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A Sexual Odyssey (Dominic Ridler)


A Sexual Odyssey by Dominic Ridler

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A Sexual Odyssey by Dominic Ridler

The lovely Lucy has led a sexually sheltered life while she’s concentrated on her career. Though her sexual fantasies are far from ordinary, she finds the men she dates unexciting, and the sex routine. One evening, when she’s out of town, she picks up a man in the hotel bar and enjoys the kind of risky one-night stand she craves. While continuing her sexual experimentation, she meets Rory in an on-line search. Under his guidance she learns about dominance and submission, and how much punishment she can take.

Later, Rory suggests a threesome with his friend Andrew, an experienced Dominant who quickly reveals to Lucy a submissive side of her personality which, up until now, she has been only dimly aware of. He introduces her to a wide range of sexual delights and perversions, allowing her to indulge in her long-buried need to be dominated. When Andrew tells her about an exclusive club, The Circle, she’s more than ready to jump right in, becoming a submissive member, if she’s accepted! First, however, she must submit to a boot camp style initiation, at a specialized training school in Switzerland. Unbeknownst to Lucy, Andrew instructs her tutor to severely test her limits. Lucy suffers some grueling test, but is determined to perform well, for Andrew’s sake. She soon finds a suitable dominant partner in the English aristocrat Sir John, whose sadistic impulses will take her even further.

However, the affections between Lucy and Andrew have been building throughout the process of Lucy’s awakening. Though harbors a deep romantic passion for Lucy he cannot shake, will he be able to confess his feelings to Lucy before she is lost to him forever?

Product type: EBook    Published by: Pink Flamingo Media    Published: 6 / 2011

We do not recommend this book for readers under 18 years of age

No. words: 56000

Style: BDSM/Bondage - Content: Moderate -    Male Dom - M/F, Sado-Masochism (SM)

Available Formats: Palm  MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  Sony Reader (LRF)  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle

Current all-time sales ranking: #3852


Excerpt..

