The Waiter part3

[Leslie]

The Waiter part3

She was delightful! Young, good looking. Oh, more than good looking! Amusing and quite clearly genuinely liked him. How had he met her? That question was still puzzling him when he woke up.

Opening his eyes and seeing the familiar room confirmed immediately that the experience and the girl had been nothing but a dream. He wondered about it for quite a while andsort? He wasn’t into that kind of thing, but ‘third time lucky’ wouldn’t get out of his mind.

First time, second time, third time, looked like it was all a gamble any way. Michael decided that his great search for romance was worth another throw. How to choose adventure number three? What else but gamble?
He spread the ‘Women seeking Men’ page of the Lonely Hearts section on the table, picked up a ball-point pen, closed his eyes, gyrated the pen above the page and stabbed at random.
‘Attractive, tall, 30yr, working girl, loner, ns. interested china, travel, seeks similar for quiet times together.’
This had to be Fate at work! She sounded just right for him – a tall loner, could describe Michael himself. He didn’t know much about china. He’d seen the experts on television programmes handling jugs and dishes and things, reading markings and telling who had made the stuff and how much it was worth. He’d have to do a bit of quick reading-up. He hadn’t travelled much either, a couple of visits to France to sample their cuisine; business trips he called them. It would be different going to foreign places with a girl-friend! He began to feel enthusiastic about the idea.

A couple of letters and photographs were exchanged. If the picture were genuine, the face certainly was attractive. Michael found himself having sneaking suspicions that there must be something else amiss for her not already to have men friends. But then, his own photo showed that his features were quite handsome, so she might have the same kind of doubts.
A meeting was arranged. Another evening meal. Michael lacked the confidence for a situation where everything would depend on chat; eating provided punctuation and, importantly for his analysis, gave him the chance to study her cutlery technique.
Their rendezvous was the ‘Shanghai Select’ specializing, naturally, in Chinese foods. It was the choice of contact number three, who gave her name as Fran, ‘Francesca in full, but no-one calls me that’.
She was no disappointment; her photograph had not lied and the rest of the body that had not been in the photograph matched the perfection of her face. Seeing the whole of her for the first time raised the doubts in him again. Tall she was, within an inch of himself, as feminine a figure as could be designed, that perfect face framed by polished brown hair cut short but expertly shaped. Why did some-one this desirable need to advertise for dates? He persuaded himself that it was because she was a loner, that the kind of guys who no doubt tried to get close were just the sort whose company she would not enjoy. But he was a loner, so very likely they would be a good pair.
Chinese chow was not on the menu at ‘The Silver Spoon’ and Michael was willing to admit that he knew little about it. He played safe and ordered Chicken Chow Mein; Fran chose the same, whether out of consideration for Michael or simply because she liked it, he did not know.
They sipped drinks, waiting for the food to arrive, Michael desperately trying to think of something intelligent to say. He remembered the interest in china, a subject on which he had frantically researched in the past few days days.
“What sort of china do you collect?” was his opening gambit. “Anything as special as Meissen?”
Fran smiled and gave a little laugh. It was kind, not mocking.
“I don’t collect china at all. That was a printing mistake in the paper; it should have been China with a capital C. The name of the country. It’s the country of China that I’m interested in.”
A bad start. Michael felt foolish but hoped he didn’t show it too much, covering his embarrassment with a smile and an effort to copy her little laugh. Inwardly he cursed the type-setter for all that wasted effort in learning about china-ware and making him look stupid. What to say? He must move on.
“Seems an odd interest. What’s special about China?” Sounded a bit dumb. He needed to show that he knew something about China, “ ’cept it’s a very big place and has a long wall,” trying to make a joke of it. Still pretty dumb.

That friendly little laugh again, “It’s certainly big. But it is a bit special. It has such a history.”
Michael saw the beautiful face alter, a glow seemed to light it up, the eyes definitely sparkled. Enthusiasm flowed from her and hit him, enveloping him like a warm, incoming tide.
“ Chinese civilization was way ahead of The West. We were still pretty ignorant when they were a highly organized society. Some of the things we Europeans think we invented were being used by the Chinese years before, sometimes centuries before.”
He felt he must respond, knew it would be a good move, “ Yes. They had gun-powder long before us, didn’t they?” Having said it, he wondered whether it sounded sarcastic.
She didn’t appear to take the remark badly, “Yes they did, and they developed the technology to use it cleverly. They even used it in rockets, I mean centuries ago! Not Space rockets of course. I’m afraid they used them in war. But war always pushes invention along, doesn’t it.”

Michael hadn’t really given much philosophical consideration to the effect of war on technical advances, but he was very willing to agree with anything this lovely, enthusiast said.
“Yes, I guess you’re right about that,” he nodded and realized it would be smart to encourage this enthusiasm. “What else did they invent, then?”

