Perfect Timing

(Chapter 6)

"Perfect Timing" (circa-1971)

If only he had gone straight to the casino on Friday night like he intended he wouldn't have had the police knocking at his door and he would definitely be in a better frame of mind for the long drive to Stockport.

He was certainly beginning to regret his act of chivalry.

The Bay Horse public house in Gateshead was a place you generally called into for a quick drink on the way to somewhere else. It was a dirty, sleazy place and so were the clientele.

You had to avoid taking deep breathes otherwise your lungs would be violated from the tar filled fog of hand-rolled cigarettes and the inadequate drainage from the toilets. And most of the seating was held together with duct-tape and the carpets were so old and threadbare your shoes stuck to the floor.

The glass had barely touched his lips when a young girl walked onto the dance floor and removed all of her clothes. Under the hypnotic spell of Norman Greenbaum singing 'Spirit in the Sky,' she danced around the room with a carefree confidence, swaying her hips and flaunting her breasts, floating in a dreamy trance, oblivious to the world around her.

The unexpected exhibition quickly attracted an audience of curious eyes.

Testosterone loaded males with bulging eyes and bulging pants gathered around the dance floor like a pack of hungry wolves, their voices laden with crude suggestion, willing the girl to open her body and give them a solo performance.

A guttural voice behind him interrupted the glass touching his lips.

"She's a loon mate."

Turning quickly on his heels a short middle-aged chubby man with an unkempt appearance and an unshaven face smiled back from behind the bar. His shirt was open at the front revealing a covering of perspiration on his chest and sweat marks under both arms.

"The wheels spinning but the hamsters dead," he sniggered, showing stained and uneven teeth, his bulging eyes crawling shamelessly over her naked body, shifting position and craning his neck, anxious not to miss a second of the erotic performance.

He took an instant dislike to the lecherous pervert who felt it necessary to scratch his balls as he questioned him about his vindictive comments.

"I don't understand. What do you mean? Does she have a problem?"

Wiping a layer of sweat from his brow and crushing a cigarette into an overflowing ashtray, leaning over the counter until their faces were almost touching, his cheesy smile showing yellow stained teeth and his breath smelling of cigarettes and the inside of a sewer.

"This is not the first time she's stripped naked and given a performance," he grinned, a cigarette dancing between nicotine stained fingers. "Apparently she exposes herself in other pubs in the area," he declared, putting his hand inside his trouser pocket just as the young girl bent over and opened her legs.

His next question interrupted the pervert's hand playing inside his pants.

"Who is she, and why doesn't anyone stop her?"

The disgusting man ignored the question. He was too preoccupied with trying to get himself off and made it rather obvious that he only had one thing on his mind and wasn't in the mood for exchanging words of sympathy.

The lecherous man pulled on his cigarette and shuffled his feet behind the bar, trying to get a better view, his hand gathering pace inside his pants, a tardy reply to the question muttered between heavy breathing, something about the girl having mental health problems and she was the daughter of the Vicar of the local Methodist Church.

A depraved audience of cowardly predators circled the dance floor like vultures watching over their vulnerable prey, some of them chanting obscenities, others offering crude suggestions, one man with his cock in his hand encouraging her to perform oral sex.

He finished his drink and glanced at his watch, the timepiece reminding him that he should be heading for the casino.

After giving the barman a look he reserved for perverts he pushed his way through the throng of predatory filth, picking up her clothes from the floor, lifting her into his arms and disappearing through a door, ignoring the onslaught of verbal abuse following in his wake.

During the short drive to her home he offered her a cigarette and tried to find out her name but she didn't reply. She just stared into the distance as if he wasn't there.

Apart from an ambient light above the entrance door the vicarage was in darkness.

The tyres crunched in quiet protest over the long gravel drive, the headlights lighting up the eerie grounds, casting haunting shadows of tall trees over the sinister looking house.

Before the brass knocker had time to find purchase the heavy oak door was already opening.

A nose appeared and then a mouth, a cautious eye peeking through a small gap in the door.

"My names Mark Brand," he volunteered. "Your daughter..." he added, his voice fading under the ominous sound of deadlocks turning and chains rattling as the door opened.

