Outside, the morning mist was dispersing from the courtyard and rising up into the sky forming ghostly apparitions that danced their way to transparency as they met the warmer air. Inside the cottage John walked down his hallway towards the kitchen. On his right was the door to the bathroom and as he walked past, he glanced into the mirror on the wall. He barely recognised the man looking back. The reflection he saw was more like his father, Robert John Smith than John Robert Smith, the forty-five year old author. He smiled back at himself; in his youth he had highlighted his hair, and now, heading towards his forty-sixth birthday, his hair was naturally highlighted with silver-grey, giving much the same effect. He wore it straight and combed back, wet looking and shiny due to the hair gel he used; his olive skin stretched glossily over his high cheek bones, his square chin being exactly how he remembered his late father’s – and the large nose which was a physical trait of the Smith family, most definitely from his father’s side of the family.
“Yer getting old, fella,” he murmured, looking himself in the eyes, and then making for the kitchen to make a cup of Earl Grey, his favourite tea.
The cottage, or flat as it was, sat in the old Dorset market town of Shaftesbury; it was a modest little place with two bedrooms, neither having the luxury of en-suite, just the one bathroom, but it did boast a very large sitting room and the kitchen was manageable. The original cottage was around five hundred years old and been split into two flats twenty years ago. John owned the top floor, and the lower belonged to a young couple from London whom John had never met; they only seemed to use it for weekends and holidays. The kitchen was where John spent most of his time as it led out to the summer house and balcony which captured the afternoon and evening sun, and where he did his writing. It wasn’t much but it was home, and paid for, and he still had money in the bank which meant he could live the life style he wanted. Providing the books kept selling and he didn’t start taking holidays every month, he could quite adequately manage on the royalties from his last three books.
On the table sat an old typewriter from the nineteen thirties with a sheet of A4 paper lying back relaxed, as if it had passed out and was waiting to absorb its next fix of ink. Next to it was the rest of the manuscript waiting eagerly for the last page to bring life to this Frankenstein’s creation, for until this last page rests with all the others, the monster will remain incomplete. For two days it had sat there, untouched, waiting for John to type in the last two hundred or so words. Next to the typewriter was his computer; it really would be easier if he typed it straight onto the thing in the first place, but then that had no romance to it. The fact that he would now have to pass it to Jennifer at his local business centre, who would put it on disc ready to pass on to his publisher didn’t matter; it wasn’t just typing, it was an art, a romance between him and the keys, and without such a machine John felt a manuscript could never have the necessary blood in its veins to bring it to life.
John looked at it momentarily, then let out a sigh. “Right, okay, let’s do this!”
He then sat down and started to type, and thirty minutes later he pulled the limp looking sheet of paper from the machine. “It lives!” he shouted as he placed the final sheet with the others, as if joining the final limb to the body. “It lives!” Then, chuckling to himself, he realised it was almost time for one of his regular visits from Nicola; it was time he cleaned himself up.
Once again John found himself looking at his reflection in the mirror but this time he was concentrating on shaving and thinking of Nicola as he finished the operation by splashing on the aftershave she had bought him as a Christmas present. He then went back into the kitchen and taking his wallet out of a drawer, counted out two hundred pounds and placed it on the side, ready for when she arrived.
Thirty minutes passed and as John sat waiting, he speculated to himself what she might be wearing. He was hoping she would be in a dress as the day was warm; she always looked stunning in a dress. His thoughts were interrupted as the door bell rang, and his question was answered as he saw the outline of her figure through the glass panels of the door. He smiled; she was wearing a dress.
“Hi sweetheart, how’s your day been?” He asked the question as if it were his wife coming home from a day at the office.
“Hot… it’s been a scorcher today,” she replied kissing him on the cheek as she walked into the kitchen.
Placing her bag on the work surface, she picked up the cash and placed it inside; running her fingers through her long golden locks she turned and smiled at John, who was pouring two glasses of white wine. A beaming smile came over her face as she saw the finished manuscript lying on the table.
“You’ve finished it! I can’t wait… when will it be out?” She asked eagerly.
“Oh, not for a couple of months, I’ve only just finished it this evening, its got to be put on disc and proofread and all sorts yet.”
“Tell me what it’s about… is it another romantic novel?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see,” he teased.
“Well just you make sure my signed copy is waiting for me once it’s done!”
Then she grabbed John, kissing him passionately on the lips; John with a glass of white in each hand tried to make the most of her enthusiasm whilst trying not to spill any over either of them.
