Jon sat on the park bench, lost in a world that included only the limits of his peripheral vision. His thoughts centred on nothing, just enjoyment of the warm summer sun that beat down to gently brown off the grass in Hyde Park.
His bottle of mineral water became tepid, giving off a vapour, filling the plastic container so that it bulged slightly. Egg mayonnaise sandwiches fried in their wrapper destined not to be eaten, at least, not by Jon; perhaps an enterprising crow or homeless person might liberate them from the trashcan sometime later.
He looked up, casually observing the other frequenters enjoying the Mediterranean like warmth that had enveloped London recently. Mostly, the grass was taken up with office workers either eating or too lethargic to waste the energy it required, opting to just lay out and top up their tans.
The rustle of lightweight fabric swishing and creasing as the bottom inside sat a foot or so from him, sharing the bench, disturbed his isolated contemplation. Jon glanced askance to see what the Barbie doll type platinum blonde looked like; pretty good he thought, especially as his askance gaze travelled from her head to a pair of what looked like enhanced breasts pushing the tee shirt she wore beyond what could be described as reasonable.
She turned and dazzled him with a smile that showed two even lines of perfect white teeth.
"Hi." She said in a sqeaky voice that could have belonged to Tammy Wynette. If she had said her name was Tammy or Barbie he would have had no trouble believing it, but other than hi, she said nothing else, just steadily returned his gaze.
"Um, yeah hi." As an entrée, it was weak and he knew it. Slightly embarrassed at the directness of her stare, he looked away to concentrate on his brown deck shoes as if the polish were a living thing.
"That dammed dog. Look at him." Jon wasn't at all sure she was talking to him, but dutifully looked up. Several dogs were running around, looking like demented, brainless things, a bundle of multi-coloured fur with far too many legs and heads.
"Which one is yours?" He asked.
"The scruffy one." They all looked scruffy to Jon, not being a dog person.
"The brindle Heinz fifty seven thingy." She pointed, which was a complete waste because at least four dogs were in a group. Then Jon remembered that brindle described a multitude of colours, like a tortoiseshell cat's coat. It helped him locate what was probably the ugliest dog he had ever seen apart from a pug.
"What is it?" He asked, fearing the answer.
"The guy who sold him to me said he was a cross. Looked like a dog to me, but never mind." Jon tried to see if she was making a joke, decided that it was, so politely laughed.
"I'd better call him back before he makes a nuisance of himself." She squeaked with a laugh in her voice.
She stuck two fingers in her mouth over her folded tongue. Jon waited for the piercing shrillness of her whistle, but it didn't come. She failed entirely to blow.
"Damned dog never comes when I call him." She commented.
Jon was trying desperately not to laugh now.
"What was that supposed to be?" He asked.
"A silent whistle. The guy I bought him from said he responds to a silent whistle, one beyond the hearing range of humans." There was a certain kind of innocence about her answer that nearly creased Jon.
"Seems it's beyond the hearing of your dog too." He couldn't help it any longer, he laughed out loud.
"You really are blonde aren't you?" He managed between fits of giggles.
She pouted her lips and looked as if she might sulk.
"I'm sorry." He apologised. "I couldn't resist it." Jon stuck his own fingers in his mouth and blew a loud whistle. Four doggy heads turned in his direction.
"How do you do that?" She asked as her knees were getting patted in a come hither gesture to the dog.
"Just stick them in your mouth and blow. I'll teach you sometime."
"Where have I heard that before? Line from a movie wasn't it?" Her eyes betrayed nothing, showing only an innocence that the words belied.
There was an obvious double entendre there, but Jon ignored it
He watched the dog leave its new friends to come trotting to the bench they shared, it's tail wagging in pleasure sending it in a wobbling motion from the force of the appendage. The nearer the dog got, the more it became apparent that this animal was really not something you might call pretty. The pronounced wrinkles that created a forehead moved up and down in time with its movement. Some of its fur stuck out at strange angles and was much longer than the majority of the rest of its pelt. Two tendrils of saliva drooped on either side of its mouth, looking as if it had swallowed a tennis shoe and the laces were yet to follow the rest down its throat. Its chest bumped against her knees as if using her as a buffer, his chin dropped into her lap, covering her skirt with slime.
"Um, nice dog." She looked at him sideways to see if he was still taking the piss.
"No really, I mean it, nice dog. A bit scruffy I'll grant you, but all in all, a nicely behaved dog." He felt a sort of embarrassment creep up his cheeks. This conversation was going down hill fast.
"Ah he's okay. Bit of a scatter brain, but we love each other." She scratched his head, which made the wrinkles move around, and looked quite comical.
