Lady Lovecome’s Diary: Part 4.
Cavorting with artists.
Based on a post by A Big Cat. Listen to the Podcast at Explicit Novels.
By Lady Bathsheba Ottoline Lovecome.
I glugged my wine and declined a refill from the waiter forever hovering at my elbow. I gave him my glass. My head was spinning already. From wine or this woman, I couldn't tell.
She blinked at me as if performing a calculation. "Your bush, it is black like your hair?"
"I'm waxed."
"Merde!" She flapped me away.
"Well, not all over; I mean;” I wished I hadn't necked that wine. "Oh fuck it." This is the thing about being a Lady. Everything you do is fine. You're never crude, or drunk, just eccentric. For example, only a Lady could, right there and then, in that room of doting spaniels, tug the front of her skirt up, and the front of her knickers down.
The girl's left cheek dimpled, biting back her smile. Bless him, the waiter turned his back to us and did his best to shield us to the rest of the room. In the glass frame of a dark photograph my reflection; figure-hugging dress, tied back hair, knickers down, prim and dirty; was better than the photograph.
The sulky artist nodded at my display, contemplating it and ignoring; probably relishing; the dropped jaws around us. "Je suis Gabrielle," she said eventually.
"Bash," I said. "Enchantée."
A rickety goods lift trundled me up into a dark, cavernous warehouse the size of a small airport. Gabrielle's Studio. She clattered the lift-gates open for me, her face deadly serious, but gone was the sulky Parisian. She was dressed in paint-spattered overalls and workboats, both oversized, with her wild hair tied back. She was dressed for work. Or worse, to turn me off. My stomach sank. I was ready to continue our fun, dressed in my predatory Chanel and heels. I'd even toyed with going commando but changed my mind at the last minute, as removing panties for someone is always as exciting as being secretly naked. Having said that, such was my state of mind in the car on the way over; imagining what Gabrielle might have planned for me once I'd removed said knickers; that I'd quite ruined them.
She shook my hand and nodded, like a miniature bow. "Come see your wild, wild woods, Miss Riding Hood."
In the middle of the timber and brick expanse, lit by a barrage of lights and reflectors, was a stage-set of a black and twisted forest springing from a snowy hillock. Centre stage was a stuffed wolf so huge it came to my knees even reclined on the floor. Waiting, draped across the poor creature, was a crimson, velvet cape.
Gabrielle snatched a sketch from her workbench and presented it. "This is what I need." She only spoke French to me now. The trust and respect implicit in this, not to mention the breathy musicality of her voice in her native tongue, quite undid all her efforts to play down her beauty.
The sketch showed a woman; Beatrice Dalle, clearly; sitting on the wolf's back, smoldering. She was naked but for the iconic cloak, her knees spread into a wide M, her vulva petaled and pink between.
I snorted. "Gabrielle, have you even read Little Red Hood?"
"This is not Little Red. This is the girl grown into a woman, like we all must, into the feline, vampiric queen of our own wild woods. We must rule over canine masculinity, non? And she is displaying the secret core of her power, the power after which she is named. This is not clear?"
Now I understood why she'd asked about my minge. She wasn't (just) trying to be outrageous. The whole set was one massive, stylized pudenda. The tortuous wood was dark, pubic hair, the snowy hillock was the skin of a mound and I guess Red Riding Hood, I, was supposed to be the cunty centerpiece.
The lurid reality of what I'd agreed to hit me, and my heart hammered so hard the page shook with my pulse. Yesterday, when I revealed myself to Gabrielle, I was in control. Now I was here at her pleasure. This was exciting in its way, but her focus on her work, and not on me, made me feel a sleazy imposter. I was only here to get cheeky. I'm a vain and horny creature and will do anything for someone who finds me sexy. But I'm also spoilt aristocracy. I won't be used.
But fuck it. I had nothing else to do.
I gulped, handed the drawing back to her, and kicked off my shoes.
At last, Gabrielle's cheek dimpled with the secret smile that so beguiled me yesterday. "I like you, Lady Bash," she whispered.
She stepped behind me to unzip my dress, but I sensed she was stalking, taking me in as I stripped. I hoped so anyway. This was more like I imagined. I wriggled off my Chanel, then my panties, and pirouetted. "Okay?"
Gabrielle blinked, swallowed.
Nudity, under the right conditions, is the scariest battledress in a woman's wardrobe. Gabrielle was jittery as she wrapped me in the cape. She pulled the big hood over my head and tied a single fastening at the neck. Velvet inside and out, the thigh-length cloak felt divine, like a big hand stroking my back and bum. It left me feeling even more naked.
"Tres bien." Gabrielle picked up a camera, gestured to the stuffed wolf. "I will take photographs and sketches so you are not here for days watching me paint, Okay?"
