Silk Curtain Ch. 01

The sun overhead painted the near dusk sky in brilliant shades of fire and gold. It would be nightfall in an hour but the sand of the beach was still warm from the sun's kiss. The horizon was beautiful as a painting, perfect for the people laying on the beach absorbing the last fingers of sunlight.

The tall woman at the edge of the beach definitely appreciated the perfect image. She walk along the still warm sand, the water lapping around her toes and ankles, hands visored over her blue eyes as she squinted off at the sunset.

John sighed contently, watching the woman from his beach towel. Perfect legs, great ass, and a nice rack, he thought to himself contently as he enjoyed the image of the woman the way the she enjoyed the image of the sun. Her named was Constance and they'd been married for two wonderful years.

They'd met at Harvard during one of those lazy Boston autumns. He'd been starting his Masters degree in economics. She had just finished a degree in fine arts and was enrolling in the teacher's college. John still remembered how shy she'd looked in a pale blue turtle neck, those incredible legs demurely crossed as she sat in the corner quietly during a September Mixer his fraternity had thrown. Her friends had dragged her out; They were all living in the over in one of the all girls dormitories, and a Catholic one at that. John had definitely been less than enthusiastic when his frat brothers told him that. She hadn't thought much of frat boys, but she was a good friend and came along reluctantly. And she had been promptly ditched by her two girlfriends, abandoned alone of a scuffed leather couch.

John had gone over to try to talk to her a bit. She had an expression a bit to serious for his liking, hardly a fun party girl that he hoped to meet for a good time at the mixer. And she had promptly begun to babble on about her ambition to teach high school students art and culture.

He thought her naive and a touch parochial. And he couldn't get her out of her head. He'd never fallen for a girl as hard as he had fallen for Constance and they'd been married in the fall of the next year. His parents were wild about her, a pretty wholesome young Democrat with good morals and great manners. Her parents were equally pleased with him, a Boston aristocrat with a touch of old money and sensible shoes.

With their respective studies keeping them at Harvard, they hadn't had a chance for a real honeymoon. Instead, they invested in a comfortable loft near the campus to celebrate their nuptials and resolved to take their honeymoon when they'd both finished their degrees. John certainly hadn't been disappointed. Constance was the most beautiful woman he'd ever slept with, and if she was a touch to shy and reserved to be truly called an great lover, she'd certainly been willing enough and hadn't left him with any complaints about frequency.

She'd wanted something cultured; Europe, France or Italy maybe. He'd wanted exotic; A nice beach in South America or the Caribbean. They'd compromised with Izimir, Turkey. John firmly believed that Izimir was what travel agents had in mind when they coined the phrase 'tourist trap'. Izimir had history, old ruins and wonderful mosques and museums for tourists with sight seeing on their mind. It also had fabulous beaches and an exotic bazaar with plenty of local flavour for someone with a taste for adventure. As John lay on the beach, watching his wife bath her supple body in the dying sun, he could honestly say he'd never been happier.

Constance turned from the water of the beach and began walking back to their shared blankets. She wore a conservative one piece bathing suit that none the less hugged her svelte body and showed off her figured. She'd wrapped a sweater around her waist, covering her hips and rump from prying gazes. In John's opinion it was silly, given the heat, but Constance could be very proper.

Constance gracefully slid down on the blanket beside him, resting her head on his shoulder as she did. At 5'11", she was actually an inch taller than he was, but his athletic build made him look taller next to her trim shape. Her skin smelled slightly of the ocean waters as she leaned in to kiss his neck lightly and John could feel the softness of her lips and the faint pressure of her even white teeth.

John quickly glanced around the beach to make sure they were alone and that no prying life guard was too close by. As soon as he assured himself they had some privacy, his hands went to the sweater around Constance's slim waist, unwrapping it and laying her down on the blanket, rolling over on top off her.

Normally, Constance was the furthest thing in the world from an exhibitionist, but here on their belated honeymoon she had apparently relaxed some of her inhibitions, because she did nothing more than murmur softly as John reached down the crotch of her one piece bathing suit, pushing it aside to reveal the dark blonde curls and soft pink skin of his wife's most intimate treasure.

Constance even reached over to his own bathing suit, pushing it down slightly to free his already erect member. Normally, Constance took a while of foreplay to warm up, but this time she was in just as amorous a mood as he was and she bent her knees slightly, a small raise of her hips and shy smile indicating with her graceful body language that she was ready.