Chapter One

At first, it had been just an idea, or rather a series of ideas, miniature narratives. Lucy didn’t think of them as fantasies; they were things that hadn’t happened yet, but which might happen one day, might happen very easily if she let them. Just once, a long time ago, when she was only nineteen, such a thing had happened for real. She’d been on holiday with a friend, somewhere in France, and they’d gone in a hotel for a drink, a rather posh hotel, and at the bar they’d got talking to a gentleman, an older man, forty years old at least. After he had bought them several drinks he offered to take them for a drive in his car, which he said was parked just outside. But the friend wouldn’t go. So Lucy, much to her friend’s disapproval, went alone. She knew what the man wanted to do, and she had had enough drinks that she was curious to see where these kinds of things led. Predictably enough, it led to sex, quite straightforward, uncomplicated sex on the back seat of his large, comfortable car. The sex itself was not especially exciting, in fact rather routine, it seemed to Lucy, although at that time she had hardly had enough of it to know what was routine and what was not. But the idea of it excited her – the anonymity, the lack of any emotional involvement, even the slight element of risk (which her friend had insisted on spelling out to her before walking off in a huff), all these things gave it spice.
In the ten years since that evening, her ideas had become slightly more elaborate, but essentially the structure was always the same. A man, almost invariably an older man, a setting redolent of sophistication, an atmosphere charged with sexual possibilities. An encounter – no names, no promises to meet again, no strings – and what became clearer, as the idea developed, was that the man should do exactly as he pleased. The word that always came to her mind was that he used her. Took what he wanted, and then was gone. Sometimes what these men wanted was rather – well, what word could she use to describe it? Perverted? Deviant? Kinky? Whatever.
She thought sometimes about what the relationship was between these little scenarios and the relationships in her actual life, both the sexual ones and those that derived from her work. As the age of thirty approached, she realised that she was becoming successful. Her years of hard legal study and the grind of apprentice work were now paying off. Her services were in demand, her court appearances more frequent. Her work was respected. She was treated as a serious person, even deferred to by many. She was very far from being a person whom others could take advantage of; whom others could use.
Though not overly given to intense self-analysis, she was aware that her inner sexual life, the ‘ideas’ she kept having, did not match with other’s perception of her. There was nothing about this, which troubled her; she simply observed that it was so. How men behaved to her in her sexual imagination was quite different from how they behaved in real life. And the apparent lack of it extended to her sexual activities too, what there was of them. She would sometimes remark to friends in a light-hearted manner that she hadn’t much time for a sex life these days, and to an extent that was true. Certainly she could not have found time to play the dating game as energetically as Rebecca or Joanna, the two friends she saw most regularly. Not that she lacked for offers. Men she encountered, knowing she was single, would invite her out, but she rarely accepted. Yes, she was busy, but it was more than that. She found, almost invariably, that such encounters disappointed. It wasn’t that the men weren’t pleasant or attractive or interesting. If she had sex with them, it was often enjoyable enough, in its way. But it never had the spice of her imaginary encounters. There was no risk. The men, who took her out for dinner, or to the theatre, seemed so safe. There was nothing remotely deviant about them. And far from showing any signs of using her, they were assiduously attentive to her needs; or what they thought were her needs. Did you come, they would ask solicitously, and if she should indicate not, they would attempt to satisfy her unless, as she often did, she told them it was fine, not to worry. Lying there while they went to work, well-intentioned as they were, had not much appeal.
And then one evening it happened. She wasn’t conscious of any changes in her feelings, of something that had predisposed her, not only to acquiesce in what happened, but even to seek it out. It wasn’t as though she said to herself, I’ll be thirty any day now, it’s time to make these things happen. But nor was it a sudden, on the spur of the moment thing. It certainly was not, as had been the case all those years ago, that her actions were fuelled by alcohol. She’d had a couple of glasses of wine, but she was used to that.
Perhaps it was in part the fact that she was in a different town, not London but a large city in the north, a city where no one knew her, except those who had employed her for her legal services, and they, after taking her for a very good dinner, had all gone home. So there she was, having a small nightcap in the hotel bar when she became aware of a man looking at her. He was, like the man of all those years ago, in his forties, or perhaps older, fifty maybe. He was well-dressed, in a charcoal-grey suit, well-cut, with a rather florid but clearly expensive tie, possibly by Gucchi, she thought. He had a strong face, not exactly handsome, but with character. His hair was going grey.
That much she registered, but subconsciously she must have perceived a lot more. There was something about him that was different from the men who wanted to take her out. His expression seemed amused, not mocking but challenging, as if to say, I think I know what sort of girl you are, and that’s the sort of girl I like so don’t pretend.
He was sitting further down the bar. He made a motion to her, pointing at her now empty glass with one finger while raising an eyebrow, inviting her to have another. She hadn’t intended to, but on an impulse, proceeding from who knows exactly where, she nodded. The barman poured for her. She expected the man to come closer, to occupy the vacant seat next to her. Instead, he patted the seat next to him.
