by Sarah Tucker
‘Yes.’
‘Is that John Wayne?’
‘Yes. My time is precious. You need a quote. Do you have pen and paper ready?’
‘Yes. Do you know what I’m going to ask?’
‘Medina has told me.’
‘Then fire away.’
‘I have no views on it. Quote, unquote. Is that OK?’
‘Yes. I mean no. I want a quote from you. You must have an opinion on this. You have an opinion on everything else. Cats, English beer, women’s legs. Why not customer focus, which is your speciality?’
‘On that particular paper I have no comment and no opinion. Is that all Ms Giles?’
‘Well, if you can’t give me a comment on this, then who can?’
‘No one.’
‘Great. Well thanks for, er, nothing.’
‘My pleasure, Ms Giles. And thank you for an interesting lunch last week. Are you still wearing those culottes?’
I was. I lied.
‘No.’
‘Good. They looked disgusting on you. You should burn them.’
Click.
‘Rude arrogant bastard.’
‘Ms Giles?’
‘What—er—?’
‘Mr Wayne has handed you back to me. He has suggested I arrange another lunch with you as you don’t seem to understand the issues revolving around customer focus.’ Medina sounded less sexually frustrated.
More amused this time. She had obviously heard what I thought of her boss.
‘Er. Right.’
‘He can do a week on Wednesday. I will book Santini’s. Is that OK with you?’
‘Where is Santini’s?’
‘By Victoria Station. One o’clock. It’s smart.’
‘Fine.’
‘Fine.’
Click.
I’m wearing those culottes again. Screw him.
14th September
I am meeting John Wayne today for lunch in Santini’s. And, no, not wearing the culottes. And I’ve binned them. They were old anyway. Instead I’m wearing a dress. Sort of white, empire line and just above the knee and feminine. Not see-through. Just nice. Virginal. I feel virginal these days. Neat pumps. I look like a potential for the Sound of Music.
I arrive late. Ten minutes past one.
‘You are late, Ms Giles.’
Dark, brooding, rude bastard scowls at me.
I make no excuse. It seems a bit churlish to blame the trains when I actually work for the railway at the moment.
We are shown to our table. Middle of the room. Harsh, unforgiving light. We order sole. And eat in silence. I start conversation.
‘So, do you think Rogerson Railways will improve its customer service?’ I ask.
Stares into my eyes.
‘Who gives a fuck?’
Silence then smile (God, it makes me nervous when he does that).
‘No, really. I think it will get better but it will take time and money, which the government are not prepared to give at the moment. Why are you wearing a bra?’
Somehow the sentences seemed a little incongruous together, and I wasn’t quite sure whether to comment on the first bit or answer the second. So I did both.
‘Do you think the funding structure will change with the new government and do you think privatisation will work? And this dress is slightly see-through and I didn’t want you to see my nipples.’
‘I don’t think the funding structure will change within this government or the next. The petrol and car industry subsidise government coffers so heavily, and the catch-22 is unless the service improves customers will not use public transport over private transport. It’s a pity I can’t see your nipples. I think that would make you look quite sexy.’
I stare straight back into his eyes, which are now boring into me.
‘How do you know all this about the government subsidy and the link with the car industry? Is it common knowledge? Surely there must be some sort of policing committee to stop this from happening or continuing to happen? Travelling by air is still the quickest and easiest way to get around the world. And, yes, it would look sexy, but I don’t want to look sexy today. I want to look professional and have a conversation about airlines rather than my nipples. OK?’
‘I know about the subsidy because we work closely with local government and we get told, like many journalists do—’(pointed look here)‘—off the record about back-handers. What we need to do in the railway is change the culture so that we can better manage the limited funding we have and then we can progress from there. And I like talking about your nipples. Interesting. Are they very responsive to touch? And you have nice legs, Ms Giles. The dress allows me to see that you have very long legs. Long calves. Long thighs.’