“Well, printing is a good example,” Fran offered, smiled again and added with a comical little twist of the lips, “and that’s a peaceful enough occupation, don’t you think? “
She told him about the use of wood-blocks and the development of moveable type, which Gutenberg thought he invented, but had been beaten to it by the Chinese. Along with printing there was paper-making and there was navigation and mathematics and, of course the building of the Great Wall.
A sudden shot of inspiration hit Michael, “There’s that Terra Cotta Army. Wonderful that, isn’t it. I read an article about it a couple of weeks ago; there were pictures.”

Fran nodded happily. “Yes, what an amazing creation. Imagine the work that went into making all those figures. The standard is incredibly high: the faces, the clothing with all the attachments. I did see a small exhibition in the city. Did you see it? “
Michael had to admit that he had not.
Fran shook her head, more to do with herself than Michael’s failure, “ It was only a very small exhibition. How I’d love to get to China and see the real thing. It’s huge, truly unique. I save every penny I can, building a fund, I’m going to get there one day. I look at maps, read history books, dream about it.”
The dream was reflected in the expression on her face and a far-away look in the eyes. She told him of other triumphs of the ancient Chinese and Michael listened with increasing interest, beginning to share her enthusiasm, having visions of the two of them exploring the ancient wonders, walking the Great Wall hand in hand.
The arrival of food interrupted her. Chow Mein was not among Michael’s usual choices, but the aroma from this dish was distinctly appetizing and he prepared to get busy eating. During his contemplatory pause Fran picked up the chop-sticks that had been delivered with the dish and, manipulating them with practiced skill, began to feed. Michael’s moment of contemplation was erased by the realization that Fran was not going to be handling knife and fork, so there would be no application of his theory of cutlery. Added to that was the fact that he too was expected to use chop- sticks, an art in which he was not particularly accomplished, but he made the effort and Fran good humouredly encouraged him.
Between mouthfuls, not while chewing Michael was relieved to observe, she made conversation.
“I guess ‘The Silver Spoon’ doesn’t go in for Chinese dishes.”
“No. Plenty of European dishes, French, Italian, Greek, all sorts.”
He had decided from the start of this relationship to be open about his work, not to pretend to be something he was not.”
“How many waiters are there?” She continued.
“In the evenings, four of us.”
Fran distinctly paused the eating process and looked very directly at him, “Will you tell them about me?”
Michael’s back straightened in upright resolve, his hands, complete with chop-sticks, pressed against the table-cloth, he returned her direct gaze and answered,
“Absolutely not! They’re a grubby-minded lot. They’d only make crude, sexual remarks.”
She nodded, “I’d rather we kept things to ourselves for now. I really think we get along well, but we need to know more about each other yet.”
And Michael nodded, “So you won’t be telling people about me, either?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you work with many people? Records department of City Central Hospital must be quite big.”
She nodded again whilst chewing a chunk of chicken, swallowed it and answered,
“It certainly is. Think of the thousands of patients we deal with.”
“Are you medically trained, then?”
“Not like a doctor or a nurse. But we know lots of medical terms and what goes on in the wards and the theatres. It’s very interesting. I do look at the records more than I should; it’s fascinating what can be done to the human body. Not that I’d ever mention any patient by name.”

The last of the chicken went the way of all cooked flesh, dishes and chop-sticks were removed and sweet ordered. Conversation returned to the wonders of China. Michael realized that he was truly interested and began to ask questions seeking for more information. Fran responded happily.
Yin Yang Raspberry and Mandarin Tart was delivered. Fran had ordered it, Michael admitting that it was unknown territory as far as he was concerned. She took up spoon and fork to deal with this course. He was so absorbed in the subject of China that at first he did not notice the opportunity for the application of his theory; when he did, it almost seemed irrelevant because Fran had become so attractive to him. Observing the way the utensils balanced in her long, slim fingers, the artistic skill with which she manipulated them gave him no surprise; it was what he would have expected of her, it was what would have come naturally to someone so beautiful in body and character.
They lingered over coffee, both seeming reluctant to end the time together. When they eventually separated it was with agreement that they were going to meet again; Fran promised that she would phone him to make arrangements.

