Stephanie's Domain

by Susanna Hughes

  'God.'

  'I never knew whether that was all a set up.'

  Stephanie opened the wardrobe door and stared at the array of clothes.

  'Well I'd better wear something slinky for Mr Caplin, I think. But not too obvious.'

  She stripped off the towelling robe and walked across to the chest of drawers where she had put the vast selection of lingerie she had brought with her.

  Devlin sat watching, sitting on the edge of the bed, as she slipped a black bra over her firm breasts, clipped a suspender belt around her slim waist and pulled a pair of French knickers, slit at the sides almost to the waist, up over her hips. She tucked the suspenders under the knickers.

  'You do it,' she said, throwing a packet of gun metal grey stockings on to the bed. 'And don't ladder them.'

  Devlin carefully opened the cellophane packet as Stephanie sat on the bed beside him. He picked out the nylons and lay them on his lap. Taking one in his huge hands, he bunched the material to make a neat little pocket around the nylon reinforcement at the toe and held it out for her. She pointed her toe and then held her leg out straight so that Devlin could roll the stocking up over her calf and over the long muscles of her thigh, smoothing and stretching it as he went, watching as the tight grey material encased the leg. His banana-sized fingers worked with surprising dexterity. He repeated the process with the other leg. When the stockings were in place, Stephanie fastened the suspenders, after Devlin had tried and failed. That was one art Devlin had not yet mastered.

  'So,' she stood up.

  'So,' Devlin said, adopting the sort of sheepishness that overcame him even now, after all these months, when he wanted to introduce sex into the conversation.

  Stephanie saw a bulge tenting his trousers. When she had first met him Devlin's ability to achieve an erection was limited and certainly never spontaneous. Discovering his sexual proclivities, she had changed all that, though only when they slipped into their respective roles, mistress and slave. This was a new development; though she had ordered him to put the stockings on it was hardly the full-scale performance. She thought it deserved a reward.

  She climbed on to the bed on her knees and pushed him back until he was lying flat.

  'Well,' she said circling the material of his trousers around his hard cock.

  She unzipped his fly. His cock burst out like a dog jumping through a paper hoop. Without hesitation she plunged her mouth down on it. She felt the huge gnarled and veined shaft filling her, its tip, bulbous and hot, at the back of her throat. No woman would be able to take all of Devlin into her mouth. Her lips were pursed no more than halfway down the engorged flesh.

  She eased her hand into his boxer shorts and found his balls, cupping them in her hand, playing with them, juggling them up and down. She heard Devlin moan. She sucked hard, using her tongue to tease the ridge of his glans before she started an insistent rhythm, moving her mouth up and down, back and forth, taking as much of him as she possibly could.

  Devlin was bucking his hips off the bed, matching her rhythm. She was making him come. His mind was not full of images of anything but her - her body, wrapped in the sleek black lingerie, the arch of her breasts exaggerated by the bra, her thighs bisected by the grey welt of the stockings, the black suspender on the top of her thigh loose and slack, the one at the side stretched and taut, pulling the stockings into a high peak against the creamy tanned flesh. They were not playing games. This was real.

  She felt his cock reacting, throbbing, pumping spunk ready to ejaculate. She altered her position, moving her leg over his head so she was kneeling above his face, directly above, not because she wanted him to reciprocate - she didn't - but because she wanted him to be able to see the crease of her labia, the long slit of her sex only slightly veiled by the loose folds of the black French knickers.

  He stared up at her. Her cunt seemed to be alive, pulsing like an animal, a hungry furry animal. He could see the tight curves of her buttocks under the black silk. He could see the way the muscles of her thighs, the sinews and tendons, were stretched open. He felt himself coming.

  Stephanie sucked his cock and squeezed his balls, her rhythm as regular as a metronome. She felt his spunk begin its journey, felt it in his hard shaft, felt his whole body tense as he reached out to stop her head pulling away again, wanting to come as deep in her throat as he could. His cock jerked and great gobs of white spunk splashed into her mouth, down her throat, as his eyes devoured the shape and lines and details of her cunt.

