by Penny Birch
I was the only one. With the exception of John Thurston, everybody else waited until Earle Hayes had made his pronouncement and hastened to support whatever he’d said. I’d never seen such a bunch of sycophants, and would have said so, had I not been working to my own agenda. John merely watched and allowed himself the occasional quiet grin at some particularly unctuous comment.
Lunch was accompanied by a series of wines, all of them poured with a generous hand. I did my best to hold back, but with John sitting next to me and determined to top up my glass at every opportunity it wasn’t easy. He was doing his best to charm me too, and I knew I’d be receiving an invitation to join him afterwards, and what he had in mind for me. Normally I’d have gone for it, but I needed to concentrate on Hayes, who was at the far corner of the table. Hayes was also very much the centre of attention, and I was trying to decide how to play the situation, but he made straight for me as soon as lunch was over.
‘Miss Linnet, I was wondering if I might have a word? If you’d excuse us, Mr Thurston.’
He was quite forceful, which I liked, and John had the grace to move on, leaving me with a clear run, far more easily achieved than I’d have anticipated.
‘I understand you’re managing Hambling and Borse?’ Hayes asked, again providing me with exactly the lead I needed.
‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘In fact, I was hoping you would taste some of our wines – privately, that is.’
‘I would be delighted, in fact . . .’
He would have gone on, but the editor had turned up and was pointedly hovering within hearing, so Hayes broke off to speak to him. I waited, but the man seemed to have an endless supply of platitudes and other people were constantly drifting in and out of the conversation. I finally decided to play the helpless, swooning female, leaning heavily on his arm with the clear implication that I was drunk and needed support. He quickly steadied me and I managed an embarrassed smile at the others before I spoke.
‘I’m sorry. I think I need a little fresh air. Would you be very kind and give me a hand, Mr Hayes?’
He and the others shared amused and condescending smiles, but he went for it, taking me by the elbow and steering me gently to where a tall glass door opened on to a balcony overlooking the Thames.
‘I’m not really drunk,’ I told him, ‘but I’d rather like to talk to you alone. The thing is—’
I broke off, again because people were coming towards us, then went on hastily.
‘Did you come by car? Would you mind giving me a lift?’
‘Where to?’
‘Anywhere, really.’
He smiled, and for the first time there was a bit of a twinkle in his eye. Again he took my arm, this time in a distinctly proprietorial fashion, and began to move towards the door. We made our excuses as we left, and I caught more than one muttered remark. I had hoped to manage things rather more subtly, and my face was flushed with embarrassment as we left the Corkscrew offices, but it was too late to start afresh. Not that it mattered if half the wine trade knew I’d been seduced, not the way they deferred to him.
I was going to get it too, just the way I’d planned: obligatory sex on his terms, at least at first. His car was in the yard at the rear of the office block, in the space reserved for the MD of Corkscrew. It was some big American thing, black and shiny and new. He held the door open for me and I climbed in, relaxed back into the big leather seat and closed my eyes to let the warm, dizzy sensation of all the alcohol I’d drunk wash over me.
Hayes was chuckling as he got into the car, and his hand moved ever so briefly to my knee, a purposeful touch that he could have excused, if I’d protested, by saying that he needed to get at the gear shift. It was rather a gentlemanly thing to do, and gave me a last chance to back out, but I simply smiled, feeling like a fine little slut. He chuckled again, as he started the car.
‘You know, it’s been years since I took a drive alone with a pretty girl. Kind of takes me back.’
‘I bet it does,’ I answered him, teasing. ‘I know what you Americans are like. I’ve seen the films.’
‘What films would those be?’
‘The ones where some guy drives a girl out to somewhere lonely and makes her suck his cock or walk home. I hope that’s what you’re going to do with me?’
He nearly hit the gatepost, but managed to recover in time, blowing his breath out in surprise as he turned on to the road.
‘Pretty forward, aren’t you?’ he said.
For a moment I thought I’d made a mistake, and he would turn out to be one of those awful men who like to think women are prudish innocents who need to be tricked out of their knickers. Then he spoke again.
‘Just the way I like it.’
