I Waited 40 Years to Fuck my Sister

Imogen stepped into my furniture showroom just as I was about to close-up for the day.

They say your first impression of someone forms in less than a second, but it’ll take a little longer than that to describe her. If this was a film, this would be the bit where they pause the footage and someone does a voiceover but the likelihood of this getting turned into a film is pretty low!

Anyway, hit pause and hold the image, just as Imogen steps through that door…

She was 20 years younger than me, maybe late twenties, still straddling the line between youthful innocence and adult experience. You could argue the case for neither being the right fit. Old enough to be a mother, young enough to still have doting grandparents.

The first thing to strike me was her hair. Not literally — I was standing several meters away from her and it was long but not that long! Armfuls of luxurious tousled copper curls flowing over her shoulders. The real-deal and natural, with a complexion to match, not something that came out of a L’Oreal tube, dyed-in over the bathroom sink. And I know what you’re probably picturing. You’ve got the word “ginger” in your head and probably thinking of that unpleasant kid with the piggy nostrils and the temper in the schoolyard who used to shout a lot. The one who’s hair was so stiff, it looked like he had copper coloured porridge in it. Well, forget that — that’s going down the wrong line. Think more of a young Catherine Zeta Jones, hair bouncing gloriously as she skips down a hillside. But ginger. Gorgeous.

Her face was pretty, pale, lightly freckled and sultry. You might say slightly horsey, but if you did, you better be picturing an absolute stunner of a horse! Something about the confidence in her face said she used to ride horses, among other things. She had high, light eyebrows giving her a faint look of amusement, a microscopically slight gap between her front teeth just glimpsed through soft pouty lips – the sort of teeth and mouth they use on raunchy chocolate adverts. One of her dark, come-to-bed eyes was shadowed by a curtain of her hair which she was brushing back with one hand just as you hit that pause button.

She wore a short green flowery sundress that showed off her impressive body shape, covering little more than her torso and upper thighs. Her bare arms had the pale freckled skin of a real redhead and from beneath the high hemline a matching set of pale welcoming thighs. Curvy in just the right places. As she took her first steps into the shop, her large breasts bounced very pleasingly. Have I not mentioned her playful puppies yet? It was a toss-up between hair and tits for what I noticed first. Let’s call it a draw!

If this was a film, you’d see a faint trail of something flowing through the air from her neck to my nostrils. I’d caught a hint of her perfume, and in our frozen paused state, it had tied up one more of my senses. Another tick in another box.

Anyway, this is not a film, so time to bring everything back up to normal speed. Resume birds chirping outside. Resume sound of modern glass front door closing. Resume faint sound of Bananorama’s Ain’t What You Do It’s the Way That You Do it on radio in the store room. Annnnnd go!

It only took a second for her to walk in through the front door but I knew in that small amount of time, that she’d caught me staring at her, looking her up and down, my eyes flashing excitement as my mouth forgot itself and hung open. I closed my mouth, popped my eyes back in their sockets and straightened my back. Tried to be professional. Failed.

“Sorry, were you closing?” she asked in a clear English public school voice. Confident, unhesitating. Not a lot of accent to go on – was that a southwestern accent in there? Maybe Bath? Or Oxfordshire?

“No, no. For you my front passage stays open!”

I cringed. What a stupid thing to say. In my head, I was about to deliver a James Bond carefully manicured pun, but all my mouth could produce was that. “Front passage”? What did that even mean? She looked back at me frowning momentarily at my words, but then smiled. The shop was open — she’d understood that bit. I knew she was used to doors being kept open for her and men falling over each other to give her whatever she wanted.

Now it was her time to stare at me, weighing me up like a cat seeing a cornered mouse. This guy in his late forties, six foot, athletic, shaved head, with my short-cut beard that I was never quite happy with. I wonder what she saw through her eyes. Did she see my kind brown eyes, momentarily flushed with something entirely more primal? Was I shabby chic, or just shabby? What on earth does a woman see in a man at first sight, beyond muscles and clothes, I wondered. You can’t see sexual prowess. Or integrity. As a man you learn to mask things like hunger and desire, lest they be unwarranted, so they wouldn’t be on show either. Lest — not used that word in a while! Maybe a woman sees wit and humour. And if so, with my crap opening line, I’m not doing well so far!

