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Seven Women

by SamScribble 03/13/18

When Jamie moved to London, he was just 20.

After two years of working in the advertising department of a West Country regional newspaper, Jamie had managed to build up a portfolio of work that was good enough to convince the powers that be at Mackenzie-Marshall that he was worth a punt.

He had also been lucky enough to find a small, furnished one-bedroom flat just off Baker Street. The flat was handy to Baker Street Tube station and just a short walk to the Paddington mainline station, 'gateway to the West' and his old home county of Dorset.

The flat came with a telephone, but the agent warned Jamie that it would probably take three or four weeks to get it connected. 'The bastards'll get around to it when they get around to it,' the agent said. 'Bastards.' So it was something of a surprise when Jamie arrived home on his first Thursday evening in London to the sound of the telephone ringing.


'Hi. It's me. Jennifer.'

Jennifer was a sort of friend of Jamie's mother. A young friend of Jamie's mother. Well, she was young compared to Jamie's mother. But she was almost middle-aged compared to Jamie. Jennifer was a born and bred Londoner who had moved out West to marry Howard. (Howard worked for Jamie's father.) But the marriage hadn't worked out, and so Jennifer had moved back to London where she was helping her father to run his import-export business.

'How are you?' Jennifer asked. 'How's the new flat? More importantly, how's the new job?'

'Umm ... yeah ... so far, everything is just great,' Jamie told her. 'Couldn't be better.'

'I'm pleased to hear it,' Jennifer said. 'I wondered if you might like a visitor.'

'A visitor? Oh! You? Yes. That'd be brilliant,' Jamie said. 'Yes. Brilliant.'

'When's a good time?'

'Any time really.'

'You choose,' she said.

'Umm ... why don't you come over for supper on Saturday?'

'OK,' Jennifer said. 'Saturday it is. I'll bring some food.'

'It's OK. I'll make some lasagne. I'm quite good at making lasagne. At least I think I'm quite good at making lasagne. But then I suppose that I would, wouldn't I?'

Jennifer laughed. 'OK. I'll bring some wine and maybe something for afters,' she said.

It was a couple of years since Jamie had seen Jennifer. When she arrived at the flat on Saturday night, she was looking fabulous. There was something different about her. Jamie couldn't decide exactly what. But there was definitely something. Perhaps it was just that Jamie was now a bit older. When Jamie had been 15 and Jennifer had been 29, she had been almost twice his age. Now that Jamie was 20, going on 21, the age difference didn't seem so great.

Jamie's lasagne would have made an Italian nonna proud. And the macerated mixed berries that Jennifer brought for afters, was just the right combination of sweetness and sharpness. And then there was the wine that she brought: a deliciously smooth and tasty Cotes du Rhone. 'We should do this more often,' Jennifer said with a broad smile.

Jamie thought that they should do it more often too. He wasn't quite sure how they got from the living room to the bedroom, but he did nothing to resist it. And then they must have both fallen asleep. One minute they were on the bed, cuddling and kissing, and, the next, Jennifer was trying to disentangle herself from Jamie.

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'It must have been the wine.'

'Umm ... yes. I guess so,' Jamie said.

'Look, I should be going,' Jennifer said. 'It's late.' And she kissed him again -- perhaps not passionately, but certainly with more than a little affection.

After Jennifer had gone, Jamie stroked up a serious stiffy and masturbated to the thought of what might, perhaps, have been.

When Jamie arrived home on Monday night, there was a postcard on the doormat. It was a black and white photograph of the interior of a French café. Jamie briefly studied the diners, half expecting to see Earnest Hemmingway or Henry Miller. On the back of the postcard, there was a message.

Thank you for a lovely evening. Perhaps if you are not too busy the weekend after next, we could try something French. My treat. J xxx

Early on the Saturday morning, Jennifer and Jamie took the train to Dover, where they boarded a ferry for Calais. From there they took another train to Paris. Jennifer had booked a room in a small hotel just around the corner from the Gare du Nord.

'We have a table booked for seven-thirty,' she said. 'And the restaurant is only a 15-minute walk from here. That leaves us a couple of hours in which to do something else. Is there anything that you would particularly like to do?' she asked. And, perhaps as a clue of what she would particularly like to do, she started to undress.

Years later, Jamie could still clearly remember that first time. He remembered how she had gently pushed him onto his back; how she had straddled him; and how her womanly cunt -- which was so much sexier than anything that he had ever seen in a magazine -- had practically sucked his stiff young cock into her. And then later, after a thoroughly enjoyable supper, Jamie had his first doggy-style fuck with Jennifer kneeling on the edge of the bed. In the morning, they fucked again, missionary style. That was to be their last time. Well, it was to be their last time for a while.