  Stephanie rolled onto her back. Some spunk escaped from the side of her mouth, but most of it she swallowed. It tasted salty.

  'Your turn,' he said running his hand up her thigh.

  'No,' she said catching his hand by the wrist.

  But it was too late. She was too aroused to put up genuine resistance. The tip of his huge finger had already grazed the soft flesh of her labia and her body had already responded, almost unconsciously, by pushing down on it. The loose crotch of the French knickers was no hindrance. In a second Devlin's finger was buried up to the knuckle in the silky walls of her sex and Stephanie was using it, riding it, fucking it. She pushed down hard, wanting to feel the finger at the neck of her womb. It filled her as only Devlin could.

  She tasted his spunk in her mouth. She opened her eyes and looked at Devlin, most of his clothes still on, as he was bent over her, supported on one elbow, wanking her effortlessly with just one finger. There was something in that picture that made her come, suddenly, unexpectedly. Her body tensed and before she realised what was happening her eyes were closing so she could see, in the blackness behind them, the fireworks of her body as it sunk into a bed of perfect ecstasy.

  It might have been hours before she opened her eyes again. She couldn't remember feeling his finger come out of her.

  They lay together without moving. She would need to find another pair of black French knickers.

  The black Mercedes limousine drew up outside the Pierre at exactly 12.30 p.m. One of the many uniformed commissionaires opened the rear door of the black-windowed car and Henry Caplin got out, a vicuna coat over his shoulders, his immaculately cut suit a grey Prince of Wales check, his white silk shirt and pink tie perfectly colour coordinated. His cufflinks were gold, his shoes handmade. His head of white hair was so carefully combed and brushed and parted that not a strand of hair was out of place. He looked precisely what he was: a man of wealth and substance.

  Walking through the swing doors, held open for him by yet another commissionaire, he strode up to Stephanie who was standing in the foyer.

  'Hi,' he said, 'wonderful to see you.' He looked as though he meant it. 'You look marvellous.'

  'Thank you,' she said kissing him perfunctorily on the cheek, and knowing it was true. The plain black dress she had chosen was a piece of expensive tailoring that emphasised the slimness of her waist and the strong curve of her bust. Its V-neck line was modest in comparison with other items in her wardrobe. It revealed little.

  'I booked at the Algonquin. The English always eat there.'

  'Do they? I've never been.'

  'You'll like it. It's part of old New York. The Critics Circle, H. L. Mencken and Dorothy Parker. When New York had some style.'

  'Doesn't it now?'

  'Not really.' He indicated the car. 'Your carriage awaits.'

  The interior of the Mercedes was not quite as luxurious as the Cadillac - no television, no bar - but it was just as comfortable and spacious. Stephanie settled into the leather seat with Caplin beside her, as the car pulled out into the seemingly endless stream of honking, noisy, irritable, New York traffic.

  'Stephanie,' Caplin said, 'first I want to thank you.'

  'For what?'

  'For Oscar. For what you did for Oscar.'

  'He told you,' she was astonished.

  'No, of course not.'

  'How do you know what I did then?'

  'It did not take much imagination my dear. I know I was involved with Devlin. But you left the bed
room door open when you came to get the brandies. You were hardly dressed to play a game of scrabble.

  'No, I suppose not,' she laughed.

  'And even if I hadn't seen you, well Oscar's a different person. He suddenly seems to have grown up.'

  'You were taking him to the Shades of Hades to have him,' she searched for the right word, 'initiated.'

  'Have to confess I was. It was a mistake. I just thought it might be fun. Obviously he didn't agree. He's such a serious boy. He's a Rhodes scholar you know. Doing unbelievably well. But he doesn't seem to have much fun.'

  That was a picture of Oscar Stephanie did not recognise but she thought it best not to say so.

  The car had crawled down 5th Avenue, the twenty blocks to the Algonquin. The chauffeur opened the rear passenger door.

