Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play

by Sydney Jamesson

"I know Ayden, it’s ok. Don’t miss your flight."

  He picks up his jacket off the floor and haphazardly throws it over his shoulder. Even after having expended all that sexual energy, he looks fresh and even more adorable. Before leaving he stops dead and returns to sit by me on the bed. His hand is in my hair; he leans in to kiss me deeply and I feel a longing that makes me wish I’d taken him up on his offer.

  His gazes into my weary face, "We’re good right?"

  "Yes Ayden we’re good." He stands, but before he can get out of the room, I slither out of bed and stroll over to him provocatively, wanting to give him a closer look at what he’s walking away from. I feel shameless. I unclip my bra and throw it on the bed, pinning him to the door with my nearly naked body. In true Dominant style I raise his hands above his head and kiss him within an inch of his life.

  "Have a safe flight and hurry back." I feel the stirrings of an erection by my hip, and it’s my parting gift.

  "Christ, Beth! I’m going to have to jerk off in the shower now ..." He rubs his neck to ease the tension and leaves, slamming the front door behind him, but not without a parting word. I catch a three syllabled utterance; “sub-miss-ive?” but it’s said more out of disbelief than a statement of fact. It leaves his mouth in one long hiss.

  I return to bed smiling from ear to ear. I think I did pretty well under the circumstances: mission accomplished.

  It’s 2.45, on a wet Wednesday afternoon, Ernie is wiping his brow with an off-white handkerchief his daughter and that less-than-useless son-in-law sent him for his birthday, with a book on wine making.

  He turns to Dan, “I’ve worked like a slave today, if they stick a bloody brush up my arse I’ll sweep up!”

  “You don’t have to tell me. I’ve split a gut shifting and sweeping for this lot.” He’s done himself proud: stacked the furniture into the warehouse out of three dorms, cleared the leaves from the quad and carried over the stationary to the main office. “How much fucking typing do they do in that office?” He asks Ernie. “There’s enough A4 to go around the planet ten times over.”

  He’s ready for his 3 o’clock tea break, but Mr. Crowther, his immediate boss, has other plans. “Dan,” he calls out with the kind of authoritative bite that has Dan grinding his teeth. He pretends he’s not heard and keeps walking.

  Ernie gives him a knowing look. “Better see what he wants or he’ll only come after us with his bloody whip.”

  Dan knows Ernie’s right, but there’s just something about that guy. When he hears his name being called for a second time, he chooses to acknowledge it.

  “Yes, Mr. Crowther, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m hoping you can fill the breach tonight and take the minibus down to Shaftesbury Avenue, you know off Piccadilly Circus.”

  “I know where Shaftesbury Avenue is.” Inside, Dan is seething. Does he think I’m fucking stupid.

  Slightly out of breath, he explains in more detail. “Leslie’s had to drive to Birmingham, apparently her father has been taken into hospital with a heart attack and there really is no-one else with your level of expertise.” From the way Mr. Crowther is massaging Dan’s ego, it’s obvious he’s his last port of call.

  “Why, what’s happening on Shaftesbury Avenue?” Dan asks, as if he doesn’t know. Not another bloody musical? He can’t stand all that prancing around. Just the thought of it makes him want to strangle someone with their own fucking tights.

  “No, no. It’s the English undergraduates, they’re going to see a production of Romeo and Juliet at the Apollo; an opportunity for them to see the Baird’s work up close, so to speak.”

  His words leave Dan cold. “I did have plans,” he says with a shrug. “But, I suppose I could help out if you’re desperate.”

  “That’s the spirit. You can always rely on an army boy when there’s a crisis.”

  Who the fuck is he calling a boy?

  Ernie comes to his rescue. “It’s the training you know, ‘Eris Optimus,’ Be the Best.”

  “Yes, yes, well done Ernie.” His patronising tone has Dan reconsidering his good deed. Sensing he has overstepped the mark, his attention quickly shifts to the man of the hour.

  “So Dan are you up for it, a trip into the city with sixteen of our brightest freshmen and women?”

