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Andrews UK - Ivan Latham

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36 pages

English

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Description

It's a new year that promises little but the same old shit for thirty-something Rowena Swift. Then a chance encounter with high-class escort service, Salome's Garden leads her life in a new and wholly unexpected direction. Fame and fortune are hers for the taking -- in return for the delights of her own body!

Sujets

Erotic literature

Informations

Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	13 août 2012
Nombre de lectures	83
EAN13	9781782341895
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0150€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Title Page
SALOME’S GARDEN
A MILF’s Tale

By
Ivan Latham

Publisher Information
Salome’s Garden
Published in 2012 by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © Ivan Latham 2012
The right of Ivan Latham to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

New Year, Same Shit
Bobby had called at lunchtime with some half-assed excuse for forgetting that she even existed last night. He’d been half-drunk, apparently, his semi-comatose brain bedazzled by the spectacle of the Thames-side firework display. Rowena wanted desperately to believe his version of events. New Years Eve had been remarkably unremarkable for her: some tasteless microwaveable mush pretending to be lasagne in the company of Jools Holland and a crap Indie band hailed as the new Oasis. She had lost interest in the dawn of the approaching New Year long before three million of the taxpayers hard-earned cash went up in smoke down at the river. It was little consolation to think that she had helped turn the London Eye into some huge pink catherine wheel straight out of a Katie Price nightmare.
And then, when it was apparent that Bobby had forsaken her yet again for the bed of the latest girl to fall for his slimey spiel, she had switched off the TV and sought solace in Smirnoff-induced slumber. She had finally regained consciousness just ten minutes before Bobby had tried out his hundredth meaningless attempt in the last six months to get back inside her pants after remorselessly cheating on her. Her splitting headache had only served to harden her resolve not to give him any more chances. She was sure that they must have heard her furious demand for him to ‘Fuck Off!’ down in Birmingham!
God, if this first day of the new year was anything to go by, then she wondered if she would ever be able to reach December without throwing herself off a motorway bridge or something!
She was glad to be back at work the next day. It dawned gray and damp, reflecting Rowena’s sullen mood as she caught the bus for the four mile journey from her flat to the pharmacy where she worked as a dispensing assistant. The prospect of a day spent doling out advice about which haemerrhoid cream was the most effective hardly promised to help her current mood, but at least it got her out of that damned flat and forced her to focus on more than her thoughts, which veered from depressed to downright psychotic whenever she dwelt on Bobby’s most recent infidelity.
Her first morning back was as uneventful as she had expected it to be, but after the long and tedious Christmas break, even pricing up boxes of aspirin was a welcome relief. She managed to push Bobby to the back of her mind for most of the day, and then buried her head in the local newspaper for the evening bus ride back home. As she slowly turned pages filled with accounts of war, famine and other examples of global desolation, she tried to take solace in the fact that there were millions of people whose lives were shittier than her own. Tried, but failed.
Past the sports pages and a glum report about the slaughter of the local team by Chelsea and Rowena arrived at the singles ads. She scanned them ponderously, drawn to the ‘Athletic Forty-something Seeking Good-Time-Girl’ ad before concluding sceptically that this was doubtless nothing more than a post by some waste-of-space married mid-life crisis with a list of inadequacies longer than your arm. As she turned to the penultimate pages, she was met with column after column of adult service advertisements, such as ‘Blow Your Load With Britney – 1.50 per minute.’ Her lips curled in wry amusment at the Shania’s, Kylie’s and Montana Skys all offering to help any caller attain sexual Nirvana for the cost of a years television license!
She was about to close the newspaper when her eyes alighted on a larger advert close to the foot of the page. But the whine of the bus as it braked at her stop saw her look up with a start, scrunch the newspaper together and hurry for the doors which were already beginning to hiss shut.
“Sorry,” she gasped to the driver with an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”