I gave a low purr and wriggled down into my seat, causing him to mutter something under his breath and speed up. He’d turned south, up the hill, making me wonder if the scene of my seduction would be Wimbledon Common. Even two years ago that had been a bad idea.
‘There are too many cameras around here,’ I told him. ‘Turn down the A3.’
He did as he was told, driving well above the speed limit as we got on to the dual carriageway. I kept myself warm by stroking my nipples through the fabric of my blouse, until they were making little hard bumps in the material. Just to let him have me wasn’t enough: he seemed quite experienced, and I needed to stand out from the crowd. That meant I had to be good, and do whatever he wanted, an appealing thought that heightened my arousal as I teased myself. He kept glancing at me and shaking his head, as if in disbelief at how open I was being, which encouraged me all the more.
Soon I’d eased my skirt up, just to the level of my stocking tops, so that he could see that I was in suspenders and watch me stroke my thighs. So could various lorry drivers, but the traffic was light and we passed them quickly, so that even if they did look they’d get only the briefest of glimpses. That added to my excitement, making me want to give more, first an inch of two of bare thigh, and then as my caution gave way completely, the front of my panties. I was in white silk, bulging gently over my pussy mound and pulled up a little between my lips. Just the thing to get the boys going.
‘I’ve got to have you,’ Hayes grunted, finally breaking his silence. ‘I’ve got to have you now.’
‘We’ll get arrested,’ I said with a laugh. ‘Come on, a bit further, and we’ll soon have your cock out. Are you big?’
‘Big enough.’
‘I’ll suck you, then, and maybe let you fuck me over the back seat if you’re a good boy. If you had a little skinny one I’d let you put it up my bum.’
‘Jesus!’
Again I laughed. He had a reputation for never using bad language, but plainly there were limits. I shut up and stopped playing with myself, partly because I was scared he would crash and partly because we’d reached the edge of London and I was trying to remember how to get to any of the dogging lay-bys or quiet car parks I’d visited in the past. We were in my old friend Monty Hartle’s part of the world, and he’d introduced me to more than a few, including one that couldn’t be more than ten minutes’ drive away.
It actually took me twenty to find it: the entrance to a long-abandoned chalk quarry on a lane leading only to a handful of big gin-belt houses. There was just enough space to get properly off the road, into a quiet green space thick with the scent of buddleia bushes growing out from the sides of the quarry, perfect for rude open-air sex. I didn’t waste any time, but responded to his need to kiss me as I drew down his fly and pulled out his cock and balls. His mouth tasted of wine, making me more eager still as I tugged at his rapidly growing shaft and fumbled the buttons of my blouse open to let him get at my breasts.
He took the hint, helping with the last button before tugging up my bra to spill them out, warm and bare in the autumn sunlight. I let him feel me, enjoying his boyish eagerness to touch, and the feel of his thumbs on my nipples as he rubbed them to hardness. He was even stiffer, his cock having come up to full erection as soon as he got
his hands on my boobs. I wanted to see, and pulled back, taking a breast in each hand to show off for him while I in turn admired what he had for me.
I love the way a man’s cock and balls look sticking out of a smart suit, and he hadn’t lied about his size. He was big, and pink, and smooth, a really beautiful cock, and eminently suckable, but he was staring at my chest as if I was presenting him with the Holy Grail. I laughed and gave them a playful bounce, making his eyes pop.
‘You’re kind of big,’ he breathed, ‘not too big, but big, and real.’
‘You can fuck them if you like.’
‘Oh, sweet Jesus!’
‘In a bit.’
He was mine, utterly in thrall to my boobs, and, while I knew I’d have to give him whatever he wanted, that was no reason not to get my own. Laying myself across the seats, I went down on him, first licking and kissing his bulging balls before taking him in my mouth. The position left my boobs dangling and he quickly took advantage, slipping a hand under my chest to fondle me as I sucked. I was not going to be happy if he wasted it in my mouth, and I was careful, sucking gently and teasing him by licking under his foreskin with the very tip of my tongue. His breathing grew deeper and his fondling rougher as he grew more excited, but when he began to thrust up into my mouth I stopped, giggling as I released his erection. He tried to push me back down, but I wagged a finger at him.
