Britslut’s

Slutty Stories

 

 Career

© Copyright britslut 2005. No re-use allowed without permission.

 

I was desperate for that job – absolutely desperate. Ever since my husband of 12 years had walked out on me, taking all our savings with him, I had worked in a succession of clerical and secretarial jobs, just scraping enough money each month to pay the rent. My husband had been in the army and we moved around a lot, living in military accommodation, so we never owned a property and I never managed to put down roots long enough to start a career.

At 38, alone (apart from the occasional boyfriend) and poor, I decided that I was worth more and that there must be more to life than this. A friend persuaded me to apply for the position of PA to the boss of some prestigious firm in London. It was way above my level – certainly the quoted salary was three times what I was earning as a temp, which even allowing for the higher cost of living down south would do me very nicely. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I thought. I had all the right qualifications on paper: plenty of secretarial certificates, organised, efficient, unflappable etc., and although I had no illusions that I could complete with a young blonde bimbo in terms of looks, I hadn’t aged too badly and I had kept my figure trim.

I was mildly surprised, and nervous, to be told that I was on the short-list of four candidates. So one Sunday evening saw me on the train to London in readiness for an interview and aptitude tests on Monday morning. I had arranged to stay with an old school-friend, Cath. We had kept in touch sporadically after I had married and started moving around the world with my husband’s regiment. She had always been a bit of a drop-out and I hadn’t been surprised when she told me she had given up her job and started an art course at the Slade. I didn’t care for her pieces – they looked like something that she had fished out of a dustbin – but I was too polite to say so, and it was nice to have a place to stay close to central London instead of a horrendously expensive hotel – even if her tiny bed-sit was cluttered and scruffy and, well, tiny.

Everything was going well so far. I had found a smart black pin-stripe trouser-suit in the Oxfam shop. It set off my figure nicely. The money saved had gone towards a visit to the hairdresser, giving me a style which was modern and yet timeless. The train was on time. It was when I came to get off at the terminus that things started to go wrong. My little overnight bag, which I had left in the rack at the end of the carriage, containing my interview clothes, make-up bag, toiletries, etc. etc. – in fact everything except my purse and phone and, mercifully, my certificates, which were in my handbag ­– had vanished. Stolen – or picked up by mistake. I stood there for a while looking silly, then started hunting up and down the carriage in case the bag had been put somewhere else. I was still there when the cleaner got on and I heard the note of panic in my voice as I explained what had happened.

The cleaner, bless her, told me to contact the transport police, which is of course what I should have done anyway. I found their office and had to sit and fill in a long form – I gathered it was not a rare event. Then I rang Cath and tried to stave off the tears as I told her my woes. She said to stay where I was and she would be with me in a quarter of an hour. It was while I was waiting that the full extent of my problems sank in. I had no smart clothes and nowhere, on a Sunday evening, to buy any. I didn’t even have any spare knickers with me. The interview was at 9 a.m. the next morning so there would be no time to go shopping – even if my credit card could have afforded it. All I had was what I stood up in – jeans and a sweater. Maybe Cath would have something I could borrow.

Eventually – it was now after 10 pm – Cath and I were ensconced on her sofa sharing a bottle of red wine. I had dried my tears and under her influence and that of the wine was starting to see the funny side of it.

‘Well, I don’t know if I’ve got anything suitable to wear,’ she said. As an art student, Cath affected the look that I think is known as grunge – mostly black, scruffy, slightly ripped, loose and generally as unlike a PA as you could get. Although she and I are about the same size – I’m a bit taller – none of her clothes would be suitable.

‘Hang on, I’ve had an idea.’ She rummaged in the bottom of the wardrobe and pulled out a crumpled black jacket and skirt. ‘I got this in a charity shop. It was for a vicars and tarts party.’

I held up the items. The jacket was OK, although it looked a bit small for my bust, but the skirt was tiny and only came halfway down my thighs.

‘You can sew the slits up if you want,’ my friend said, indicating the two side slits that went up almost to the waist.

‘My god, I presume you didn’t go as a vicar.’

Cath laughed. ‘I got laid, which was the object of the exercise.’

‘Have you got any tights? What about a bra? I had a really nice little black one in my bag. This one’s held together with a safety pin.’

‘I stopped wearing a bra ages ago. My tits don’t really need one anyway. And I hate tights – horrible sweaty things.’

‘What did you wear with this then?’ My heart sank.

‘Ta-ra!’ She held up a little suspender belt and some sheer black stockings with lacy tops. ‘It’s amazing what you can get in charity shops round here.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a blouse that’s halfway decent?’ I said, the wine making me giggle.

