by Shari Low
And now he’d been staring into his cup, struck mute, for ages. She was just about to call on the therapeutic values of those Garibaldis when he gave a long sigh and lifted his head to face her.
‘S’pose I don’t have any right to complain–I called off the engagement last Friday.’
Wow, this was news.
‘You what? Why the hell would you do that? You two have been joined at the hip since before Ginny even had hips!’
He shrugged. ‘Thought it might make her come home. Or not. Or at least force one of us to make a decision. You know, twelve years is a long time to be with someone, and I know it’s a cliché but sometimes I wonder if it wasn’t more out of habit than anything else.’
Roxy was gob-smacked. For the first time since he arrived, she felt a pang of uncertainty. Darren was the love of Ginny’s life–she must have been devastated when he binned her. Why hadn’t she called? Oh, that’s right–she’d been too busy straddling Felix. Fury swiftly returned to kick the crap out of any notion of sympathy. She quickly refocused. Okay, this wasn’t going to plan. Darren was supposed to fly into a rage, phone Ginny, call her a tart and then head off to London to beat the crap out of Roxy’s scumbag of an ex-boyfriend.
Revenge. That’s what this was all about. Letting those two shits know that they’d been well and truly caught, and that forgiveness wasn’t an option.
But now, instead of blind fury and a rage that might possibly result in six months for grievous bodily harm, Darren was standing across from her emanating a vibe somewhere between mildly upset and pragmatic acceptance. And if she wasn’t mistaken there might even have been a pinch of relief.
She felt her eyes well up. No! She would not cry for real! She wouldn’t! She sniffed and wiped the back of her hand across her cheek. It was bad enough that she’d actually contacted Darren Jenkins, but her humiliation would be complete if he saw her crumble.
She pulled back her shoulders, took a deep breath and repeated her vow–she would not be a victim in this. She was tired of playing the martyr, of moping around feeling sorry for herself. It was time to look deep inside and rediscover her true self–her strength and her spirit. And as she did so, she discovered that her sex drive came as an added bonus.
As Darren put his cup down on the draining board and checked his watch again, Roxy realised that she was staring at the front of his jeans–jeans that covered an absolutely incredible pair of thighs. And as she saw Darren Jenkins in a new, single, un-embittered light, she decided it was time to reclaim her power. Roxy Galloway’s power–the one that had brought her happiness, joy, and the eradication of millions of calories.
‘Darren…’ she began in her most endearing voice, the one that once earned her thirty quid an hour on a chat-line service called ‘Wild Babes and Whack It’. Well, she’d been young, poor, horny…‘Erm, since things have gone pretty much tits-up for both of us, how about calling a ceasefire? You know, trying to be civil to each other.’
There was a protracted pause.
When he finally spoke, his voice was loaded with something Roxy didn’t think was scientifically possible while she and Darren were in the same room: humour.
‘Really? But bickering with you for all these years has been so much fun. Kind of like taking part in an extreme sport–one that could cost you your bollocks at any second.’
That comment took her glance straight back to the front of his jeans–there was no going back now.
‘Fun?’ she asked archly, straightening her back, going into attack position: head up, lips pouted, nipples aimed.
He locked eyes with her, daring her to challenge him.
She did. But granted, it probably wasn’t in the way he expected.
She pulled her T-shirt over her head and shrugged it off, revealing the most incredible tits not created with the aid of anaesthetic and a scalpel.
And that’s the point where Darren Jenkins decided to repeat the actions of his teenage years and reject her crude advances.
And perhaps he would have, if Roxy hadn’t sauntered across the room, pressed those amazing tits against his torso and slowly, teasingly, licked his lips, before sinking to her knees in front of him.
In seconds his button was open, his zip was down, his dick was in her mouth and her hand was slowly, excruciatingly, massaging his balls.
He gasped and threw his head back, all notions of refusal cancelled the minute his brain had relinquished power of attorney to his penis.
