The moment I entered the flat, I sensed that something was different. John is normally a tidy man, but everywhere I looked, things seemed cleaner – smarter. And John, himself, was not dressed as he usually was for our Wednesday afternoon chess challenge – a regular pursuit since we have both taken early retirement eighteen months previously.
His shirt was crisply ironed, as were his slacks, and I could even smell a whiff of aftershave. And he was not his normal relaxed, casual self – not quite. His greeting was a little forced, his welcome a mite too hearty. He had promised me a taste of a new malt whisky he had 'discovered', and even his enthusiasm for that seemed a little forced.
However, we sat down either side of the table, on which the board and the pieces were arranged, as usual, and, before we started to play, we sampled the malt. It was a Bowmore, which I had tasted before, although I didn't mention that to John, and it was very good – if just a little too peaty for my palate.
But he was restless, his eyes and his mind somehow unfocussed. I thought, to myself, that he wouldn't be much of an opponent this afternoon unless he got his act together.
And then the doorbell rang, and he sat up straight, and said "Ah!" I looked up, enquiringly, and he smiled at me, sort of conspiratorially, but didn't utter a word as he strode out to answer the ring. I heard the front door open, and muffled voices exchanging greetings, then John was back, a big smile on his face, standing back to usher his visitor inside.
I caught my breath. I may be on the point of leaving my fifties behind, but I've always appreciated an attractive woman, and this one was something really special. She was small, and dark, wearing a short yellow dress, and sandals. Her legs and arms were bare. She must have been in her late twenties, or early thirties, and, while her figure was far from voluptuous, she was beautifully curved in a slim, understated sort of way.
Her skin was a gorgeous, glowing golden-brown, her short hair black as jet, matching her large round eyes. She had quite high cheek-bones, a small, straight nose, and a wide, full-lipped mouth. Her expression was demure – the only word for it – but her slim hips swayed sensually as she walked into the room, and I automatically rose to my feet to greet her.
On catching sight of me, though, her hand flew up to her mouth, and her eyes immediately registered alarm, but John, holding her arm lightly, was already introducing her.
"You remember Vas, don't you?" he said to me. "My son's wife – you met at their wedding."
Of course I did – now. I also remembered envying John's son, in a very physical way, as I watched the vision of loveliness that she had been on her wedding day, gliding up the aisle on her proud father's arm.
I had actually felt the beginnings of an erection as she passed my wife and me, and my eyes followed her sexy bottom in the long, white, tight dress. It must have been six or seven years ago and, if possible, she was even more enticing, now. She had been, then, a beautiful girl – now she was an intensely exciting, attractive woman.
I felt tongue-tied, but I managed to say something appropriate, and reached out a hand in greeting. The hand it received was small and delicate, the pressure of her handshake almost non-existent. John made to usher us towards the easy-chairs, beside the window, but Vas, clearly distressed, stepped back.
"No," she said, her eyes darting between us, filled with apparent alarm. "I think I should go – I – I didn't know you had a visitor."
John put his hands on her slim, bare shoulders, uttering a light, almost condescending laugh. He squeezed the golden flesh of the tops of her bare arms.
"It's all right, Vas," he reassured her. "There's nothing to worry about. Please sit down – have a glass of wine."
I could see she was still very reluctant, but John's hands were propelling her towards one of the chairs and she allowed herself to be persuaded – coerced? – into sitting down. John poured her a glass of sparkling white wine, and she sipped it, sitting, nervously, right on the edge of the chair, as if poised for flight. I wondered if she was very shy – but didn't recall that she had seemed so, when I had met her before, on her wedding-day.
Her dress did not reach down as far as her knees, and was showing a long length of smooth brown thigh, unwittingly exposed by her posture. She saw me looking, and hastily pulled her dress down, to cover it.
John turned to me.
"Vas usually visits me on a Tuesday afternoon, but I asked her to change, this week, to Wednesday" he explained. "She enjoys a little foot massage and – well, we've discovered that I seem to do it rather well. Isn't that right, Vas?"
She darted a nervous glance at him, then at me.
"I – I don't think I want to today – not with someone else here – please ......"
Her tension was transmitting itself to me. Why had John asked her to come today, instead? I didn't know what this was all about, but my mouth was turning dry, and I could feel a knot forming in my stomach. Also, for no reason that I could fathom, my testicles were tightening ......
But John now seemed very relaxed, an easy smile tugging the corners of his mouth.
"It'll be fine, my dear," he said, calmly. "Just give it a try – you'll see."
The look on her lovely face was now almost showing panic.
"No – please," she said, her voice catching, and she struggled to rise from her chair, her glass still in her hand, spilling a few drops of wine.
"Oh – I'm sorry, John," she stammered. She appeared to be close to tears, now, and I wondered if I should offer to leave, but John was on his feet, taking her glass and, with his other hand, almost pushing her back into the chair.
"Now, don't be silly, Vas. You've come all this way – just relax." His voice was still calm, and light, but there was a hint of authority in it, and the girl sat down again, and took back her glass. Her hand shook as she raised it to her lips and took quite a deep swallow.
"That's better," said John, and he went into the corner of the room and picked up one of a pair of low stools. Placing it in front of the girl, he sat down, then, reaching forward, put one hand behind her left calf and the other round her ankle. Vas braced her foot against the floor, and a look of near-panic came into her eyes.
"No, please," she whispered, again, and a large tear spilled over her eyelid and coursed slowly down her cheek, but John raised her leg and gently placed it along his thigh. With practised dexterity, John unfastened the strap of her sandal and slid it away from her small foot. The discarded sandal fell to the floor.
Placing both thumbs on the top of her foot, he began to manipulate it, gently, backwards and forwards, separating her toes, and using all his fingers to massage the flesh and bones.
He smiled reassuringly up into her – still – frightened face.
"That's better, isn't it?" he said. "You know how much you enjoy it."
Vas didn't answer, but, gradually, I could see her relaxing, her posture becoming less defensive, her limbs slackening as the tension ebbed away from her. Her eyes, though, were still guarded and her hands were on the arms of the chair – still ready for flight.
