Wind of Change

(Chapter 10)

"Wind of Change" (circa-1975)

Whitehall Primary School was in the last week of a mid-term break and with only a few members of staff on the premises and no obstructions from interfering children, it should make his survey a lot easier to complete.

The car tyres crunched in the deep snow and the windscreen wipers squeaked across the windscreen as he manoeuvred the car carefully through a pair of black metal gates before pulling to a halt in the school car park.

He waited until Lou Reed had finished singing 'Perfect Day' before stepping from the car.

The buzzer on the door intercom panel crackled announcing his arrival, an abrupt voice on the other end asking him to wait until someone could attend to him.

Brushing snow from his face and taking shelter under a small canopy above the door, his back against the wall, his clip-board and tape measure held firmly against his chest, the brief interlude giving him a moment to reminisce, memories of his recent holiday on the sunshine island of Tenerife finding their way inside his head.

When a friend suggested spending a couple of weeks relaxing on a sun-soaked beach rather than face the bitter winter weather in the UK, it didn't take him long to pack a suitcase.

They soaked up the sun by the pool during the day and fucked at night.

Then he met Fiona.

It was a flirtatious acquaintance embroiled under a haze of clandestine confusion, a fleeting extravaganza of impossible circumstances, but a holiday narrative that he would always cherish with furtive amusement.

A meeting of eyes and a brief conversation at the hotel reception was all it took.

It was almost four in the morning when they eventually got back to their hotel.

Even before the lift doors had opened, Fiona was pooling between her legs and he was sporting a noticeable lump inside his pants. And with pulse rates accelerating at the speed of sound and both overcome with an urgent desire to be inside each other, by the time they reached his room they were almost sprinting.

For the next two hours he fucked her and she fucked him, a mutual engagement of give and take, the sex raw, hungry and extremely physical, probing and penetrating, exploring every orifice, a turbulence of endurance and an overwhelming climax of emotional passion, both swimming in perspiration and both drained of energy.

The sun was beginning to rise when Fiona staggered unsteadily from his room, her knickers left on the floor, her breathing ragged, her heels clicking along the corridor, her legs sliding apart like Bambi's on the ice, an outstretched hand gripping a handrail for support, bending over and removing her shoes, cursing under her breath as the lift doors closed in her face.

The early morning aroma of food drifting up from the restaurant reminded him that sleep would have to wait until after breakfast.

Slipping into a t-shirt and shorts and tucking the abandoned panties inside his pocket he left the room and headed to the restaurant on the ground-floor.

After filling a plate with a mixture of fried food that would make any heart surgeon frown in disgust he was surprised to see Fiona sitting at a table having breakfast.

He mumbled a greeting and pulled up a chair at her table.

A crippling moment of unnerving silence hung over the table. She glanced around the room at the empty tables, shuffled nervously in her chair and forced a smile.

He thought the re-acquaintance of her knickers might break the apprehension. It didn't.

She just stared in horror and disbelief at the flimsy underwear on the table, forced another smile and kept her eye on the floor manager.

A mouthful of greasy food and a couple of gulps of black coffee, the cobwebs of anxiety and her pretence of innocence dismissed in a coronary heartbeat, his enthusiasm brutal and uncompromising, her virtue and modesty fading by the second, a detailed narrative of their night of impetuous pleasure spilling between mouthfuls of food.

He told her that her oral sex was a mind-blowing and unforgettable experience, apologising for making her gag when he delivered his sticky mess into her mouth.

She choked back a nervous lump in her throat and shifted her weight in her chair, never once taking her eye off the floor manager.

A friendly hand on his shoulder interrupted the shadier details emerging about the anal sex over the balcony, the unexpected gesture prompting him to look over his shoulder.

The shock, the surprise and disbelief, his eye wide open, his jaw hanging loose, his face a comical mask of uncertainty, turning back and staring at the girl sitting at the table, moving his head back and forth like a spectator watching a game of tennis, opening and closing his mouth in wordless confusion, the cold chill of nausea sweeping over him, the weight of dread dropping into the pit of his stomach, his breakfast threatening to make an appearance.

"I see you've met my twin sister Lorna," Fiona replied, a playful smile curling the corners of her mouth, removing her hand from his shoulder and pulling up a chair at the table.

