by John Argus
Then she hung up, and for the briefest of moments he caught the most teasing glimpse of her delicious buttocks before she vanished through a door he could not see.
He cursed himself for not having looked sooner. How long had she been standing there while he wasted his time staring through another window at dull commuters trudging their way home? ‘Damn!’ he spat out loud. ‘Fucking damn!’
Determinedly he waited for long minutes, but his reward was no more than the briefest glimpse of her in skimpy panties and camisole again, moving in and out of his vision in the blink of an eye. He waited for some time after that, but then finally put the telescope back in its place, and trudged despondently downstairs, reluctantly giving up for the night.
Chapter Three
Zoe’s heels clicked on the pavement as she walked along Millbank Street. She had presumed, apparently incorrectly, that the post office to which Mr Erasmus had referred was close to Westminster, or else surely he would not have had her walking there from the station. It was an unusually overcast and humid morning, and she was already feeling quite uncomfortably hot in her grey turtleneck sweater and neat black blazer and skirt as she hurried along; she wore the thin sweater instead of a blouse because the weather forecasters had predicted a cooler day. She should have known better than to listen to them.
Zoe had allotted only fifteen minutes to the task, and already half of them had passed and she had not yet found her destination. She knew it had to be in this direction, for going the other way the street became Whitehall, and Mr Erasmus had been quite specific. And he was tall, she reminded herself, with a long stride and no high heels to worry about, so perhaps the walk from the station seemed shorter to him than it did to her.
She was in real danger of being late for work, and almost ready to admit defeat and turn back, when she spotted the post office just up ahead. She sighed with relief and quickened her pace, trotting up the front stone steps and into the little building, only to wait typically in a queue, unable to fathom why Mr Erasmus had whatever this package was delivered there rather than to his office or home.
At last she took her turn at the wicket, and as Mr Erasmus had called ahead, she had no difficulty obtaining his package. It was small, about the size of a shoebox, but she was surprised at its weight and needed both hands to hold it. Although she could carry it easily enough in the short term, she knew it would begin to seem quite a bit heavier during the long walk back to the tube.
‘Quincanon!’
Zoe turned her head in surprise as she walked down the few steps outside to the pavement, saw a dark-green Jaguar parked at the curb, and to her great surprise saw Mr Erasmus looking out of the lowered window at her. He waved impatiently, and she hurried over to him.
‘Get in,’ he said curtly, and without a word Zoe handed him the package through the window, opened the door and slid into the passenger seat beside him. The classic car was quite small and narrow, and smelled of old leather, and she gasped as he pulled sharply out into traffic and accelerated.
‘I had forgotten the distance,’ he told her. ‘It used to be a dozen blocks closer, but they moved it last year.’
‘Oh well, that’s all right,’ she said stoically.
‘What did you plan to do today?’ he asked, the abrupt question coming out of the blue.
She looked at him uncertainly. ‘Well, I suppose I plan to process expenses, and such,’ she answered, ‘and whatever else Ms Beacher tells me to do.’
‘Nothing important, then,’ he mused. ‘Good, you can come with me.’
‘Come?’ she echoed. ‘Come where?’
‘I have to see the minister of agriculture, the old bore, and set him right on a few things. He’ll be at an announcement at a local riding, and a lot of people will wind up being introduced to me there. You can come along and keep track of them, there’s a dear, for I surely never will. Most of them aren’t very important, but they’re all party people and we try to keep the reality of their insignificance from them as much as possible. We can’t have one writing to me next month and mentioning the damned event and my not having a clue as to who he or she is, now can we?’
‘No, I suppose not,’ Zoe agreed, ‘but… but what shall I do?’
‘Linger discreetly and write down the name of anyone introduced to me and the topic of our conversation. Beacher has someone who puts these things into a file my administrative assistant refers to whenever they write to me.’ He glanced at her. ‘You’re looking somewhat played out,’ he observed frankly.
