It was because of a stupid mistake that it happened. I'd flown into London for a business meeting and the investment manager I needed to talk to was away on business of his own in New York. His secretary had mixed up the dates and the guy I wanted wouldn't be available for another forty eight hours. So that left me wandering around the streets next day, bored, jet lagged, and checking out shop windows for anything of interest. I found something too, in the last sort of shop you'd ever expect to be worth visiting.

It was a used goods charity store run by a church, although I'd better not mention which church. Let's just say that if the business was Godly, the devil was in the decor. The least hideous piece of kitsch crap on display was a yellow and green fruit bowl daubed with hand painted pictures of handsome Mexican bandits and dancing queens.

I was trying to think if I knew any wrinkled old ABBA fans I hated enough to buy the piss poor piece of pottery for when a pair of legs appeared in the charity shop window. In the far background of the window, anyway. A matching pair of finely shaped legs inside a skirt so short it couldn't have managed a flutter in a force ten gale gale.

Which immediately raised the question that anybody would ask themselves when some barely dressed lissome lower limbs are seen wandering around inside a do-gooder damaged goods dealership: "What's a girl like that doing in a nice place like this?"

Another angle on my curiousity was that I couldn't see the top half of the owner of the high class underpinnings. She was on the other side of a rack of second hand clothes, out of sight except for her chorus line undercarriage, her high hemline and an occasional glimpse of blonde hair bobbing around behind the dirty collars.

This was clearly a sighting which needed investigating, so in I went to the opportunity shop, looking for an opportunity to give until it hurt.

After I'd fended off an old witch with purple dyed hair who came hobbling up as soon as I got inside the evil smelling dump, I went exploring to see whether there really was a tasty blonde roaming outback amongst all that dumped off dross. Perhaps she was only a mirage -- after all I hadn't had a woman for at least sixty hours and long term sexual deprivation does strange things to a man's mind.

No, no hallucination. When I got around to the other side of the clothes rack the first thing I saw was a rack well worth looking at. In fact it was a package deal. Long blonde hair, nice smile, a great little figure and just enough miles on the clock to be sure that all the working parts would move as smoothly as a Swiss watch when they were warmed up and lubricated. One look and I felt the urge to howl like a diving Stuka.

But it was the woman's voice which really caught me by the balls. We're talking a genuine upper crust cut glass English accent here, home counties and a posh home somewhere in them as well, unless I missed my guess. But what was my guess worth here? I was seriously puzzled.

I mean, the woman talked as if she was serving out strawberries and cream at a bishop's garden party, there was an air of naive innocence about her as if she'd never even heard of original sin, that long blonde hair hung loose and free and yet she was barely inside a skirt which a King's Cross hooker would have been embarrassed to wear in public. And just to tie all the contradictions up even more tightly the little darling was working inside a charity shop as an upright member of the God bothering community.

Well, presumably as an upright member of the community, because if she bent over in the shop window dressed the way she was right now there'd be a riot in the street outside

So what did I have here, an angel, a demon? Or a mixture of both?

The only way to find out was to shake the bottle and see which side of it the foam ran down. I had no intention of flirting with the little do-gooder, or asking her if she fancied a drink after work. I'm too rich, too important and too impatient to waste my time or any woman's by pissfarting around like that.

It took a few minutes manouvering to get the pecker stirring Ms Pure-at-heart and myself to the back of the shop and out of earshot of the purple headed old pest still guarding the door. But the big roll of Great British pounds I pulled out of my pocket was a good passport.

As soon as she saw the roll of cash Blondie's eyes opened wide and she began trying to sell me a line of goods, both off the shelf and from her heart, mostly about all the wonderful things the shop's profits were devoted to. Not that I was taking a lot of notice but I think the week's good cause was starving kids in Africa. Or maybe it was incontinent Grandmothers in Peru. Whatever.

I listened to all the beautifully enunciated blather for a few minutes. Then I said I knew just what she needed. Blondie asked me what that was and I pointed to the the fruit bowl with the ABBA motif on it and sang her a verse:

"Money, money, money
Always sunny
In the rich man's world
Aha-ahaaa
All the things I could do
If I had a little money
It's a rich man's world."

My little charity queen laughed and said it was always easier in a rich man's world.

"That's right," I agreed. Then I pulled a note off the bulging roll in my hand and offered it to her between two fingers as casually as if it were a cigarette paper. "I'll have something off the peg and keep the change."

