She lifted the key from the hook and watched it swing and seesaw on her finger;

Begging to be put back. Begging to be used.

All the times before Jackie resisted Gary's words, his clever little 'photographic' pickup lines. His baiting of her being so perfect for modelling. Her eyes swung like the key. Backwards and forwards... And over her shoulder for good measure.

She wasn't one to snoop, but the never-ending whispers Gary laid over her as he watched much more beautiful specimens through the lens, was much too much to take. Too much to allow to go un-investigated. To be thought about and not acted upon. To know about; and to not at least find the offending images... and do something.

The tag swung from the key and the lock clicked. The door pushed open under her finger.

Garry was off somewhere remote. On a hunt for more fish to fry. The fish being pretty young things and the fryer his lens. Lured, hooked, captured, basted with compliments, offered meals and money and trips overseas. Who in their right mind wouldn't take up the offer?

Pattie was off last-minute Christmas shopping, dashing back and forth like a veritable pixie. Smiling, touching, enchanting those around her. Jacks loved her dearly but the mother in Jack led her to see a child raised too quickly, like rhubarb in a hothouse. Pattie needed time, and the world spun around her so fast it was dizzying.

George loved her so. The two were like lightning in a bottle. Natures finest sizzling pairing at work. Jacks hoped the pair won the battle of love.

The walls were heavy with prints. Patties face, her teeth, her hair. All captured, pure and sunshine bright. All the girls that had appeared in hundreds of shoots before adorn the room, floor to ceiling. All in vibrant, colourful Carnaby Street threads.

Three waifish lasses popped their up-to-date hairstyles, and selves, into the room as Jackie gawped about.

"Where's Nobby 'ead then?"

"Oh 'ello! Who? Oh Gary. He's off in north Wales. Up that neck of the woods somewhere, anyway"

"Can you tell him- I'll do it, but the price is double"

"Double?"

"He said he needs a cleaner" She giggled, all high pitched and snicker-y.

"Sort his pipes good, she will" Clare, the new fish sorry girl, who should know better, snorted and rolled her eyes at Jacks.

"And fluff his pillows" Marnie heckled.

"Stop playing about"

"Jackie, you do know to get somewhere with a bloke in this town you have to clean his whistle once in a while?"

"I- yes. No! Go away, stop teasing me. I know you don't clean at photographer's private abodes... And I've heard about the state of your flat"

"Well. Just note it in his ledger there. If he wants a special, he needs to pay double. My names-"

"I know your darn name Priscilla"

"What you doing in Baldies box then? If he's not here, then"

"Dropping off. Errr..."

A seamless unison of eyes and plucked brows raise ever higher. Jacks was in a right pickle.

"Keys! Yes! Just dropping, and picking up, some keys!" The key tag swung high in triumph.

"Well, don't forget to write my name. Toodles, mummy"

"I won't. Have a nice..." The clatter of heels dissipated from the building out into the street "... B.i.t.C.h.E.ssssss. Toodle-loo PRIScilla 'Clean his whistle'. 'Fluff his-'... I do alright rubbing candlesticks myself thank-you very much! Ohhhhh, now who's being bitchy Jacqueline" A shake of the head and grin at the thought of hubba-hubba McCartney's boxers hanging on her linen line were just the pick-me-up after an encounter like the one she had just survived by the skin of her teeth....

Pauls teeth, mmmmmm hmmmm. Nibbles here. Nibbles there. He is sooo sexy, so hot, hot, hottt. And his hair in the mornings all tousled wickedly like some sex starved woman (named Jacqueline) had ravaged him. I feel fine with that man in my bed. So fine. Yes, indeed... sooo sooo fine.

And I shine his candlestick so good, he moans my name with at least an extra four

Ja-Jac-mmmm-Ja-Jac-Quel-ohawwwmmm- llllllin-in-innnne...

Or five, syllables.

Flopping into Gary's office chair her eyes wander the walls, the frames on the desk, the proof sheets lying haphazardly without a care; Attacked with fountain pen circles and slashes, and crosses all over. The magnifying loupe sat front and centre ready to view, then cull, the next load of pretty poses that weren't perfectly pretty enough.