A tall man wearing a tweed jacket and sporting a dog-collar introduced himself as Alistair Bainbridge, the vicar of St Andrews Methodist Church and the father of the girl.

After a brief explanation of the events at the Bay Horse pub the vicar seemed unperturbed, but nevertheless thanked him for returning his daughter.

The discourteous movement of the door closing in his face informed him that the vicar had nothing more to say, so he turned around and headed for the car. As he drove away from the house he glanced in the rear view mirror, a little surprised to see an elderly woman had now appeared at the door and Alistair Bainbridge was writing something on a notepad.

The following day a police officer arrived at his door and questioned him about the events of Friday night. Alistair Bainbridge had reported the incident to the police and had given them the make and registration details of his car.

The officer told him that he wasn't under arrest but asked him if he would come to the police station and make a statement so they could complete their report.

After moving into the flow of traffic without indicating, the sound of a car horn behind him was enough to clear the thoughts from his head.

George Logan was travelling with him today and he realised that if he wanted to get them both to Stockport in one piece he would have to push Alistair Bainbridge and the police at the back of his mind.

The rain hammering against the windscreen and the poor visibility made the driving more demanding and required his deep concentration. He was also aware that the ache at the back of his neck was the prelude to a thunderous headache.

Fortunately he had travelled the route so often he could almost set the car on auto-pilot.

The week ahead looked promising, both for work commitments and for sociable events.

On their working agenda, he had to survey a building in Manchester and George Logan had to attend a client progress meeting. On their social agenda they had both been invited out for dinner with Charles Henderson and Beverley Jackson to celebrate his birthday.

With the A1 motorway relatively quiet, he lit a cigarette, turned the volume up on the radio and listened to James Taylor singing 'Fire and Rain.'

It was only six-thirty in the evening and the hotel bar was already filling with locals and strangers, catching a quick drink before heading to Old Trafford to watch the match, others pulling up stools at the bar, content to watch the game on the television.

"I think we should pretend to be Manchester United supporters for one night. The last thing we need is a confrontation with diehard supporters." George whispered, trying to disguise his North East accent, as he handed him a drink.

"We'll beat those bastards tonight," growled a drunken supporter, waving a red scarf above his head as he headed for the door.

"We will," Mark replied, hiding his loyalty to Newcastle United behind a limp smile, catching a glimpse of Beverley Jackson standing at the top of the stairs, her beauty almost taking his breath away.

Gliding down the stairs in a whisper of movement, a figure hugging black dress caressing every curve, the front cut low exposing a deep cleavage, her long slender legs growing out of a pair of towering black heels and a heart stopping smile on the most perfect lips.

Bruno Dante greeted his guests in the entrance foyer of the Bella Roma restaurant.

After hugging and kissing everyone on both cheeks and making a fuss and commotion as if they were Hollywood celebrities, he welcomed them into his humble establishment.

"The best table in the house," Bruno announced, skipping across the floor, a waiter holding a bottle of champagne following quickly on his heels. "Compliments of the house," Bruno smiled, pouring wine into glasses, a couple of waitresses moving anxiously around the table, forcing smiles, clinking cutlery and handing out menus.

"Happy Birthday, Charles," Beverley toasted, smiling and raising her glass.

"Happy Birthday," voices echoed in unison across the table, wine glasses chinking in melodious greeting.

Food delivered to the table and empty plates taken away, wine bottles emptied and quickly replaced, compliments following compliments, smiles and laughter flirting under a veil of stolen glances, pledges and promises and truth and lies smothered under the sound of raised voices and clattering plates.

The taxi dropped them back at 'The Royal Belvedere Arms Hotel' just after eleven.

After staggering unsteadily through the door, Beverley made a quick detour to the kitchen returning with a smile and a bottle of champagne in each hand.

Corks popped and the wine flowed, too many toasts inviting too many drunken off-key choruses of 'Happy Birthday,' Beverley deliberately letting his age slip into the song and casually announcing that at forty-two she was twelve years younger than Charles.

Standing at one end of the bar, George and Charles giggled and laughed like a couple of teenagers, swapping lewd anecdotes, telling dirty jokes and making suggestive innuendos, unaware that their voices were too loud.

