Donna and the Frock

We were taking afternoon tea in the Georgian splendour of the Pump Rooms or, as Donna called them, the Frump Rooms. She called them this because of the clientele which was a microcosm of middle aged, middle class women. One woman at a neighbouring table was wearing a hat and, believe it or not, long white gloves! We were taking a welcome break from shopping for Donna’s dress for the wedding. She had insisted that frock-search was not her forte and that, therefore, I should act as her ‘shopper’s friend.’ This, at least, was a task which I felt I could throw myself into with enthusiasm if not ability.

We had done the rounds of the usual suspects and found nothing and so we were taking tea to fortify ourselves for a further sally into the smaller boutiques which sold less department-store type clothing. There was a pianist playing and a cellist. She, a stunning woman in her thirties, was really good and extremely well presented in a long black dress. Her legs spread, she held the instrument to her like a lover and occasionally threw her head back in a mime of ecstasy. ‘I think I’ll get one of those,’ said Donna. ‘It looks like it might be useful if you’re away.’

I sniggered. ‘You’d be unfaithful to me with a piece of wood?’

‘Better that than some alternatives, don’t you think?’ I could but agree. I told her that if she really didn’t want to wear a dress to the wedding that I really wouldn’t mind and that the most important thing was that she felt good. So far as I was concerned she could wear a sack and look wonderful. She kissed me then, rather more sensually than the Frump Rooms are used to, and I distinctly heard the woman in the hat and gloves sniff disapprovingly and mutter something to her matronly companion. I stood and picked up my bag.

‘Come on, Dennis. Let’s get back to the search.’ The look on ‘The Hat’s’ face was a picture.

We left the café in a paroxysm of laughter and were virtually holding each other up as we walked past the Abbey on our way to the little alleys of shops that housed the boutiques we sought. I accidentally bumped into someone and was surprised to see it was my Aunt Lisa. You may remember her from a previous Donna. We kissed hello and I introduced her to Donna. She shook Donna’s hand and we exchanged a few pleasantries. Donna suggested that Lisa might care to come to our flat for supper one evening and, much to my surprise, she agreed eagerly. We fixed a mid-week date and went our separate ways. I asked why she had asked Lisa for supper and she merely said that she liked her. Much, much later we had bagged a dress for Donna.

We had finally found a shop which I’d not seen before. The owner, a delightful woman of about 50 who was dressed somewhat eccentrically confirmed she had only recently acquired the lease and that she was really just starting in the business. We explained the purpose of our visit and she offered me a seat. She and Donna stood and the woman examined her with a professional eye. I should say that Donna was at this time wearing a black shirt and jeans and a pair of distinctly sturdy looking boots. Naturally I thought she looked gorgeous but I don’t imagine she was attired to everyone’s taste.

‘Would you mind removing the boots?’ asked the shopkeeper. Donna obliged. ‘I have three things that spring to mind. Do you have any particular colour in mind? For example, does it have to avoid clashing with your friend’s dress?’ Donna explained that this was not an issue. ‘What time of day is the wedding?’ Donna said that it would start at 3 pm and that there was a reception and party to follow. She considered this and then fetched three things for Donna to examine. Donna grabbed my hand and pulled me from the chair.

‘Come on, College, this is your moment.’ I stood at her side and studied the three dresses. One was clearly unsuitable as it was a flowered print and simply would not have done. The other two were better prospects; one in the darkest red, the other in a soft blue that almost perfectly matched one of Donna’s eyes. It was calf length and almost a sheath but for a slight definition at the hips. Donna looked at me and sensed approval. She tried it on and looked absolutely stunning. It was just as well we were not alone. We didn’t bother trying the other. Laura, the owner with whom we were now on first name terms, approved too and so, several pounds the poorer, we returned home.

‘Do you really like it?’ I asked Donna. She assured me that she did and told me to stop worrying, the dress was fine. I had bought some sea bass for our supper and was in the kitchen, laying the fish on a bed of chopped shallots and rosemary on a sheet of baking paper when I felt a hand on each of my shoulders. I poured white wine and a little drop of balsamic vinegar onto the other ingredients and placed a bay leaf on top of the whole lot as her hands gently massaged my neck. As I closed the parcel of baking paper over the ingredients a hand left my upper body and slithered under my skirt. I leant my head back on Donna’s shoulder and she kissed my neck, nibbling at me ear lobe between kisses. Her finger found the elastic around my thigh no barrier to ingress and within seconds I was treated to a delicious intrusion that elicited soft moans. I couldn’t turn around so had to endure this and her gentle fondling of my breast under my apron. There was no way I was going to finish the meal until Donna had completed her tormenting of me. To my surprise she suddenly let me go. I turned and she took me in her arms.

‘Don’t you dare touch me until you have washed your hands, College,’ she smirked at me. I kissed her mouth and then, somehow, we ended up under the shower and well, puss came to shove as usual.

The fish tasted delicious!