Men didn’t do that sort of thing to her very often. Was she giving off some different vibrations this time, or was he just a different sort of man? She hesitated for a moment. If she went to him, would it commit her? Not irrevocably, perhaps, but it was a step in a certain direction. The shy virgin path would definitely be blocked off.
She got down from her stool and slowly walked down the bar. She sat up on the stool next to him and carefully pulled her skirt down over her knee, just in case he should think he was home and dry. Looking back the next day, she realised she had already made her decision, but she intended to make him work for it. There was a touch of arrogance about him that appealed to her, but it was more fun if he didn’t think she was just a push-over.
They chatted a little. She told him her name was Isolde. It was a name she had used once or twice before, when she didn’t want to be identified. In her mind the name was associated with knights and chivalry; she was the aristocratic bride of Ivanhoe, or Galahad, or someone. The man said his name was Pierre; his mother had been French, he explained. He said he was a businessman; she said she was a fashion buyer for a London store. He looked her up and down. She’d always been very careful about her clothes. What she wore was important to her; it affected how people saw her, and she wanted to control what they saw. Evidently Pierre approved of her navy-blue woollen dress, tight across the bust but fuller below the waist, the hemline fashionably just below the knee.
After a while he said it was a warm night and would she care to stroll outside. It was an obvious ploy but she didn’t mind that. They walked in the gardens of the hotel, which stretched down to the river. They stopped and he put his hand up to her, stroking the back of her neck, then squeezing it gently. It was one of those things that always worked with her, though men hardly ever tried it. She turned towards him and without coyness kissed him on the mouth. His lips were warm and dry, then he opened them and slid his tongue into her mouth. It slithered around inside like a lascivious eel, poking into nooks and crannies. One hand remained on the back of her neck, caressing. Another went round her back, resting just above her bottom, slowly circling. He’s good, she thought. He knows what he’s doing. His movements were controlled, unambiguous but not crude. She found herself pressing up against him and could feel his cock bulging.
‘Shall we go in?’ she whispered.
They went up in the lift. She was on the floor above him. When they stopped at his floor he offered to come up with her.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Your room.’
Afterwards she wanted to be able to leave as soon as she wished, not have the problem of throwing him out. She wouldn’t let him put the light on, but the curtains were open and there was a strong light from the moon. He sat on the bed and she stood in front of him. She took off her dress and then her stockings and her suspenders and her bra. The knickers could wait just a while longer.
‘What do you want?’ she said. She wanted him to tell her. She wanted him to take it, whatever it was.
He stood up and put his hand on the back of her neck again, this time pushing her gently down onto her knees. He unzipped his trousers and took out his cock. It was big and hard. He was uncircumcised and she saw him pull back the foreskin to expose the purple tip. He pushed her face forward towards him and she took him in her mouth.
She hadn’t sucked a lot of cocks. Instead, men seemed always to want to go down on her, give her what they thought she liked. But she had thought about how it was best done, and she’d learned from what experience she had had. One thing she’d found was that men varied in how they liked it, some wanting it hard and fast, others preferring a slow sensual approach. Pierre liked the latter, holding her now by the hair at the back of her neck and slowing her down when she went too quickly. He fed her his cock right to the back of her throat, up to the hilt so that she nearly choked, but she didn’t mind. She liked to feel her mouth full of cock, liked to feel he wanted it all in her.
She wondered if that was going to be all he wanted, whether it would be his preference to come in her mouth, or perhaps on her face. She didn’t mind either, in fact she liked it, enjoyed the sight and smell and feel of the semen spurting from the cock, hitting the back of her throat or landing on her face, her nose, her cheeks, her mouth, dripping down her chin. Use my face if you like, she thought.
But then he pulled his cock away, putting his hands under her arms and raising her to her feet.
‘On the bed,’ he said. ‘On all fours.’
She knelt on the edge of the bed, her bottom towards him.
‘Pull your knickers down,’ he said, and she did. He took her, thrusting his cock straight into her without any ceremony. His cock was perhaps a shade thicker than average, and she liked that. Not that she cared over-much about size, but it felt good inside her as it penetrated deep then withdrew only to push in hard again. She heard herself grunting as he fucked her, not very ladylike sounds perhaps, but she was beyond that now.
‘Oh god,’ she heard herself say, ‘fuck me, fuck me.’
And he did, vigorously, even roughly. She was pleased by how long he kept it going, such a long deep fucking that by the end her cunt felt slightly bruised, but in a good way, the way of feeling really taken, and had, and used. Just before he came he did something no man had done before, pushing his thumb into her ass, so that she was plugged in both orifices. He came with a groan and she felt his cock kicking and bucking inside her. She knew he’d used a condom, so she just imagined his semen splashing into her, and when he withdrew there was no satisfying dribble of sticky white fluid from her cunt. But she was wet, very wet, and that was enough.
She lay stretched out on the bed for a moment, panting. He lay beside her, stroking her bottom.
‘Can I get you anything?’ he said.
‘Thanks,’ she answered. ‘But I think I’d better go.’
‘Are you sure?’ he said, genuine regret in his voice. But she was already pulling on her underwear.