Cath rummaged some more and found a very stretchy plain cream top. ‘Go on, see what it looks like.’

I don’t have many inhibitions with Cath – we’ve seen each other’s bodies often enough since we were at school. I stripped off to my bra and knicks and tried to put on the unfamiliar suspender belt. Cath had to help me. Then the stockings, which felt nice against my legs, I must admit, the top and finally the jacket and skirt, and my shoes, which fortunately were the ones I had intended to wear for the interview.

I twirled in front of the mirror and blushed. ‘I look like an expensive tart,’ I said.

‘Better than looking like a cheap one, dearie,’ Cath laughed.

The skirt was very short and showed off most of my legs, I must admit they looked good – maybe I should wear shorter skirts all the time. I was sure however that my stocking tops, and more, would be visible when I sat down.

Cath looked at me critically. ‘Take the jacket off.’ I did so.

‘VPL,’ she said, indicating where the outline of my knickers showed under the tight skirt. ‘And that bra will have to go.’

‘I had a thong in my bag,’ I said. ‘The trouser suit needed one as well.’

‘Oh, I’ve got plenty of them. That’s not a problem. But your bra looks terrible.’

She was right. The tight top showed ever detail of the bra’s seams and repairs. ‘It’ll have to come off.’

I peeled off the top and took my bra off. My nipples immediately erected, as they always do. I put the top back on.

‘Much better,’ said Cath. ‘Wish I had a bust like yours. You’ll just have to be careful you don’t start feeling horny!’

‘Are you sure you haven’t got anything else – something looser, maybe?’ I said, laughing in spite of myself.

Cath spent the next half hour hunting through her untidy wardrobe and cupboards, while I sat in suspenders and stockings with a needle and thread, sewing up the slits in the skirt. But she drew a blank – everything she had was either tied-dyed or scruffy, or both.

‘Cheer up,’ she said, pouring me some more wine. ‘When you flash your boobs at them, you’re sure to get the job.’

It took a big effort of will to refuse another bottle of wine – I was feeling pretty mellow and only just managed to iron the jacket and skirt without singeing it. Cath made up the sofa-bed.

‘I haven’t even got my nightie!’ I wailed. ‘Or toothbrush!’

‘You don’t need a nightie,’ Cath said. ‘It’s hot in here. I’ve slept in the buff since I left school. And I do have a spare toothbrush. Come on, its two a.m. and you’ll have to get up at about 7 to tart yourself up.’

‘Tart myself up’ was more than just a figure of speech, I thought. Lying in bed, unaccustomed to the feel of sheets against my bare skin, I started to feel slightly horny. The idea of going to the interview dressed in miniskirt and stockings, with no bra, excited me. If it had not been for the wine it would have terrified me. I didn’t sleep much that night.

I was up at 7 feeling a little headachy. I made some coffee and had a shower, then started to dress in my tart’s outfit, as I called it. I took Cath a coffee, as I needed to borrow a pair of knickers off her. She sat up, the duvet falling away from her small breasts, and stared at me.

‘Wow, you look fantastic,’ she said. ‘Use my make-up if you want, it’s lying around somewhere.’ This was an understatement, although most of it was shades of black.

I put on the jacket and shoes and gave myself a final scrutiny in the mirror. Cath, pottering around the kitchen area still naked, gave me a kiss on the cheek and wished me luck. We arranged to meet up in a pub at lunchtime for a post-mortem.

The skirt was tighter than I had realised, not suited for fast walking. I knew now why Cath had opened up the side seams. All I needed now was for it to pour down and soak me to the skin, for my umbrella had been stolen too and I had forgotten to borrow one. Fortunately the weather looked settled, and fortunately, too, my appearance didn’t seem to attract many glances. People probably assumed I was a prostitute on her way home after an all-night engagement.

The bus was full downstairs and I had to climb up to the upper deck. Thus I discovered another problem with the skirt – it tended to ride up my thighs, especially when going upstairs. I heard a soft wolf-whistle and knew that my stocking tops and probably some of my thighs above were on display. I blushed hotly. In the seat, I crossed my legs tightly and pulled the hem of the skirt down as far as it would go. My nipples chose that moment to assert themselves and I prayed that they would subside before the interview.

There was another disaster stepping off the bus: I heard a distinct sound of stitches ripping and looking down saw that a few inches of the hem I had sewn up last night had parted under the strain. I had some nail clippers in my handbag and managed to tidy up the loose thread, standing there in the busy street – there was nowhere else to go. Then I realised that I would have to make an equal slit on the other side. Oh well, at least it would make walking a little easier.

