Seduction or Betrayal? Ch. 03

This is part three of a seven-part novella; it should stand alone, but beginning at the beginning is the recommended pattern. I'm posting all the chapters at the same time so you shouldn't have to wait long for the rest. ALiterotica Box Set for the summer.

The original idea for this work came following a discussion at the authors' hangout about frustrations with the black-and-white depictions of adultery in the section-which-cannot-be-named. So thanks to all who chipped in to that debate.

As usual, comments, criticism and support welcomed.

*****

John's phone rang about five minutes after Yvonne had left his house to prepare for the date at the restaurant.

'I don't have anything to wear.'

'Sounds like my evening's getting better and better then.'

He laughed alone. There was silence at the other end.

'I'm wearing a suit, no tie. It's pretty smart, but they're not pompous about clothing. What about the outfit you were going to wear out with the girls?'

'Good plan.'

The line went dead. He looked at it quizzically and then replaced the receiver, grinning. He hadn't been out on a date - not that thiswas a date he reminded himself - for ever. He had forgotten how seriously women took their appearances.

Yvonne was having a mild panic. She stuck her tongue out at the phone. Blokes were useless, she confirmed to herself. Absolutely no idea. She picked up her phone again to call her best friend Caroline for advice on clothes and make up. Then she realised, Caroline was in no fit state for conversation. Dehydration can do that to you. She let out a frustrated grunt and checked the time. She only had three hours to make herself presentable. She shrieked and ran upstairs to run a bath.

Smart move. The warmth of the water and the caress of the bubbles made by her favourite unguents were instantly calming. She started on a mental list. No time for a hairdresser, I'll just have to wash and blow dry it. Since becoming a mother her once weekly visits to the salon had fallen off. Her last cut had been about a month ago, but it was going to have to do. The only new dresses she'd bought in the past five years had both been for friends' weddings; one of those would probably do. And she'd bought a five-pack of black tights, but only worn two pairs: check. Cosmetics. She panicked for a couple of seconds. The last time she'd gone full-slap she'd discovered that the contents of her vanity case were all dry and crumbling. Then she remembered she'd restocked: phew.

Her fingers told her her pussy needed a shave. As a natural blonde, with fine hair, the stubble was pretty much invisible to the eye. She'd done her legs like she always did in the bath. Should she continue?

'Why not? It's my birthday.'

She smiled as she set to work. The perfumed steam from the bath was a scent she associated with sex. It was part of her and Paul's ritual on the increasingly rare occasions one or both of them was not too knackered after getting the lads to sleep. She tried to stop herself calculating how long it had actually been as she drew the fresh lady-razor across the delicate skin. It had been too long. She made a mental note to text Paul and tell him to come home before they went to pick up the boys.

'Not bad. Not bad at all.'

She nodded at her grinning reflection as she stood virtually naked before the full-length mirror. She was only wearing a lacy thong. The one she'd bought as a treat for Paul on Valentine's Day. She cupped her firm breasts; the bra that went with it was now too big thanks to the running. It had been a long time since she's examined herself so closely. And she liked what she saw. Firm muscles; she rubbed at her stomach to help the absorption of a patch of the body moisturiser she'd slathered all over herself.

'Missed a bit.'

She smiled. It was what the boys always said when she cleaned the windows. John had taught them as a tease, and like most small kids, once they'd started something it was impossible to get them to stop. She twisted to examine her bottom, grinning more broadly as she enjoyed the firmness of her buttocks when she found another patch of the lotion which was still glistening. She turned to the wardrobe to decide what to wear.

John was more relaxed in his preparations. He showered and after a brief rub of his chin decided on a second shave. He had a choice of one aftershave; so that was easy. His single suit was still in the wrapper the dry cleaners had put on it just before Xmas the previous year. The belly he had started developing in his late forties had disappeared once he took up cycling, so he was about the same size now as he had been in his twenties. The pink shirt he'd bought way back went nicely with the grey of the suit so he decided to give that another outing. Quick polish of the old shoes and that was him done. He decided on a stroll round the garden to see if there were enough suitable late flowers for a bouquet.