Excerpt..

Chapter One



At first, it had been just an idea, or rather a series of ideas, miniature narratives. Lucy didn’t think of them as fantasies; they were
things that hadn’t happened yet, but which might happen one day, might happen very easily if she let them. Just once, a long time ago, when
she was only nineteen, such a thing had happened for real. She’d been on holiday with a friend, somewhere in France, and they’d gone in a
hotel for a drink, a rather posh hotel, and at the bar they’d got talking to a gentleman, an older man, forty years old at least. After he
had bought them several drinks he offered to take them for a drive in his car, which he said was parked just outside. But the friend
wouldn’t go. So Lucy, much to her friend’s disapproval, went alone. She knew what the man wanted to do, and she had had enough drinks that
she was curious to see where these kinds of things led. Predictably enough, it led to sex, quite straightforward, uncomplicated sex on the
back seat of his large, comfortable car. The sex itself was not especially exciting, in fact rather routine, it seemed to Lucy, although at
that time she had hardly had enough of it to know what was routine and what was not. But the idea of it excited her – the anonymity, the
lack of any emotional involvement, even the slight element of risk (which her friend had insisted on spelling out to her before walking off
in a huff), all these things gave it spice.

In the ten years since that evening, her ideas had become slightly more elaborate, but essentially the structure was always the same. A
man, almost invariably an older man, a setting redolent of sophistication, an atmosphere charged with sexual possibilities. An encounter –
no names, no promises to meet again, no strings – and what became clearer, as the idea developed, was that the man should do exactly as he
pleased. The word that always came to her mind was that he used her. Took what he wanted, and then was gone. Sometimes what these men wanted
was rather – well, what word could she use to describe it? Perverted? Deviant? Kinky? Whatever.

She thought sometimes about what the relationship was between these little scenarios and the relationships in her actual life, both the
sexual ones and those that derived from her work. As the age of thirty approached, she realised that she was becoming successful. Her years
of hard legal study and the grind of apprentice work were now paying off. Her services were in demand, her court appearances more frequent.
Her work was respected. She was treated as a serious person, even deferred to by many. She was very far from being a person whom others
could take advantage of; whom others could use.

Though not overly given to intense self-analysis, she was aware that her inner sexual life, the ‘ideas’ she kept having, did not match with
other’s perception of her. There was nothing about this, which troubled her; she simply observed that it was so. How men behaved to her in
her sexual imagination was quite different from how they behaved in real life. And the apparent lack of it extended to her sexual activities
too, what there was of them. She would sometimes remark to friends in a light-hearted manner that she hadn’t much time for a sex life these
days, and to an extent that was true. Certainly she could not have found time to play the dating game as energetically as Rebecca or Joanna,
the two friends she saw most regularly. Not that she lacked for offers. Men she encountered, knowing she was single, would invite her out,
but she rarely accepted. Yes, she was busy, but it was more than that. She found, almost invariably, that such encounters disappointed. It
wasn’t that the men weren’t pleasant or attractive or interesting. If she had sex with them, it was often enjoyable enough, in its way. But
it never had the spice of her imaginary encounters. There was no risk. The men, who took her out for dinner, or to the theatre, seemed so
safe. There was nothing remotely deviant about them. And far from showing any signs of using her, they were assiduously attentive to her
needs; or what they thought were her needs. Did you come, they would ask solicitously, and if she should indicate not, they would attempt to
satisfy her unless, as she often did, she told them it was fine, not to worry. Lying there while they went to work, well-intentioned as they
were, had not much appeal.

And then one evening it happened. She wasn’t conscious of any changes in her feelings, of something that had predisposed her, not only to
acquiesce in what happened, but even to seek it out. It wasn’t as though she said to herself, I’ll be thirty any day now, it’s time to make
these things happen. But nor was it a sudden, on the spur of the moment thing. It certainly was not, as had been the case all those years
ago, that her actions were fuelled by alcohol. She’d had a couple of glasses of wine, but she was used to that.

Perhaps it was in part the fact that she was in a different town, not London but a large city in the north, a city where no one knew her,
except those who had employed her for her legal services, and they, after taking her for a very good dinner, had all gone home. So there she
was, having a small nightcap in the hotel bar when she became aware of a man looking at her. He was, like the man of all those years ago, in
his forties, or perhaps older, fifty maybe. He was well-dressed, in a charcoal-grey suit, well-cut, with a rather florid but clearly
expensive tie, possibly by Gucchi, she thought. He had a strong face, not exactly handsome, but with character. His hair was going grey. />
That much she registered, but subconsciously she must have perceived a lot more. There was something about him that was different from the
men who wanted to take her out. His expression seemed amused, not mocking but challenging, as if to say, I think I know what sort of girl
you are, and that’s the sort of girl I like so don’t pretend.