Sitting on stools at the opposite end of the bar, Mark and Beverley talked quietly over the commotion, flirting with each other at any given opportunity.

George's overexcited and overloud voice broke their flirtatious interlude.

Holding his hands about ten-inches apart he proceeded to tell a joke about a large penis, but with an alcohol fuelled memory lapse he missed the punch line and in an outburst of hysterical laughter he pointed a finger at his friend and colleague shamelessly announcing that he was hung like a horse.

She smiled into his eyes, dipped a finger into her wine and sucked the liquid from her finger with flirtatious suggestion, a mischievous smile curling the corners of her mouth.

"Is that a fact? I always thought you were a bit of a dark horse."

The sound of the telephone ringing interrupted the sexually charged atmosphere.

The landlord from the Red Bull and some members of the golfing club were discussing the next golfing tournament in Portugal and because Charles was the secretary of the golfing society he asked him if he would come to the Red Bull to agree an agenda.

After quickly draining the contents of his glass, Charles announced that he would take George with him. With a smile and a dismissive hand, they were gone.

In the darkness and disquiet hanging between them they shared a smile and clinked glasses.

"Happy Birthday," Beverley muttered disapprovingly into her glass, before lifting off her stool and pressing a button on a black and chrome box behind the bar, the velvety voice of Frank Sinatra singing 'In the Wee Small Hours,' filtering through speakers, soothing the room with the perfect music for seduction

Taking his outstretched hand and sitting back on her stool, the intimacy of touch fuelling the fire of passion, lust and desire heightening arousal, brushing his hand across her face, tracing the outline of her mouth, her full red lips delicious and soft, the kind that pleaded for the most gentle of kisses and offered the most passionate response.

Faces came together, noses touched, lips met and mouths opened, tongues sweeping over teeth, duelling in an orgy of saliva, two mouths feasting on the heat of each other's breath, flirting in an intimate dance of promise and expectation.

Pulses raced and heart beats gathered speed, a tangle of impatient hands touching and groping, probing and squeezing, a familiar awakening inside his pants and a pulse between her legs demanding attention, a crushing kiss that lasted until they almost ran out of breath.

A deep intake of breath and a quick adjustment on the stool, slipping her shoes off her feet, flashing her eyes with lustful intent, a promiscuous smile revealing perfect white teeth.

"Take my hands," she invited, leaning back precariously on the stool, running her feet up and down his legs, wiggling her toes playfully between his inner thighs, finding the growing lump inside his pants, pressing her foot gently against the swollen flesh, the acquaintance of wriggling toes providing the ultimate tease.

A beating heart overflowing with desire and expectation, curiosity flirting with the heat of passion, letting go of his hands, her playful pursuit momentarily interrupted by a compelling urge and an overwhelming need for sexual stimulation.

Peppering his neck with soft and meaningful kisses, sweeping her tongue in playful circles, blowing whispers of hot air into his ears, brushing his face and his lips, his nose and his eyes, pushing her warm breasts against his vibrant body letting him feel the weight and firmness, the swelling and the hardness of her nipples pressing urgently against his chest.

Two bodies moving to impulsive urges, conviction and lust fuelling expectation, impatient hands searching with sensitive meaning, stroking and fondling, gliding over the curvature of her heaving bosoms, feeling them rise and fall beneath the soft fabric, his feather light fingers twisting and teasing her nipples, an aching vulva responding to the acquaintance of touch, his well-practiced hands caressing and squeezing, fondling and kneading her breasts, each one more than a handful, each one moulding comfortably to his touch.

A brief pause and a deep intake of breath, a familiar wetness pooling between her thighs, lowering her hand and squeezing the throbbing muscle inside his pants, her eyes watering with lustful curiosity, erotic images weaving their way inside her head, the promise of expectation dancing behind her eyes.

His masterful touch...His taste...His hard flesh inside her mouth...Opening her body...His cock stretching and filling her entrance... A frenzied fuck... A breath-taking orgasm...