The top drawer contained an assortment of pens, nibs, cutters and three broken loupes. The top drawer, right, contained a packet of biscuits and sachets of sugar and seasonings. The drawer she felt contained her images was steadfastly locked. A small key found was pressed firm, searing her palm with the heat of snooping guilt. She searched everywhere but that drawer. She left it 'til the very last.

The bottom of the filing cabinet contained scotch, rum and six glasses. Two boxes on a chair contained dresses and makeup for the following week.

What lead her here to this point?

The fear of finding beauty?

The fear of finding fault?

The drawer slid open and they peered up at her. Pictures of Jack.

Her smile, her eyes.

Her in her boring clothes; yet her with a figure. Legs captured as she had leaned into a closet. Tight focus on slender fingers clutching her handbag.

Letters and envelopes. Sheets of typewritten paperwork with an image or two, attached, bound with letters of thanks.

Of company's logos and her legs. Pins stuck through captured stolen images. Editing pen marks clipping a shot- from the whole of her back down inches to just the prize- straight seams on stocking covered legs, one leg a slight kick as she had leant in a store cupboard, shoe dangling precariously from toe.

Pins stuck through Bank drafts. Fifty-pound notes stuffed in wage packets. 'With Compliments' attached to a six by four of her profile, for some luggage company based in Hong Kong, in another.

As the pile grew, the mix of trepidation and guilt of snooping morphed into something she hadn't felt overly nastily before. Oh, she could blow her top with the best of them but the feeling swirling now spun deep like an eddy of heap, bubbling, rising- Anger. White hot, burning, murdering anger. He hadn't just taken photographs; he had sold them. He hadn't just clicked and stored in his desk; he had bandied them around for profit. How could she stop him when everything had already been offered? And paid for.

No negatives dwelled in that bottom drawer.

No photographs either, now...

No, now there were piles after pile of rubbish.

Everything torn up, everything ripped to shreds. He would know exactly who did it, and then what. He would stop? He would desist from reprinting? Cease taking more candid unposed shutter snaps?

There was three hundred pounds sat there.

Three

Hundred

Pounds

A small fortune.

More money than she had ever seen in her life, sat there in one place egging her on, goading her anger, goading her empty pockets too.

More money than she could ever dream of earning.

Just sitting there...

Moments before, they had attached it to images of her.

No

Put it back.

Lay it in the bottom drawer.

Turn the key and lock it tight.

Taking the money creates that slippery slope, teetering on disgust and falling off the cliff into want and need of more. Oh, but how she could buy new shoes for Beth and the next size up clothes for the teen for next spring. The girl was growing like a gazelle, all legs, all torso. Jackie was a self-taught seamstress and that there was what she did. Made Beth's clothes. Made them ill-fitting at times; with non- trendy material. Nothing 'in' ~ nothing 'it'. Instead, she used the end-of-the-bolt offcuts from the un-trendy haberdashery that catered for her sort. The poor sort. The normal sort. The average sort.

But Paul, he's so on point.

Everything exacting, everything new. Everything shiny and pretty and wonderfully shaped. His dress sense is spectacular and in a manly sense, beautiful. His shoes, the newest of the new. Occasionally a pair of old jeans are thrown on and his trusty leather jacket from his Hamburg days makes an appearance but it's his slip on to get from his flat to hers', garb. His rip it off as soon as he makes her bedroom... But on the whole.... On the whole he was, and is, 'with it'.

Maybe just one bill.

Maybe to get some things of Beth, for her.

No

NO NO

No.

Whistling met her ears. Beth humming and Paul whistling. It was so homely and sweet.

"There she is. Cor luv you look like a lorry backed over you" His concern melted her. His eyes raked over her like a partner's would. Caring, always there as the rock, the steady in her storm. "Put your gorgeous feet up. Kiddo make your mum a cuppa" Such a dream she lunged for, craved. His fingers ran over her feet, swirling, and skimming.

She knew Paul was smoke, the fire of fame twisting him in all directions from beneath.

She knew when the wind blew hard enough, he would fan out and drift away.

Jacqueline sighed; his touch, his look, his breathtaking aura and his fleeting moments in her life all snaking around her thoughts. Smoke and mirrors teasing her always.

