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Bespoke underwear. That was what the shop offered. It would be nice to own some. And I could afford it really, at the expense of something else, but the prices were silly, and my stock size body, with its 36C tits, did not need underwear to be made to measure. Besides, I had no regular partner to appreciate such finery, and my string of temporary men-friends would probably not recognise such quality. The only interest they had in my underwear was discarded at the side of a bed, not gracing my, even if I say it myself, trim and shapely derriere.
The device currently on display in the tiny window was a confection of black ribbons and nylon, or perhaps silk, mesh. It covered little of the mannequin wearing it, as if she cared. Black ribbons snaked down her thighs like whip-lashes, to support the black stockings that completed the display. It was borderline bondage-wear. Little of the cost went on material, how could they justify the price?
My reverie was interrupted by a woman’s voice at my side;
“Caroline, it is you!”
Caroline is my name, but it was a long time since anyone had called me Caroline outside the bedroom. Elizabeth is my middle name. I had started calling myself Elizabeth after my mother also Elizabeth, died. But I used Caroline as an alias when I was with a one-night stand. My nom–de-fuck.
I turned to look at the source of the voice. A well-dressed woman, about my age. Shorter than me and slightly on the heavy side. In a few years she would be plump. She looked vaguely familiar, but from where?
She continued; “Caroline it’s Letty. From uni.”
Letty! Or rather Leticia fforbes. (Two small f’s.) I had not seen her for years, no wonder I did not recognise her. More to the point, how had she recognised me? The Caroline she knew had been an ugly duckling, I now liked to think of myself more as a swan. We had been room-mates at university. For only about a year, but we had got to know each other very well during that year. Lettuce, (her nickname,) had introduced me to and taught me all about lesbian sex.
“Letty!” I cried, how lovely to see you. I’m Elizabeth now, Liz or Lizzie if you prefer.”
“Are you just shopping, or do you live around here?” She enquired.
“I live not far away,” I replied,” and I work nearby, I’m on my lunch break. In fact I ought to get back.”
“Meet me tomorrow for lunch,” she insisted, “You say, I’ll pay.”
It would be good to find out what had happened to her after she was virtually sent down from uni. She was in designer clothes and was holding a carrier bag, one of those up-market rope handled ones, from the shop that I had been drooling over. I suggested the nearby cafeteria, it was good food and would be quiet, the tourists were not yet here in any great numbers. We parted having agreed a time.
I found it hard to concentrate on my work that afternoon, My mind was filled with memories of hot lesbian sex all those years ago.
It had been in our second year, we shared a studio flat. Two single beds in the small bedroom, pushed up against opposite walls. On our very first night, she came into the bedroom, I was already in bed. She stripped naked and slipped into bed. Shortly after the lights were out, I heard her groans. Concerned at first, I realised that she was in fact, masturbating. She made little mewing noises when she climaxed, then I could hear her breathing as she slept.
I was shocked. For me, masturbation was a solitary pursuit, usually in the bathroom. Did she think that I was asleep? I slipped my hand inside my pyjamas and felt my own slit. It was wet, her performance had excited me. I dismissed the thought and soon fell asleep myself.
She had a much more active social life than me, often coming home very late and sometimes very drunk. But she would always bring herself off before falling asleep. I began to look forward to it, playing with myself at the same time, but delaying my own climax until I was sure that she was asleep. Or was she?
One night I had a particularly powerful come and lay panting in the dark. Her voice pierced the darkness;
“Don’t you wish that you could lick it?”
“Your clit, your cunt.”
I could feel the embarrassment burning my cheeks. I made no reply.
“Fingers are a poor substitute for cock, you don’t have one of those, but we could lick each Others cunt.”
I had never had mine licked, let alone licked someone else’s. I was not a virgin, despite my less than glamourous looks, there was always someone willing to do me the big favour, my well-developed breasts being a big draw. As one temporary stud informed me, in a crude attempt to flatter;
“You’ve got fabulous tits.”
Crude was the problem. I really did not much enjoy the company of young men, they seemed only interested in their own satisfaction. Sex for them was simply a race to ejaculation. Which admittedly, most of them could be relied on to repeat. I turned out to be a born cock-sucker poker oyna which went down well. I liked to do it and to swallow the resulting torrent. Still do. I am a total spunk-junkie. But what about my pleasure? Letty was offering an alternative.