Suddenly hit by stage fright, I sat primly on the wolf's back. It was a giant, big as couch, and its bones might have been replaced by welded steel, but it still felt like it could spring back to life any second.
I draped my cloak just like the sketch, labially flaring to half-reveal my boobs but exposing me from the waist down. Then I took a breath. And opened my legs.
A long, quiet moment.
Gabrielle was a black ghost behind the dazzling lights. After all my sodden fantasies in the car I couldn't decide if I felt sexy or not now. I'd had more foreplay from a gynecologist.
"Wider," Gabriele clipped.
I spread my knees as wide as I could, legs poised on the balls of my feet. Gabrielle cleared her throat. A click. More silence. She hated me. I hated me. My arse was too big. My cunt was too small, too wizened. A toilet part, bared for all to see. I wanted to close my legs. I felt like I was being punished for being dirty yesterday.
Gabrielle stepped into the light, scowling. "You are too beautiful, it is in the way. I sense you here"; she tapped her temple; "but not here." She grabbed her crotch. "You understand?"
"Umm." My feet and knees, tensed in their porno pose, trembled. How could I get out of this?
"Okay." She put down her camera. "Come, let's relax. Have some fun, non? Loosen up." She unzipped her overalls and they flumped to her feet like an empty sack. She was, of course, naked beneath. Her body was sleek and neat with pert little tits and bottom. Cow. Her mound sported a tuft of vivid red hair and beneath her lips were puffy and florid. Maybe I'd stay a little longer.
She stepped out of her clothes and boots together, and picked her camera up again. "Come. Come. Dance, frolic. Whatever you like! Arouse me! Now I am naked too, so you will be able to tell, non?"
I stood, shook out the stiffness in my legs, then my arms. My tits wobbled at the velvet, stiffening my nipples. Gabrielle lit up. She stepped close, clicking her camera, biting her lip. The bit lip did it for me. I stretched out a few warm-up moves from years of ballet lessons. I pointed my toes and lifted each leg, dead straight into the air, holding, repeating. Gabrielle gasped, paced about me, clicking a flurry, and the magnetism of her naked presence raised my hairs toward her in a Mexican wave. She crouched under my raised leg, and muttered, "Your clitoris is so big and fat"; snap-snap-snap; "it makes me horny and at the same time jealous!" My hips warmed. This was much more like it.
Feeling cheeky now, I placed my palms flat on the floor and bent double, relishing the cloak's hem creeping up over my bum. Gabrielle moaned and I wanted to cheer. I placed my feet further apart, then bent at the knee, up and down, creating a tell-tale chill between my legs. Gabrielle's "Oh," and much clicking at my rear view, sent a jolt of naughtiness through me.
I threw a leg over the wolf's back. It's fur was surprisingly soft on my bits. I wound my hips, enjoying the silky squeeze to my clit. My cheeks blazed. Gabrielle growled, this seemed to be a good thing. "There is my Red Riding hood, non?" Her lens was all over my face, and up and down my torso writhing on the back of the beast. My clit tingled like the purr of an insistent phone call.
I slid off my furry saddle and settled against the creature's side, squatting like a fertility goddess, my arms spread along its back. This wasn't a pose. It was a cry for help!
Gabrielle stood in front of me, at arm's distance, silhouetted sharply by the lights. Between her thigh tops the distinct curl of her puckered lips sported a glittering diamond of arousal. Both my mouths wanted to eat her. And be eaten. I shot her a glance that I hoped screamed, "Feed me, bitch."
She stamped her foot. "Oh Oui." She clicked, hopped about, clicked again. I wriggled, trying to mesmerize her, draw her toward me.
I sat on the wolf's back again. This time so I might raise my throbbing clit to a more irresistible height for licking. I placed my right foot on the creature's head, scrunching my toes into the fur between its ears. I splayed; for my wet admirer, not her lens. Fucking feed me.
"Oui!" She squealed. "Don't move! Merde. Merde. There is my predator."
At least she ate me with her camera, working in a feeding frenzy, getting closer and closer until she was knelt between my thighs. All my torrid horniness from the car flooded back. And out. Gabrielle slapped her knee. "Ha! Now we have the slavering beast! You are dripping! Merci. Merci, beautiful lady."
There's an illicit, primal thrill in dripping in front of a stranger. It brought a kind of shameful, debauched freedom. An exquisite vulnerability. Gabrielle, sat cross legged below me, made no secret of her arousal either. Her slipped-apart lips glistened in the light bouncing from my skin.
Gabrielle put the camera down, peering at my cunt, then my costume. "Lovely lady, I need your inner petals to match the shape of your cloak. May I touch you?"
I grunted.
