John had driven his vintage red convertible to the station to meet Fiona. Her train must have been early because although he had left with plenty of time she was already waiting at the station for him when he arrived.
The station was an old fashioned one and, like many things in this part of the world, had retained a certain prettiness that seemed to have vanished from much of England. It was built of red painted timbers and blocks of locally hewn stone. Summer flowers spilled out of hanging baskets and from low stone troughs on the ground.
He found Fiona sitting up on a sun dappled red bench, flanked by flower baskets, reading a slim paperback. She looked up as he approached and flashed him a brilliant smile. Marking her place with a bookmark, she slipped her book into her handbag and stood up to wait for him.
Fiona was in her mid-thirties, tall and pale skinned with straight, dark blonde hair cut just above her shoulders. Her long, floral dress was gathered at her trim waist with a black sash, breaking clean over her hips. Her arms and shoulders were bare. Although her dress was fairly low cut, her small pointy breasts were not at all exposed. Their shape was, however, clearly apparent through the blue fabric.
She was elegant and refined, really quite stunning, more so than he remembered but with a slight air of the untouchable that made him worry he had got this all wrong.
This was only the second time they had met. The first had been some awful corporate conference at the tail end of a long winter. John had been an attendee and Fiona a presenter. She had been calm and classy in her business suit despite the most indecently short skirt he had ever seen in a professional environment.
She had been an impressive speaker too, discoursing on recent developments in structuring credit default swaps in a lucid, cogent and even engaging way, quite an achievement given the subject matter. For all that though he had struggled to keep his eyes away from her exposed, stockinged thighs.
Later in the bar, he had found himself one of a small throng of men playing court to her. Clearly John had not been alone in his admiration. Stunning though she was, John had been disinclined to compete for her affections and his instinct was to disengage.
He had made his way to the bar, to get a drink before heading to bed. With Fiona apparently under siege, there was no one else he felt like talking to. The bar was bust so he had to wait a little to order. Shortly after he had done so, he noticed that Fiona was standing alongside him ordering the same single malt he had.
He complimented her on her choice. She smiled back at him and made some comment about the quality of the offering at this particular hotel. Surveying the half empty bottles stacked up behind the bar he had to agree.
It turned out they had a common interest and she pulled up a stool beside him and they sipped their scotches together. Conversation was easy and wide ranging, Fiona turned out to be both well informed and opinionated on a range of subjects, delivering her insights with a dry wit he found quite arousing.
The evening passed far more pleasurably than it had initially presaged. They freely availed themselves to the range of fine whiskies available to them as the bar slowly emptied around them, Fiona's erstwhile admirers cutting their losses and drifting away. Fiona matched him drink for drink and, although he soon felt his own head buzzing with alcohol, she didn't seem to lose her poise at all.
By the end of the evening they were the only customers left. Fiona drained her glass and placed it next to John's already empty one. John motioned towards the empty glasses and asked if she would like another.
Fiona shook her head, "I think we should let these people go to bed," indicating the hovering staff, who had nothing to do but were unable to do leave until their final customers had.
"I think I want my bed too," Fiona's tone was low and she looked down as she spoke. Her words were quite innocuous but seemed strangely pregnant. She paused, looked up, held his gaze in hers and asked, appatently carelessly but also quite deliberately, "Care to join me?"
She didn't lower her voice at all and it was clear, from the way he fumbled the glass he was cleaning, that it was quite clearly audible to the barman.
John couldn't believe his luck but his brain was fogged with too many glasses of whisky to adequately respond. All he could express was a desultory and quite inadequate, "What?"
Fiona placed her hands on his lapels and leaned in, close enough that he could feel her breath and smell her perfume, bringing her cherry red lips up to his left ear, close enough to tickle.
"I like scotch because it makes me horny. I've been drinking scotch and now I want to fuck. I want you to fuck me."
Fiona had been whispering but every word was clearly audible. She moved back a little so she was looking him straight in the eyes.
"Do you think you could help me with that?" she asked, in a more normal tone.
John was blind to everything other than Fiona and almost didn't hear the sound of breaking glass as the barman dropped his task. He had just enough presence to lean in and kiss Fiona full on the mouth and then let her take him upstairs, commencing one of the sexual highlights of his life.
That had been three months ago and he hadn't been able to get the experience out of his head, the feel of her lips around his cock, the taste of her tight pussy, the way her small pert tits had bounced as she slid up and down him.
He told himself to forget it. It was clearly lust not love, a glorious, not to be repeated,one night stand. He had her email from a list of professional contacts from the conference but had successfully resisted the urge to get in touch. She didn't seem the type to get sentimental.
So it had been a more than pleasant surprise to receive a light toned, perhaps even slightly flirty, email from her last week asking if he'd like to meet for a drink, with just a hint of a promise of more.
It was with extreme regret, therefore, that he had to refuse, at least to refuse the date she had suggested. He was spending the week in the Cotswolds at his friend Ben's place, together with Ben's wife, Helen.
John had suggested another time. He had also, more or less on a whim, suggested she come out to the Cotswoldsto join them for a day or two.
He had not been expecting her to accept. Yet here she was waiting for him on the platform of this charming little village, looking absolutely delightful, if a little less libidinous than in his memory. An image of her naked body, smeared in baby oil, arse in the air as he fucked her from behind, popped into his head. It was hard to connect with this vision in front of him.
Fiona stood in the middle of the platform, legs together, back straight and hands folded in front of her, waiting for him to approach. Her skin breathed a limpid, radiant. beauty.
As he reached her, she turned her white cheek towards him for him to kiss, exposing her long white neck as she did so. He placed one demure kiss on the check, briefly tasting her scent of fresh soap and rosewater. He had to fight the urge to start running kisses down her neck.
John picked up her bag and gestured for her to come with him. Fiona walked along beside him, her gait light and graceful. The skirts of her dress, cut just below the knee, swooshed around her long, white legs as she walked.
Fiona commented on how charming the station was. She seemed relaxed and quite as lovely as the day. They were soon chatting like old friends. She didn't comment on the red vintage Bugatti, but acted as though it were the only appropriate thing, which perhaps it was. He held the door for her and was more excited than he could explain at the brief flash of pale thigh as she folded her legs into the seat under her dress.
It was too noisy with the top down for them to talk as he drove but the drive was brief, through the pretty village and prettier countryside as they made their way to Ben's place. John felt good, with the wind in his hair, the sun on his cheek and a beautiful woman at his side as he dropped down a gear for the last straight before they arrived.
Fiona had done a good job at not being impressed by the car but she couldn't do quite so well as the Bugatti cr unched to a standstill in the gravel outside Ben's place.
"Wow," she said.
Ben was a friend of John's from university and from an altogether more exalted background. Not actually titled himself, he was head of a cadet branch of a moderately ancient part of the British aristocracy. His house, or at least his country place, was a gorgeous sandstone Georgian pile, perhaps not large as stately homes went but certainly large enough. Sometimes John wondered if the only reason Ben had gone into the City was to afford to keep the place up without letting the public in.
John had considered making out that the place was his but thought better of it. Still it was enough of a thrill to escort Fiona through the massive oak doors with the proprietorial air that holding a pair of keys conferred, even if only borrowed ones.
He parked Fiona's bag on the black and white tiles of the hallway as he watched her upturned head tracking round the portraits, antiques and objet d'art. He admired her long white neck as she did.
Suddenly she looked at him, "Where is everyone else?"
"Everyone else?" it was the question he had been dreading.
She nodded, "You know, your friend, his wife, the other guests?"
"Umm, well Ben was called back to town on work and Helen went with him."