It was cold, dark and had started to rain and she ducked out from under the bus shelter and into the narrow residential street towards home. She reached the door of her apartment building, fumbled her key into the lock and tried to blow strands of wet hair from around her face as she checked her postbox. Finding nothing except the usual takeaway flyers and an open letter inviting her to give blood the following week, she stuffed the mail disinterestedly into her bag and climbed the three flights of switchback stairs to her flat.
Ten minutes later, she had her hands wrapped around a mug of steaming hot chocolate and, ignoring the three new insincere messages from Bobby that the red light on her answering machine had drawn her attention to, she settled back onto her sofa to watch a Deal or No Deal New Year special.
Less than five minutes later, her phone rang again. She ignored it and turned up the television until the ringing stopped and her machine kicked in for the fourth time that day.
“It’s Bobby. Pick up if you’re there.”
The voice of Noel Edmonds rose to drown out that of her unfaithful boyfriend as Rowena depressed the volume button on her remote, her full lips set in a firm line.
“Rowena?” Bobby was barely audible.
“Piss off!” she hissed.
She heard Bobby’s latest message recording faintly as he unwittingly complied with her ascerbic demand, and then she was left in peace again. She hurriedly returned the TV to its normal volume level before she could give the demented old bat downstairs any more reason to indulge in her favourite pasttime of reporting fellow tenants for antisocial behaviour, and then jumped from the sofa to pull the phone line from its socket.
If that cheating arsehole thought he could wile his way back into her bed after this, then he could think again,, she thought. He could go and blow his load with Britney if he was that desperate!
She suddenly remembered the newspaper and retrieved it from the hallway table where she had absentmindedly dropped it on her way in. She returned to the couch and, TV forgotten, turned to the inside back page of the paper and the advertisment that had earlier captured her attention.
The peculiar headline was what had hooked her curiosity: Sexy One Box Ladies Urgently Needed.
She had no idea what a one box lady might be, and just what differentiated them from a no box woman. Or even a two box one, if such a thing even existed!
“Salome’s Garden is a high class escort service dedicated to providing quality service to the more discerning client,” she read out loud. “We are currently seeking mature, sexy ladies over thirty-five to meet the demands of our ever-increasing client base. Rewarding opportunity promising fun times and an excellent rate of pay plus bonuses assured. Please contact Clarissa at the email address below, attaching a recent photograph of yourself.”
A crazy thought crossed Rowena’s mind, but she dismissed it almost as soon as it had presented itself. Don’t be so bloody ridiculous, she told herself. Was her life so empty that she felt her only recourse was to become some sort of high class prostitute?
The devil on her shoulder whispered painful memories of Bobby’s incorrigible infidelity with girls half her age. Two minutes later, she was seated at her computer in the corner of the bedroom, logging into her email account.
She hesitated again. What the hell was she doing? But once more, thoughts of Bobby cheating with bimbos barely out of college as though she had nothing to offer him in the sack saw her jaw set resolutely as she typed in the email address. Then she recalled the application requirements stated in the advert and she rooted in the desk drawer for her webcam.
But what kind of picture were they expecting? Something told Rowena that they would want something more than the bog-standard passport type photo. It was hardly a position at Natwest that she was applying for after all! More doubts flickered through her head. Was she even the kind of woman they were looking for?
She stood up and began to take a long hard look at herself in the mirror. The face that stared back at her looked tired and worldweary, and the slouchy pullover and tracksuit bottoms she had slipped into suggested anything but sexy! She sighed. When she studied herself like this, was it really any wonder that Bobby had strayed….
No! She shook her head in disgust with herself. There was no way – no fucking way! – that she was going to start projecting Bobby’s guilt onto herself! That was exactly what that bastard would want, and she’d be damned if she would give him the satisfaction! The old Rowena would have weakened in her resolve to see the cheating rat burn in hell before she would ever take him back, but not this time. New Year, same shit? Only if she gave in to the guy who had done nothing but shovel boatloads of it into her life the past two years. What had he ever done but criticise the way she looked, the way she dressed, the way she did her hair?
She froze, staring hard again at the image in the mirror. And suddenly she realised just what kind of game Bobby had