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Mrs. Da Silva, The Return Of

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As a general rule, I don’t do sequels. But …

If you haven’t already met my friend Mrs da Silva, you might want to start here: https://www..com/s/mrs-da-silva

If you are already familiar with her little predilections, and you want to catch up on her latest adventures with gin and Dubonnet, then please keep reading.

While Austin has been ‘away’ (and now is ‘away’ for good), I seem to have become the 2ic at Downton Books. Christina has given me my own key and the code to the alarm system. Christina opens up on Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. But, on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Sundays, that honour falls to me. And, in return for starting a little earlier in the mornings, I am permitted to leave a little earlier in the evenings. Today is Monday.

‘It’s five-thirty, Jeremy,’ Christina tells me. ‘Why don’t you get your coat. I can look after things from here.’

‘Thank you,’ I tell her. ‘That will be good.’ And then — and I don’t know why — I tell her that I’ve been invited to a little drinks party.

Christina raises her eyebrows. ‘A drinks party? On a Monday? Gosh, Jeremy, you do live the high life,’ she says. ‘Oh to be young again, eh?’

‘Well …,’ I say. And I think that I probably smile and shrug my shoulders.

When I press the doorbell at Mrs da Silva’s building, there is a soft, welcoming clunk almost immediately. I push open the door, step inside, and look up to the first floor landing. Mrs da Silva is standing there waiting.

‘Ah. Jeremy. Come on up.’ She is wearing a dusky pink peignoir, alluring in itself, and yet sufficiently translucent to hint at girly garments beneath.

I climb the stairs and, when I reach the top, Mrs da Silva greets me with a kiss on each cheek. ‘Come on in, dear boy,’ she says. ‘Come on in.’

I follow Mrs da Silva into her sitting room with its tall windows and vaguely Italianate décor.

‘How has your day been?’ Mrs da Silva asks.

‘Umm … quiet,’ I tell her. ‘But then most Mondays seem to be quiet these days. I think people use up all their shopping energy in the weekend.’

Mrs da Silva nods. ‘Yes,’ she says, as though she is giving the matter due consideration. ‘I do think that you may be right, Jeremy.’ Mrs da Silva already has the gin, Dubonnet, ice, and a lemon set up on a side table. ‘I have never been a church-goer myself, but I am still in two minds about Sunday shopping. I’m not sure why.’

I wait for her to add something. But, no. That is it.

‘Have you had a chance to read Smut yet?’ I ask.

She laughs. ‘I sometimes think that smut is about all I read these days,’ she says. And then she realises that I am referring to Smut with a capital S. ‘Oh. Yes. Mr Bennett’s Smut,’ she says. ‘Yes. Yes, I have. He has such a delightful touch, doesn’t he? His characters are so … well … engaging.’

‘I particularly liked Mrs Donaldson,’ I tell her.

Mrs da Silva smiles and takes up her position beside the table with the gin (London gin, Tanqueray, in the distinctive green fire hydrant-shaped bottle), Dubonnet, and other ingredients. ‘Mixture as before?’ she says.

‘I bow to your superior knowledge,’ I tell her. ‘You are the expert.’

Mrs da Silva pauses but then smiles again. ‘Yes. In matters of gin and Dubonnet, I think that I may be,’ she says. ‘Many years of practice, I suspect.’

Mrs da Silva adds three ice cubes to each of the cut crystal tumblers (Waterford, I’m thinking; or possibly Webb Corbett). And then she adds equal (generous) measures of Tanqueray gin and Dubonnet. Finally, she adds a freshly-cut slice of lemon to each glass, and hands one of the glasses to me. ‘Cin cin,’ she says.

I hold the glass near my nose and remind myself of the aroma of slightly bitter fruit with juniper and alcohol. ‘Cin cin,’ I echo. And then I take a sip. Once again, my brain feels as though it is suddenly pushing out against the interior wall of my skull. My tongue luxuriates in more of the pungent fruit, tinged with just a hint of liquorice. And then comes the ever-so-pleasant burn of what seems like pure alcohol. ‘Oh, yes,’ I say.

