2 comments/ 36830 views/ 4 favorites Abstraction & Distraction By: J Faust This story, my first effort, is affectionately dedicated to a very special lady from the South (USA), without whose inspiration it would not have been conceived. The story gets off to a very slow start. Readers who are purely interested in the 'sexy bits' should probably jump to Chapter 6. I hope, however, that there are a few people out there who like a long, slow build-up with a bit of fore-play. Chapter 1: The Encounter At last, the Scottish weather had relented. After what seemed almost constant rain throughout March and April, the spring sunshine had finally appeared, and George found it a pleasure to drive the eight miles through the Border hills to the Bridge Club that Monday evening. The trees were resplendent in the soft, fresh green shades of early May, birds were singing and the lambs were now playing in the fields rather than huddling for shelter behind the dry-stone walls. Swallows flew high in the cloudless sky, promising a continuation of the fine weather. George parked his red BMW 528 in front of the large country-house hotel where the Bridge Club met, and made his way to the clubroom. He smiled a greeting to the secretary, selected a card to determine the table at which he and his partner would start, and looked around the room. He saw the usual selection of members – middle class, middle aged or older - pleasant enough people, but unexciting. He looked at the card he had drawn – Table 3, North-South. "How many tables this evening, Mary?" he asked the secretary. "Seven – three boards per table, so twenty-one boards to be played. The coffee-break will be after twelve boards." He made his way to Table 3, in the corner by a window. Tony, his regular partner, had not yet arrived – he lived near the hotel, and usually arrived just before the starting time of 7pm. George selected the North seat, from which he had a good view of the whole room, and sat down. At least, he thought, with North-South seats he and Tony would not have to move after every three boards. Not for the first time that day, George reflected on his current life. Six months ago, he had been working regularly seventy to eighty hours a week, running his own business, which he had built up from nothing over twenty-five years to an annual turnover in excess of thirty million pounds. Then, last October, he received an offer from his main competitor to buy his company. George knew that he would require considerable investment and re-structuring to remain competitive, and at the age of forty-eight had lost any enthusiasm for going through again the routine of preparing business plans to lay before banks and other investors. 'I suppose this is what they call a mid-life crisis,' he wryly thought to himself. He knew he was getting stale, and he needed a break. He retained 10% of the shares, and negotiated a non-executive seat on the board of the holding company, but sold the remaining shares to his competitor for a sum sufficient to keep him in comparative luxury for the rest of his life. However, he had not found easy the transition from workaholic to man of leisure. It worried him that these twice-weekly outings to the local Bridge Club were becoming the high-points of his life. His East-West opponents arrived and took their seats. George settled into the usual trivial chat about the weather, the state of the roads, the weekend TV programmes, all the while watching the door for Tony's arrival. 'God! What have I come to?' he thought to himself. 'I can't continue like this – I need to get hold of my life! I need to sit down and decide where I want to go from here!' Then he saw her! Morag, one of the regular members, a friendly out-going lady of about forty-five, came through the door. With her was a stranger – petite, about 5' 2", early thirties, very slim, minimal make-up, smartly dressed in a plain navy suit with short skirt, well-groomed dark brown (almost black) hair cut short, and a self-confident manner. Heads turned to look at the new arrival. Morag introduced her to the secretary, and then the stranger smiled. It was as if the sun had suddenly blazed from behind a dark cloud. Her eyes sparkled and twinkled, her lips parted to reveal immaculate white teeth, and two charming dimples appeared on her unblemished cheeks. 'Mmm,' thought George, 'she certainly brightens up the place. I wonder who she is.' Morag drew a card from the secretary, and she and her partner moved towards Table 7. George noticed with pleasure that they took up the East-West positions. After every three boards, the East-West pairs would all move in a clockwise direction; Morag and her partner therefore would reach Table 3 after the first nine boards had been played, and George would have an opportunity to meet the stranger. Tony arrived at 6.58 as usual, and almost immediately, the club president called the room to order. Following club tradition, he started by introducing guests and new members. "I'm sure we will all extend our usual friendly welcome to Sylvie Mann. She has recently moved to Melkirk, and I hope she will become a regular member." The members broke into applause, and the stranger rose to her feet and acknowledged the greeting with a small bow. Once again, her radiant smile lit up the room. 'Melkirk!' thought George. 'I wonder whereabouts in Melkirk she lives. I haven't noticed her in the town, and I'm sure I wouldn't have missed her if she'd passed by!' The hotel where the club met was roughly equidistant from three Border towns, of which Melkirk was the smallest, and drew its members from all three towns and from the various villages in between. George himself lived in Melkirk. Play started. George found it more difficult than usual to concentrate on the cards. His eyes kept wandering in the direction of Table 7, and to the lady sitting in the East position. She sat erect, but relaxed, and appeared confident in her play. As she concentrated on the cards, tiny furrows appeared on her brow, and her tongue protruded slightly between her lips. Her skirt had ridden up slightly, and George noted with approval a perfectly formed knee, and the promise of a shapely thigh. He noticed, now, a wedding ring on her left hand. 'Concentrate on the cards!' he said to himself, and dragged his attention back to his own table. The first nine boards passed without much excitement. George felt that Tony and he were playing well; they had bid all the makeable games, and no slams had been missed. After every three boards, the new member came closer. Finally, after the ninth board, she and Morag approached Table 3. "Tony, George," said Morag, "may I introduce Sylvie Mann. I think she is a near-neighbour of yours, George!" Again, that smile broke out on Sylvie's face. In close-up, it was even more striking – an all-enveloping smile, exuding warmth. George extended his hand, and she took it in a warm, firm grasp. "Very pleased to meet you," he said. "Whereabouts in Melkirk do you live?" "My husband and I bought Croftbank and moved in last month," she replied, in a soft mellifluous voice, with a slight foreign accent. "Oh, yes, I know the house. It's about 200 yards from mine. I trust you are well settled in now." "Yes, thank you. And, so far, we are finding Melkirk very pleasant." They settled down to play the next hand. George looked at his cards – one queen and one jack, but nothing else of note. His