Taboo

Keywords: Come..., Ch., Things, 11, All,

In France, it doesn't matter – people expect linen to look wrinkled, but here in Britain most people still look at you very oddly if you turn up in something creased, as if you had slept in it all night! So I don't wear it very often."

George started the engine. "Nice car," he said, nodding towards Sylvie's A3, "but it looks a bit sad with its flat tyre. Never mind, I'm sure I can sort it when we get back."

"The weather was beautiful at the weekend," started Sylvie. "Were you away? I called you, but just got your answer-phone."

"Yes, I was up north, with an old friend."

"Were you fishing?" she enquired.

"No; I'm not really into fishing," he replied. "We just had a couple of days of relaxation, fresh air and did some not-too-strenuous walking. When did you call? You didn't leave a message."

"Oh, it wasn't important, and I still feel stupid talking to those machines. I think I rang twice on Saturday, and again on Sunday. I just rang to confirm that I was OK for our little trip on Wednesday, if it's still all right with you."

"Oh yes, of course, I'm looking forward to it. We agreed ten o'clock, I think. I'll pick you up at home. I haven't checked the weather forecast yet, but I'll do that to-morrow. Unfortunately, I don't think this current good spell of weather can last much longer.

"And how about you?" he continued. "Did you have a pleasant weekend?"

"It was a bit quiet. Poor David, my husband, suddenly had to go to a conference in Lausanne, so he didn't get home. His assistant was supposed to be going, but was taken ill. There was a message from David when I got home after Bridge last Thursday. He called back later. I played a round of golf with Morag on Friday, but apart from that, I just did some shopping, and then pottered in the house and the garden."

"What a shame. I don't suppose you know all that many people in Melkirk yet?"

"No, not really, and most of those tend to be tied up with husbands and families at the weekend. Still, David should be home on Thursday this week, and Mark will soon have half-term, so I will have both my boys to keep me occupied," she said, with a smile.

The evening at the Bridge Club passed uneventfully. On the way back, they discussed some of the more interesting hands, and agreed that they both seemed to have played pretty well. They reached Croftbank at about 10.30. It was already dark, and George parked his own car so that the headlights shone on the rear of Sylvie's Audi, to help him see what he was doing.

"Is there anything you need, George?" Sylvie enquired, unlocking the car and opening the boot, to reveal the jacking equipment laid out. "That's the key for the locking wheel-nut, and the spare wheel should be under there – I hope. I haven't looked recently," she giggled. "Can I help?"

"No, you go indoors; it's getting chilly now," he replied.

"OK, I'll make some coffee. But what about you? You'll get your sweater dirty if you're not careful." She sounded concerned, and reached out to feel his sweater. "Ooohhh, cashmere again! How many cashmere sweaters do you have, George?"

"I don't know; I haven't counted them recently. But I bet you have more silk scarves than I have cashmere sweaters!"

"Very possibly," she laughed, "but do you want to borrow an old one of David's to keep yours clean? I'm sure I can find one quickly, and he is about your size."

"No, it's OK; I always keep an old jacket in the boot for emergencies, and an old rug to kneel on! You go indoors and get the coffee ready."

"OK. I'll leave the door open. Just come in when you've finished, or call if you need anything. Here is the car key; would you please lock it when you've finished. And thank you, George. I'm so sorry to put you to this trouble."

"Really, it's no trouble at all!" he replied gallantly.

The wheel nuts were indeed very tight, but with a bit of force, George was able to shift them. Soon he had the wheel off, and went to fetch the spare from the boot. He examined the flat tyre. It was a new tyre – no more than 2,000 miles, he reckoned, and had no obvious signs of damage – no nails protruding, no noticeable cuts.

After around twenty minutes, George had finished. He tidied away the jack, and returned his coat and rug to his boot. He locked both cars, and made his way to the front door, opened it, entered the imposing hall, with a large oak staircase leading up to the left, and called out, "Sylvie, I've finished! May I wash my hands?"

Sylvie emerged from a door towards the back of the hall, apparently from the kitchen. She had taken off her linen suit, and was wearing a long deep blue cotton sleeveless shirt-dress, with buttons all the way down the front, and a pair of flat-heeled loafers, without tights. "There's a wash-hand basin in there," she said, indicating a door at the end of a short corridor "and I've put out a clean towel for you."

"Thanks," he replied. "I see you've changed!"

