by Primula Bond
I pushed myself hard against his face, grabbing his hair and angling my nipples brazenly into his mouth, scraping them against his teeth, pulling back, muffling his cheeks and ears with the warm mounds as if to drown him.
‘That’s good. Because no one ever runs away from me,’ he said calmly, and the arrogance only fired me up even more.
I rose up on my knees. My moist sex stuck to his trousers for a minute, the tiny curls caught on the fabric, tugging the tender skin before letting go. I wanted to be higher up than him, feel his head burrowing in between my breasts. He was hurting me now, biting and nibbling, as my nipples stretched taut like arrowheads. They felt hard yet sensitive, feeling the pain yet relishing the pleasure. My hips started to gyrate automatically; the female instinct that kicked in during arousal.
I wriggled my buttocks backwards, still leaning my torso against his face, and scrabbled for his zip. I felt him tense and, for a moment, his mouth relaxed on my nipple, but I got my hand firmly inside his trousers, then pulled them down until my fingers landed on his waiting prick.
‘Not even Mimi?’ I challenged him, egged on by the sudden vision I had of him having sex with her in her big white house, rolling across the white carpet, her big brown nipples dangling over him, his cock ramming up inside her . . .
His penis jumped in my hand. I tilted my pelvis in answer, teasing him with the moist prize of young pussy. Even I wasn’t so cruel as to prolong the proceedings for too long and I gently guided his cock until it rested just inside me. Even then, I thought about Mimi. I liked her. More than liked her. But now we were in competition for this guy and his son. The fighting spirit made my whole body pulsate with longing.
‘I warn you, Summers. Don’t get smart,’ Sir Simeon went on. ‘I’m capable of anything if I’m roused, particularly to anger.’
‘I’d like to see you roused. But you wouldn’t hurt me, Sir Simeon,’ I mocked softly. ‘You want me too badly.’
Instead of waiting, relishing the suspense, I let myself drop, driving myself on to his cock. He kept his fingers on my nipples, rubbing and pinching, but he pulled his mouth away, and I could feel his breath hot on my throat.
‘I won’t be spoken to like that, Summers. You are a dirty little bitch, Summers, and you’re asking for it.’
Then we were growling and swearing like old foes going into battle, both bucking furiously against each other. I gripped him with my thighs, thrusting my hips against him, cramming him in, grinding right down to the very base so that he filled me with all those solid inches of rock-hard, thrusting cock.
Each time we pulled back and slammed against each other we became more violent, and I cried out loud as I felt him hitting the G-spot. Time was running out.
‘Go on, then,’ I taunted him. I had no idea where this all came from. ‘Show me what you’re like when you’re roused. Show me how cheeky I’ve been, before they all walk in and see us.’
I couldn’t hold on much longer. I was arousing myself to a fever pitch. I clawed at my clit, lewdly frigging myself to egg him on further, giving him the treat of his life. This was my first proper time with him, and very likely my last, and I wanted it to keep going as long as possible. On the other hand, I couldn’t stop the flow. I could tell from the sounds around the house – clattering of pans in the kitchen, plates and cutlery being laid out in the dining room – that we were no longer alone and, any minute, a butler or someone would come knocking at Sir Simeon’s door.
‘I warn you, Summers,’ he started to growl, but there were other sounds coming from him. Up until now he had kept himself in check but there was a low, surprised groaning which I guessed signalled his approaching climax. His head fell back against the sofa and he stared at me, his eyes clouding over, frowning as if this wasn’t what he expected, and I rode him for all I was worth, moaning in my own exquisite pain as I started to come and, as the climax broke over me and his eyes flickered, I leaned over and kissed him again, licked his lips, flicked my tongue over his teeth, sucked his tongue as it slipped into my mouth. He strained up against me, his mouth warm and fixed on mine, and I felt him pumping his juice into me. I squeezed every drop and held it there. I didn’t want it to ebb away because then it would be gone for good.