Mrs da Silva nods in apparent agreement.

For perhaps twenty minutes, Mrs da Silva and antalya escort I sip and chat — mainly about the works of Alan Bennett. Talking Heads. The Lady in the Van. The History Boys. And then Mrs da Silva says: ‘Right. Are we going to do it?’ And, without really waiting for a reply, she puts down what is left of her drink and unties the tie of her dusky pink peignoir.

As I have already mentioned, her peignoir has a degree of translucence that hints at the girly garments beneath. And so what she reveals is not a total surprise. But it is a bit of a surprise. First, her bra — which I had expected to be black — is actually navy blue. And it is in what I believe is known as a ‘balconette’ style, lifting her breasts, her breasts that are already quite ample to begin with. And then, as my gaze descends, I behold the most perfect vintage open-bottomed girdle, extending from just above her waist to the tops of her thighs, but with an arched opening that frames her lightly forested pubic mound. The girdle is also navy blue.

‘Very nice,’ I tell her.

Mrs da Silva smiles and runs her elegant fingers over her bushy slopes. ‘As you can see,’ she says, ‘I am sans culottes. I think it is time that you were also.’

I put down my drink and unbuckle my belt. And then I slowly lower my zip. And then I pause, teasingly.

‘Enough faffing about,’ Mrs da Silva says. ‘I wish to see your beautiful cock again.’

‘Perhaps I am shy,’ I say.

‘Nonsense!’ Mrs da Silva says. ‘You like showing off your fine fellow just as much as I enjoy admiring him.’

I slip off my shoes and then let my trousers fall to the floor and step out of them. I then ease down my briefs and my half-hard cock springs out and sniffs the early-evening air. ‘Better?’ I say.

Mrs da Silva smiles and nods. ‘Shall we begin?’ she says. And without waiting for a reply, she uses her elegant fingers to part her outer labia. Oh, yes. Mrs da Silva does have a very fine cunt, and my cock responds affirmatively. I wonder, briefly, if Mrs da Silva might like to take hands-on control of my growing cock. But then I decide no, she already has her hands full.

I take my cock in my right hand and gently massage my perineum with the index finger of my left hand. Mrs da Silva watches intently — as I watch her intently. And my cock grows encouragingly. ‘Perhaps you could stand a little closer,’ she says. And of course I could. Of course I can. Her merest wish is my command.

Mrs da Silva now has her outer labia well spread and her butterfly-like inner labia are beginning to glisten with her juices. I watch as her fingers make leisurely circuits, pausing from time to time to apply direct pressure the her increasingly-conspicuous clit and then, occasionally, to disappear into her sweet fuckhole. From her breathing, I get the impression that fireworks are not far away and I increase the intensity of my own prestidigitation.

Mrs da Silva also increases the tempo. Now her fingers are beginning to fly. ‘Yes. Yes. Oh, yes,’ she says. And if yes is the answer, then I have a pretty good idea what the question is. She closes her eyes, throws back her head, and lets out a half-chortle, half-squeal. ‘Oh, yes,’ she says as she returns to planet earth. ‘Oh … yes! And now you.’ And she taps her flushed, furry mound to remind me of where to aim.

Afterwards, Mrs da Silva suggests that it is time to refresh our drinks.

‘I shall be heading south in the morning,’ she tells me as we sip.

‘Brighton?’ I suggest.

‘Further,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘My friend Simone lives just outside Juan-les-Pins. But she is not well. And she is alone. She has a daughter, a charming child — well, not really a child anymore — but no one seems to know where she is. To be honest, I am not sure what I can do, but I feel that I must try to do something.’

I somehow sense that Mrs da Silva’s friend Simone is a very special friend.

‘I am not sure how long I shall be gone for,’ Mrs da Silva says. ‘Perhaps two or three weeks. Perhaps longer.’

Mrs da Silva seems sad. But then she takes a sip of her gin and Dubonnet and she seems to cheer up. ‘Whether I am away for three weeks or three fethiye escort months, I would not like to think that you will forget me, Jeremy.’

