange micro-system that affects only Patrick and I. Weird notions flit through my brain then fly off out again as he finds my clitoris and begins to rub.

Shivers of intense pleasure ripple instantaneously from the point of contact. I never realized I was quite so stirred, so aroused. My legs kick against the blanket, my toes catch at it, and my knuckles brush momentarily against Patrick’s penis, so thick and warm. I try to clasp him, but he adjusts his position, improving the angle of his wrist to better pleasure me. A tiny plume of disappointment spikes, but he kisses my neck, murmuring something in a language I don’t recognize, the words against my skin. Suddenly it doesn’t seem so important to touch him as long as he’s still touching me.

I don’t know what he’s saying, but I know, still, that it’s all about me.

He circles his fingertip and sends it flicking, swooping and dipping deep into my cleft for more fluid, before returning it to my clit. He’s relentless, sweetly giving and unbearably accurate. Denied the gift of an orgasm at another’s hand so long, I sob and cry and buck up from the earth beneath me when it arrives, given by Patrick.

Deep, hard, wrenching waves of pleasure break through my sex and my belly, and then wash up against my heart and mind and soul. My brain goes white with ecstasy and the strange wind around us rises and billows.

The last thing I remember before it all becomes too much is a dual volley of peculiar sharp sounds, like a pair of sheets on a line, flapping in a gale, and then the sensation of Patrick’s arms around me and the two of us floating upwards.

Chapter Two

It’s hard to wake up. I’m in the middle of a dream about flying, but whether I’m a bird, in a hang-glider or whether I’m just Superwoman, it’s hard to tell. I’m simply wafting, up, up, upwards, above my own garden.

My eyes snap open, and I’m awake. But something’s strange. Judging by the angle of a shaft of sunlight on the bedroom wall, it’s some time during the morning. And the last thing I remember was afternoon…and Patrick.

Ouch.

When I shoot up into a sitting position, the first thing I notice after a sharp twinge of pain in my hips is that I’m naked. The second is that I’ve been lying on top of the duvet, snuggled up in a pair of comforters that I usually keep folded over the bottom of the bed for cooler nights.

What the hell’s happened to me in the last twelve to eighteen hours?

Where’s Patrick?

That last question seems to be the most important. In my mind, I suddenly see him and start to blush.

How could I have let him touch me like that? What the hell was I thinking? I talk to the guy for the first time ever one minute, and the next I’m letting him touch me and make me come. Sometimes I really am too stupid to be alive.

Fishing around for my robe, I monitor my body. There are the usual twinges and aches here and there, but nothing too serious. In fact, I feel better than I have done for a long time. It must be the massage. Despite everything, I have to laugh. Illicit orgasms sure beat ibuprofen and heat wraps any time.

Down in the garden, there’s no sign of my mysterious therapist, and I’m disappointed, despite the potential for embarrassment at our next meeting. There’s no blanket, no picnic detritus and no Patrick. The garden looks strangely empty and cold despite the sunshine, and even the plants and flowers look more bedraggled than they did yesterday. When we were talking, and touching, everything down there seemed lush and juicy, almost technicolor, and now it all looks ordinary again.

Because Patrick’s not there, the garden doesn’t attract me this morning, and turning to the bed, I frown, still wondering how I got here. My stomach grumbles and it dawns on me I’m starving.

What the hell happened to me? Did I pass out from pleasure or something? Did Patrick carry me up the stairs and tuck my fleeces around me and leave me to sleep it off? It’s all a mystery, a blank spot, completely weird.

A glance at the clock sets a fire under me. Shit, I’m supposed to be working at the charity shop this morning, and I’ve only got around an hour to shower and dress and get halfway across town. Looks like I’ll be in the car today. I usually walk, but at my pace I’ll never get there in time to open up.

But first breakfast, and lots of it. My appetite is enormous, and my body feels well and full of zest, despite its problems. I guess that’s what happens when you’re well and truly pleasured.


By the time I return from my stint at the charity shop, and from running errands for one or two old neighbors in the avenue, it’s well after lunchtime and I’m starving again. It’s been a hectic morning and also still confusing.

I still can’t remember quite what happened yesterday, and I’m more puzzled than ever about the beautiful man who touched me so exquisitely. None of my neighbors ever seem to have seen him, nor were they aware the house next door to me was occupied.

I make a meal and eat in the kitchen, staring out across the back lawn, looking for my beautiful enigma. The house and garden across the dwarf hedge look desolate, uninhabited, and as I consume my omelet and salad without a great deal of enthusiasm, I begin to wonder if what happened yesterday was just a dream. A fantasy conjured by a middle-aged woman who’s finally ready for sex again after a period of sensual drought.

Frustration, that’s it. I look out over the garden and scowl at the rain that’s just started to fall. I’m horny, and somehow, I got sucked in deep by a really vivid daydream. I imagined an idealized man and then masturbated myself into a stupor, dreaming about him.

Possibly.

The trouble is I sincerely wish he was real, even if he is mysterious and dangerous. And as is my wont, a bit too young for me into the bargain.

The rain is heavier now and the drone of it weighs me down. I don’t know what to do with my afternoon, and none of my usual pastimes appeal to me. Television seems boring. Reading-can’t summon interest in my book. Going online and seeing who’s chatting on various social media sites-well, that all seems trivial, more unreal than my crazy fantasies and not nearly as much fun. I decide on a shower first, and then lie on my bed in hopes of a nap, listening to the raindrops pattering on my balcony through the open patio doors.

Pretty soon I’m drifting along the hinterland of sleep and hello, hello, Patrick comes a calling in my daydream, just as I’d hoped he might.