Roxy pulled back so only the tip of his cock was between her teeth, her tongue slowly circling the very end, her hand now moving up and down the shaft. She continued to work him as she slipped further underneath, taking one of his balls in her mouth, sucking it gently before moving onto the other. She felt his legs start to tremble, his hands went into her hair, his fingers massaging her scalp to the steady beat of his whispered, ‘Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.’
She swallowed him again, loving every delicious moment of this. His dick was perfect–thick, strong, and not so big that she feared for her lungs.
She let him gain a bit of control now, her mouth a willing receptacle for his thrusts, sucking hard every time he retracted, making him gasp as he struggled to rationalise the pleasure/pain ratio. He was gone now, lost to what Roxy knew was probably the best blow job he had ever experienced in his life, given by a woman who had picked up this technique from experts who would charge him more than a month’s wages.
For Roxy, it was the ultimate rush–knowing without question that she might be the one on her knees, but he was most definitely at her mercy. As she let her teeth squeeze just a little on his undulating dick, she had to admire his stamina; most guys would have been finished, cleaned up and smoking a ciggie by now.
The frequency of the thrusts became faster now, faster, faster…
And, as always, her timing was perfect. At the very second he began to come, she pulled back and raised herself further up on her knees, pushing his exploding penis between her breasts and massaging it as every last drop of him covered her naked chest.
She grinned as she raised her eyes to see his face, his expression a combination of astonishment, confusion, joy, and, yes, admiration.
As she rose up, the adrenaline still pumping, the hormones colliding with more than a little rush of victory, she welcomed back that feeling of all-consuming excitement that had been posted missing the minute she’d stepped foot back into the rural equivalent of Mogadon.
To hell with good intentions and conservative behaviour–there was nothing like falling off the wagon and landing on your knees in spectacular style.
Yes, the penis embargo had been broken. And Darren Jenkins’s glorious, forbidden dick had been the one to cross the picket line.
Family Values Magazine–Famous Lives
Issue: October 2007
‘It’s time to put the family back at the centre of British culture,’ thundered Donald Davies in an address to Parliament this week. ‘And as elected representatives of the people we must lead this campaign by example.’
At Family Values we’ve long been supporters of Mr Davies’s principles and priorities, so we were thrilled to be invited to join Mr Davies and Clarissa, his delightful wife of forty years, at their Cotswolds home this week.
We were welcomed at the door by Clarissa, resplendent in riding clothes, fresh from a canter in a nearby field on her horse, Major. Sadly, her husband no longer rides, since a recent bout of gout resulted in the loss of two toes, impairing his capacity for physical exercise.
Entering their home, the hallway lined with jolly photographs of their four children and seven grandchildren, it’s clear that this is a house not for business or show, but a house for family.
‘It’s about balance,’ Mr Davies reveals as we chat over a cup of tea and a delicious platter of homemade sandwiches. ‘I’ve never understood people who put their careers or personal pursuits before the most important thing in the world: their family. My lovely wife and my children always come first an
d in my opinion that is the key to restoring the standards of British culture that once made this country great.
‘That’s why I’ve put progressive, family-centric policies at the very heart of my campaign. In this country we have lost sight of the nuclear family, of the importance of nurturing our children within the stable bounds of a secure marriage.’
Some of the more, shall we say, left of centre politicians have voiced their rejection of Mr Davies’s views as ‘redundant’ and ‘outdated’. How does he view this opposition to principles that are clearly dear to his heart?
Ever the gentleman, he offers us another delectable sandwich before proceeding.
‘I did not enter politics expecting to be unchallenged in my views. My answer to my detractors is, “Look around you.” Haven’t the last ten years demonstrated that the methods of the liberal majority are causing cataclysmic damage to the very fabric of British life? There is more crime, a lower standard of education, less respect for authority, and our religious institutions are reporting record low attendances. The country is, quite simply, failing to give its children a grounded, disciplined, moral upbringing. And it has to change.’
Mr Davies has a clear view of the steps that must be put in place to make those changes.