‘It’s sticky outside,’ she said defensively, ‘and it was a longer walk than I anticipated.’
‘Well, if you’re too warm remove your jacket, my dear,’ he suggested logically.
‘I should, shouldn’t I?’ she agreed.
‘That would be the normal thing to do.’
So after a moment’s hesitation Zoe shrugged it off, folded it precisely, and laid it neatly across her lap. But Mr Erasmus casually reached for it and placed it behind them.
‘You shouldn’t be so weary after such a brief walk,’ he chided her kindly. ‘Young people today have no stamina.’
‘Well, I was in heels,’ she reminded him.
He glanced down at her legs, and smiled slightly. ‘Are you aware of the purpose of women’s high heels?’ he asked conversationally.
‘Purpose?’ she looked at him blankly.
‘Have you never paused to consider the inefficiency and discomfort of high heels and wondered at the purpose they serve?’
‘Well… not really,’ she admitted.
‘Their purpose is to elevate the posterior, my young innocent; to lift the buttocks so as to make them appear more shapely and desirable to men.’
‘That’s not true,’ she gasped, scandalised.
‘I’m afraid it is quite true,’ he insisted. ‘Most everything women wear is designed for the purpose of catching an eligible man. The lipstick and the make-up, the short skirts and the high heels, the immense effort they put into their hairstyles. The brassiere was not designed for female athletes just to keep their breasts from bouncing about, you know. It was designed to squeeze the breasts up and together and offer them out to every passing male in the hope of catching a suitor.’
‘Mr Erasmus, you’re being quite wicked,’ she protested, blushing uncomfortably.
‘Am I? I do apologise. It’s the habit of people of my age and situation to speak truisms when dealing with the young.’
‘Girls wear make-up and… and nice clothes, and stuff, because they like to look pretty,’ she argued. ‘It’s not all about catching men. Married women want to look attractive too.’
‘Don’t take offence,’ he said tolerantly, reaching out and patting her knee.
She bit her lower lip nervously. ‘You shouldn’t do that, you know,’ she dared to say.
‘Do what?’ he asked casually.
‘You know… touch my knee,’ she clarified the obvious.
He laughed. ‘My dear girl,’ he said, patting her just below the hem of her skirt again, ‘I assure you I mean nothing presumptuous.’ He leaned closer to her, his eyes still on the road as he smiled. ‘The truth is, Zoe, it’s a mere affectation caused by a yearning for the warmth of human contact.’
‘Really?’ she asked doubtfully, not really understanding what he was getting at.
‘Oh yes, but I do see how a young woman of your age could misinterpret the gesture.’
‘You do?’ She felt he was reassuring her, and that made her feel better, although she wasn’t too sure, and she certainly felt a little ashamed for behaving towards him like a sulking child. She was in the big wide world now, and she wanted to make a good impression to those that mattered. ‘Well, um… I’m sorry,’ she added meekly.
‘Oh, think nothing of it, my dear.’ He squeezed her thigh affectionately
, and then his possessive fingers inched just beneath her skirt and idly stroked her as she shifted anxiously in the seat. ‘Do you realise, Zoe,’ he went on idly, ‘just how delightfully smooth and soft and warm your skin is?’
She stared at him, wide-eyed, her lips slightly parted as words failed her.
‘Oh yes, there’s nothing like the flesh of a young woman. It’s like eiderdown, softer than silk, smoother than satin, but with a warmth and a glow all its own. The sheer tactile delight of such flesh soothes the tortured mind and re-energises the spirit against the cold of the human condition.’ He continued to caress her leg as he spoke, and Zoe stared at him in growing bewilderment.
‘Do you ever touch your own flesh, my dear?’ he asked.
‘Excuse me?’ she blurted.