I found the offices all right and was relieved to see that I was ten minutes early. In the plush lobby, I announced myself to the security guard and was told to wait over there until someone came for me. ‘Over there’ was a group of deep soft leather chairs, one of which I sank into, my legs pressed tight together for decency. Everyone who entered the building cast curious glances at me – I was sure they could see my stocking tops.

Eventually a very smartly dressed young woman appeared and asked me to follow her. In the lift I could see her eyeing me up, probably thinking ‘mutton dressed as lamb’, but she didn’t say anything. In the room into which she ushered me were three other candidates, all younger than me, all as beautiful as models – and all wearing trouser suits. My heart sank. I didn’t have a chance.

The woman in charge, Helen, told us that we’d take some aptitude tests – ‘nothing difficult, just try and answer all the questions truthfully’ – and then an interview with someone from Human Resources and with the bloke who we’d actually be working for. She said his name – Guy Hammers, CEO – with reverence. We were supposed to be impressed, although I for one had only found out his name when I had done a little research on the company prior to applying for the job.

We were ushered into an office and each given a desk with a computer. I felt the others’ eyes on me and especially my long, nylon-clad legs. Or was I being a little paranoid? It was hot in the room but I didn’t want to take my jacket off and release my braless tits to their gaze.

I had worked briefly for an army psychologist and recognized the multiple-choice questions on the screen for what are known as Personality Inventories, designed to classify you into extrovert/introvert, manic/depressive and suchlike categories. Despite what they claim, it’s not hard to choose your answers to project the sort of person you want. I decided on confident-sociable-resourceful-openminded, belying my appearance which was exhibitionist-promiscuous-disorganised.

After that we were given a short presentation about the company, its history, activities, wonderful financial results etc. I only want to work for it, not buy it, I thought. Then there was a break for coffee and biscuits and a chance to chat to the others, who had loosened up a bit. They had found the tests rather intimidating. ‘I mean, asking whether we’d rather read a self-improvement book or a DIY manual. Personally I’d take a romantic novel any day. What are you supposed to say?’

Helen reappeared and told us which order we would be interviewed in – random, she said. I was last, which meant I had to kick my heels for an hour and a half and make small talk with the others, who disappeared one by one and did not return. The presence of the company woman inhibited our conversation somewhat and we felt that perhaps she was also subtly interviewing us.

I escaped to the loo before my turn came round and sat in a cubicle looking ironically at my stocking tops and creamy white thighs. I undid the jacket, which was a little tight around my bust, and immediately my nipples sprang into action. Shit, I thought, knowing they would take a while to subside. I hoped that they would not show through the thin jacket.

Eventually I was summoned and escorted in the lift to the top floor where the great man had his lair. The décor was restrained corporate but nonetheless luxurious. His office was large and sparse – a big almost empty desk and a coffee table with easy chairs over to one side. Guy Hammers himself looked like the stereotyped top executive – late 40s, clean-shaven with a firm rugged jaw, a handsome profile, immaculately groomed pepper-and-salt hair, and a charming smile which I had no doubt could disappear the moment his whim was not being satisfied. Nevertheless he was the type that many women can’t help responding too on some animal level – an alpha male – and I am no exception! An image flashed through my head of him rearing above my spread-eagled nakedness, skewering me to the bed … and was ruthlessly suppressed.

He introduced himself and his HR colleague, who faded into the background by comparison. We shook hands, and I was asked to sit. The chair was a couple of meters from the desk, and a little too low for comfort. I wondered how to arrange my legs so that the men would not be able to see most of the way up my skirt. Perhaps this was intentional …

The HR chap did most of the talking while Guy watched me, his hands steepled on the desk. He obviously had the results of my tests in front of him. He commented on the fact that I had changed jobs many times in my career. I explained about my husband being in the army, moving around the world every couple of years. ‘I like to think I can adapt pretty quickly,’ I said, making it a positive point.

‘This job involves a lot of foreign travel, often at very short notice,’ Guy said. ‘I’m travelling 2 or 3 weeks every month, and I would want you with me.’

‘I’ve no ties,’ I said. ‘My parents are both dead. I’ve lived in many different countries, and I know how to cope with the problems that arise.’ He nodded slowly.

The HR man threw a couple of scenarios at me – delayed materials vital for an meeting, absence of transport due to a terrorist emergency – and I thought on my feet and gave what I thought were reasonable suggestions for working around the problems. We talked some more about my skills and experience. Was this never going to end, I thought? Or maybe it was a sign that they liked me?