‘Don’t be in such a hurry, Earle. You want to fuck my tits, don’t you?’
‘Dead right I do,’ he answered, puffing. His accent had completely lost the English veneer.
‘We need more room,’ I pointed out, pulling the door open.
I’d planned to get in the back, but the day was too beautiful, and being fully exposed would make the sex even more fun. Not that we were likely to get caught, but it’s nice to imagine myself being watched. There was some piece of ancient, rusting machinery among the buddleias, and I sat down on it, cupping my breasts to offer my cleavage as a cock slide. He didn’t waste any time but squatted down in front of me, pressing his cock down to let me squash him between them, his shaft hot and hard against the softness of my flesh.
His suit trousers were rubbing on my nipples as he fucked my cleavage, making me ever more eager to touch myself, but I knew it would be better still if I forced myself to wait. I’d wanted to feel I was being used anyway, and it was nice to be titty-fucked before I was allowed to come. It would even be nice if he came up my cleavage and in my face, leaving me to rub off in front of him with his mess all over me, and I was beginning to think that was going to happen when he suddenly stopped.
‘Lie back.’
It was a brusque order, urgent and demanding. I would have obeyed, but I didn’t get the chance. He grabbed my ankles, making me squeak as I was tipped upside-down. I had to snatch at a buddleia branch to stop myself falling off the machine, and I was anything but comfortable. He didn’t care, pushing my skirt up around my hips and hauling my panties down my thighs even as I struggled to keep my balance. I squeaked again as my legs were pushed higher, with his hand twisted in my pulled-down panties, leaving my bottom stuck out and my pussy vulnerable to his cock, which went up with one shove, making a wet, squashy noise as I was filled.
I was clinging on for dear life as I was fucked, not daring to let go of the branch, my body jerking like a demented puppet and my boobs bouncing wildly. His eyes were locked on them with a feverish intensity and he seemed indifferent to the rest of my body, save that my pussy made a convenient place to stick his cock. It was just what I wanted, dirty and rough, and I’d have brought myself off in front of him if I’d been able to get at my pussy. I couldn’t, or I’d be head-down in a clump of nettles and I wasn’t at all sure he’d stop. All I could do was cling on, gasping as he thrust into me, praying he’d finish quickly and wishing he’d keep going forever, all at the same time.
He finished quickly, jerking his cock free at the last instant to empty himself over my thighs and belly, soiling my rucked-up skirt and even splashing my breasts. When he let go of my panties I very nearly fell off, but managed to pull myself back up, spreading my thighs to my hand without bothering to get comfortable. My pussy was soaking and the hair of my mound matted with his come. My skirt, bra and blouse were dirty, and my boobs spotted with white. I’d been well and truly spunked over, used and spunked over as if I were no more than a fuck toy, and it felt absolutely wonderful.
I cried out loud as I came, showing off to him with one hand clutching at my cunt while I smeared his mess over my boobs. He was staring, his cock hanging from his fly, slowly deflating as he gazed in astonishment at what he’d made me do. When I’d finally come down from my high he didn’t seem to know quite what to say, so I went first.
‘Thanks, that was good, very good.’
‘I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ he managed. ‘You are one very amorous young lady.’
‘So I’m told. My bag’s in the car, please, or do you have a hankie I could borrow?’
‘Why, certainly,’ he responded. ‘I have tissues in the car too.’
He was every bit the gentleman once again, passing me his handkerchief and then going to fetch some tissues and my bag, his cock still out and slippery with my juice. The last time I’d been in that quarry had been with Monty Hartle, who’d come in my face and hair, then expected me to suck his cock clean before he’d help me tidy up. Hayes was very different, infinitely more considerate, although he’d been very nearly as rude with me.
‘Would you like a drink?’ he offered as I began to adjust my make-up.
‘An orange juice would be perfect, followed by a coffee.’
‘Sure. I suppose there’s a bar around here someplace.’
We found a pub, once the haunt of coach passengers on their way to Portsmouth, now largely given over to retired stockbrokers and women in tweed. I chose a table by the window and watched with amusement as Earle Hayes took in his surroundings with open relish.