"Something? What sort of something? And what size?"

"It doesn't matter. I am a rich man, just like it says in the song. And you've got nothing here I'd ever wear anyway. So sell me anything you like. I'll get my money's worth out of the packing."

That confused the hell out of her.

"Uh . . . I'm sorry, I don't understand. Why would you buy something you don't want?"

"Because it'll give me a chance to proposition you without the purple haired people eater over there seeing you blush."

The little lady didn't slap my face or even get annoyed. She just giggled. Which meant what? I didn't know and maybe she didn't either. Then she tried to get back up on her dignity again.

"Oh dear," she said to me in a low voice. "I think I'd better make a confession. I only dress like this to encourage the customers to come in here and spend some money. The male customers, I mean. Actually, I'm an software engineer. And I already have a partner."

"Fair enough, you certainly encouraged me to come in," I answered. "Now encourage me to spend some more money by bending over and making a big production out of wrapping that jacket up for me."

"You particularly want me to bend over just to wrap up a jacket?"

"No, I want you to do it so I can get get a better view of that lovely round tush you're showing off so nicely. Make a good production out of it and you can put a shirt in with the jacket as well. It all goes on the tab, doesn't it?"

Blondie giggled again, and blushed. But there was a sparkle in her eyes and a trace of a smile around her lips.

"You sound like an Australian. You certainly act like an Australian."

"Yeah, I know. Rude, crude but lovable." I ran my fingers along the hanging garments. "Go on, Blondie, take the shirt off your rack and put it in with the jacket. It's for a good cause, right?"

Oh yes, the cheeks were definitely redder. "I don't know about that. Looking attractive is one thing, making an exhibition of myself is something else."

I peeled off another fifty. "Do a good job of it and I'll slip this down the front of your shirt as an extra bonus. And, as a guy who's gone hungry himself, let me tell you that the kids it buys food for will think you're something very special, no matter how you got the cash."

This time it wasn't so much a laugh as a quick intake of breath and a glance towards the shop doorway. I was happy to see that the purple pensioner had become bored with her ambush position at the shop door and had settled down behind a table with a pile of traded in women's mags to browse through. The one she'd buried her head in had a huge red lettered headline on the cover: "NICOLE WILL MARRY RUSSELL!"

Anybody who says that females are from Venus is plain wrong. They're from a galaxy far, far away.

"We'd have to go into the back room. Out of sight of my friend."

Duh! I'd almost forgotten I was currently doing a chatup on one of the baffling creatures. And this was Miss Butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my mouth speaking? Trying to lure me into a back room. Hello, hello!

"Sure," I agreed. "Otherwise your friend over there might start lap dancing for me as well, and I don't think I could stand that much excitement in one day."

"Lap dancing?" Blondie was looking at me edgeways on, not quite sure of what I meant.

"Sure. I want you to wriggle your derriere around for me while I tell you about what I'd like to do with that hot body you've got on display."

"Oh God, I've got to stop dressing this way." She sounded sincere about it.

I glanced over my shoulder at the other woman, saw she was still engrossed in Hollywood gloss and goss and gave Blondie's bottom a quick squeeze.

"Don't worry about a thing, sweetheart. By the time I've finished with this you won't be wearing anything except a totally satisfied smile."

She checked her step, reached down and pushed away my hand.

"Are you going to behave yourself?"

"No. Are you going to sell me those clothes or do I take my money away with me?"

She gave a little sigh, then moved again. On into the back room. And the first thing I did was to tell her to lean forward over the table.

"Never mind, start wriggling your booty around."

I don't know if she'd ever done anything like that before. I suppose not, because she was pretty cold and amateurish at first. But the situation improved out of sight when I slipped a note inside her shirt and then tweaked her right nipple.

It was as I'd connected her to a heavy duty battery. And the more I twiddled with her hotwired ignition point, the more Blondie gasped and gyrated from the waist down -- or waist back, maybe I should stay.

"You can't do this to me here in the shop! What if Elaine walked in?"

"I'd complain to her that you're making a bloody poor job of wrapping up my purchases. Look at the way your hands are shaking. The only way to cure that is to give you another bonus to wrap around your other tit."

"This is unbelievable. No normal man behaves like you, not even an Australian."

I loved the way she said Australian: "Orstralian" . . . just like the Queen. I was definitely going up market in the class of women I indecently assaulted.