‘It’s quite simple–we need mothers to be back in their homes. We need tax breaks and benefits that encourage marriage and, conversely, we need penalties for those who divorce. And we must make it perfectly clear that this moral stance is supported and adhered to from the highest echelons of the government. We need, quite frankly, to restore pride, dignity and a sense of decency to government and to the people.’
And with that, Donald and Clarissa show us out and bid us farewell. Turning back, we see a couple with integrity, who have built a life based on the foundations of love, respect and togetherness.
Mr Davies, we salute you!
TWELVE
Man, I Feel Like a Woman
Ginny. Day 13, Friday, 9 p.m.
‘Mr Davies, Mimi is ready for you now.’
She breathed a sigh of relief as Donald Davies managed to push his lumbering frame out of the leather bucket-chair. Another few pounds and they’d need a JCB and a hoist. Davies panted with the exertion, his face mildly flushed, and then turned on that old public-school charm as he thanked her and waddled towards the elevator. Most customers used the stairs instead of the small service lift, but Davies had neither the inclination nor the lung capacity. As he puffed along, Ginny hoped that Mimi was planning on sticking to her preferred position on top, because otherwise there was every chance of a highly embarrassing encounter involving a team of paramedics and a defibrillator. And if that didn’t go well, a shocked widow would have to live the rest of her life knowing that her husband died exhausted and erect.
Ginny smiled as the doors closed behind him and marvelled at how much this job was teaching her. If she hadn’t come to London she’d never have learned that Donald Davies, her local MP, rounded off his week at Westminster by paying a prostitute to scream, ‘You’re the General, oh, baby, I want your cannon!’ while she rode him into submission in the (thankfully) soundproofed Churchill Suite.
Ginny sat back down at reception and pressed a button on the intercom. Harry answered immediately.
‘Harry, Mr Davies has just gone into the Churchill–so can you take up a Glenmorangie on ice, a Havana cigar and two ice packs for his knees in an hour. Oh, and keep anyone in the building with first-aid experience on standby,’ she added.
She checked her (Roxy’s) Piaget watch: 9.15 p.m. Forty-five minutes until knocking-off time, a phrase that took on a whole new meaning in this establishment. She checked the appointment book: no more clients due until 11 p.m., an hour after she went off shift. Bliss.
She plumped down onto the cream leather desk chair, pulled off her (Roxy’s) shoes, and rubbed the excruciatingly painful balls of her (definitely her) feet. Expensive shoes might be the epitome of chic, but the four-inch heels were murder on her arches. What she wouldn’t give right now for the analgesic properties of a big glass of wine and a foot spa. Oh, and both of those could be administered while Jude was doing deliciously filthy things to her body. Her stomach bubbled at the memory. Jude. And her. She was still in shock after the sweaty events of last night and had been replaying snatched moments in her head all day, each one accompanied by a huge grin, pink cheeks and a tingling sensation in her chest. All those years with Darren and she could honestly say that only now did she understand why people risked their careers, reputations, marriages and (in the case of certain well-known MPs) parliamentary seats for incredible mind-blowing sex.
After the kitchen sex there had been the bathroom sex, the hall sex, and finally, when her legs were buckling with muscle fatigue, the bedroom sex. But not on the bed. The fourth frantic coupling had taken place with her bent over the dressing table and Jude standing behind her, his hands clutching her hips as they watched themselves in the mirror. Oh good Lord, her cervix was contracting at the memory. Who knew that she could be that horny? Or uninhibited? Or filthy? She’d never talked dirty in her life and yet things had come out of her mouth that night that she hadn’t even realised she was capable of saying.
‘Sore feet?’
No, that wasn’t Ginny’s idea of erotic mumblings, it was Sam, who had silently appeared from the back corridor and was now looking at her quizzically as she mentally replayed her own personal porn movie, Ginny Does the Gigolo.
