Wednesday, 30 April 2014

Charlie's Law

It was one of those gigs where the music went straight from my eyes to my fingers with almost no intervention from my brain. Simple classical pieces and the occasional bit of mild, inoffensive jazz - nothing to capture the imagination, at least for the performer. To the elegantly dressed punters at the Paragon Club, SW1, it was merely a pleasant background tinkling sound to accompany their evenings.

The piano I was playing looked fabulously expensive, and in a sense it was. It was the body of a Steinway grand - well suited to the not-quite-ostentatious opulence of the Club’s main room - and it still contained the original harp and strings, dampened with an old rug under the lid. The hammers and keys had been removed to make way for a rather cheap-feeling digital piano - and that was what I was actually playing. I considered this a grievous act of vandalism, as would any musician.

Most of the candle-lit tables scattered around the huge space were occupied by couples, of course, it being Valentine’s Day. In the brief pauses between tunes I glanced around the place, around the people, and wondered what dreadful occupations paid them the money to eat here. There were no prices on the menu, but the portions I saw the stiff-backed waiters carry past my little stage were so small and delicately arranged that they must be expensive.

I played on, daydreaming.

There was a bebop/jazz guitarist in the early 20th Century named Charlie Christian, and according to legend he’d made the comment which was now part of musicians’ culture: the thing we call Charlie’s Law. It states that there are only three reasons you should agree to play a gig: you’re being paid; you’re having fun; or you’re “learning your thing”. I wasn’t having fun and I certainly wasn’t learning anything. In truth I was mainly doing the gig as a favour to a friend, but I was also being quite handsomely paid by the Club. A Rule One gig through-and-through.

My fingers stopped moving as I reached the end of a piece. It took me a moment to even notice. I decided I would play just a couple more before taking my first break. I shuffled through my music, selected a jazz standard that didn’t especially bore me, and launched into it. I knew it well enough not to need the music, so I glanced discreetly around the room as I played. I didn’t really need to be discreet - no one was paying me the slightest attention. I was as much a part of the furniture as the piano I was playing.

At the time I’d been single for three years, and hadn’t had sex in almost eight months (seven months three weeks and two days, not that I was counting or anything). Consequently I viewed the smiling, loved-up, staring-into-each-others-eyes couples with equal measures of envy and contempt. I noticed one couple who were feeding each other ice-cream, giggling - sickening - and another who were clearly pleasuring one another under the table.

“Bastards, the lot of them...” I thought to myself, throwing in a blatantly discordant flattened fifth just to annoy anyone who was actually listening. No-one was.

Then I saw her, and the rest of the room seemed to fade and darken out of all relevance.

She was standing in the wide, grand doorway that led into the restaurant from the bar. She was tall, shapely, and wore a long black figure-hugging evening dress that reached almost to the floor. Her skin was the colour of coffee with a little too much cream; her auburn hair glowed in the candlelight like dry rust in the setting sun. Her eyes were dark and wide, and even from this distance they pulled at me like the gravity-well of some massive, distant star.

She was standing there alone. It was difficult to read her expression, but something about her stance said she was annoyed about something. A waiter went up to her and bowed so low that his mop of hair practically wiped the floor, then led her to a table set slightly apart from the rest, near to the tall windows which looked out onto the terrace and, beyond, to the glittering London skyline across the river. She was still, just, within my field of view.

She ordered wine - red - and sat there taking small sips from a large glass. She looked right at me a couple of times, but I still couldn’t read her expression. Each time I tried to hold her gaze I found my fingers drifting and had to turn back to the music. I made up my mind to walk as close as possible to her table when I made for the staff areas, and see if I could make more meaningful eye-contact. I don’t know why - her wedding ring was clearly visible. Sometimes I like to torture myself, I guess.

I never got the chance. Her husband - I assumed - arrived breathlessly at her table a few minutes later. She didn’t stand or hug him, but greeted him with a thin mouth-only smile, and allowed him to kiss her cheek. He sat down opposite her, gesturing and talking quickly. His suit looked like it had cost more than my car, and the gold watch I saw glinting from one wrist had probably cost more than my house. He was clearly apologising for being late, and she was clearly having none of it - only regarding him with a cold, hard stare, still sipping at her wine.

It amused me to think that, no matter how much money a man might have, he still cannot escape the icy, heart-rending bite of a woman’s deepest scorn.

