She sat in the service station finishing her coffee before the last leg of her journey up the A1. She was on her way home to Lincolnshire after visiting her 2 daughters in Berkshire. One had recently gifted her with her first grand-daughter and was struggling to cope in the first few months of motherhood; the other had a lazy live-in boyfriend who contributed nothing to the finances and lived his life on handouts and cannabis. Neither of the daughters was having the best of times and she frequently made the trip down to give what support she could.
She always stayed at the same guest house while she was down there so that, at the end of a difficult day's troubleshooting, she had somewhere relatively comfortable to retire to. The guest house was fairly cheap and basic: clean but without too many home comforts. The whole house had been given over to individual rooms and, although smartly refurbished, the rooms were small and the walls were thin. It was the kind of place that attracted itinerant workers and businessmen whose expense accounts did not stretch to the Radissons and Hiltons of this world. On more than one occasion, she had caught the eye of one of these temporary residents and they had smiled at her in the hope, perhaps, of a more intimate coming together. At 52, she was still a good looking woman and it was obvious that some saw her as a potential distraction for when they were away from home.
She smiled inwardly at the thought of what had happened the night before. Tired after helping to look after the new baby, she had returned to the guest house early to catch up on some sleep and had drifted away quickly. However, she was awoken at some time during the night by a noise that only became discernable once she started to come round and get her bearings. The couple in the next room were going at it. There was no finesse. The wall was pleading mercy as they banged into it, bucking and rocking their way to conclusion. The woman sounded like every actress on the C List porn circuit, begging, wailing and screaming profanities whether she was enjoying it or not. The man could just about be heard moaning his approval as the encounter ran its course. While it all sounded amateurish and trashy she could not help feeling aroused as she lay there listening in the dark. In her imagination, she was the woman being ploughed and the man laying into her was one of the many good looking men she had met over the years and whose images were still stored in her mind's bank. Her hand had gone down between her legs and met the inevitable wetness that was building up, and she brought herself off to the soundtrack of the baying woman. She had seem them both the next morning as she left for the trip up north: he in a scruffy hoody and dirty jeans, his partner in sweat pants with greasy hair and a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. Gormless and vacant, they presented an image far removed from the one she had envisaged in her fantasies of the night before.
She had missed him while she was away and the experience at the guest house had only served to heighten the sentiment that she wanted a piece of the action when she got home. After she had seen Wayne and Waynetta, she had sent him a text-message: 'I want a good seeing-to when I get home.' She had been disappointed at the lack of a reply and, as she walked from the cafeteria to her car, she was thinking, 'Fuck him then!' There must have been some telepathy in the air that afternoon but in the noisy atmosphere of the service station forecourt, she nearly missed the ping on her mobile to tell her that a new message awaited her attention. 'When you get home, there will be an envelope for you on the mantelpiece.'
He was an RAF officer who worked at the Officers and Aircrew Selection Centre at RAF Cranwell. Week in, week out, groups of hopefuls attended the Centre in the hope of securing a career as an RAF officer, maybe a fast jet pilot, engineer or intelligence gatherer. His job was to select the Service's future leaders and, to catch the selectors' eye, the candidates had to show their worth in a series of theoretical and practical exercises. The practical tasks were assessed in what was called the Exercise Hangar. It was an old 1930s aeroplane hangar which had been converted into an area resembling Richard O'Brien's Crystal Maze. Partitioned into about 30 different exercises, candidates were taken from one area to another and did their best to lead each other through the various tasks. Along the sides of the Exercise Hangar were what would have been offices although these too had been changed. There was an eating area for when the candidates took lunch, storage areas for equipment and a first aid room (with, curiously, a physiotherapist couch) for when the inevitable accidents happened. These side rooms then gave out to a public road via several fire doors and, outside the first aid room, there was also a lay-by where the military ambulance would park so that the medical staff could quickly attend to any injured candidates. At night, every building would be secured and subject to mobile, armed patrols. The IRA no longer posed quite the same threat to military bases these days but the rise of jihadist extremism had meant that vigilance was still in the uppermost thoughts of those of lived and worked there.
They had been together for nearly 16 years. As with many lovers, their early months and years were characterised by hungry passion and a desire to explore each other's sexual boundaries but, to his regret, this early, almost gluttonous, desire had waned as time had gone on. His appetite was still insatiable; he thought constantly about sex with her and would easily have her twice a day if she wanted him. But life happens to people; existence throws at you everyday situations that require you to immerse yourself in. As a result, her interest in sex had waned and he spent days wondering when the next time would be. When they did come together, he liked it to be memorable, so quantity had given way to quality. He liked to plan things...
