Everytime i see a tempting dish of home-made jam scones or hear the reassuring sounds of tea-making, the shimmering image of former obsession springs to mind in vivid detail and in full technicolour, the worldly woman who opened my once innocent eyes to a life of lust and desire...local harlot and much frowned-upon widow-woman, Dorset Dolly.
How my soul still grows inflamed with a smouldering passion whenever her memory is brought to mind, my heartbeat pounds for her artful touch, my fingers trembling just as they did all those years ago when i first dared explore her forbidden curves.
She enticed my youthful inexperience into her little cottage, (or should i say lair?) with the simple offer of cream tea and strawberry jam freshly made by her own fair hand but from the moment of my polite acceptance i was caught fast in her trap, writhing like a helpless fly in her treacherous web of sin.
Dolly tittered to herself as she took my hand and led me from the homely parlour to her bedroom where she took full advantage of my sluggish state induced by her sumptuous tea by suggesting i recline awhile upon her feather bed and permit her to loosen my clothing a little.
During the dark hours that followed, my fate was sealed and doom ensured whilst my body became the mere plaything of that wickedly voracious woman, my tender flesh nothing but a toy to satiate the flaming desires that raged unbridled beneath her faded floral dress and gingham apron.