In that one second, maybe all she saw was some unremarkable older guy in a furniture shop that was open despite the sign on the front that said it should now be shut. And that would have saddened me as I know that I’m a lot more. It would have, if I’d been thinking abut myself but every neurone in my skull was now focussed on a green dress moving around my showroom

Despite my creepy opener, she’d smiled and had moved further into the shop. It’d been a quiet afternoon, so one extra customer, even if it stopped me from closing up, was welcome.

It was a furniture shop started many decades ago by previous owners and the decor hadn’t changed much since. A sleepy shop in a sleepy but well-to-do village, lit by the sleepy light of an evening sun. Sleepy but not unloved. The room was full of expensive materials, crafted into wonderful shapes by artisan’s hands. A collection of beautiful things from a different era, unappreciated by the Ikea generation. Rich dark woodwork, glossy veneers, antique chrome and exciting embroidered upholstery. A room full of amazing things that few people seemed to want these days. A relic maybe, but a good relic.

The woman seemed interested though, pausing by an ornate chaise and testing the bounce of its pink tongue-like cushion. She admired the four poster beds at the back of the shop and ran the material of the silk drapes through her fingers, ignoring the “Please don’t touch” sign. She stopped by a huge, shattered tree stump that had been polished and crafted into a chair but, like most people who cooed around it, probably struggled to see how it would fit in her home and moved on.

She accidentally knocked a card with some drawer dimensions on it onto the floor. As she bent to pick it up, the back of her short dress rose dangerously high, and the edge of two lovely curvy pale butt cheeks briefly came into view over those thighs. And did my eyes deceive me – no underwear and a glint of copper? I imagined my nostrils had just caught a hint of musk in the air and felt a tingling sensation in my crotch. I looked back towards a dark corner of the shop’s ceiling at the fairly new CCTV camera and found myself wondering what the playback would show. I unconsciously licked my lips and felt my pulse racing a little.

With the faintest of quivers in my voice, that made me clear my throat mid-sentence, I asked “Is there anything in particular you were looking for?”, happy as she turned to respond, to have her eyes back on me.

“I don’t know. You have lots of lovely things and some, I could use in my studio.”

“Oh, you’re an artist.” I asked, picturing her brush-in-hand. I waved my pinched hand repeatedly like I was making brush strokes but if I’d done that in my car, I could be confused for calling someone a wanker!

“No not in that way. It’s more……a photography studio.” and she giggled mischievously. Playfully.

She mooched around the shop for another 20 minutes, picking things up, or testing things out for comfort. I waited behind the counter, trying and failing to stop following her round with my eyes.

She called me over a few times with slightly odd requests. Asking me to lay full length on my own sofas for her to see how it looked, or asking me to shake the antique chrome frame of a bed to see if it rattled. At one point she asked me to stand on the stool from a vanity table set, whilst she just stood in front of me, eyes level with my trouser belt, nodding to herself.

After she’d leaned over the rounded arms of a few Chesterfield sofas, and brushed herself up against a few faux-fur rugs, she eventually clambered up and knelt on a rich red leather chair for one, both hands resting on the back. She adjusted her knees, pushing them outwards and upwards and clambered up higher so that she now knelt on the arms of the sofa, legs angled apart, squatting low. I knew the way her legs were splayed, her dress would be raised interestingly high and maybe popping over her lovely round butt. Frustratingly there was a low bookcase between us, obscuring my view. Even so, I felt a stirring in my trousers! My imagination working overtime, filling in the gaps.

When she dismounted, adjusting the skirt of her dress, she called me over to ask the price. I had to make a few adjustments in my trousers, then walked over. I told her the cost and she seemed unphased by the 4-figure price tag.

“I like interesting things. Playful things. You have some nice stuff but it’s not quite what I’m looking for. Do you have anything a bit more risqué? Tasteful like your stuff but a bit more……fun?”

I told her I didn’t but suddenly wished I had.

She bought it anyway but wanted it shipped to her home. To save me taking her address down, she handed me a business card.

“Sorry, we don’t do discount cards here.” Again, another crap line, but this time I managed to say it drily with a bit of humour.

She giggled and bit her lip. “Really, are you sure?” suddenly smiling and wiggling her shoulders like a fidgeting child. I hadn’t noticed the low neckline of her dress before, but I did now.