There was a sharp rapping at the door and we jerked apart. We stared at each other, trying not to laugh. I gripped him inside me as hard as I could. His penis twitched once, twice, then started to slip out. I twisted away from him, grabbed my clothes and turned my back. The daylight and the rapping had knocked sense into us. Our mingled juices dripped down the insides of my legs as I zipped my skirt back up. My nipples still tingled as I pulled the shirt back on. I couldn’t relax until I had buttoned my coat up, run my fingers through my hair and taken several more breaths.
Then I turned to look at Sir Simeon. Thank God, he’d done up his trousers and was sitting there calmly as if we’d just had a business meeting.
‘Come in,’ he called. The butler entered and glanced immediately at the magenta corset slung over the arm of the Chesterfield. His face didn’t flicker. He picked up the crumbled croissant and the untouched coffee. We must have looked a picture. Me standing over Sir Simeon as if I’d just been telling him off, him sitting on the sofa rubbing his bad leg, cool except for his burning eyes.
When the butler had gone, Sir Simeon stood up and went across to his desk.
‘Still determined to leave?’ he asked, waving the MG car keys at me. ‘Even though the party carries on tonight? Even though you’re the best we’ve ever had?’
‘What do you mean, the best? Employee or lover? For Mimi or for you?’
‘Both. All of it. She’d agree with me. She’s wild about you. We all are. Don’t go, Suki. The Club Crème needs you.’
I couldn’t help snorting. ‘You make me sound like the cavalry,’ I said.
‘Not that the cavalry arrived in a little old MG, but if you’ll stay, there’ll be more than car keys on offer.’
His back was to the window, so I couldn’t see the expression on his face. I hoped he was desperate for my answer to be yes, and reluctant to show it.
‘Let me go back to London,’ I said, catching the keys as he threw them at me. I was equally desperate to have him again. ‘And then I’ll think long and hard about staying on at the club.’
‘Fine,’ barked Sir Simeon, once more the lord. Then he turned and threw something which landed softly on my shoulder. I hooked my fingers into it. It was a sliver of magenta satin. The lord looked haughtily down his nose before his cheekbones lifted in unmistakable amusement. ‘But don’t forget to take your knickers with you.’
15
All roads seemed to lead to Club Crème. I got back to my accomdation and changed in to my one remaining set of jeans and a sweater, but I was restless. I paced up and down for a while, debating what I was going to do about my immediate future. Then I pounded back down the stairs and out to where I’d parked the MG.
I walked up the anonymous alley and into the elegant hallway, still not entirely sure what I was going to do or who I was going to do it to. At first I thought the building was deserted, but then I heard the low voice of Miss Sugar speaking to someone in the office. I peered round the doorway. Miss Sugar was alone. She was speaking, but on the telephone. And she wasn’t her usual composed self. Not in the least. I dodged back out of sight.
For a start her feet were up on the desk like she didn’t give a damn. Her habitual long grey skirt wasn’t pulled demurely to the ground, but crumpled up round her knees, and her thighs were swathed in sheer black silk. I had never seen further up than her ankles. She had incredibly long slim legs that were waggling slightly as she spoke, as if she wanted to take flight at any moment. She had always looked so contained before, as if she was set in stone, like a ballerina striking a pose. I couldn’t peel my eyes away from this new Miss Sugar, who had all about her the definite air of imminent debauchery.
With each twitch of her legs her skirt fell further away from any preten
ce of modesty, and now I could see the definite promise of white flesh gleaming at the top of her leg. She was wearing stockings, not the matronly tights I would have expected.
She hadn’t seen me, and I stood in the doorway, silently staring at her. One long white hand was writing something down on her usual memo pad as she spoke, and I realised, to my relief, that despite her languid pose she was actually speaking in her normal clipped, formal voice.
‘And after you’ve checked in with us here at the club, you would like me to accompany you to the opera? In a private box?’
She put the silver pen down and took her glasses off. She tapped her fingers on the pad as she listened to the phone. Then the idle fingers of her hand landed like delicate insects on one exposed knee and started walking up and down the narrow bone. She banged her knees together, then slowly let them fall sideways. Her fingers started stroking up her own silky thigh.
