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You’ll remember how I told you about the time I took the Countess for a ride in the country, and how that ended up. At any rate, I’d’ve sure found it hard to forget – other than pinching myself and wondering if it really happened, after all – and I guess any other guy would too. ‘Course, I’d always figured that this was a lady who had to be about the best lay in all the world. She’s not just a looker, but she kinda oozes sex and sensuality when you look at her, the way a leopard oozes grace and power and general bad-assedness. Granted, it’d take a man with bigger stones than me to stare at the Countess, still less undress her with your eyes, however much you might want to. I figure if she wanted to break a man, she could do it with no more fuss and bother than that same leopard might pull down a pronghorn.
But you don’t need to stare at the Countess. It doesn’t take a lot more than a glance for you to tell that this is about the most beautiful, sexiest and smartest woman you’re ever going to meet in the flesh, and the only hard part is where you have to admit you’ve got about a snowball’s chance on a hot stove of ever getting within arm’s reach. And that was what left me pinching myself. I’ll own up to the whack-off fantasising – I’d’ve had to be queer not to – but it was so unbelievable that anything would ever have come of it, even if I’d been shown a video of the two of us in that hayfield, I’d’ve sworn it was a forgery.
Well, there was no sense in following the Countess around like a dog with blue balls. I had the memories, when I could convince myself they were real, and they were some way-out memories at that. I mean, the Countess, who’s the kind of woman the Queen of England would say “Madame” to, going down on me, and swallowing, too? Hoo, boy. No, I just had to say to myself, “Jake, my man, just be glad you’re in a nice well-paid job with all found, you scrub up not bad-looking, you’ve got some good manners on you, and take it one way and another, you can generally find some pussy if you want it badly enough.” And I won’t say I didn’t knock one out to the thought of the Countess now and then, or pretend it was her I was balling instead of whoever it really was, but on the whole, I just got on with things and didn’t fret none, and when I saw her turning on those wiles on some businessman who was going to help make her even richer, I’d smile inside, ‘cos I’d been there, and I was ready to bet the house he wasn’t going to.
But one day I’m on my way down to the gym to spend an hour or so staying in shape, and as I’m going in, the Countess is just coming out. She’s in fencing gear and toting a sword of some kind – an epee if I’m not mistaken – and this guy who teaches her is a couple of paces behind her, looking red-faced and out of breath and generally giving all kinds of clues as to who it is who’s just really been taught a lesson. She sees me and stops, and says, “Jake. Just the man I wanted to see.”
So I stop and draw myself up a little straighter, try not to stammer, and say “Madame. What can I do for you?”
“I have a function to go to ce soir, and my escort has let me down,” she says, and I figure I’d sooner have been the guy at the record company who told the Beatles that guitar bands were on their way out. “If you’re not otherwise engaged…?”
Yeah, like I’m going to blow the Countess out by telling her I’ve already got a better offer. I pretend to think for a moment, while the Countess pretends not to know I’m pretending, and then I say, “Sure, I’d be delighted, madame.” And that’s the pure truth, too.
She hands me a business card and says “Then take the afternoon off and go and get yourself outfitted, Jake. I have an account.”
I just bet she does. Matter of fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t have the folks there eating out of her hand for fear she bought them out and slung them onto the street.
So I scrub round the gym session and go get a cab and pretty soon I pitch up at the kind of gentleman’s outfitters where they don’t let you through the door unless all four of your great-granddaddies were the right sort, or else you’ve got a pass from the Countess. Inside it’s all walnut with a shine an inch deep, discreet murmurs and assistants who take a second longer than you’re really comfortable with when it comes to measuring your inside leg, but I gotta say they know their stuff. I’m none too easy to fit off the peg, but in less time than it would’ve taken me to buy a pair of pants, I’m decked out top to toe in the kind of duds you’d wear to the opening of Parliament or an audience with royalty. The weirdest thing is, I actually feel comfortable in it, though normally I’d sooner be skinned alive than put on a tux.
They pack it all up for me and tell off some guy to bring it round to the Hotel, and so we fast-forward to when the Countess and I are turning up at this “function” of hers in a limo that’s slightly shorter than a Greyhound bus. She’s been chatting politely to me all the way there, and although we ain’t been talking about, say, Harleys and hayfields, it’s not been all stilted illegal bahis and make-believe-polite, and I’m already thinking that, even if the Countess wasn’t drop-dead-and-call-the-undertaker gorgeous and loaded to boot, she would make about as good a date as a flesh and blood man had the right to hope for.