He was sitting further down the bar. He made a motion to her, pointing at her now empty glass with one finger while raising an eyebrow,
inviting her to have another. She hadn’t intended to, but on an impulse, proceeding from who knows exactly where, she nodded. The barman
poured for her. She expected the man to come closer, to occupy the vacant seat next to her. Instead, he patted the seat next to him.

Men didn’t do that sort of thing to her very often. Was she giving off some different vibrations this time, or was he just a different sort
of man? She hesitated for a moment. If she went to him, would it commit her? Not irrevocably, perhaps, but it was a step in a certain
direction. The shy virgin path would definitely be blocked off.

She got down from her stool and slowly walked down the bar. She sat up on the stool next to him and carefully pulled her skirt down over
her knee, just in case he should think he was home and dry. Looking back the next day, she realised she had already made her decision, but
she intended to make him work for it. There was a touch of arrogance about him that appealed to her, but it was more fun if he didn’t think
she was just a push-over.

They chatted a little. She told him her name was Isolde. It was a name she had used once or twice before, when she didn’t want to be
identified. In her mind the name was associated with knights and chivalry; she was the aristocratic bride of Ivanhoe, or Galahad, or
someone. The man said his name was Pierre; his mother had been French, he explained. He said he was a businessman; she said she was a
fashion buyer for a London store. He looked her up and down. She’d always been very careful about her clothes. What she wore was important
to her; it affected how people saw her, and she wanted to control what they saw. Evidently Pierre approved of her navy-blue woollen dress,
tight across the bust but fuller below the waist, the hemline fashionably just below the knee.

After a while he said it was a warm night and would she care to stroll outside. It was an obvious ploy but she didn’t mind that. They
walked in the gardens of the hotel, which stretched down to the river. They stopped and he put his hand up to her, stroking the back of her
neck, then squeezing it gently. It was one of those things that always worked with her, though men hardly ever tried it. She turned towards
him and without coyness kissed him on the mouth. His lips were warm and dry, then he opened them and slid his tongue into her mouth. It
slithered around inside like a lascivious eel, poking into nooks and crannies. One hand remained on the back of her neck, caressing. Another
went round her back, resting just above her bottom, slowly circling. He’s good, she thought. He knows what he’s doing. His movements were
controlled, unambiguous but not crude. She found herself pressing up against him and could feel his cock bulging.

‘Shall we go in?’ she whispered.

They went up in the lift. She was on the floor above him. When they stopped at his floor he offered to come up with her.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Your room.’

Afterwards she wanted to be able to leave as soon as she wished, not have the problem of throwing him out. She wouldn’t let him put the
light on, but the curtains were open and there was a strong light from the moon. He sat on the bed and she stood in front of him. She took
off her dress and then her stockings and her suspenders and her bra. The knickers could wait just a while longer.

‘What do you want?’ she said. She wanted him to tell her. She wanted him to take it, whatever it was.

He stood up and put his hand on the back of her neck again, this time pushing her gently down onto her knees. He unzipped his trousers and
took out his cock. It was big and hard. He was uncircumcised and she saw him pull back the foreskin to expose the purple tip. He pushed her
face forward towards him and she took him in her mouth.

She hadn’t sucked a lot of cocks. Instead, men seemed always to want to go down on her, give her what they thought she liked. But she had
thought about how it was best done, and she’d learned from what experience she had had. One thing she’d found was that men varied in how
they liked it, some wanting it hard and fast, others preferring a slow sensual approach. Pierre liked the latter, holding her now by the
hair at the back of her neck and slowing her down when she went too quickly. He fed her his cock right to the back of her throat, up to the
hilt so that she nearly choked, but she didn’t mind. She liked to feel her mouth full of cock, liked to feel he wanted it all in her. />
She wondered if that was going to be all he wanted, whether it would be his preference to come in her mouth, or perhaps on her face. She
didn’t mind either, in fact she liked it, enjoyed the sight and smell and feel of the semen spurting from the cock, hitting the back of her
throat or landing on her face, her nose, her cheeks, her mouth, dripping down her chin. Use my face if you like, she thought.