"Can I help you?" a serious voice enquired, interrupting his holiday reverie.

Turning quickly on his heels and almost losing his balance, a short pleasant looking fat man with wire rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose and sporting a neatly trimmed moustache peeked suspiciously through a gap in the door.

"My name's Mark Brand. I'm a building surveyor. I've made arrangements to carry out a survey for the building improvements," he said, his words evaporating in a cloud of white mist, the fat man ignoring his outstretched hand as he opened the door.

"I have a nine o'clock appointment with a Mrs Julie Reid," he confirmed, lowering his hand and pulling his leather glove back, checking the time on his watch.

The fat man brushed hair from his face, raised a cynical eyebrow and gave him a long look.

He was clearly not interested in exchanging pleasantries and despite appearances he was disrespectful and ill-mannered.

"Come inside," he invited, the authority in his voice and persuasive hand gesture, more in the way of a command than an invitation.

"I'm sorry but my secretary, Julie Reid has been delayed due to the severe weather conditions," he said, pointing a finger of disapproval at his shoes bleeding snow on the floor. "After you've wiped your shoes I'll take you to see Caroline Spencer. She's one of the teachers at the school. Caroline will show you around the premises," he volunteered, fiddling with a plastic card hanging from a silver chain around his neck, displaying his name and photograph.

"My name is Mathew Grainger," he announced, in a refined 'I'm-In-Charge voice,' proudly lifting the card. "I'm the Head of school," he added, extending his hand.

Caroline Spencer greeted him with a soft voice, friendly smile and a business like handshake.

The slightest touch from a beautiful woman with dark eyes, firm breasts, slender figure and insanely long legs blossoming from a pair of heels and finishing somewhere under her arms was enough to spark a swelling inside his pants.

The feasibility study and the endless meetings with The Headmaster, The Chair of School Governor's and members of the delegated Parents Group proved to be more extensive than he had anticipated, but the architectural fees were very attractive, so his employers didn't complain about his time or his input as long as he satisfied their client's objectives.

He made any excuse to visit the school. The meetings and surveys a pretence to see Caroline. And even though their acquaintances were sometimes only brief, it wasn't long before he worked his charm and she eventually agreed to have dinner with him.

It wasn't going to be easy getting Caroline into bed. After their first date he quickly discovered that if he wanted to get between her legs he would have to be patient.

Even after their fourth date things hadn't improved, the routine predictable and frustrating, dinner at a restaurant, a few drinks and then back to his flat. And although she appeared to be extremely sexually aroused at his advances and even interacted in brief exchanges of foreplay, when it came to sexual intercourse she always managed to control her emotions.

At first he was a little frustrated with her denial, but there were positive signs and he knew it was only a matter of time before she would surrender to the natural forces of human sexual response and welcome him into her body.

Her mother and father always left the country during the cold winter months, a peaceful cruise on a luxury ship somewhere in the Caribbean.

Caroline didn't mind. She had the house to herself.

Buckingham Palace was the last time he had seen metal gates that were so impressive.

Snowflakes danced in silent pirouettes from the early morning sky, floating in whispers of white feathers before settling on the ground like a butterfly resting on a flower.

The car tyres crunched in the fresh snow, the windscreen wipers squeaking a painful tune across the glass, the splendour of the tree line drive and the endless row of snow covered conifers a guiding light to the imposing Georgian mansion welcoming their guests.

A brief moment of fleeting glances, eyes meeting in captured smiles, a drooping jaw a clear sign of his admiration, his mind confused with furtive apprehension, his smile slowly fading, a bothersome thought nagging inside his head.

My father worked in a hospital and my mother worked for a firm of lawyers. She told him. A fucking hospital porter and a clerk in an office.... I fucking don't think so.

"My father was The Head of Paediatric Neurology in one of the largest hospitals in New York and then he worked for a short time in Boston and Chicago before returning to live in Northumberland," she said, rather matter-of-fact, interrupting his thoughts.

"My mother was a barrister and before she retired she worked at The Royal Courts of Justice, in London. They still occasionally travel around the world to attend and chair lectures, and they've both written books on their respective professions," she concluded, circling a white marble water feature of a gracious biblical lady holding a child before pulling the car to a halt in front of a huge garage forecourt.