"Yes, my favourite suit was getting a bit creased, and I don't want to have to press it again before I next wear it. This is more comfortable."

"And very becoming," he smiled, noting that she had left undone the top three buttons and the curve of her breasts was just visible. He headed towards the downstairs toilet she had indicated.

"Coffee's ready," she called after him. "I'll take it through to the sitting-room. Come straight through when you've washed; it's the door next to the grandfather clock in the hall."

Having washed, George entered a spacious room with a large bay window shown off by full-length green velvet curtains, and an intricately carved oak fireplace. The carpet, rugs and furnishings co-ordinated with the green curtains; the tables, clock and plant-stands perfectly matched the oak fireplace. The wall was papered in a subtle Regency print wallpaper and decorated with original nineteenth century French prints. A string quartet was playing on the Bose audio system. Sylvie was seated on a large sofa, next to a coffee table. The smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted his nostrils.

"What a beautiful room," he exclaimed.

"Thank you George. I spent a lot of time working out what to do with it, but I'm very pleased with the result. Come and sit down," she said, indicating a comfortable armchair by the fireplace. How do you take your coffee?"

"Black, please, with a little sugar. That's Debussy, isn't it?" he said, indicating the audio system. "But I don't recognise the recording; they play it faster than usual."

"Yes," she replied. "It's one of my favourite pieces; we have several recordings. This one is the Hagen Quartet. It's a different interpretation, but I like it."

"My recording is by the Quartetto Italiano; it's over thirty years old now, but I've got to love it, I suppose. This performance would take me a little time to get used to."

"Please borrow it, George; I'm sure you'll like it after you've played it a few times."

"Thank you; I'd like that."

Sylvie poured coffee from an elegant green porcelain coffeepot. She fetched a small table from the nest by the fireplace and set it next to him. "Are you warm enough?" she asked. "I didn't light the fire to-day, but the central heating is still on. I can turn it up if you like."

"I'm fine, thanks," he replied. "In fact, I'll take off my sweater if I may."

Sylvie approached with his coffee, and bent over to set it on the table. As she did so, her dress fell open and George glimpsed her firm breasts, surmounted with small aureoles and tiny nipples. 'She's taken off her bra as well!' he thought.

"Oh, George, I can't thank you enough for fixing the car; I would have been stuck to-morrow without your help."

"It was no trouble. You were right; the nuts were a bit tight. Here are your keys, before I forget. If you take the car to Coulter's in the morning, they will fix the tyre in less than twenty minutes, I'm sure. They're very obliging, and not expensive. Do you know the garage?"

"Yes – it's the one at the far end of the High Street, isn't it?"

"That's right."

"Perhaps you'd like a Cognac, or a whisky, with your coffee? I'm not sure what we've got, but there's bound to be something."

"Mmmm, a Cognac would be good, if you'll have one too."

"OK, come across to the drinks cabinet and I'll show you what we have. I'm not an expert on brandy, I'm afraid."

Sylvie knelt down to examine the contents of the drinks cabinet, and produced two bottles of Cognac, and one of Armagnac, carefully handing them up to him and smiling. George examined them, and declared, "I'll settle for Remy Martin, if I may."

"Would you pour please, George; I'll have the same, but just a small one."

As she leant across him to pick up two brandy glasses, her breast stroked against his thigh. He felt the soft firmness, and then the definite hardness of an erect nipple. Her perfume flooded his senses, and she smiled up at him – a smile of engaging warmth – perhaps, he thought, a smile of invitation. He gazed down at her. Her small, smooth face was upturned, her brown eyes wide open, and her smile softened. He could see the curve of her breast inside her dress, and her fingers seemed to stroke his as she passed him the two glasses. Her dress had opened at the bottom, revealing her knees, and the beginning of a shapely, white thigh. Her pink lips were no more than ten inches from his groin, and he felt a twinge in his cock.

'Stop it!' piped up his inner voice, 'she's a married woman – remember the rules! OK, perhaps you are thinking that she's trying to seduce you, but remember – she's not British. They do things differently in France. You don't want to spoil a friendship by jumping to the wrong conclusion. Behave yourself!'

George admitted to himself that his inner voice was right. He liked Sylvie, enjoyed her company and found her conversation stimulating. He did not want to spoil a budding friendship by making a clumsy attempt, and risk getting his face slapped as well. He poured two glasses of brandy, one a little smaller than the other, and handed one to Sylvie.

Keywords: Come..., Ch., Things, 11, All,