Black Lace Quickies 9

by Kerri Sharpe

  Some ingrained sense of prudishness makes me shrug my clothes up over my shoulders and hook my bra. To hell with buttoning the shirt, and my stockings are history. I think I’ll just swap the shirt out for a long-sleeved T-shirt from my luggage. It won’t take but a look to know the reason for the state of my clothing – or, on second thought, maybe not. I suddenly like the idea of walking into the hotel lobby with Nate Marble and every single stranger who looks at us knowing exactly what we’ve been doing.

  The thought brings a grin to my face and he looks up from belting his pants and grins back. Damp strands of hair fall over his forehead. The starch of his shirt has long given up the ghost and his cheeks are still flushed. That’s beauty right there.

  ‘Remind me not to get lost with you any more,’ he says.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yeah. I might be too distracted to ever get back.’

  I laugh and roll my eyes. ‘Don’t worry, cowboy, I’ll club you over the head and drag you back.’

  ‘Quite the charmer, aren’t you?’

  He gives me a long, long look.

  Finally, he turns and takes the patient nozzle out of the tank, replaces it on the lever. The pump beeps uncertainly for a second or two before spitting out a receipt. I button my shirt halfway, collect the bottles from atop the car and dump them in the bagless trash can beside the pump. Then I strip off my stockings one by one and send them after the bottles.

  ‘All ready?’ he asks.

  I nod. ‘Yup. But Nate . . .?’

  He turns in the act of walking around to open my car door and raises his eyebrows. A shadow of uneasiness crosses his face, like a little boy afraid of impending disappointment and trying his best to hide it.

  I smile.

  ‘Promise to take me for a ride in your truck.’

  The shadow disappears. He smiles and my weary libido can’t help but tingle in response. My heart can’t help but flutter in anticipation.

  ‘As many rides as you want, gorgeous,’ he says.

  ‘Good.’ I brush my lips lightly against his as I get into the car and I hear his breath catch.

  ‘And I promise not to let you get lost too often,’ I add as he slides into his seat and closes the door. He laughs as he starts the engine.

  Union Blues

  Monica Belle

  OUTSIDE MY WINDOW it was a perfect spring day, warm and sunny, with just the faintest breeze rustling the leaves of the plane trees along the Marylebone Road. Even the traffic seemed less urgent than usual, and above it the blue of the sky was marked only by twin vapour trails. One of the jets was still visible, a tiny arrow far above me. It was headed south and west, somewhere hot, maybe Florida, or Rio.

  The buzz of the intercom on my desk brought me sharply down to earth, and the offices of West Central Railways. Mr Hawkridge’s voice sounded from the tiny plastic grille, as if he had somehow been miniaturised and trapped within the office intranet, something I had fantasised over more than once.

  ‘Frances? Come up to the boardroom, please.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Hawkridge.’

  I hadn’t expected the call for a good five minutes, with the union meeting scheduled for eleven a.m., and he was normally punctual to the point of obsession. As the youngest man on our management team he seemed to feel he had a lot to prove. He also seemed to feel the need to exert his authority, calling me Frances while he insisted on Mr Hawkridge. It was annoying, and all the more so because the way he behaved towards me put an all too familiar tingling sensation between my legs.

  The boardroom seemed an odd choice for the meeting, with just a single representative from each of the three main unions in attendance. I’d expected it to be in Mr Hawkridge’s office, but possibly he was hoping to overawe them with the formal, affluent atmosphere, or make them feel important, or whatever, but there would be a reason. Mr Hawkridge liked mind games.

  One floor up, across the open floor of the main office, the low, constant hum of PCs and the air conditioning cut through with the gentle babble of voices gave way to the hush of the boardroom as I entered. Mr Hawkridge was already seated, in the high-backed leather chair normally reserved for the chairman. He waited until I’d closed the door before speaking, and I noticed that the slats on the internal windows were closed, cutting off the view of the main office.

  ‘Frances, good. I wanted to speak to you before the meeting.’

  His tone was clipped, precise, exactly as he was, with his tailored suit of fine, light-grey wool, his dove-grey silk shirt and perfectly knotted tie. There was just a touch of grey in his hair, but his strong, clean-shaven face was full of youthful confidence, also a hint of amusement, as if everything was no more than a game. He gestured to a seat, a plain black swivel chair placed unobtrusively in one corner.