bidding would not be difficult. He studied Sylvie over the top of his hand. Her dark brown eyes glinted, and widened. It seemed she had a good hand of cards! From close up, she was a little older than he had at first thought – perhaps thirty-five or thirty-six. Her intelligent face, with its high cheekbones, was perfectly framed by her near-black short hair. She wore little jewellery – plain gold earrings, a discrete gold necklace with matching bracelet, a gold Cartier watch, plain gold wedding ring, and an engagement ring (a modestly sized emerald encircled with diamonds). George did not recognise her perfume – subtle, fresh, with a musky undertone. Her plain navy suit fitted perfectly; the silk scarf loosely knotted around her shoulders was by Salvatore Ferragamo, as were her black mid-heeled shoes and matching handbag. She and her partner bid quickly and confidently to Four Spades; Sylvie played the hand well and finished with eleven tricks, to score one over-trick. As the score was entered on the score-sheets, she suddenly commented, "It's getting quite warm in here. I think I'll take off my jacket." She removed the silk scarf from around her neck, and as she eased the jacket off her shoulders, her breasts thrust forward. Her white silk blouse moulded itself to their contours to hint at two small, but firm, and well-shaped hemispheres. George gulped quietly to himself, and with difficulty turned his attention to the next hand. Sylvie fanned herself with her cards, and, it seemed unconsciously, unfastened another button on her blouse, revealing the beginning of a soft milky-white curve. George shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and studied his cards. He and his partner did not have a good fit, but nonetheless bid to Four Hearts. George guessed wrong, and was rewarded with a quiet chuckle as Sylvie played her King on top of the Queen he had finessed, and then with another flash of her radiant smile as she led a club for her partner to ruff. George finished with eight tricks – two off. The final hand before coffee was unexciting; Sylvie bid and made a part score. George was impressed at the ease and authority with which she played the hand. "Congratulations!" he said. "You play very well. Have you played a lot?" "When I was younger, I was almost addicted," she replied with a smile, "but I haven't played regularly for some time." "Me too," George interjected. "I spent far too much time at university playing bridge instead of studying, but until I joined this club three months ago I hadn't been a regular player for over twenty years. It comes back, but it seems more difficult as you get older!" They made their way to the refreshment table. "Coffee or tea?" enquired George. "Coffee please, George," she replied, saying his name for the first time, and pronouncing it in the French manner, with two very soft, slightly throaty "G's". "Please excuse me if I'm wrong," said George, "but you are French, I think?" "Yes. Is my accent still so obvious?" "No, of course not. Your English is nearly perfect; it's just the way you pronounced my name. I've never liked it much, but it sounds a lot better in French!" George and Sylvie chatted amiably through the coffee break. Sylvie's husband was an academic. They had met, fallen in love, and been married, while Sylvie was studying at the Sorbonne and he was researching for his Doctorate. He had recently been appointed Professor of Bio-Chemistry in Edinburgh, but would not be taking up his post until August. In the meantime, they had seen Croftbank and liked it very much. Sylvie was in the process of settling in while her husband finished his current contract in Bristol; most weeks, he travelled to Bristol on Monday morning, and back on Friday evening. Coffee break finished; George went back to Table 3, and Sylvie moved on to Table 4. Throughout the last nine boards of the evening, George could not help casting glances in Sylvie's direction. Tony obviously noticed. "She's very good-looking, isn't she?" he commented at one changeover. "Yes," replied George. "Pity she's married, but she certainly raises the average standard in the club!" As they completed the final board, at just after 10pm, Morag approached. "George," she asked, "could you do me a favour?" "Yes, of course, if I can. What is it?" "Would you mind taking Sylvie back to Melkirk? It would save me going the eight miles there, and then another twelve back again to Langrose." "No problem at all; it would be a pleasure. I'm sorry I didn't suggest it myself, but I just assumed that she had come in her own car." "No. She wasn't sure where the hotel was, so I agreed to collect her on her first visit." Outside, the night was drawing in. The sun had already set, but the remains of a red glow could be discerned in the west. A nearly-full moon shone clearly in the sky, and stars twinkled. George walked with Sylvie to his car and held open the passenger door for her. He was rewarded with another smile, a whiff of her intoxicating scent, and tantalising glimpses of her cleavage and thighs as she settled in the passenger seat. As they drove through the hills towards Melkirk, they settled into an easy conversation. "What part of France do you come from?" he asked. "From a small…" "No. Don't tell me!" he interrupted. "Let me play one of my silly games. Say a few words in French, and see if I can guess." "OK. What shall I say?" "Oh, anything. Talk about the weather or something." She thought for a few seconds and then rattled off a few sentences in French. George looked pensive. He quickly eliminated in his mind most of the French regions, and hesitantly said, "Well, I'm a bit out of practice; I haven't visited France for a couple of years. I think you are from the west of France – south of the Loire but north of the Dordogne. As a wild guess I'll say Poitou!" "Very good," she laughed. "You're quite a Professor Higgins! Yes, I'm from a small town near Poitiers, which no-one has ever heard of, called Chaumont-sur-Vienne." "On the contrary," he replied, "I know Chaumont very well. Twenty years ago, I used to do a lot of business with a company based in the industrial zone east of Poitiers; I visited them frequently and always stayed in Chaumont – at the Lion d'Or. Do you know it?" "Yes, of course. We always used to go there as a family to celebrate special occasions – birthdays, engagements, exam results and so on." "And Monsieur Simon, does he still have the hotel? He was a remarkably good chef, and a very pleasant gentleman." "No, I'm sorry to say he died a few years ago. His wife still runs the hotel, but has had to employ a chef, who is not as good as Monsieur Simon. Their children have all moved away, and have their own professions; they have no interest in the hotel. Madame Simon herself must be nearly seventy now; I'm sure she will sell the business before long." As they approached Melkirk, George asked, "Will you be playing bridge at the club again on Thursday evening?" "Yes. I'm partnering Morag again." "Well, if you could bear my company, I would be very happy to drive you. It seems silly to take two cars. We need to do our bit for Global Warming!" "Thank you. That's a very good idea. And next Monday, we'll take my car and I will drive you." "OK. It's a deal. I'll pick you up at 6.30 on Thursday. I'll look forward to your company. We'll talk a bit more about Chaumont." George drove up the drive to