He drew up outside Yvonne's at five-forty-five. He had a long enough memory to know that women preparing for an evening out generally needed a gentle reminder that it was time to go without the added pressure of their escort worrying about turning up late. He knew that Jean-Paul was doing him a massive favour and didn't want to inconvenience him by stretching the arrival time. When Yvonne opened the door he was instantly rendered speechless. She stared at him wondering why he didn't return her greeting; he just gawped. She was stunning.

'Is everything OK? You look a bit shocked.'

'For you.'

He thrust the bunch of fresh cut flowers he had wrapped in front of him like a shield. Yvonne took them from him and bent forward to kiss his cheek. He drank in her perfume and closed his eyes. A look of concern crossed her face.

'You're gorgeous.'

John knew he sounded like a tongue-tied adolescent but they were the only words he could get out. Yvonne was wearing a tight-fitting, green dress which shimmered and shone with her every movement. The short, slightly-flared skirt seemed to undulate as she hovered around him and the tight, low-cut bodice exposed half her breasts which stood out firm and plump and captured his gaze. He was already speculating as to how it was they were prevented from simply popping out. If her dress sparkled, her hair gleamed. He found himself glancing up at the ceiling to check whether Paul had somehow installed theatrical lighting since his last visit. He hadn't.

'Thank you. You scrub up pretty well yourself.'

Yvonne blushed and took him by the arm towards the kitchen. John sat and just followed her every move as she found a vase and put the blooms in water. He thought he caught a glimpse of stocking-tops as she stretched.

'Is this dress OK? I wasn't sure it was appropriate. I've dropped a couple of sizes since I started running. None of my newer stuff fits anymore.'

She turned to face him and smoother her hands down her body causing ripples and eddies which almost hypnotised him. John stumbled over words as he tried to start a sentence so coughed and began again.

'You're gorgeous.'

Yvonne laughed. He noticed she had a string of matching green stones around her throat as she threw her head back. He drug his fingernails into his palms and metaphorically shook himself. Come on, he chided himself, you're more than a grown man. Stop acting like a child. It's her night, and the last thing she'll want in an old pervert dribbling all over his food as he stares at her tits.

'It's perfect. I'm just a little speechless because I haven't seen you in any kind of dress before. I knew you were pretty, of course. You look good in everything you wear. Tonight, well you're a vision: the hair, your make up, everything.'

He smiled. He went for manly, but just hoped it was on the polite side of slobbering. He slapped his palms against his thighs. It was time to leave. If he didn't move now there was a fair chance he'd never want to. Yvonne was blushing again. She liked the dress. It was a relic from her single days; she'd been wearing it the night she and Paul met. That was probably the only reason she kept it. She'd only thought of it after trying on virtually everything else she owned. It was clear from John's reaction it had been a good decision.

'That was the two-minute version. I can do ten, thirty or the deluxe two-hour performance if you feel you need flattery shovelled on. Let's go. You can decide in the car.'

John stood smiling and watched as she gathered a small matching bag on a gilt chain and threw a shawl around her shoulders. She stopped him with a light touch on his elbow as he started towards the door. She was holding out a thin wad of notes.

'I wanted to give you this.'

'What is it?'

'It's forty pounds. I told you I had some cash in the house. It's a contribution.'

He waved it away and started to laugh.

'Don't be silly. It's my treat; well, mine and Jean-Paul's. I'll explain in the car.'

'Not so fast then. This is the first time I've worn heels in a while I don't want to go...'

She paused, reddening again.

'... Bum over boobies.'

John laughed again and held a hand backwards which she took gratefully. His grip was warm and firm. She told herself that whatever misgivings she might have had about going out with an older man while dressed like a twenty-year-old on the pull, the night was going to be alright. She took a deep breath at the door and started laughing lightly as she stepped through it.

'I thoughtarse over tit might be a little too coarse. Seeing as we're going to a prize-winning restaurant and all.'

John's laugh deepened. He threw an arm around her shoulder and hugged her to him affectionately. It was a familiar gesture. He had done it many times before. This, she found herself thinking, is the first time though he's touched bare skin. And seen quite as much cleavage. She had spotted him looking away embarrassed and pushed herself closer against him in her own version of reassurance. He held open the door for her to get into the car. The confirmation that she was indeed wearing stockings was a small bonus for such chivalry.

