Persuasive Approval

The chapters unfold in a sequence of events from 1966-2005.

(Chapter 7)

*****

"Persuasive Approval" (circa-1971)

Meeting Beverley Jackson for the first time after their impulsive moment of intimacy when Charles and George left them alone in the hotel to visit the landlord of the Red Bull was always going to be a little uncomfortable.

He stepped out of the car and walked into the hotel reception.

Other than muffled voices coming from the television he was surprised to find the place deserted. His accommodation was always booked in advance so he knew Charles and Beverly would be expecting him.

A cigarette and a comforting stool at the end of the bar eased the anxiety and give him a moment to reflect on the events over the week-end.

He was still angry with Karen Ashton and his friend Jeff Calder for their irresponsible behaviour, which led to him and Jeff spending Saturday night in Gateshead police station.

After staggering out of the Cavendish Club, Karen shamelessly announced that she was up for a threesome.

It must have been two in the morning when he pulled the car into a quiet country lane.

The heated copulation quickly gathered speed, clothes abandoned on the floor, a tangle of impatient hands fondling and groping in the back seat of the car, Karen giving him a blowjob while Jeff fucked her from the back. The night promised hours of steamy entertainment until Karen said she desperately needed to pee. After gathering her clothes from the floor she left the car and headed for the privacy of the bushes.

In the crippling silence they waited for almost fifteen minutes, brushing condensation from the windows and staring into the darkness, watching and waiting... No sign of Karen.

One foot inside the car and the other foot on the ground, his eagerness to search for Karen interrupted by the glare of a torch shining in his face and an unexpected voice laden with mocking amusement forcing him back into the car.

"Well-Well-Well and what have we got here?" the policeman chuckled, the shadowy silhouette of another uniform peering inside the car. "They look like a couple of nice boys. It's not something you see every day. Two naked men in the back seat of a car in a quiet country lane," he sniggered, lighting a cigarette and making an unnecessary comment about needing a puff.

The echoes of mocking innuendo threw them into chaotic retreat. They fumbled nervously in the back of the car searching the floor for randomly discarded clothes, bumping heads in the claustrophobic darkness, cursing and swearing and occasionally swapping garments, words stumbling between stammers, trying to proclaim their innocence, searching for mitigating words in their defence, muttering words like homophobic, straight men and this will all be revealed when Karen gets back to the car.

But Karen had spotted the two police officers questioning her two companions and she had no intention of having a confrontation with the law.

When one of the policemen made a sarcastic comment about Jeff's sexuality he knew they were in trouble. Jeff completely lost control, hitting back with an outburst of verbal abuse. "Up yours arsehole," he barked, sending another message with a couple of fingers.

As the voice of a police controller crackled through the radio in Echoes, Bravo's and Foxtrot's they were hastily bundled into the back seat of the police car.

The haunting images of a courtroom suddenly fed his panic.

The Trial... The Judge passing sentence... The newspapers...

The sound of creaking hinges and a door opening behind the bar interrupted his thoughts.

Beverley Jackson emerged from the dark abyss of the cellar, struggling with a heavy crate of alcohol above her head.

Crushing his cigarette into an ashtray and leaping from the bar stool he rushed to her assistance, taking the box with one hand and helping her up with the other.

A moment of agonising silence hung over them in a veil of unspoken emotions, two people shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to the other, nothing more than a brief exchange of nervous glances and forced smiles between them, both searching for something appropriate to say, both trying to figure out how to greet each other.

After a little light-hearted small talk, mostly to release the tension and to remove the uneasiness of the situation, they sat on one of the sofas near the fireplace drinking coffee.

Beverley informed him that Charles had flown to southern Spain for a few days to play golf. He breathed a sigh of relief into his cup and offered her a cigarette. After a long pause he asked her if she would like to have dinner with him tonight.

A reassuring smile lifting the corners of her mouth gave him the answer.

They sipped coffee between fleeting glances and anxious smiles, watching the flames from the log fire disappearing up the chimney, the mood and the conversation eventually settling into compliments and words of endearment.

He told her that ever since their night of passion he couldn't stop thinking about her. He said he went to sleep thinking about her and he woke up thinking about her.

She shrugged her shoulders, forced a laugh and obliged him with a bashful smile.