I tried to put all thought of her out of my mind, and quickly reached the end of the last piece. I closed the old wooden lid over the new plastic keys and stood up. I took one last look at the auburn-haired woman and, to my shock and near-horror saw that her husband was sitting sideways on his chair, turned away from her and talking on his phone. A Valentine’s meal with his stunningly beautiful wife, and he was taking a call. Her eyes looked like they should be boring holes into the side of his skull. I shook my head, disbelieving.

I realised that I had been standing there staring for some seconds just as a voice hissed, right by my ear:


I turned to find the head waiter’s sneering, oily face very close to mine.

“Stop fucking gawping and get your arse into the kitchen!” he snapped quietly. “Thirty minutes and you’re back on.”

I bristled but said nothing, and made for the staff areas. I felt the man’s gaze on the back of my neck, and made a point of walking quite slowly.

Once through the double-swing doors the atmosphere changed dramatically. Soft lighting became harsh neon strips; plush wooden panels became bare, whitewashed brickwork; quiet, elegant charm became rough-and-ready chaos. I tried my best to stay out of the way, but soon had to make my way outside, to the tiny little patch of terrace that was allocated to the serfs.

I had, technically, quit smoking a few weeks earlier. Nonetheless I’d had a feeling this would be a stressful evening and there was an emergency pack in my jacket pocket. I ripped it open, lit up and inhaled, and sighed with relief as I breathed out a thin plume of smoke.

I was alone on the terrace - even the wide, multi-level area available to the Club’s guests was deserted on this crisp February night.

I finished my cigarette and dropped the butt into a bucket of sand. I stood out there a moment longer, admiring the view over the river and the stars above, and delaying my return to the kitchen. Just as I was about to head back in, I heard a door open. Clipped footsteps came out onto the terrace.

Somehow I knew it would be her, and it was.

I saw her in profile, and slightly above me, as she came out onto the terrace and walked to the thick iron balustrade at the edge of the top-most level, about half a metre above where I stood, maybe three metres away.

Her figure was stunning - slender but not-too-thin waist, long legs, and a generous bust perfectly balanced by a shapely backside. She swung her hips in an easy, sensual way as she walked, her stiletto heels clacking on the stone tiles. Her long hair ran down over her shoulders in a shimmering cascade of deep red-gold.

She reached the railing and leant forward onto her elbows, pushing her bum out towards me and seeming to wiggle it provocatively. I wondered if she knew I was there watching, if the motion was somehow for my benefit. I’m sure I was flattering myself.

I also wondered how much longer I could get away with being out here, admiring a different kind of view now, before My Oily-face came out to find me. I had only five minutes left of my break.

The woman straightened and rummaged in a handbag. She still had her back - and deliciously pert rear - towards me, so I couldn’t see her face. I guessed that she had found a cigarette and placed it in her mouth, and was now searching fruitlessly for a lighter. I saw my chance.

The staff area of the terrace was separated from the main part by a rope, which I quickly stepped over. I went up a short stairway, glancing around to make sure no one else was there, and approached her from behind. She turned with an unlit cigarette between her full, red lips.

“Need a light?” I said, proffering a clipper.

She regarded me for a moment, seeming to size me up somehow. Her face was as beautiful as her figure - her eyes, again, pulled me in.

“Yes,” she said at last. “Thank you.” Her voice was precise and refined, very English but with the merest hint of something more exotic. She looked only a couple of years older than me - mid thirties, perhaps.

I lit her cigarette, then pulled out my own pack and lit another one for myself. The woman’s eyes did not leave mine. We both inhaled for a moment in silence, looking at each other.

“Charlotte Christchurch,” she said, holding out a hand. “You can call me Charlie.”

“Delighted,” I said, taking the hand and kissing it softly. Her name seemed appropriate somehow, but for a time I was unable to place why. “Daniel Randall, but please call me Danny.”

“Well Danny,” she said. “If I may be so bold, you don’t look like you’re having the time of your life up there at the piano.”

“I’m not,” I said with a shrug. “But a gig’s a gig.”

She nodded. We inhaled, exhaled. The smoke twisted around us, close in the cool, sharp air.

“If I may reciprocate your boldness,” I said, “you don’t look like you’re having the best evening yourself.”

Her face hardened, and I wondered if the apparent familiarity had only been in my head. Perhaps the camaraderie of cigarette smokers did not cross class boundaries after all.

“No,” she said. “You’re quite right about that.”

She took a few more drags on her cigarette, in a silence I wisely thought better of trying to fill.

“My husband,” she almost spat, “is a cheating bastard.”

“Oh,” I said, not really sure what to say. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” she asked sardonically. “Is he fucking you as well?”

“No, I... I just meant...” I stammered.