Gabrielle couldn't bite that smile back. Delicately, with her tongue curled out in concentration, she took my inner lips and parted them. She lightly tugged one lip into a different shape. I pulsed inside. She must've clocked my inner clasp, because she sighed a hot breath over me. She picked up her camera, then, almost as an afterthought, dipped her head to peck a feather light kiss to my clit. She sat back, sucking a drip of me from her bottom lip. Then raised her blasted lens.
"More," I flapped my knees.
"Hmm?" Click.
"Bitch, do me or I'll knock you down and sit on your face."
"Promises." Click. Click.
"Now!" I growled.
Gabrielle chuckled, dropped her camera and, finally, pressed her pretty, naughty lips to my cunt.
She started slowly, as if relishing a moment she'd spent some time considering, but after a couple of croaky hums she was lapping and sucking my clit hood like she hadn't eaten in days.
I scrunched her thick, red hair, and enjoyed the ride of her smooth cheeks and her busily intruding tongue and that irrepressible enthusiasm. Adoration, even. In a dozen speeding heartbeats, my rush coursed from the tips of every hair on my body, it balled in my core like a fizzing Catherine wheel until I whimpered, then blasted into Gabrielle's mouth. Perhaps I was delirious, perhaps it was the set and the costume and the stuffed wolf, but I felt like I was devouring her, not the other way round. I spread my lips wide, into a gaping maw, arched, and howled into her wild, wild wood.
So that's how I met my Gabby. And yes, I returned the favor that day. She stood over me, her foot up on the wolf's back, clawing her bottom, while I nuzzled her slobbery folds and she yelped like a vixen. So I guess I was a less selfish predator back then.
Anyway, Diary Bill, I've veered off on a horny tangent, as usual. This isn't actually the point of my story. I just wanted to set the scene for my relationship with Gabrielle. Call it an amuse-bouche. Well it amused our bouches anyway. And hopefully it underlines that there were no sexual secrets between Gabrielle and me. So now I can get to my point.
After that stimulating morning, Gabrielle and I didn't indulge in each other again, agreeing the moment was too nice and we wanted to preserve it as it was. We've been good, so far. But now I think about it, perhaps I should invite her to the manor house, Bill, would you like that? I'd do her again with you. Maybe we could make a better memory.
The next time I met Gabrielle, maybe three months later, she was married, successful, and very, very wealthy. She had the best of everything. Including her husband. Alex was a six-foot-six blonde billionaire, and sleek as a sports car. He was a fantastically successful big tech investor, boasting in his sexy French accent. "I walk into a room and people, they just throw money at me."
In her messages, Gabrielle would boast how sex with him was always extraordinary. By which she meant out of the ordinary. He was into everything that involved expensive drugs and equipment and unlikely positions. When she arrived for a drink with me, she winced as she sat down.
"Good night?" I said.
"Extra ordinary." She sighed.
We were in the woodiest, quietest bar of my women's-only club. I picked her up on her sigh. "You make extraordinary sound disappointing."
Gabrielle shrugged. Pouted. Goodness, that woman could pout. "Well, sometimes, I'd just like to make love you know? I'd love to feel desired. Sometimes it is like I'm just some super hi-fi fembot for him. And he has one of those too. He made me have a threesome with it!"
"But you said you never met a man who made you come so hard."
"Oui, but it's mechanical. I want to be devoured by someone who adores me. Like you ate me, lovely lady. I want to come on the face of someone while they weep for joy! I want to be fucked in five seconds because they love me so much they immediately come, but then they can't stop and keep fucking and coming and fucking and coming!"
A loud tut came from an old dowager three tables away. She shook her head. We sniggered.
I squeezed Gabrielle's hand. "Ah, the problems of the rich and beautiful."
"Oui." She smiled, but sadly, and totally missing my sarcasm. "But how will we ever have children?"
I didn't get that, and it must've shown on my face because Gabrielle explained, as ever, loudly. "Well how do I get pregnant when he only ever comes in my mouth or my ass!"
The old dowager steamed off so abruptly she knocked her chair over. I got Gabrielle to elaborate.
It seems the problem was of her own making. When they first got together she was so obsessed with her elegant catch that she went along with his whole entitled thing: "Only the best for us, Gabrielle, only the unusual, the unique. Only life's delicacies." This meant that, in their first flushes, she'd suck him off at the wheel of his Ferrari, at the opera, under the table in Michelin-starred restaurants, anywhere he liked, and always to completion. Diary, she even pretended to come when she swallowed. And such was her conviction that, a few times, she really did come! Just from the jet of him into her mouth! Jesus, no wonder he married her.