‘I’d be delighted, Mr –’
She yawned, a wide, insolent yawn which displayed her pearl-white teeth and her red throat. Believing she was alone, she made no effort to cover her mouth and, in any case, both her hands were occupied.
I had trouble stifling surprise rising up as I watched her, but I didn’t want to interrupt her. This was riveting. A whole new side to Miss Sugar, going about her business unobserved. Or so she obviously thought, judging by the way her hand was creeping up under her skirt now, pushing it back, right up her legs, so that I could see the suspenders and the forbidden slice of white flesh which led my eye straight to – a knickerless groin.
I always like the feel of silk or satin or cotton, however flimsy, brushing against me – that’s if I remember not to lose my knickers in country houses – but Miss Sugar obviously had other preferences. The stark contrast between her governess-stern exterior and the fact that she wore no knickers was startling, and devastatingly sexy.
What had I expected her to wear? Old lady’s frilly bloomers? I hadn’t expected anything because I hadn’t given it any thought, but now I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
I looked up at her face, seeing it as if for the first time. She hadn’t quite finished the yawn because her mouth was still open. The tip of her tongue flicked a couple of times across her lips, and her big pale eyes watered slightly. The sudden question popped into my mind: did Mimi know about Miss Sugar’s rejection of knickers? Did Sir Simeon? After all, they were like a little family before I came along. A small hard nugget of curiosity started nagging at me. There was still so much I wanted to know about Club Crème and all who sailed in her.
I wanted Miss Sugar to see me watching her, tell me what she was doing, what was going through that head of hers. I wanted to know how intimately Mimi knew this other employee. Another rival for her affections, I now realised. I remembered Mimi saying something about there being more to Miss Sugar than met the eye. And of course Miss Sugar had been around for a long time before I showed up.
‘Yes,’ Miss Sugar said suddenly and loudly into the phone, startling me so that I fell back against the doorframe. ‘We absolutely specialise in escorting our members out and about if that’s what they want.’
She tipped her head back and laughed – a laugh which started out as a filthy guffaw. She hastily lifted it up the scale so that it finished as a more ladylike tinkle, but the damage was done. I wondered what the uptight client at the other end was thinking. But I was fascinated. I looked at Miss Sugar through new eyes. Her hidden, filthy laugh. And now, her exploring, private fingers, stroking lovingly and definitely over her pubes, celebrating the lack of knickers as she conducted the phone call. She looked as if she shaved, the scattering of hair over them was so pale.
She slid down slightly in her swivel chair as she listened to more outpourings from the hapless client and twisted the chair from side to side. Her feet up on the desk slid further apart, the pointed boots splayed outwards across the files and papers.
‘Right. So we’ll see you this evening. A few more details, please, before we ring off.’
It was like listening to one half of a dirty phone call. Miss Sugar closed her eyes and lifted her skirt right up to her waist. As an afterthought she put the phone on ‘conference’ mode, and a man’s voice, young, hesitant and breathless, started to speak.
‘It’s my wife. I have to get away from her. Just for one night, every so often. She’s frigid, you see.’
‘Oh, my word. I didn’t mean those kind of details. But do go on, if it helps,’ she said.
She was still rocking her chair from side to side. Her knees were slack now, open on the edge of the desk. Her hands were busy, one smoothing up and down her flat white stomach, little finger tickling meditatively into her navel, the other fiddling, not quite delving in, but hovering around the two secret lips of her sex.
‘I have to fantasise to get any relief,’ stuttered the man after a few false starts. ‘I can’t live without sex forever. I’m only young.’
‘And what exactly do you fantasise about? If you want to share that with us – me,’ Miss Sugar asked tentatively.
No wonder she knew everything about everyone. She had her style down to a tee. The secrets were pouring out of him now and she was loving it. Two fingers were crooked like horns over her pubes, going to pin back the soft pussy lips. My throat was tight as I watched her milking the poor man’s story for her own pleasure. I had a feeling that if she knew that she, in turn, was being watched by me, she would be turned on even more by the thought.
