Bare, White and Rosy

by Penny Birch

  On the Thursday morning I went shopping again, only with far more purpose. If Yoshida’s column was anything to go by, his tastes focused on brand and image. I was determined that he would see me as his ideal, and made a careful selection of designer clothes, right down to my knickers, exclusively French and every article a top name. On the island I’d seldom worn anything more elaborate than a sundress or jeans and a jumper, so the prices came as a bit of a shock, but I put it all on expenses anyway, as well as the two hours I spent bringing my hair, nails and skin to perfection.

  By the time I was finished and ready to go, the local slobs on the island wouldn’t have recognised me. In fact, looking in the mirror I barely recognised myself. My hair had been put up in an elaborate confection of curls that altered the line of my face, making me seem haughty yet slightly vulnerable, an image enhanced by both my clothes and my make-up. I’d chosen a pair of elegant black heels that lifted me by more than three inches as well, and it was only as I was making my way towards the Place de Bourges that it occurred to me that if Anton Yoshida was part Japanese he might very well be shorter than me.

  I needn’t have worried. On arrival I was escorted into a huge, ornate room which had been carefully laid out in order to separate the guests into three distinct classes, according to their idea of status. The lower part was reserved for the rabble, reporters and so forth, with good but plain settings. A single step led up to the next level, to which I was steered, where everything from the furniture to the flowers was just that little bit grander. The upper part was not only another two steps higher but cordoned off by a thick crimson rope, while the appointments were so extravagant as to seem almost pastiche. This area also had its own door, in which was standing an elderly gentleman who looked like a reincarnation of François Mitterrand, and next to him Anton Yoshida.

  He was taller than his companion, six foot at least, and very slender, with slick jet-black hair. Both the way he held himself and his expression suggested nonchalance and charm, but also a conviction of his own superiority. He looked younger than I had expected, too, which complicated my already mixed feelings about a possible encounter. I prefer older men, and while they need to be confident they should also be properly appreciative. They should also be unashamedly dirty, and I had a nasty suspicion Anton Yoshida might turn out to be a prude – and, worse, unaware that he was a prude. On the other hand, there was no denying his good looks, so the fact that he wasn’t my type at all meant that being obliged to give myself to him would be an exceptionally strong experience.

  Not that I could even introduce myself, for the time being. Three extremely large men in monkey suits were spaced out along the crimson rope, trying to be unobtrusive and failing miserably, and the guests were being steered very firmly into their correct areas. He was at least alone. A wife or girlfriend would have made my task infinitely harder, if potentially more satisfying. I could only hope that we’d be allowed to mingle later, but for the moment there was nothing for it but to make polite conversation with my fellow second-class citizens and wait for the evening to get started.

  It was the most peculiar wine event I had ever attended. The food was good if not wonderful, but it was accompanied by a selection of wines from Southern and Allied, the multinational food company who’d just bought out Kavanagh, and there wasn’t one that I’d even have used to cook with. They also had jugglers, fire-eaters and some girls in diminutive green outfits who I think were supposed to be fairies. I enjoyed watching them, and tried to gauge Anton Yoshida’s reaction to the occasional flash of bottle-green panties, but his manner was distinctly formal and gave nothing away.

  He was very much the star guest, seated to the right of the man he’d been talking to earlier, evidently the CEO of Kavanagh. They were in the company of various corporate bigwigs, actors, sports personalities and the owner of the hotel, who looked as if he’d have been more at home running guns in the Middle East. They were presumably the sort of people Kavanagh wanted to impress, and I realised that if my plan worked they would be the sort of people I was forced to associate with. Suddenly the lazy boredom of the island seemed highly appealing, but I’d made my bed and was determined to lie in it, regardless of company.

  Other than having the Kavanagh logo on every available surface there was no reference to Cognac at all during the meal, and it was only after we’d been served coffee that the fairies ran from the room to return each bearing a huge silver platter on which rested a single bottle of the Cordon Noir. They’d spent a fortune on presentation, and the word ‘bottle’ hardly does justice to what was really a decanter of cut and smoked glass decorated with black ribbons edged with gold, black and gold wax seals and the name in gold leaf.