'You were going to explain.'

'What?'

John felt momentarily guilty. She must have spotted him staring at her legs: stockings and suspenders. He was still thinking about them.

'About paying. I know it's my birthday and everything. And I'm more than grateful. But it's too much. All I know about the Pump House is that it's the sort of place famous people get photographed coming out of.'

'P-shaw.'

He articulated the two syllables deliberately and giggled with relief that she wasn't busting him for ogling. He suspected he also caught a glimpse of nipple when he'd inadvertently looked down her cleavage as they hugged. He was almost certain she wasn't wearing a bra.

'I have a confession.'

'Go on.'

'Icould have easily afforded to sub you a six-pack, fake-tan and big-willy entertainer. I just didn't want you picking that instead of coming out to eat with me. Besides I have an arrangement with the owner. He only charges me half-price.'

'You know him? How?'

She sounded like a little girl. He smiled and glimpsed across at her. She was half-turned towards him in her seat and was definitely not wearing a bra.

'When he and his partner opened the place they came to the Open Exhibition at the local gallery. I put stuff in every year and they usually take one or two from me.'

'I've been. It's great. But the prices are too steep for me.'

'Jean-Paul not only bought the two painting I had in the exhibition, but got in touch and purchased three more.'

'So he's a fan?'

John looked again to check she wasn't pulling his leg. He had to drag his eyes back to the road.

'I suppose he is. I hadn't really thought of him like that.'

He paused again while he considered her comment. The paintings he'd sold to the restaurant were the only commercial sales he'd ever made. He took a few pounds here and there from people who spotted his daubs at local shows, but never really thought about selling selling. Maybe he should, he thought to himself.

'Anyway. He said something like they were cheap at twice the price and offered me half-price meals when I wouldn't take any more from him.'

'I always knew you thought of me as a cheap date.'

Yvonne sounded serious but she couldn't help but laugh when he started to protest.

'I'm sorry it's not going to be more of a date. I was grateful we could get in at all, but it is rather early. I hope you're not disappointed.'

She leaned over and put a hand on his knee.

'Don't apologise. This is brilliant. I'd have been on my own with a takeaway and Hugh Grant if you hadn't asked me.'

He could feel the warmth of her hand as she rubbed his knee to emphasise her gratitude.

'So I'm up against Hugh for your attention, eh? Stiff challenge.'

They bantered back and forth until they pulled into the restaurant's car park. John couldn't help but sigh when Yvonne removed her hand and began gathering together her belongings. The Pump House is an impressive Victorian building. Built of brick and topped with a slate and glass roof, its original purpose was self-explanatory; a relic of the times when municipalities were able to invest in infrastructure and clean water. As a listed building, developers could only watch it decay while they bided their time and waited to put in bids for it and the surrounding land until they were certain it would be condemned as unsafe and could be pulled down. Jean-Paul and his partner had picked it up for a song but invested heavily to convert it. Its proximity to the motorway network meant their brand of 'modern cuisine' drew an appreciative clientele from a sufficiently wide radius to make sure it was constantly busy. Even at this early hour the car park was more than half-full and there was a trickle of well-dressed patrons making their way to the front entrance.

'Stop. Let me open the door for you.'

John grabbed her arm as she was reaching for the door handle before getting out himself and bustling around to let her out. If he hadn't been told it was a long time since she had worn a dress, he could have guessed. Yvonne unceremoniously got out one leg at a time, giving her companion confirmation, not only that she was indeed in stockings and suspenders, but that her panties consisted of little more than a few thin strings and a scrap of lace.

'Nice shoes.'

Was the only alternative toyou're gorgeous which he could bring instantly to mind. And he didn't want to go back to incoherent lust so soon after he had managed to pull himself out of it.

'You like them? They go with the dress - duh. I haven't worn them for ages either. Hence my unsteadiness.'

She took his arm for support and began to turn towards the entrance.

'Just a sec. I have to get something else.'