While I preen in front of fans on the steps of the studio poor ole Jack here works her dainty fingers to the bone. I admit preening is hard slog, looking good for the girls, tossing smiles to all and sundry, radiating happiness from me pores constantly. Oh, I know it is a mighty mountain to climb, being 'ON' for the lasses' pleasure. Having the ladies pet you, the sweet ones coy, the forward ones handsy. Got to be on the ball or you'd lose your bloody shirt if you stood like a statue for more than a few seconds. Hands going everywhere, lips too. Ah fame; the price is high, the toil of publicity.

Now Jacks' here.... She has to type and make-up and dress bird's all day. Better only be bird's!?!... She has to listen to girls that believe they're it, and behave like twits. Georges' girl Patts is a right dolly, a little light in the head, flutter, flutter. You know the sort- off with the flaming fairies when you want anything accomplished... bit like George, haha. Jacks probably has a butterfly net at the ready for Pattie, just waiting for all the ruddy fluttering.

Her face is pale, her lips devoid of tint, she stares at me like I'm her saviour or maybe I have marmite on me nose. Me bloody toast! Shit. Cold and shit again. Crud it all!

"Here mummy, have some toast. Marmite, your favourite" Awww poor mum she looks like the world swallowed her up and spit her out on the footpath. Paul won't miss the toast... Oops daggers being stared, so what, he wasn't eating it!

"It's Christmas in a few days"

She speaks!

"Yes Jacks, it is. And I have a present with a big bloody bow on it waiting for you upstairs" No I don't, unless I count me candlestick when I put the bow on it later. Her real, boring non-appendage related present is in the boot of Malcom's motor.

"I'm so giddy, giddley giddy, excited. It's going to be super mummy, isn't it? Paul, are you here for Christmas dinner?"

"Arrr emmm I. I had plans to join John and Cyn. I eermmm, me dads not coming. Something about Angies' mother. Christ, I just thought your old boy would be coming down to visit!?"

"Derrr- farm, Paul. Pigs to feed, cows to milk, eggs to collect..." Kiddo wrinkled her cute nose up "I hate the piggies, they stink!"

"You like pork and bacon though" Jackie perked up with the toast gone. Paul's eyes darting to the crusts. "Lashings of apple sauce, the pile of crackling"

"I don't anymore!!! Don't tell where my dinner comes from mum, you know this!"

"Ok, ok, sweetie. I won't say roast chicken" Jackie squealed when the tea-towel Beth was toting clobbered her in the noggin. "Bethy, come back here!"

"No! I'm not hungry- ANY. MORE!" Teenage stomping resounded up the narrow staircase. "They. Are. Animals!!!!" yelled as the door slammed.

"She'll be cheaper to cook for now!" Jackie giggled as Paul leaned in to toss her over his shoulder. "Hey!!!"

"You 'ave eaten Jacks. Now I have to. Only fair"

"You have such a romantic mouth"

"I love me dessert, luv. Don't deny a man his sweet's"

Stumbling up the stairs with a squealing woman slung over his shoulder, Paul grinned and smacked her bum. "Hush now, don't want the new vegetable eater to hear your orgasm now do we"

"Paullll" was whined into his deliciously tight bottom.

"Oh, you can't tell me this isn't a tremendous turn on.. me hoisting you up the stairs like He-man"

"All the bloods rushing to my head Paul!"

"And mine too, luv... and mine too"

Beth stuck her head out into the hallway "Ugh! Get a room!"

"I'm trying to Bethy. Perchance, may I use yours!?"

"Noooooooo!" Slam.

"Guess that was a definite no to Beth's room"

"Stop ruffling her feathers. Don't stir her up, you. This is all hush-hush still, remember"

"Yeah right. You don't clamp down on the noises when you're in the moment you know luv"

All movement ceased. All wiggling stopped.

"I... I don't?"

"No luv"

"But she doesn't... you know?"

"It would be hushed through the walls, pet. Any-road, she's growing up. Better to know what a good man does to make a woman happy at home..." Paul dropped her down gently, holding her steady from the trip then preceded to doff her of her clothes in milliseconds "Yeah better hearing you being pleased than... than thinking some pimply punce runts' lacklustre experiments in the back of a theatre is the bees knees. What with all that fumbling about"

"And... you're the good man?" Jacks shimmied up the bed, choosing to ignore all talk of Beth's possible hearing and growing into a teenager. She patted herself mentally on the back and placed her favourite pillow under her head. Sighs fled her lips as the man in front of her quelled all the noises in her head.