  ‘Do sit down. Now, as you know, I have a meeting scheduled with representatives from the three principal railway unions. At this stage, the negotiations are strictly off the record and, frankly, I think they’re testing the water, this being only the second year of our franchise.’

  He went on for a while, explaining that he wanted me to observe the meeting but deliberately not record what was said, my true function being to support him if the reps claimed that anything had been agreed when it hadn’t, or presumably if he wanted to backtrack on something he really had said. I took it all in, nodding at the appropriate junctures while wondering if the meeting would drag on into lunch and spoil my chances of getting down to Hell on Heels during my break. There was a pair of zebra-patterned boots I just had to have and, with any luck, they’d be reduced to something approaching a sensible price.

  Five minutes must have passed, because the intercom went to say the reps were coming up from reception. Two minutes later they filed in, by which time I had my laptop open on the desk, looking efficient and feeling slightly too hot. Company policy demanded smart dress, and I might have been Mr Hawkridge’s little sister, style-wise, in my blue-grey two-piece, white blouse, stay-ups and sensible heels. With my hair up and my glasses on, I was everything they expected, my sole rebellion a pair of scarlet knickers in a heavy, luxurious silk – not something I intended to show.

  I’d met all three reps before, men united only in their politics, and in being as out of place in the walnut veneer-tinged light of the boardroom as Hell’s Angels at a scooter exhibition.

  In they filed. There was big and brash Larry Ryan, B.U.R.W., part Irish, part Caribbean and part bastard – big, crude and forthright. I knew he fancied me; he took every opportunity he got to ogle my legs and chest whenever he popped into the offices. I wouldn’t have minded, looks-wise, but he was always cutting me short, being condescending or patronising, presumably in an effort to get over his own feelings.

  There was Jim Levens, U.W.R., young and keen and determinedly working class. I was sure his thick Manchester accent was put on, or at least exaggerated, and his principles more acquired than instinctive. He was lean, tall, with piercing eyes and an earnest manner, also the most intellectually aggressive of them, something which, like Mr Hawkridge’s attitude, touched that politically incorrect spark of desire within me to submit and call him ‘sir’.

  Then there was Reg Davies, T.S.W.U., who acted as if he’d been around since the railways were nationalised, and looked it too. He was huge, over six foot, but square in bulk and with an enormous belly hanging out over the waistband of blue polyester trousers that had been developed over years of pie-and-a-pint meetings. I actually liked him for his down-to-earth cheeriness, although physically he was by far the least attractive. But at least he was friendly.

  Each of them had brought his own particular, very masculine, scent into the room, and there was soon a heady collision of aromas: of smoky clothes and aftershave and testosterone. I was one girlie in the midst of a bunch of hulking, macho blokes, even if they did behave themselves these days. Since the introduction of politically correct working practices and a non-sexist working environment, I could tell that each one of them was bursting to be a
ble to swagger and bellow, and fart and openly share their porn mags if someone gave them the liberty to do so. This tension made for a peculiar, and almost sexually charged, atmosphere.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Mr Hawkridge greeted them. ‘Do sit down. As you know, this is a purely informal, preliminary meeting, also confidential.’

  ‘What about your secretary, then?’ Larry Ryan asked, jerking a contemptuous thumb in my direction.

  ‘Ms Tisbury Jones is my PA. Her discretion is absolute. As I was saying, this is an informal preliminary meeting, at which I hope to –’

  ‘Make us back down,’ Jim Levens interrupted. ‘We won’t.’

  Mr Hawkridge raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Should we not at least assess each other’s positions?’

  ‘The position is simple,’ Levens answered him. ‘The U.W.R. wants pay parity between drivers on driver-only trains and guards on dual-staff trains.’

  ‘The position of the B.U.R.W. is also simple,’ Ryan put in. ‘We demand that the pay differential between guards on dual-staff trains and drivers on driver-only trains be maintained.’

  ‘Then the issue would seem to be between your two unions?’ Mr Hawkridge suggested.

  ‘No,’ both men answered as one, before Levens then carried on.

  ‘We fully support our brothers in the B.U.R.W.’

