I wrote this for the monthly challenge set by my writers group. The picture (if I remember right) is from a book of 1920s woodcuts. (Someone will correct me if I'm wrong.)
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Ezekiel knew that he shouldn’t come here, and yet every week, at this same hour, here he stood, resting his life-wearied form on his cane. This late at night there was a dull hush over the darkened street, and even the rats appeared to have gone to sleep. There was the occasional rustle of paper or a whistle as the breeze caught the street lamps at just the right resonance, and Ezekiel would startle from his reverie to glance around, shiftily checking that he was still unobserved. Of course, nobody would think anything of a well-dressed man in his fifties gazing into a shop window, even at this hour, but Ezekiel feared that his thoughts would give him away to passers-by, and he had a reputation to uphold, and a wife that was already impossible to keep happy. Agnes would likely beat him if she knew that he still had dark stirrings of passion inside him, that often he looked at women and felt himself rise at the thought of running his fingers over a fine physique, that he longed to feel soft fingers on his swollen shaft, and that sometimes, late at night, he touched himself imagining penetrating such a woman and making banal noises of pleasure that would not befit a man of his position.
Of course, this was not an unspecific fantasy. When he gazed at the corsetry in the shop window and the hard moulded breasts of the models displaying them, it was not a stranger that he was having his way with. Occasionally, while he was pondering the arrangement, the heavy set bosom of the mannequin would seem to shift, and he would allow his gaze to travel upwards, past the pale lengthening neck into the appearing face, and Mary’s rouged lips would pout seductively at him and her eyes would gaze lustfully at him and he would hear her sweet voice whispering wicked suggestions to him. Of course, he would blush and reply that he couldn’t, it wouldn’t be proper, but he’d think it nonetheless, and then his paranoia of being spotted would return and he would have to check he was not being watched, and when he looked back at the glass the only thing looking at him would be his own embarrassed reflection.
He was embarrassed by his desire for his business partner’s 22 year old daughter, but his attraction to her would not be silenced. He fancied that sometimes, at dinner parties, she glanced his way and considered him, perhaps calculating his desire for her and weighing whether or not she could care for him in that manner. She was an outspoken, ostentatious thing, an outrageous flirt with a penchant for frippery. She was working him as surely as she worked the social circles for daddy, but Ezekiel had to admit, business wouldn’t be nearly as good without her. He shivered with delight whenever she entered the room with a swish of beads, cocking a hip with a flourish as if to say I’ve arrived, adore me. Ezekiel would have adored Mary at a moment’s notice. What he wouldn’t give to undress her, taking his time to admire and caress her creamy white flesh, to unhook her tight corset and release her bountiful, round breasts to his waiting hands and tongue. He would explore her wondrous curved bottom until she squealed with delight, before pushing the length of his manhood in and out of her sweet, wet tightness until the exquisite pleasure of sexual release. Oh, to be young again, enjoying the frippery of youth. How he missed it.
Of course, that had been before business, and before Agnes. Agnes had removed the joy of sex as surely as she had removed his joy in art, in literature and horses and eventually in himself. Now, here he was, an old man looking in a shop window in the middle of the night, startling at ghosts and ashamed of his lust. Just an old man, indulging an idle fantasy. He stroked his hard length through his trousers, revelling in a moment’s heady indulgence before he would once again return to the oppressive mantle of expectations placed upon his soulless existence.
From atop the lascivious form of the mannequin in the shop window, Mary smiled at him wickedly. Old fool, she said. Old fool, indeed.
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