(As if I could!)

‘And so,’ she says, ‘I would like to give you a little memento. A little something to keep me in your … well … to keep me somewhere, anyway.’ And she reaches down beside the side table and produces a framed something or other.

At first, I can only see the back. But then she turns it around. It is a framed brush and ink drawing. It has a slight Asian quality to it. A little like Japanese calligraphy. Or perhaps Chinese calligraphy. A pencilled inscription along the lower edge — in English — informs me that it is a Portrait of a Hairy Woman. However, it might more properly have been called Portrait of a Small Portion of a Hairy Woman. And that small portion, while unquestionably hairy, is nowhere near the woman’s head. A little like Mrs da Silva herself, it is both elegant and highly erotic.

‘I have had the framers put the drawing behind a thin sheet of glass,’ Mrs da Silva says. ‘To protect it from accidental splashes.’ And she smiles.

The three-week anniversary of our second gin and Dubonnet party comes and goes and there is still no word from Mrs da Silva. But I certainly do not forget her. Her memento serves the memory of her well.

And then, one day, there is a postcard. It is addressed simply to: Jeremy, Downton Books, Marylebone, London, UK. No street name. No postcode. But, somehow, it arrives.

On the front of the postcard there is a photograph of a beachside bar. Prominent in the photograph is a sun umbrella bearing the Dubonnet logo. On the back, it simply says: ‘We are on our way. Xx.’

When Mrs da Silva comes into the shop, two days later, it is as if she has never been away.

‘How is your friend Simone?’ I ask.

‘She is with the angels,’ Mrs da Silva says. ‘By now, she will probably be teaching them to bossa nova.’

‘Oh. I am sorry,’ I say.

Mrs da Silva smiles. ‘No. I think that she will be happy enough,’ she says. ‘Her work here was done. Now … what are your plans for this evening?’

‘I don’t really have any,’ I tell her.

‘Excellent. Then shall we say gin and Dubonnet at six o’clock?’

I smile. And nod. And I feel as if I should give her a hug. But there are rather a lot of people in the shop. ‘I shall be there,’ I say.

I arrive more-or-less on the dot of six and press the doorbell. Almost immediately, I hear the now-familiar — and welcoming — clunk. I push the door open and step inside. Mrs da Silva is waiting on the first floor landing. She is wearing an elegant full-length black robe, tied with a broad sash. She is also wearing a smile.

‘You are looking very nice,’ I tell her.

‘Thank you. Flattery gets you everywhere,’ she says. And, when I reach the top of the stairs, she greets me with a kiss on each cheek. ‘Come on in. I have a little surprise for you.’

I follow her into her sitting room and look around. Everything seems to be as normal. And then I notice that there are three crystal tumblers set out on the side table rather than the usual two. I am secretly dying to say something, but I am sure that everything will be revealed. In due course.

‘I trust that my little memento has served you well,’ Mrs da Silva says as she begins to prepare our cocktails.

‘It has,’ I assure her. And just thinking about it, I feel a slight twitch in my nether regions.

‘Excellent,’ Mrs da Silva says, adding the equal parts gin and Dubonnet to the ice. And, yes, she is using all three glasses. And then … ‘Ah, Micha. Come and meet my friend Jeremy. Jeremy, this gorgeous creature is Micha.’

Micha certainly is gorgeous. She is probably in her early twenties. Twenty-three perhaps? And she is slight. Beside Mrs da Silva she almost seems to have a doll-like quality.

‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ she says. She pronounces bonjour as though it is spelt without the terminal r.

‘Salut, Micha,’ I reply. And she smiles.

‘Micha and I have been getting to know one another,’ Mrs da Silva says. ‘It has been a bit of a surprise. The last time that I spent any kaş escort time with Micha and her dear mama, Micha was still just a schoolgirl. And look at her now. Old enough to join us for gin and Dubonnet.’ And she laughs. Softly.

