tagNovels and NovellasNo Flying Tonight Ch. 09

No Flying Tonight Ch. 09

bylindseymarsh©

This is approximately the half-way point in the story. If you want the complete version you may e-mail me and I will forward it as a Word document.



Jack was right. The C.O. listened to his excuse and as he had heard a thousand just like it, confined him to barracks for fourteen days. The next two weeks were a mixture of torment and exhilaration; torment, because he wanted to see Sophie and couldn't; exhilaration, because he was actually flying.

The training school used open-cockpit Tiger Moths, a plane similar to the one he'd flown in England, and Harvards. His first flight was with an instructor who obviously hadn't read his file and had no idea he could fly. When he finally handed the controls over to Jack, he was amazed by his ability. Usually, on the first flight, the trainee practiced gaining and losing altitude and, if everything went well, gentle banking before handing back the controls to the instructor for landing. Jack flew the plane as though it was part of him; performing his tasks with practiced ease. When they came into land the instructor shouted to him through the speaking tube, telling him 'Carry on. You can land it.' Jack landed effortlessly and taxied back to the hanger. No more Link trainer; only the clouds.

The next time he flew the instructor allowed him to take-off and land. Two flights later he flew solo.

If he was enjoying his days, his evenings were dismal. He wanted to see Sophie, but was confined to barracks. He called almost every day, including four occasions when she was out, but when she answered, he found it difficult to put into words what he wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her he forgave her and it didn't matter what had happened, but each time he tried he lost his resolve and the conversation turned to everyday matters.

His punishment ended on the Saturday at midnight which meant, even if he saw her on the Sunday, they wouldn't be able to go out dancing or even for a drink. In addition to antediluvian drinking laws, 'Ontario the Good' had onerous restrictions with respect to Sundays. No drinking or dancing, but you were allowed go to church. He called her on the Saturday morning and asked if he might return the car on the Sunday evening.

"Of course. Will you have eaten?"

"I don't have to. Just what are you offering?"

From the chuckle in his voice she recognised the double éntrendre.

"Well, I could say me, but I am prepared to satiate your less carnal appetite. I was going to offer roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. I know you must have missed it."

"Lovely. I have missed it, but not as much as I've missed you."

He returned the car at 5.49 p.m., exactly nineteen minutes after he'd left camp. He had tried for eighteen, but Upper James Street was busy with people returning home from visiting relatives; another activity apparently permitted in Hamilton on a Sunday. She was waiting at the door, dressed in a skirt and blouse and sporting a slightly different, younger hair style than the last time had seen her. She greeted him on the doorstep with a kiss and then peered round him to see if any of her neighbours were looking. Assured they weren't, she kissed him again and pulled him inside.

She took his uniform jacket and hung it up, showed him into the living room, motioned him to sit down on the sofa and went and sat next to him. He looked at her and decided his first impressions of her had been right; she was beautiful. She spoke first.

"I'm glad you came. I've missed you."

"I've missed you too. I've counted all of the almost three hundred and fifty-three and a half hours since I last saw you."

Sophie laughed. Jack had revealed his youth on a couple of occasions, but she couldn't fault him. It made her happy to finally feel wanted for herself and by someone she trusted to tell her the truth.

She got up and walked over to the drinks' cabinet. Her eyes sparkled as, with a hint of a leer, she asked,

"What would you like, and how would you like it?"

He smiled; if she wanted to play a game of double éntrendres, he was happy to oblige.

"It may be a little early for what I'd like; so I'll just have a scotch."

She smiled and poured him a scotch and a gin and tonic for herself.

"Cheers."

"Cheers. Mm, that's good. Where did you get it from?"

"It was Iain's. I thought you might like it. It is, or was, his most expensive single malt. After all, you've already had his widow so you might as well have his whisky."

He smiled, but was perplexed. She was seemingly at ease with sex. She engaged in sexual banter, she let herself be fucked by a man she'd met only three times - once on a bus - she walked around in the nude and yet, she was apparently frigid or was when it came to being made love to. He had seen her reaction, but somehow it didn't seem to fit.