But then he pulled his cock away, putting his hands under her arms and raising her to her feet.

‘On the bed,’ he said. ‘On all fours.’

She knelt on the edge of the bed, her bottom towards him.

‘Pull your knickers down,’ he said, and she did. He took her, thrusting his cock straight into her without any ceremony. His cock was
perhaps a shade thicker than average, and she liked that. Not that she cared over-much about size, but it felt good inside her as it
penetrated deep then withdrew only to push in hard again. She heard herself grunting as he fucked her, not very ladylike sounds perhaps, but
she was beyond that now.

‘Oh god,’ she heard herself say, ‘fuck me, fuck me.’

And he did, vigorously, even roughly. She was pleased by how long he kept it going, such a long deep fucking that by the end her cunt felt
slightly bruised, but in a good way, the way of feeling really taken, and had, and used. Just before he came he did something no man had
done before, pushing his thumb into her ass, so that she was plugged in both orifices. He came with a groan and she felt his cock kicking
and bucking inside her. She knew he’d used a condom, so she just imagined his semen splashing into her, and when he withdrew there was no
satisfying dribble of sticky white fluid from her cunt. But she was wet, very wet, and that was enough.

She lay stretched out on the bed for a moment, panting. He lay beside her, stroking her bottom.

‘Can I get you anything?’ he said.

‘Thanks,’ she answered. ‘But I think I’d better go.’

‘Are you sure?’ he said, genuine regret in his voice. But she was already pulling on her underwear.


Excerpt..

Chapter One





At first, it had been just an idea, or rather a series of ideas, miniature narratives. Lucy didn’t think of them as fantasies; they were

things that hadn’t happened yet, but which might happen one day, might happen very easily if she let them. Just once, a long time ago, when

she was only nineteen, such a thing had happened for real. She’d been on holiday with a friend, somewhere in France, and they’d gone in a

hotel for a drink, a rather posh hotel, and at the bar they’d got talking to a gentleman, an older man, forty years old at least. After he

had bought them several drinks he offered to take them for a drive in his car, which he said was parked just outside. But the friend

wouldn’t go. So Lucy, much to her friend’s disapproval, went alone. She knew what the man wanted to do, and she had had enough drinks that

she was curious to see where these kinds of things led. Predictably enough, it led to sex, quite straightforward, uncomplicated sex on the

back seat of his large, comfortable car. The sex itself was not especially exciting, in fact rather routine, it seemed to Lucy, although at

that time she had hardly had enough of it to know what was routine and what was not. But the idea of it excited her – the anonymity, the

lack of any emotional involvement, even the slight element of risk (which her friend had insisted on spelling out to her before walking off

in a huff), all these things gave it spice.


In the ten years since that evening, her ideas had become slightly more elaborate, but essentially the structure was always the same. A

man, almost invariably an older man, a setting redolent of sophistication, an atmosphere charged with sexual possibilities. An encounter –

no names, no promises to meet again, no strings – and what became clearer, as the idea developed, was that the man should do exactly as he

pleased. The word that always came to her mind was that he used her. Took what he wanted, and then was gone. Sometimes what these men wanted

was rather – well, what word could she use to describe it? Perverted? Deviant? Kinky? Whatever.


She thought sometimes about what the relationship was between these little scenarios and the relationships in her actual life, both the

sexual ones and those that derived from her work. As the age of thirty approached, she realised that she was becoming successful. Her years

of hard legal study and the grind of apprentice work were now paying off. Her services were in demand, her court appearances more frequent.

Her work was respected. She was treated as a serious person, even deferred to by many. She was very far from being a person whom others

could take advantage of; whom others could use.