I slipped another fifty inside Ms Goody-Goody's shirt to round her out to an even hundred and grabbed her other nipple afterwards. The response from the girl with the fancy accent was a grunt and a gyrating backside that wriggled around like a one woman conga line. Stick a paint brush handle up her crack and she'd have done you a impressionist painting on a very large canvas.

"Now we can talk business," I said. "I give you a swag of cash for your charity work and in return I get to have you on your hands and knees on my bed, taking it from me doggy style until I've fucked your brains out. Is it a deal?"

"No! I don't have sex with strangers. Anyway, You wouldn't pay me afterwards, would you? I've heard all about Australian con men."

"There seems to be two lines of argument here," I pointed out. "One about your worth of your morals and the other about the worth of my money. We can easily settle the money question. I'll leave this roll on this table when I walk out provided you'll agree to come over to the Woolsack Hotel as soon as you can. My name's Barrett, I'm in two eight four. Woolsack hotel, room two eight four -- remember it. And when you count what I've left behind you'll find there's a thousand pounds in your hand for the charity collecting box."

She stopped moving in surprise and I tut-tutted in disapproval.

"Get thee behind me, Satan. That's what you should be saying, my lady."

I stepped around behind her and stroked her bum cheeks, hot and smooth underneath the tiny scrap of dress. A dress which absolutely invited me to put a hand up it. So I did. With two fingers extended like a pair of horns that I rubbed gently across the tops of her inner thighs, both brushing as lightly as windblown feathers against the crotch of her panties. Blondie made sounds as if she was slipping into a warm bath on a cold day.

"You'd trust me to come over to the hotel even if I've already got the money? Why?"

It seemed like she was trying to talk herself into doing it.

"For one thing I've been holding your nipples. Guess what, they're hard and you're eager. And when I slip my fingers inside your panties I'm going to find out exactly what you're thinking about, aren't I?"

"No, you mustn't," she yelped. "I don't do things like this! Why don't you get yourself a prostitute, Barrett?"

"You just said it yourself. Because they do things like this all the time and you don't. That's why."

"I can't! I mustn't!"

"Think of all the food bowls that money will fill. Think of all those poor kids you'll make happy. And now . . ."

I moved both of my hands higher, lifting up her skirt. Mmmm, black panties, stretched out tightly across her perfectly proportioned haunches. Even better, when my fingertips crept inside the dark shaded underwear it was like patting a platypus straight out of the water; hot, furry and wet. Blondie shuddered and grunted, then twitched her beautiful bum like a fly pestered cow. Yep, this lady was a serious contender in in my personal rear of the year award.

Once again, as I do every time I look at a well shaped female body, I wondered how God had managed to get all those double curves so exactly right. If only he'd had enough sense to revert back to straight lines when he blueprinted female minds.

"Are you alright, Henrietta?"

It was a high pitched quivering call from the shop. From the direction of the Purple haired Pensioner. I was struck almost dumb with surprise.

"Henrietta!" I repeated it. "Henrietta." I was stunned. "I'm going to fuck a woman called Henrietta. It's like something out of Jane Austen."

"Jesus Christ, stop it!" Henrietta -- can you believe that name? -- whispered urgently. Then she called out loudly towards the door: "Yes, yes, I'm fine."

She was certainly trying to sound fine, but I have to tell you that her voice was a lot more quivery than the Pensioner's. Then I found the button I'd been wanting to press. And being damp didn't stop it from acting as a fuse that detonated a string of firecrackers inside Henrietta's shuddering body.

Jees, but I loved all those well bred swear words and outraged squawks Henrietta let off. It sounded as if a gang of drunken Hell's Angels were loose inside the royal enclosure on Ladies' day at Ascot.

What I really liked was when she bit on the sleeve of the jacket she was supposed to be folding up and shook it with the ferocity of a terrier killing a rat. Anything to stop from calling out loud, I guess. Until that moment I'd no idea that being involved in charity work could be so personally satisfying. Anyway, I sang her a bit more ABBA, seeing as we'd already started out on that track, so to speak. It was one of the few bits of their lyrics I could remember because it has an Australian theme.

"So bang, a boom-a-boomerang is love
A boom-a-boomerang is love."

Then I took my fingers away and gave her bottom a gentle smack. "Barrett, Woolsack Hotel, room 284."