For the next twenty minutes they engaged in small talk; she told him about the letters she'd received from her children and he told her about his flying exploits. He replenished their drinks, making sure hers was a large one. She went into the kitchen, opened and shut the stove, returned to the living room and informed him dinner would be ready in about an hour.

"We've got an hour to fill. Would you like to see the house and garden?"

"I would."

They moved into the back garden with their drinks. The garden was large, almost half an acre, laid out in English style, with a large lawn edged with wide borders of roses, hydrangeas, geraniums and irises. In the centre was a pond containing a small, fish shaped fountain which sprayed water from its mouth. There were a number of large, goldfish-like fish in the pond which, when they approached, came to the side looking to be fed.

"They're koi. My parents kept them and when, after my father died, my mother sold the house she gave me the koi. They live forever."

Did 'ever' mean longer than the average bomber pilot?

"What's your garden like at home, Jack?"

"Well, I'm not much of a gardener, but I can tell you it's about the same size as this and the plants seem similar. But we definitely don't have koi."

They walked slowly around the flower beds as she named the flowers. She held his arm and once, when they stopped, kissed him on the cheek.

"It's getting cool. Let's go inside and I'll show you the house."

Jack had seen most of the house on the night of the dance, but was curious about the different styles of furniture and décor. The tour of the house was much quicker than the garden and took in the ground floor only.

"The art deco is mine, but most of the furniture came from my husband's family and we replaced it with more of the same. I had never considered changing any of it until I went London and saw an art deco box in the Burlington Arcade and just couldn't resist the temptation. It was so beautiful. Iain was with me and didn't want me to buy it, but I was determined to have it. One day, after he'd been out all night with his friend and his wife, I went back to the store and bought it. Since then I've added some pieces, but it's been difficult as I haven't been able to find any in Hamilton and I've had to go to Toronto."

When they reached the kitchen, she checked the food. The vegetables and meat were ready and all that needed to be done was to make the Yorkshire pudding. She took the meat from the oven, placed it on a carving tray on the top of the stove, poured the batter for the Yorkshire pudding into the meat pan and put it back into the stove. While the pudding was cooking, Jack watched as she strained the vegetables and put them into the serving dishes.

The kitchen routine was unfamiliar to Jack. At home he was used to his mother and sister doing all the cooking, usually appearing at the table just in time for the meal to be served and in the Officers' mess, he had his meals served by orderlies. In spite of his inability to contribute to the cooking he remained in the kitchen, taking pleasure in watching her do something for him.

"Take the vegetables and the meat into the dining room, please Jack. The Yorkshire pudding is nearly ready."

He took the vegetable into the dining room and set them in the centre of a table which was set, almost formally, with a place setting at either end and which could have easily accommodated twelve. When he returned for the meat, which looked like the monthly ration for a family of four in Britain, she was taking the finished Yorkshire pudding from the pan and putting it on a plate.

He returned with the meat, placing it with the vegetables and sat at the end furthest from the kitchen, waiting for her. She came in a minute later, juggling two warm plates, the Yorkshire pudding and a gravy boat. He jumped up, took the gravy boat and placed it in the centre of the table and returned to his seat. She put the plates down in the center of the table next to the meat and vegetables, put Yorkshire pudding on both plates and asked him,

"What vegetables would you like with your Yorkshire pudding?"

Jack smiled. At home he'd always eaten his Yorkshire pudding in Yorkshire fashion; with gravy only and before the main course. Obviously in Canada, one ate it with the main course.

"Everything; please."

He watched as she put the vegetables on his plate and handed it to him. He looked for the meat, which was on a carving dish in the centre of the table, and it suddenly occurred to him; his father wasn't there to carve. He looked at Sophie, but she was serving herself vegetables from a tureen. Well, he thought, there's no time like the present to learn. He picked up the knife and ran his finger along the blade, a ritual he'd seen his father perform every Sunday, but had no idea what he would do if it wasn't sharp. It was and gratefully, he picked up the carving fork and started to carve. As he carved three slices for Sophie and put them on her plate and then four for himself, he realised the Sunday carving ritual was a fraud and didn't require years of practice and a Y chromosome.