We get out of the car and the Countess is surrounded by photographers faster than you can snap a shutter, but she holds up a dainty hand that asks ’em to all mind their own business and I’ll be dipped if they don’t back off, which I never heard the like of.
Being the Countess’s arm candy for the next few hours isn’t what you’d call hard work. A lot of the conversation goes right over my head, but then wherever the two of us go it ain’t me that they’re interested in talking to. I figure that this might be hard for a lot of men to take, and I get a sort of idea as to why the Countess never has a man permanently in tow, but as for me, I’m cool with it, and I just enjoy myself drinking in the billion-dollar atmosphere, not to mention the thousand-pound champagne, and the time goes by quicker than I’d’ve guessed.
We quit the party at about two in the morning and it turns out we’ve got a suite booked on the top floor, and I’m a couple of doors down from the Countess. She smiles at me as we go up in the lift, and she says, “You do fill out a suit very well, Jake.”
“Thanks,” I say, and maybe I’ve taken just enough of the free drinks to add, “but I’m hardly a beginner next to you, Madame.” It’s no more than the truth, if it comes to that, and it has to be something she knows very well and has heard before.
She smiles, accepting the compliment, and says, “And you’ve been the perfect escort, and I hope you have enjoyed yourself.”
I laugh. “It’s the high life, all right, and not for me every day of the week, but it’s been something to see how the other half live, or maybe the other point oh oh one percent. Seriously though, who’d pass up a chance like this? I’ve had a gourmet dinner, rubbed shoulders with half the A-list and got to strut my stuff in the classiest surroundings I’ll ever set foot in.” Then the champagne gives my tongue another kick and I say, “But I’ll tell you one, thing, madame. There were maybe twenty of the best lookers in the world there tonight, and not one of them fit to hold a candle to you.”
Another smile, and not even a hint to me to stop my blethering; and she says, “Well, as you have seen me to my room, Jake, perhaps you would care for a nightcap?”
“Sure,” I say, trying not to make it sound like “pretty please with a cherry on top”, and also trying not to fantasise about getting the Countess out of those designer originals of hers, ‘cos I’m ready to bet she can read my mind. So we go into her room, which is about the size of the ground floor of your average country house and has a huge picture window looking out over the lights of London. There’s a crystal decanter on the sideboard, and she takes a couple of brandy snifters and sloshes a generous slug of I don’t dare guess how old Cognac into each of them, and hands one to me.
“A votre sante,” she says, to which I say “Prost,” and we both take a sip. The rot-gut I usually drink stomps over your tongue in hobnailed boots and you mostly feel relief once it’s gone down, where as this just sashays on down like a harem dancer in silk slippers, honey-smooth and fragrant; but I can feel it’s got a wallop on it, and besides, you don’t guzzle antique brandy, still less in front of the Countess.
While I’m admiring the brandy and the view both, the Countess turns on some music, and she faces me and says, “We were too busy to dance earlier, Jake. Care to make up for it?”
She’s got one hand out, which I take, and I say “Glad to, but I’m not much of a ballroom dancer.”
“Ca ne fait rien. Neither am I,” says the Countess, though I’m ready to bet that’s a lie; and a moment later she’s cheek to shoulder with me, all soft silk and firm, smooth curves and frighteningly expensive scent that pushes some button deep inside my brain. I’ve got an arm around her, but I can feel a swelling down below that I figure it’d be rude to push up against the Countess, so I try not to get in too close. She tuts and snuggles up closer.
“I know,” she murmurs. “It’s all right, Jake. It’s all right.”
What between the brandy and champagne, the music, and the sight and feel and smell of the Countess in that silk dress, it doesn’t take more than that “it’s all right” for me to hold her good and tight; and she sighs and says, “When a lady has had a pleasant evening, it is only polite for her to give her gentleman friend a kiss.”
“So I’m a gentleman now?” I say, kinda lightly, as though I didn’t want to pick up that lead and kiss her face off. She smiles again.
“You are, Jake. Where it counts, you are,” she says; and her mouth meets mine, softly, sweetly, gently, and maybe a little hungrily. She’s close as close can be to me and my hard-on is getting harder and pressing right into her flat belly. Being the Countess, she grinds against it and illegal bahis siteleri purrs, and I guess I didn’t ought to be surprised.
I guess there’s no hurry, and I let my fingers run down the side of her neck instead of being in a rush to get anywhere else. She groans a little, deep in her throat, rubbing herself up against me, and starts to help me off with my jacket and vest.