The next night, she slipped in beside me instead of into her own bed. I told her that I had never been with a woman, that I was not sure about this.
“Just relax,” she said. Let me teach you.”
She pushed my pyjama top up and told me to raise my arms while she removed it. The bottoms followed. She kissed me on the lips, a gentle lingering kiss, the kind that I had not yet experienced. Her tongue slipped between my lips, encountered my dental brace and quickly retreated. Instead she turned her attention to my breasts.
She murmured as she sucked each in turn. Her hand travelled south, I parted my legs in anticipation. Even my otherwise useless male lovers had the courtesy to touch me up before breaching my fortress. Letty had no battering ram, but her knowing fingers were much better, she had me screaming in minutes. My first orgasm not self-induced.
“Your turn,” she said. “Do me.”
I ‘did’ her, she came quickly, and I was surprised at how much I enjoyed giving her pleasure in this way. She kissed me again and went to her own bed, saying;
“Tomorrow night, we’ll tip the velvet.”
I googled it the next day; ‘Oral sex, usually between lesbians.’ The idea had me squirming.
The next night, Letty was back in my bed, naked. As was I this time. Letty kissed her way slowly down my body, my inhibitions melting away as she moved lower. She kissed all around my entrance, teasing me, then at last peeled apart my, by now very wet, inner lips. The first contact of her tongue was like an electric shock, and I almost fainted when I came. But soon recovered enough to want to return the favour. She was worried about my dental brace.
“Just lips and tongue,” she said. “I don’t want to be circumcised by your rat-trap.”
Cunt was delicious. I could not get enough. After that first time, we would often fall asleep with our heads between each other’s thighs. And I decided that I was a lesbian. Although Letty continued to have a constant procession of male lovers.
Just before the end of Summer term, Letty was summoned by the head of the art department. When I saw her she was boiling with anger and resentment.
“I’ve been sacked.” She fumed.
This was not actually true, the head had told her that her results were less than what was required, and would she like to switch to another course? But when I returned to her room, she had packed her bags and left. I had not seen her since. Until now.
I met Letty at the appointed time and we made our lunch selection from the self-service counter.
“We’ve got a lot catching up to do.” Said Letty. “You first. Did you say that you worked here?”
“Yes. I’m a conservator.”
“Wow! You have done well. You always were brighter than me.”
“I don’t think so, it’s just that you were, well, more easily distracted.”
“Mmm. By cunts and cocks you mean?”
We both laughed. She had me fill in the missing years:
I spent ‘that’ summer in Italy, with my parents. Mostly with my mother, dad was always busy. He was an intelligence officer in the Royal Navy, but attached to the Italian Navy. Mum was keen on art, we visited a great many galleries. I inherited my passion for art from her. Taranto is not exactly a resort, it is a port, with a Naval base. But there are many pretty places nearby and I spent a fair amount of time on beaches, trying to lose my ‘prison pallor’. There were always a large number of attractive young males, presumably sailors, but at that time I was still a lesbian and there were as many more attractive available females vying for the attention of these alpha males. Still, my figure was developing nicely. I was just a late developer.
I had the opportunity to spend my final year, in Florence. Italian renaissance was my speciality, my parents were still in Italy, I spoke Italian quite well and so it was an easy decision to make. By then the braces were off my teeth, laser surgery had consigned my spectacles to history. I was a swan at last.
Three weeks after my arrival my mother was killed in a car crash while on her way to visit me. After the funeral, back in England, I swore to be known as Elizabeth, from then on, as a mark of respect. Back in Florence I found solace in the arms of one of my professors. A man more than twice my age, but with a sophistication that none of my own age-group males could hope to match. He was also married, but I did not know that then.
He was everything I had ever dreamed of as a lover. Very attentive. He had amazing control, I was guaranteed several orgasms before he would let go of his, usually copious spunk. He had the good sense and experience to avoid ‘quickies’. Although there was plenty of opportunity. His idea of a session was to start with dinner and wine, then progress canlı poker oyna to his bed where he would suck and fuck me repeatedly until I begged him to come, often in my mouth and afterwards we would sleep until morning. He was good in the mornings. Usually I awoke to find him inside me. Morning fucks invariably ended with his spunk being spurted into my cunt.