But I was all ears, practically taking notes, making the most of Gabrielle's lascivious descriptions of what she did to her husband. In detail. She squirmed in her seat as she described running her tongue in a figure of eight around his balls, and sucking them while she wanked him to make a "human fountain." She clasped her hands between her knees when she told me about his "frenulum"; the skin holding his foreskin to his tip. He adored her lapping his so much, especially when her tongue was slippery with his cum, that it kept him hard for ages. Using our wine bottle, she'd even showed me how she'd incorporated it into her blowjobs, twisting her head and slurping her tongue under his end while she sucked. Our waiter enjoyed that.
In fact, the way Gabrielle described sucking Alex got me so worked up I had to visit the ladies. But it wasn't just the compelling detail of his hard meat in her mouth, or her erotic show, that shut me in a cubicle with my knickers round my knees. What got my fingers digging, was how Gabrielle described her husband's cum.
I have to say, I tried to avoid semen, and thought I always would, until I heard Gabrielle talk. I was twenty and had sucked my share of dicks, but had never swallowed and only tasted the odd splash of cum by accident. Meanwhile, Gabrielle described how simply swallowing was not good enough for them anymore. She liked the sensation of "his hot, heavy first splash" so much she'd contrive it so she was always licking or kissing him at the moment of orgasm. "My lips drip with him, sweetie, while I messily guzzle the rest, and I watch his eyes locked to my dirty mouth!"
She made it sound joyful, like a treat. Not the slimy stuff itself; though it's no worse than girls' when I think about it; but what ejaculation represented. How desired it made her feel, how powerful she felt drawing it from her man and how, when she licked him clean, or sucked him dry, it bonded them tighter. There was no one earth who'd enjoy doing this for him, other than the one who loved him. Or so she thought at the time. She didn't know about his mistress then. Not the robot one.
But anyway, it put a dirty little demon in me. And now I can't wait to find that man who's cum I want to "messily guzzle." It's not the semen, it's the man. I fantasize about it. I think it might be you, Bill. I've thought about it a few times, licking your big spigot while you ruin my make-up (I'd like to see this in a mirror) Or your hot stuff pumping thick in my mouth. I imagine what it might feel like sliding down my throat. Gabrielle says it's like oysters. I adore oysters. But the thing that got me squeaking in that woman's club bathroom, and just as a few minutes ago in my bed, is what my fantasy man's reaction might be, watching me relish his release; the most sexily intimate of all sexily intimate things. The love in his eyes as I consume him.
But when I returned to Gabrielle after my little release she carried on. It seemed Alex had grown tired of even Gabrielle's excellent head. So then came the anal, which she said she quite enjoyed, but nowhere near as much as she pretended. She didn't come with him, and started feeling more like an empty vessel than a loving partner. She got a vibrator (no manbots yet) and used it on herself so she could come at all because he wasn't interested in visiting her, claiming: "All orgasms are selfish, Gabrielle. Taken, not given." He loved her vibrator, of course, and so started the descent into increasingly more elaborate contraptions between them.
I was glad I'd had my fiddle when I did, because that quite turned me off.
So the message of this part of my tale, Bill, is that I know I seemed angry when you denied me, but I was being selfish. I blame my hungry cunt and your fat sausage. I don't mind if you don't want to fuck. I'd love to of course, but there is as much love, maybe more love, in exploring other ways to please each other.
But one more thing about fucking before I go.
After that afternoon, Gabrielle disappeared for a couple of years. When she popped into my life again, recently, she had a startlingly beautiful toddler and a baby.
She was a different woman. She'd put on a few pounds but looked good for it. Of course. She wasted no time in telling me her story.
She took long walks across the heath near their city home, and one misty, particularly magical morning, a silhouette resolved from the distance: a runner, a large, dark-haired man. Something about the way he moved, fluid as a thoroughbred, did funny things to her abdomen. He was clearly a tosser though, being one of those muscle-bound narcissists who thinks they're sexy running without a top; showing off their pecs and guns and six-packs and what-not.
As he approached, his muscles went wobble-snap, wobble-snap. Her stomach flipped. She caught his eye. He caught hers. He bound past, gawping as if she'd slapped him. She tipped her nose to the air and felt dizzy. And what was it about his smell? The wake of it behind him. Animal but oceanic. She had to sit on a bench, she felt so overwhelmed, or as Gabrielle put it: "It was winter on the heath, but in my knickers, spring was in full bloom!"
Maybe it was because of months without the simple, intimate attentions of a man, but Gabrielle couldn't get the dark stranger from her head. He wasn't as tall as Alex. He wasn't as refined; more marine than man-about-town, more beast than man, and much hairier than her body-waxed husband. But the way he moved, smoothly, with the determined grace of a predator. And the way he smelled. Like the sea and the earth, and a fresh breeze. And his startled, startling eyes, partly due to their shocking paleness, mostly his expression;
Something about her seemed to shock him. He'd taken a deep breath of her as he passed. Had he been as bedazzled by her too? She was dressed in her trench coat, baggy peddle-pushers and walking boots. She wore no makeup that morning. Her big hair was unkempt and loose. But he made her feel like she'd sashayed by him in lingerie after a five hundred pound makeover.