Though not overly given to intense self-analysis, she was aware that her inner sexual life, the ‘ideas’ she kept having, did not match with

other’s perception of her. There was nothing about this, which troubled her; she simply observed that it was so. How men behaved to her in

her sexual imagination was quite different from how they behaved in real life. And the apparent lack of it extended to her sexual activities

too, what there was of them. She would sometimes remark to friends in a light-hearted manner that she hadn’t much time for a sex life these

days, and to an extent that was true. Certainly she could not have found time to play the dating game as energetically as Rebecca or Joanna,

the two friends she saw most regularly. Not that she lacked for offers. Men she encountered, knowing she was single, would invite her out,

but she rarely accepted. Yes, she was busy, but it was more than that. She found, almost invariably, that such encounters disappointed. It

wasn’t that the men weren’t pleasant or attractive or interesting. If she had sex with them, it was often enjoyable enough, in its way. But

it never had the spice of her imaginary encounters. There was no risk. The men, who took her out for dinner, or to the theatre, seemed so

safe. There was nothing remotely deviant about them. And far from showing any signs of using her, they were assiduously attentive to her

needs; or what they thought were her needs. Did you come, they would ask solicitously, and if she should indicate not, they would attempt to

satisfy her unless, as she often did, she told them it was fine, not to worry. Lying there while they went to work, well-intentioned as they

were, had not much appeal.


And then one evening it happened. She wasn’t conscious of any changes in her feelings, of something that had predisposed her, not only to

acquiesce in what happened, but even to seek it out. It wasn’t as though she said to herself, I’ll be thirty any day now, it’s time to make

these things happen. But nor was it a sudden, on the spur of the moment thing. It certainly was not, as had been the case all those years

ago, that her actions were fuelled by alcohol. She’d had a couple of glasses of wine, but she was used to that.


Perhaps it was in part the fact that she was in a different town, not London but a large city in the north, a city where no one knew her,

except those who had employed her for her legal services, and they, after taking her for a very good dinner, had all gone home. So there she

was, having a small nightcap in the hotel bar when she became aware of a man looking at her. He was, like the man of all those years ago, in

his forties, or perhaps older, fifty maybe. He was well-dressed, in a charcoal-grey suit, well-cut, with a rather florid but clearly

expensive tie, possibly by Gucchi, she thought. He had a strong face, not exactly handsome, but with character. His hair was going grey.
/>

That much she registered, but subconsciously she must have perceived a lot more. There was something about him that was different from the

men who wanted to take her out. His expression seemed amused, not mocking but challenging, as if to say, I think I know what sort of girl

you are, and that’s the sort of girl I like so don’t pretend.


He was sitting further down the bar. He made a motion to her, pointing at her now empty glass with one finger while raising an eyebrow,

inviting her to have another. She hadn’t intended to, but on an impulse, proceeding from who knows exactly where, she nodded. The barman

poured for her. She expected the man to come closer, to occupy the vacant seat next to her. Instead, he patted the seat next to him.


Men didn’t do that sort of thing to her very often. Was she giving off some different vibrations this time, or was he just a different sort

of man? She hesitated for a moment. If she went to him, would it commit her? Not irrevocably, perhaps, but it was a step in a certain

direction. The shy virgin path would definitely be blocked off.


She got down from her stool and slowly walked down the bar. She sat up on the stool next to him and carefully pulled her skirt down over

her knee, just in case he should think he was home and dry. Looking back the next day, she realised she had already made her decision, but

she intended to make him work for it. There was a touch of arrogance about him that appealed to her, but it was more fun if he didn’t think

she was just a push-over.


They chatted a little. She told him her name was Isolde. It was a name she had used once or twice before, when she didn’t want to be

identified. In her mind the name was associated with knights and chivalry; she was the aristocratic bride of Ivanhoe, or Galahad, or

someone. The man said his name was Pierre; his mother had been French, he explained. He said he was a businessman; she said she was a

fashion buyer for a London store. He looked her up and down. She’d always been very careful about her clothes. What she wore was important

to her; it affected how people saw her, and she wanted to control what they saw. Evidently Pierre approved of her navy-blue woollen dress,

tight across the bust but fuller below the waist, the hemline fashionably just below the knee.