Then in the early hours one morning, he received a call from Rome, his home town. His child, (Child? I had not known about a child.) was seriously ill and he was gone. I never saw him again. One of the school administrators told me that he was married and took one of his students as a bed-mate every year.
“Had I not known?”
I spent my final year in education almost completely celibate, relying on my fingers for orgasms. But I did get a good degree. Which led to a good job. A conservator restores, cleans and repairs paintings. Or at least the ones in my department do. It’s mostly cleaning, but I do get to apply paint onto some of the most valuable works of art in the world. Only a real expert would distinguish my brushwork from Titian’s! I get great satisfaction from it. I paint a little myself, but I am not original, my work always mimics someone else’s. I have been told however, that I would make a great forger!
I had several regular boy-friends, and eventually married one. On paper, the marriage lasted eighteen months, in reality, more like six. It was a disaster. We had nothing in common except sex. He was not remotely artistic, he was a car salesman. And he sold himself to me. Unfortunately he could not stop selling himself and always had another woman on call. I dumped him.
My grandfather, my mother’s father, bequeathed me a small attic flat in Bermondsey. Just one room and a bathroom really. He bought it in the ’60s when the area was virtually derelict. He rented it out originally, then when the area started to become gentrified, lived in it until his death. From it I can walk to work, so I do not own a car. A car in London is a liability, but I can drive.
My sex life is more or less what I want it to be, my offers to acceptances ratio is quite high. I can have my pick and do. I do not keep men in tow for very long, I use them. If I crave cock, all I have to do is put on a sexy dress and take the short walk or taxi ride, to the bar of one of the nearby five star hotels. The dress is usually off within an hour. Uninhibited, no strings sex. As dirty as I want it to be. I was insulted the first time that a man tried to pay me for what I had regarded as casual sex, but now I accept what is offered. I think that I am worth it. I spend my holidays in Italy, where my father still lives following retirement. He lives with an Italian beauty half his age. We get on well.
“And that’s me.” I said to Letty. “Now you.”
“Next time.” She replied, “I have to go.”
We made arrangements to meet at the same time next week, in a very exclusive and expensive restaurant nearby.
“My treat,” said Letty. “Could you take the afternoon off? After the lunch I mean. I’d like to show you something.”
My boss is not keen on half-days, so I took the whole day off, most of the morning choosing what to wear. The restaurant seemed dark after the brightness of the sunlit street, a voice came out of the gloom;
As my eyes became accustomed, I saw a black man dressed entirely in black. The head waiter. Letty appeared behind him.
“This is my guest Max.” She said.
Max became very deferential, almost bowing. He snapped his fingers and two young waiters walked briskly to a corner table and drew out chairs for us. Max handed me a menu and was gone.
It was very difficult to get a table in this place, only the rich and famous even tried. I said as much to Letty.
“I have connections.” She said.
The menu had no prices, I looked up at Letty questioningly.
“Just choose.” She ordered.
As soon as I raised my head from the extensive menu, Max was at my side. I told him my choice and he melted away again.
“Are you not having anything?” I enquired.
“Max knows what I want.” Replied Letty.
A bottle of red wine arrived and was poured, as was a bottle of expensive Italian mineral water. I took a sip of the wine, which was excellent.
“Come on. Fill me in. I’ve laid awake nights wondering what you have been up to.”
Letty grinned and started her story. It was punctuated by the arrival of the various courses.
I spent that summer at my parent’s house in Buckinghamshire. They wer not pleased that I had wasted a very expensive education. I got a job in London, or more accurately, they got me a job. In P.R. and event organisation. I was a natural and soon rose up the ranks. Helped no doubt, by the fact that I must have fucked everyone in the company. All the men anyway, and most of the women. Then there were the clients.
Anyway, I became tired of making money for others, so I started in business on my own. I had to sign an agreement internet casino not to poach clients from my previous employers, but clients defected to me anyway, I was very, very good at my job and was sexually available to any of them. Many contracts were signed in semen. I suppose that I could take on risky business, I did not need the money, as you know, my parents were loaded.