  It all seems too much trouble until he mentions ‘women.’ Something is stirring in him: the possibility of coming into close-contact with some ‘pretty little things.’ Now, it’s turned into a mission, he’s not putting himself out at all.

  “It would be my pleasure Mr. Crowther.” He seals the deal with a hand shake. “It won’t be as challenging as the infantry but I’m your man.”

  Mr. Crowther can’t believe his luck. For a moment, he thought Dan was going to say no. “You certainly are.” With him on side, he alters his approach. “Now you need to be at the Old Schools entrance at 1800 hrs.” He gives himself a well done grin, believing he has got the better of the big man. Both Ernie and the man himself know different.

  “Yes Sir,” Dan answers, presenting an exaggerated salute and turning it into an insulting example of face pulling by pressing his thumb onto his nose and wiggling his fingers as if he’s playing a flute.

  “Yes, yes very funny Dan. Very entertaining.” He walks away, shaking his head and feeling a little dispirited by Dan’s impertinence.

  “Ernie reaches up and pats Dan between his shoulder blades. “Daft sod thought he was pulling the wool over your eyes.”

  “Yeah, little shit.”

  “Anyway, what did you have on tonight?” Ernie asks, curious to hear what he gets up to on a Wednesday night.

  “Not a bloody thing.” He grins more for his own pleasure than for Ernie’s

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “No but he doesn’t know that. And now he owes me.”

  “That’s right Champ, keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

  “Always do Ernie, always do. Come on, let’s get that bloody kettle on, my mouth feels like a pair of whore’s drawers.”

  ***

  At 1800hrs on the dot, Dan is handed the keys to the sixteen-seater minibus. He checks his watch, knowing the passengers should all be on board by a quarter to.

  There are a couple of ‘pretty little things’ who quite take his fancy and he keeps a close eye on one through his rear view mirror. He knows she’s not a patch on his girl, but she’ll serve as a ‘stand-in’ until he and she are reunited.

  He takes stock; the ‘stand-in’ has a similar body type, slim but shapely, easy to pin down and position with one hand, leaving the other free for ... whatever. She even has that untouched look about her he likes so much: she’s probably a virgin. Every time he stops, he can see her lurching forward, her breasts are pert and rise to the occasion like a couple of ice-cream cones. He’s thankful that the traffic is heavy and it’s stop-go all the way.

  When a cyclist pulls out in front of him, forcing him to slam on the breaks and to curse, he calls out. “You stupid sod! You nearly got yourself killed.”

  Watching her eyes widen and her mouth opening like that sends a rush of blood to his twitching cock. He savours the feel of it and makes a silent promise to sort himself out later. He’ll press rewind and mentally relive the moment, all it will take is a couple of hard strokes and he’ll be as good as new.

  He delivers the excited passengers at their destination in plenty of time. They disembark and bask in the glow of the Apollo’s after dinner light show. Romeo and Juliet are emblazoned across the front of the building and the ‘star-crossed lovers’ invite them in for a spectacular night of Shakespearian drama. He takes a sharp left and follows the slowly moving traffic into the carpark.

  With the heater turned up full and music playing in the background, he’s feeling relaxed and proud of himself. He was the best man for the job and he’d make sure Mr. Crowther didn’t forget it.

  By 2050hrs he’s feeling a little peckish and beginning to wish he’d brought a snack or a
t least a packet of crisps. Having not eaten, he prepares to go on the hunt for food. He steps from the mini bus and gives a yawn, he’s feeling stiff and is rolling his neck clockwise and then in an anti-clockwise direction to regain his flexibility. His hands find their way into his pockets, he isn’t cold but the wind is starting to pick up and the spitting rain is beginning to ride it in horizontal waves. His bare skin is taking the brunt of it.

  The theatre is quite a sight, all white and formidable, illuminated in shades of red and gold; it reminds him of two enormous pillars of salt with screw-off tops on either side of a sparkling, chalk faced mansion.

  He’s so busy looking down Shaftesbury Avenue that the young couple holding hands, trotting down the theatre steps have to swerve to avoid bumping into him. He turns, “Hey! Watch where you’re ...”