A week before, he had been in the First Aid Room and noticed that his work colleagues were having trouble closing the fire door. This got him thinking. Once they had left the room, he opened the door onto the main road and then shut it in a manner that made it look as if it was properly locked. On the way home that night, he pulled into the lay-by and, with a firm shove, he was able to enter the hangar again. Nobody could know that the building was effectively insecure; the door appeared locked from the outside. This was perfect; a plan was developing.
She got home at 4 o'clock that afternoon and immediately noticed the envelope on the mantelpiece. However, it had been a long drive home and her first thought was of a large Bacardi and coke. She settled down with her drink and opened the envelope; there was a single sheet of paper and a £10 note inside it:
INSTRUCTIONS
Welcome home. Have a good, long bath.
I have laid out some clothes for you on the bed. Wear them.
Be ready for 1900.
At 1900, a taxi will arrive for you. Get in.
The driver will take you somewhere; he knows where to go. Pay him with the money provided.
Get yourself a drink at the bar.
Wait.
This looked interesting. She noted the authoritarian tone: curt instructions and 24-hour clock timings. She poured another drink and went upstairs for a bath.
For the day of her return, he had checked that the Hangar was not being used that afternoon or evening. On the day itself, he had placed the envelope on the mantelpiece, gathered together some 'items and provisions' and took a change of clothes with him to work. He found it difficult to concentrate on what was going on in the office because he knew what lay ahead of him that evening. He had smiled at her text message but chose not to reply straight away. She wanted a 'good seeing to'; he wondered if she would be quite ready for what he had in mind. Eventually, he texted her the information about the envelope, hoping that the contents of it would intrigue her. As the afternoon drew to its conclusion, he went into the Hangar and noted with satisfaction that the security round had been completed and all the lights were off. He eased the medical room fire door open, all but closed it again, then went over to the gym for a workout and a change of clothes. That would take him nicely up to 1900 when he would meet up with her at The Bustard.
She took her travelling clothes off and threw them into a corner of the landing. Something told her not to go straight into the bedroom. He often surprised her by buying her new clothes and she did not want to ruin the feeling of expectation that was now welling up in her. He had an annoying habit of buying 'edgy' clothes that she would never choose for herself: clingy, revealing items that you did not normally see other women wearing. The habit was annoying not because she looked stupid in them; it was annoying because, having got over the initial feelings of disapproval but reluctantly trying them on, she would inevitably gasp when she saw how good she looked in them when in front of the mirror. He had good taste and knew what suited her. After her bath, she towelled off, went into the bedroom and surveyed the inventory of items he had left out for her.
Her favourite 'dressing up' wig - a jet black short bob a la Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. She could always get away with wearing this as her hair was short.
Something entirely new: some vintage black lingerie. There was a 50s-style bullet bra and French knickers from What Katie Did accompanied by an Axford's suspender belt. It was her favourite type: 6 wide straps with metal clasps. She hated those silly, frilly 'bedroom' suspender belts that looked pretty but often came undone and did little to hold her stockings in place.
Stockings: no surprise here - her favourite. Gio black fully fashioned with a cuban heel. No contest.
Shoes: her killer black patent, 4-inch heel courts. What the Americans called 'fuck me pumps'.
Top: close-fitting, long-sleeved, high necked, black sweater. She had bought this last year.
Skirt: again something new. It looked like a soft, stretchy leather-look pencil skirt. She liked the look and feel of it as she removed the tissue wrapping and label but it seemed a little small. Disappointing...
So, the transformation process began. Again, it irked her the way he knew exactly what size to get her. The new bra fitted perfectly. It lifted her breasts up and gave them a slightly conical form which, she knew, would look stunning under her sweater. Once her suspender belt was fastened, she lovingly removed the new stockings from the packet and carefully passed each one over her feet and knees, up to the tops of her thighs, making sure that the seams stayed straight up the back of her legs. As ever, the front and side clasps on her belt were easy to do up but she had to reach down between her legs to fix the rear clips, making sure that they were positioned directly above the finishing loop in the welt, so that the seam would be held centrally, in the right position. The hard work done, she reached for the new knee-length skirt with some trepidation and tried it on. He had done it again. The stretch material gave where it needed and she inched the garment up her legs and over her hips. An exposed zip fastening completed the fitting at the waist and, thankfully, although tight, the skirt was on and felt comfortable. She slipped her sweater on, put on her heels and stood in front of the mirror.
