by Livia Ellis
Memoirs
of a
Gigolo
Happy Valentine’s Day Oliver
Livia Ellis
Copyright©2013 Livia Ellis
All rights reserved.
ISBN:1480225762
ISBN-13:978-1480225763
DEDICATION
For R
A Note to the Reader
Thank you for downloading Memoirs of a Gigolo–Happy Valentine’s Day Oliver during the promotional period on Amazon. My very special Valentine for those of you lovely readers who keep returning for more Oliver and Olga.
If you are new to the Memoirs of a Gigolo serial and this is the first instalment you are reading, you will be lost. You are coming in to the story well into the middle of it. The characters have already been introduced and the story defined. What follows will make very little sense as it is taken out of a much larger context.
I will be offering Volume One of Memoirs of a Gigolo on the 15th and 16th of February for free on Amazon. I strongly encourage you to start at the beginning.
Thank you again for downloading! I hope you enjoy.
Love Livia
Prologue
Parvati Singh was precisely what Oliver believed he wanted in a wife. This is why I introduced them first. The first rule of matchmaking; give them what they think they want first. Then show them what they really want. Parvati ticked every box. Wealthy, beautiful, wholly disinterested in him.
I was very good at what I did. I came from a long line of matchmakers. The women of my family have been shadchan for generations. I watched my mother, her mother, and even my great-grandmothermake matches. I learned to seek out the right information. I knew which questions to ask. I understood what I needed to be aware of. I didn’t walk in blind to Oliver’s situation.
When he walked in my door I probably knew him better than he knew himself at that moment. Not difficult as he was very lost and very confused. He was in a moment of personal transformation. He’d lost his grandparents. His fiancée had left him then two weeks later his father was dead.
The problem with a younger man involving himself in a relationship with an older woman–actually let me say it like this–the problem with an immature younger man, who is still resolving the issues of his childhood, involving himself in a relationship with an older woman, that revels in nurturing and caring for him, is that he will never grow up and she will forever be tidying up after him. I have no issue with an older woman and a younger man or vice-verse. A couple has to be at the same level of maturity for a relationship works. That said I’ve known some fairly childish octogenarians and some world weary twenty year olds.
Olga was world weary when they met. I’d wanted her to move along out of the business for some time when Oliver arrived on the scene. I understood she was punishing her father by working for me. This is why I had her work for me. It was either me, or she would go to someone else. At least I could watch over her. Vladimir understood this. This is why we never had a problem.
Did I believe he would end up with Olga? Never. Not for a moment. They were unsuited for each other on many levels. Olga was a lovely girl, but the truth was that she was a bit gauche. By gauche I mean she lacked the sort of sophistication and quite frankly class Oliver would have wanted in a wife. She was beautiful, savvy, kind and charming, but she was uneducated and that mattered deeply to Oliver. Not that he ever said so, but he didn’t need to. I also knew Olga’s father well enough to know that he would probably accept Oliver, but not on Oliver’s terms. Oliver was far too noble, too much of a gentleman, and far too honest to ever find common ground with Vladimir.
If Olga and Oliver were ever going to be together as it was, there would be too much compromise on either side for them to ever truly be happy with the sacrifices they had to make to be together. For them to ever get together something would have to happen to change them both. Mostly Olga. But she wasn’t going to wake up one morning, decide to go to university, and somehow transform herself from a Paris Hilton to a Chelsea Clinton. Oliver wanted a Chelsea Clinton. Not a Paris Hilton.
He wanted a woman that was as intelligent, educated, and kind. In essence, he wanted his former fiancée. He just didn’t know it. I have seen it many many many times in my career. The person who didn’t realize what he had until it was gone. Oliver was one of those people although he had yet to come to that realization.
This was why I introduced him to Parvati Singh first. Then I planned on introducing him to Gita Premji. Dr. Premji was precisely what he wanted. That or his former fiancée. But that was never going to happen. The proverbial snowball in hell had more of a chance than those two.
