Timothy Lea - Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

It is not until I join up with the archery class that I find another obvious contender. Athletic Janet is unleashing a shaft as if born and bred in Sherwood Forest and the quiver of her titties is a bloody sight more arresting than the one on her back.

“Hello,” I say, dropping my voice to a pitch that would have made George Sanders rush out to buy a course of elocution lessons. “How is it going?”

“Not bad,” she says, “you never told me you were a Holiday Host.”

“You never asked me,” I say. “I didn’t even know you were coming here at first, so there was little point in mentioning it. I expect you’ve entered for the Holiday Queen Contest?”

“Ted was mentioning it.”

“Oh, so you’ve come across Ted?”

She smiles and slams another arrow into the bulls eye.

“You could put it like that.”

I ignore the implications of that remark as being too disgusting and continue: “Yes, well, have you entered?”

“Not yet. I don’t know if it’s my kind of thing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous; a beautiful girl like you. You’d be mad not to.”

“Do you think I’ve got a chance?”

“Got a chance? Listen, I’m one of the judges. I wouldn’t be talking about it unless I thought you had a big chance.”

“Oh, alright. I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think about it. Do it now. Look, I’ve got an entry form here.”

Her eyes flash across me and there is a faint smile playing around her lips – not at all a bad place to play, I might add.

“Have you ever thought of selling insurance?” she says. “Look, I’ve told you, I’ll think about it, and if I fancy the idea I’ll pop round to your chalet and fill in a form.”

“Do you know where my chalet is?”

“Yes. It’s three down from Ted’s.”

The way she comes out with that should put me on my guard but I can be amazingly innocent sometimes.

I am not on dinner duty in the Potato’s Revenge so I slope back to my chalet for a spot of Egyptian P.T. before facing up to the rigours of the afternoon. No sooner have I settled on the bed, eased my shoes off and stuck my tongue out at my blazer than there is a sharp rat-tat-tat at the door. Cursing gently, I do what is expected of me and find Janet standing on the dorstep. Before I can say “Raquel Welch has lovely knockers” she is standing behind me.

“I know I’m not supposed to be here, really,” she says, “but I thought I’d enter for your competition after all.”

“It’s not my competition. I’m just helping to run it.”

“Yes, but you’re one of the judges, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“So you’re going to have a say in who wins?”

“I suppose so.”

“I’d like to win a beauty contest.”

There is a firm edge to her voice which brings me up short as I fumble for the entry forms.

“I reckon you stand a very good chance,” I say earnestly. “Ah, here we are. Now if you just fill in your name and …”

I stop talking because Janet has slipped an arm round my neck and is rubbing herself gently against my action man kit.

“It was nice in the train, wasn’t it?” she murmurs.

“Fantastic,” I gulp. “But like you said, you know the rules. I’m a Holiday Host and you shouldn’t be here.”

“What are you going to judge the girls on?” she says, starting to curl the hair at my temples. “Sex appeal?”

Blooming heck! I can feel the sweat beginning to prickle under my armpits. I know I should heave her through the door but at moments like this my resolution seems to go all to cock. A very appropriate choice of words, too, because Percy is perking up like he is trying to peep over the front of my Funfrall issue black worsteds. Trouble with me is that the flesh is weak, but strong at the same time, if you know what I mean.

“I’m supposed to be down at the boating pool in a few moments,” I gibber pathetically. If only my mind and body were under the same management I would not be in this sort of trouble. Even as I speak, my hands are sliding down over Janet’s peach-shaped buttocks and lifting the back of her skirt. The pleasure I get from this act is horrible but I can do nothing to stop myself.

A few minutes later I am examining her naked sun-patterned body and viciously kicking the fag end of the aforementioned Funfrall issue black worsteds over my heels. She draws up her legs and it is like the breach mechanism of a twenty-five pounder issuing in the shell. I am inside her before you can say Eric Robinson.

“You will see I do alright tonight, won’t you?” she breathes, grinding away like one of those pepper pots you never know whether to shake or screw. In her case, the question of an alternative does not present itself and I am taken out of myself, as they say, in less time than I would ever want to boast to my friends about.

“That was marvellous,” I gush before she can say anything. “Now you really must go or I’ll be out of a job. Don’t forget to take your entry form.”

It seems she has only just gone out of the door when there is another knock on it. This time of a more timid variety. I finish knotting my tie, adjust my smile and open the door. It is the bird who was at the Nipperdrome.

“Oh, I’m sorry to trouble you but—”

“Come in,” I say. I mean, why fight it? I am obviously a doomed man.

She is wearing a white dress with frills round the neck and has slapped on a bit of eye makeup which does her no harm at all. I can’t help feeling she has made a special effort before coming round.

“What’s the problem?” I say.

“Well, I’ve been reading the form and I don’t think I can go in for the contest.”

“Why not?”

“I’m over thirty.”

She has very long eyelashes this bird, and one of those soft peaches and cream complexions that I associate with dew-soaked meadows and oast houses – I think it was one of those butter advertisements. She is obviously nervous because she is fiddling with the entry form between her fingers.

I feel I want to help her.

“Look, it doesn’t matter. You go in for the contest and we’ll worry about that afterwards. You want to go in for it, don’t you?”

“Yes, but what am I going to do about this form?”

“Just put down your date of birth. Nobody is going to check it. It’s all a bit of a giggle anyway, isn’t it? Think how chuffed your old man would be if you won, even if you were disqualified later.”

“That’s another thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I told Ron about the contest and he said I was mad – that I didn’t have a chance – that I would make him a laughing stock.”

Tears glisten in her eyes and I reckon that even Mr. Francis would expect me to make with the sympathy. Nasty Ron!

“Now, come on,” I say. “I’ve told you before. You’re a very, very attractive woman. I don’t want to say anything rude about your husband, but maybe he hasn’t taken a good look at you lately.”

“He said I was fat.”

Her lip starts trembling and a big tear forms and topples slowly down her cheek. I am outraged.

“Fat!!? You’re—you’re delicious—”

I offer her my handkerchief and she takes my hand and kisses it. The poor girl is obviously desperate for reassurance and affection. I cannot quite remember what it said in my Holiday Host Manual but I am certain I am supposed to supply both. “There, there, you mustn’t cry,” I say, taking her gently in my arms. “Fat? Your husband doesn’t, realise what a lucky man he is. Curvy, maybe, and soft, certainly, you have the softest skin—” I am stroking her cheek— “—and lips.” I run my fingers along her lower lip and kiss her gently. “You go out there and really show them tonight.” I can feel the tears cool against my cheek as I stroke her spine.