Jon realised that the mutt was quite a bit, bigger than he had realised when it had been playing with the other dogs just a few minutes ago. It's paws looked to be too big for the animal, out of proportion even for his size. Even more out of proportion was its mouth and snout. The dog didn't have the classical long face, but looked rather like it might have run into a brick wall too fast one day and shortened the whole thing somewhat. The wrinkles gave it a permanent frown adding to the first impression that it might be in a bad mood. Tentatively, Jon stuck out his hand to stroke the dog's shoulders. The mal-tempered looking face turned to watch the hand, looking as if it really wanted to separate it at the wrist. Jon hesitated until Barbie, for that is what he thought her name might be, convinced him it was okay, he wouldn't bite. He stroked the animal, amazed at the softness of its fur and the warmth that the dog radiated. A look of sheer bliss came into its eyes when Jon scratched it between his ears. He concentrated so much on the giving of pleasure to the dog and liked the feeling of calm that he received in return, that he failed to notice the appraising stare he was receiving from his bench companion.
"What's you name?" She asked after a few minutes.
"Eh? Oh! Jon. Sorry I got carried away stroking Buster here." He stopped the stroking and returned her gaze.
"His name's Brute; I thought it apt; my name's Cindy."
Jon almost, but not quite, commented on the aptness of her name, remembering the dolls his sister used to have. He managed to stifle the words before they left his tongue.
"Fancy a coffee Jon?" She asked; her head tilted to one side as if she were waiting for sand to fall out of her ear.
Jon couldn't be sure, but thought that more than coffee was on offer, it was the twinkle in her eye that had him almost convinced, it could have been his imagination too or wishful thinking. He prided himself on being able to hold eye contact and not drop his gaze to the beautiful tits that pointed at him like a dead heat in a zeppelin race. Getting between them was becoming something of a quest for him.
"Um, yeah; sure; why not?" The decision took less than a nanosecond.
Cindy rose from the bench; her skirt rustled in a silky way that hinted at a lining or petticoat. No one wears petticoats anymore, so it was reasonable to assume the skirt was lined. Jon stood too and then realised how tall she was, probably two or three inches over him and she had flat shoes on. Oh my gawd, he thought to himself, a six foot Amazonian Barbie doll. His fantasies rolled before his eyes in less time than it takes to blink. He must have blinked or shown somehow, what was crossing his mind because she grabbed his hand and uttered the words of his dreams...
"I'm horny, let's get out of here." Briefly, Jon wondered if he had died and gone to hedonistic heaven.
In something of a daze, he allowed her to drag him and the dog across the scorched grass towards Park Lane and her car, one of those enormous four-wheel driven Mitsubishi's whose name completely escaped him, but had the collective name of Chelsea tractors.
She lived on the first floor of a Georgian house that had been converted to apartments in Loundes Square just behind Harvey Nicholls. Ordinarily, Jon would have taken in the surroundings, even offered a phew of admiration for the gilt scroll work of the newel posts on the stair, the obvious wealth and taste of money in the décor or the depth of pile to the carpet that stretched from wall to wall. Ordinarily he would have, but he only had eyes for her ass it sashayed from side to side in her tight skirt as she climbed the stairs in front of him. It had him in some kind of thrall, mesmerizing him into an automaton with no more self will than a ball of string.
She stopped and unlocked an ornate door on the first floor landing; it swung open to reveal her apartment, no less opulent than the common parts of the staircase. Even the down lighter wall sconces spoke of wealth in their uniqueness and overly stated singularity. This girl had money, more than Jon could comprehend if the apartment was anything to go by.
She showed him into the conservatory at the back, passing through a kitchen that looked un-used, passed a stainless steel refrigerator that was bigger than his wardrobe and into a rattan cane, winged chair with the immortally famous words, "make yourself at home while I slip into something more comfortable".
At thirty, Jon had had some very good Christmas's, some really wonderful birthdays, but they had all come together in this very moment he thought.
Brute came over, checked him out and then left him to find his sleeping basket, the size of a small dingy, he curled and soon was oblivious to the world.
"Would you like a drink Jon?" Cindy's voice wafted around the door pillar.
"Yeah sure." He shouted back to the disembodied voice.
"Help yourself; Ice is in the fridge."
"Want one?" He got up to find the drinks, but was at a loss to where they might be.
"Yeah, whatever you're having will be fine."
"Um, where are the drinks?" He shouted back.
"Oh sorry, just push the mirror." Her voice, muffled somewhat, informed him.
He pushed at the mirror gently it had a touch latch holding it in place which released and allowed the mirror to swing open. The wall cupboard behind was well stocked with liquors of many kinds. Jon spotted a Johnnie Walker green label; took two glasses and poured a generous helping into each. The fridge was indeed bigger than his wardrobe, with an icemaker prominent at the left front. He sat back in the rattan chair to wait for her while the scotch cooled in the glasses on a low table in front of him.