“God, you smell lovely,” he said
“Why, thank you… you don’t smell so bad yourself,” she replied, pulling away.
John handed her the glass of wine and they drank a toast to the finished manuscript. Nicola was standing with her back to the door and the sun’s rays were shining through her summer dress, making it see-through and revealing the blue lace lingerie he had presented to her on the previous visit. John just stood there admiring her form.
Stretching out his hand to hers, he led her down to the sitting room, discussing on the way what they had both been up to since her last visit. John sat down pulling her onto his lap and she relaxed into his arms, her stomach already fluttering in anticipation. As he gently lifted her hair to one side, she felt his breath on her neck followed by the softness of his lips caressing the side of it. Twisting her head slightly to one side, she let out a sigh of enjoyment. John’s hands slid to the top of her dress and began to undo the buttons until it fell open, revealing the beautiful blue and white bra, panties and stocking set. She always wore stockings for him; even if she turned up in trousers she would still always wear stockings underneath because she knew what he liked, what turned him on, for that was her job.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered into her ear.
“I’ve missed you more,” she teased, relaxing more with his every touch.
As his fingers glided over her silky skin, she could feel the heat of the fire burning in her stomach as it started to travel downwards, ready to be released as John worked his wonder.
“God, John, I should be paying you!” she murmured.
“Shh,” he whispered in her ear.
John’s fingers reached her bra, stopping to tease her nipples for a few seconds before continuing to run his finger over her tummy and down inside her panties, where he lightly circled her lips; as his hands worked their way back up she turned over quickly so that she now straddled him. His hands went straight to her bottom, holding her whilst he looked into her deep blue eyes; slowly she undid each of his shirt buttons, then unzipped his trousers. Working at her own pace, she kissed him, working her way down to the bulge which had now appeared in his trousers. Opening the waist, she pulled them apart and then gripped the top of his black silk briefs to release his masculine arousal. He stopped her there and pulled her back up to his mouth, his soft lips caressing hers as their tongues teased each other, driving them both deeper into this volcano of lust.
John sat up and, taking her hand in his, led her to the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed with Nicola facing him, he slid her dress off. Nicola admired the way he smiled at her; it wasn’t just his mouth, but even his eyes seemed to smile, boiling up the passion in her veins even more. John wasn’t just another client; she could never feel this relaxed and secure with anyone else. She stepped back, slightly parting her legs, knowing he liked to look at her, and she could feel herself becoming excited. John leaned back onto his elbows; both their stomachs now fluttered with excitement. Her hands reached behind her back, releasing her bra and letting it slip to the floor. John held out his hand and pulled her next to him on the bed, then kissing her shoulder he told her to lay on her stomach; he then reached for the baby oil in the cupboard next to his bed and proceeded to massage it into her silky skin. Every so often she let out groans of utter pleasure as his hands and fingers brought her closer and closer to fulfilment.
From their very first meeting four years ago, John had been the one client she had never had to fake an orgasm with, each getting better and better as if he learnt more about what made her tick, until now it was as if he were in her head. Suddenly she felt a rush of excitement as she felt him slipping down her panties, revealing her sex to him once again; he was looking, and she knew he was looking. As his hands started to massage her firm athletic buttocks, she could hold back no longer and when his fingers slipped between her legs she squeezed them together, holding his hand there until the rush of pleasure had steadied into an electrical tingle fluttering over her whole body. Unfazed by this, John continued to kiss her, making her feel totally overwhelmed and loved, but this was the bit that always unnerved her slightly; she had to remind herself that as much as she wanted John, this was not real… John was just another client, she was here to do a job!
Nicola pushed herself up and, sitting back onto her legs, took John’s hand and guided it to her breasts, smiling as his fingers ran over her nipples.
“You do it to me every time; God, you are so in my head when we’re making love – who taught you all this stuff?”
“I have had two beautiful wives, who were both very good teachers,” John replied softly.
“So why the hell are you single?”
“Because I am fussy and need something really special.” Then John just smiled and went to get up.
“Hey, not yet buster; I haven’t finished with you!” Nicola jumped up off the bed and, picking up her dress from the floor, she proceeded to pull out a condom from a small pocket at the side of it. Then climbing back on the bed, she pushed John onto his back and removed his black silky briefs.
“You don’t have to do this, I don’t expect it; we can just cuddle if you want,” he insisted.