I grabbed hold of her panties and jerked the waistband down around the bottom of her arse cheeks. The last time I'd heard a noise like the one Henrietta made then was when I'd popped the cork on a party sized champagne bottle after it had spent three days getting bounced down the Gun Barrel Highway in the tray of a Ford ute.

I walked for the door, then stopped and looked back. The self confident and oh so innocent looking lady I'd met only a few minutes before was staring at me with burning blue eyes in a very red face as she tried to haul up her underwear back up underneath that enticing skirt. Even if she never showed up at the hotel, that sight alone was well worth the dough lying on the table in front of her.

"Oh, and Henrietta, when you come over -- I've always fancied getting a blow job from a bleeding heart. You will remember that, won't you?"

She picked up a wire coat hanger and threw it at me. It hit the wall metres away. I grinned and walked out. The Purple Pensioner lifted up her eyes from the collated collection of celebrity claptrap and cooking hints that women read for entertainment and examined me with an air of vague dislike.

"Didn't you find anything you fancied?"

"I wouldn't say that."

It wasn't until I was outside the shop I realised I'd left the jacket and shirt with Henrietta. A pity about the jacket. The teethmarks on the sleeve would have been quite a conversation piece.

All in all, it had certainly been an interesting interlude but if I'd had to place odds on Henrietta not simply pocketing my money and forgetting about me as soon as possible, I'd have put them well above evens. Although with the English you never can tell, especially the well bred kind. They're not usually cheats. Lying, back stabbing hypocrites maybe, but not cheats.

Anyway, if she didn't turn up, I had the phone number of a pair of Jamaican twin sisters who could do the lowest limbo dances you've ever seen. A sight worth seeing too, considering that all they usually wore was a few feathers and lots of oil. The trick was, the guy could watch but he wasn't allowed a fuck until one or other of the girls knocked the bar down. Then you could pounce while the limboee was still in the perfect position for it. Nice girls but I'd had complaints from the hotel management last time about the stains their backs had left on the carpet.

Still, the twins could probably have knocked me down with one of their feathers when there was a knock on the room door and I opened it to find Henrietta standing there. Maybe not so much because she was there but because she was smiling at my handsome manly face. Then I caught a whiff of whiskey on her breath. Incredible.

"You've been in a pub? Knocking back drinks? Dressed like that?"

She nodded, once for each question. The last time I'd seen a girl with quite that traumatised look in her eyes, she'd just been involved in a fairly major road accident.

"If I'm going to be a whore I may as well behave like one, right? Would you believe, I got hit on in the pub -- twice."

"I'm not surprised. What does surprise is that they ever let you out. You may enter, madam, but please sit down until I've hidden all the coat hangers. Or are you planning on throwing something heavier this time."

She giggled: "You're a terrible four letter man. Do you know how long it took me to calm down after you'd left the shop?

"Do you know how dificult it was smuggling my erection past your purple haired collegue?"

Blondie -- sorry, Henrietta, giggled again, then came into the suite and looked around. "This is very nice."

"Sure. Except it really needs a sandpit for the limbo dancers."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's a long story. I'll explain later."

She was a touch unsteady on her feet, like a young fawn getting used to its long legs. I wondered exactly how many drinks Henrietta had had, and how used she was to drinking. The thought occurred that no decent man would take advantage of a lady in her condition.

The further thought occurred that it was a good thing then that I wasn't a decent man.

"I'm glad you've been drinking about me because I've been thinking about you," I told her.

"You have?" She sounded doubtful.

"It's true. Sit down on the bed and I'll prove it."

"What?"

She hesitated, but finally sat on the bed. I rubbed two fingers up and down the side of my nose, the same way I'd rubbed them against her panties. Then I sniffed the fingers loudly and rolled my eyes in mock affected pleasure.

Henrietta started laughing, before trying to pretend she hadn't.

"Barrett, you're absolutely awful. What on earth do you do for a living?"

"I'm a businessman."

"With your manners?"

"What's the matter with my manners? Some of my friends would have taken your panties off and then asked for a discount at the till on the way out because they were still warm. Compared to the guys I usually run around with, I'm Prince Charming."

"Barrett, I've eaten bacon that comes from animals with more advanced social skills than you possess."

"No problem, Henrietta, you can eat me too. In fact, I insist on it."

I saw her jawline tighten.