John opened the hatchback and extracted what was clearly one of his larger paintings wrapped in brown paper. It took a few moments for him to get the car locked, adjust his burden comfortably and then offer a crooked elbow to Yvonne. They proceeded to the entrance and towards the maitre d's desk which was staffed by a stern-looking woman of about Yvonne's age. John gave his name and asked if she would look after the picture.

'It's a gift for Jean-Paul. Please tell him I hope he likes it.'

The woman looked them up and down with a critical, if neutral, eye before summoning a minion with a flick of her head. She handed the acne-plagued youth the package.

'Take this to chef and tell him his guests have arrived. He left explicit instructions he was to be informed immediately.'

The youngster scurried off and his boss continued with barely a pause for breath.

'Your table will be ready shortly. Perhaps you would care for a drink at the bar while you wait?'

Her tone was more instructive than inquisitorial and she gave them a prim grin when they complied, following the direction of her eyes towards an area of comfortable leather furniture.

'Do you think we'll see anyone famous?'

Yvonne's eyes were shining as she looked around at the studied opulence of her surroundings. She craned her neck to scrutinise their fellow diners; an impeccably-groomed cabal of money men and property speculators as far as John could judge. She almost squealed and clapped her hands when given a drinks menu by a smartly dressed waitress. She ummed-and-ahhed over what cocktail to choose before settling on a Manhattan.

'I've only ever had a Sex on the Beach before and they didn't have that on the list.'

She confided sotto voce to John. He ran through a number of possible replies before restricting himself to ordering a Virgin Mary for himself and smiling wolfishly at his companion.

'I'm not sure we're in the right part of the country for famous people. There might be somewell-known folks in, but I guess even they'll turn up later. Why don't you post a photo of yourself on social media and put in that you're a fan of sex on the beach? There'd be a stampede.'

He kept his face straight and winked as she coloured. But any further flirtations were cut short by the whirlwind arrival of the proprietor himself, spotty lad and painting in his wake.

'John, you old bastard. Good to see you. I was beginning to think you were boycotting us.'

Jean-Paul was dressed in a spotless white overall. Almost as white as his teeth which were set off by the restaurant's subtle lighting, his deeply tanned skin and his shoulder-length, dark hair. John stood, mostly out of etiquette, but partly to hide his embarrassment at the effusiveness of the greeting and the fact that all eyes were on the interaction, most of them envious.

'This is Yvonne. It's her birthday. We can't thank you enough for squeezing us in.'

Jean-Paul whistled through his teeth as he looked down at Yvonne, but flapped her back into her seat when she too started to get up.

'No, no, stay there. I've been preparing fish you should keep your distance. John always brings the most beautiful of his models here, but you are by far the most stunning.'

He turned to John with a scowl.

'Why have you been hiding this gorgeous woman? Explain why this is the first time you bring her here.'

He elbowed the older man in the ribs and let out a loud peal of laughter as he went deep red and started to splutter some kind of reply. He smiled down at Yvonne again.

'The meal tonight is my gift to you. But next time, come alone. You are far too good for this old fart, talented though he may be.'

He seemed to be enjoying the discomfort he was causing to both of them. He suddenly span round to face the boy with the spots who seemed to shrink with a whimper as the painting was taken from him.

'I can guess what this is, but I wanted to open it in front of you.'

He turned to Yvonne and lowered his voice to a more confidential tone.

'John doesn't know how good he is. He thinks I'm just bullshitting when I tell him he's my favourite artist.'

Jean-Paul placed the wrapped canvas delicately on the table with the back facing his guests. Yvonne and John shared a look of enjoyment and anticipation together and then watched as the paper was torn off. Yvonne noticed that conversation had dropped around them and a lot of the guests were looking over to see what was going on.

'It's not much. I hope you're not too disappointed.'

Jean-Paul held up a finger to silence him as he stared intently at the art work in front of him. He adjusted his body position a few times leaning back or staring forwards to get a perspective on different areas of the picture. His facial expression changed from serious to amused after a minute or two, then, after a particularly close examination on one particular spot, he burst out laughing and clapped his hands.