1 Weekly Meeting
The Matchmaker is possibly the perfect woman in my estimation. Unlike younger women, she is supremely aware of who she is and what her place in the universe is. Her pure confidence is the sort of thing one can only aspire to rather than hope to ever achieve. Her body is hers wholly. It does not own her so much a she owns it. It holds no grip on her psyche. She no longer was plagued by media boogey men telling her that she was fat when she was thin, ugly when she was beautiful in a psychological onslaught to get her to buy creams and potions with the promise she might one day be remotely acceptable if only she tried just a little harder.
This is the beauty of the Matchmaker. If she has cellulite on her thighs then such is the way of life. If her breasts are less than perfectly firm, it is the result of tending to the needs of her infant so many years earlier.
What was the one thing I learned about the Matchmaker that most took me by surprise–she is a mother. Very few people know this. I only found this out because we were having our weekly meeting when her daughter called.
Our weekly meetings have always taken place in her bedroom. What does it say about me that I wasn’t even remotely taken aback the first time she took me to bed? Probably nothing good. Somehow I had known from the beginning this would be where we would end up. We’re a lot alike the two of us. Sex is sex. Gender is gender. One need not limit oneself based on societal conventions. That and the fact we both like screwing around on the sly. We both get off on being deviant. She has a girlfriend and I’m her employee. I’m the ultimate forbidden fruit.
Do I need to note that she is a phenomenal lover? No. But she is. My god that woman knows her stuff. Her hands are like butterflies, her tongue is a velvet ribbon, her skin is a warm satin cover. Her bed is a large four poster thing that is designed for an afternoon of pure sexual bliss.
Monday is a good day for both of us to get together. Neither of us has particularly packed schedules at the head of the week. I’ll be honest–I look forward to Mondays. I get my dry-cleaning dropped off, I have lunch with my mother, I clean my bedroom, I have a standing appointment with the aesthetician, I do my laundry, I catch up on my reading, go for a run weather permitting, and in general have a relaxing day. Monday is my Sunday.
This particular Monday I combine two tasks in one. I run to the Matchmaker’s. Being totally honest, I look good. I’ve followed Olga’s rather punitive work out regime for nearly five months, and the difference is notable. I have definition in my arms and abs that I never thought I would have. A certain sort of vanity sparks inside of me. I care about my appearance in a way I never imagined I could.
I arrive at her offices just as the clock strikes ten. I’m covered in sweat and she’s on a call. I go straight up to her bedroom. Her office staff knows well enough to not notice me.
I like to mix it up weekly with the Matchmaker. Try new things. She’s a good person to experiment on. I have yet to encounter a situation with her that we either couldn’t laugh off or wasn’t a success. Olga would probably like to think she alone could take credit for my
improved ability in the sack, but the simple truth is the Matchmaker was really my tutor. She was my Mrs. Robinson, my George Sand, my Edith Piaf, my Demi Moore, my Madonna. My older woman that enjoyed the enthusiasm and desire to learn of this much younger man.
She has one of those steam showers that I will have installed in Wold Hall when (not if–but when!) I have the means to make it so. I’m in the water and nearly ready to get out when the bathroom door opens then closes.
She’s sorry. She had to take that call. Her daughter.
I had no idea she had a daughter.
Not many people know this.
Is it a secret?
No. Just not something she discusses. Surely I can understand this.
I do. I don’t discuss my family. Not from some desire to keep an air of mystery about me, but rather there is nothing to say.
She steps into the shower with me, wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me. This is our real hello. Not the random chit-chat. No. A good, deep, tongue twirling kiss is the real hello. Her hands are all over me immediately. Her mouth touches my neck as her fingers reach up to my scalp and continue to scrub. Nothing quite gets me as neck kisses. I’m rinsed, and then she reaches for the conditioner. My hair is covered then she reaches for my cock.