They ate in silence for a few seconds before Sophie said,

"I've decanted a bottle of red wine, a Medoc, which should be ready by now. It was one my husband bought and I thought, as you've already drunk his scotch and had his widow, you might as well drink his wine."

She was teasing him again. Would she use the same joke for the third time if she offered him a cigar?

"It's in the kitchen, on the side. Would you like to fetch it?"

The wine was superb, a Chateau Lafite Rothschild, 1934. Jack, who had very little experience of wine and certainly had no idea of its quality, couldn't tell but from what he knew about her husband, he guessed it would be. The food was a different matter. Sophie had served him with a meal as well cooked as anything his mother had ever served and about that, he felt well qualified to give his opinion.

By the time he'd cleared his plate and had a second serving, he was full. Noticing he had finished, she got up, picked up her plate and then his.

"That was wonderful. I don't think I could eat another thing."

"What about dessert? I've got something special for you."

"I don't think I can. I'm full."

"But I've been working on it all day."

He could hear the disappointment in her voice and not wishing to hurt her, he changed his mind.

"Well, just a little then."

She beamed and walked into the kitchen.

Jack waited but couldn't hear any sound coming from the kitchen and wondered if something had happened. Just as he was about to get up, he heard her moving about. A minute later she said,

"Put the lights out, Jack. It's a surprise and I need the lights out."

He complied and sat wondering what she'd made. Was it going to be something flambé?

"Close your eyes."

From the sound of her voice she must be waiting at the door. He closed his eyes and heard her come in to the dining room. She struck a match. It must be flambé. He heard her walk towards her end of the table.

"All right. You can open your eyes."

He was wrong. She had used the match to light one of the candles in a silver candelabra sitting in the middle of the table. He couldn't see her as the single candle shed very little light and he was looking directly into it. He could see she wasn't sitting in her chair but when he looked around, she was still not visible. Then she appeared, rising slowly from behind her chair. It was difficult for Jack to see her clearly. He could see she was carrying something, but what was she carrying and what the heck was she wearing? As she came towards him he could see. She was naked except for a maid's pinafore and hat, black nylon stockings held up by gold garters and a pair of black, Vargas pin-up style, high heeled shoes. In her hand was a plate containing two giant scoops of ice-cream topped with two bright red cherries. She was laughing. When she reached his end of the table she curtsied to him, rested the plate on her breasts and said,

"For sir. For his special enjoyment. Which one would he prefer?" She profferred the plate and then her right breast. "Is it to be the cold dessert or the warm dessert?"

Afterwards, when they were lying together and talking, he had teased her, telling her he'd really wanted the ice-cream but didn't want to disappoint her, but there had been no doubt in his mind when she had posed the question that the warm dessert was his first choice.

He got up, took the ice-cream from her, put it on the table and took hold of her hand.

"Turn around." She pirouetted once and then again. "Mmm, not bad...for a fifty year-old dessert....but I think the cherries on this one aren't quite as big as the first option."

"Cheeky. This dessert's only just forty-six and you get to eat these cherries more than once. Still, if it's short term pleasure you want, you'll need a dessert spoon."

Forty-six; he found it hard to believe his mother was only three years older than Sophie; it was as if they belonged to two different generations. Sophie was slim, lithe, and vivacious and looked at least five, even ten years younger than she was. His mother was, well, motherly. When he compared them again later he realised his comparison had been coloured by the fact Sophie was standing before him, almost naked and available, and his mother was an ocean away and in his mind, dressed in comfortable, sensible, motherly clothes. On the other hand, comparing them in the same state of undress, Sophie in the now and his mother from memory, he had to admit his mother had bigger, although droopier tits with longer and fatter nipples or at least she had the last time he'd seen them just over a year ago.

It was just after he had starting going out with Jane when, looking for his father's car keys, he had gone into his parents' bedroom and had found his mother naked, in the act of putting on her brassiere. The thing he'd remembered, other than her tits and the hairiness of her cunt, was her response. She hadn't screamed or rushed to cover herself but had merely looked at him, raised her eyebrows and turned away slowly, still leaving him a partial view of her left tit.