Croftbank, a large mid-Victorian stone-built house, set in substantial gardens and secluded from the road. He pulled up outside the front door, and got out to open the passenger door for Sylvie. She thanked him for the lift, mounted the steps to the door, and as she fumbled in her handbag for the keys, she turned towards him, waved, and gave another radiant piercing smile. George waved in return, got back in the car and drove the few hundred yards to his own house. Her smile still consumed him. As he opened the front door, his Golden Retriever, Jason, bounded up to him, wagging his tail. George bent down to pat him, and Jason promptly went to the hallstand, peered up at his lead, and barked expectantly. "Yes, you want your evening walk. Wait while I change my shoes, and we'll go." Jason rushed excitedly up and down the hall, impatiently waiting for his master to don his outdoor shoes. As George opened the door, Jason ran enthusiastically out into the night. George locked the door behind him, and called Jason to heel. He turned right outside the garden gate, and man and dog walked in the direction of Croftbank. Through a gap in the hedge, George could just make out the house itself. All the downstairs windows were dark, but a light shone from an upstairs room. The curtains were drawn, and George could see nothing, but he could not help imagining Sylvie getting ready for bed, taking off her clothes, and wandering naked to the bathroom, swaying her trim hips, her firm breasts bouncing as she moved. Was her pussy shaven? Probably yes, he thought. Would he ever get a chance to find out? Chapter 2: A Lonely Night Having returned home, George returned to the sitting room, lit the gas fire against the late evening chill, and poured himself a large glass of Glen Morangie. He glanced through the paper - nothing worth watching on TV, except 'Newsnight', and George was not in the mood for more pointless speculation by self-proclaimed 'experts'. He rummaged through his CD collection, finally settling on the Mozart Clarinet Quintet. He inserted it in his new Bang & Olufsen system, and settled into his armchair in contemplation as the warmth of the music filled the room. George sipped on his whisky; Jason peered at the fire, wagged his tail, and curled up. George could not get Sylvie out of his mind. He could not remember when any woman had had such an effect on him after so short an acquaintance. Not only was she beautiful, but also intelligent, humorous, warm, and very sexy. And that smile! He kept seeing it in his imagination – the dark brown twinkling eyes, the dimples, and the pearly-white teeth between her pink lips. As he thought of Sylvie, he felt his erection growing, and imagined the feel of her lips and tongue on his cock. He glanced down at the hearthrug and noticed Jason contentedly licking his genitals. 'Lucky bugger!' he thought, 'I wish I could give myself a blowjob as easily as that!' He poured himself another whisky, and idly switched on his computer to check for e-mails. 'No New Messages'. He selected his usual chat-line from 'Favorites', but without much enthusiasm. Monday was usually a quiet evening, and his special cyber-lover was away on holiday for a week. He scrolled down the list of users, and went to his favourite room. A few regulars were there, and he chatted amicably for a while, enjoying the occasional witty comment, and responding in similar vein. After about twenty minutes, he logged off, downed his drink, and prepared for bed. He peered at himself in the bathroom mirror. 'Mmm. Not too bad for forty-nine I suppose!' he thought. He was right. George was more than presentable. He stood 5' 10" in bare feet, and weighed about 10 stone 7 pounds. He had little surplus fat, and most of his muscles were still firm. He had kept himself fit and in good condition, through regular walking, gardening, and occasional gym visits. He still had a good head of light-brown hair, tinged slightly grey at the edges, and his neatly trimmed full beard was also beginning to grey. Moreover, he was very comfortable financially. 'I should still be able to compete in the market,' he pondered to himself. He climbed into bed. Damn! He'd forgotten to turn on the electric blanket, and the new sheets were distinctly chilly. 'It would be nice to have a warm body next to me to snuggle up to,' he thought. He should have got married years ago, he supposed, but he had never got round to it – never found the right girl at the right time – never had the time – never wanted to commit himself, perhaps. Not that he had been celibate, of course! Over the years, he had had numerous one-night-stands or short liaisons on business trips, even the occasional hooker; half-a-dozen girls (or ladies) had qualified as 'regular girl friend' at various times – two of these had even moved in with him, but it hadn't lasted. His work, he supposed, had always been his first love, and no woman could be expected to put up for long with a succession of missed dates, broken promises, feeble excuses for lateness, and being regarded as 'Number 2' to a business. Abstraction & Distraction Jane, his last live-in girl friend, had given him Jason. He had arrived home one day, late as usual, to find the house empty, and a note on the hallstand: Dearest G. I'm sorry, but this isn't working for either of us. Thanks for all the good times. I'll be in touch. Love, Jane. Three days later, a delivery arrived – a small Golden Retriever puppy – with another note: Dear G. You'll find this much more satisfactory than any woman. He'll forgive you immediately if you are late for dinner, forget his birthday, miss a rendezvous, or lose your temper. He won't mind if you put your wretched business first. He won't object to being sent off to kennels if it suits YOU to ignore him for a bit. All he expects is a bit of love, when YOU are in the mood. I'm sorry George. I really loved being with you, but I couldn't stand being taken for granted. I tried to change you, but I fear you are a lost cause. Be happy, and look after Pup! Love, Jane George named the puppy Jason, to remind him of Jane. He had tried to make it up with her, but to no avail. Five years had since passed, and Jason was everything that she had predicted; he had heard last year that Jane was now married and living in London. George lay back on the pillows and tried to read, but he felt so horny, and thoughts of Sylvie kept flooding his mind. He reflected that it must be six or seven weeks since he had been to bed with a woman – no dammit, nearly two months – the last was early in March, a blind date with Audrey, organised by a couple of married friends. Since then, the closest he had got to real sex was to masturbate in front of his computer screen while chatting to a woman some 4,000 miles away. His right hand found its way to his erect penis, and as he stroked it, he thought of Sylvie. He imagined the feel of her lips around his cock, as her tongue circulated around its head, and her fingers stroked his scrotum and explored his anus. He imagined burying his face between her firm, soft thighs, and his tongue gently parting the lips of her pussy and tasting her juices. As she took more of his cock into her mouth, he began nibbling on her clitoris, and tentatively inserted, first one, then two fingers into her ass-hole. She moaned gently, and reciprocated, finger-fucking his ass-hole, at first very slowly, but then increasing her speed. He alternately nibbled her clit, and devoured her pussy with his tongue; she clenched her thighs around his face and came with him as he erupted in the inevitably unsatisfactory climax. He looked down at his softening cock. 