John was a lovely man, so sincere. If she had been the type of woman to take advantage, she could in fact have just sat cuddling and talking and still he would have paid her. There had been times when they had gone out to dinner and he had insisted they just cuddled.
“This is what you pay me for, remember,” she said, reminding him he was just another client.
She started to massage his manhood; God, it was firm and large. Why, she thought to herself, is this guy single? He’s fit, good looking, gentle… and yet an animal in bed. Placing the condom in her mouth she lowered her head down and slid it over his length and then, straddling him, she closed her eyes as she sank her body down onto his love machine, gasping as she slowly took it all.
Now she took control, it wasn’t just her moaning and groaning; now John was feeling the force of the love and passion the two of them generated together. Then just as she thought she was in full control, John thrust his body upwards, raising her into the air; then he swung her round and before she knew what had happened, John was on top of her, thrusting away, becoming one as their hips joined. Both their bodies quickly became covered in sweat and John could feel himself reaching a climax, so he pulled back and stopped; he wasn’t ready to end this yet. Gently, he rolled her over. Nicola knew this man well and she looked behind her and smiled at him as she raised her pert little bottom into the air and guided him back into her love tunnel. Together they built themselves up until their bodies could take no more, and their volcano of lust erupted in the heat of the moment. John pulled her up and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her neck once again, and Nicola seized his legs, digging in her nails as she did so, as both their bodies juddered with completion.
“God, yes!” shouted John, whilst Nicola screamed, “Shit, that’s twice… how the hell do you do it to me?” she asked, falling into a heap on the bed in front of him.
“It’s you; you’re twenty-eight years old and look at you, you’re like a goddess – what do you think I am going to do, fall asleep on you?” John fell forward and then taking her in his arms he cuddled her. “Do you have to be anywhere else this evening?” he asked.
“No,” Nicola replied. It would normally be at this point that she would hit the shower and then leave as quickly as possible, but with John she didn’t want to; she felt safe and content wrapped in his arms, but she had to keep reminding herself over and over that this was not a relationship; he wasn’t her boyfriend. After four years they had become very close, but taking everything into consideration, he was just another client.
“I should be going soon, though,” she announced.
“Please stay a while longer; I don’t care about the money, whatever it is, just stay. I like this bit where we can just cuddle.”
“So do I,” she agreed, smiling. “That’s the problem,” she muttered quietly under her breath so that he didn’t hear. Soon the two of them fell asleep together, both feeling an overwhelming satisfaction.
It was a good few hours before they awoke and then showered together. John kissed her neck as he dried her with the soft white towel, then he went to the airing cupboard and handed her a small carrier bag. This had now become a ritual between the two of them, John would buy her sexy lingerie that he wanted to see her in and she would wear it home and then make sure she wore it the next time she visited him. She was always amazed by his taste, never tacky or smutty but always sexy and complimentary.
“God, you look stunning in that,” he said, gliding his hands over her silky skin.
“You spoil me. I don’t expect this you know, you don’t have to keep buying me this stuff, you always pay me well for my services.” She turned to hug him.
“And you always give me extra time and treat me like a human and not some dirty old perv!”
Nicola’s tone changed. “Damn it John, you are not an old perv… why say such a thing?”
“You are twenty-eight; I am forty-five, coming up forty-six. I know what it looks like, okay? What people would say if they knew… I am not stupid, sweetheart.”
“You ever say anything like that again and that’s it; I won’t come any more.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, surprised at her reaction.
“Good; I would hate to lose such a good client,” she said, smirking.
As she turned to go back into the bedroom and put on her dress, John gave her an affectionate slap on her bottom. He headed for the kitchen where he took another hundred pounds from his wallet and, walking into the bedroom behind her, he kissed her once more and slipped the extra cash into the cleavage of her bra.
Nicola brought her hand up quickly to stop him. “No, John, no more. This was my time; I chose to sleep instead of leave, so please keep it and put it towards another session,” she said as she turned and smiled at him.
Fifteen minutes later she was gone, leaving behind just a ghostly scent of where her presence had been, and some ruffled sheets and cushions, which John soon smoothed and placed back to normal. That was it, until such a time when he wanted her to call again. He felt sad and wished he had the courage to ask her to marry him, or that they could have met under different circumstances, but whilst he could afford her, he would continue to see her.
The next day John walked down to Jennifer and handed her the now bound manuscript.
“This should keep you busy for another day or so,” he announced as he plonked it down on her desk.
“Another book? I can’t wait to read it,” she replied.