Michael was true to his promise to say nothing about his love-life to the other waiters, though they suspected something, noting his unusually cheerful demeanor.
“Reckon Virge has got his end away at last,” was the analysis, “we might have to change his name.”
‘Virge’ was waiting impatiently for a phone call.
When it came, the arrangement was for him to wait outside of a well-known store at eight in the evening on his night off. Fran would not tell him what else she had arranged, only that it was to be a surprise.
Eight in the evening was dark and cold, the store and neighbouring establishments were closed and no-one was about. Michael turned up the collar of his top-coat and stamped his feet to keep them warm. A few minutes after eight a car stopped beside him, the electrically operated window wound down and Fran called, “Get in, Michael.”
She drove through the city streets, out of the city and a couple of miles into the countryside. The headlights showed up hedges on both sides of the narrowing roads. Fran steered the car through a gateway onto a gravel drive, the headlight beams swung across a substantial farmhouse that stood in darkness.
Michael suddenly thought of his very modest bachelor pad. “Is this where you live?” he asked fearfully.
She took the car around to the back of the house. “No. I’m house-sitting. The place belongs to an uncle. He and my aunt are on a cruise around the Mediterranean for a month.”
The building was old but the inside was well equipped in modern style; a heating system hummed somewhere. She led him through to a luxuriously furnished lounge, poured him a whisky from a selection on a side-table, poured a sherry for herself and settled into a large armchair. Michael sat in a similar chair facing her. Normally he drank little alcohol and rarely whisky, but he did not wish to seem a whimp so sank the measure like a man. Unfortunately for him, Fran promptly replenished the glass. He sipped it slowly, wondering why Fran was watching him, hoping she was not expecting him to sink this one as quickly as the first.
She gave what he thought to be a naughty smile and said, “This is cosy, don’t you think? I wish I lived here all the time.”
“It certainly is. Must cost a bomb to heat.” As soon as he’d said it Michael realized it was a pathetic remark and completely out of harmony with the situation.
Fran seemed not to notice. “It’s as if we’ve left the world behind, moved out onto another planet.”
Michael’s imagination had not caught up, but he said, “Yes. Seems remote.”
“Did you tell anyone we were meeting tonight?”
“No. I’ve not said anything to anyone,” the whisky was beginning to fire his brain. “Our romance being a secret makes it really exciting. No-one knows anything about us.”
“Good,” Fran exclaimed. She gave him the smile again that he thought of as naughty. “Have you ever shared a shower with some-one?”
Michael gulped on a sip of whisky, swallowed and replied, “Not since school days after a games lesson.”
She laughed and said, “Well let’s renew the experience. Come on. Get undressed.”
Standing, she pulled the loose jumper she was wearing up and over her head. Michael saw the blouse tighten over the line of her breasts. He was still sitting open-mouthed as she dropped the jumper on the floor. She laughed at him and ordered, “Up you get and take those clothes off.”

It was totally out of Michael’s experience, but he obeyed, in a mixture of embarrassment, reluctance and eagerness.
She was naked while he was still undressing, having problems working tight-fitting underpants over a dramatically enlarged penis. But then he too was naked and they stood face to face only a couple of feet apart. He had never been in such a situation before. He looked at the ice-cream mounds of her breasts tipped with cherries; he longed to touch them but did not dare; he did not have permission. Pictures of nude women in magazines had inspired all sorts of fantasies for him in the past but now, the real thing within reach, he was paralyzed.
It was Fran who made the move. She came close, very close, running fingertips over his skin, her eyes following the trail of her fingers as if inspecting his body, over his chest, his abdomen, his thighs, down his legs to his feet. Michael felt himself shiver and knew it was not because he was cold. When she had trailed fingers all over the front of him, Fran carried out the same delicious process around his back. This completed, she came around to face him again.

“Follow me!” Fran commanded, leaving him little option as she took hold of his rigid member, using it like a tiller to steer him in her wake along a passage and through a doorway. She clicked a switch and lamps sunk into the ceiling lit up the room. It was not large, evidently something of the old building, but the walls were part-tiled, the floor surfaced so that it sloped gently to a corner drain. A variety of shower-heads projected from the ceiling and a couple of the walls.
“This is my uncle’s wet room. It’s great fun,” Fran was getting excited. “Put your hands out.”
Michael did. Fran took handcuffs from a shelf and snapped them on his wrists. A thin nylon rope was threaded through an old iron ring secured to an original ceiling beam, she tied it to the link of the handcuffs and hoisted his hands above his head.
“I want you to stand on tip-toes,” she told him. Obediently he did. She pulled the rope tight and lashed it to another ring set in a wall.
Michael quickly became uncomfortable and began to wonder where the fun came into this game, already he and his penis were beginning to wilt.

Fran looked his naked body up and down; under the conditions it did not arouse him.
From a cabinet next to the shelf she took a plastic envelope; from it she extracted a scalpel. The perfect slim stainless steel instrument danced in her fingers, reflecting flashes of light as various lamps caught its motion. The delicate skill that Michael had admired accompanying the Ying Yang and Raspberry brought him nothing but apprehension now.

Fran smiled, “The Chinese had a method of execution known as ‘Death by a Thousand Cuts’. Some people think that pieces were cut from the victims body, others think that the punishment consisted purely of cuts. They must have been small cuts, mustn’t they?”
If she expected an answer from Michael she was disappointed.
“For me,” she went on, “it’s a bit of a puzzle: could you really put a thousand cuts on someone, and wouldn’t the first cuts have stopped bleeding before you got to a thousand? I don’t see how a person could have bled to death, even from a thousand small cuts.”

She turned to the cabinet again, this time she took out a small click-counter,
“I shall keep the score on this,” she told him.

The full realization having dawned, Michael began to shout pleas and protests. He struggled, but suspended on tip-toes as he was it was quite ineffectual.

“Do shout if you want to, Michael. No one will hear you,” Fran said comfortingly. “Now, where shall I begin?”

[barrie]

Very entertaining trilogy, Leslie.
Francesca's clinical, but Cynthia's still my favourite.

Barrie