  Both Ryan and Reg Davies nodded their agreement.

  ‘Mr Levens, Mr Ryan,’ Mr Hawkridge said, sighing, ‘that sort of bargaining strategy went out with the Callaghan government. You know as well as I do that what you’re asking for is an impossibility. So, let’s cut to the chase here. What is it you actually want?’

  I began to let my mind wander, looking at Jim Levens’s lean, strong hands, powerful yet sensitive, the hands of a working man turned to less physical employment. It was a shame we had to meet in the way we did, because it was not at all difficult to imagine those same strong hands on my body, being very tender, very careful, as if he was handling cut glass, his brilliant eyes full of worship and desire as he undressed me, garment by single garment.

  Larry Ryan would be different. I knew what he wanted to do: to take out all his anger and inferiority on me, maybe throw me down on the desk, tear my blouse open, pull off my bra, wrench my skirt up around my hips, rip my knickers off and . . .

  Only Reg Davies would pull him off, take me in his arms, comforting me, stroking my hair, at least until he lost control and pulled out his cock to make me take him in my mouth.

  They were talking, an ultimately pointless discussion as they manoeuvred for advantage. Before long it had begun to get detailed, the provision of staff restrooms at stations, the company’s new disciplinary procedure, nit-picking, dull. Surely there was something more worthwhile they could argue over?

  ‘I hardly think Ms Tisbury Jones’s, er, favours, shall we say, are relevant to the discussion.’

  I looked up.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  None of them took the least bit of notice.

  ‘The position of the B.U.R.W. is simple,’ Larry Ryan was saying. ‘We want perks, same as you get perks. I want a blow job from Fanny in the corner.’

  My mouth came open in outrage, an outrage I could find no words to express.

  ‘Gentlemen, really!’ Mr Hawkridge responded, only to be interrupted by Reg Davies.

  ‘Seems fair to me. I bet she goes down for you, eh, Bob?’

  ‘I do not!’ I managed, but Mr Hawkridge had gone red.

  ‘Nah,’ Jim Levens drawled, ‘not a blow job. Public school, ain’t he? He’d ’ave ’er dressed up as a schoolgirl. Knickers down over the knee for a good spanking, eh, Bob?’

  ‘Mr Levens,’ Mr Hawkridge said, with what I thought was amazing patience, ‘if we could return to the matter in hand?’

  ‘The matter in hand,’ Larry Ryan answered, imitating Mr Hawkridge’s accent, ‘is that if we’re to drop our demands for restrooms at Maidenhead, Slough and Henley, then I want your bird’s gob around my cock.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Mr Hawkridge snapped. ‘An outrage!’

  ‘How about Reading?’

  Mr Hawkridge paused for an instant before replying.

  ‘Reading?’

  ‘Yes, Reading.’

  ‘But that’s our secondary station, the savings –’

  ‘Considerable, no doubt, but we of the B.U.R.W. are prepared to make that sacrifice.’

  Mr Hawkridge glanced at me. I shook my head urgently, but it was obvious what was going through his mind. If the unions gave way on the installation of the Reading restroom we’d save thousands of man hours and tens of thousands of pounds. The reps had sat back, their faces absolutely earnest as they waited for Mr Hawkridge’s response. None of them bothered to look at me, save for a glance at my chest from Jim Levens. Finally, Mr Hawkridge spoke.

  ‘Ms Tisbury Jones . . . Frances, I really feel that, in view of the concession Mr Ryan is offering, it would be in the best interests of the company if you were to suck his cock.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not? Because it’s outrageous!’

  ‘Ms Tisbury Jones, I wouldn’t like to feel that you are being disloyal.’

  ‘No, but . . .’

  ‘Consider the economic benefits to the company.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘You wouldn’t wish to prejudice the position of our franchise, I’m sure?’

  ‘No, but . . .’

  ‘And no doubt there would be a little something in your Christmas bonus.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘But what, Ms Tisbury Jones? We are all mature adults here, and I don’t suppose it will be your first time.’

  ‘No, but . . .’

  ‘There we are then,’ he said happily. ‘After all, what’s one more little cock in your mouth compared to the good of the company.’