“I know what you meant,” she said, her face and tone softening a little. “I didn’t mean to be so sharp. I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” I said. “I’m sure it must be... difficult.”

“You have a gift for understatement,” she said with a humourless laugh.

“How did you find out? Did he tell you?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head with a sad smile. “He doesn’t know that I know. Not yet. There were signs for a long time, and for a long time I wouldn’t let myself see them. Mystery phone calls, late nights at the office, sudden business trips. I thought about reading his e-mails, but in the end I didn’t have to stoop so low. He came back from a trip and left his suitcase open in the study. There was a pair of knickers wrapped round a memory stick - right on the top, like he hadn’t even tried to hide them. The knickers were two sizes too small and several degrees too slutty to have been mine, and on the stick I found a video of him sticking his weasely little prick up his secretary’s arse.”

My mouth made an ‘O’ shape, but I didn’t say anything.

“And then tonight,” she went on, her eyes glistening and her voice cracking slightly. “Tonight of all nights he suddenly has to rush back to the office to deal with something important.” She sneered that last word.

“He’s left you here alone?” I said in disbelief.

Charlie nodded. She took a final drag on the cigarette, dropped it on the tiles and ground it out with one stilettoed foot.

“He’s an idiot,” I said. “You are far and away the most beautiful woman here, in a club full of beautiful women. You have a strength and grace that outshines them all. If he prefers some slutty secretary to you, then he doesn’t deserve you.”

Charlie’s eyes sought out mine, and I found myself drawn hypnotically into the dark brown depths. Suddenly she leaned forward and kissed me. Her full lips pressed against mine, our mouths opened and my tongue wrapped around hers. I reached a hand around her waist and pulled her close to me, my already half-hard dick pressing into her abdomen. I could feel the heat of her body against mine, a warmth radiating out from between her legs, electrifying us both.

She moaned very softly as my hands found her bottom, and gripped her firm, round cheeks as she ground herself against me. I could clearly feel the lacy outline of her panties under the dress. She lifted one knee up the outside of my thigh, opening herself to me through the fabric, then suddenly drew back.

I felt flushed and disarrayed. She looked more calm and composed than she had before. She looked at me appraisingly, and somehow I got the impression I had passed some sort of test.

“Meet me in the bar after you’ve finished playing,” she said. “I prepared a Valentine’s treat for Mister Bastard, but if he will insist on sodomising his secretary instead then I think I will give it to you.” She raised an eyebrow at me, a small lopsided smile playing across her red lips. “It would be a shame to waste it.”

Without another word she turned and went back inside. I stood there for a moment, stunned, then rushed back down to the plebs’ entrance. I found the head waiter cursing my name inside, ignored him, went back out into the restaurant and sat at the piano. Charlie’s table was empty.

I can remember almost nothing about my second set. I know I played for ninety minutes - it says so on my payslip - but all the while I kept thinking about Charlie, her delicious body and her sharply beautiful face, and what an absolute fucking moron her husband was.

When I finally finished playing, one person applauded. That’s the other memorable thing about that evening - someone was, after all, listening. I took a mock bow and went out to the staff area to collect my payment. The manager handed it over without a word. I made to leave by the staff exit, but when no one was looking I doubled back and went nervously out to the bar.

I tried to lurk in the shadows, but the barman noticed me immediately and signalled to a burly security man lounging off to one side. I couldn’t see Charlie anywhere, and I almost panicked and ran for it. The security man came up and grabbed me roughly by the shoulder. The oily-faced waiter appeared from somewhere and walked right up to me.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing in here?” he said in a clipped, offensive whisper. “This area is for guests! You’ve played your silly little piano shit, now get the fuck out! You’re done here, you hear me Randall? Next time we’re hiring a professional!”

This was a little too much for my pride to bear. I am only good at two things in this life: playing the piano and performing oral sex on women. Despite the overshadowing presence of the security guard gripping my arm, I opened my mouth to say something that would probably have earned me a bruise or two, at the least.

“Excuse me!” said an angry female voice. It was Charlie, thank god! “What on earth do you think you are doing to my good friend?”

The security guard looked uncertain, but quickly released my arm. The waiter’s face contorted into a comical parody of suppressed anger with a slapped-on coat of obsequious politeness. If my life were a cartoon, steam would have been coming out of his ears.

“Your fr...?” he stammered. “Well I... I... I assure you that I really would...”

“I don’t care what you really would,” said Charlie haughtily. It was like being in the presence of a duchess. It suddenly occurred to me she might actually be one - the Paragon was that sort of club. “My friend and I are leaving,” she said, glaring hard at the man, “and I can assure you that I will be having words in the appropriate ears.”