'Damn! Missed the tissue again!' He took another tissue to remove most of the mess from the pristine clean sheet, and went to the bathroom to clean himself off. He would sponge the sheet in the morning, and must remember to make the bed himself. He couldn't bear the thought of strange, knowing looks from Mrs. McIntyre, his cleaning lady, if she were to see the mess he'd made of her newly prepared bed! As he returned to bed, he switched off the light, and resolved to sort out his life. But first, he had to have some proper sex. What about Sylvie? It was years since he had seen anyone quite so beautiful in Melkirk – or anywhere! Moreover, she seemed to enjoy his company, and with her husband away so much, she might welcome some more personal attention. 'No!' said his little inner voice, 'remember the RULES!' When he left university, and started working, George had set himself two rules for sexual activity: RULE ONE: No sex with colleagues from work – far too many complications! RULE TWO: No sex with married women – far too many complications! With the exception of a few mild flirtations, and the occasional one-night-stand, George had always kept to these rules. 'I'm not about to break them now,' he determined, 'but…, on the other hand, she is very special, and rules are made to be broken!' 'No!' his inner voice chimed in, 'you've had too much whisky! Sleep on it!' George drifted off to sleep, but the germ of an idea was forming in his mind. Chapter 3: George Has a Plan On the Tuesday morning, George's alarm went off at 6.55 as usual. He listened to the weather forecast and the 7 o'clock news headlines, and got up, full of resolve. He remembered to sponge the messed sheet, and made his bed. After a light breakfast and two large cups of black coffee, he took Jason to the park for a brisk walk, collecting his morning paper on the way back to his house. He glanced quickly through the paper, and set to work. First, he logged onto 'bbc.co.uk' to check the long-range weather forecast for north-west Scotland. To his delight, the fine weather was expected to last until at least next Sunday. Second, he consulted his address book and dialled a number. "Good morning. Auchenglen Castle Hotel. This is Kirsty speaking. How may I help you?" "Good morning, Kirsty. This is George Marlowe here. I wonder, can I make a reservation for the coming weekend?" "Mr. Marlowe! How good to hear from you again! We haven't had you stay for some months now! Give me the details; I'm sure we have some rooms available still." About four years previously, George had taken over an ailing company near Fort William, in the north-west of Scotland. He had invested a lot of cash, and much of his own time, to effect a recovery. The business was now prospering, and had increased its workforce from fifteen to forty. During his visits, George had stayed regularly at the Auchenglen Castle, and was well-known to most of the staff. In fact, during his frequent stays there, George had added a third rule: RULE THREE: No sex with hotel staff – far too many complications – unless, of course, you are not planning to return to the same hotel! "Thank you, Kirsty, it's good to be remembered," George responded. "I'm afraid I haven't been up to Fort William for some time now, but I certainly wouldn't stay anywhere but Auchenglen! I need a double room for Friday and Saturday nights – if possible, Room 14 – I think that's the large one with the view over the loch, and the big four-poster bed!" "Yes, Mr. Marlowe, that room is available. If you like, as a valued old customer, we could let you have the suite at the same price." "Not so much of the 'old' if you don't mind, Kirsty! Thank you, but no! If I remember correctly, the suite has two bedrooms and I don't want to give my guest the impression that I expect her to sleep in a separate room." "OK, Mr. Marlowe, I understand," replied Kirsty, suppressing a giggle. "Will you be dining with us as well?" "Yes, of course. Where else would one eat in Fort William? Book us a table each night at eight. You'd better plan on breakfast as well, but I can't guarantee we'll make it down in time!" "I see you are planning on a hectic weekend, Mr. Marlowe; we look forward to seeing you on Friday." "Just one final complication, Kirsty. Can you please make the reservation in pencil for the moment? I haven't actually lined up my guest yet, but I wanted to make sure you could fit us in before I promised to bring her to Auchenglen. I'll confirm before noon." "No problem, Mr. Marlowe. I'll hold the reservation until you call back. Good-bye." "Good-bye, Kirsty, and thanks. See you on Friday, I hope!" So far so good; now for stage three! George looked in his address book again, and dialled another number. "Kathy Green speaking! Good morning!" "Kathy! Good to hear your voice again! Still working your arse off, I suppose?" "Georgie!!! It's been months!!! Hang on a minute please!" George heard the sounds of a meeting being terminated abruptly, and people being ushered out of an office. He normally hated being called 'Georgie', but somehow, from Kathy, it seemed appropriate. "Georgie, sorry about that, but I'm all yours now!" "That's what I like to hear. Sorry if I caught you at a bad moment!" "It's OK – the meeting was nearly over anyway, and I was glad of an excuse to wind up. How are you? What are you doing these days? Where have you been? Why haven't you called before?" "One question at a time please! I'm very well, and I'll answer all the others at leisure. That's why I called!" "Yeeesss?" replied Kathy, questioningly. "I have an idea. You always work far too hard. The weather is supposed to be good all weekend; what you need are a couple of days in the Highlands, with some good fresh air and exercise, to recharge your batteries." "Mmm!" came the response. "Do I detect the merest note of hesitation?" enquired George, with a grin. "Are my charms that passé?" "Well," she said, "it rather depends what you have I mind in terms of 'fresh air and exercise'. You weren't planning on camping, I hope. I'm not sure I could cope with a whole night on the moors with the Scottish midge!" "No, of course not; you know me better than that! I've booked a room for Friday and Saturday at the Auchenglen Castle Hotel, near Fort William – very comfortable, most luxurious, excellent cuisine, four-poster bed, guaranteed midge-free. Please say you'll come!" "Auchenglen Castle? I've not been there, but I've heard good reports; it has a Michelin star, I think?" "Two, actually! Come on; please say yes. I'm depending on you." "Well," she teased, "on the one hand, I am free this weekend, unusually…" "Great! That's settled then! Where shall I…?" "Don't interrupt!" Kathy interjected. "As I was about to say, on the other hand, you don't ring for months, and suddenly call me up with improper proposals at short notice! A girl has to think of her reputation you know!" "Your reputation is unimpeachable! If you're worried, come in disguise, wear a yashmak, anything – but PLEASE say yes – I promise you won't regret it!" "OK, you smooth-talking bastard! You've persuaded me! I'll take Friday afternoon off; pick me up at my flat at 2.30." "Wonderful!!! I'm