  Jim Levens coughed and raised a finger. ‘I must object to your use of the term “little”, Mr Hawkridge, implying, as it does, a denigration of the working classes.’

  ‘Don’t sweat it, Jim,’ Larry Ryan cut in, and casually pushed down the front of his trousers to pull out a truly monstrous package.

  I swallowed, staring at the huge, dark shaft lying on his thigh, a good eight inches long, and as thick as my arm. He grinned. I could only stare at it, wondering how it would feel in my mouth, wondering if I could actually get my jaws open wide enough to do it. Mr Hawkridge gave a gentle cough, then spoke.

  ‘Come along, Ms Tisbury Jones. As you know, I have another meeting scheduled for two o’clock.’

  I nodded mechanically, and rose, unable to stop myself.

  ‘Under the table, I think, Ms Tisbury Jones,’ Mr Hawkridge stated. ‘After all, we wouldn’t wish to lay ourselves open to charges of impropriety, would we?’

  ‘Under the table, yes. Impropriety, no,’ I managed weakly.

  I moved a chair. I got down on all fours and crawled in under the table. I found myself faced with Larry Ryan’s open thighs, his monstrous cock in his hand, ready for my mouth. His chair was a little back, and I knew the others would be able to see, whatever Mr Hawkridge had said. I shuffled forwards, swallowing hard as I caught the thick, male scent of his cock. He looked down, grinning.

  ‘Out with your knockers then, love, and get sucking.’

  ‘No!’ I protested, looking around at Mr Hawkridge in appeal.

  ‘Having Ms Tisbury Jones expose herself is not part of the deal,’ Mr Hawkridge pointed out.

  ‘Bare knockers are a standard part of blow-job procedure,’ Jim Levens insisted, wagging his finger at Mr Hawkridge. ‘Ask anyone.’

  ‘True,’ Reg Davies agreed, nodding his head earnestly. ‘It was always done tits out in my day.’

  Mr Hawkridge glanced between the faces of the three reps, all of whom bore expressions of obstinate determination. He drew a sigh.

  ‘If you could expose your breasts, please, Ms Tisbury Jones.’

  I opened my mo
uth to speak, but shut it again. Five quick, angry motions and my blouse was open. Another and my bra catch was undone. One last and my breasts were bare. I took them in my hands, holding them up to show the men in the hope that I could instil into them at least a little of the shame they should have felt.

  ‘There, is that what you wanted?’ I demanded.

  Larry Ryan nodded. ‘Nice, nice . . . not too big, not too small, very firm.’

  ‘I like ’em small myself,’ Reg Davies remarked. ‘Nice and pert.’

  ‘Nah, nah,’ Jim Levens disagreed. ‘Big is best, a working woman’s breasts, full and heavy, good for child rearing.’

  ‘That’s bollocks,’ Reg interrupted. ‘Four kids my Linda’s brought up, and her with a pair of fried eggs.’

  ‘Do you mind!’ I cut in. ‘I am supposed to be performing fellatio.’

  They went quiet. Jim Levens gave me a surprised look. Reg Davies shrugged. Larry Ryan lifted his cock up a little higher, offering it to my mouth. It truly was impressive, so thick his hand hardly closed around it. The head was big and solid and glossy; so suckable and, after all, it had to be done.

  I took him in, my jaws gaping as wide as they’d go as my mouth filled with solid, meaty cock, right to the back, and not even half of it in. The others were watching and, as I began to suck, Reg Davies tucked his thumbs into his trousers, nodding thoughtfully as he spoke.

  ‘I feel I must point out at this juncture that the restrooms under discussion are for the use of the T.S.W.U. and U.W.R. in addition to the B.U.R.W.’

  ‘Perhaps we should allow Ms Tisbury Jones to deal with the matter in hand before moving on to further discussion?’ Mr Hawkridge suggested, then gave a light laugh. ‘Or perhaps that should be “the matter in mouth”.’

  I’d have given him a dirty look, but I was too busy performing my magic on the wonder tool of Larry Ryan. I was beginning to feel in need of some attention downstairs myself, and I was wondering if I’d have the time to fit Mr Hawkridge in before lunch. On the desk would be good, the way I always imagined it, with me on my back and my legs rolled up to let him in, nice and deep.