After a few minutes of small talk John was out of the shop and walking through the town, heading for the coffee shop at the top of Gold Hill. He sat in his favourite spot looking out at the hillside, admiring its beauty whilst the waitress brought over his cup of Earl Grey. Drifting off into a day dream he thought of Nicola and what she might be doing when not working; after all, it was very easy to imagine what she would be doing when she was working! Suddenly his daydream was interrupted by his phone ringing. It was Jonathon, his agent.
“John, I’ve arranged a book signing for you this evening in London. Sorry for the short notice, can’t explain now, but I’ve arranged a helicopter to pick you up at your local airfield and fly you to Stapleford, where a limo will take you to the hotel. The chopper will pick you up at three.” No sooner had he finished talking than the line went dead and he was gone.
This was typical of Jonathon; things were always happening at short notice with little explanation, but John accepted that this was the way the man operated, and he fitted in with it because he was such a good agent; sales of his books were better than ever and now there were TV interviews and chat shows. Draining his cup, he paid the waitress and left.
Back in the cottage, he grabbed his overnight bag and filled it with what he needed to take; on the top he placed a double picture frame containing photos of his last two wives. The photos went everywhere with him, they were all he had left; he knew he would never find love again now… he was too old and stuck in his ways. Placing the bag in the boot of his Jaguar he drove up to his local airfield.
Fifteen minutes later he swept into the car park at Compton Abbas Airfield, which was right on the top of Spread Eagle hill, just outside Shaftesbury. He was far too early for his flight, but he thought he would have lunch there and maybe start writing notes for his next novel; after all he had little else to do.
John had always been interested in flying; he loved it. In his cottage he had three propellers hanging on his walls and four aviation pictures; he must have collected about thirty aviation books, and finally there was his logbook in which he had logged his hours when he was married to Maggie, his first wife. Back then he had been a keen pilot, flying regularly in his own Cessna, but then Maggie became ill and he had sold everything to pay for her treatment until finally he was bankrupt, losing everything, including his wonderful wife who in the end, lost her battle against cancer. Now he just used it to log pleasure flights and trial lessons he had taken over the years.
Enthusiastically, he looked out over the airfield, watching the small Pipers doing circuits and touch-and-goes, when suddenly there was a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he was faced with two members of the staff, each standing awkwardly clutching one of his books.
“John Smith… you are the famous… John Smith?” the first asked, nervously.
“One of them!” he replied, grinning.
“Please,” asked the other, thrusting a book towards him, “would you sign them for us?”
“Of course, it will be a pleasure,” he replied, in his most charming voice.
Pleasantly, he made small talk with the two women, making their day really special. Then after having lunch he realised he still had a few hours to kill. Walking up to the ‘ops’ desk, he asked the pilot behind it if there were any chance they might have a slot free for a trial lesson. Being very accommodating, the man informed him they had one of their PA-28’s free in around thirty minutes, in which he could then have an hour’s lesson. John looked at his watch; that would fit in perfectly. He explained about the chopper coming to pick him up at three pm, to which they confirmed they had already had a call form Stapleford booking it in.
“So you’re the local celebrity then? We thought it might be Madonna!” Thomas, who worked behind the ops desk, cheekily hinted that John was not famous enough for him.
“No, just little old me… one of the many famous John Smiths.”
Thirty minutes later, John was walking out on the apron towards Charlie Kilo, a blue and white PA-28.
“Have you ever flown before?” asked Ian, his instructor for the flight.
“A little,” John replied. “I have about three thousand hours in my logbook as pilot in command and about another three hundred doing just this!”
The instructor raised an eyebrow. “So you’re a pilot?”
“Not any more. Once, many years ago, but not now… now I just have to satisfy an urge that eats at me until its hunger is fed and fulfilled.”
“I know what you mean; once you have the bug it’s hard to ignore it!” Ian gave John an understanding smile.
The flight lasted just under an hour and Ian was surprised at how fresh John was with it all.
“You know, you could easily get your licence back again; why not have a chat with us and book in some lessons?” Ian asked.
John smiled. “I am sure you are right, but it’s just not the right time for me now.”
The two men went back into the bar and sat with a drink. After about ten minutes Ian downed the last of his orange juice and left to prepare for his next student. John opened up his note book and started making a few notes until he heard the familiar sound of the executive helicopter, and he walked back to the car for his overnight bag. Within minutes he was leaving the Dorset countryside heading for London, or Stapleford Flight Centre, to be precise.