Then, further along her walk, she saw the meat-head again, in the woods beside the path. He was doing pull-ups on a thick branch.
She found herself wandering from the path and weaving through the trees toward him. ("I felt like you, Red Riding Hood, stalking another wolf!) She ambled over to the man, her knees jelly. He didn't stop hefting his body up and down, up and down.
She put the thick trunk of a gnarled and ancient horse-chestnut between herself and the path, standing practically at the man's crossed feet as he dipped. His aura made her woozy.
She unfastened her trousers and dropped them.
He dropped from the tree.
Then he dropped to his knees.
He yanked aside the gusset of her everyday panties and nuzzled his bristly chin between her thighs. His tongue slid into her like an overexcited eel, squirming into places only her fingers ever visited, but with a fluidity and speed only a tongue can manage. It tugged her inside out. In a dozen puffed breaths she squealed and tumbled into a quivering orgasm, clawing at his sweating buzz cut and shoulders, chewing her cunt at his mouth for more and more of that gorgeous muscle.
Then it was too much. She shoved him away. He grinned omnipotently, wiped his wrist across his lips and stood. He adjusted the front of his tenting shorts, winked, and trotted into the mist.
Gabrielle didn't see the stranger on the heath again, even though she spent as much time as she could there after that. And even more time fantasizing how else she might get this brute to please her next time they met. And then how she might please him. Maybe they'd please each other at the same time. The thought made her weep once, when she was hog-tied and suspended in a stainless-steel cage, Alex face-fucking her, the cum from his first orgasm dripping from her lips and down her throat while he rammed her for another.
Then one week Alex was away "on business" and Gabrielle knew he was with his mistress because he never freshly waxed his balls for AI conferences. She should've been tortured by jealousy but was glad for the break and, honestly, was more preoccupied by her dark stranger's whereabouts than her husband's.
She was in her new rooftop studio when her life model, Tarquin, cancelled. She was doing an epic painting based on the song "It's raining men" and had spent months painting naked bodybuilders in different positions in the feeble hope one of the thick-cocked beauties might have the balls to do her like the stranger did. Unfortunately, those that weren't gay were more into themselves than her.
So she was bored and needy, browsing on her laptop, flicking through the porn Alex left for her ("I will test you on it when I return!") when her door chime sounded.
She pressed the answer button and the screen lit up to reveal, surprise, the dark stranger.
He winked. "Tarquin says you need a life model. Will I do?"
She charged down the stairs and threw open the door. The stranger staggered back a couple of steps at the sight of her. It seemed like her beauty walloped him, but she was only wearing her work overalls. She clutched the door frame as his fragrant aura hit her. He took a breath too. His tight jumper bulged. So did the front of his jeans. Her mouth watered. It was like they'd discovered each other in the wild wood again.
"So, will I do?" he said again.
"Those eyes;” She sighed. Then her cheeks inflamed.
"All the better to see you with."
The world seemed to summersault. Was that a joke? Did he know her work?
He flushed, then he gathered himself, stood tall and put out his hand. His hard, warm clasp unhooked Gabrielle's limbs. It was all she could do stand aside and let him in. She lead him up the stairs into her studio. All the way, she felt his eyes on the wobble of her bottom in her loose clothes, and tingled for the sharp teeth that might sink into her any second.
She pointed to a sturdy table with a set of library steps beside it. "I need you to take off your clothes and stand on this. I am working on a painting of naked men in the air, so will take reference pictures from a low viewpoint. This is Okay?"
He cleared his throat, nodded.
She pointed to a modesty screen in the corner. "You can; oh."
He pulled his top off over his head, and kicked off his shoes. For any other stranger, she might've averted her eye but after weeks of fantasizing this man, she couldn't turn away. There wasn't a millimeter of fat on him, yet he was beefier than she remembered, his shoulders so mountainous he even looked compelling taking his socks off. He unfastened his belt and dropped his trousers and boxers in one motion.
He was powerfully hard.
He shrugged at his cock, embarrassed. "Sorry. It's just;”
"Just me?" Gabrielle's voice, squeezed through a knot in her throat, was almost a whisper.
He pressed his lips tight. Nodded. "Since I first saw you. Is it a problem? I can go."
"I make you hard? Even In my horrible work clothes and my hair all; "
"You're extraordinary." He actually used that word. "And what's that perfume?"
"Again, just me. But merci, monsieur." She tapped the tabletop.
He hopped up like an ape, as if his arms bore his weight like legs, and stood proud before her. They both stared at his bucking cock. Gabrielle picked up her camera, hands shaking so badly she put the strap around her neck just in case. "Your cock is beautiful, but there will be no erections in my painting. Maybe there is a way you can; calm it?"
