Jonathon’s cottage was small and thatched. In a Wiltshire valley. Very rustic and cosy; easy to heat with a roaring log fire. Plenty of wood about. Room for two only.
The cottage was so small that it couldn’t accommodate an ordinary straight-up-and-down staircase. Only a spiral staircase. It wound down from a small area on the first floor into the living room area. A beautiful piece of Victorian iron work. Jonathon had received numerous offers from friends (and others who had heard about it) to buy the spiral staircase. Just as it was. Naturally, he had refused. He liked it where it was. In any event, how would he have got up to his bedroom? On a rope?
There was, it must be said, another reason why Jonathon did not want to part with his spiral staircase. That was because Lucy Ducket ‘did’ for him. Lucy lived at the other end of the village. the 18-year-old daughter of old widow Maisie. She really was getting on. This girl was an offspring of her third marriage. Nice one, too. Chubby where it was nicest. Jonathon was wont to smile reminiscently when he thought of Lucy. It took him back to his romp-in-the-hay days when he had been 18. Now he was a good forty summers on. Active. But not as active as he once had been. Or would like to be more so now. They said age had its compensations, but it also had its disadvantages.
And, talking of advantages and disadvantages, that brought one back to Jonathon’s spiral staircase. One of the advantages was that Lucy had to go up it. Yes… step by turning step she had to mount that iron grille, in order to deal with the two bedrooms and a bathroom on the first floor of that small cottage. Meanwhile, as she mounted, Jonathon remained below.
Thus he could look up as the girl mounted.
He could look up under that simple skirt.
He could look up and see the tight-clinging briefs that enclosed her. Sometimes white, sometimes pink, sometimes blue. Always enchanting.
‘Tain’t right….’ Lucy used to say, as she went up and around. ‘You… ‘orrible old man, looking up me skirt. I’ll tell me mum…’
‘Your mum couldn’t give a damn,’ grinned Jonathon. ‘Had plenty looking at her knickers in her day!’
‘Ogghhh… you’re awful…’ Lucy would continue upwards, with Jonathon, eyes glistening, taking his fill of young limbs and feminine intimacies so briefly covered.
‘What’s wrong with looking at a girl’s knickers anyway?’
‘Uggh… you’re awful…’ Lucy would reach the top of that spiral staircase and disappear. Jonathon would smile contentedly… if not with complete satisfaction. He wished for a lot more but knew he was not really capable of it. Sad, but true. Meanwhile, looking up an 18-year-old’s skirt was no bad thing. Gave him something to think about when he was playing around at nights. With a rather out-dated weapon.
How he loved the swell… the curving swell… of that young sexuality! Under the thin knickers. That sexuality was hidden yet, in a way, that made it all the more attractive. What would it be like to lay his hand upon it, Jonathon thought? To fondle it, to finger it?
Ah yes… ah yes… mmmm! He’d done it often enough with others, of course. When he was young and under different circumstances. But to do that now! Ahhh… that would be a very different matter. More enjoyable, he thought, because it would be something quite illicit. Evil? Yes… possibly evil. Not illegal, though. The girl was of an acceptable age.
Oh those limbs! Those long, soft, girlish limbs. With the flesh quivering. Utterly seductive. Utterly destructive. So inviting.
Yet, quite… quite… so naturally… she rejected him out of hand.
I am, said Jonathon to himself, just a dirty old man. One who nowadays can only look up a young girl’s skirt for enjoyment. Was that quite pitiful or did it just show some spark of life? There was a point there? Life itself depended on sexual concourse, therefore that could not be wrong. On the other hand, if the desire of sexual concourse lapsed, did not that hasten the elimination of the male? Quite possibly. A useless male sex object could well be disposed of. Take spiders or wasps, for example. When they had impregnated the female, they died.
I am not ready for death, thought Jonathon, listening to Lucy sweeping and polishing on the floor above. It is important that I keep my sexual instincts active. Even if they are limited to looking up a young girl’s skirt. Well, why not? Did them no harm. Gave him a fair amount of satisfaction. The girl could always leave if she were so minded. Probably needed the money, of course. Jonathon smiled; lucky for him. He wondered, lazily, if he still had enough get-up-and-go, if she would have still stayed if he’d made a real pass at her.
He took a swig from his glass of home-made beer. Saved money that did; even if it weren’t all that good. Then he heard the footsteps along the hall above. The girl was about to come down. Down that spiral staircase. He felt a small glow in his loins. The kind of glow he got just before he opened a new copy of Men Only. Nothing wrong with that. Not at his age.
Footsteps on the wrought iron. Jonathon looked up. Oh delicious young limbs! Tight little knickers. Pale pink today, he saw. Heavenly! Oh what a lucky young man there was. Somewhere.
‘Tain’t right… you nasty old man! Tain’t! You looking like that…’
Jonathon smiled placidly. ‘If you don’t want to have to come and work here, Lucy, you need not.’ The girl looked at him with angry eyes. She was trapped. It was a small village. She needed the money.
‘You… you’re horrible…’ she spat out.
‘I’m just a human being,’ responded Jonathon. ‘One who happens to be getting old in years. You’ll understand one day.’
Lucy Ducket’s lips curled. ‘Yer… but I won’t need a spiral staircase for my kicks,’ she said.
Jonathon continued to smile, even if he was slightly wounded. What the hell did it matter anyway? He was having his little bit of harmless fun. As a matter of fact, he’d never even touched the girl.
Quite right too. Looking up under her skirt was quite sufficient. Lucy’s departure was resentful and nose-in-the-air.
Jonathon took another swig of his not-too-happy home brew.