"Anyway, if you must know, I'm a property developer, and the last thing people want or expect in a property developer is good manners. Which reminds me, when are we going to get to the part of this visit where I get to be what you say I am?"

"What?"

"I want to make a real pig of myself with your tits and cunt, lady bountiful."

Henrietta sighed and rolled her own eyes back, like Joan Of Arc dropping a hint that she'd rather go shopping for a new suit of burnished armor than get burnt at the stake, but if duty called . . . well, a saint's gotta do what a saint's got to do, especially if she's a lady.

"That money's not forged, is it?"

"No. But, of course, I'd tell you straightaway if it was."

"Oh."

There was a pause.

"Well, I guess I'll just have to take the chance. It seemed genuine. No more excuses, then."

"No."

There was another pause.

"So I can count on doing some good with it?"

"Yes."

"Right."

She looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time.

"The way it works, Henrietta, is that you start by taking off your clothes."

"OK, fine. No limbo dancing to warm up with or anything like that?"

"No, there's no bar to creep under either, but I can probably find you a slippery pole to slide up and down on as much as you like."

She sighed and began unbuttoning the front of her shirt. "I'm rather nervous here, in case you haven't noticed. I've never been in a hotel room with a stranger. But it's so comforting to be seduced by a man with all the subtle charm of a bad tempered buffalo."

She paused and looked up at me with the last shirt button still fastened. "You won't be disappointed, will you, Barrett?"

"If I am, you'll be the first to hear about it. I've got manners that are worse than a pig's, remember?"

"Mmmm . . . perhaps we'd get on better if I apologised for saying that -- a teensy weensy apology, anyway."

"Henrietta, has anybody ever told you that you look lovely when you're grovelling."

"You're not going to make this easy in any way at all, are you, Barrett?"

I gave her one of my biggest, broadest and beamingist smiles.

"Henrietta, have you ever seen one of those political broadcasts where they have a computer generated worm to show how the audience are reacting to what they're seeing and hearing?"

"Huh? Yes, I suppose so."

"OK. take a look at my worm. Does that answer any question you've got about the audience reaction so far?"

She lowered her eyes and looked at the bulge in the front of my jeans.

"Oh. From where I'm sitting, Barrett, it looks as if the worm has turned. In an upwards direction."

She slipped her shirt off her arms and down her back, then smiled coyly up at me. I ran a fingertop along the top of her black bra.

"Henrietta, it seems to me there's a couple of locations here which could get developed if they were handled properly. How about an on site inspection?"

"Without let or hinderance, I suppose?"

Her arms came free from her shirt sleeves. I felt her back shivering at my touch as I unhooked the bra straps. If I clapped my hands I was sure she'd bounce right off the bed in a fit of nerves.

"Calm down, sweetie. I'm as new age and sensitive as the next guy. The next property developer guy, anyway. Here, hold your arms up."

Henrietta did as I told her to and waited patiently as I eased the cups off her breasts and lifted the straps up over her hands. Then her eyes opened widely as a I knelt down and pushed the bra underneath my bed and out of sight.

"You'll have to crawl around on your hands and knees to drag it out again," I told her. "Don't worry though, I'll be right behind you all the way."

Henrietta shook her head in a kind of mock despair: "Barrett, if opposites do attract, we should turn out to be the greatest item since Romeo and Juliet."

"Henrietta, if that girl had behaved like you, the play would have been called Montague and Juliet. My first name is Pat."

She giggled, her head still full of whiskey fumes.

"We English prefer to be introduced before we enter into a first name based relationship."

"OK, I've got a very close personal friend I'd like to introduce you too. In fact he's been giving you the eye for the last five minutes."

"Ah, I think I know the friend you mean. The one that seems so eager to be let out for some fresh air?"

I unfastened the top of my jeans: "I think it's exercise that Monty really needs. Fresh air and lots and lots of exercise."

"Monty?"

"My friend here, Monty Python."

Henrietta giggled again, then looked inside my jeans.

"Hello, Monty. Pleased to meet you."

"How come you're on first name terms with him but not me?" I complained.

"Well, we've been properly introduced, haven't we? Anyway, he's better looking than you are, Barratt, and so far he hasn't said anything rude to me."

I had to laugh: "Maybe he hasn't said anything rude but I happen to know what he's thinking about."

"I do as well," my new found acquaintance said. "But I'll ask him anyway. Monty, are you glad to see me, or would you rather be limbo dancing?"

END OF PART ONE

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