John certainly wasn't about to refuse. He pressed his tip against her entrance and penetrated her in a slow, even stroke. Constance's fingers went to the nape of his neck, brushing his skin in a way that sent a shiver down his back. She arched her back slightly and pressed her lips to his ears, moaning softly.

That was Constance's greatest feature in their loveplay. John had been with a number of women and Constance was far from the most adventurous of them, or even the best in bed. But none of them could hold a candle to her vocally. Her voice was soft and sweet, clear from years in a choir but a touch husky with desire. Constance hated talking dirty, but in his opinion her variety of very feminine gasps, kittenish purrs and low cries of pleasure as they made love were far better than words. John had teasingly called her the queen of aural sex.

Constance was certainly in good form today as she lightly nipped the lobe of his ear with her teeth, her fingers rubbing his back lovingly and moaning again in her velvety voice that drove John absolutely wild. He began to pick up the pace, thrusting into her with smoother, harder strokes. Her pale blue eyes gazed lovingly into his as she stroked his back, her own body finding his rhythm quickly. The scrape of her bathing suit against his skin was a touch irritating, but her breasts underneath were soft and round as they bounced in time with his pumping. Her long legs curled around his and he could feel her foot rubbing the back of his knee, encouraging him onward.

"Shall we head back to the resort?" she murmured to him, her blue eyes warm and a touch mischevious. As she spoke she lifted her toned arms to her water slicked hair, pulling it back in a pony tail. Constance always wore her hair in a pony tail or up in an elaborate knot. The only times she ever let her platinum locks down was during sex with him and this afternoon swimming in the ocean. John secretly thought she looked better with it loose, but it went against her sense of neatness to have her hair anything less than restrained.

"Sure," he replied with a grin.

John stooped to pick up their blankets, tossing them over his shoulder, then slipped his arm around Constance's waist. His motion made her sweater slip an inch, showing the small scar on her side where she had her appendix removed. Constance frowned slightly as she shifted her sweater back into place. She hated showing her scar, even though it was only a thin white line, barely visible in the dusk.

The couple walked back to the resort, arm in arm. John tossed their blankets and duffel bag to the bellhop, who nodded and scurried off with them, even as Constance tugged his arm, steering him out onto the covered patio of the resort's restaurant and bar.

A waitress wandered over as the couple took their seats at a table near the bar. "Beer," John ordered brusquely, "Budweiser."

Constance smiled at the waitress then murmured, "I'd like a martini please." Constance was always polite.

"Aah, ef et esn't my yoong American friends," a French accented voice called from the bar.

The voice belonged to a gregarious Frenchman named Alex, a dark haired man who radiated that sleek European style. He said his job was an importer and world traveller when he met them and never missed an opportunity to come over to greet his 'young American friends'.

"Bonjour Alex. Comment ca va?" Constance replied with a small smile. She spoke fluent French, a legacy from her teenage years in a Catholic boarding school.

"Bonjour, mon petit chou. Ca va bien, merci. Vous paraissez beau, mon chere." Alex replied with his self indulgent smile.

John frowned then said "Hey Alex, good to see you," in a low, even voice.

Constance smiled and nudged him lightly in the ribs. When John had first met Alex at the bar, he'd seemed gregarious and friendly. But when he'd introduced the Frenchman to Constance, he'd noticed how the other man's eyes had gone immediately to Constance's pert breasts and travelled down her flat belly with appreciation. John didn't think of himself as a jealous man and he even got a certain charge of other men looking at his wife with envy, but he didn't want the other man talking to Constance in a language that John didn't understand. It made him want to wipe the smug look off the Frenchman's face, though John would have never admitted it.

"And et iz very good to be seen, my friend!" Alex said exuberantly as the waitress returned with their drinks.

Constance gave a small exhalation, almost a sigh. Her fingers went to the stick in her martini, tugging off one of the olives and she began to roll the olive between her thumb and forefinger, an unconcious gesture she tended to make when she was slightly uncomfortable. It was a rare flaw in Constance, but she disliked 'tense' situations and tended to either fiddle with something or bake, pretending that nothing was going on until the situation resolved itself. John forced his face to smoothness. He wouldn't be caught glaring at Alex just because the other man had wandering eyes and a punchable face.

For once, mercifully, Alex didn't linger. "I see dat yoo two are bizy and I must head up to my room as well. Perhaps we can meet for lunch tomorrow."

Constance sipped her martini as John rose, right after Alex left. "I"m going to the washroom, babe. Order that lamb dish we liked so much for me would you?"