‘A threesome?’ He sounded as if he was asking her permission. Any minute now she would crack a whip. ‘You know. Two women. Crawling over me. I suppose crawling all over each other as well.’
‘Perfectly normal fantasy,’ she said in her most reassuring voice. ‘And healthy.’ I could hear a bubble of mirth in her voice. ‘And what sort of women do you fantasise about? Businesswomen? Sophisticated women or simple girl-next-door types?’
At this she splayed herself open so that her dark red slit was suddenly, dramatically exposed. Miss Sugar’s hips tilted slightly, raising herself in the chair. I was fidgeting now, wanting to copy what she was doing. The little movements, the arching, tilting, all helping to accentuate the tension, the anticipation – a curious solo game of offering and denial, since it was her own hands that she was playing with.
I leaned against the doorframe, my own arousal weakening me. Outside it was getting late, the day dark and cold. Rain was beginning to fall in earnest in the dingy alleyway, darkening all the windows. The only light in the office was the pool cast by Miss Sugar’s angle-poise lamp, shining directly on to the action of her hands and her hungry snatch.
‘It doesn’t matter, so long as they are as different as possible from my wife!’ spluttered the poor man, making both me and Miss Sugar jump out of our trances. ‘Women who love sex, in other words.’
‘And how would you feel,’ said Miss Sugar in her smoothest, poshest voice, ‘if you met such women in real life?’
There was a strangled sob at the other end of the phone. Miss Sugar’s throat was extended with amusement and pleasure. A vicious little smile stretched her lips as she listened. If only the poor man could see the effects his story was having.
‘I’d think I’d died and gone to heaven,’ the man said, regaining his composure. ‘But for now all I have to fall back on is my new membership of your club. I need to spread my wings, have some adventure. And I’ve been told that you are the best.’
‘Rest assured of that,’ Miss Sugar responded hoarsely, her hands frantic now as they sought their pleasure. ‘All your dreams will come true if you join Club Crème. We are constantly gratified by the reports we have of our popularity – a source of endless satisfaction to our members. I know we won’t disappoint.’
Her fingers started pushing roughly, brutally, into herself, even as she was still speaking. Her knees were opening and closing, her feet kicking papers and pens off the desk as she rocked herself more violently in the chair, biting her lip, not being gentle at al
l but giving herself a real seeing-to, her arm flexing back and forth into the secret folds of her groin almost as if she was punishing herself, knocking herself backwards in the chair, then regaining composure and pulling herself back towards the desk so that she could balance.
Her buttocks were half rising off the chair as she started what I assumed was the onset of her climax. I rubbed myself against the doorframe, desperate for some friction to ease the ache between my legs.
The doorframe was hard and unforgiving, but I wedged it between my legs, so that the wooden edge bit through my jeans and my knickers, into my hidden fanny, and, like Miss Sugar, I wasn’t gentle. I wanted to keep up with her, relieve the mounting tension down there as quickly as possible. I had tried to resist, told myself this was another woman pleasuring herself, and not of any interest to me, but I seemed to be in a constant state of semi-arousal these days: men, women, older gentlemen – I was turning into a wanton slut!
And now here was Miss Sugar, offering the possibility of more stimulation than anyone else, revealing a whole new side to her demure demeanour.
‘I hear you have a magnificent staff. I’ll look forward to seeing you tonight, then?’ The voice at the end of the phone needed an answer.
Miss Sugar answered, with one last thrust of her fingers over her clit she flung herself backwards in the chair and it wheeled away across the floor. She had to shout to make herself heard.
‘Oh yes. Yes, yes, yesss.’
I was half laughing, half shuddering my small, wet climax against the doorframe as I heard her hang up and let out a long sigh of satisfaction. She paused in her chair with her back to me, then spun herself round to face the door. Her legs were stretched out in front of her, her hands still buried between them. Her eyes without the glasses were huge and glazed, as if she’d been sleeping.