With each full penetration, she murmured, “Fuck me. Fuck me hard. Fuck me harder.” Until at last she cried out, “I’m there. Let go now.”

It took longer than I had expected to relinquish the separation of mind and body so that I could concentrate exclusively on the incredible sensation that was growing in my cock. At the last minute, I pulled out and twisted to my knees, pumping my slippery shaft with a loose grip. It was all that was needed to discharge a big arc of sperm across her tits. Casey sighed and fell back, rubbing in the contribution she had extracted from my inner depths. Her other hand was cupped across her vulva, seeking to sustain the final tremors of the orgasm she had been able to generate while I was still inside her.

*********************

Once it had been established that I was the kind of man she needed, we fell into an irregular routine of meetings; sometimes there was dinner first, sometimes not, sometimes it was at her cottage, sometimes at my apartment. There were gaps, but rarely for more than a few days, when we didn’t communicate. What Casey did in those intervals I don’t know. I didn’t ask and she didn’t volunteer. To be honest, sex with Casey so was fulfilling, so all consuming, I was quite glad of the occasional opportunity to recuperate.

Several weeks had passed when I saw a Bentley pull up outside the gallery. The woman who was helped down from the rear seat looked at name above my window carefully, as though making sure she had come to the right place, and then entered. The chauffeur, I noted, climbed back behind the wheel but gave no indication of moving away. The lady wasn’t expecting to stay for long. In that case, I wasn’t expecting a sale. The woman was immaculately dressed in a dark grey tailored suit. Her figure was trim, slim waist, excellent breasts, the whole maybe a tribute to an expensive corsetière. Her age could have been anything from fifty-five to seventy-five. She nodded without speaking and made a tour of the exhibits that was just short of cursory, but only just.

“Does anything interest you?” I enquired, trying not to reveal my annoyance at what I felt had been on the verge of insulting to the artists whose work she had strolled past.

“Not at the moment, thank you,” she said. At the door she paused and turned. “Casey speaks well of you. I have told her to bring you along next time. I shall look forward to that.”

Before I could respond, she had gone. The door of the Bentley was already open and the chauffeur was helping her inside.

*********************

It was Friday evening with a wisp of autumn mist as we left the motorway and turned on to Oxfordshire’s country roads. I had hired a Mercedes convertible, closed the gallery an hour early, but leaving