The waiter’s cartoon self would, at this point, have melted like an ice-cream under a sunlamp, collapsed into a little puddle with two watery eyes, then dribbled down a handy drain.

Charlotte stormed out like an angry gale, the bewildered stares of the other guests in the bar swept up after her like dry leaves. I lingered just long enough to lean close to the waiter and speak my mind.

“It’s Doctor Randall to you, you pretentious little tit,” I said in a low, quiet growl. “And please tell Ms Townsend that the next time I do her a favour I will require a significantly greater remuneration to compensate for the insubordinate incompetence of the waiting staff.”

The waiter looked like he’d just had a pineapple inserted somewhere that a pineapple really shouldn’t be able to fit. I walked away quickly to catch up with Charlie, leaving him to ponder my name-dropping the Club-owner's eldest and most favoured step-daughter (she and I have been best friends for many years, but that’s another story entirely).

I came out into the cold February air and walked down the wide stone steps at the front of the Paragon Club, looking around for Charlie. She was nowhere to be seen.

“I believe you’ll be joining us here, sir,” said a very polite male voice.

To my right, as I reached street level, a suited, booted and peak-capped young man was waiting beside the open door of a long black limousine. He saluted as I reached him, smiled in an eager-to-help way, and gestured at the door. I climbed into the dimly-lit interior of the limo, and he closed out the cold night behind me.

As my eyes adjusted, I saw that the inside of the limo was decked out for the season. The leather seats were covered in plush red fur-covered cushions, and there was a sensual, oily smell in the air - ylang-ylang and ginseng and something else I couldn’t identify. There were no heart-shaped boxes of chocolates or anything cheesy like that - this was a grown-up sort of romance. The windows were blacked out, and we were separated from the driver by an opaque screen.

Charlie was sitting on the wide rear seat, leaning back with her legs crossed, one finger toying with a long strand of her hair. I knelt down on a cushion on the floor in front of her as the car began to move. I had a feeling we might be about to fuck.

“There are rules to this, Danny,” she said in a serious voice. “Rules that you must follow.”

“Okay,” I said. “What are they?”

“Firstly, you must make me orgasm at least twice before entering me.”

I nodded, feeling my heart start to race. We were definitely about to fuck.

“Secondly, when you orgasm you must do so inside my body. I am not some slutty porn-star and I do not enjoy having semen on my face or tits. Understand?”

I nodded again.

“Finally, throughout the evening you will follow every instruction I give to you. No questions. What I say is law.”

“Charlie’s Law,” I said, smiling. “I will obey to the letter.”

“Good,” she said with a curt nod. “Now... kiss me.”

She lay back fully across the plush back seat, and I climbed on top of her. Her legs opened as much as they could within the long, tight dress, and I moved between them, pressing my now-solid penis into her crotch. Our mouths met once more, and opened to one another. She moaned gently as I circled my hips and pressed harder against her.

I reached my hands behind and beneath her and moved one slowly down her back to her rear. I moaned into her mouth as my hands explored the perfect curves of her bum. My fingers dug into the firm flesh of her buttocks, and I felt the well-toned muscles there tighten as she angled her hips towards me. My other hand found the zip at the back of her neck, and I slowly pulled it down while at the same time pulling up her dress. The zip stopped at the small of her back. I drew back a little as she pulled the front of the dress down.

She wasn't wearing a bra. Her naked breasts popped out over the fabric as it moved down. They were far larger than they had seemed when she was fully clothed. I bore down on her and kissed her again, my cock pressing hard between her legs as our tongues danced together. I drew a trail of soft, wet kisses over her chin and down her neck and chest, then began exploring the voluminous round curves of her breasts, taking each hard pink nipple into my mouth in turn - licking, sucking and biting them - each time rewarded by louder and louder moans from this deliciously curvaceous women writhing half-naked beneath me.

“Yes, Danny,” she whispered. “Suck them. Suck my tits.”

She grabbed my bum with both hands, gripping me almost painfully and pulling me so hard against her that I thought my hardness would rip through the straining fabric of trousers and dress and panties, and enter her right away. Then without warning she rolled over and shoved me off the seat.

My breath was knocked out of me as I hit the thickly-carpeted floor of the limo. Charlie landed on top of me - one knee on either side of my chest, pinning my arms down beneath her. Her naked breasts swung pendulously, mountainously above me. She looked into my eyes with a strange, distant expression which broke into a dark smile. The dress had ridden up almost to her waist. She pulled it up over her head and flung it away. She was straddled over my chest wearing nothing but a pair of lace-edged black panties.

