Erratic steering told its own story: a puncture. Thirty miles from home, late on a chill night after a business dinner as unproductive as it had been boring. When I called the breakdown service they were sympathetic to the plight of a woman alone but said the best they could predict was forty-five minutes.
It was a surprise to see a vehicle pulling in behind me less than fifteen minutes later; an even bigger surprise to discover that it was a Bentley. A rear window was lowered and a voice, cultured, polite but with a slight accent I couldn’t define, enquired if I had a problem. I pointed to the flat tyre, explained that I waiting for the breakdown man.
“No need,” said the voice from car’s dark interior. “Call your service and tell them it is fixed. Stavros will deal with it.”
Seconds later. a uniformed chauffeur stepped out, asked for my keys, opened the boot and set to work.
“This will not detain you long,” said my rescuer. “But would you care to sit inside for the moment?” Seeing my hesitation, he went on, “I understand your reluctance but I can assure you that you will not come to harm. And it is warmer inside, or will be once I close the window.”
It would have been churlish to decline, and the presence nearby of the chauffeur was reassuring. As my eyes grew accustomed to the interior, I was able to discern that I was sitting next to a man of about sixty with a lean face, silver hair, intense dark eyes and a full, sensuous mouth. He asked how I came to be driving alone at night. I told him about the dinner but felt entitled to ask him a similar question. While he was explaining he had been picked up at the airport after a transatlantic flight I became aware of his hand resting on the top of my thigh. The gesture could have been threatening but somehow it was almost paternal. In any case, it would have been at the very least ungrateful to have turned prudish without further provocation. My instinct was justified. He made no further move before the chauffeur opened the door and handed me my keys.
I thanked my saviour profusely and shook his hand. “Let me give you my card,” he said, taking out a silver case. “My name is Nikos. There are details here of how you can contact me if you wish. Perhaps we may meet again? I would be delighted to offer you dinner, a chance to talk in more congenial surroundings.”
“You’re very kind,” I replied. “I’ll think about it.”
“Drive carefully - no more punctures.” The chauffeur closed the passenger door, saluted me and returned to his place behind the wheel. I watched the Bentley purr smoothly away before resuming my own journey in thoughtful mood. But no matter how deeply I pondered, I could never have foreseen that soon I would have embarked upon a journey into a sexual world previously closed to me.
My marriage to Jeremy had been a mistake. We met as young recruits to a firm of city financiers, thought we had fallen in love at first sight and delighted our respective parents with a grand white wedding. I wasn’t a virgin (though by no means experienced); Jeremy was an absolute novice. We might have found our way through that if the will to do so had been the same on both sides, but what I soon recognised as my own powerful sex drive was in no way matched. When we fucked, it was missionary style and in silence. Jeremy was horrified when I suggested different positions and the possibility of some verbal encouragement during the procedure. I offered him oral and he flatly refused, saying it was an unhygienic perversion.
Had we come from a less conventional lower middle class background, an early divorce would have been the solution but the very word sent Jeremy into uncommunicative shock. I contemplated trying an affair but the practicalities were difficult. From time to time Jeremy seemed to consider sex his duty and we would go through the motions of a joyless fuck. If I wanted an orgasm I was more likely to achieve it by masturbating.
Outside the bedroom we coexisted uncomfortably. Mirroring our sex life, our work attitudes diverged. Jeremy left the firm saying he didn’t like the pressurised atmosphere and joined a bank where he has the possibility of becoming an assistant manager sometime in the next ten years or so. Meanwhile, I relished the challenges and after a series of promotions was put in charge of corporate finance.
That was the situation when a puncture brought Nikos into my life. Some instinct led me not to tell Jeremy, but I did nothing for more than a week. Then, one morning after Jeremy had come with a satisfied grunt while I had been still some way short of release, I took out the card and rang. It proved to be a direct line to Nikos.
“Do you remember a damsel in distress?” I asked.