“Ohh, Jake,” she says, leading me over to a chair that looks like it costs a year’s salary. She gets me to sit in it, and favours me with a very direct stare. Kneeling, she smiles again and says “I wonder how many men here tonight like to imagine having me right here?”
“All but the faggots, I’m guessing,” I say. She unbuttons my flies and wriggles my trousers down around my knees. My JT’s making a tent out of my boxer shorts, and she reaches in with a cool hand and takes hold.
“Mmm,” she says, her voice dropping half an octave, and she starts to stroke me up and down, real slow. I’ve got the biggest boner I’ve had since – well, it must be the last time I told you about – which she’s going to work on slowly, patiently and mercilessly.
She takes hold of me near the root with her left hand, and her right wraps all around my head, which is swollen up real big and purple, and she slides the skin back and forth slowly. (Yeah, I’m uncut.) I have to bite my lip. She’s hardly touched me and already I’m nearly out of my mind with pleasure. Looking me right in the eye, she bends her head forward and I tense up a little. I already know she gives the most fantastic blow-job I ever imagined and I can almost feel it already.
But instead of taking me right in her mouth, she just looks at me again and holds my gaze with her own while she pokes out her tongue and licks away the one little drop of pre-come that’s beading up there. Straight away another one pops up to take its place, but the Countess winks and says “Maybe later, Jake. Sit there a moment and don’t move.”
There’s a rustle of expensive silk as she slides out of that dress. Underneath it she’s wearing a little silk bra that looks real soft and can’t be giving her a lot of support; I guess her tits stay up okay all by themselves. She’s got a tiny pair of panties on, and lace-topped stockings and a garter-belt. It’s all in black, and the sight of that against the white of her skin makes me just a little harder, which I’d have said couldn’t possibly happen.
The bra’s a front-loader, and she undoes it in front of me. Her breasts hardly sag at all as she lets it drop. Then she takes a jar of something off the dressing-table and unscrews the lid, and rubs some of the cream that’s inside it up and down her cleavage before she settles back on her knees at my feet.
“You’d love to give me a pearl necklace, am I right?” she murmurs, starting to rub my erection up and down that scented valley. ‘Course, I know what one of them is, and it’s nothing to do with oysters. It’s where she brings you off between her breasts so you come all over her throat and under her chin. As she pushes ’em together, wrapping them tight around me, she groans. “Oh, c’est merveilleux!”
Elle a raison, I think. I don’t know what a hot, thick rod between her breasts feels like to her, but I already know they’re sensitive; and as for me, I can feel myself starting to get close to the edge already. She wiggles a bit from side to side, and as I pop out of the top of the valley, she bends her head forward and her tongue flickers from side to side, as fast as a bee’s wing, right over the little hole at the end of me.
Pretty soon I clench my fists and grind my teeth together, ‘cos I can tell I’m about to deliver one pearl necklace as per the plan, but then when I’m about a half-second from No Returnsville, Iowa, she slips me out from between her breasts and clamps both hands down on me, hard. Now she takes me in her mouth and sucks on me, but that grip on me won’t let me come and I feel myself stepping back from the edge in spite of what her mouth’s doing.
“Oh, that’s torture!” I groan, and she takes her mouth away and gives me the evillest grin that flesh and blood ever wore. She slackens off with her hands, once she can tell she’s shoved that bolt well and truly back in the breech and I’m not going to shoot it after all.
“Never mind, Jake,” she says. “I’m just too greedy to want to waste it all at once.” She stands up and brings her crotch up to my face. “Can you smell how much I want you?”
I sure can. Being the Countess, it’s all clean and fresh and sweet, but it’s woman-lust pure and simple and I can see that those panties of hers are soaked right through. I bring my hands up to her hips and yank the little black things off, and she laughs, and as she climbs astride she bites down on one end of them and holds the other up to my mouth.
“Mind you don’t let go,” she says. She impales herself on my horn and lets out a thoroughly aristocratic whine around the mouthful of black silk and lace, and drives down hard on me, taking me deep inside. I only hope the chair’s built for two. ‘Course the canlı bahis siteleri Countess could pay for a whole dining-room suite of this stuff and never miss it, but I guess it must be three hundred years old if it’s a day and it’s sure be a pity to trash it.