As they parted he wasn't sure whether they had instinctively kissed or if it was just an accidental meeting of faces. Nevertheless they were both feeling more relaxed and continued to go about their day.

It was just after seven when he greeted Beverley in the hotel reception.

Sweeping gracefully across the floor on towering heels, her blue eyes sparkling with erotic enchantment, her smile, as always mysterious and intoxicating, a red satin dress clinging to every curve like a second skin, the front cut low exposing shapely breasts and a deep cleavage, swaying her hips and bottom in a tantalising way that seems to come naturally to a beautiful woman wearing heels.

The thought of ripping her dress off and throwing onto the floor and fucking her until she couldn't breathe was almost overwhelming.

"You look beautiful," was all he said.

Bruno Dante greeted his two guests in the entrance foyer of the Bella Roma restaurant.

"Mrs Jackson, how beautiful you look tonight," he smiled through a well-rehearsed bow, kissing her on both cheeks, his persuasive Italian culture always gaining her approval.

"Bella Donna...Bella Donna," Bruno chimed, his voice taking on a sing-song melodic tone, casting a suspicious eye at her friend.

The hesitancy to enter into any pleasantries or formal introductions was somewhat expected, although the disapproving look on Bruno's face when he guided them to their table made him feel like he was being marched to the gallows.

All conversations with the other diners fell silent when the lady in red glided across the floor swaying her Marilyn Monroe curves to perfection. Bodies shuffled in seats, heads turning in all directions, admiring the vision of beauty with natural grace, some of the women exchanging looks of despair, some men revealing a hint of jealously.

They sipped their wine over a brief exchange of light-hearted humour and meaningless trivia, the speculative type of information that always seems to interest us as human beings, the conversation inevitably turning to questions and answers.

He was giving Beverley a brief synopsis of his remit with his employer over the next three years and a little bit about his upbringing living in the North East when a waitress delivering food and bottle of wine to their table interrupted the conversation.

After filling their glasses Beverley lit a cigarette and spoke about her life with Charles.

"We've been together for almost ten years," she sighed, blowing smoke above her head.

"We first met when I was on holiday in Majorca. Charles was there playing golf with some friends. He bought me a drink at the hotel bar and asked me to dance. He was charming and a perfect gentleman. Later that evening he asked me to have dinner with him the following day," she sighed, her eyes unable to hide the look of disappointment.

"The rest is history," she smiled, stubbing her cigarette into an ashtray.

Echoes of guilt and betrayal rattled around inside his head, searching his subconscious for words that might help to ease her anxiety and absolve him of any misbehaviour.

After a moment of deliberation he choked back a lump in his throat and forced a smile.

"I do value our friendship, Beverley and I don't want to risk losing it," he sighed, lighting a cigarette and blowing a stream of white smoke across the table, searching her eyes, a confession forcing its way between tight lips. "If Charles knew what my intentions were I'm sure he would despise me. Or even worse...He might want to kill me."

She sighed into her glass and lowered her voice to a surreptitious whisper.

"There's something I need to tell you," she volunteered, glancing over her shoulder, staring at faceless people with furtive hesitation.

"About five years ago Charles was diagnosed with diabetes and is now dependant on insulin. There can sometimes be serious side effects from the medication doctors prescribe to balance the body's sugar levels," she confirmed, with a tone of authority, draining the wine in her glass. "Unfortunately, for some men, one of the symptoms associated with this type of illness can lead to erectile dysfunction."

She pursed her bottom lip and sighed into her empty glass. "He's impotent."

After a long agonising pause she smiled and added. "We haven't had sexual intercourse for almost four years," she confessed, pouring wine into glasses and lighting a cigarette, shuffling uncomfortably in the chair, letting her head fall back and blowing plumes of smoke above her head.

"I should also tell you that for most of our time together Charles was only interested in sex when he had too much to drink, and even then his mind was willing but his equipment needed help," she declared, the white smoke coiling around her face.

"His interest in sex declined long before his medical problems," she sighed, searching inside her bag for a paper tissue, forcing a smile and brushing a tear from the corner of her eye.

"For a long time I've shared a bed with a deficient lifeless man. Most nights I just lie in bed imagining what it would be like to have a physical sexual partner. I'm still young. I have needs," she sighed.