‘Tell me you appreciate the strength and vitality of your youth and the unblemished perfection of your own body, please, Zoe. I never did when I was younger. I was always too busy, what with the war, the hunting in Africa and those diplomatic trips to China and Japan.’ He glanced at her, smiling enigmatically, and then taking her inert hand in his, he squeezed it gently. This startled her, but not as much as when he placed her own hand on her leg and eased it slowly up the inside of her thigh just beneath her skirt. ‘Do you feel how delightfully soft your skin is, Zoe?’ he asked hypnotically. ‘It won’t always be, you know.’ He eased her hand a little higher, and she gazed down, breathlessly nonplussed as her fingers slipped further between her thighs while his wrist edged her short skirt up.
‘Revel in your youth, my dear girl,’ he urged quietly.
Her fingers gently brushed the front of her panties and she glanced anxiously up at him as he concentrated on his driving.
‘Are you still too warm, Zoe?’ he pressed.
‘I… I beg your pardon?’ she breathed, barely able to think straight.
‘Are you still feeling a touch too warm?’ he elaborated slightly.
‘I – I do still feel a little warm, yes,’ she confirmed, her mouth dry. ‘And, a little faint too.’
Steven Erasmus let go of her hand, reached for the console, and cool air began blowing towards her face. ‘This car used to be owned by an American,’ he informed her, the return to conversational tones befuddling her thoughts even further. ‘They do like their comforts, the Americans.’ He smiled at her again, and Zoe abruptly realised her hand was still pressed between her thighs and almost touching her pussy, her skirt naughtily rucked up, so gathering her senses she pulled her hand away and eased her skirt down, Erasmus surreptitiously enjoying the little squirming movements of her shapely hips as she did so.
‘So, young lady,’ he went on, after a few minutes of silence between them, ‘are you enjoying your youth?’
‘I… um, I suppose I am,’ she said.
‘How old are you now, twenty-five?’
‘No, I’m twenty,’ she corrected him.
‘Really?’ He looked at her with apparent surprise. ‘You seem so mature for only twenty. But of course, young people today…’ He shook his head. ‘A few generations ago you’d have been married at eighteen. Hell, a few centuries ago you’d have been married at twelve! We men didn’t let nubile young beauties like you stroll about sniffing flowers and watching sunsets alone. We used to be a rough, virile sort, we men, and when we saw a female we wanted, we’d jump her and mount her right there in the field. There was no shame to it, no guilt, no worries about proper etiquette. You just put her down on all fours and thrust yourself home—’
‘Mr Erasmus!’ Zoe cried, utterly shocked and alarmed.
‘Oh, I do apologise, my dear girl,’ he said with gushing sincerity. ‘Sometimes I forget to whom I’m speaking. I overlooked your youth and innocence, not to mention your gender. Please do forgive me.’
‘I-I’m not…’ Zoe flustered, utterly flabbergasted by what such a distinguished gentleman had just said to her. ‘I mean… it’s not that…’
‘No, it’s entirely my fault. I’m somewhat of an amateur historian, you see. I have a deep fascination for the ancient world, and tend to forget some people might be uneasy with the more raw aspects of life in the distant past. Still,’ he added, shaking his head, ‘you have to admire the straightforward way people lived back then, without the nonsensical shame and guilt the Christian churches have attached to anything remotely associated with human procreation. There were wild men in the ancient past, furious of mind and powerful of body, like lions. And beautiful females were their prey.
‘Mind you, they weren’t entirely without guile and cunning too, those women of long ago. They might have moaned and groaned as they were being ridden by their wild men, but with their haunches high and their faces pressed into the grass, I’m sure they smiled smugly to themselves, feeling the fruits of their victory.’
Zoe looked out of her window, blushing furiously and wishing she could think of some way to change the subject.
‘But we’re much more civilised today,’ he concluded, again laying his hand on her knee and squeezing it absently. ‘And that isn’t at all a bad thing. It’s just that I sometimes long for the old days when matters were so much more simple and men spent their time in the hunt and not pushing papers in an office.’
At last they pulled into a small curving driveway before a rather dull, institutional looking building. A valet immediately stepped up to the driver’s door, and opened it.