really looking forward to it. One other thing though – if I wine and dine you with my usual expertise, and turn on my irresistible charm all day, do you think that, come the night, you might feel a little bit 'playful'? Could you pack some of your toys?" "Are you making lewd suggestions again? Exactly what had you in mind as 'playful'?" she giggled seductively. "Well," he replied, "and I hope you're not recording this, I always fantasise about that night when you insisted I tie you up to the bed! That was the most amazing experience. I'd love to try it again." "I hope they're not recording this too," she laughed, "I'll never be able to show my face in the boardroom if that gets out; but shouldn't it be MY turn to tie YOU to the bed next time? Fair's fair after all!" "OK, we'll discuss that on the way, but bring the ropes, and anything else you think might be useful. We don't have to use them, but if we're in the mood it would be nice to have them handy!" "Fine, I'll give it careful thought. I'll be ready for you at 2.30 on Friday. By the way, what about dress?" "Oh, dress is entirely optional – wear as little as you like! I don't mind," he joked. "No, silly, I meant for dinner – are we dressing up, or casual?" "I thought fairly casual first night – I'll wear sports jacket and flannels – but on Saturday, if you like, we could give it the full works, and really impress the locals – black tie, best party frock, crown jewels, the lot." "Good, sounds fun. See you Friday. Thanks for calling. Kiss, kiss. Ciao Georgie!" "Goodbye Kathy; be good until Friday. Kiss, kiss." George replaced the receiver, and allowed himself a sigh of satisfaction. He had known Kathy for about five years, and she was always great fun – a buxom redhead, aged about 38, divorced, and not at all keen to tie herself again to any one man. After her divorce, Kathy had changed jobs, moved to Scotland and joined the sales staff of one of George's major suppliers. She had thrown herself with enthusiasm into her new job and shown great ability. Quickly, she was promoted to Sales Director. George had first fucked her four years earlier, when they were both attending a Trade Fair in London, and to his surprise, found she was staying at the same hotel as he. Subsequently, he discovered that this was no coincidence – Kathy had cajoled George's P.A. into divulging details of his itinerary. Several nightcaps in the hotel bar had led to a night of passion such as George had rarely experienced before. Kathy was a demanding, and inventive lover, and was very fond of gadgets – 'my toys' as she called them. A night with Kathy was an unforgettable, and often exhausting, experience. George had enjoyed several such nights over the last four years, but Kathy had always made it clear that she was not seeking a permanent lover. She had made a mistake with one husband, and did not intend to repeat the experience. There was a knock on his study door, and Mrs. McIntyre came in, armed with her vacuum cleaner and dusters. "Can I do your room now, Mr. Marlowe?" "No, sorry Mrs. McIntyre, I'm a bit busy. Can you do it to-morrow?" "It's not very convenient," she muttered. "I always do your room on Tuesdays, but I suppose I'll manage. I see you made your bed, but you left out your pyjamas, and I noticed you spilt your cocoa again! Well, I changed the sheets yesterday, and I'm not doing them again. You'll just have to manage until Monday." She left, murmuring to herself under her breath. Mrs. McIntyre was a severe-looking, but handsome woman in her fifties, with a formidable temper. George was somewhat in awe of her, and tried desperately not to upset her. Cleaning ladies were not easy to find in Melkirk, and although at £7.00 per hour he thought he was paying more than usual, he was frightened of losing her. As well as cleaning his large house, she also did most of the washing and ironing, and was useful on occasions for looking after Jason when George was away for the day. With Mrs. McIntyre out of the way, George returned to his telephone. He called the Auchenglen Castle to confirm his reservation, and booked Jason into the local kennels from Friday morning until Monday. Mission accomplished! Now he could turn his attention to the morning post and the daily newspaper. Chapter 4: Sylvie Again George spent most of the next forty-eight hours planning for his weekend with Kathy. He carefully planned his wardrobe, making sure that the necessary jackets and trousers were clean and pressed, and that his shirts were ironed. On Wednesday, he drove the forty miles to Edinburgh and treated himself in the recently opened Harvey Nichols store to half-a-dozen pairs of plain silk boxers in a variety of colours, and a couple of cashmere sweaters. Whilst in the capital city, he tracked down the best sex shop, and browsed for a while, before selecting a new toy as a present for Kathy to add to her collection. He walked from there to the harbour at Leith, and to a new restaurant, which had been well recommended. He ordered half a lobster, to be followed by grilled Dover sole, and a bottle of Chablis Grand Cru 1990. The food was indeed excellent, and the wine was nearing perfection. He paid the bill, leaving a generous tip, and then went to have his hair washed and cut, and his beard trimmed, before driving back to Melkirk. Most of his thoughts were of Kathy, and the pleasures she would have in store for him, of investigating further her magnificent 38D breasts, and of being clasped again between her ample thighs. However, as Thursday evening approached, his mind turned again to Sylvie. After he had walked Jason, and fed him, he prepared himself a light early dinner, and then took a shower. He dressed in a pair of black lightweight wool gabardine trousers, a blue check shirt, and his favourite light blue cashmere round-neck sweater. He locked up the house, and started up the car to drive round to Sylvie's. As he wound his way up the gravelled drive at 6.29, a face disappeared from a front window. By the time he pulled up at the front door, Sylvie was already coming out. She waved at him, and smiled. God! How could he have forgotten that smile – even for a moment? Even on a bright sunny evening, it seemed to light up the whole environment. She turned to lock the door, and he noted with approval her trim bottom, in a pair of beige wool stretch trousers, closely cut, but with no unsightly panty line. With those, she was wearing a plain beige cotton top, a linen check jacket, and the inevitable silk scarf (by Hermès, this time). Her ensemble was completed by a pair of tan Gucci loafers and a large tan shoulder bag. As she descended the steps, he got out to open the passenger door for her. "Bonsoir, Sylvie," he said, in his best French accent. "Bonsoir, George. Ça va?" "Oui, très bien, merci – et vous?" "Oh, George, please call me 'tu'; I feel we are already old friends." She offered him each cheek in turn, to be kissed, in the French fashion, and he inhaled her fresh, but potent, scent. Sylvie took his proffered arm to steady herself as she got into the car. "Mmm, cashmere!" she exclaimed, "I LOVE the feel of cashmere," and she stroked his sweater with obvious pleasure. As they drove to the Bridge Club, they chatted gaily, each anxious to know more about the other. It was rapidly established that George was not married – not even divorced. He asked Sylvie about children. "David and I have