He grasped his unwanted axe. "I can come, that'll help for a little while, but to be honest I've been like this since I; since we last met."
"Since you licked me."
His cock nodded.
"So I made this lovely monster."
He tugged his length in a firm fist, a droplet beaded and rolled over his bulb. She stepped closer to him. His elevated hips were level with her face. "If making me come left you like this;” She stepped closer still, gripped his tight buttocks. "Then it is only fair, I should;” She took him into her mouth.
His rumbling made her hum, like their bodies singing a primitive song together. No fancy ball-licking and sucking. No toying with his frenulum and slurping her tongue. She nodded once, twice, three times and he growled, "I'm coming." She nodded four, five times and he roared and flooded her mouth with thick, hot saltiness. She sucked, gulped, sucked. His hips spasmed, trying to pull out, but she dug her claws into his ass, kept him in place while she drained him like a vampire.
His knees buckled and he dropped, shoulders heaving with a basey cackle, he swayed for a bit then tumbled onto his back like a slab of meat on a butcher's block. His cock was still rock solid. It pumped lazily.
Gabrielle licked off his last drips like she was cleaning a cub. He blinked down at her in a daze, his eyes moist. His cock nudged at her lips as she kissed it. This beast was never going limp. Good. It had work to do.
She unfastened her boiler suit, stepped out of it, and onto the table.
She stood astride his naked, hard frame. Her pussy drooled. Cock or mouth, it purred, cock or mouth.
Mouth.
First.
She shuffled over his face. His elemental scent floated off his skin, a blushed tinge to it, like blood. She breathed deep and took it into her. He smiled, blinked like she was too bright to look at. Tears trickled from the corners of his eyes.
She squatted. And fed.
"And here we are." Gabrielle gestured to her two beautiful children. Both with jet black hair and crazy pale eyes.
"So you've seen him at least twice, then."
"Oh oui! Many times. It's primal, what we have, no, elemental. Whatever. We're hooked"; she pressed a fist to her stomach; "here."
I grasped her massive diamond ring, pretended to wrestle it off her. "You won't need this anymore then."
Gabrielle cackled. "I'll stay married. I love my husband. He gives me and the children so much. But he has his mistress, why can't I have my; " air quotes "; mister-ess? I just make sure Alex comes in me whenever my lover does. Alex believes the children are his. And they might be, non?"
Her little boy, with animal agility, sprung onto my lap. He held up chubby little claws. "Grr!"
"Maybe," I said.
What I'm trying to say Bill, in my roundabout, horny girl way, is that even if we did fuck, and I got pregnant; which I won't, because I'm on the pill you loon; would that be so bad? I'd like children one day, why not have them now when I've nothing else to do and I'm young enough to enjoy them? I could go to university when they're grown. We could go together! Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying let's have sprogs. I'm just saying, if the universe should step in and monkey with the laws of biology and undo all my contraceptive precautions, you'd be my ideal sperm donor.
Oh! A text! Is it you?
Hmm no. It was Jules: "I enjoyed your diary. As you've shown me yours, let me show you mine. Do with this what you will."
I thought the attachment was a dick pic, but it was even better than that.
I shan't say why just yet, but one hour later, I fell into a blissful, happy sleep.
Only to be awoken by thunder, lightning, and the flash of a large silhouette at my windows; my second story windows.
I'm ashamed to say I froze. I keep a cricket bat under my bed, and my phone is always at my side, but it didn't occur to reach for either. I just sat there, gawping, while the figure gripped the bottom of the sash I always keep open for fresh air, and heaved. The window, swollen by rain, seemed jammed.
I grew some balls, but they were stupid, they made me shout, "Go away!"
The figure rocked the sash, and levered it up by degrees. It was a man, judging by the gravelly laughter.
Then the window flew up, and along with a blast of wind and rain, came a drowned brute.
Bill.
"What're you doing?" I flew to him, wrapped my warm, naked body around his cold, sodden-clothed one, squeaked and flew away again.
His face was bruised. One eye nearly shut. But he was still laughing. He apologized and shut the window behind him. "Couldn't find my keys. We should get some anti-climb paint on that drainpipe, Madam."
I stroked his poor face. What had I done? Tears popped and rolled down my cheeks.
"Now." He thumbed my tears away, took my hands. "I need to tell you something."
This was as many words as I ever heard Bill say. He was the kind that settled most issues with a nod. He took a deep breath, his jaw rippling. When he spoke it was through his teeth. "I won't be bullied by the likes of him."
"Father?"
Nod. "I've done nothing wrong." He kissed my fingers. "We've done nothing wrong."