Startled, Ginny spun round to face him, then relaxed slightly when she realised that:
a) As far as she was aware he couldn’t read minds and therefore was blissfully oblivious to the fact that when he spoke to her the image in her mind was one of her bent double, her nipples pointing at the floor while a perfectly formed bloke rogered her senseless.
b) He was smiling and therefore apparently not upset by the fact that one of his employees had her tootsies on a three-thousand-pound, architecturally designed, state-of-the-art reception desk.
She swiftly returned them to the floor.
‘Sorry, Sam, but high heels–what sick person invented them? I bet it was a male–and probably the same guy who invented miniskirts, corsets and the thong.’
Sam bowed his head in reverence. ‘God bless him.’
He was looking good tonight. He was wearing a beautifully cut black suit, and if you looked closely you could see the very subtle Medusa stamped into the buttons, indicating that it was Versace. His white shirt was open at the collar and his five o’clock shadow had developed into a fairly sexy stubble. Sexy only to look at, obviously, because snogging that would undoubtedly be like undergoing a skin peel by dermabrasion.
She pulled her shoes back on–red Kurt Geiger four-inch stilettos that coordinated beautifully with her (Roxy’s) black Escada split-thigh jersey wrap dress and (Roxy’s) Butler & Wilson ruby earrings the size of pebbles–and waited for instructions.
‘I’m just going to make a coffee–would you like one?’
‘Isn’t it my job to make you a coffee?’ she asked. This was a first. Sam normally either had one of the butlers bring his drinks up from the kitchen downstairs or asked her to fetch him one from the staffroom.
‘It’s okay, I’ll get them. You’ve been on all day and in those heels another trip to the coffee machine could end in Casualty. Anyway, I just checked and the staff room is empty so I can sneak in free of danger from what Roxy calls the “Muff Mafia”.’
Two minutes later he was back with two mugs of coffee. He handed her one, and then, just as Ginny was expecting him to retreat back into his office, leaving her to contemplate the X-rated memory of the stimulating and frankly unexpected things that Jude had done with the shower gel during the bathroom segment, he sat down on one of the overstuffed cream leather sofas.
She took a sip and then tried not to show that the coffee was so hot it had removed the top layer of skin from her lips.
‘Careful, it’s a bit hot–I used one of those sachet things instead of
real milk.’
‘Got that,’ she gasped, wondering if Harry had any more ice packs that could save her from waking up tomorrow morning looking like a puffer fish.
‘So, how’s Roxy doing?’
Okay, this was confusing. Sam was her boss and in almost two weeks (with the exception of the whole ‘Darren’s chucked me–sob’ débâcle) their conversations had consisted purely of work conversations and general pleasantries.
Was he easing into a difficult conversation? Was he about to fire her? Did he want her to consider providing extras à la the girls upstairs?
Was this how it worked? Today: reception duties, booking systems and general admin. Tomorrow: dressed in a maid’s outfit and sucking the upper-class appendage of a member of the House of Lords who insisted you called him ‘Uncle Charles’?
Or, hang on…Had Roxy called him? Had she come straight off the phone to Ginny and speed-dialled Sam to spread the misconceived story that Ginny was in some way participant in sexual relations with Felix? She wouldn’t! Would she? Of course she would, Ginny realised with a sinking heart–it was Roxy. She’d probably already notified everyone she’d ever met, contacted the national press, and put an announcement on Facebook.
Shit, now he was going to think she was immoral, cheap and easy–and definitely working on the wrong floor.
‘Why, what did she tell you?’ she replied, flustered.
Was it Ginny’s imagination or did he look a bit uncomfortable?
‘Nothing. I haven’t spoken to her. I’ve left a couple of messages on her mobile, you know, just checking how she’s doing and what her plans are and stuff, but she hasn’t got back to me. Probably enjoying herself too much in the peace and tranquillity of the countryside.’
Phew, relief!
‘So do you know–has she decided whether she’s coming back? I mean, I know she resigned but then she’s resigned about a dozen times and always arrived back the next day–not that she’s volatile, of course,’ he finished with a really cute grin.