one son – Mark. He's fourteen, but away at boarding school most of the time – at Rugby. I miss him terribly. I don't really like this British public school system, but David was at Rugby himself. Since we seem to move around so much, with David's jobs, he thought Mark would be more settled at boarding school rather than moving schools every few years. Eventually I agreed, but I still miss Mark during term time." "But you surely can't be old enough to have a fourteen-year-old son!" exclaimed George. "Oh, yes, I am – flatterer! I met David during my last year at the Sorbonne, and we were a little careless. We had to get married quite quickly, but fortunately I was able to complete my exams before Mark arrived." "What did you study?" "Chemistry, mainly." "And now?" "I do a bit of technical translation for a few chemical companies, but mainly, I suppose, I'm a lady of leisure!" "That's a bit like me," replied George. "I do bits and pieces for a number of companies, but mostly I can fit in the work to suit myself, and be very flexible. Perhaps, if you're bored some day, we could go out for a drive. I could show you some of the sights of Scotland." "Yes. I'd very much like that," she smiled. "So far, I like what I see of Scotland, if only the weather were better!" "Your husband won't mind?" "No, not at all. He's quite happy for me to have male friends, and not in the least jealous. You must come round and meet him some time soon! I think you would get on very well." At the club, both George and Sylvie drew North-South positions, and didn't get to play against each other. George's table was late finishing at coffee break, and Sylvie was already engrossed in conversation, so they had no chance for further communication until the drive back to Melkirk. That evening, twenty-four boards were played; it was nearly 10.30, and already dark, when they walked towards George's car. Bats were flying around the hotel. Sylvie shrieked quietly as one flew low over her head. George held open the passenger door as Sylvie settled into her seat. "Did you enjoy your evening?" asked George as he drove away from the hotel. "Yes, thanks. Morag and I played quite well – we are beginning to understand each other I think. And you?" "Oh, I enjoyed it, but we didn't score well. I think Tony must have had a hard day at work; he lost concentration a couple of times, and miscounted the trumps. I made a couple of gaffes as well. C'est la vie! Will you be playing again next Monday?" Abstraction & Distraction "Yes – and it's my turn to drive you. We had better drive past your house on the way back, so that I know where to pick you up." "OK, it's not hard to find," George replied. "By the way, I was thinking about the day out I promised you. I haven't got my diary with me, but I'm pretty sure I'm free next Wednesday. Would that suit?" Sylvie rummaged in her bag, and brought out a diary. "Yes, that's fine with me." "Have you had a chance to see much of Scotland since you arrived?" "No, not really – Edinburgh of course, but we've been too busy getting the house straight to have had much time." "Well, depending on the weather forecast, I suggest we either go south-west, down to Galloway, or east to the Berwickshire coast; or we could go a bit further north to Fife and St. Andrews. I'll check the forecast nearer the time – the weather is often fine on one side of the country and dreadful on the other, especially if the east coast haar is blowing in." "Haar? What's that?" she asked, her brows furrowed. "It's not a word I know." "Oh, it's a thick, cold sea-mist that blows off the North Sea if the conditions are right. Fife is particularly prone to it, and the temperature can suddenly drop 10 degrees if it blows in. It's best avoided!" "Fine. And if you do the chauffeur and tourist-guide jobs, I'll buy lunch," Sylvie offered. "Thanks, I'll look forward to it," George replied. "I'll check my diary when I get back; if there's any problem with Wednesday I'll call you. There should be a small notebook and pencil in the glove compartment. Would you write your 'phone number in it for me please." George switched on the interior light, while Sylvie found the notebook and wrote down the number. "You'd better give me your number as well," she asked, "and I just realised that I don't know your surname!" "King," he replied. "There should be some business cards in the glove compartment; please take one – it will have both the house number and my mobile." Sylvie took one. "I'll put it in my diary," she announced. "We should plan on leaving Melkirk by ten in the morning," said George, "but we can finalise arrangements when we meet on Monday." George made a slight detour to point out his own house, and a few minutes later pulled up outside Sylvie's front door. "Don't get out," she announced, as he began to open his door, "I can manage fine." "No, I insist. Manners are important!" He jumped out and quickly moved round to open the passenger door, offering her an arm as she climbed out. "Oooh, that cashmere again! How I love the feel of it!" she purred. "Thanks for the lift. I'll pick you up at 6.30 next Monday." With that, she reached up and kissed him briefly on his cheek. "Mmm, that tickles! It's a long time since I kissed a man with a beard, but I quite like it!" She flashed another smile, turned, and hurried up the steps, fumbling for her keys in her capacious bag. "Au revoir, George," she called as she opened her door, "à lundi!" As George undressed that night, he could still detect a faint reminder of Sylvie's perfume on his sweater, and imagined he still felt the pressure of her hand on his arm. Her lips were so soft on his cheek. As he nodded off to sleep, mixed images of Sylvie and Kathy surged through his mind. He found his hand wandering to grasp his engorging cock, but pulled it away brusquely. 'No wanking to-night,' he said to himself, 'I'll need all my strength for to-morrow, I hope!' Chapter 5: Friday at Last On Friday morning, George was up at 6.30. He showered, dressed and prepared himself a hearty breakfast, knowing he would have no time for lunch. He took Jason for a good run in the woods, relishing the warm spring sunshine. A male blackbird sang from a large oak tree, establishing his territory. Jason chased a squirrel, which, to the dog's annoyance, promptly climbed a tree. A carpet of bluebells led off into the distance. There could be few places more inviting than the Scottish Borders at this time of year and with this weather! He felt ten years younger, and looked forward to the weekend with eager anticipation. When he returned home, Mrs. McIntyre had already arrived, and had let herself in with her own key. As usual on a Friday, he paid her for working for five days, and asked if she would stand by to give Jason his afternoon walk, and dinner, the following Wednesday, since he would be out all day. Mrs. McIntyre agreed, with her usual show of reluctance. "Aye. I suppose that'll be all right. If I can't manage it myself I'll get my nephew to do him." He checked (and then double-checked) his packing, making sure that nothing had been forgotten, and loaded the car. At 11.30, he said goodbye to Mrs. McIntyre, asked her to be sure to lock up well and set the alarm, put Jason in the back seat, and took off in the direction of the Kennels. As usual, Jason bounded out of the car when they reached 'The Braidfoot Kennels and Cattery', gave the owner an enthusiastic welcome, and trotted off wagging his tail. 