Well, it takes the strain okay. Meanwhile the Countess is bouncing up and down on me, with her wet cunt slurping away as I slide deep inside her and then out again. She leans back, trusting her weight to the strength of my teeth and neck, not to mention the breaking strain of a pair of expensive panties, and thrusts down at me; she leans forward, shoving my face in between her tits, and I growl and grab hold of them, knowing that when she gets worked up she likes ’em mauled quite rough, and I drink in the scent of that cream she smeared over them.
Suddenly she lets out a kind of animal yell half-smothered by the mouthful of panties and grinds down on me harder still, and I feel her cunt go into spasm. Her long nails rake over my back and I’m willing to bet she’s drawing blood, but I don’t mind. I’m not quite ready to join her, is the only thing; but who’s hurrying? Not me. Remembering the hayfield goings-on, I’m guessing she’s hardly started.
She subsides a little, sitting astride me and letting me hold her weight, and lets her end of the panties drop out of her mouth as she reaches over and picks up the pot of cream. She gives it a kind of thoughtful look, and then gives me one made of pure mischief, and says, “Alors, Jake… do you want to fuck me in the derriere, or what?”
Now normally you don’t ask the Countess if she’s sure about anything, but just this once I say, “You bet, but I thought you didn’t get into that?”
She shrugs one of those little Gallic shrugs and says “There’s a time and a place. This is both. Shall we get to it?”
She yanks a pillow off the top of the bed and throws it cross-wise about halfway down, then lies down over it so her ass is in the air; and she looks back over her shoulder at me and says “This is going to make me squeal, so I want you to remember one word.”
“Sure,” I say, picking up the pot of cream she spread down her cleavage. “What’s the word?”
“Brandy,” she says. “If I say ‘Brandy’ you’re to stop at once, bien compris?”
“I got it,” I say. I dip my fingers in the cream and spread it down her ass-crack, getting her good and lubed up. I’m already slippery from where she’s taken me between her tits, but I slather on a little more. From what I know of this, there ain’t such a thing as too much lube. I position myself behind her and start probing at that tight little hole. She gasps “Oh!” and bites her lip, clenching both her hands in the duvet.
“If you’re not sure about this, now’d be a good time to mention it,” I murmurs, but she only whimpers a little and shakes her head, so I start to press into her, not too hard but not taking a backward step, waiting for her to open up.
“Oh!!” she goes again, a mite more urgently. “Oh, you’re so big, it hurts. Jake, you’re hurting me!”
“Relax and hold still,” I growl, bracing my right hand against her lower back to hold her in place. “I’ve started an’ I’m going to finish.”
I guess I do feel big, at that, ‘cos she sure feels tight to me, but up to now she’s feeling like she can stretch a little more and I keep the pressure on, just aiming at getting in for now and not trying to pump in and out. She turns her head to one side, brings her hand up to her mouth and bites down on her thumb, and I can see a tear or two running down her cheek.
“You really are hurting me, Jake,” she says, quietly.
“So say the magic word,” I say, no louder, and I give another push and feel her asshole give a little more, and I slip in deep. She gasps.
“Oh God, Jake, you bastard… you ruthless, ruthless bastard.”
“That’s me,” says I. See, I’ve been listening out good and sure, and the one word I ain’t heard her say so far is “brandy”. I’m in her ass about halfway now and the thickest part of me is inside her, so I hold still. She feels hot and really tight.
We’re both of us quiet for a while, until the Countess says, “You’re all the way in now, aren’t you, Jake?”
“Pretty much,” I say. “I could give you a little more depth, but width-wise, you got it.”
“Wow,” she says. “I don’t do this very often, and never with a man as big as you. And you really are a ruthless bastard, aren’t you?”
“Me?” I grin. “Just doing as I was told, Madame.”
She laughs. “With your cock hilt-deep in my bottom, Jake, I think you could drop the ‘Madame’.”
“Naw. I like it better this way. How about you?”
“Mmm,” she says, and wriggles her ass. “It’s not hurting so much now. Still sort of stinging a little, but it’s a good stinging. You can start to fuck me now, Jake.”
I wrap one arm around her breasts and grab her by the belly with my other, lying along her. “I got another idea,” I say, and I roll the pair of us over, still joined at the hip as you might say. Like I’ve mentioned before, the Countess is light enough to go where she’s pulled and we fetch up on the edge of the bed, coming up half-sitting with her on top. We’re facing the dressing-table, which has a big mirror we can see ourselves in, and I say to her “Spread your legs wide apart, so I can see your snatch in the glass.”
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