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Harold didn’t take her anywhere. He turned her round, pressed her chest down onto the workbench among the seed trays and terracotta pots, and kicked her feet apart with his boot.
‘Sixty-one and I’ve never had a girl like you,’ he growled, unbuckling. His cock was long, curved, grey-haired at the root, and harder than she’d expected. He rubbed the head up and down her wet slit, teasing, until she begged.
‘Please, Mr Penrose. Please fuck me.’
He pushed in slowly, all the way, and held there, letting her feel every inch. Then he began to fuck her with long, patient strokes, the bench rocking, a pot falling and smashing on the floor. He knew exactly what he was doing. He took his time and made her feel it.
Through the dusty shed window, Claire could see Mark at the kitchen glass, hand moving in his trousers. She moaned his name.
Harold slapped her arse, hard. ‘Not his name, love. Mine.’ His rough thumb found her clit and he rubbed it while he pounded her, and she came with a shout that sent a pigeon flapping off the shed roof.
He kept going. Older men, she discovered, could last forever. He fucked her through a second orgasm, then a third, until her legs had gone and he was holding her up by the hips.
Then the shed door creaked. Claire turned, expecting Mark.
It was Harold’s brother, Dennis, sixty-four, standing in the doorway with a trowel in his hand and his mouth hanging open.
What happens next? More paths are coming soon.