'He really does seem to enjoy the company at kennels,' thought George, 'perhaps I should get another dog some time.' By noon, he was on the way to Kathy's flat in the Southside of Glasgow. It shouldn't take more than two hours to drive there, but sometimes the traffic could be very slow. Indeed, there were road works on the motorway near Hamilton, but at 2.25, he was parking his BMW outside Kathy's flat. Kathy saw him coming up the path, and pressed the button to open the main door. George ran up the stairs, two at a time, and she met him at the top of the stairs on the first floor. "Georgie! You look great!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck, and covering his mouth with hers. Their tongues intertwined as his arms enfolded her, and he caressed her firm buttocks fiercely, holding her body close to his. "Oh, Kathy – it's been far too long! I've missed you. You look wonderful; you've grown your hair longer – I like it." "If we're going to get away from here on time, you'd better stop mauling me like that – I could get to like it too much! I'm nearly ready, just a few things to pack. Help yourself to coffee; there's some left in the pot." Kathy pushed him away, and led him into the flat. It was just as he remembered: a very large sitting/dining room, which looked as if it had not been tidied for a month, from which one door led to a small kitchen, and a second to her equally untidy, but very large bedroom. Other doors led to the smaller bedroom, which Kathy used as a study/office, and to the bathroom. "Sorry about the mess," she exclaimed, "I meant to tidy up a bit before you arrived, but ran out of time, as usual." George poured himself a coffee and sat down to wait, hearing mild curses from the bedroom as Kathy struggled to close her suitcase. "Can I help?" he called. "No, thanks, that's it done. All ready now!" George went into the bedroom, to find Kathy standing proudly beside three large pieces of luggage. "We're only away two nights," he exclaimed, with a touch of exasperation, "you seem to have packed enough for a month!" "Well, I couldn't decide which evening dress to bring – it all depends on the weather, the temperature, and the mood I'm in, so I packed three. Of course, they all need different shoes, bags and accessories. And I'm still a bit concerned about the weather up north. I know these old castle hotels; they can be very cold and draughty, so I had to pack my Winceyette pyjamas and all my winter thermals, just in case!" she grinned. "Also, the smallest case is mostly 'toys' – I packed a few extra. Anyway, there's plenty of room in your boot." "OK," he laughed, "but I didn't plan this weekend to give you a chance to show off your passion-killers! If necessary, I'll get them to light fires in all rooms. Anyway, let's go. Can you manage the small case if I take these?" "Yup! You carry on; I'll lock up and see you down at the car." From Glasgow to Fort William is just over one hundred miles. Even in good weather, the journey can take up to five hours, depending on traffic. In high summer, the direct route can easily become clogged with coaches and caravans. George expected that the tourist season would not yet have reached a peak, but was nonetheless keen to get on the way immediately. In fact, the traffic was surprisingly light for a Friday, and in less than half an hour, the shores of Loch Lomond came into sight. George carried on up the west shores of the loch, which looked stunning under the clear blue sky. Sailing dinghies scudded across the clear water, and in the distance, the aged paddle steamer chugged in the direction of Rowardennan. People were picnicking on several of the islets. The mass of Ben Lomond rose abruptly from the water to the east, and reflected in the water. They chatted like old friends, catching up on each other's news, and gossiping about mutual acquaintances. Some thirty minutes later, they passed through the village of Ardlui, and left Loch Lomond behind as they climbed towards the Glencoe Ski Centre, almost deserted at this time of year. Small patches of snow still nestled in the north-facing gullies, but Rannoch Moor stretched into the distance, the small lochs glistening in the sun. Kathy leant back in her seat and stretched an arm. Her right hand fondled George between his thighs, and moved upwards to grope his cock through his trousers. "And how's my friend Oswald then?" "Oswald is fine, thanks, but a bit short of exercise recently. As you can probably feel, he still knows he's supposed to stand up when a lady shows interest!" he laughed. "Oh, yes, Oswald is always the perfect gentleman," agreed Kathy. "We'll have to make sure he gets some exercise to-night! Can't have him getting all flabby!" "He's looking forward to it, but I really think you should leave him alone for the moment or you'll have me off the road." "Not even a little peek?" she pouted, fingering the pull of his zip suggestively. "No, control yourself woman! Put him back! You'll see enough of him later!" "I'll expect to do more than SEE him later. If not, I shall be very disappointed." "Yes, but behave yourself for now and admire the view outside. Let Oswald have his afternoon nap, and he'll be raring to go to-night," George laughed. "Promises, promises, always promises!" she shrugged, replacing her hands demurely in her lap, pouting slightly, and tossing her mane of red hair. Ben Nevis was now in view. The descent through Glencoe, often so dark, forbidding and slightly eerie, was exhilarating. How different it looked in the full sun. Wheatears darted across the road in front of the car. A herd of deer climbed a steep slope in the far distance. They crossed Loch Leven and continued along the edge of Loch Linnhe, and by five o'clock were entering the outskirts of Fort William. The town was jammed as usual, but soon George was able to pull off the main road and negotiated the mile-long drive up to Auchenglen Castle. "Gosh!" exclaimed Kathy, "Very impressive!", as she caught her first glimpse of the massive grey limestone Victorian castle with its Gothic crenellations and towers, squatting on a low mound. The hotel was set in extensive grounds with grazing deer and fine trees - pine, fir, oak and rowan. The view over the mountains and the loch was unmatchable, and formal terraced gardens stretched from the castle down to the shores of the loch. As George pulled to a halt I front of the main door, a doorman descended the steps and held open the passenger door for Kathy. "Angus," said George, passing him the keys, "would you park the car for me and have the luggage sent up. I think we're in Room 14, but you'd better check with reception." George reached in his wallet and slipped a five-pound note into Angus' hand. "Of course, Mr. Marlowe. Good to have you back here again." "Thank you Angus, it's nice to be remembered!" Kirsty was at the reception desk, and smiled as George and Kathy approached. "Welcome back, Mr. Marlowe. Please sign in; here are the keys to Room 14. I've booked you a table for 8 o'clock this evening. Would you like your usual paper in the morning?" "Please – 'The Times', and 'The Sunday Times' on Sunday, of course." "And would you prefer tea or coffee in your room?" "Tea - Darjeeling please - and freshly-squeezed orange juice, at about 8 o'clock. Is that OK with you Kathy?" "Mmm, perfect," she replied dreamily, still