But the risks mostly paid off. I’m still the head of the company, you may have heard of us, (She gave the name of what was just about the best known P.R. outfit in London. I had heard.) But the company runs itself, I now devote myself to pleasure.”
I nodded at the plain gold wedding ring on her left hand.
“What about that?”
“Oh yes. I’m married. He too, is an incurable hedonist. I help him with his business. You’ll meet him.”
“Good heavens no! Work of the devil. There are too many in the world anyway.”
I felt pretty much the same way. I had no intention of adding to over-population. Sex for recreation, not procreation.
We had finished the meal, Letty stood up and waited for me to join her.
“What about the bill?” I asked.
“It’s covered.” Replied Letty.
She led me to a door marked ‘Private’ and walked through. We were in a stairway. One of those with an old fashioned, open caged lift up the centre. We shunned the lift and walked up to the next floor.
“It’s quicker!” Said Letty.
She rang a bell beside an impressive looking door. There was a discreet buzz and Letty pushed the door open, leading the way into a large room set out as an art gallery. My attention was grabbed by a large painting dominating the wall opposite. At first glance, it could have been Rubens ‘Judgement of Paris’, the figures were arranged in the style of that work, but Paris was shown standing and the three goddesses were kneeling before him, judging the quality and size of his enormous erection. Either that or he was trying to decide which was the best fellatrice.
I turned to Letty for an explanation. This was it:
“I’m sure that you are aware that huge numbers of artworks never make it to the public galleries, lesser works or those which might offend the tourists. It leaves a large and profitable market for more specialised works like that, I call it the ‘Blowjob of Paris’. Good isn’t it. This is a private gallery, serving the demand for such treasures.”
A young woman was standing by a desk waiting to be introduced.
“This is Roberta, Bobby, she runs the gallery for us. We are not open to the general public, nor do we need to be, there is a thriving network of connoisseurs, operating simply by word of mouth. We also use the internet, but anyone contacting the gallery via the web, must provide a reference and purchase in person, either by private arrangement or at one of our auctions. In other words, we get to see our buyers, there are no shadowy corporations. Show our guest round Bobby.”
Bobby obliged. I knew that a market existed for this type of material. As Letty had said, a lot of it passes through the ‘national’ galleries. I have seen some, even worked on some. I knew that it was sold without publicity, raising much needed funds for the galleries. Now I was standing in one of the ‘outlets’.
The walls were crammed with erotic art, some, like the ‘Rubens’ Bobby assured me, fake. Some was original, much was prints. There were even some sculptures, including a perfectly stunning chess set, with all the pieces engaged in some kind of sexual activity.
After my tour, Bobby led me back to the desk, where Letty was scanning through some papers. On the desk were two computer screens, one conventional, one with a split screen showing the stairway side of the door we had come through and what must have been the street door.
“Coffee?” Asked Letty.
I nodded. Letty led the way back to the stairway.
“Thanks Bobby.” She said over her shoulder as we left.
We went up to the next floor, this time Letty opened the door with a key.
“Welcome to my humble…” She said.
Her ‘humble, was a huge, split level luxury apartment. Letty busied herself preparing coffee while I looked around in amazement. We sat down and Letty explained the set-up.
“This is our London home. The gallery is the London end of our business. We also own the restaurant. What did you think of our little art-shop?”
I made appreciative noises. Letty went on;
“It’s more of a hobby than a business, our main income comes from my other company and from investments. My husband, Sebastian, he’s French by the way, is on his way back from Spain as we speak. He has been making arrangements for our next auction, which is next Friday.”
Suddenly, she leaned across and kissed me on the mouth.
“I want to lick your cunt.” She announced.
My nipples puckered. I wanted her too. I nodded.
She drew me to my feet and led me upstairs to a huge bedroom, with a huge bed. She kissed me again, then stepped back to unbutton her dress. The bra followed, then the knickers. She stood naked before me. She had put on some weight since I had last seen her nude, but she was still a fine looking woman, rubenesque. I quickly stripped.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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