He was explaining the package I would get if I got the job. x thousand a year, plus private medical insurance, free health club membership, very generous clothing and grooming allowance and of course all expenses paid when I was working outside the office. No set hours of work – I would be ‘on call’ day and night, apart from a lavish number of days holiday a year, of course. I said that it sounded very appealing.

Guy looked at his colleague and must have given him some sign. They asked me if I had any questions, and I had prepared a couple of minor ones, just to look interested. Then Guy stood up and indicated that the interview was over. ‘Thank you for coming to see us. We’ll let you know our decision very shortly – probably today.’

HR man left and I went to follow. Guy said, ‘No, not you. Sit down, let’s chat.’ He indicated the easy chairs in the corner. I sat in the low chair and curled my legs gracefully, knowing that whatever I did the man opposite would be able to see part of my bare thighs.

He sat back and looked at me quizzically. ‘I like you,’ he said. ‘You’re not like the other bimbos. You’re straightforward and down-to-earth. What do you think of me?’

I was nonplussed. ‘Well, you seem like a decent sort of bloke,’ I said, smiling so as not to seem too cheeky. ‘The job sounds exciting – hard work, stressful at times, but certainly not boring.’

He pursed his lips. ‘You wouldn’t be a secretary, taking dictation and so on. I have secretaries to do that. Your job is to look after me. Make sure I have the right papers with me, make sure the right hotels are booked, that all my people are in the right places at the right times, buy flowers for my wife’s birthday, whatever it takes to make me happy. If I’m happy, then you’re happy. If I’m not happy, then it’s your job to make me happy. OK?’

I could see his eyes sliding lasciviously up and down my legs, piercing the shadows under my skirt. I wondered in what ways I might be expected to make him happy. Strangely, the thought didn’t bother me. He was a handsome, fit, attractive specimen of a man – I’ve always been attracted to the strong mature type. I imagined his hands undressing me urgently, roaming freely over every part of my body, and felt a hot moisture seep into my knickers.

‘Stand up,’ he said – an order which I automatically obeyed: he had that sort of voice. ‘Take your jacket off.’

I did so, knowing that my newly erect nipples were drilling holes in Cath’s skin-tight top, and feeling rather proud of it.

‘Why did you get divorced?’

‘He walked out on me,’ I said, a little peeved at his personal question. ‘Ran off with a 20-year-old.’

‘He’s a fool,’ Guy observed neutrally. ‘I like the way you dress, Gina.’ (He had remembered my name) ‘Stick with it. Well, the job’s yours. When can you start?’

Talk about fast decisions – maybe that was what being a Captain of Industry was all about. ‘Monday?’ I said without really thinking. I would have to give notice – not a problem with a temping job – find somewhere to live – maybe I could stay with Cath for a while – and so on.

‘Monday it is. I look forward to working with you. And to celebrate your new position – are you free for dinner tonight?’

I quailed. This was all going very fast. ‘Umm,’ I said, ‘yes, I am.’

‘Good. Tell Helen where you’re staying. She’ll send a car to pick you up.’ He got up and shook my hand – a warm, dry, firm and businesslike handshake – then pressed a button on his phone. Helen entered immediately – had she been listening behind the door?

‘Gina will be joining the team on Monday,’ he told her, and I saw a look of shock in her face, instantly suppressed. ‘Get the paperwork done today, will you?’

That was it. I had a job, whether because of my straightforward down-to-earth mature competence and experience, or because he liked the look of my stocking-tops and nipples, I wasn’t sure. It took a while to sort out all the details with the young Helen, who clearly hadn’t been expecting me to be chosen, and then I was free to wander out onto the street in time to meet up with Cath, for a drink I needed as much as I’d ever needed one in my life.

I leant against the wall and tried to stop my legs trembling, then got my bearings and wandered off to the wine bar we had decided on. It was full of city types in dark suits drinking expensive red wine (how do they manage to do any work in the afternoon?), but there was a vacant stool at the bar. I perched on it and ordered a glass of dry white and soda, and drank half of it in one gulp, feeling the bubbles conveying the alcohol directly into my veins.

A man – typical young stockbroker type – stood next to me.

‘How much?’ he asked, with a cool grin.

‘I’m sorry?’ I said.

‘How much do you charge?’

Suddenly I twigged, and just stopped myself looking down to check whether my skirt had ridden up to expose my stocking tops again. The cool air on my thighs told me it had. My jacket was open and my hard nipples must have been on display too.

‘I’m not a prostitute,’ I said, anger giving way to a slight glow of pride that he had thought I was sexy enough.

‘I didn’t say you were,’ he replied. ‘Five hundred for the whole night.’