'No regrets,' Jennifer said, as they travelled through the Kent countryside on their way back to London. 'I'm glad that we did it. I really am. It was ... well ... it was perfect. But, on reflection, I think that it might now be fairer if I left you to find someone closer to your own age. Oh ... and if you are talking to your mother, it's probably not a good idea to mention that we were in Paris together.' And she laughed gently.

Funnily enough, when Jamie went back to Dorset to spend a few days with his parents at Christmas, Jennifer was one of the first people that his mother mentioned. 'We had a Christmas card from her. She said that she had seen you.'

'Oh. Right,' Jamie said. 'Yes. She came to supper. I made lasagne.'

'Oh, nice,' his mother said.

'Yes, it was,' Jamie said, not quite sure whether his mother was referring to the lasagne or fact that Jennifer had been to visit. 'It was very nice. Very nice indeed.'

'What a shame that it didn't work out with Howard,' Jamie's mother said.

When Jamie returned to Mackenzie-Marshall after the Christmas break, there was a new face -- and a rather attractive face at that -- on the reception desk. 'Hello,' he said. 'I'm Jamie. I'm one of the copywriters.'

'I'm Louise,' the new girl said. 'I'm just filling in. Diana slipped on the ice and sprained her ankle.'

'Oh. Right.'

As Jamie headed for the office the following morning, he was in half a mind to invite the new girl -- Louise? -- was that her name? -- for a drink after work. But then, when he walked into reception, Diana was there. 'Oh, you're back,' Jamie said. 'How's your ankle?'

'I got bored,' Diana said.

Jamie had just turned 21 when he met Christina. It was at a cocktail party to celebrate the launch of Designing Minds. 'Come and have a free glass of fizz and meet some people,' Dom Blazer had said. Dom was one of the media buyers at Mackenzie-Marshall. He was only a couple of years older than Jamie but he could sniff out a good party from half a county away.

Christina was a feature writer for one of the other Johnson Group publications: a trade magazine targeting the health and beauty sector. 'Feature writer?' Jamie said, looking at her name tag. 'Gosh. You look awfully young to be a feature writer.'

'Thank you,' she said. 'I'll take that as a compliment.'

'Umm ... well ... yes,' Jamie said.

The second time that Jamie saw Christina she was standing outside the entrance to the Bond Street Tube station. 'The green geese are flying west tonight,' Jamie said, in what he hoped was a suitably-conspiratorial tone.

It took Christina a moment or two to remember who he was. 'Oh? The green geese? West? Really? Well ....' She shrugged her shoulders. 'If you say so. But I thought that you were supposed to be carrying a copy of The New York Times and wearing a blue carnation in your buttonhole,' she said.

'Oh? Was I? I didn't realise. But you may be right,' Jamie said. 'The instructions were a little vague. It's so hard to get good spy masters these days. Perhaps I could buy you a cup of coffee and we could discuss the matter further. You know ... see if we can come up with some sort of a solution.'

Christina smiled. 'I can't just now,' she said. 'Right now, I'm on my way to interview a famous hairdresser. But maybe later. I don't know ... seven o'clock perhaps? Something like that?'

They agreed to meet up for a glass of something at The Spread Eagle (known locally as 'The Scruffy Chicken').

'How was your famous hairdresser?' Jamie asked.

'Weird. I certainly wouldn't let him loose on my hair. Or any other part of me, for that matter.'

'No? So what makes him famous?'

'I get the feeling that he's more famous for his parties than anything else,' Christina said. 'He knows everyone. Apparently. The Stones. The Bee Gees. ELO. Boney M. All the top models. All the star photographers. Also ... I suspect that he makes more money from dealing drugs than he does from styling hair.'

'Oh? Why? Did he try to sell you something?' Jamie asked.

'No. But he didn't make any secret of the fact that he could get whatever I might want.'

Jamie smiled. 'And what do you want?'

'Another rum and Coke might be nice,' Christina said. 'But I'll get it. What about you? Same again?'

Jamie looked at his empty glass. 'Umm ...? Yes. Thank you.'

'Look ... just so that we understand each other,' Christina said when she returned with the drinks, 'I don't go to bed on the first date.'

'Fair enough,' Jamie said. 'Although this is not really a date, is it? We're just having a drink.'

Christina frowned. 'Umm. I suppose so. You could look at it like that. Yes.'

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