As I have already mentioned, Mrs da Silva is wearing an elegant full-length wrap-around black gown of some sort. Micha is also wearing a black wrap-around gown. A shorter version of the gown that Mrs da Silva is wearing. Micha’s gown stops just above her knees. Standing together, Mrs da Silva and Micha look like the apothecary and her apprentice. Will there be surprises, I wonder.

Mrs da Silva finishes mixing the cocktails and hands one to me and one to Micha. And then she takes one herself. ‘Well … cin cin,’ she says.

‘Cin cin,’ I echo, and I raise my glass first to our hostess and then to Micha. Oh, yes. It may have been a month or so, but there is no forgetting the distinctive aroma. My tongue salivates slightly at the prospect of the flavours that are to follow.

I watch as Micha takes a cautious sip. And her eyes suddenly open wider than wide.

‘Good, isn’t it?’ I say.

She smiles. But then she nods and takes a second sip.

For some reason, Mrs da Silva seems unusually eager to get on to Act Two of our little cocktail party. After just a few more sips, she announces to Micha: ‘This is the point at which Jeremy removes his trousers. Perhaps you could provide him with a little extra incentive, Micha.’ And she nods in the direction of the fabric tie that secures Micha’s gown.

Micha smiles; pauses; and then takes a loose sash-end in each hand and, after a further pause, tugs. The bow unravels, and the robe falls open. Yes, Micha — who is wearing a bra, but that is all — is certainly a gorgeous creature.

‘Come on. Chop, chop,’ Mrs da Silva says to me.

Ah, yes. I slip off my shoes, unbuckle my belt, and lower my zip. My cock is already starting to grow and, with the going down of the sun, it begins to rise. I step clear of my trousers and take my cock in hand. Micha smiles and nods appreciatively. Mrs da Silva smiles also.

We each take another sip of our gin and Dubonnet and Act Two is underway.

Mrs da Silva unfastens her own robe. Beneath, she too is wearing just a bra. Mrs da Silva settles herself onto a handy stool and summons Micha to her. I stroke my cock and wait expectantly. As if they have practised the move many times before (and I suspect that they probably have), Mrs da Silva spreads her knees wide and Micha backs into the space between. Suddenly, it is as though Mrs da Silva is playing Micha like a mellow cello — not with a bow, but with her elegant forefinger plucking and strumming Micha’s cunt, pizzicato style. Sweet, sweet music.

The charming tableaux before me plays on for perhaps four or five minutes, with Mrs da Silva looking more and more like a virtuoso and Micha seemingly getting closer and closer to a crowd-pleasing cadenza. But no. It seems that Act Two is, itself, a two-parter.

While I minister to my cock, the apothecary and her charming assistant rearrange their positions. Mrs da Silva sits side-on to me with her knees together, and Micha lays across them, face down, her sweet derriere displayed for my delectation. Mrs da Silva beckons me closer, and then she goes to work, spreading Micha’s arse cheeks, spreading her labia, and working her furrow.

‘Oh … yes, yes,’ Micha says.

Mrs da Silva smiles and nods. ‘My thoughts precisely,’ she says. And then Mrs da Silva reaches out and takes an ice cube from the bowl on the side table.

What now? I wonder. But not for long.

Mrs da Silva places the ice cube at the entrance to Micha’s unquestionably attractive arsehole. Micha giggles and thrusts up to meet it. And I feel my own arsehole twitch in sympathy, imagining the cool wet sensation. Oh, yes. And then Mrs da Silva is working Micha’s cunt with her elegant fingers while keeping the melting ice cube in position with her thumb. Mrs da Silva is nothing if not dexterous.

Micha begins to squirm and moan and giggle. ‘I think the time may be near, Jeremy,’ Mrs da Silva says softly.

I take another step closer to Micha’s pulchritudinous posterior and increase my stroke rate.

‘Yes, yes, yes, yes,’ Micha calls out hoarsely. And a pearly rope from my cock agrees.

For a minute or so, no one moves, no one speaks. And then Mrs da Silva says: ‘Right. Time to refresh the drinks, I think.’

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