Chapter 14: A New Billet

A closely observed, and obeyed, order at MilSys was all mobile phones had to be switched off when on site, which didn't bother me as so few people knew my number I received no calls. However, when I reached my digs I switched the mobile on to order a pizza, and saw I had a text message from a Mr. Burlington. I remembered he was the father-in-law of Billy Turner, the Grenadier Guardsman who saved my life in Afghanistan, and that Mr. Burlington was the concierge/commissionaire of an of apartment block in Iver, a few miles from West Drayton. His message informed me a representative of the firm responsible for letting /selling the apartments would be on site at Bourne Mansions next Saturday at 10am, and would be available to show me around one of the flats for let/sale. I rang straight back and arranged a viewing on Saturday at 10.30,

I arrived in Iver with time to spare. I did a recce around the neighbourhood and liked what I saw. The mansions themselves were 1930s built serviced luxury apartments. No servants now of course, and their former quarters had been converted into an underground car park. The apartments overlooked a large park, and nearby was a bustling street market. I noted several likely looking hostelries and restaurants in the surrounding streets. Another plus was the railway station on the main line into central London. The nearby flight path into Heathrow airport could be regarded a drawback, but months of living in West Drayton had inured me to the sound of aircraft landing and taking off throughout the day, and most of the night.

Mr. Burlington was the archetypical Guardsman SNCO: 6 feet 3 inches tall, built like a brick shit house, and as erect as a Scots Pine. He shook my hand warmly as we met.

"Billy has told me all about you, and it is a pleasure to finally have the honour."

He led me into his office, where he introduced me to a rather severe looking female in her mid-forties. She was of medium build, with a trim figure, fair hair worn up in a braid, frameless glasses, well defined cheek bones, a hint of an overbite, and she reminded me of a porn actress from the 80's, whose name I can't recall but played 'Aunt Peg' in a cock film I saw when I first joined 3 RGJ.

Her Navy blue blazer type jacket, with those white edgings as favoured by Mrs. Thatcher, matched with a mid-length, cream coloured, pleated skirt, showed she had style, and money. Her name was Mrs. Stephanie Bowley.

While Mr. Burlington was making the introductions Mrs. Bowley had crossed her legs, and the hem of her skirt fell back to reveal quite a length of shapely leg.

She saw me staring, and hurriedly pulled the skirt back down over her knees, shooting me a look of utter contempt. I felt as if I had been caught trying to peer up the late Queen Mum's kilt.

"There is a one bedroom flat on the second floor, if you would like to view," she said, in a soft, mellifluous voice, not quite what I expected given her rather frosty appearance.

"Shall I get the key for the two bedroomed apartment on the third floor as well?" Mr. Burlington said.

"No need, Mister Burlington, the client hasn't completed yet so technically it is not on the market," she said rising from her chair. Mr. Burlington appeared puzzled, but said no more as Mrs. Bowley and I left the room and entered the lift. We rode up to the second floor in silence, and walked along a carpeted corridor to the door of the vacant flat, which she unlocked.

She gave me a guided tour of the apartment, pointing out the facilities. A large and airy main room, which overlooked the park from a wrought iron railed balcony. The bedroom, with en-suite toilet, bath and shower, appeared large enough to take a King sized bed with room to spare. The kitchen, square shaped and good sized, was well fitted out with the usual equipment.

"I expect your wife will need to see the kitchen before you can decide?" She said.

I told her I was divorced. Not strictly true, but it was in hand. She said nothing, but I imagined she thought 'not surprising, you being such a pervert'.

We returned to the office. Mr. Burlington was off about his duties, and Mrs. Bowley started taking my details. She explained her employers, a firm of solicitors, were the Trustees who administered the apartments.

The selling prices and rental rates of the flats were well below the market price but so were the buying prices. A philanthropic factory owner in the 1930's had the apartments built to house his senior managers, and had since specified only residents of the borough could rent or buy. The prices were kept stable by a covenant which stipulated apartments could only be bought and sold via the Trustees. The desirability of these apartments was such there was a waiting list of prospective tenants and buyers, and extensive enquiries were made of those who expressed an interest in obtaining one of the apartments.

It was obvious, from Mrs. Bowley's air of disdain, that even if my details were found to be squeaky clean I was not the sort of person who would fit in at Bourne Mansions.

The lengthy, and quite intrusive, questions she asked were designed to "keep those who were not the right sort, or time wasters, away" she explained, obviously thinking I would discontinue the procedure rather than face further interrogation. She had asked such germane questions of a person seeking a home as; 'where had I gone to school'— and gave a sniff of scorn when she heard the name of my alma mater — my bank details, and the amount of cash in both saving and current accounts, my date of birth — when I told her she said, "You don't look your age." I didn't know if meant as a compliment or not. When asked my occupation I replied, 'Trainee Analyst/ Programmer, 'and she then asked what my career had been before.

"I've just come out of the army," I said, and it was if I had uttered the magic word 'Open Sesame'.

She smiled a warm smile, took off her glasses – her eyes were a brilliant cobalt blue – and said in a most friendly tone, "Mister Burlington didn't tell me you were ex-Army. What regiment were you in?"

My reply of 'The Green Jackets' practically sent her into raptures.

"My family have been associated with the regiment for centuries, starting with the Ninety Fifth Rifles and The Rifle Brigade."

I explained that my original battalion, 3RGJ, was the direct descendant of the Rifle Brigade.

She rattled off a list of names of people she knew in the regiment. Several I had heard of, former Colonels and such, but one name made me exclaim.