  The air rushes into his lungs when he sees her. She’s beautiful: every bit the princess in her little silver dress and party shoes. Sure, she’s a little older and she’s changed her hair colour but ... there’s no mistaking her.

  He pulls his hands out of his pockets and takes a step in her direction, but thinks twice when the tall, well dressed guy she’s with turns and gives him a condescending look. Is he squaring up to him? Does he think he can take him? He wishes he’d try.

  ‘Fucking tosser,’ he’s thinking. ‘Got his fucking hands on my girl.’ His lips are separating from his teeth in a kind of snarl.

  Thinking on his feet, he scans the street for witnesses. There are too many people about. ‘I can’t deck him here and get away with it,’ he realises. ‘But what choice do I have?’ He assesses the situation. Holding back the impulse to hit him and grab her is agonising.

  When the time is right and he’s mentally prepared to act, a silver Rolls Royce pulls up sharpish at the curb. A big guy in uniform is opening the door. The toff in the suit lets her get in first and turns again in his direction and looks down his nose at him.

  ‘He’s getting in. She’s getting away. Fuck!’

  He watches the car eases into the traffic and makes a mental note of the registration: ASMED1A. That’s easy enough to remember. To make sure, he takes out the key to the minibus, rolls up his sleeve and scratches it into his arm. It hurts like hell, but duty calls.

  As the silver car disappears into the night, the pavement moves beneath him, like he’s on an escalator. “What the fuck’s going on?” he asks himself, unsure of exactly what he’s feeling: anxiety, exhilaration, arousal?

  In a second, the dizzy spell passes and he puts it down to dehydration or hunger and checks his watch again. It’s only 2100hrs. Taking long, assertive strides he heads off in the direction of a food source thinking, planning and feeling the accustomed ache in his groin.

  “No time for that,” he whispers, censoring sexual urges. He considers his game-plan: ‘A snack to keep me focused, get the kids back to base and then ... I’m all yours. I’ve got your fancy boyfriend’s number and ... he’ll lead me straight to you. ’

  4

  Thursday is always a slow day in any school. It’s better than Wednesday but you just can’t beat that Friday feeling. After a brief assembly, it’s business as usual. More prose, plays and poetry: no Chemistry. I think back and smirk. By anybody’s reckoning, that’s an impressive line.

  By lunchtime I’m pining for Ayden and, by the end of the day, I’m crawling up the walls. I check the time in New York: it’s not even lunch time and he’ll be involved a meeting. I’m consoled by that thought.

  Finding myself with some extra time on my hands I decide to give Charlie a call. She’s quick to answer. “Hey Char, I’m on my way home and just wondered if you’re still a size small?”

  She’s confused, “Why, do you want to borrow more clothes?”

  “No, I’m thinking of getting you a French maid’s outfit, you’ve done such a good job with my apartment.” I can’t contain my laughter.

  “Oh, I get it now, yes, very funny.”

  “I can’t thank you enough. I was dreading bringing him back, but everything was perfect. It must have taken you hours?”

  “No, just over an hour but you’re going to have to get some marigolds because I’ve had to have a manicure to get rid of the smell of bloody polish.” I visualise her giving her nails the once over, blowing on make-believe varnish.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “No probs honey, but you owe me. That’s all I’m saying.” I detect a smile.

  “Yes I do, I won’t forget.”

  “So, how was it?” She puts emphasis on the how and I know she’s itching to hear every sordid detail.

  I think before I speak, and decide against lying. I’ve got to tell someone before I explode. “Great. I think I’m going to marry this guy.”

  There’s a two second silence. “Frickin’ hell! That good, eh?”

  “Not quite, not yet, but he has potential.”

  “Potential? That’s a good sign, especially coming from you. Most of the dorks you’ve dated have had a lot going for them but definitely no potential.” She gives a disgruntled moan and continues. “So when do I get to meet Mr. P?”

  “Mr. P?”

  “P for potential, if you won’t tell me his name then I’m going to have to call him something.”

  “Right, Mr. P.” I like the sound of that. “You’ll get your chance, but we’re still just getting to know each other, so I think I’d like to keep him under wraps for now.”

  “Ok, but you know by doing that you’re just going to make me more curious, don’t you?” I sense a hand on a hip.