She leant down, bringing her face close to mine. Her strong fingers gripped my head and her dark eyes held my gaze.

“You are now going to lick out my cunt,” she said in a low, breathy voice. “Do you understand?”

I nodded, mute. A strange tingling jolted through my body as the crude sharpness of the word gathered a powerful eroticism in her soft, elegant diction. Without another word she shuffled forwards until she was kneeling right over my face, and pulled the thin strip of her knickers aside to reveal her most intimate parts to me.

I stared up, mesmerised, into the delicate pink folds of her glistening pussy. The hot, delicious and pheromone-soaked scent of her cunt washed over my face. I greedily drank it in, feeling my cock pulse inside my straining trousers, and then Charlie lowered herself gently onto my face.

Her soft lips pressed against my mouth and nose, and I felt the wetness of her arousal trickle over my face. I pushed my tongue into her pulsating vagina and felt the muscles clench against me, almost pushing it back out. The taste electrified me. I circled around her hole with the tip of my tongue, sliding it in and out of her. She moaned and began to rock her hips. My tongue slid up and down her pussy crack, lapping up her juices and evincing more gasps and groans of pleasure. She stopped moving as I closed my lips around her clit, sucking it gently into my mouth and flicking my tongue quickly across it in a tiny circular motion. Her wetness grew, almost choking me. Her body tensed and quivered above me.

I felt the car come to a stop, and heard the driver’s door open. There was a polite knock at the window.

“I’m coming!” Charlie yelled, clearly meaning it in the sexual sense, as my face was suddenly washed in the juices of her orgasming pussy, and she bucked her hips so hard that I thought at first she had broken my nose.

The driver, it seemed, knew the sense in which his employer had meant the phrase and did not open the door. Charlie rolled off me and quickly put her dress back on. She immediately looked as elegant and sophisticated as ever. When I caught my own reflection in one of the blacked-out windows, I saw that my hair was tousled and my face reddened and glistening with her pussy-juice.

The driver finally opened the door and we got out. I had no idea where we were, or even how long we had been driving. I might have had my face between Charlie’s thighs for minutes, or hours - days, for all I knew. Certainly there were worse ways of spending time.

The night was bitter after the warm, heady atmosphere inside the limo. We emerged into a small courtyard surrounded by tall red brick walls. A five-story Victorian building loomed over us, all buttresses and ornate bay windows. I could still hear a distant rumble of traffic in the air and through the ground, and I guessed we were either still within the city or not far outside it.

An elderly porter in a red suit came down the long flight of stone steps to greet us, looked confused when he saw that we had no bags, and then led us back up to the ornate dark green double-door. A small, discreet brass plaque to the left of the door carried the simple inscription: Hotel. Clearly this was far too expensive and exclusive a place to need anything so vulgar as a name.

There was no check-in or any other formality - we were led straight to a wide spiral staircase and up to the top floor. I got an impression of grand corridors and ornate columns and sculptures and large paintings and coloured hangings, all fleeting by so quickly that they hazed into one texture in my mind. We came to a private suite and the porter left us.

Charlie led me through a reception room larger than my living room, into a surprisingly small bedroom almost entirely filled by an enormous oak-framed bed. Another door, closed, led out of the room at the side opposite where we had entered. A wide, curtained window took up most of one wall and a painting I recognised but could not place took up most of another.

Charlie went to the window, opened the curtains a crack and peered out. I suddenly felt nervous.

“What’s through there?” I asked, indicating the closed door.

“Another bedroom,” she said dismissively, turning back to me. “We won’t be needing it. Now, strip.”

I quickly pulled off my tie, unbuttoned my shirt and shrugged it off. Charlie looked appreciatively at my toned chest and stomach, and I paused for a moment, looking at her.

“Go on,” she said. “All the way, Danny. I want to see it all.”

I unzipped my fly and pulled my trousers and underwear down, pulling off my socks in the same movement as I stepped out of each leg. I stood there naked in front of her, my erection pulsing in the dim light, glinting with precum at the tip. She stared down at it and smiled.

“Very nice,” she said, stepping close to me. “Ready for action.” Her right hand gripped my cock, fingers curling expertly around it and drawing back over the full length, her touch lingering and teasing. I closed my eyes and groaned. The touch left me, and I felt Charlie take a step backwards. When I opened my eyes again she was entirely nude, just straightening with her panties in her hand, looking at me with an odd sternness. Her large breasts moved gently with her breathing, small pink nipples still hard as nails. My eyes were drawn down over the full curves of her body, to the neat patch of dark red curls between her smooth thighs.