Now this is when it gets interesting and noteworthy. How did I never think of this before? I’m quite certain there is no lube quite as perfectly made as conditioner. It’s just the right consistency and always conveniently available for playing with a man’s junk in the shower.
She tugs me rapidly, her slippery hand sliding over the length of my shaft as her fingers exerted just the right amount of pressure. Like a woman that knows a man’s body well enough to lay claim to it, she lets me go just before I reach the point that I will ejaculate whether she continues or not.
We take a moment to let me back away from that physical precipice her hard working hand nearly pushed me over.
I touch the curve of a nicely rounded breast admiring the fullness of her flesh. I slip the fingers of a hand between her thighs and let a single digit locate her clit. We talk as I lightly stimulate her. I know how she likes to orgasm and this isn’t it. She likes to be brought to it slowly.
We have time and there is no rush. This is why I enjoy these Monday meetings with her. I’m not on the clock. If I were to tell her I no longer wanted to be physically intimate with her that would probably be okay. But I need this intimacy. It is free. There is no cost associated with it.
I pick her up and wrap her legs around my waist. She slides around me as I press her against the tile wall of the shower. Her body has quickly become familiar to me. How many times have we had sex? I don't know. If I thought about it I might be able to come up with a number. It doesn't matter. Not really. We are lovers that know each other well. The best sort of all.
I move slowly to bring myself up to the edge, but not as close as I was earlier. This will be one of those times that I come once and it will be well worth the build-up.
She pushes me on the shoulder and tells me to put her down. We’re going to try something different. I love different.
She bends over at the waist (god bless the Hindu that invented yoga) and places her hands on the floor of the shower. I slip inside of her and penetrate her deeply. I go for it with alternating deep then shallow thrusts. She controls my increasing desire by raising her body up and preventing me from going as deep as I would like. I make mental notes as we progress.
I hold her around the waist as the water comes from every angle and my heart races along with the blood in my veins. I don’t want to stop, but she makes me. This is another of her powers. She controls me utterly.
At her urging, we leave the shower and the bathroom.
Does it worry me that her red-headed girlfriend the party planner is in her bedroom? Not in the slightest. It’s always sort of a hit or miss thing with her. Sometimes she joins us. Sometimes she doesn’t. The Party Planner is turned out nicely in the sort of bra, panties and stocking combination she seems to prefer. Lacy red. Very sexy. I quite like it. I’m not in control here. I’m just a participant in her sexual adventures.
I’m pushed back on her bed as the Matchmaker straddles me. She slides down me and presses her hands to my chest as she finds her place. When I’m thrust deep inside of her, her back arches and her head dips back. She grinds down slightly until I’m fully seated inside of her.
With my hands behind my head I just let it all happen to me.
The Party Planner and the Matchmaker kiss. The Party Planner pinches the Matchmaker’s nipples until they are stretched and bright pink. I know from personal experience the Party Planner likes it rough. When I needed to learn how to really give a good spanking, she was more than willing to be my mentor.
The Party Planner kisses a line down the bare body of the Matchmaker, her mouth stopping at the juncture where our sex meets. The Matchmaker spreads the lips of her vagina open offering her clit to the Party Planner who attacks it with the tip of her tongue. From my angle, I can only see a head of red hair planted on my stomach. But what I feel is extraordinary.
A darting slippery tongue randomly touching my skin then the hard knot of flesh of the Matchmaker’s clit is the sort of thing that defies explanation. It simply must be experienced. The Matchmaker’s vaginal muscles squeeze me like a hand as the Party Planner’s tongue goes to work on her. It’s bliss. Heaven. I would cum but those fucking women won’t let me.
The Party Planner stops working the Matchmaker with her tongue. There is a bit of discussion that I am not a part of beyond my role in their sexual gymnastics. Decisions are made. Positions are changed. How do we end up? I’m on my feet, the Party Planner is bent over in front of me, and the Matchmaker is on the bed with her lover’s face buried between her thighs.