  The appearance of the Cognac was greeted with a round of applause, in which I joined somewhat self-consciously. Each table had a personal fairy, who began to pour out samples of the rich brown liquid as the Mitterand lookalike got to his feet. He began to speak, but my attention had been distracted, and not by the Cognac. Our table fairy was far more interesting, petite and dark, with a black bob and mischievous upturned nose. Each time she poured a Cognac she kept her legs perfectly straight and bent from the waist, making her tiny green skirt rise to show off a perfectly round little bottom encased in skin-tight green panties. I was sure that if she was game she would be far more fun to take to bed than Anton Yoshida, and it was with considerable difficulty that I forced my mind back to the task in hand.

  My Cognac had been poured into a large balloon glass, and I spent a while warming it in my hand and trying to ignore our fairy, who was now on the far side of the table, so that each time she bent I was given a fine view of two little round boobs nestled in her green velvet bodice. Possibly they were trying to create a deliberate association in our minds between the Cognac and sex, because the Cognac certainly didn’t have much going for it otherwise. It was good, but nothing more, and had I been served it blind I’d have put it down as an XO from one of the more commercial houses.

  A thousand pounds a bottle was a ridiculous price, but I seemed to be in the minority in thinking so. Most of those around me were going into raptures, and to judge by the way Anton Yoshida was nodding, and passing what were evidently enthusiastic remarks to his neighbours, he evidently thought the same. Again and again I pushed my nose into the glass, trying to catch the supposedly wonderful nuances of flavour being discussed all around me. I was wishing Percy was there, or John, just to let me know that my palate hadn’t died on me, but try as I might I could detect nothing more than a delicate fruit tinged with caramel. During my wilder years I had faked old brandies, and my efforts had been considerably better.

  We were given ten minutes to consider the virtues of the Cordon Noir before the dinner came to an end. The large men in monkey suits began to roll back the rope and I realised that I finally had my chance. Unfortunately everybody else in the room seemed to have the same idea, and both the lower and middle sections were moving en masse towards the top table. I was much too far away to make an elegant approach to Yoshida, and was forced to join the crowd waiting to catch his eye.

  My patience lasted all of two minutes before I decided to try some networking instead, with the aim of meeting him as an equal at some more conventional tasting. I was also keen to try my hand with our table fairy, who at least might prove a fun companion while I was in Paris, and at best a playmate. She and her fellows were now serving Champagne, yet another brand from a Southern and Allied subsidiary, which made her easy to corner.

  ‘Champagne Raoul Leclerc?’ she offered, extending her tray as she gave the prettiest little curtsy.

  ‘Merci, jolie fée,’ I said, taking a glass and a risk that if she’d didn’t respond well she probably wouldn’t be much fun anyway. ‘Allons papoter?’

  She looked slightly concerned, her eyes darting towards where the maître was hovering by the door.

  ‘I will if you like,’ she answered, in perfectly good English but with a strong Irish accent.


  ‘Sorry, I assumed you were French,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘I knew you were English because I heard you talking,’ she told me, ‘but look, I’m not really supposed to mix with the guests. I’m Rhiannon.’

  ‘Natasha. They’re so stuffy here. Quickly then, would you like to meet up?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I hesitated, not wanting to rush in and destroy any chances I might have, but I could smell the scent of her skin and the perfume she was wearing, while her little round boobs were quivering ever so slightly in her bodice and her small heart-shaped face looked irresistibly kissable. Going around Paris with her but without the option of sex was going to be torture, so the only sensible option was to make my move and pray she didn’t slap my face.

  ‘I don’t mean just for company. I’d like to take you to bed.’

  Her face went crimson and she looked at the floor, mumbling a single word.

  ‘Maybe.’