“Lie down on the bed,” she said.

I did as I was told. Charlie leapt on top of me, and suddenly everything went dark. She had whipped a thick blindfold over my eyes, and now tied it tightly behind my head. I felt her kneel above my face again, and felt the heat of her bared pussy on my skin. Her intoxicating scent entered and consumed me once more, and I ached for the taste of her.

“Let me lick you,” I gasped. “Let me taste you!”

“Oh, I will,” said Charlie. “You’re going to make me cum again, aren’t you? Like a good boy?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, I will. I will make you cum again.”

“I hope so,” she said, lowering herself onto me. “Because after I’ve cum, you can fuck me. And I’m quite sure you want to fuck me.”

I couldn’t reply, because already my tongue was busy between her legs. I found her clit and began to suck and lick at it. The warm flesh of her thighs pressed tightly around my face as I lapped up her pussy juices. My arms were above her knees this time, and I ran my hands up her body and over her breasts. They felt heavy in my hands. She gasped as I gently pinched her nipples between my fingers. She gripped my head with both hands, pulling me deeper between her thighs and rocking against me, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps.

I didn’t notice at the time, but remembering back, I’m sure I heard the door to the other bedroom open at this point. All I knew then was that suddenly, as Charlie ground her pussy into my face, pulling my head with both hands, a weight settled on the bed just to the left of my hips, and another pair of hands gently gripped my penis.

I gasped, and tried to push Charlie up off me to see what was happening, but she pushed me down, hard. My tongue entered her again. I began to fuck her with my tongue as the mystery hands - soft and petite - began to stroke me.

“This is part of the surprise, Danny,” said Charlie. “This is what my husband is missing out on. Aren’t you lucky?”

Again I was unable to reply. I continued tongue-fucking Charlie’s pussy as the mystery hands slid expertly up and down my engorged cock. I had never been wanked off so precisely - professionally, even.

Charlie came more quickly this time, moaning and bucking against me as her pussy spasmed and gushed around my probing tongue. As her moans of pleasure subsided, I felt a tongue circle the end of my cock for a moment before a hot, wet mouth slid down over the entire length. I moaned aloud into Charlie’s still-quivering cunt. The mouth withdrew slowly. Hot, full lips closed tightly around the head of my cock and sucked, hard, then took me deep inside again.

“Ahhh!” I gasped. “Oh god, yes!”

My balls tightened and my cock pulsed. I felt an orgasm rising from deep within me. The mouth sensed this, and quickly pulled away. One hand gripped the base of my penis, gently squeezing and releasing. I could feel hot breaths breezing over the wet tip. Her mouth - whoever she was - was only centimetres from my cock.

Charlie moved off my face and rested her dripping crotch on my chest, panting. She loosened the blindfold and pushed it up to my forehead. I looked up at her flushed face and sweat-slickened breasts. Her eyes were closed, and she was smiling exhaustedly.

To her side, a perfectly naked bottom was pointed at me. A pair of small, pale round cheeks were slightly parted, showing me a pair of smooth, glistening pussy lips beneath a tight pink anus. When I looked back up at Charlie I found she was grinning slyly down at me.

“That’s all you’re seeing for now,” she said. The blindfold came down again, and was pulled tight.

I felt Charlie shuffle down over my body until she knelt above my stiff, throbbing penis. I felt a wetness gently press around the tip as she lowered herself slowly towards me, the opening of her pussy just touching me.

“Charlie, I won’t last long,” I whispered. “I can’t!”

“I don’t need you to,” she said, and then thrust herself down onto me.

I cried out with dizzy pleasure as her vagina enveloped me - her slick passage sliding down around my cock and holding it, tight, hot, wet. She didn’t move after that first thrust, but held me inside her. I was right on the cusp of orgasm - a tiny movement away from cumming into her. I breathed quickly and heavily, trying to pull myself back, trying to hold out.

She squeezed. Her vagina contracted tight around me, once, twice.

“Oh fuck!” I cried. She stopped squeezing, keeping me right on that blissful, teasing precipice.

Then I felt the other woman straddle me, facing Charlie as she cradled my cock within her. The taste and smell of another pussy washed down onto me. Wet velvety lips came down to me, and supple bum-cheeks pressed around my face as I strained my head forwards to lick her. I smelled her heady, warm ass-musk - not at all unpleasant - and the tip of my nose brushed against her tight rear entrance as my tongue entered her pussy.

