He was lacing up an oversized pair of trainers when the door to the annex opened. Angela, framed by a shaft of bright autumn sunlight, stepped into the room. The sun picked out her shapely frame in an enticing silhouette.
"Where have you been?"
Angela glided across the room. "Just making a few phone calls. I've sorted it all out. The hospital have given me leave of absence. So, Peter Howard, I'm all yours now."
Peter patted the bed beside him. "Why don't you come over here, then?" he purred. She stepped over the threshold. He smiled and shook his head. "Take off your clothes first."
Angela blushed. "What if someone comes to the door?"
Peter shrugged and turned his attention back to the computer screens.
"You said you wanted me to teach you."
"I do," Angela whispered.
Peter lifted an eyebrow. "So you say. You know the girls at Deuvar are broken for their masters. They are always available, always obedient." He glanced at Angela, her eyes betrayed a tiny glimmer of excitement. "Nothing is denied them. Nothing! Ever!"
Angela's eyes flashed again and slowly she began to undo her blouse. When she undid her skirt and let it fall Peter shook his head.
Angela blushed and glanced down at the lacy black panties she had on. She had added matching stocking and suspenders. Peter smiled; she was obviously keen to please.
"I told you not to wear those!"
"I thought – I'm sorry -"
Peter looked out of the window. "It's a nice day out there," he said conversationally. "We shall go for a walk."
Angela looked confused. "But I thought you were going to teach me?"
Peter smiled. "Oh, I am. The fresh air will do us both good."
Angela bent down to pick up her blouse and skirt. Peter shook his head. "You won't be needing those any more. Take your knickers off too."
Angela stared up at him in astonishment. "But I can't go outside like this," she stammered.
"Take them off!" He slid the short cane off the bedside cabinet.
Angela's cheeks flushed scarlet as she looked at it. Then she hurried back into the main house and returned a few seconds later wearing a long black woollen trench coat that covered her down to the ankles. Around the shoulders she had wrapped a pale cream stole and buttoned the coat right up to the neck. She looked a vision of middle class respectability.
Peter nodded his approval. "Undo it again and let me look at you."
Without a word Angela unbuttoned the coat. It fell open to reveal her voluptuous body, her sex framed by the black suspender belt and dark stockings.
Outside the afternoon was sharp and clear. Angela pushed him out into the little lane that ran past the end of the cottage drive. He smiled, imagining the way her body was warming from her exertions; the heat – the smell of her perspiration and sexual perfume mingling. The friction of her breasts against the silk lining of her coat. The day was glorious, the scenery breathtaking and at the same time heart-warming.
As they rounded a bend in what Angela assured him was a circular walk, Peter spotted a large man sitting beside the bridge that traversed a flowing stream. He grinned as they approached. The man was corpulent, a cigarette dangling between flaccid lips as he cast his line into the water. His belly hung over the top of grubby jeans.
Peter beckoned to Angela. "Undo your coat," he commanded in an undertone. "Show him!" He heard Angela gasp as he indicated the fisherman, who was now rooting in a knapsack for a can of beer. The man popped the ring pull and took a long draw on the can before belching.
Angela reddened. "He's obscene -"
"Go over and offer to warm him up. He looks frozen."
Angela's eyes betrayed the mixture of apprehension and excitement that Peter understood so well.
She bit her lip and looked at him. "What about you? What will you do?"
Peter pointed towards the far bank of the stream. "Push me over there so that I can watch you. You can take him under the bridge. He won't mind his benefactor watching."
Angela swallowed hard and then hunched behind his wheel chair. Her breathing had quickened. Peter sat back and let her guide him onto the grass on the far side of the bank. The fishermen looked up to see who was watching him. Angela, trembling slightly, stepped closer to the edge of the bank and slowly, slowly, unbuttoned her trench coat.
Peter could see the fisherman's eyes widening in disbelief as Angela let the coat fall open. With proprietorial pride he ran his hand across her rounded belly, dipping his fingers into her wet open quim.
He could feel her trembling.
"Don't keep him waiting," he said.
With careful deliberation she turned and retraced her steps over the bridge. Below her the fisherman watched every step with increasing excitement. His bulky jowls had reddened and the can of beer in his fist was forgotten as Angela got closer and closer to him. At the crown of the bridge she looked back at Peter – her eyes were glittering.
She was far better than he could have ever possibly imagined. Now she was sliding down the bank toward her anonymous stud.
Already the man's cock was jutting forward inside his jeans like a flag pole. As Angela approached he stepped forward and grinned.
"I want you to fuck me," she said slowly, her low voice clearly audible from the far side of the bank. Peter couldn't have phrased it better himself.
The man took a swig of beer and then drew a meaty fist across his damp lips. He didn't speak, instead he dragged her coat back off her shoulders and began to manhandle her heavy breasts. His lips drew one in while his fingers lunged clumsily between the glorious lips of her quim. Her magnificent nipples were engorged and stiff.
The man explored her body like a farmer handling horse flesh, crude rough fingers pawing and pulling at her soft flesh. He leered up at her and planted a wet sour kiss on her lips; she flinched but he wouldn't be denied, instead he grabbed her hair and pulled her closer to kiss him again. As Angela pulled away a trail of saliva linked them.
Peter could imagine the smell of the fisherman's body, acrid and rank, reeking of beer, tobacco and stale sweat; a sharp contrast to the delicate freshness of Angela's delightfully scrubbed skin.
The man rubbed himself against Angela's body. It was an obscene earthy gesture. Without further prelude Angela took him by the hand and led him under the bridge. They were barely under cover when the fisherman yanked down his jeans, revealing a great white quivering arse. The shadows highlighted his pallor. He forced Angela up against the damp wall, spreading her legs by pushing her ankles apart with his feet.
She closed her eyes, face contorted with revulsion and excitement.
He snorted, wet lips and filthy hands working over her pale skin. She whimpered as his fingers opened her quim and then gasped as he plunged his cock into her.
Angela squealed as the fisherman found the mark. He pulled up his sweater. His great belly rubbed against her, his hands jerking her compliant and submissive body closer to him, pawing at her breasts, pressing eager lips to hers.
Peter moaned softly, feeling the eager press of his cock against his sweat pants. He watched Angela's face contort as the man thrust into her body again and again, each thrust garnished with a thick grunt of pleasure.
Her eyes were closed, her fingers clawing at the rough bricks behind her as her anonymous lover thrust on and on towards oblivion. It seemed no more than a few seconds before the grunts became more guttural, the thrusts more frantic. The big man dropped his head forward and sucked in one of Angela's breasts, snorting and clawing as his orgasm overtook him.
The instant he was finished he stepped back, pale skin flushed crimson. He dragged up his jeans, cramming his shirt back into his underpants.
Angela was rooted to the spot. Her nakedness was breathtaking as a trickle of moisture slithered down over her thigh.
"Do you do this sort of thing regular, like?" the man said breathlessly. "I'll be back here next week -"
Angela looked down at the bemused fisherman with an expression of total contempt and snapped her coat closed. It was all Peter could do to stop himself from laughing.