  I snatched a pair of business cards from my pocket and scribbled the address of my hotel on one of them. She took them without another word, hastily wrote her mobile number on the back of the second and gave it back to me, blushing so prettily that I couldn’t resist kissing her, just a peck, but full on her green-painted lips. A shiver, a shy smile and she’d hurried away, leaving me flushed and hot from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I wasn’t sure if I was on a promise or not, but her sweet, shy reaction had got to me in a way I’d seldom experienced. The Champagne was pretty ordinary but it was badly needed and I gulped it down. When I lowered my glass I found Anton Yoshida looking directly at me.

  My response was instantaneous: I smiled, raised my glass as if offering him a toast and winked. He barely reacted, one corner of his mouth flicking up for an instant, but I knew he’d seen me kiss Rhiannon and that I had him. Very few men indeed can resist the thought of a bisexual girl and the chance of a threesome. I had him, and my best bet was now to play it cool.

  I was feeling deliciously smug as I began to mingle with the crowd. It had been entirely accidental, but with one cheeky kiss I had managed to turn around what had seemed to be an impossible situation. Anton Yoshida could no longer keep his eyes off me, save the occasional glance at Rhiannon, but I made very sure not to return his attention. There were plenty of interesting people to talk to anyway, business cards to collect and chocolates to nibble, while they were clearly determined that the Champagne would not run out.

  My intention was to wait until the crowd had begun to melt away and then make my move, just in case he didn’t have the guts or simply intended to eye me up. I was beginning to grow impatient when he excused himself to those around him and left the room. At first I thought it had all gone wrong, but he returned by the other door just a couple of minutes later, thus avoiding the cluster of people by the top table who were still waiting to talk to him.

  ‘Good evening. Miss Linnet, I believe?’

  He’d evidently already asked about me. His tone was formal yet slightly wry, his accent Received Pronunciation with just a trace of the exotic.

  ‘Natasha, please,’ I responded.

  ‘You seem to have enjoyed this evening?’

  ‘It’s had its moments, as I suspect you saw. This Champagne, on the other hand, is execrable, but I have a far better one in my hotel room, already chilled.’

  His eyebrows rose a fraction. It’s remarkable how many men are still surprised if a girl doesn’t play coy.

  ‘I did,’ he admitted, and made an attempt to play me at my own game. ‘So the question would seem to be: shall we go to bed together, or shall we attempt to add your pretty little waitress to make a threesome?’

  I glanced around, half hoping to find Rhiannon but concerned that even if she was willing to play with me the suggestion of a threesome might be going too far. Even if she did go for it, which seemed unlikely, the two of us would be more or less obliged to attend to Anton, whereas it would be more fun to have her to myself. So I was only mildly disappointed to find that there was no sign of her. Nor were there any other fairies about, the tables being cleared by men and women in plain white.

  ‘Too late,’ I said. ‘What a pity. Never mind, I’ll tell you what I’d like to have done with her, while I play with your cock.’

  He wasn’t as startled as Earle Hayes had been, but his hand had begun to shake, making the surface of the Champagne in his glass tremble. I gave him a knowing smile, then spoke quickly, as the hotel owner was approaching.

  ‘Shall I wait?’

  ‘No. I must be discreet. We go to your hotel. A car will collect us from the back. Ten minutes.’

  I nodded and managed a bright smile for the hotel owner, whose eyes flicked to my chest and hips before he responded, possibly considering adding white slavery to his gun-running operation. He made a few polite remarks before turning his attention to Anton and I was able to excuse myself.

  My first thought was to look for Rhiannon, but she was nowhere to be found. That was probably just as well, as I was far hornier for her than for Anton, and I was drunk enough to have gone with her and stood him up if she’d wanted me. Evidently she didn’t, and it was impossible not to feel disappointment even as I made my way to the rear of the hotel. As promised, a car was waiting for me, large, black and with Anton Yoshida in the back. I lowered myself in, smiling, and gave the chauffeur directions. He never even turned his head, but nodded as we set off.