Charlie squeezed me again, and I gave out a muffled moan as I licked and sucked at the other woman. I wanted this to last forever, but I knew Charlie could make me orgasm in a matter of seconds, anytime she wanted to.

“How does it taste, Danny?” said Charlie breathlessly, squeezing her pussy around me again. “Do you like Emily’s pussy?”

“Oh fuck yes!” I tried to say, but I suspect I didn’t actually say anything intelligible.

Emily was now rocking her hips above me, and my tongue found her clit. She gasped as I took her tiny nub into my mouth and sucked. The movement was gradually pushing the blindfold away, and soon I could see a little. Emily’s pert bottom was circling over my face. My mouth and nose were now buried in her pussy-crack, and I was staring right at her puckered anus. I brought my hands up, stroking them over her buttocks and gently pulling them apart.

I pushed her away just a little so that I could slide my middle finger into her vagina, slicking it up and then moving it up to press against her arsehole. I pressed my face into her pussy again, and gently slipped the finger into her. She gave a loud cry - mostly pleasure, with just a hint of pain - and her muscle tightened around my finger as it slid into her rectum, up to the second knuckle. She began to rock her hips more wildly now, and her pussy gushed on my face as I finger-fucked her arse.

“Oh god, I’m cumming!” whispered Emily. Her voice was soft, high-pitched. Those were the only words I ever heard her say.

Then Charlie began to bounce up and down, her pussy stroking me, still gripping me tight. I thrust my hips up, shoving my cock as deep as I could into her. Emily still bucked her pussy against my tongue, pushing her arse back onto my stiff finger, her breaths coming in short, sharp bursts.

With a loud, animalistic roar I finally came, spurting what felt like a gigantic load of spunk into Charlie’s tight, hot pussy. We continued thrusting against each other until the last spasm subsided.

I gently withdrew my finger from Emily’s bum, and she rolled off me and collapsed onto the bed. I finally saw her face. She was blonde, thin, very pretty and quite young - barely twenty, I guessed. Her eyes were closed tightly, her face almost frowning, and she was panting heavily.

Charlie lifted herself up off me. My softening cock slipped out of her and slapped wetly onto my thigh, dripping with semen. She leaned down over me, smiling softly, and gave me one long, tender kiss on the lips. Then she swung herself off the bed and went to a cabinet beneath the large painting.

“Would anyone like a drink?” she said.

We had a drink. Whisky, single malt - the finest I had ever tasted. Emily finally opened her eyes and sat up on the bed. She was much thinner than Charlie, almost girlish in her frame, with small boobs, high and pert. She said nothing more that evening.

The three of us lay naked on the huge bed, sipping our drinks, smiling and occasionally laughing softly, but not saying a word. It was a completely surreal moment - few minutes, half hour, whatever it was - that in many ways sticks in my mind more than the flirting or the sex. I had no idea who these two beautiful, nude women were, yet we had shared something I had never come close to experiencing before.

All too soon the moment was over. Emily rose and left the room, still silent and naked. Charlie disappeared from the room while I pulled on my clothes, and returned a few minutes later dressed in grey slacks and a billowy white shirt.

“That was a truly... amazing experience,” I said to her. “Your husband doesn’t know what he’s missed out on.”

“Oh,” said Charlie, smiling darkly, “he will.”

I looked at her, confused, and she gestured towards a small bedside table I hadn’t noticed before. There was a tiny video camera sitting there, the red ‘record’ light gleaming, pointing right at the bed.

“Don’t worry,” she said, seeing my startled expression. “I’ll have your faced blanked out before I show him. He’ll never know it was the dashing young pianist who put his penis in me. But he’ll know what he could have had.”

I relaxed a little. I’ve never enjoyed making enemies.

“Perhaps I’ll give you a copy of the un-redacted version,” she added with a wink. “But now it’s time for you to go, Danny. Thank you for being a part of this.”

She hugged me tenderly, planted a single kiss on my cheek, saw me to the front door of the suite and closed it gently behind me.

I made my way down through the plush corridors and staircases of the hotel Hotel to the main reception. I was left waiting for a few minutes, then the porter came and escorted me outside. The polite young man was waiting in the courtyard with the limo. I got inside, feeling strangely melancholy at being there alone. I could still smell Charlie’s sex in the air, and the memories of the evening got me hard again as the car drove me back to reality.

The journey took about twenty minutes. The limo stopped and the driver opened the door. We were back at the Paragon Club, SW1.

“Pleasure meeting you, sir,” said the driver. “Lady Charlotte asked me to give you this.”

He handed me a brown envelope, saluted, then got back into the car and drove off.