John Wayne starts to salivate, which puts me off my sole. I get up, taking my legs and nipples with me to the Ladies’. I can feel his eyes following me, but he doesn’t.
In the Ladies’ I sit on the loo, pontificating whether I should allow him to kiss me. Or pat my bottom. Or hug me goodbye. Of course, he may not want or offer to do any of these things. And, hey, Sarah, you have a boyfriend, right! Yes, yes. Out of mind. Get John Wayne out of your head. Ten minutes later and no pee. I leave the Ladies’ and go back to the table. John is coming towards me.
‘I was going to send out a search party. Thought you’d flushed yourself down the loo. You OK?’
‘Me OK.’
‘Good.’
He escorted me back to the table, now soleless. And asked if I wanted dessert.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Coffee?’
‘That would be nice.’
Two hours, two liqueurs, two coffees and wafer-thin mints later, I was beginning to relax in his company. As we sat at the table, he started very slowly to stroke my wrists. The inside of my wrists. Very gently with his fingertips and then with the back of his hand. It made me feel quite dizzy.
‘Why are you doing that?’ I asked him, knowing full well why he was doing that.
‘Why not?’
Why not, indeed?
‘When you were in the loo, it took me back to when I was a child. Do you know that if you prevent yourself from going for a pee for long enough you might orgasm?’
‘I thought I would just wet myself, or worse get severe stomach cramps.’ (God, this guy is weird.)
‘No, it’s true.’
‘Did you read that anywhere?’
‘No, one of my girlfriends told me this is what happens. It was always very exciting having sex with her when she was dying to go to the loo. She would have the most amazing orgasms.’
‘I presume you weren’t giving her oral sex at the time? Would be a bit messy, what?’
John smiled. (Ughh). ‘Yes, I suppose so. But keep that in mind next time you go to the loo. Hold on and you never know—you may relieve yourself in more ways than you think.’
This guy was certainly different, and entertaining in a very unexpected way.
‘Tell me about your boyfriend, Sarah.’
‘I told you. He works in a bank. He is a trader. His name is Paul. I love him to bits.’
‘Why aren’t you married?’
‘He hasn’t asked me.’
‘Why don’t you ask him?’
‘I don’t believe in the woman asking the man.’
‘Not even in a Leap Year?’
‘No. Are you still with Amanda?’(Miss Piggy cropped up in my mind.)
‘Yes. But she may be moving out. She was married before she met me. For a month. She realised on her wedding day she’d done the wrong thing. She was brave to do what she did. I met her on a management training course in the New Forest. She thought I was interesting and asked if I could take a walk with her round the grounds after dinner one evening. I did. She seduced me.’(Yeah, right.) ‘She told me about her trick with chocolate cake. She said she could smear it all over her chest and I could lick it off her. I’m rather partial to chocolate cake so I tried that evening. Very good it was, too.’
All the whi
le John talked about his chocolate-coated Miss Piggy he continued to stroke my wrists. Occasionally reaching up my forearm to the inside of my elbow. It was as though he was pretending my arm was my leg. That he was playing with the ankle and gently making his way up the calf. Then stopping, and gently pushing to go even further. I was so pleased I was wearing a bra. My nipples have a life of their own.
He continued…
‘You see, Sarah, I went into the railway because after leaving university I trained as a research chemist, but there weren’t many women in that job. Or not that I found attractive. I joined the rail industry, because I considered myself on the fast track in life—’(he smirks; I don’t) ‘—because I liked the challenge it presented and also because I thought you’d find more women working in the industry.’
I must admit, I found this argument totally unbelievable and told him so.
‘I thought you would have found other industries with more women in them. Advertising or marketing, for example. Far more women, and attractive ones. Or PR. That industry is full of women who give good head as well as PR…I’m told.’
He smiled.
‘I know. They do. I’ve met quite a few.’
He pays the bill. Scowls at the cost. But he chose the restaurant—not me. I thank him.
‘Thank you for a lovely lunch.’