The ominous sounds of the old building settling into silence broke the erotic thoughts playing inside her head. There was a great deal of nervous apprehension at the true reality of what they were about to undertake, knowing that Charles and George could bust through the door at any minute. But with their brains operating much slower than the speed of hormonal chaos, and increasing heart beats firing a surge of blood to genitalia, any thoughts of caution were lost in the pulsing flesh between her fingers.

Instinct guiding impulse, urgency stimulating arousal, lust and desire overflowing with expectation, caution and danger swept away in the heat of passion, reality and determination motivating confidence, eyes meeting, lips touching and mouths melting together, stealing the breath from each other's mouths, kissing with the intensity and insatiable lust of those who had a desperate hunger for each other's bodies, no matter what the consequences.

Breaking from the kiss and lowering from the stool, dropping to her knees on the timber floor, an eager hand quickly finding the staining lump, submissive eyes looking up from the floor, the ache of a burning vulva torturing her senses, her body craving release, a frustrated sigh inviting a remorseful whisper.

"There will be other times when we will be alone with no one to disturb us," she smiled, sweeping her tongue over her top lip in anticipation of what was to come.

"So until then... Let me take care of you."

Imagination flirting with curiosity, arousal chasing impulsive urges, flashing her eyes with curiosity and excitement, an impatient hand touching and fondling, squeezing the impressive limb inside his pants, her clumsy fingers tugging impatiently at the zip, wheezes and pants forcing breathless sighs, urgency chasing frustrated curses, the fastenings eventually yielding, pulling his trousers over his thighs and slipping her hand inside his briefs, long painted fingers closing in a firm grip around the girth, unfolding the weighty specimen, liberating the awesome piece of flesh from its fabric prison.

A startled gasp, a renewed excitement, an impossible object captured in her vision, her stomach fluttering, her mouth wide open, her jaw slack, her skin burning, her vulva melting, staring in admiration through watering eyes, mesmerised by the throbbing muscle bobbing and swaying in front of her eyes, teasing her senses, corrupting her mind.

It was nine-and-a-half-inches long and as thick as a woman's wrist. The last time she'd seen anything so obscene it was hanging from a horse.

She couldn't believe her eyes. She stared in disbelief. She wanted it.

A suggestive smile curled the corners of her mouth.

"You're so big," she whispered, blowing soft kisses between his inner thighs, a worshipping hand caressing his balls, the other hand working the length back and forth with slow measured strokes, pulling the foreskin over the bulbous head and dragging a finger nail over the dark blue vein running along the side of the massive column, pressing a thumb against the vein, feeling the pulse and the surge of blood rushing through the swollen shaft, an eager hand tugging and pulling the treacherous limb with well-practiced strokes, an urgent desire to taste his flesh dancing behind a flirtatious smile.

The pulse of her lips and the warm melting pleasure of a hungry mouth eased him in, her cheeks bulging, her face twisting, her lips stretching against the girth, sucking in gasps of air through her nose, attempting to swallow as much flesh that her mouth would comfortably accept, a stumbling gasp and a choking gag, a reminder of her limitations when only half the length reached the back of her throat.

"You taste so good," she whispered, easing him out slowly and moving her tongue in a slow seductive dance around the smooth crown, sweeping in sensuous circles over the bulbous helmet. "And so delicious," she added, working in a steady rhythm of pleasure along the shaft, nipping the sensitive membrane playfully between her teeth, almost bruising the flesh in the process, giving the sensitive glans a little extra attention before removing a clear drop of sticky fluid from the unblinking eye, staring up from the floor to see his reaction.

A brief meeting of eyes and an exchange of seductive smiles, impulsive urges and a visceral surge of adrenaline increasing arousal, reckless passion gathering speed, her blue eyes sparkling in the subdued light, the pulsing organ slipping between her lips, momentarily held in playful capture between her teeth, easing him inside her warm mouth, bobbing her head up and down, sucking him in and swallowing deep, feeling the smooth head probing the back of her throat, easing him in and easing him out, his eyes transfixed on the bulging head distorting her face and the swollen shaft glimmering in a sea of saliva each time he entered and retreated between her lips.

A painful sigh and an uncomfortable shuffle, the hard timber floor torturing her knees, pleasure momentarily giving way to discomfort, easing the meaty limb from her mouth.