  Caplin led the way into the tiny Blue Bar by the front entrance. They sat on the leather-covered banquette.

  'Best martinis in town,' Caplin said.

  'I'd love one.'

  The martinis arrived in bell-shaped cocktail glasses. Caplin was right. The martini was very cold and lethal. Stephanie felt the liquor warming her stomach.

  In the Oak Room they ate oysters and grilled Maine lobster and Crystal champagne.

  Caplin was attentive and charming. He was undoubtedly an extremely attractive man. Through the meal he made no attempt to proposition her. By the time coffee arrived she had decided - it seemed to be her role nowadays - she had to take the initiative.

  'So why where you so anxious to see me on my own, Caplin?' she asked, her voice clear and businesslike.

  'I thought that would be obvious.'

  'So did I. But apparently not.'

  'Oh yes,' he hesitated. 'Yes. I suppose you're right. To tell you the truth I'm not sure where to begin. Especially with what happened to Oscar.'

  'What's Oscar got to do with it?'

  'Nothing. I just wouldn't want you to think...'

  'What?'

  'Father and son. That there was any...'

  'Conspiracy?'

  'Connection.'

  'I don't. You're a very attractive man. I find you attractive. I find your reticence a little annoying but perhaps I can understand it in view of the fact that last night I was fucking your son.'

  Judging by the 'well really' muttered by the middle-aged woman at the next table, she had clearly heard all or part of the conversation. Stephanie caught her eye and smiled angelically. The woman looked away in disgust.

  'You're very direct.'

  'I suppose so.'

  'And what about Devlin?'

  'What about Devlin? What do you want to know?'

  'Your relationship?'

  'Do you care?'

  Caplin hesitated for a moment clearly thinking about the question. 'To be absolutely honest, no I don't.'

  'Well then.'

  'I suppose I'm not used to this.'

  'This what?'

  'Modern women. I'm used to doing all the leading.'

  'Caplin, either you want to fuck me or you don't. If that's what this lunch is all about it's perfectly all right with me. I don't need the small talk. I don't even need the lunch come to that. You could just as well have had me in the back of your limousine. You only had to ask. If that scares you or puts you off then I'll leave now.'

  'It doesn't. I find it very stimulating.'

  'Good. Then we seem to have arrived on mutual ground. So what are we going to do about it?'

  'What do you think we should do?' Before she could answer he laughed heartily. 'I'm doing it again aren't I? I should be telling you.'

  'No. I'll tell you. Go out to the desk and see if there's a room available in the hotel.'

  'Now?'

  'Yes, now,' she said letting her annoyance into her voice. 'Go up to the room. Order another bottle of champagne from room service, phone me here with the room number, then take all your clothes off and wait. Does that sound interesting?' She touched his hand on the table.

  'Very.'

  He got up to go. The maitre d' arrived in alarm that something might be wrong.

  'Is everything all right, Mr Caplin?'

  'Everything is fine, Albert. Look after the lady for me will you. See she has everything she needs.'

  Albert's palm was gifted with a set of hundred dollar notes.

  'Certainly, Mr Caplin.'

  As Caplin walked through to the lobby Albert swarmed over to Stephanie and asked if there was anything she wanted. She ordered another coffee which came almost at once. She looked across at the two women on the next table, dry, wizened women, their faces lined with wrinkles, and caked with too much make-up. The one who had overheard Stephanie's conversation glanced at her again, her eyes examining her as though she were some exotic but dangerous specimen in a private zoo.

  Albert, the maitre d' approached with a cordless phone in his hand. Stephanie was slightly disappointed. She had expected him to bring a phone to the table and plug it in: that's what they'd always done in the Humphrey Bogart films.

  'Telephone call, madam,' he said handing her the phone.

  'Thank you.'

  She took the phone. 'Caplin,' she said.

  'Room 510,' he said.

  'Got it.'