"Bill, I need to tell you some; "
"That's all I'll say. He can arrest me. Get his goons to beat me. But I'll always come back to you. As long as you'll have me."
Soggy clothes or not, I jumped into his arms. He plucked me off him like a naughty cat and lay me on my bed.
I immediately sat up and unfastened his belt. "You don't need to worry about Father. Or the police. I sorted it."
He blinked, watched me unbutton his fly, then pulled his top off. Lord, what a torso that man has. I blathered on, "His rent boy, a friend of mine, sent me a video he made of one of their sessions. Very graphic. Would you like to see it?"
"No thank you, Madam." He struggled pulling his trousers, boots and socks off at the same time.
"Well, Father is old-school. He's not proud of being bisexual. And that's his undoing, because I sent the video to him and asked if I should send it to the police or the press next?"
A smile tugged his lip, though that might have been me kissing his cold, but stirring, manhood. "Father dropped the charges. He told the police it was a mistake, that it was just his spoilt daughter's wicked imagination."
Bill growled. Whether he was bothered with Father, or with me for gathering his cool cock in my mouth, I couldn't tell. He tried to push me back, but I was determined to feel him swell against my palate.
He gave up fighting, and stroked my hair. "The police told me nothing, just left the doors open and walked away. I thought I escaped."
I laughed a cock-plugged laugh. He laughed too. It made his erection kick in my mouth.
"Okay. That's enough." He tried again to unlimpet me from his shaft.
I gripped it hard in both hands, stopped sucking only to blurt, "My turn!" and stuffed him back in, rubbing this time.
Diary, now I was going to taste him. I've never wanted a man's cum so much. Or at all for that matter. My lucky gardener groaned and swayed, so I maneuvered him onto his back across the bed then poised on all-fours beside him like some sex-hungry beast from Gabrielle's wild wood universe.
His cock pulsed. My mouth went salty with his precum. He tasted of me! I rubbed him fast against my curled-out tongue, turned my gaze up to him. He looked tortured, even accounting for the bruises.
"C-careful, Madam."
"Bash." I sucked him in again, gave him my best, neediest, twist and slurp. Gabrielle would indeed be proud.
Bill rumbled. He stroked my bum, ran fingertips under, sliding along my embarrassingly slimy groove. He rumbled again, and stiffened.
He went rigid as a tree. I rubbed, sucked. He creaked, grunted. I squealed with muffled glee.
He burst.
Oh my.
Diary, love is hot, and thick and silky. Love is honeyed oysters. Love fills your mouth in frantic jets and it's all you can do to gulp it without spilling any.
It must've been love, not just rude, animal, cum. It must've been love because when I swallowed, my body flowered. Bill wasn't even touching me, yet my middle bloomed, a surge that swept me up and had me screeching on his cock. I gasped (dribbled!) and dropped back on him again, trying to control my exploding body, to focus on finishing Bill the way he deserved, but I failed, and cackled out my head rush instead while he pumped the last of his lovely stuff all over my tongue and lips.
I collapsed on my side, fetal around Bill's spent rod as it nodded off, and licked the last of his orgasm in the vain hope of drawing our pleasure out. I blinked up at him, sucked my lips showily, hoping to catch how much he loved me loving this, but we were already both half-asleep. My eyelids were too heavy to lift.
And even then, even as I dipped into post-orgasmic, salty-mouthed sleep with Bill's thigh for a pillow;
I wondered if he might take a day off tomorrow.
Diary, picture this.
Nestled between three wings of an ivy covered, multi-turreted gothic pile is a sun terrace shaded by a lemon tree. On the terrace's open side, a mirror-still ornamental pond reflects half a mile of landscaping and lollipop topiary. Some have called this the most desirable house in the world.
Between the potted tree and the pond sits a woman. The wind ruffles her sharp, black bob. The marble is warm against her bottom through her silvery silk dress, and her toes are cool in the pond. Some have called her the most desirable woman in the world. Though not enough for her liking. This is because her mouth and bottom are too big and her eyes too scarily dark and because she's too short.
Glimmers dance on ripples as the woman kicks her podgy little feet. Across the lawns, pine trees wave like benevolent giants while her own benevolent giant, Bill, gives a dying tree a short-back-and-sides with rhythmic strokes of his mighty saw.
An innocent scene. But take a peek in the black windows of the girl's eyes and it's a different story;
It's flushed purple in there. They say the brain is the largest sex organ and this girl's brain, this morning, is swollen to bursting with her imaginings. Diary, of course, the girl was, is, me.
No prizes for guessing why I was so; engorged. Before Bill started sawing I'd been happily lost in my prime considerations of the day: What is the best oral sex one could ever have? I awoke pondering the question and had decided to describe to you today the absolute best sucking or licking someone might ever give or experience. Then; as is my wont; I'd enact it later with my long-suffering manservant. For this reason I'd even sent the staff away so we had the house to ourselves. My oral imagination would not be restricted to my bedroom!
