Last Bus To Woodstock

he? She had asked it with a growing anger. He'd sensed, as they were driving along, the jealousy she must have felt as the girl in the front had chatted him up. Not that he had given her any encouragement. Not then, anyway. But he felt genuinely worried, and, he told her so. They could meet again next week: he would be writing in the usual way. It was half a minute of agitated whispering — no longer; just inside the door of The Golden Rose. There had been exasperation and a glint of blind fury in her eyes. But he understood how she felt. He wanted her again, too — just as badly as ever.

He got back into the car and drove on to Woodstock. Now that she had the field to herself, the blonde girl seemed even freer from any inhibitions. She leaned back with a relaxed and open sensuality. The top button of her thin, white blouse was unfastened, and the blouse itself seemed like a silken seed-pod ready to burst open, her breasts swelling like two sun-ripened seeds beneath it.

'What do you do?'

'I'm at the University.'

'Lecturer?'

'Yes.' Their eyes met. It had gone on like that until they reached Woodstock. 'Well, where shall I drop you?'

'Oh, anywhere really.'

'You going to see the boyfriend?'

'Not for half an hour or so. I've got plenty of time.'

'Where are you meeting him?'

'The Black Prince. Know it?'

'Would you like to come for a drink with me first?' He felt very nervous and excited.

'Why not?'

There was a space in the yard and he backed in, up against the far left-hand wall.

'Perhaps it's not such a good idea to have a drink here,' she said.

'No, perhaps not.'

She lay back again in the seat, her skirt rising up around her thighs. Her legs were stretched out, long, inviting, slightly parted.

'You married?' she asked. He nodded. Her right hand played idly and irregularly with the gear lever, her fingers caressing the knob. The windows were gradually misting over with their breath and he leaned over to the compartment on the near side of the dashboard. His arm brushed her as he did so and he felt a gentle forward pressure from her body. He found the duster and half-heartedly cleaned her side window. He felt the pressure of her right hand against his leg as he moved slightly across her, but she made no effort to remove it. He put his left arm around the back of her seat and she turned towards him. Her lips were full and open and tantalizingly she licked her tongue along them. He could resist her no longer and kissed her with an abrupt and passionate abandon. Her tongue snaked into his mouth and her body turned towards him, her breasts thrusting forward against him. He caressed her legs with his right hand, revelling in sheer animal joy as she swayed slightly and parted them with wider invitation. She broke off the long and frenzied kissing and licked the lobe of his ear and whispered, 'Undo the buttons on my blouse. I'm not wearing a bra.'

'Let's get in the back,' he said hoarsely. His erection was enormous.

It was over all too soon, and he felt guilty of his own reactions. He wanted to get away from her. She seemed quite different now — metamorphosed in a single minute.

'I'd better go.'

'So soon?' She was slowly fastening her blouse but the spell was broken now.

'Yes. I'm afraid so.'

'You enjoyed it, didn't you?'

'Of course. You know I did.'

'You'd like to do it again some time?'

'You know I would.' He was getting more and more anxious to get away. Had he imagined someone out there? A peeping Tom, perhaps?

'You've not told me your name.'

'You've not told me yours.'

'Sylvia. Sylvia Kaye.'

'Look Sylvia.' He tried to sound as loving towards her as he could. 'Don't you think it would be better if we, you know, just thought of this as something beautiful that happened to us. Just the once. Here tonight.'

She turned nasty and sour then. 'You don't want to see me again, do you? You're just like the rest. Bi' of sex and a blow out and you're off.' She spoke differently, too. She sounded like a common slut, a cheap, hard pick-up from a Soho side-street. But she was right, of course — absolutely right. He'd got what he wanted. But hadn't she? Was she a prostitute? He thought of his days in the army and the men who'd caught a dose of the pox He must get out of here; out of this claustrophobic car and this dark and miserable yard. He put his hand in his pocket and found a ?1 note. But for some loose silver, he had no more money on him.

'A pound no'! One bloody pound no'! Chris'—you must think I'm a cheap bi' of goods. You 'ave a bi' of money on you nex' time mate — or else keep your bloody 'ands off.'

He felt a deep sense of shame and corruption. She got out of the car and he followed her.

'I'll find ou' who you bloody are, mister. I will — you see!'