  I was keen enough, despite missing out on Rhiannon, and immediately allowed my hand to glide over Anton’s leg to his crotch. He put his hand on my wrist, controlling but gentle, and let me feel for a while. His cock made a soft, appealing bulge within his trousers, which began to swell as I kneaded gently. I wanted him out and in my mouth, and the presence of the chauffeur only made the idea more exciting, but when I tried to pull down his zip my hand was removed.

  ‘Patience, little one,’ he urged.

  He put his arm around me as he spoke, and held me there as we drove. I quickly let my hand slip to his cock again, stroking and squeezing through his trousers to get him erect. I imagined how it would be if he made me suck him off, and the chauffeur as well, or if they took turns with me over the bonnet, or made me a spit roast, taking turns in my mouth and up my pussy. He was obviously too prissy for anything so rude, but I soon had him nicely erect and it did no harm to think about the possible consequences.

  At my hotel he gave the chauffeur a generous tip and pulled me quickly through the door. My dirty-minded concierge, Jean-Marc, was at the desk and gave me a grin and a wink as we passed. I returned the wink, hoping to make it clear that if things didn’t go too well and Anton left he was welcome to come up.

  My room was warm and illuminated dim gold by street lights and the reflections of Les Invalides, a pleasantly sexy atmosphere. The moment the door was closed I pulled him close, scrabbling for his fly as our mouths met, but he drew away after only a moment.

  ‘Ever so impatient,’ he remarked, plainly amused. ‘That’s not how to do it, little one. Come, you said you had some Champagne?’

  I nodded, flustered. It would have been just as easy to have a drink after a quick fucking as before, because I was fairly sure that’s what I was going to get. He sat down, very much at ease and clearly expecting me to serve him. I went to the fridge and extracted one of the bottles of Patrice Beauroy I had put in to chill, along with two glasses. He watched as I popped the cork and poured, apparently enjoying making me work, but raised his glass in salute as he took it.

  ‘Santé.’

  ‘Cheers. It’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Now, why don’t you get that pretty mouth around my prick while I drink it?’

  He didn’t need to push me. I got straight down, more than keen to be on my knees giving a blow job to a man sipping his drink, which has to be one of the most deliciously submissive positions a girl can be in.

  ‘Would you like my breasts bare?’ I offered, my own words provoking a sharp thrill.

  ‘Why not?’ he re
sponded.

  I met his gaze as my hands went to the top button of my blouse. He returned a small, cool smile, watching as I exposed myself. There was no question of who was in charge any more, not with me on my knees with my boobs out while he sat calm and composed in a chair, but that was just fine. I was trembling as my buttons came loose, one after another until my blouse was undone far enough to allow me to pull it open and show off my cleavage and the lacy black cups of my expensive new bra. His smile grew a trifle broader at the sight, and broader still as I tugged my cups up to spill out my naked breasts for his inspection.

  ‘You are well shaped,’ he remarked. ‘You have good skin too. They are rather large and heavy, perhaps, but that is the way with so many of you English girls. Make your nipples come stiff.’

  Cupping a breast in each hand, I began to rub my nipples with my thumbs, still holding his gaze as they quickly popped out, only to close my eyes as the pleasure grew too strong. He gave a soft chuckle, a sound that held more than a little contempt, then spoke again.

  ‘Come to me, little one.’

  I let go of my boobs, keen to show him how obedient I was, and looked up to him as I crawled across the floor. He set his knees apart, showing off the bulge in his suit trousers.

  ‘Now you may have what you need,’ he said, and eased his fly down. ‘Take out my prick, my balls also.’

  I didn’t need telling, but tried to be slow and sensuous as I slipped one hand into his briefs. He felt hot and silky, his shaft still half stiff from my earlier fondling, his balls satisfyingly large and heavy. I took it all out as I’d been ordered, slipped his cock straight into my mouth and sucked eagerly.