taking in the imposing entrance hall, the dark oak furniture, and luxurious furnishings. "Luggage, Mr. Marlowe?" enquired Kirsty. "Angus is taking care of that thanks. He said he would have it sent up. I can find the room myself, thanks, Kirsty. May I introduce Mrs. Green, a very special friend? Kathy, this is Kirsty McCall – if there is anything you need, Kirsty will sort it in no time. Kirsty practically runs the hotel – they'd be lost without her!" "That's a bit of an exaggeration," Kirsty replied, blushing shyly, "but if I can help in any way, I'll do my best. I hope you enjoy your stay with us." George picked up the room key, took Kathy by the hand and led her up the stairs. He unlocked the door to Room 14, and held it open for her to enter. "Wow! What a lovely room," she exclaimed, as she took in the large bedroom, tastefully furnished in burgundy and gold. The centrepiece was a huge four-poster bed, with plush burgundy velvet curtains. She tried the bed, bouncing happily on the edge. "That's good," she announced, "it's nice and firm." Kathy continued to explore, admiring the comfortable sofa and armchairs, the capacious wardrobes, and the freshly cut flowers. She gazed out of the window, taking in the stunning view over the gardens and across the blue loch to the mountains beyond, and then she opened the door to the en suite bathroom. "Georgie, come and see this! That bath is big enough for at least three!" "Typical," he laughed, "you haven't yet given me a chance to have my wicked way, and already you're looking for reinforcements! I'm not at all sure about three in a bed, or even three in a bath – unless of course it's me and two girls! I might manage that!" "No way!" she chuckled. "If we go down that route it will definitely be me and two men. You know it takes at least three men to satisfy one woman properly! But to-night, my love, just you and me – OK?" She moved towards him, with a smile, and put her arms around his neck, kissing him full on the lips. Her tongue forced its way between his teeth, seeking his, and her hands moved sinuously down his body to clasp his buttocks. As he was beginning to reciprocate, they were interrupted by a polite knock on the door, and Angus came in with the luggage. "Thank you, Angus," said George, "just put them over there in the corner." As Angus left, George started to unzip his suit pack. "I just want to hang these up in the wardrobe," he announced. "What are your plans now? Would you like tea, or something stronger? I thought we would go down for an aperitif before dinner at about 7.30." "No thanks, I'm fine. I'd like a quick walk in the grounds, for some fresh air, and then I'd like to be left alone for an hour. I want to unpack, and have a long hot bath, before I get ready for dinner." They strolled arm-in-arm through the perfectly maintained gardens, breathing the clear Highland air, and admiring both the plants and the view. Kathy left, to return to the room, and George called after her, "I'll go and organise some decent wine for dinner. Will fish be OK to-night? It's always excellent here." "Yes, fine – you order for me!" she called. George headed for the dining room, and spied the maître d'hôtel. "Monsieur Charles!" he called, "I'm glad you're still here. I need your help," and slipped a twenty-pound note into the breast pocket of the portly grey-haired man. "Mr. Marlowe! It's good to see you again, and thank you. What can I do for you?" "I'm here with a very special guest for two nights. We are dining at eight. Can I have my favourite table, in the corner by the window?" "Yes, sir, of course. It's already reserved for you." "And, can you set it so that my guest and I sit next to each other, facing the room – not opposite each other?" "No problem. Can I suggest the lobster to-night? We have fresh ones just from the sea, and they look excellent." "You read my mind, as always, Charles. We'll start with a plain lobster salad. How big are they?" "Quite large, sir. For a starter I would suggest a half-lobster each. And for the main course? The turbot looks superb!" "Fine. You still have the same chef?" "Yes, of course. Jean-Pierre is still here." "Good. He knows how I like it. I need to speak to the sommelier – is Gaston still here?" "Yes, Mr. Marlowe, I'll fetch him for you." Gaston soon appeared, carrying the capacious 'carte des vins', which he offered to George, receiving in return a carefully folded twenty-pound note. "Merci, Monsieur Marlowe. What can I do for you this evening?" "My guest and I will be down for an aperitif just after 7.30. We'll start with Champagne. What about the Dom Pérignon '85?" "At its peak, monsieur. Served not too cold, as usual?" "Your memory is excellent, Gaston; yes, at about 9 or 10 degrees, no cooler. It needs a little warmth to develop its full bouquet. We'll finish the Champagne with our lobster, and to follow, with the turbot, I think a white Burgundy - Puligny Montrachet '89, perhaps?" "An excellent choice, monsieur; served above cellar temperature, if I recollect well." "Yes, indeed, at about 15 degrees. Now for the dessert, do you have Château d'Yquem '71 in half-bottles?" "No, monsieur, I'm sorry – only the '75 and '76." "OK, the '76 will be fine – served very cold, but don't open it yet, in case we can't manage it!" "No problem, Monsieur Marlowe, all will be arranged." George looked at his watch – only 6.30. He'd better give Kathy a bit longer; he knew from experience that she preferred to be left alone to complete her toilette - as if she was not keen to share her secrets, he thought. He headed for the cocktail bar. "Good evening, Mr. Marlowe," came the greeting, "Pink Gin, as usual?" "Please Alasdair; you remember how I like it?" "Of course, sir!" replied the barman, "I have all the ingredients ready for you." Alasdair took a glass from the ice compartment, and added a generous dash of Angostura bitters. He swilled this around the glass and shook off the excess. He then took a bottle of Tanqueray gin from the fridge, and added a generous double measure, topping it up with plain spring water, again from the fridge, and finally adding a single cocktail onion. George watched carefully, and smiled when Alasdair passed him the result. "Excellent, Alasdair. This is for you," he said, passing Alasdair a five-pound note. "Please charge the drink to Room 14!" George carried his drink to one of the comfortable chairs, and picked up a newspaper. As he idly flicked through the pages, he reflected. 'So far, so good!' he thought to himself. He had the room he wanted, the table he wanted, and the woman he wanted. The service was excellent, as always, and dinner promised to be most enjoyable. Kathy seemed to be in an excellent mood, and he looked forward to an exciting night. They hadn't yet discussed the 'games' they might play, but there was time yet. George didn't entirely relish the prospect of being tied up himself, but it would be a novel experience, he thought. Just before 7 o'clock, George finished his drink and headed back to the room. Kathy was sitting in front of the dressing table, finishing her make-up, and wearing a black lace half-cup bra, a matching thong, and black stockings held up by a black suspender belt. He stood behind her, admiring her reflection in the mirror, clasped her in his arms, and affectionately kissed her shoulder. "Darling, you look wonderful," he exclaimed. "Perhaps we should skip dinner?"