"This conversation doesn't make me feel any better," he snapped, pausing long enough for Beverley to interrupt his thoughts.

"Charles understands that everyone has needs," she said reassuringly, her voice trailing off as she sipped her drink and gathered her thoughts. "So I asked him if I could sleep with you," she said, shamelessly and rather matter-of-fact, the boldness of her statement forcing him to gasp into his drink.

"You asked him...What!?" he barked, picking up a serviette and wiping dribbles of wine from his chin, lowering his voice to a whisper when he realised his outburst was attracting the attention of other diners.

She paused long enough to give him time to compose himself.

"After a long conversation on the matter Charles said that I could sleep with you. He even gave us his blessing. And he told me that he also values your friendship," she said, with casual ease, raising her glass as if proposing a toast.

"You asked him if you could sleep with me?" he repeated, warning bells ringing loudly in his head, his stomach churning, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him alive.

It had started to rain when the taxi dropped them back at the Royal Belvedere Arms Hotel.

To avoid suspicious eyes and gossiping tongues and to give Beverley enough time to let the staff go home and lock the premises, he made a hasty detour to his room.

After waiting anxiously in his room for twenty minutes he returned to the bar.

The room was dark and quiet and there was no sign of Beverley, although the two glasses of wine on the bar with a smearing of red lipstick on one of the glasses, suggested she wasn't too far away.

Sitting on a bar stool smoking a cigarette and sipping his wine, humming to the soft soothing voice of Roberta Flack singing "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face," glancing at the clock on the white painted wall, watching the hands approaching midnight, a reflection in the mirror behind the bar and a shadowy figure at the top of the stairs interrupting the song playing inside his head.

Spinning around on the stool, his eyes wide open, his jaw hanging slack, a vision of beauty posing in a full length mink coat, flashing her eyes and gazing down from the top of the stairs, a mischievous smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

Like unveiling a statue she opened the coat, brushing it casually from her shoulders and letting it fall to the floor, both hands resting on her hips and endless legs growing from a pair of towering heels, swivelling and turning, flaunting he body like a well-practiced model revealing all her naked beauty.

Coughing into his drink and almost falling from the stool, his eyes opening like saucers, his heart beat increasing by the second, a familiar stirring inside his pants, staring at the vision of beauty floating on air down the stairs, her long legs balanced precariously on lethal heels, her soft blonde hair falling seductively over her shoulders, her shapely breasts bouncing in a slow rhythm, rising and falling naturally with each intake of breath, the impossible curves and contours of splendour masked in a captivating silhouette, glistening against the low lighting of the room, revealing nothing less than perfection.

Faces touched, lips met and mouths crashed together in a smouldering kiss, her warm breasts flattening against his chest, inquisitive tongues invading mouths, searching and duelling, twirling and dancing over teeth, two hearts beating as one, two bodies converging in a physical exchange of passion.

The embrace, the closeness, lust and urgency fuelling the fire of pursuit and expectation, inhibitions melting away, the need, the desire, the acquaintance of touch washing away guilt, his earlier declaration about valued friendship evaporating in the heat of passion, lips parting, breaking from the sanctuary of the kiss, stealing warm breath from each other's mouths, breathing in the intimacy, the promise of engagement, breathing in the scent of arousal, the aroma of excitement, the smell of sex.

Fingers gliding with sensuous meaning, embarking on a journey of sexual discovery, tracing her ears, her nose and her face, sweeping over her back and down her waist, dancing lightly over soft sensitive skin, exploring every smooth texture and feminine curves, fondling and squeezing her breasts, nipping and pulling each nipple, squeezing her bottom and parting the soft globes, a probing finger gently teasing the anal opening, the unexpected intrusion forcing a gasp and soft whimpered cry, the threatening lump growing inside his pants bringing a smile to her lips.

"It feels like someone is ready to get down to business," she smiled, arousal flirting with curiosity, lowering her hand and squeezing the impressive goods.

"Let me help you with that," she offered, in a low sultry voice, impatient fingers loosening the buttons on his shirt, unbuckling his belt and pulling down the zip on his trousers, slipping her fingers into the waist and pulling his pants and briefs over his thighs, pausing to admire the magnificent standing object peeking through his shirt.