Paul grinned wickedly and ripped off his shirt.

Paul grinned with lust and hunger, as his trousers and boxers went sailing across the room.

Paul kneeled before her.

Kneeled... for her.

"Oh, I'm the accomplished candlestick wielder, you know I am, Jacqueline G-spot" He grinned as his fingers pointedly drew her thighs wide, his breathing anteing up in anticipation.

His fingers delved, finding that perfect place.

His lips pressed, finding the perfect pace.

Quivering thighs. Quivering lips. Quivering deep, deep inside. Jackie held her breath and bit her lip as he quenched his appetite. Her~ his dessert. She arched, strung as tight as his guitar string was taut. The explosion of colours in her head had her smiling and wiggling into his ministrations.

Mister finger-pie expert, Paul McCartney, kissed her so good... so, so, good.

Lips, warm and firm, stealing gasps of pleasure before finally gifting wet, soft and feathery touches as they blessed her sensitive skin.

His breath warm as silk all over.

Fingers and tongue and his warm, sweet breath delivering her high.

His eyes sparkling bright.

Stealing everything.

He had pulled a cacophony of throaty mews from her like the talented artist she knew him to be.

He had supped his dessert; he had sated her...til she beckoned him for more. "Pleasssse Paullll"

The candlestick cometh. "Yes, darling..."

Her second coming was imminent.

The wizard of incredible sex climbed ever higher placing kisses across those silvery lines, pressing soft nibbles over her breasts, a trail from her collarbone creeping over the frantic pulse in her neck.

Paul paused as he searched her face, a perceptive grin emerging as he found her eyes glimmering soft with compliance, although, lust built where her satisfied fire had only just been. He enjoyed the view, entertained by her rapid return to earth thus beggaring round two. He watched her breathing. He watched her want gather speed. Her lips bitten. Her belly clenching under him as if imagining their future delight. Fingers roamed his body faster, impatiently racing over his skin...

"Please Paull"

"You want more?"

"Yessssss Paul. God yesss, more"

He was hers to conquer, yet also, cede to. His back, blemish free alabaster, rose over her. His smiling eyes, glinting with humour... and lust, met and settled on hers. Fingers reaching, gripping; her nails clutching desperately to his hot skin. And the moan, hers or his or theirs, as they met, sang around her. Her Christmas was here, so strong, so gloriously deep. Eyes anchored hers, Jackie clung, felt, discovered all over again- Him. A man connected with his sexual mastery, yet a man who remembered to be so open and caring to a woman he made sure she was happy before he was.

His lips peppered sweetness, then pain. Nibbles so welcomed, the body beneath him lifted to meet him and hummed in delight.

She had no worries, now.

He was here, now.

She's humming again.

There now, a moan. That's Better.

The hum is more powerful because the line from casual to serious blurs. The hum so potent in its knowing burns walls. Blurs the lines of dalliance. She's so responsive, so real, the heart races towards her. She's so real, the boy inside wants to ignore discovering the world and stay, make her home.

But the man wants it all. Her, them. The world. Hanging onto the limelight, the glare of eyes, the spotlights, the media, the headlines for as long as the ride of fame will have me, the band, the music. That crazy world may bring you down slowly eventually or bring you back to earth with a thud. All this could last six months, a year tops. Then what? Land you in somewhere close to normal, but then... Would that sweet dream called home be empty? Perhaps, but scorecards would be full man, overflowing. Yeahhhh. Her breathing ratchets, ever frantic; her sexy deep purrs and moans almost indistinguishable to tell apart. The machine of sex turns on, the mind focuses in tight again, on one thing- pleasure. Pumping, grinding, reaching that manic height of release, that goddamn beautiful climax, the fever as lust burns, that welcomed sheen of sex induced sweat.

She can't be the one. It's not time. I have a world at my feet.

That unbidden guttural core clenching sound that overwhelms me when I'm bedding her, flows over her body as she quivers, tightens and accepts me. All of me.

And it's not Jacqueline that makes the noise tonight.

It's me.

A/N: Sorrryyy I've been so out of it here. I'm trying to come back from sort of 2020 weird headspace and find that mojo to write.