"I think you'll like this," she smiled, taking his hand and heading towards four garage doors, the snow crunching underfoot, a remote control activating the timber doors, his eyes taking a quick tour of the dark enclosure, his jaw dropping again, a beautiful Mercedes-Benz 300, an E-Type Jaguar, a vintage Bentley and the unmistakable image of a magnificent Rolls Royce hidden beneath a diaphanous shroud, sleeping quietly in the shadows.

The main entrance hall with high ceilings and ornate covings was gracious and cavernous. A delightful collection of baroque style art, ceramic ornamentation and bronze sculptures sat imposingly on exquisite period tables and an impressive display of oil paintings arranged in a discerning montage decorated one of the walls.

On the opposite wall a colourful painting in a bronze frame hung alone, the obscure arrangement of what looked like jigsaw pieces that didn't fit together, hinting at the work of Picasso.

Two large winding staircases with decorative wrought-iron handrails led up to a first-floor gallery landing. At the top of the stairs a magnificent stained-glass window - that wouldn't have been out of place in Durham Cathedral - reflected slithers of coloured light over an imposing glass chandelier hanging in the main entrance hall.

It took his breath away. He stood for a moment gazing in awe and admiration. He felt like he had stepped into a Clarke Gable movie. He clenched his teeth, making sure his drooping jaw didn't make another appearance.

She smiled and giggled through a mocking bow, sweeping her hand and pointing to the stairs with the confidence and enthusiasm of an estate agent, her playful gesture a courteous invitation for a quick tour of the magnificent house.

The gallery landing on the first-floor led to a myriad of spacious rooms comprising of eight double sized bedrooms and four single bedrooms, most having en-suite bathrooms.

The ground floor comprised of a spacious living-room, a large open fireplace and luxurious Persian carpets stretching in colourful islands over a sea of hardwood timber floors.

A door from the living room led to an equally spacious dining room, a further four reception rooms and a large kitchen and utility room.

A large hatch in the utility room floor provided access to the basement.

Opening the hatch and flicking a switch on the dusty wall, the dark abyss of the wine cellar flooding in a halo of light, taking each step one at a time, brushing away feathery cobwebs, the timber stairs creaking in quiet protest under their combined weight.

A labyrinth of aisles and endless rows of timber and metal racks cradled bottles of wine, the meticulous labelling indicative of their origin and significance, the ventilation system and temperature monitors bearing testimony to a connoisseur of wine.

The nag was back, a moment to gather his thoughts, a finger sweeping in circles over a dusty bottle of wine, his curiosity forcing another question.

"Your father is clearly an enthusiast of wine," he enquired, cleaning the dust from his finger.

"Oh, sorry," she replied, lifting her shoulders in way of an apology. "I forgot to mention that my parents also own a vineyard and winery in Northern France," she casually added, taking a bottle of wine from a rack, a playful smile pulling at her lips.

"We'll take this to the swimming pool."

"Swimming pool?" he echoed.

A set of double doors led into a spacious glazed atrium at the rear of the property, the leisure facilities boasting a swimming pool, a Sauna, Jacuzzi and two shower rooms located at one end of the pool. At the other end of the pool a door provided access to a number of self-contained rooms, offering fitness and gymnasium facilities, a television room and a bar with a full size snooker table.

French doors from the swimming pool provided access to a huge paved veranda, offering spectacular views of the magnificent landscaped gardens. A red gravel footpath led down to two tennis courts and a timber pavilion and beyond that a gazebo bordered an extensive forest of mature oaks and sycamore trees.

A wanting woman swimming in a paradise of mixed emotions, the brief interlude of apprehensive and meaningless small-talk slowly fading, senses smothered under the persuasion of closeness, temptation flirting with expectation, the second glass of wine increasing confidence, the relaxing ambience teasing optimism, the courtship, the intimacy, the heat of passion gathering momentum, too much wine, too much flirtatious innuendo, too many aches and too many pulses dancing between her legs, discretion swept away in a heartbeat, her clothes joining her glass of wine by the side of the pool.