After a while he said it was a warm night and would she care to stroll outside. It was an obvious ploy but she didn’t mind that. They

walked in the gardens of the hotel, which stretched down to the river. They stopped and he put his hand up to her, stroking the back of her

neck, then squeezing it gently. It was one of those things that always worked with her, though men hardly ever tried it. She turned towards

him and without coyness kissed him on the mouth. His lips were warm and dry, then he opened them and slid his tongue into her mouth. It

slithered around inside like a lascivious eel, poking into nooks and crannies. One hand remained on the back of her neck, caressing. Another

went round her back, resting just above her bottom, slowly circling. He’s good, she thought. He knows what he’s doing. His movements were

controlled, unambiguous but not crude. She found herself pressing up against him and could feel his cock bulging.


‘Shall we go in?’ she whispered.


They went up in the lift. She was on the floor above him. When they stopped at his floor he offered to come up with her.


‘No,’ she said. ‘Your room.’


Afterwards she wanted to be able to leave as soon as she wished, not have the problem of throwing him out. She wouldn’t let him put the

light on, but the curtains were open and there was a strong light from the moon. He sat on the bed and she stood in front of him. She took

off her dress and then her stockings and her suspenders and her bra. The knickers could wait just a while longer.


‘What do you want?’ she said. She wanted him to tell her. She wanted him to take it, whatever it was.


He stood up and put his hand on the back of her neck again, this time pushing her gently down onto her knees. He unzipped his trousers and

took out his cock. It was big and hard. He was uncircumcised and she saw him pull back the foreskin to expose the purple tip. He pushed her

face forward towards him and she took him in her mouth.


She hadn’t sucked a lot of cocks. Instead, men seemed always to want to go down on her, give her what they thought she liked. But she had

thought about how it was best done, and she’d learned from what experience she had had. One thing she’d found was that men varied in how

they liked it, some wanting it hard and fast, others preferring a slow sensual approach. Pierre liked the latter, holding her now by the

hair at the back of her neck and slowing her down when she went too quickly. He fed her his cock right to the back of her throat, up to the

hilt so that she nearly choked, but she didn’t mind. She liked to feel her mouth full of cock, liked to feel he wanted it all in her.
/>

She wondered if that was going to be all he wanted, whether it would be his preference to come in her mouth, or perhaps on her face. She

didn’t mind either, in fact she liked it, enjoyed the sight and smell and feel of the semen spurting from the cock, hitting the back of her

throat or landing on her face, her nose, her cheeks, her mouth, dripping down her chin. Use my face if you like, she thought.


But then he pulled his cock away, putting his hands under her arms and raising her to her feet.


‘On the bed,’ he said. ‘On all fours.’


She knelt on the edge of the bed, her bottom towards him.


‘Pull your knickers down,’ he said, and she did. He took her, thrusting his cock straight into her without any ceremony. His cock was

perhaps a shade thicker than average, and she liked that. Not that she cared over-much about size, but it felt good inside her as it

penetrated deep then withdrew only to push in hard again. She heard herself grunting as he fucked her, not very ladylike sounds perhaps, but

she was beyond that now.


‘Oh god,’ she heard herself say, ‘fuck me, fuck me.’


And he did, vigorously, even roughly. She was pleased by how long he kept it going, such a long deep fucking that by the end her cunt felt

slightly bruised, but in a good way, the way of feeling really taken, and had, and used. Just before he came he did something no man had

done before, pushing his thumb into her ass, so that she was plugged in both orifices. He came with a groan and she felt his cock kicking

and bucking inside her. She knew he’d used a condom, so she just imagined his semen splashing into her, and when he withdrew there was no

satisfying dribble of sticky white fluid from her cunt. But she was wet, very wet, and that was enough.


She lay stretched out on the bed for a moment, panting. He lay beside her, stroking her bottom.


‘Can I get you anything?’ he said.


‘Thanks,’ she answered. ‘But I think I’d better go.’


‘Are you sure?’ he said, genuine regret in his voice. But she was already pulling on her underwear.



Keywords - click on word to search for more titles

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Best Selling Books This Year By Dominic Ridler

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Best Selling Books This Year By Dominic Ridler

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 Publishers Suite   

Affiliate Program

Contact Us

Terms and Conditions

Protection Policy

Privacy Policy

Refund Policy

This Site Owned By Fiction4Adults - Copyright Ó 2015