Chapter One

An Incident In The Supermarket

It all started, innocently enough, in a local supermarket when two shopping trolleys crashed.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! That was careless of me; here, let me pick up your supplies!”

Sappho was cruising the aisles when the collision occurred; she’d stopped to check a row when the top layer of her packages started rolling around her feet and, as she turned, she saw an elegant, ebony-coloured, fellow looking straight into her eyes.

“Look, I just wasn’t watching where I was going and I’d be happy to pay for your groceries into the bargain. Anyway, let’s get this stuff back in and we can take it from there.”

Sappho hadn’t responded; she just stood there, looking chic, calmly letting him talk himself out, and then, all of a sudden, she opened her lips, flashed her teeth and smiled; “Ok, you great big clumsy oaf, you can pack it and then you can pay for it!”

She carried on smiling, which helped her suitor to break into a grin, then he introduced himself; “Ma’am, I’m Jackson and I shop here every now and then. I’m hosting a dinner party tonight and need a few things.”

“Oh, you cook, too?”

“Well, I can cook but this is a special occasion so I’ve arranged for Caterers to do the job; all I’m doing is backing up my stores to make sure there’s something in there for tomorrow.”

“You know, I’m so pleased to hear that because the way you drive your trolley makes me wonder how you’d tackle anything in the kitchen!”

Sappho still hadn’t moved; she’d straightened-up, turned on the spot and was facing him, almost front-on, but her poise matched his. She was wearing a heavy cotton, loose-fitting white blouse, a few buttons open at the neck, the collar half turned-up at the back; the sleeves were billowing, buttoned at the cuff and the whole lot was tucked under a broad leather belt into a below-the-knee red pencil skirt.

She wore red, high-heeled shoes and flesh-coloured hold-ups accompanied by simple jewellery; a signet ring, hoop-earrings, a watch, bracelet and a thin gold chain around her neck. Sappho’s hair is auburn, heavy, shoulder-length and the delicate perfume surrounding her was already catching Jackson’s nostrils. As he scanned her face he picked out her subtle eye-make up, the ruby lipstick and knew he was on his way to heaven.

What he couldn’t know was that Sappho never wore underwear. Since her initiation she’d abandoned bras and panties and maintained a depilated pubic mound. Now, the camel’s foot in that mound was secreting moisture and Sappho knew that she, too, was hooked.

So, an erotic connection had been made and the delicate process of courtship was begun.

Jackson, at over six feet tall and built like a track-athlete, was a businessman dressed in a single-breasted, dark blue suit with a tiny pattern in the weave. He wore tassel-loafers, a classic cut, plain white, herring-bone patterned cotton shirt with a yellow silk tie. No rings; just gold cuff-links, tie-clip and a slim Rolex. His cheek bones and his fragrance were prominent, his nose was aquiline, his mouth was full but his lips were thin and contained in a square jaw. Like his chin, his head was shaved and, as Sappho would soon discover, his balls were as bald as his bonce.

For what seemed like an age the players stood looking at each other: neither was staring nor feeling any embarrassment; they were just exuding all the signs of an easy comfort and then Jackson broke it.

He knelt down, started gathering Sappho’s groceries and re-stacking her basket and then, just as the last items were lodged, Sappho leaned forward, placed her finger on his bald head and said, “Arise, Sir Jackson, and take your place in the checkout!”

“Ma’am, you are something else! And, even though you’ve never told me who you are, I have a feeling you’re a celebrity; have I seen you on television, in the newspapers or, maybe, at a Gallery or Museum?”

“Well, I’m not sure about the term ‘celebrity’ but I’m a Specialist at the City Gallery of Art, Fine Arts and Culture. Do you ever go there?”

“Yes, Ma’am, my Bank is a Sponsor and those soirees are a gig-and-a-half. What’re your interests?”

“I do Impressionist stuff and, every-now-and-then, there’s a Panel Event where major, potential clients come along to a preview and we give talks; history, genre, positive critiques, all that kind of thing. Sometimes we include a compare-and-contrast discussion about similar works. So, you’re a Banker? Investment, I presume?”

“Yes, Ma’am; I’m a Banker and that first letter is a ‘B’!”

They both understood the connotation and their smiles gave way to an audible chuckle before Jackson wheeled his own trolley in the direction of the checkout and Sappho followed.

“Please take payment for both of these loads and I’ll settle the lot.”

Sappho’s came to over $200 and his to a meagre $80; so, en route to the car, she reflected on how good fortune had smiled on her.

“Where’re you parked?”

“Mine’s the black Range Rover; it’s the Vogue on the next row; what’re you driving? A Porsche, I bet?”

“No, Ma’am, it’s a Ferrari; no need to tell you the colour and, as it happens, it’s right there, almost alongside yours!”

When they got there, Jackson hesitated before saying; “Look, Ma’am, you’re a lot of fun and, as well as still not knowing your name, grovelling at your feet, paying for your groceries, and escorting you to your car will you accept my invitation to lunch?”

