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Harold Penrose was sixty-one, a widower with silver hair, forearms browned from his allotment, and a habit of watching Claire hang the washing. She had always pretended not to notice. Mark had noticed.
On Sunday morning Mark sent her out to the garden in a short summer dress, no bra, no knickers. ‘Ask him over for coffee,’ he said. ‘Then do whatever he wants. I’ll be at the kitchen window.’
Harold looked up from his roses as she leaned on the fence, the dress gaping. ‘Morning, Claire.’ His eyes dropped to her nipples, hard and dark through the cotton, and stayed there.
‘Mark says you’ve been admiring me,’ she said, voice shaking. ‘He says you can have me. If you’d like.’
The old man went very still. Then he glanced at the window, where Mark raised his mug in salute. Harold laughed, low and rough. ‘Forty years I was married, love. I know when a woman means it. Do you?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I’m soaking.’
He opened the gate. In his potting shed, smelling of earth and tomato leaves, he lifted her dress to her waist and looked at her bare pussy for a long time. Then he pushed one gnarled finger into her, slow and deep, and Claire grabbed the workbench and groaned.
‘Oh, you’re a dirty one,’ Harold murmured. ‘Now. What shall we do with you?’
What happens next?
→ Harold bends her over the workbench, right there