So I was happily lost in things licky. In fact, I'd had a marvelous idea and already set it in motion with a few choice texts to relevant parties. So on top of my steamy dreaming, I was a little giddy with anticipation. That's when Bill, invisible in the woods somewhere, started his relentless, manful strokes.
Diary, I needed those strokes on me, in me, so badly it actually raised a lump to my throat. My need was so keen because, remember, fucking is something that Bill and I agreed we wouldn't do. And when I say, "we agreed" I mean, "father insists.” My father doesn't approve of me, a lady, enjoying the beefy delights of my commoner boyfriend. He would split us up if he could, but Bill and I persist because a: We're adults and make our own decisions and b: We have videos of my in-denial father in flagrante with a rent boy; what can he do to us?
Perhaps I shouldn't leave you lying around for him to read though, dear Diary. Father's response to my juicy stories was to take Bill aside. "Enjoy my daughter's lascivious attention if you must, but she's been bred for a prince, not a gardener. I have read how she likes to please you. I suggest you make the most of her mouth because a man like you can never have her hand. Or her cunt." Classy! But he went on. "And if you dare impregnate my potentially royal daughter I will have you executed for treason."
"Contraception!" I hear you cry, but remember Bill's larger than most and hasn't found a condom that doesn't split. And yes the pill is effective, but not protect-us-from-murder effective. It's difficult to fuck with a gun at Bill's head. So. Hence my oral fixations.
Part of my plan for today involved a promise to myself that I wouldn't come until later with Bill. The best oral, surely, had to follow a period of abstinence. However, with a head full of head, and the steady, hard push of my man in the woods, I found it difficult not to scratch my itch.
Impossible, in fact.
So, I lay back on the warm stone. I shut my eyes and considered my Ultimate Oral while I rubbed my tingly bits through my dress. I wasn't breaking my promise to myself. In fact, if I thought only about sucking and licking, while keeping said fidgety digits out of my hole, then rubbing out a quickie was even a kind of therapy; like methadone for a heroin addict.
I was very pleased with my plan for today, it was going to blow our horny little minds.
I'd considered all kinds of ways of coming on Bill's tongue, from my favorite dirty girl crouch on his mouth, to him spreading me on the breakfast table and devouring me, to me bent double and him devouring me. Me up a tree. Him up a tree. Either of us tied naked on the chaise. Sixty-nine on the chaise. I considered silly things we'd done already, like when he squeezed under my desk while I wrote, and made me come by humming on my clit with his sexy, deep, boomy voice. (I returned the favor one afternoon swinging on a garden seat. I hummed all five verses of "God Save the Queen" on his cock, quite tunefully too, until he came and I got a fit of rather messy giggles.) In my oral fever, I even recalled how a French tourist girl shouted something at Bill once, and her friends all laughed. Later he asked me what they'd said. I told him. "Turn me upside down and eat me like an ice cream." He grinned malevolently and right there in the potting-shed flipped me; like I was light as a seedling; straight to his mouth. This has been his favorite position since.
And what about Bill, other than that; what would be the best for him? Well, I asked his opinion first thing. As he hauled a stump past the terrace where I sat ruminating, he doffed his cap good morning and I said, "What would be your ultimate blowjob?"
He didn't bat an eyelid. "Madam, if I had a favorite, that would imply others weren't as good. And they're all the best with you."
Sweet! And that's what gave me my idea. I was So going to prove him wrong.
So, back by the pond, I stirred at my clit through my dress. The tingling had spread, flushing across my belly and tits where a cheeky kiss of wind brushed silk across my nipples. Perhaps my imagination wandered to Bill's thick phallus plundering my depths because that's when I noticed his sawing had stopped.
I opened my eyes to find him standing over me, glittering. "You've had a fall, Madam?"
"Fuck me."
He folded his arms.
I sighed a trembly breath. "I'm not wearing any knickers."
"I presumed you didn't own a pair, Madam."
I laughed and walloped his thigh, then resumed my silky stirring, peering at the bulge in his trousers.
He sat beside me, eyes darting from my lips to my fingers. He adores my big, plump mouth. Sometimes I find him just staring at it while I speak.
I rolled my hips. "You like this?"
He cleared his throat.
"I'm madly wet." I squirmed. "It's dripping between my bum cheeks."
His eyes narrowed. Isn't it funny how deadly serious horniness looks?
"You don't believe me?" I ducked a hand up my skirt, wriggled two fingers between my slippy folds, and withdrew them, stringing and glistening between us.
"You need to come." He took my small hand in his great paw and kissed my wet fingers tenderly. He licked his lips. "Madam."
"Make me. Fuck me."
"No."