‘Do stay close to me, Zoe,’ Steven Erasmus told her.
A few hours later, the urbane gentleman took Zoe’s arm in his and led her to his waiting car. ‘Well, I think that went splendidly,’ he declared, opening the passenger door for her.
‘All those people, all wanting things,’ she said in awe.
He walked around the rear of the striking vehicle, climbed in beside her, started the throaty engine, shifted it into gear, and then his hand rested lightly on her thigh and the little finger slipped casually beneath the hem of her skirt as he pulled away, the tyres crunching reassuringly on the gravel drive. ‘My dear, if it weren’t for people wanting things, political parties would soon be out of business,’ he explained patiently. ‘For good or ill, people always want something.’
‘That’s terribly cynical, sir.’ Zoe noted the hand on her thigh with a twinge of anxiety mingled with a slightly heady feeling of acceptance. She experienced more than a hint of pleasure at his touch, though she was at a loss to explain why or even acknowledge it.
‘Power, my child, is what it’s all about.’ Between gear changes he continued to caress her leg slowly, casually, with small back and forth motions as he spoke. ‘The power to grant small favours and large, the power to make fortunes or break them, the power to destroy lives or repair them. All men and women seek it, or seek those who have it…
‘And I have it, my dear…’
Zoe swallowed nervously, feeling more than a little breathless, for the tips of his fingers were now gently caressing the soft inner flesh of her thigh mere millimetres from her panties, and she was again feeling she simply must say something to him about the inappropriateness of such an intimate and presumptuous touch. And yet she held her breath, neither wanting to offend him nor, she realised with a giddy shock, wanting to stop him.
‘Do… do you enjoy being powerful, sir?’ she asked, trying to keep her mind from what he was doing, her voice faltering slightly.
‘Do I enjoy it?’ he pondered. ‘Well, it isn’t a matter of enjoying it,’ he eventually answered, thoughtfully, ‘though I suppose some might consider it flattering to have other apparently powerful men and women pandering to them.’
‘And you don’t?’
He shook his head, easing to a halt before a set of traffic lights. ‘One makes use of power, of course, but one should never become seduced by it.’
It may have been, as he suggested, that his caressing was little more than an unintentional
quirk of his personality, little more than a compliment to the resilience of her youthfulness. Yet she found herself still holding her breath as she waited for his fingers to edge just ever so slightly higher. Without consciously willing it, her legs eased just a little apart, and as the car pulled out into traffic again, all her awareness was focused on his warm fingers softly stroking her inner thigh. Her sex felt hot and moist, and seemed to thrum with anticipation. She felt a fingertip touch the narrow elastic at the edge of her panties, and then move back and forth against it as if probing for a way in.
‘Of course, in the old days power had more uses,’ he went on. ‘Then power meant being able to do much as you pleased, when you pleased, to and with whomever you pleased. There was no one to gainsay a powerful man who desired something, or someone.’
The tip of his finger gently eased beneath the elastic, and Zoe thought she must surely faint. Her heart was pounding furiously in her chest, and she found she could hardly breathe at all, her lungs no longer functioning. It was his little finger, she realised, and it was casually caressing the underside of the elastic of her panties while ever so lightly brushing the skin beneath it. Then just as she thought she must surely say something, his hand eased back, slid along her thigh, squeezed it lightly, and rose to grip the steering wheel.
After a long moment Zoe dared turn her face towards him, only to see him looking forward out of the windscreen, apparently quite at ease with himself and the world. She glanced down to see her skirt raised a little, and yet she made no move to lower it, some part of her wanting to maintain the same casual air he displayed despite the anxiety she felt.
She turned her head away again, and pretended to examine the pedestrians they passed as she shifted in her seat. After a minute or two, during which she waited in an agony of anticipation for his hand to return to her thigh, she surreptitiously smoothed her skirt down a little.
‘I swear, they really should have special roads for the intellectually challenged,’ he muttered as a red Fiat cut in front of them abruptly.
