Donna and the Engagement Party

You may remember that Nellie was getting seen to by the rugby player. Well, it transpired that their relationship was founded on firm ground and as Donna and I sipped a cooling glass of some unpronounceable Czech beer on Sunday afternoon Nellie announced that he had proposed to her. Donna enquired as to the nature of the proposal and Nellie, somewhat miffed, said, ‘To marry me, you nitwit.’ She had apparently been overwhelmed. He had taken her to the club bar after the game the previous day, dropped to one knee in front of his peers. Nellie had hissed, ‘Not here, not with everyone watching!’ but had misinterpreted his intentions. He had proffered a ring, which Nellie proudly displayed to us and made his offer. It was, apparently, whoops all round, lots of laddish behaviour and a good time was had by all.

‘We used to call Cassandra the “good time that was had by all,”’ said Donna sardonically. I kicked her under the table and rose to hug my congratulations to Nellie who, inexplicably, started to cry.

A few weeks later there was a party to celebrate the engagement. There is a posh hotel in Queens Square which was the venue and it was evening dress and bubbles. Now, it has to be said that in our household evening dress was a rather complex affair. As I believe I have revealed hitherto, Donna is a deliciously androgynous woman, by no means butch, perhaps in the manner of Noomi Rapace whose images have adorned this very blog. Donna favoured trousers over frocks for herself but was not sure it would be suitable for the occasion. My choice was naturally simpler. A quick flit with Donna to the charity shop, a long, gunmetal grey silk number with a crimson slash across the boobs, straps like spaghetti over the shoulders and a fullish skirt did the trick and only £60. We dallied happily in the shops to find something for Donna and eventually settled on a long split skirt, a sort of Jane Austen riding skirt in the darkest blue, with a white silk shirt and red tie. ‘I look like the fucking Union Jack,’ she complained but I think my reaction to her appearance gave her the assurance that she looked fabulous. I won’t go into detail, suffice to say we were a bit sweaty afterwards. Her outfit was completed with a jacket which matched the tie and a pair of beautiful soft boots with faux spur straps. I wore heels and, to top it all off, a veiled hat. I will go into some detail here.

The hat, another charity shop purchase, had been in the back of my wardrobe for some time. Donna had discovered it one evening while searching for her vibrator. She had returned to bed with both items, plonked said hat on me, assumed a lustful, wolfish countenance, pronounced it the ‘fucking hat’ and had proceeded to do precisely that. If I felt initially silly wearing a hat and nothing else, I soon forgot it as Donna gently eased the ‘buzzcock,’ as she called it, into a certain haven and kissed me with her hunger aroused. It was Donna who dictated I should wear the hat and, of course, required the stockings as per usual.

Thus adorned we arrived at the party. It was, as Donna said, ‘dead posh.’ She looked utterly gorgeous and I was as proud as Catherine Zeta-Jones’s mum was when the Welsh tart won an Oscar. Nellie was, well, Nellie. She looked like one of Prince Andrew’s daughters, what we call the ‘slapper Princesses.’ It was a great night although some of the speeches were a little overdone. One speaker, the rugby player’s manager, gave a long dissertation on the merits of the sport which Donna described as ‘colonic intellect.’ When I enquired as to her meaning, she replied, ‘He’s got his head up his arse.’

Her head, whilst not quite so located, was pretty close around 3 am the nex morning, approximately half an hour after we had returned home. She was still wearing the shirt, but the rest had disappeared quite rapidly. You may guess that I was still adorned with the TFH (The Fucking Hat) as it had become known and the stockings. Since my knees were raised and splayed I could see that the seams were still straight, which is, I think, a mark of a lady. The moment arrived, I clung to it and to Donna’s hair, my torso lifted off the bed as the wave of pleasure made me spasm. I subsided back onto the pillow and felt that delicious languor that always ensues. I felt her chin rest on my mons and raised my head to gaze down at those lovely, mismatched eyes.

‘Have you ever considered marriage, College?’

‘I rather thought we are married.’

She smiled. ‘Good answer,’ and crawled up my person, raised TFH’s veil, kissed me and straddled my leg. As she lifted herself a little to make the perfect connection between nylon and minge she said, as she rocked, ‘With sex like this, who needs a contract?’ Who could argue with that?