  “I do, but I think it’s for the best.”

  “Suit yourself, it’s your call. But you can at least tell me where he works, or is that top secret too?”

  “He works in the city.”

  “So he’s a banker?” I don’t reply. “I broker?” I don’t reply. “An ad man? She’s getting exasperated and quickly running out of professions. “What the hell is he then?

  “He owns his own company, he’s the MD.” I have to give her something or I know she’ll keep at it until I confess.

  “Nice. Then he’s a keeper?”

  “I think so.”

  “Is he fat with bad breath and a limp?”

  I have to laugh. “No, not quite.” In my mind’s eye I see Ayden lying beneath me, tethered to my bedstead and I feel a shudder of sexual yearning scattering through the length of my body. “Look, I’ve got to go and I’ve loved the interrogation, maybe we can do it again soon?”

  “You can count on it.”

  “Thanks again Char.”

  “No probs honey, catch you later, bye.”

  “Bye.” I end the call and put my phone away: still no message and still no call.

  ***

  When I arrive home I can see a parcel on the kitchen table. I imagine it being full of all things relating to our ‘special’ relationship but, when I open it, I’m wrong. Wrapped in purple tissue paper is a lamp with a delicately cut glass shade, a perfect match to my bedroom decor. I lift it out of the box carefully, letting the lead unravels itself. I see the attachment: it’s a dimmer switch. How thoughtful.

  I reach down and there’s a book. ‘The Beginners Guide to Seduction.’ It makes me smile. Ayden seems to have spent some time thinking about my amateurish attempt at seduction, and that’s not a bad thing.

  Next out of the box are two first class tickets to Rome. I gasp and hold them to my chest, excited at the prospect of strolling hand in hand down The Spanish Steps with the most attractive man I have ever seen.

  I delve further into the box, wondering what untold treasures are tucked away inside the crisp tissue paper. I grapple with what feels like a box of some sort. When I open it, I’m aghast. It’s a platinum chain and the pendant is a small cross, a kiss; a reminder of that first encounter. It’s so delicate and so exquisite: it’s perfect.

  Just when I think my day can’t get any better, my fingers stumble across a leather item; it’s soft to the touch and I’m curious to
check it out. I lift the wrapping and it’s a small, leather wallet. I flip it back and inside, is a velum business card with embossed print in midnight blue: it’s Ayden’s. I turn it over and there is his hand written mobile number and email address. That’s a nice touch. I like the idea I can get hold of him at a moment’s notice.

  I’m about the push the card back into its snug little pocket when I see another card underneath it. I slide it out to take a closer look. It’s a black visa card in my name. It’s rather unimpressive to look at but that’s the point, isn’t it? People who have money, don’t make a song and dance about it: they just spend it.

  I’m taken by surprise. I love everything in my box, but this takes the edge off what is a very thoughtful surprise. My joy is mitigated by the feeling I’m being paid for my services, maybe not by the hour but it feels like that somehow. He won’t see it that way but, what we feel, or what we’re starting to feel has been soiled by its association with money.

  I walk away from the table and turn on the TV, still trying to fathom why he should give me such a thing. Does he think I’m impoverished? I scan my apartment. Granted it’s not five star accommodation but it’s comfortable and … it’s my home. The TV draws by attention away from my reflection. It’s the news.

  There’s talk of another terrorist bombing in Iraq and the Euro crisis, then a piece on Anglo American trading and special friendships. A Bill Gates look-alike called Ryan Stadler is shaking Ayden’s hand and together they’re smiling for the camera.

  I draw the platinum kiss to my mouth and feel where his soft kisses were. It’s hard to put our past and his present together. He’s smiling, but it’s uncharacteristically broad and exaggerated and he’s simply not conveying any genuine emotion: he’s under pressure, going through the motions. But, for all that, the camera loves him and I know, if I allow myself, I will too.

  I have a plan. I won’t confront him about the visa card, not now, but I will disturb the order in his life with some very sexy thoughts. He looks like he could do with a distraction. He said he wanted to ‘gift’ himself to me, well he’ll be my final gift of the day.