Abstraction & Distraction

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.