He had been embarrassed, but the next day she'd treated him as she always had and subsequently, had only mentioned the matter once. He'd been looking at a photo, in one of his sister's film magazines, of a minor film actress wearing an evening dress which was somewhat revealing. She had seen what he was looking at and with a glint in her eye, had said,

"It doesn't hide a lot but, then, it looks like she hasn't got much to hide. I would have thought you would have preferred ladies with a little more to offer - or that's what it looked like last time I caught you looking."

His mother was right and Sophie did have a little more to offer than both the starlet and Jane.

"What do I need to do if I select the second option?"

"Not much; and if you really want to enjoy it, I'd say you're over-dressed."

He let go of her hand and started to undress. As he removed his shirt and tie she reached for his belt and slipped it off. By the time he'd removed his shirt, his trousers were round his ankles and she was picking up his left foot.

"Pick your foot up."

He complied and then, without prompting, picked up the other foot. She removed the other leg from his trousers and then his socks.

"Take off my apron."

He put his hand round her back, undid the bow and slipped the apron over her head. As her tits came into view, he thought once again of his mother and how they compared with hers. Sophie's were definitely smaller.

"Take off my stockings."

As he peeled off her stockings he looked down at her cunt and compared it with the only women he had seen naked. Jane's cunt was almost child-like; the copper-coloured hair sparse in comparison to the dark and luxuriant growth sported by Sophie and his mother, although why he was thinking of his mother at this moment he found it difficult to understand.. He was about to fuck a beautiful women and he was comparing her with his mother, someone he had never thought about in a sexual way or at least not until he had seen her naked.

Sophie broke his chain of thoughts.

"Let's go upstairs. It's much more comfortable in bed than on the rug."

They ran upstairs naked with his cock and her tits bouncing as they climbed the stairs. She looked almost child-like, smiling and laughing as she bounded up the stairs in front of him.

The master bedroom was enormous, at least three times the size of his parents' room and furnished eclectically. The furniture was obviously her husband's choice, comprising overstuffed chairs and a solid hardwood bed and headboard. The décor showed touches of her hand and included some examples of art deco and an odd item, an erotic picture either from or inspired by the 'Karma Sutra'.

She saw him looking at it and smiling, said,

"I bought it last week in a seedy little shop in Toronto. I bought it because the man's cock is larger than the trifle you have between your legs."

He looked and as the man's cock was enormous, had to agree she was right. There was no way the woman he was about to fuck was going to get it inside her.

"I put it up just before you got here and I'm going to leave it up to remind me of you when you're not here; although I don't know how I'll explain it to my sister or my daughter."

He kissed her; first on the lips, then on the tits and then, holding her hand, led her to the bed, where he picked her up and laid her in the middle. He got on the bed, knelt over her and kissed her again. She responded, thrusting her tongue into his mouth. Their tongues fenced for several seconds before she released him and said,

"Jack, I know I disappointed you last time but this time it will be better. I promise you."

"You don't need to apologise. I enjoyed it."

What he said was true, but it was only half the truth. He had enjoyed it, but he would have enjoyed it much more if he'd felt her respond. Jane had shown him there was a difference between having sex and making love and the latter required the whole-hearted participation of both parties to be properly classified as making love.

"I can reach my climax when I play with myself, or even when you do it to me. What I can't understand is why, when we made love, it didn't excite me. I loved it when you held me and kissed me but when you were inside me, it felt the same as when I was in bed with Iain."

He understood she was only trying to describe what she felt, but was hurt she would compare him to her husband.

"Sophie, I love you. I realise you didn't mean to compare me with Iain, but what you said just now was hurtful. I don't know what happened between you and Iain, but I am not Iain."

She hadn't realised what she'd said and when she recalled her words, she felt ashamed. She knew he loved her and he'd made love to her with love. It wasn't his fault she couldn't reach her climax. He had treated her as a lover should and it was she who was the one at fault. She started to cry and as the tears poured down her cheeks, she tried to apologise and explain what she'd really meant.

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