As the first dusky stain of night tainted the sky, I reflected on a day that – so far – had exceeded my wildest dreams. Surreal yet so real, a combination of good fortune, sweet revenge and incredible sex had ensured it would remain in living memory. And there was still Zara and the party to forward to.
The air thick with the sort of heat that threatened never to abate, I chose comfort over style, combining a lime green YSL polo shirt with a pair of three-quarter length black sports pants and beach sandals. Hovering at the window in heightened anticipation I observed a number of guests arrive next door.
Finally, my chaperone for the evening, Natalya, pulled up in a cab, fashionably late. As I strode out to pick up the fare, she waved me away, evidently still flush from the £500 bonus earned from helping to set up Johnson. A prime example of mixing of business and pleasure, Natalya had been the perfect foil. Tonight she was wearing a pair of tight white cords with a thick leather belt, a red polka dot shirt with an orange shawl for later when the wind got up.
Glancing up as a second taxi swung obliquely into the pavement, before screeching to a halt, I issued a secret smile as the cab emptied out all but for the stunned looking driver. One by one its three sexy female occupants alighted and assembled by Zara's gate, adjusting short skirts and tight blouses. A cosmopolitan trio, they comprised a statuesque Afro-Caribbean beauty queen with braided hair and voluminous breasts, a cute little Oriental geisha-type and a drop dead gorgeous Caucasian brunette. Let the games begin!
We followed those gorgeous arses down the side of the house whereupon I caught sight of Zara through the small crowd. In white hotpants and a figure-hugging blue chamise she looked as delightful as I'd imagined she would. She glanced over yet seemed to look right through me, almost as if I wasn't there. Resorting to a less-than-cool wave still failed to elicit even a hint of acknowledgement. Perhaps playing hard-to-get was Zara's way of dealing with potential suitors, or maybe she was just shy in company.
No sooner were we at the fringe of the assembly than Natalya and I were accosted by a pot-bellied middle aged chap with a cheery demeanour and a round bald head. "Hi, I'm Tom," he chimed. "Zara's father...pleased to meet you...we haven't met before."
"Richard, I live next door," I confirmed. "And this is Natalya."
"Mmm what a lovely exotic name," Tom drooled, checking out my East European companion's bum in the tight cords.
"Yeah, but I prefer Richey," I replied drolly.
Tom sniggered before commenting: "Zara's mentioned a lot about you."
I felt a warm glow. That was encouraging, but why the hell wasn't she so much as even looking at me? A glance her way elicited no hint of recognition, let alone the huge hug I rightly deserved. Instead, she was joking with the three beauties that had led us in. Perhaps she was saving me for later.
A youngish guy, in his early twenties I guessed, appeared through the crowd. "Ah, this is my son Zack, Zara's brother," Tom revealed. "Meet Richey from next door and Natalya."
Zack offered a hand in greeting before moving on with a promise of "catch you later."
Zara glanced up again in my direction but then away just as quickly.
"Drinks?" enquired Tom.
"I'll do the honours," I offered, a chance perhaps to brush past Zara and jog her memory.
However, as I got within three strides, she turned and moved away and, disinclined to make myself look stupid, I headed inside. It did bug me though. Surely she hadn't forgotten already an afternoon in which my firm hands had caressed her taut baking flesh and she'd all but invited me to rip off her thong and fuck her hard – before we were so rudely interrupted.
Little pockets of people numbering perhaps two dozen littered the patio, an unattended barbecue on the grass billowing smoke. All were chatting enthusiastically, seemingly familiar with one another. "Richey, this is Mary, my wife, Zara's mother," Tom announced.
It was obvious where Zara's looks came from. Mary had to be fifty yet with elegance and poise that could easily pass for her daughter's age. And that was without the cosmetic adjustments favoured by so many other women her age. She gave me that 'I've-heard-all-about-you' look, complimented by a demure smile and I thought wickedly that if the daughter wasn't going to play ball tonight, I might just chance my arm with the mother instead.
The introductions extended to an aunt and uncle and a clutch of adult cousins with their other halves. Some had little kiddies of their own, circling erratically at our ankles like angry wasps at a picnic. The party was nothing like I'd imagined: a real family affair. Indeed, with the exception of the three girls who'd arrived at the same time as we did, everyone else on the patio was either related to Zara or married to someone related to Zara. My odds looked favourable, yet Zara was acting as cold as a fish.
Five minutes later the first 'competition' arrived, two good-looking guys with muscular physiques, slicked back hair and Ray-bans, offering nods of greeting. Immediately for some reason they latched onto Natalya, my companion doing what she did best and taking the competition out of commission.
A further five minutes passed and another new guest appeared on the patio. I could barely contain my annoyance. "What are you doing here?" I enquired with a scowl, taking Shannon aside.
"I was invited too," she replied with a slur, having evidently already enjoyed a glass or two of vino at home first, her lips a bloodstained hue. "Are you going to spank me again and send me home to bed, DADDY?" she enquired, somewhat too loudly for my liking.
"Shush," I replied in horror, gripping her arm tightly.
"Owww," she complained. "Daddy, that hurts."