I do enjoy fucking the Party Planner. She likes it as hard as I can put it to her. If I’m delicate with her, she’s likely to turn around and slap me whilst telling me to not be such a pussy. She is really scary sometimes. But in a good sexy way.
The first to fall over the orgasmic cliff is the Matchmaker. The Party Planner’s relentlessly twitching and swirling tongue knows how to get a job done. I’m next. As I predicted in the shower, the physical sensation of my body releasing the pent up energy through an orgasm was mind altering.
I don’t pull out of the Party Planner so much as she moves away from me. She lieson the bed next to the Matchmaker. The two roll into each other’s arms, kissing and touching. I’m not a part of this. I don’t need to be told to back off. The Party Planner likes me just fine, but the Matchmaker is the one she is in the bedroom for.
I’m ignored as they touch. I still watch. I’m human and a male. Watching two beautiful women make love to one another is not something that I’m going to turn away from. Especially two creatures as lovely the Matchmaker and the Party Planner.
Certainly I find what they do as their fingers explore erotic. But more than that, no one knows better than another woman what a woman wants. I watch to learn.
I am invited to join them by the Party Planner and I do. What can I say? Sometimes a girl just wants cock. I’m always happy to oblige. I give it to her good until she screams. Yes. Screams. Bless her, she’s a screamer. I love a woman that lets me know with such unrestrained enthusiasm that I know how to dot the i’s and cross the t’s.
How do I feel as I pull out of the Party Planner and rise to my feet? Like a star. Endorphins are rushing through my system first from my run and then from my sexual marathon.
I leave the two of them and dip back into the shower for a minute. When I return to the bedroom with a towel around my waist the Matchmaker is in the silk robe I brought her from Japan and the Party Planner is walking around in her bra and panties.
I compliment her on her choice. I like the red.
It’s Valentine’s Day. What else would she wear?
Oh–typical male–I hadn’t realized it was Valentine’s Day. I make no comment on the fact Va
lentine’s Day is for twats and fourteen year old girls. Especially when I notice the large arrangement of red roses that was not in the bedroom when I first entered. Someone likes Valentine’s Day. Go figure. The Party Planner has a romantic side. I never would have guessed.
I have shirts and trousers at the Matchmaker’s place. Technically not my shirts and trousers. They’re all Harold’s. Harold. That insufferable prick. That loathsome man-whore. That evil bastard. I despise Harold. But I admire his taste in clothing. Most of the time. The shell suits and the trainers are a bit awful. I can only imagine how much The Matchmaker spent on Harold based on the contents of the closets back at the house and in her home.
There are so many parallels between my relationship with my former fiancée and that the Matchmaker had with Harold, I can't help but to feel like a total shit at times. I don't question whether or not I have it in me to marry for money. I do. But I can't pretend to be in love with someone again just because I want her money. I'll do what I need to do, but I'm going to be honest about it. But then again if I am being honest about it, did I truly never love my former fiancée, or was it a different kind of love? Was it a quiet love like that between friends? I don’t know.
What are my plans for the day? The Matchmaker choses a shirt for me and takes the one I have in my hand. I slip it on. She’s right. It’s a better choice. And I’ll admit it, even if I do think Valentine’s Day is a sham, I’m not averse to wearing the deep red slim-cut shirt she chose. I actually rather like it with the black trousers she hands me next.
What are my plans? None really. Quiet day. I have to meet up with my former fiancée. I’m having drinks with Elon. I have a thing with Olga tonight. Monday is usually pretty slow for me.
Why am I meeting up with my former fiancée on Valentine’s Day?
Actually I don’t think either of us realized it was Valentine’s Day during the email exchange that equalledour planning to meet up. It was more about her schedule and mine and how we are both very busy people. Odd that. I used to be available whenever she wanted me. Having to coordinate is new. We were never Valentine’s people.