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As 2020 marked the 150th anniversary of the death of Charles Dickens, I had decided to take a trip to London to visit the famous writer’s old home, which is now a small museum filled with Dickensian memorabilia. Sadly, I’d picked a busy day in August for my visit and there was very little elbow room in the cramped four stories of this narrow Victorian townhouse.I sought temporary refuge in the attic nursery, mercifully free of Chinese students. From my vantage point, I looked through the sash window down onto the cars parked along Doughty Street. Directly opposite, I spotted a silver Porsche Spyder convertible, identical to the one an old lover of mine named Carlotta had once owned.Back then, these classic sports racing cars were something of a rarity; in 2020 there would probably be less than one hundred of them still on the roads, worldwide. Legend has it that a Porsche test driver once opined that driving the car at high speed around the famous Nurburgring circuit was akin to low-level flying. This was the second time I’d spotted one of these distinctive cars in traffic during my stay in London.The sight of the silver Spyder soon had my mind wandering away from ‘Oliver Twist’ and ‘Great Expectations’ back a decade to lustful nights spent in the bursa escort arms of the sexually insatiable Carlotta. What wouldn’t I give now for one night of extreme naughtiness with that flame-haired temptress I’d so cruelly cast aside in order to marry a boring school teacher!I descended the staircase. “Thank you for your visit. Please come again,” called the student manning the souvenir desk.“I certainly will.” But I’ll make sure I don’t come in August.I paused on the pavement outside and cast an envious eye across the street at the Spyder. At this range, I could read its registration plate: CAR 69. My heart missed a beat. That was Carlotta’s old personalised number plate! So it must have once been her car – doubtless now owned by a rich Porsche enthusiast. The vinyl soft top was in place and it was hard to discern the identity of the driver sitting at the wheel. Slowly the window was wound down to reveal an attractive middle-aged woman wearing huge tortoiseshell sunglasses..“Hello stranger, fancy seeing you!” The mild Germanic inflection was instantly recognisable as that of my old flame.“Carlotta? Is it really you?” I stammered.“It most certainly is, darlink. And all the better for seeing you. Come and sit beside me.”I needed no second invitation bursa escort bayan and moved promptly into the low passenger bucket seat. I instantly picked up the distinctive aroma of the expensive Elie Saab perfume which Carlotta always wore. The previous evening, I had visited the National Film Theatre to catch the revival of an early Ingmar Bergman film, but left before the end, depressed by its morbid Swedish introspection. On the way out of the half-empty theatre, I’d caught the faintest hint of the Saab perfume.“So what brings you to this neck of the woods, my sweet?”“I’ve been visiting the Dickens Museum opposite. I’m doing a thesis on his work for an Open University literature degree.”“Isn’t it a little late in your life to be doing degrees, Nicholas? I thought that was what students did.” Cutting sarcasm was always her strongest suit.I felt a talon-like hand run slowly up my thigh, stopping only centimetres from my crotch. I recalled how it would often make me nervously imagine that inside my trousers was a tarantula spider “Remember the night I sucked you off in this car after we’d been to that porn cinema in Soho?”“How could I forget?”“And you pulled out and gave me a glorious facial? Or what about when you took me to the Caribbean for my escort bursa fortieth birthday and we made love naked on the beach in front of our chalet on our first night?” She was now avidly turning the pages of her sexual scrapbook.“And didn’t we have such fun in Sicily?” Yes, we did – until, on a sight-seeing tour of the island, I discovered your veneration of that odious jack-booted fascist Benito Mussolini.She gazed through the windscreen. “So, tell me liebling, are you still a heavy cummer?” The question was posed with the same nonchalance as if we’d been talking about the weather.“When I get the chance. Which isn’t too often these days.”Taking the lead (as of old) she guided my hand towards the un-studded opening of her snakeskin slacks. She pushed my hand inside so that I could be reunited with her shaven quim. She purred as I fingered her moist slit. “Zo, no-one special at the moment?”“Not really. I tried Tender.com but they were all well past their sell-by date. Most of ‘em were just sex-starved grannies.”“Tell me about it, sweetie! I had a couple of sapphic flings on that site but all they wanted to do was eat my pussy! I love having my cunnie licked – as you well remember – but purleaze, with some finesse and mutual affection.”The hand moved up to fondle my growing erection. “Maybe we should do something about this.” I recalled how Carlotta had once unashamedly masturbated me in a supermarket car park.“Not here, in the middle of Clerkenwell, surely?”

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