‘My pleasure.’
He walks and talks me to the station.
‘I came here with a management consultant last week. Her name was Stephanie. She was very beautiful, soon to be engaged and she told me she was quite fixated by me. She pushed me into that alcove over there—’ (he points at alcove in wall of station) ‘—and ripped my shirt. I had to go back home to Amanda and explain.’
I didn’t quite know if he meant to tell me this because a) he wanted me to do it to him—and wanted to put the idea in my head; b) he didn’t want me to do it, just in case I’d considered doing it, as Amanda might understand once but not twice in a fortnight; or c) he liked Stephanie and she was going to be Amanda’s replacement after the chocolate cake fetish had turned mushy.
I said… ‘Oh.’
Unimpressed by my lack of response and clever riposte, he said he would see me to Liverpool Street Station, to make sure I was safe. I said I would be fine.
‘No, I’ll make sure you’re OK.’
And that’s what he did. Made sure I was OK till Liverpool Street Station. Ten stops Circle Line. Standing up all the way. No conversation. Just lots of staring. Mostly at my legs and then into my eyes. No smile, laugh or sign of light. No wrist or calf or ankle-stroking. Nothing. Very peculiar end to a very peculiar lunch with a very peculiar, sexy, ravishable dark prince.
20th September
I’m bored. I have done nothing to report about. Nothing to recover from. John Wayne has not been in my life. Touched my heart or my wrists. Every time I go to the toilet I think about him. And he was right about the pee thing. I contact his office and get Medina, who says he’s gone away for a fortnight with his girlfriend Amanda. I tell her to tell him he was right about the ‘pee thing’. I tell her John will understand. She huffs that she’s sure he will. I try to find out where they’ve gone. Some hotel in the middle of nowhere with a four-poster bed and an en suite bathroom with a bath for two and a shower for two. Probably. I wonder if he’s tickling her wrists as I’m writing my appraisal on why Rogerson Railways fails to communicate with its customers while disruption occurs. I wonder if he’s eating chocolate cake off her voluptuous breasts. I wonder if it’s chocolate with or without milk, if it’s home-made or from Marks & Spencer. I wonder if he’s drinking English beer or the crap foreign muck and if he’s eating sole in the evening and thinking ever so briefly about me, or about Stephanie, who tore his shirt.
30th September
‘Hello. This is John Wayne.’
Unexpected voice. Unexpected pleasure first thing on a Friday morning. Indian Summer of a morning and John Wayne calling me. Not Medina saying John is on the phone. He is actually calling me direct.
‘I wanted to know how you were.’
‘I’m fine. Did you have a good holiday with Amanda? Not too much chocolate cake, I hope? Or ripped shirts? Or foreign muck to drink?’
‘It was fine. Amanda is definitely moving out. I’ve suggested she moves out. She needs her own place. She moved into my cottage just as an interim measure. She needs to find her own space. I’ve told her as much. I got your message from Medina.’
‘What message?’
I’d forgotten.
‘About the pee. Good to hear it worked. Hope you’ve been practising. I find it quite exciting, the thought of you in the bathroom now, Ms Giles.’
‘Whatever turns you on, Mr Wayne.’
Silence.
‘Well, I’m at the Crime Prevention conference in November, which I believe you’re organising. So look forward to seeing you there.’
‘You too.’
‘Goodbye, then.’
‘Goodbye.’
Click.
What a weird conversation. Started so well. So promising. Sort of sexual innuendo. Literal toilet humour and then nothing. Just a goodbye, and a tease about his girlfriend moving out. The Miss Piggy I’ve yet to meet. Perhaps Stephanie will be the replacement. Anyway, girl, focus on your man. Your Paul. Your Rock. Leave the chocolate cake to someone else…
OCTOBER
ACTION LIST
Enjoy work.
Go to gym four times a week. Be able to do the box splits.
Try out new kick-boxing class.
Beat crap out of bitchy girls in office.