  Leaving the telephone on the table, she walked out of the restaurant and into the oak-panelled lounge littered with heavy and ancient armchairs, no two the same, and carpeted in what had once been a rich patterned red Wilton, but was now faded and worn, almost threadbare. Stephanie waited for the equally ancient lift. It arrived with a clanging and grinding of metal. The lift boy - in fact a man of sixty-five plus - opened the metal gates.

  'Floor please,' he said automatically.

  'Five.'

  'English?'

  'Yes.'

  'We get a lot of English here.'

  Using the wheel-like handle he stopped the lift at the fifth floor, gauging the height and speed of the lift perfectly, as he stopped it level with the floor. It was his own private game. He had been playing it for thirty years.

  Stephanie followed the arrows to Room 510. It was in the corner where the corridor turned at right angles. The door was ajar. Closing it firmly behind her she found herself in a small sitting room with a television and two small sofas. Beyond was a double door into the bedroom. One of the doors was ajar too.

  She pushed the door open. Caplin was lying on the bed naked, though covered, to the waist at least, by a sheet. He had a glass of champagne in his hand.

  'Very good,' Stephanie said, going over to the dressing table where the bottle sat in a wine cooler and pouring herself a glass.

  'Just as you ordered,' Caplin said enjoying the word 'ordered'. She sat on the bed and sipped the wine running her other hand down Caplin's throat into the thick hair of his chest, most of which was as white as the hair on his head. His body was firm and muscled. His arms looked strong.

  He reached forward and pulled down the long zip at the back of her dress. She put her glass down on the bedside table. He did the same.

  'You're a very beautiful woman.'

  'You're a very attractive man.' Stephanie stood up and pulled the dress from each shoulder in turn. She held it at her bust for a moment, looking into Caplin's eyes, before letting it fall to the floor. She stepped out of it, picked it up and threw it on to the chair where Caplin had folded his suit.

  Stephanie could see herself in the long mirror at the side of the bed; the bra pushing her breasts up into a plump arch above its black silk and lace, the suspender belt hidden under the waistband of the French knickers but with its suspenders emerging like long alien fingers pointing down to her feet.

  She was just about to reach behind her back to unclasp the bra when Caplin caught her hand.

  'No,' he said pulling her back on to the bed. 'No.'

  He pushed her down on to the sheets and covered her mouth with his, kissing her hard, his tongue hot between her lips, exploring her mouth, her hands running all over his body, feeling, touching, caressing. He squeezed a
t her breasts under the bra, smoothed at the silk of the knickers, felt the contrast between flesh and nylon in the middle of her thighs, ran his hand down under the nylon stocking, feeling the rasp of nylon on the back of his hand, then going up again to press the black silk into the curve of her pubic bone.

  He broke the kiss and used his mouth to nibble and kiss her ear. At the same time he pulled her across the bed so she was squarely in the middle. His mouth moved to her neck while his hand lay flat on her navel, lifting the waistband of the knickers and venturing down until his fingertips felt the fringes of her black pubic hair.

  Stephanie felt his erect cock at the side of her thigh. She tried to reach it with her hand but he pulled her wrist away and slammed it down on the bed just above her head.

  'No,' he said again firmly.

  His hand was delving into the forest of hair, searching it, combing it for his objective. His mouth worked down her neck, kissing, licking, nibbling, stopping short of biting but only just.

  The tip of his finger found her clitoris. It was wet. Stephanie was wet, her cunt awash with passion. It did not surprise her. He was so strong, so hard, so forceful. He was exactly what she wanted.

  The finger moved in little circles. She could hear the silk rustle as his hand moved. The presence of his hand had pulled the crotch of the knickers, trapped at the back between the sheets and her arse, into the slit of her labia. She could feel the material rubbing against her nether lips as his hand moved. He was making the little circles right on the knot of her clitoris. He was making her come with his touch. For the second time that day she came suddenly, almost instantly. None of her usual slow build-up. One minute she was able to feel and think and enjoy what he was doing to her: the next her whole body seemed to collapse inward, every feeling concentrated on the tiniest movements on her clitoris, delicious, sensational movements, and she could do nothing but fall into a pit of black, bottomless feeling.