"Harry Ledbetter! I know him, in fact he got me my present job."

Mrs. Bowley creased her forehead in thought. "Desmond ... hmm, now where have I heard that name before?" The light suddenly dawned, and she got to her feet and stretched out her hand.

"Of course. David, Dewey, Desmond, who gained the Military Medal for saving Harry Ledbetter's life in the Falklands. It is an honour to shake your hand."

Her hand was soft and cool, and I think she hung on to mine a bit longer than most handshakes.

"You must forgive my early behaviour, my office informed me a drug dealer, or some such low life, was coming to view. I didn't appreciate a criminal leering at my legs, but to have them ogled by a man decorated for bravery is a privilege."

I didn't think I leered or ogled her legs, merely snatched an appreciative glance, but I wasn't going to argue with her.

"Look," she continued, "I live in a two bedroom apartment in a block of flats exactly like Bourne Mansions. Both were built the same time, using the same building plan, and are managed by the same Trustees. Why not come over and view, so you will be able to decide which sort of apartment will suit you best. I only live about eight miles away, in Datchet."

I had nothing better to do, and she obviously wanted to make amends for her frosty reception earlier, so I agreed. She gave me a warm smile as we rode down to the underground car park in the lift. Mrs. Bowley – 'Oh, please call me Steph, all my friends do' – stood thigh to thigh with me, and somehow managed to let her fingers brush against my crotch as we left the lift.

In the car park she indicated a canvas topped E Type Jaguar, finished in British Racing Green. "My father left me this; it's my pride and joy," she said as we fitted ourselves into the leather seats.

She drove swiftly out of the car park, swinging into the main road and swerving around a dawdling milk float. I grabbed for the dashboard as I slid along the seat. "Don't worry, Dewey," Steph shouted above the roar of the exhaust, "I'm always in complete control ... of everything."

It didn't take long for us to reach her apartment block and its underground car park. As she had said the building in Iver was identical, other than that her apartment block overlooked the River Thames.

In the lift she punched the button for the third floor. "I go all the way," she said, before introducing her tongue into my mouth and her hand into my trousers. As the lift ascended her tongue caressed my tongue, while her hand caressed my likewise ascending prick.

She swiftly withdrew both tongue and hand when the lift stopped at the third floor and exited the lift as I hurriedly, but carefully, zipped up my fly and followed. On entering her flat I saw the rooms were similar in layout and size of the one at Bourne Mansions.

"You've seen everything in these flats except the second bedroom, which is this room." She opened a door, and we entered a decent sized room which housed a huge table and very little else.

"I use this as my games room," Steph said, and my imagination ran riot as I imagined what games she played on top of the table. "The second bedroom is not en-suite, and there is a separate bathroom, with shower and WC next, to this room."

I poked my head into the bathroom for a quick look on our way back to the living room. "Right," she announced on our arrival, "I'm going to shower. Go into my bedroom and I will be with you in five minutes ... get your kit off but keep your underpants on ... I like to rip 'em off."

Such was the force of her personality I was in her bedroom, with my jacket and shirt off, before I knew it. What the fuck was I doing? I came to view a property and end up being violated by an Aunt Peg look alike. Actually I was looking forward to the prospect. I swiftly removed the remainder of my clothes, retaining only my Calvin Klein's.

Sure enough, five minutes later Stephanie swept into the bedroom, wearing a black silk dressing gown covering a red bra and red French knickers, with black stockings held up by a red suspender belt. She had removed her spectacles and her blue eyes glowed with anticipation.

She looked magnificent and was obvious a female from the Old School of seduction. Steph indicated her suspender belt. "I know you boys love to see us girls in a sussy, but they are a bugger to wear. I hope you appreciate the trouble I've gone to." I nodded, eagerly, and she swiftly divested me of my Calvin's with a well-practised flick of a wrist, then wrapped a soft hand around my now rampant prick. "I've got a meeting in a few hours, so this will have to be a quickie, but I promise to make it up to you later." With that she sat me on the edge of the bed and slid her hand up and down my shaft. Her hands were practised, and slightly oiled, and I let her get on with it, although I did try to kiss the tops of her breasts as she leaned over me.

"Sorry, Dewey, I call the shots. I'll let you know what I want and when I want it. Just be patient."

After a few minutes of her hands slowly gliding along my prick, she reached behind her and unclipped her bra, letting her breasts tumble out. For a woman of her age they were in great shape, and I wondered if she had silicone implants. "Lay on the bed, Dewey. I'm going to be in complete charge of the bonking, so just have lie back and think of the regiment."

She straddled me, and slowly lowered herself onto my flagpole prick, her hand guiding me towards her minge. Just before the entrance she stopped and issued further instructions.

"I'm not wet enough. Rub your Bobby's Helmet up and down my slit."

I hastened to carry out She Who Must be Obeyed's orders.

"Yes, that's it Dewey, That's good. Now, put it in." I obeyed instantly.

We made minor adjustments to our positions, or rather I adjusted the angle of my shaft in her love channel until Milady was satisfied I was hitting the bull's eye, or maybe the Little Man in the Boat's eye? "Yes ... a bit to the right. Stop. Left a bit ... oh, yesssss."

Eventually she had my rod exactly where she wanted it, and then lowered herself fully down on to me. She expressly forbade me to thrust, so I just lay there and thought of the regiment while she rose up and down my prick, keeping me clamped in a position to have her G spot stimulated. After ten minutes of her slithering, languid and lubriciously, up and down my pole she changed her position, crouching over me like a sex starved tiger, allowing her breasts to dangle tantalisingly in front of my face.