Try to seduce Paul into having sex with me.
Drink eight glasses of water a day. GMTV suggested this helps eyes shine.
Eat less low-calorie chocolate drink.
Take vitamin pills. Despite making pee very yellow.
TEXT SEX
1st October
My mobile phone is an extension of my right hand. It is almost a spiritual thing. It is another intrinsic sense. To smell, to touch, to see, to hear and to text message. I have discovered the power of text messaging. It was designed for me. Short and sharp and to the point. Ability to spell totally irrelevant. In fact, lousy spelling adds a certain charm. You can be as smutty as you like. It doesn’t matter. You can say you meant to send it to someone else. That is, of course, if it doesn’t continue to happen after repeated warnings.
Paul works in an office of men. Their bodies are full of testosterone. Their egos are huge and wallets are full. These testosterone-filled money bags are surrounded by women who work there with one goal in mind. To bag these money bags. Ideally by getting them in the sack and getting them to realise that they can’t live without them. These girls are pros. They should work on the streets (albeit SW1 streets), and some of them (I am told) have done so. Anyway, out of every ten who enter the trading room, one usually gets her man. Or someone else’s. Wedding rings are totally irrelevant.
Paul is different. He wears no ring (we’re not engaged), but he’s faithful and loves me. He goes to lap-dance joints because his brokers pay for it, but he doesn’t enjoy it. He tells me so himself. Like a dog, really.
He texts me every morning:
I’ve arrived safely.
I love you.
Hi gorgeous, big confident kiss.
I wish I was still in bed with you.
At Christmas:
I’ve had my first mince pie. I wish you were in my bed. Miss you loads. Looking forward to seeing you this weekend.
That sort of thing.
Then I started to get:
I wish my cock was in your mouth. It’s so hard at the moment. I loved you in those jeans last night.
Linked:
1/3
What a shame I am not there to ease your horny state.
I could take off your knickers lift off your top.
Kiss your lips then your nipples. Touch you with…
2/3
my finger then my tongue. Keep lick
ing until you nearly come then turn you over and put my dick in your wetness pulling you onto me with my hands on your…
3/3
hips so I am as deep as possible.
Linked:
1/2
Every inch of my body is gagging for you. I loved you in those jeans last night. I wanted to rip them off you and come all over your…..
2/2
…face.
Sort of slightly different in tone.
I contacted him to find out that, no, these messages had not come from him but a salesman called Pierce, who was a close friend of his and was into bondage in a big way, was thirty-eight, on his third wife, and had at least four sex kittens on the go—all of whom worked (loose term) in the Square Mile as secretaries and salespeople, and all of whom liked to be ‘fucked up the arse’ and tied up. Nice.
The aforementioned Pierce was also a Harvard Graduate, played piano, guitar and saxophone and had a wonderful singing voice, lovely home in the country (used to be a pub, now converted with taste and money—the two are not synonymous). Background and appearances can be deceptive.
I contacted Pierce. First of all by text reply, after one particularly explicit ‘cock-sucking butt-wrenching, I know you’d enjoy being fucked up the backside really’ message. And then by phone.
‘Hi, Pierce. I’m Paul’s girlfriend. I think you keep sending me messages meant for someone else. Could you please delete my number from your phone as I don’t want to get them any more? Have a nice day.’
‘I’m so sorry, Sarah. Big apologies. Just that one of the kittens is also called Sarah. I’ll change her name.’
‘Thanks, Pierce.’
2nd October
Seven a.m. Beep on the phone. Message waiting.
I’ve got a real hard-on. It’s really hard and I’m imagining you putting your lips around it and sucking it really hard and I’m aching to get my hands on your big tits.
Definitely not Paul.
I rang the number.
‘Pierce?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Sarah, Paul’s girlfriend. You sent me another one of your “fucking” messages. Don’t do it again or I will tell Paul and he’ll be furious. OK?’
‘OK. Very sorry, deeply embarrassed and mortified.’