"Sure thing," Constance replied with a crooked smile that she reserved for him. He loved that smile, the rare hint of playfulness she showed.

John went to the bathroom, finding one of the stalls. Afterwards, he washed his hands and came back out of the door. "Pardon me sir," a soft, young voice interrupted.

"Yeah?" John said, turning to the bellhop of the resort.

"A man has arrived, he says he has a rug for you. I cannot take it to your rooms until you sign for it please," the dark skinned bellhop said with a nervous air in his light Turkish accent.

"Oh, right," John nodded, "Lead on."

An Arabic man with a massive grey beard waited in the lobby with a heavy rug roll. It was a fellow from the bazaar. John and Constance had been there in the afternoon, shopping for a souvenir. They had decided on a real Persian rug, straight from Turkey.

"Your rug, sir," the porter said with a small polite bow.

The man went through some fuss, thanking John for his business profusely, and then rolling the rug down to make sure it was the right pattern. John frowned as he looked at the beige rug. "Wait, we ordered the crimson one."

"Crimson? Oh, the red! A thousand apologies sir!" the porter cried, hurrying out to his truck to put the beige rug back and fetch the proper one. John checked it to make sure it was right, then signed the receipt for it, tipping the porter and the aggreived looking bellhop as he began to heft the rug up stairs.

John sighed and headed back to the patio.

As he returned to their table, he saw Constance with her head resting lightly on her arms. "Con," he called softly, resting his hand on her back, but she didn't stir.

She must have tired herself out swimming, John thought fondly, sitting down to his dish of lamb and vegetables. Constance had barely touched hers, though she had finished her martini. I'll just let her sleep a bit, John decided, picking up his scotch and drinking.

It was the clink of glasses and smell of wood that woke him. John blinked groggily. His throat felt scratchy and his head hurt ferociously. Hang over, he thought to himself, looking around. Where am I?

It was the patio. He had moved from the table to the bar.

"Is sir awake?" the waitress said from behind the bar, washing glasses with the clinking sound that had woken him.

"Yah.." John blinked groggily. Had he passed out? John had drunk his fair share as a frat boy, even passed out once or twice, but never so that he couldn't remember what happened. "How much did I have?"

"Sir had many scotch on the rockses," the waitress replied unhelpfully, continuing to wash.

"Where's Connie?" John asked, looking around. He never called her Connie when she was around. She hated that name, prefering her full name.

"Miss Constance went to bed many hours ago," the waitress said, warming up noteably at the mention of Miss Constance.

"What time is it?" John looked down at his watch.

"Close to closing," the waitress said. John saw that it was 2 am. He'd been out for close to eight hours.

John got off the barstool and staggered up to his room. Definitely a hang over he thought groggily, clumsily fumbling with his keys to get into his room.

"Con?" he called as he stepped into their dark hotel suite. "Constance?" He kept his voice soft, in case she was asleep.

He slipped off his shoes and in to their bed room. Constance wasn't in bed.

Constance wasn't anywhere in his room. She didn't return the next morning either.

By lunch, John was frantic. Inquiries with the resort staff indicated that she had staggered out of the patio at around ten and hadn't been seen since. But Constance was no where to be found on the resort.

The next day, the Izimir police were called in. They had no more luck finding his missing wife then the hotel staff. John frantically called the American embassy and they immediately dispatched a diplomatic car to collect him.

For two weeks, the American consul had his people search Turkey, with no results. John became increasingly frantic, until the ambassador had practically forced him into a plane, sending him back to the States.

His family and hers were both astonished and upset and terrified. John's father put pressure on his cousin who worked in the State department. Constance's father, who had served in the army for ten years, looked up an old buddy who had graduated to the FBI to get daily updates. Both families had pooled their resources to offer a $50,000 reward for information leading to Constance being found. Hundreds of leads were reported. All proved to be dead ends.

Six months later, Constance had not been found. There were no traces, no leads. It was as if she had simply vanished into thin air.

After a year, the Izimir police stated their was nothing more they could without a break in the case. Constance was simply not in Izimir. The family upped the reward to $100,000, which renewed some interest in the case, but nothing concrete was turned up.

At a year and a half, the American consulate in Turkey stopped returning John's daily calls. The reward was increased to $150,000.

At two years, Constance's father's friend in the FBI told him that he believed that if Constance was alive, she would have been found by now and that the resources to continue an international search on that scale simply could no longer be maintained.

At two and a half years, it seemed like the entire world had forgotten about Constance. Everyone except for John.