The wicked smile of a temptress, the well-practiced pose of a model flaunting her body with flirtatious suggestion, somewhat unexpected but nevertheless impressive, the comical jump into the pool less attractive.

The gaiety of a young woman splashing about in the water with carefree abandon, bobbing up and down with playful amusement, her tits playing hide and seek beneath the water, nipples growing from dark areolas, a persuasive curling finger beckoning him into the water.

"Fuck me, I've been trying to get between her legs for the last couple of months and now she's naked and flaunting her body with potential and suggestive implications. No point questioning the 'Wind of Change,' he thought, slipping out of his pants, the dive into the pool impressive, the kiss smouldering, the embrace intimate, the exchange of chemistry electric, the arousal and expectation overwhelming.

A brief pause, breaking from the kiss to take in air, his eyes catching fleeting traces of her nakedness through the distortion of the water, her shapely breasts floating invitingly above the water, cupping each one in his hands, pulling and squeezing them playfully between his finger and thumb, lifting them to his hungry mouth, his warm breath seducing one nipple and then the other, lowering his hands below the water, sweeping over sculptured curves, clutching the soft cheeks of her bottom, squeezing and scratching, pulling her close in a coital pledge of unity, a pubic acquaintance of genitalia, the persuasion of movement, letting her feel his hardness pushing against her softness, letting her feel the sensation of touch, the searing heat of passion, the arousal of expectation.

The foreplay quickly gathered speed, the threatening object swaying like a pendulum beneath the water, brushing against her inner thighs, her body reacting to the sensation of touch, arousal flirting with lust and curiosity, lowering her hand beneath the water, the unexpected acquaintance of nine-and-a-half-inches filling her hand forcing a vocal gasp.

"Wow. That's impressive," she smiled, brushing water from her face, an impious smile and a flirtatious interaction of intent lifting the corners of her mouth.

"Don't move," she said. "I'm Jacques Cousteau. I'm going in pursuit of hidden treasure," she playfully teased, holding his waist with both hands, taking a deep intake of breath and submerging below the water, easing the throbbing muscle into her warm mouth, sucking and swallowing, taking him deep, coming up for precious air only when her lungs demanded and then vanishing below the water, the oral act performed with meaningful and eager enthusiasm, cradling his balls in one hand and pumping the swollen limb in and out of her mouth with the other, giving the bulbous head a parting kiss before crashing to the surface in an explosion of water and choking gasps for air.

"Help me up," she smiled, brushing wet hair from her face and wrapping her arms around his neck in a breathless gesture of assistance, wheezing in pants as he lifted her from the water and sat her on the side of the pool.

A beautiful woman sipping a glass of wine, her long ballerina legs hanging over the side of the pool, her feet dangling carelessly in the water, his eyes following the path of tiny rivulets of water falling over her breasts and meandering down the smooth contours of her stomach, eventually settling in the wet cluster of pubic hair between her thighs.

The wine drained, the empty glass abandoned on the side of the pool, the impious smile making another appearance, her tongue playing across wet lips with flirtatious suggestion, her eyes twinkling with mischievous intent, her smile widening, her legs following suit.

The pink lips of an aching vulva peeked out through a thick bush of pubic hair, smiling with alluring invitation, flashing her eyes with flirtatious intent, sweeping her hands over her shapely waist, coming to a rest on her slender thighs, pausing briefly and smiling into his eyes to see his reaction before brushing her fingers through the forest of pubic hair, opening her legs and shamelessly parting the flaps and folds, revealing all her inner secrets.

"Is this what you want?" she teased, opening her body and sliding two fingers inside, letting her head fall back in a chorus of pleasurable moans.

A throbbing limb pressing impatiently against the side of the pool, his balls about to explode at any second, an enthusiastic tongue embarking on an oral mission of intimate courtship, following the familiar path of expectation, mapping a sensuous route over her soft thighs, wiggling and swirling his tongue in a creative dance of coital persuasion, up one thigh and down the other, letting her feel the fine bristles on his chin brushing against her sensitive skin, breathing in the aroma of arousal, drinking in the smell of chlorine, blowing hot air over her vulva, her most guarded treasure opening like a flower in bloom, a discernible clitoris the size of a fingertip emerging from its protective hood.