“Sandra,” he said. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
Not only did he remember me, he remembered my name. As before, I was immediately at ease, responding to his charm. When I asked if I was interrupting anything important, he insisted that talking to me was preferable. Had I remembered his invitation to dinner? Of course. Hesitantly, I said that choosing a date might be complicated.
“I noticed you were wearing a wedding ring,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Is that something you would like to talk about?”
The question was so direct, leading us into tricky territory when we scarcely knew each other, I had no idea how to reply. After a pause I said, “Yes. Well, it might be.”
“I think I understand. It would be wrong of me to press you. For the moment, let me just say I am in this country for the next twelve days. If you would care for dinner in that time, please telephone. Will you do that?”
“Would any evening suit you?”
“I will ensure that I am free.”
“You are very kind,” I said. “I’ll try.”
“Thank you. Drive very carefully.” The line went dead.
That evening I invented a corporate affairs dinner for Jeremy’s benefit. I couldn’t guess what I was getting into with a man who was probably thirty years my senior but I had to find out. When I telephoned to fix the date, Nikos mentioned a time and named a restaurant my firm avoided because of the prices.
We sat at a secluded table where a discreet head waiter took our orders, served and melted quietly away. We made small talk until the main course arrived. Then Nikos said, “Forgive me - but do you wish to tell me about your husband?”
In the light of our earlier telephone conversation, I was no longer surprised. I had already formulated an edited account of our relationship to which Nikos listened in silence.
“And sex?” he asked. “Is that a problem, too?”
“Yes. It’s a problem.”
“I suggest,” said Nikos, “ that if you agree we will not have dessert, just coffee and brandy. Then I should like to take you to bed.” He smiled gently.
I suppose I should have been shocked, startled at least. But there was an inevitability about this development, almost as though I had wished it. Nikos had sensed my need and had seen no need to walk round it. Unable to trust my voice, I nodded agreement.
When the coffee and brandy had been served, Nikos dropped a coffee spoon. “Excuse me,” he said and bent under the table. I felt a hand on my knee, widening my legs, easing my skirt higher on my thighs. Nikos reappeared with the spoon. He said, “Very pretty. I expected to approve but you exceed my anticipation. I hope you didn’t mind.”
As it was one of the most erotic moments I had ever experienced, I was far from minding. “No,” I said, “It was - nice. Exciting.”
“You are aroused?”
“Yes. I think I should go to the ladies’ room, if you will excuse me.”
“Of course.” As i rose, he touched my hand. “I am pleased. About the arousal. Don’t do anything about it yet. Wait.”
I nodded and retreated in a daze. Seated in a cubicle with the door locked, I wondered if it had been my intention to masturbate, as Nikos had intimated. I was in such a state that I realised that might have been in my mind. Now I must not. I used a tissue to mop up some of the wetness that had leaked on to my inner thigh. There was nothing to be done about my wet knickers.
I repaired my make-up and rejoined Nikos. I said, “I’m sure you were right, so I waited. But it wasn’t easy. Can we go now, please?” Such incredible intimacy with a man I had really only met for the first time, but it was undeniably thrilling.
We drove to his apartment in my car; Stavros had been given a free evening. The apartment was huge with picture windows overlooking the park six floors below. Once inside, Nikos took me by the arm and led me directly to a bedroom with a large double bed. He pressed a button. The curtains closed silently. Another press brought soft lighting round the walls and a brighter spotlight on the bed.
“Please,” said Nikos, “Remove your dress.” They were the first words he had spoken since parking my car next to the Bentley in his underground garage area. His voice was soft, the accent only occasionally audible, drawing me into an almost hypnotic desire to please
Undressing required assistance from Nikos with the back of my dress. He dealt smoothly with the zip but made no move to touch me. Instead, he sat in an armchair, unzipped himself, drew out his penis and cupped it in his hand. Although still limp, his member was clearly above average size, circumcised, not too thick.
