Phyllis: Part Eleven

This is the eleventh part of a fiction serial, in 790 words.

On the way home in the train, Terence was angry. Angry at being duped by the man purporting to be Lawrence. Angry that he would now have to change websites because of that mistake. Angry at wasting time and money travelling to London to meet the faker. And angry that the hotel refused to refund the cost of the second night when he checked out early.

The man sitting opposite him on the train was definitely checking out Phyllis though. Frequent glances from behind his book at her legs, and an occasional smile when their eyes met. On any other day, Terence might well have engaged him in conversation, gone home with him, then hit him with the reality. After all, he looked financially stable. An expensive watch, tailor-made suit, and the latest phone and laptop. The fact that he was reading a hardback book suggested some class, and a wedding ring indicated he was potentially open to be willing to pay to avoid exposure.

But he was too angry.

In the taxi from Nottingham City Station, he then got angry that he hadn’t gone with his instinct, and tried to secure the fellow passenger for a date. He was going to give himself a night off, drink a bottle of wine after a hot bath, and have a serious re-think about his next move after a good night’s sleep.

It wasn’t until eleven the next morning that he found his online Utopia. A more obscure, slightly kinky website for mature people who wanted to meet others for casual relationships. It had no fees, as it was ad-supported, and the private messages were encrypted, so no other con-men could see who you liked or sent messages to. He signed up using the black dress and short wig photos, but left out Phyllis’s age, instead going for ‘Mature and Experienced’. Sticking with the sixty-five plus age range for what he was interested in, he didn’t have to wait too long until the likes appeared on the photos, and the first messages came in.

Seventeen of the first twenty were predictably sexual. Photos of genitalia, men who were too young for him, and some kinky people who wanted things done to them that Terence was not willing to do, even for the chance of twenty grand. But one of the rest stood out like a whore at a wedding. Clive Gibson said he was sixty-two. Under the desired age range, but possible. He lived in Derby, only a thirty-minute journey by train, and his proflie photo showed a chubby guy with a big smile.

The profile text was appealing. ‘Looking for a kind but strict mature lady. Happy to meet in your home or a hotel, but cannot accommodate. Mutual enjoyment but no long-term commitment. And as a gentleman, I always pay for the lady’. That suggested a few things to Terence. Clive was probably married, financially stable, and was looking for some kind of domination-sex game.

Worth a try.

He sent a basic message. ‘Hi there Clive. I see you liked my photo and invited me to message you. I am fifty-something, live alone and can be strict when required. Also broad-minded, and open to new experiences. Like you, I am not looking for anything long-term, just some mutual fun’. Terence had time to make a sandwich for lunch, and was eating it when the reply came in.

‘Oh, that sounds wonderful. I am very interested, but I see you are based in London. That might make things difficult, as I have to be in the Derby area most days’. Terence had thought of that, and was ready. ‘I can get to Nottingham, not far from you. I know someone who has a small flat there. It’s nothing grand, but comfortable. Would meeting there suit you?’ It was a risk, as it meant giving the mark his actual address. But he wasn’t going to waste any more money on train fares and hotels to operate to London. He made a mental note to change his profile information to ‘The Midlands’. That would make life easier.

Twenty minutes later, Clive bit.

“Nottingham would be perfect, Phyllis. I can drive there easily, and I know the city well. Would a long afternoon suit? I would have to leave by six in the evening’. Terence let him stew for a while. A long while in fact. He didn’t bother to reply for almost four hours. Clive would be at home by then, and no doubt checking the site surreptitiously.

‘Yes, Clive. A long afternoon would be lovely. Shall we say next Friday?’

The reply didn’t take too long to arrive.

‘Friday at one? That would give us five hours. Please send me the address soon.’

36 thoughts on “Phyllis: Part Eleven

  1. (1) “Angry at wasting time and money travelling to London to meet the faker.” Lawrence is being referred to as another faker, not a mother f-… Oh, never mind!
    (2) AH! Strangers on a train. That was suspenseful.
    (3) Victor Mature was an experienced actor who often wore a tunic.
    (4) “But one of the rest stood out like a whore at a wedding.” I don’t think a whore would stick out anymore. A miss goody two shoes might stick out, though.
    (5) Clive Gibson is a hellraising guitar player who’s more of a barker than a singer.
    (6) When Mrs. Gibson realized that she had birthed a little monster, she immediately began screaming, “It’s a Clive! It’s a Cliiiiiiiive!!!”
    (7) Terence gave Clive his actual address, but kept a dress to himself.

    Liked by 1 person

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