A body swimming in a sea of testosterone and hormonal chaos, a heart banging inside his chest, a surge of blood rushing into genitalia, impatient gestures responding to impulsive urges, removing his shirt and kicking his shoes across the floor, almost losing his balance as he stepped out of his trousers.

A brief exchange of lips, gentleness courting affection, lifting her in his arms as if she was no heavier than a child, walking into the open lounge area and laying her down on one of the rugs in front of the open fire, pausing briefly to gaze at the vision of wonder before him, a welcoming smile playing upon her lips, an aching vulva open and inviting, the warm liquid heat manifesting between her legs indicating her readiness and her willingness to submit to a commitment of coital interaction.

Urgency responding to expectation, dropping to his knees in an intimate union of sixty-nine, his buttocks hovering above her face, his oval testicles swinging precariously in a tender sack, dangling like two hairy plums, occasionally brushing her chin and nose, slipping his hands between her warm thighs, parting her legs and opening her body, his talented tongue embarking on a thrilling journey over her navel and pubic bone, tracing a moist path over the soft skin of her inner thighs, his mouth following the warm wet trail of saliva, his lips peppering soft kisses along her thighs, his tongue leaving a trail of fire over her burning skin.

Pulling the cheeks of his bottom apart and running a finger along the perineum, pulling the dark pubic hair inside the crack of his buttocks and probing his anus, moving away from the anal enquiry, gripping the fleshy limb in her hand, working him hard, back and forth, pulling the tight foreskin over the bulbous head, stretching it down the swollen shaft, sweeping her tongue over the hairy scrotum and cradling his balls in her hand, giving each one a gentle squeeze before taking them into her mouth, swirling the hairy spheres over her playful tongue, nipping the rough skin gently between her teeth, letting them slip from her mouth to the sanctuary of the scrotum, traces of lipstick coating the rugged skin.

The warmth of his mouth, the acquaintance of touch and the electric sensation of his velvety tongue travelling south and bathing her naval inviting pleasurable moans and a simulation of persuasive movements, his nimble fingers moving in a timeless dance, following the moist trail of his mouth, his lips feathering traces of fire over her soft thighs, pressing his chin against the pubic bone, increasing the pressure, letting her feel the heat of his breath, a well-practiced tongue gifted in the art of cunnilingus searching through the pubic jungle, feeling the fine silky hairs slipping between his lips, vaginal fluids mixing with oral secretions, the musky odours of sex teasing his nostrils, his warm wet tongue moving with heightened intensity, licking and tasting, feasting on the soft petals, lavishly licking the delicate tissue around the urethra, twirling in sensuous circles over the moist wings and petals, coaxing the clitoris pearl hidden beneath the sanctuary of its protective hood.

The sensation of touch, a wanting woman aching with desire, impulsive urges stimulating senses, warm fluids seeping from a burning vulva, long wheezing gasps and deep shallow moans turning into urgent cries, a moment of impulsive euphoria gathering behind clenched teeth, tight lips blowing a breathless whisper of encouragement.

A pelvic movement, an urgent gesture of intimacy inviting a gentle rhythm of involuntary thrusts, lifting her bottom slightly from the floor, his skilful fingers parting the outer lips of her labia, opening her body and sliding two fingers between the slippery folds of flesh, entering and penetrating her inner depths, sliding in and slipping out, hard and fast, opening and closing, curling and dragging his fingers against the inner walls, twisting and turning, stretching her inner core, going in pursuit of the g-spot.

"Oh Yes...Oh fucking yes," she urged. "Don't stop," she begged. "More. More fingers," she pleaded. "Oh! Yes...that feels so fucking good," she cursed, thrashing her head from side to side, the promise of euphoric release running up and down her spine.

The waves of passion consumed her body in repeating tremors, explosive emotions flooding through her body in a powerful surge of blissful contractions, pelvic muscles tightening and legs stiffening, grabbing his buttocks with both hands and digging her fingernails into the soft flesh, lifting her hips and pushing her vulva hard against his face, letting him smell the heat of passion, letting him taste the fluids of arousal, breathing in the aroma of sex, grunts clinging to muted cries, rapture and euphoria claiming her body, moans and groans joining whispers of endearment, calming words turning into filthy obscenities.