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My mistress.She knocked on the back door and grunted, “You alone?”I tried to smile but failed and she barged into the house.“Where is your room?”I took her upstairs and I didn’t know if I was going to be anointed or crucified.I sat on the bed and picked up my guitar.“She told me everything,” Mrs Hubert began, “in graphic detail. She can be a real bitch. A sanctimonious little cow but a bitch too.”“What?” I said dumbly. “What did she tell you?”“Oral sex. Penetration. Even the special things we did that most people don’t.” She paused and her face grew stormy.“What has she got that I haven’t?” she growled. “She’s young, that’s all. So young that I put her over my knee and bloody spanked her like I used to when she was little. You should try it some time, I think she likes it.” She was trying to be two things at once: the victim and the gracious senior who can’t be hurt. Trouble was, I didn’t know which one was genuine.Everything went quiet again on the Hubert front. It was summer term –. I tried to pay attention to something else, anything else. There were books everywhere. Old, bound books with unfamiliar titles. I turned to look at him. He was already gazing at me. I had to clear my throat for adjustment. “I see you read, what kinds of books do you like?” Not taking his eyes off of me, he replied, “All sorts of literature. Mostly poetry, and history.” Not knowing much about either, I simply said, “That’s beautiful.” “Just as you are tonight,” he said simply, not an ounce of humour in his tone. “Tell me,” he began, drinking the last bit of wine in his glass, “why is a beautiful woman such as yourself purchasing those horrid erotic novels every week?” He placed his glass on the low table next to us. I looked down, ashamed and embarrassed. “Not every week,” I began to argue. “No? I’m sure I must have seen you more than once in that store,” he said innocently. Damn him and his sexy accent. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. “Sorry, I really must go now. I.
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