“Lady?” I said to myself, shaking my head as I opened the envelope. Inside was a pair of black lace panties wrapped around a tiny memory stick. The panties - the ones Charlie had been wearing earlier, of course - were still damp in my hand. I put them to my face and closed my eyes as I sniffed, savouring her scent one last time.

“Sniffing knickers in public, Danny, really?” said a voice.

I quickly shoved the damp lace in my pocket and turned around. My best friend was standing on the steps of the Club grinning at me, dressed, literally, like a fairy-tale princess.

“Um... Hi, Myrtle,” I said, blushing.

“Hi yourself,” she said. “I hear you’ve been causing a ruckus in there,” she nodded towards the Club. “Are you going to make trouble every time I ask you for a favour?”

“Probably,” I said with a sheepish grin. “Nice, er, costume."

“Fancy dress,” said Myrtle, curtseying. “All-singles Valentine's Ball at the Meadway. Somewhat tedious to begin with, but then I met a few rather... friendly boys and girls. Then I went to… well, you honestly would not believe the night I’ve had.”

“Mine’s been pretty unbelievable,” I said with a grin, “now you come to mention it.”

“Well, let’s go for a drink and swap debaucherous tales,” she said, taking my arm. “Biggest slut pays the bill.”

“You’re on.”

We walked off into the night, found a bar, got drunk and swapped stories.

I didn’t pay for a drink all night.

Fair Trade

I sit on the edge of the bed and I wait. I wait for his e-mail, for his words. I wait for this month’s installment. I wait for the slow, lingering, all-consuming orgasm I will finally give myself, as his imagination penetrates me. I sit there, and I wait.

It’s almost midnight. He’s late, and I am impatient.

Probably putting a final shine on the narrative, I think. Like me he’s a perfectionist. Add a word here, remove one there. The right word in the right context. Pussy? Cunt? Vagina? Sex? Such choices are important. They make all the difference.

But I’d settle for a penis where a cock might have pleased me more to have the story in front of me, now. Instead I must wait.

I open my legs and sigh as the breeze coming in through the open window moves between them. I’m naked under the skirt, of course. The air’s soft fingers run with teasing slowness along the insides of my thighs, tracing invisible lines of electric sensation all the way to my smooth-shaven… well, whatever you want to call it, it is tingling and dripping wet, pulsing with an anticipation built over many long, frustrated days. It needs attention. It needs to be teased, tasted, caressed and filled.

I have many toys to hand, and my fingers… well, they’re here too. I’m prepared, I’m ready. But I like to save myself, to wait… and he is late.

I haven’t masturbated in over a week. Every day, all day, I’ve longed for tonight. Every day I’ve thought about it, imagined it. Each evening I have come home with my knickers soaked from these daydreams, but I refrain from touching myself. It’s difficult but, somehow, I manage.

At night it’s even worse. I long to touch myself as I picture him next to me in bed. He takes me in his arms and pulls me close. I close my eyes as we kiss, and my entire body throbs. A hand – his hand – moves between my legs. I withdraw and lie on my back, opening my legs and exposing myself to him. He moves into position, and as his muscular body presses down onto mine I gasp, feeling him enter me, feeling my body open itself to take him inside. I picture all of this and I ache for release, but I hold back.

Though perhaps ‘picture’ is the wrong word, as I have no idea what he looks like. For all I know ‘he’ is actually a ‘she’. That might turn me on even more.

My phone beeps – finally! – and vibrates itself along the table at the foot of the bed with three long buzzes. I grab it quickly and hold it between my legs, smearing it with my wetness. He always sends two e-mails, just so I can do this. Sometimes he teases me by waiting a few minutes but this time – aware, perhaps, that he is late and I am impatient – his mail arrives only seconds later.

I cry aloud as the phone vibrates against my pussy: once… twice… three times… oh my fucking god! I have needed this! My clitoris – denied stimulation for so long – makes up for lost time by soaking my entire body with ecstatic pleasure at each buzz of the little device. I whimper a little when it stops.

I put my phone back on the table, and press ‘record’ on the little video camera that sits beside it, facing me. I lean back into a nest of cushions, open my legs to the blinking red light of the camera, and open the first e-mail on the tablet lying among the half-dozen dildos, beads and butt-plugs strewn across the bed beside me.

That’s the deal, you see. He writes me a story, and I send him a video of myself wanking over it.

His first e-mail just says: “Get ready.”

I’m ready, oh so very ready.

I open the second e-mail, and slide one long, slender finger into my cunt as I start to read…

…and the camera watches.