‘I just adore England,’ he told me as he put our drinks down, ‘which brings me back to what I wanted to speak to you about. Can we talk business?’
I nodded, wondering what he wanted and whether I dared lay my cards on the table by asking for favourable reviews of Hambling and Borse wines in return.
‘Like I’m sure you know,’ he began, ‘I’m well set up back home, but over here I’ve not had an easy time. You Brits like tradition. You like names that go back a hundred years or more, like Hambling and Borse. I’ve been thinking of buying a British company for some time now, and I know you need to sell, so if the price is right . . .’
He trailed off, spreading his hands.
My plan was not going to script. Earle Hayes was a writer and an opinion-maker, not a merchant, and it had never crossed my mind for an instant that he’d be a potential buyer. Like Lydia, he seemed to be mainly after the name and presumably the premises, and like Lydia’s his offer would be utterly unacceptable to Gilbert and Otto. In fact it was a moot point which suggestion would send them into the more extreme state of apoplexy, selling out to an asset-stripper or to an American.
His offer was fair, for a failing company with good assets, but the better Hambling and Borse were doing, the more he’d be expected to pay. Therefore he was hardly likely to praise any of their wines, at least until he had control. Until then his best choice was to ignore them, as he explained to me quite candidly while we drove back towards London. I kept my own council, letting him talk and trying to reappraise the situation.
It was growing increasingly complicated, but there was no reason to deviate from my plan. If I couldn’t have the good opinion of Earle Hayes, then I would have to seek out Anton Yoshida all the more urgently. The two were rivals, and so it seemed likely that if one chose to comment on a particular wine the other would do so too, or at least be asked for his opinion. Both liked to present an image of omniscience, so neither could easily admit that he had not tasted something the other had praised. Better still, if I could get some favourable comments on
the Hambling and Borse wines from Yoshida, then Hayes would have little choice but to praise them as well, or it would look highly peculiar when he took on the agencies, as he hoped to do.
I needed to get to Paris, and to choose a wine with which to impress Yoshida, ideally by serving it while he was in the process of bedding me. The Patrice Beauroy Champagne was ideal, the traditional drink of seduction and a wine of impeccable quality. I chose a hotel behind Les Invalides, convenient but sufficiently discreet for my purposes, then sent a case ahead, along with a cheque large enough to ensure good service and no arguments about corkage.
There was no difficulty in securing an invitation to the Cognac tasting; for all Hambling and Borse’s woes, they were still much sought after as clients. It was all rather peculiar, with a lavish dinner and some sort of theatrical entertainment laid on, all in aid of promoting Kavanagh’s new Cordon Noir, which was to sell at over a £1,000 a bottle and appeared to be aimed exclusively at the gullible. I could think of worse places to be, and no doubt there would be other, more interesting events – I knew I’d been lucky with Earle Hayes, and it might take a while to get my hooks into Anton Yoshida.
I had another good reason for going to Paris. Both Lydia and Earle Hayes were keen for me to make a decision, and I could only make excuses for so long. They were also both keen to get me into bed, or the bath, or spread out on some piece of rusting machinery – which would have been fine if the after-sex conversation hadn’t focused entirely on why I should accept their offer as soon as possible.
On the Saturday it was Earle Hayes and a cock between my tits before being rolled up and fucked on the bed. On the Sunday it was Lydia, who not only tied my hands behind my back and spanked me with a shoe but threatened to withhold my climax unless I agreed to her terms. On the Monday I left for France, early.
Four
I WAS IN Paris in time to take a leisurely lunch beside the Seine, and with three days to go before the tasting I was able to have a thoroughly good time, shopping, sight-seeing and road-testing the concierge at my hotel. He was one of those Frenchmen with a rude, happy-go-lucky attitude to sex, an exhibitionist streak and the morals of a polecat. Sucking his cock under the reception desk as he gave two elderly American tourists directions to the Eiffel Tower was especially good fun, even when he told them, in French, that it was in his tart’s mouth. The male half of the couple may even have understood.