“Yes, and my name is Sappho!”

“Sappho? Are you Greek?”

“Yes, right again. I’m of Greek descent; my parents emigrated here and my husband is from an immigrant family, too; European but not Greek.”

“Oh, you’re married?”

“Yes, and I have two children; two sons who’re about to fly the nest back to Boarding School.”

“Oh, ok; but you’re not wearing a Wedding Band!”

“No, I’m not but I’m not wearing a bra or panties either. Do you still want to have lunch?”

Jackson was a bit taken-aback at this but, gathering himself, shot back; “Sure; why not?”

So they made arrangements to meet at a downtown hotel the following week. Sappho explained that she’d make her own way there and that he should be in the lobby to receive her.

No problem and, between now and then, Jackson’s mind was awash with thoughts about this magnificent woman.

When the day dawned and his date walked into the lobby it was not only Jackson whose head was turned and whose attention shifted to Sappho. She has this affect on everyone everywhere she goes and this date, in her home town, was no exception.

What they saw was a tall, slim woman dressed in a navy blue, silk mini-dress gliding across the floor; she carried a navy leather clutch bag; her high-heeled shoes matching the soft leather: her stockings were flesh-coloured hold ups. The dress was close fitting, slashed to her waist, with tiny, over-the-shoulder sleeves; in the canyon lay a heavy gold necklace adorned with lapis-lazuli. Sappho’s earrings were large, gold hoops, similar to the ones she wore on their first encounter, and her hair, wafting over her neck, supported a pair of sunglasses nestling on top.

“Good morning, Sappho.”

“Hey, Jackson, you look good, how was your dinner party?”

“It was a big hit; we closed out pretty well but, hey, I’m all the better for seeing you: shall we go straight to the table or the cocktail bar?”

“Let’s go to the bar; a gin and tonic will go down great!”

Jackson led the way and, turning to the barman; “Two Bombay Sapphires with Schweppes tonic, please.”

“Ok, I’ll have two of those!” said Sappho with a smile.

After a moment’s confusion on both sides of the counter each guy saw the twinkle in her eyes and caught the gist; it broke the ice and, from then on, everyone was at ease.

It turned out that Jackson was an Ivy Leaguer, graduating magna cum laude; the Regional President of a Wall Street Bank; he was single, had never been married, didn’t have any children and, with bonuses, netted well-over $50m a year. So, whereas the grocery bill was of no material consequence, that small investment had the potential to land a big return.

The conversation over the table was easy; nothing flirtatious, nothing salacious and nothing intrusive because both were big-time players in social etiquette: they knew that business is done on the back of relationships and that relationships are founded on trust: so they were spending their time investing in the foundations.

Even so, both ate heartily, drank plenty of sparkling mineral water and shared a well-chilled bottle of Sancerre before their eyes settled into an over-long gaze that bored into the depths of one another’s soul.

“Sappho, I want you!” emerged from Jackson’s throat.

“I know, Jackson, and you’re a very handsome guy; but let me share something with you: I’m a married woman, I have two sons and I’m the fully-fledged mistress to an Englishman. It was that guy who initiated me and I love him more than I’ve ever loved any man, before or since. Right now, we’re apart because I need the space or he’d just consume me; but I miss him and still can’t get enough of him.

“The fact is his intervention has left me addicted to cock!”

“Oh, God,” mouthed Jackson, “you’re beautiful: has he shared you?”

“Yes, he has but he’s never used me or abused me; that guy knows how to respect a woman and he’s made me one. He’s my only extra-marital liaison and the only times I’ve been with another man were with him. He’s a leader and I’d go anywhere and do anything for him; except for now: I need time and exposure to settle my mind, my soul and my emotions because, sexually, my husband just isn’t there for me, anymore.”

“Sappho, I may not be able to match your master but I’ll never use you or abuse you; you’re just too valuable, too beautiful and so wise.”

“Jackson, you don’t get it: I want to be used and I want to be abused but I don’t want to be debased. I need to see if I can live without Jonathan; I’ve grown so much under his mentoring that I need to know if his hold on me is limiting or whether it’s empowering.

“If we start something I want you to feel free to ‘go-to-town’ on me; I don’t want you to hold back or harbour any inhibitions. You have to forget about Jonathan and his influence. Is that understood?”

They’d had a long lunch and the dining room was already cleared but, since Jackson was a big, and a regular, customer, no one ushered him away and the staff, sensing something very private was going on, were busying themselves somewhere else. It was at this point he stretched out his black hand, slipped it inside the fabric of Sappho’s dress, cupped her white tit and squeezed the nipple.

Sappho barely moved but her green eyes shifted to his dark brown irises and held them. Jackson increased the pressure but she didn’t demur. Eventually, he let go and said, simply, “Sappho, I can hurt you!”

“Do it!”

“Look, it’s Friday afternoon; I live around the corner and there’s no way I’m going back to the office: are you free?”

“C’mon, Sir Jackson, saddle me up; I’m your mount today!”