Five hundred was more than I took home in a fortnight. For a moment I was almost tempted; then I remembered I had a ‘date’ with my new boss.

‘I’m busy tonight,’ I said.

‘OK. Here’s my card. Give me a ring if you change your mind,’ he said, and turned to the barman. Just then I saw Cath appear by the doorway, peering around for me. She looked totally out of place in her black sweater and black miniskirt over black leggings.

‘God, there you are Gina,’ she cried. ‘I didn’t recognise you in that get-up. Well, how did you get on?’

I squeezed her hands. ‘I got the job.’ She squealed in delight and threw her arms around me and we hugged and danced like two schoolgirls.

‘This calls for a celebration. Two double bacardis!’ (this to the hovering barman) ‘Mind you, I’m not surprised, in that skirt. It’s positively indecent. He probably couldn’t take his eyes off your crotch.’

‘Christ, it’s not that short is it?’ I giggled, rapidly losing my inhibitions.

‘It is from where I’m looking,’ she said, and handed me the drink.

‘Some guy just tried to hit on me,’ I said. ‘Offered me five hundred quid for the night.’

Cath spluttered. ‘Bastard! Mind you … five hundred! Who needs a day job?’

Eventually we found a settee in the corner and ordered some food, which was sorely needed to soak up the alcohol we were putting away. I gave Cath a blow-by-blow account of my morning and she quizzed me intently about the physical and masculine attributes of my new boss. I told her he had asked me to dinner.

‘Better make sure you sign that contract before he gets you into the sack,’ she warned. ‘What if you don’t measure up to his expectations?’

‘I am not going to bed with him!’ I protested, slurring slightly. ‘He’s my boss, for god’s sake. And he’s married.’

‘Exactly,’ said Cath darkly.

Just then we were joined by a couple of young blokes. The bar was quieter now as most people drifted back to their trading floor or wherever they worked. The two men smiled at us and sat opposite.

‘You two look like you’re having fun,’ one opened with.

I realised belatedly that my legs were all over the place as I slouched on the settee. The skirt had ridden up until everything I had was on display to the world – right up to the tight black triangle of my borrowed thong. At some point I had taken off my jacket and my breasts and still-hard nipples were outlined blatantly under the stretchy top. Cath too had her legs akimbo, although in her case the black leggings kept her slightly decent. I couldn’t be bothered to pull my skirt down or change position.

‘She’s just landed a plum job,’ Cath said, indicating me.

‘Well, let’s have a bottle of champagne, then!’ Bloke number one caught the waiter’s attention (how do they do that so easily?). ‘You like champagne?’

‘Oh yeah, I drink anything,’ I said.

The champagne – it was a good one – lubricated the conversation well and after half-an-hour we were laughing and telling filthy jokes and generally having an excellent time. I loved the way the blokes – Stu (black hair) and Pete (brown hair) – couldn’t tear their eyes away from my crotch, no matter how hard they tried. Soon they didn’t even pretend to try. I found myself deliberately flashing at them, pulling my shoulders back to emphasise my tits, tweaking my skirt ineffectually to highlight the fact that I knew what I was showing. The conversation wasn’t the only thing that was well-lubricated.

Cath and I repaired to the ladies’, as ladies do. We held on to each other next to the washbasins.

‘Christ, Gina, I have got the serious hots for Pete,’ she said. ‘I’m gagging for him. I haven’t had a shag for weeks.’

‘Cath!’ I said. ‘We’ve only just met them.’

‘So? Haven’t you heard of lust at first sight? And you’re coming on to Stu like a pro. I’ve never seen a woman come on like you. I’m surprised you don’t leap on him and rip his clothes off.’

‘Really? Is it that obvious?’ I giggled.

‘When did you last have a shag?’

‘Oh, ages … but we’re old enough to be their mothers, almost.’

‘So what? Virile young blokes, plenty of stamina, experienced older women, it’s the stuff of legend, Gina. I say let’s go for it.’

We tottered back into the bar, half expecting the blokes to have got fed up and gone away. Instead they were waiting, like dogs around a bitch on heat. As I flopped down onto the settee, exposing my thighs again, I suddenly felt like lying in a bed, with or without a man.

‘Got any plans for the afternoon?’ Stu asked me, grinning. Really he was very young.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ I gave him what I thought was a coy smile, but it might have been a leer.

‘I’ve got a flat just over the river. Got some good coffee too.’

God, why didn’t he just ask me to go back for a shag with him? I suppose the forms have to be obeyed.

‘Coffee is what I need, yes.’ I turned to Cath but she and Pete were locked in a passionate kiss, his hand on her upper thigh. I shrugged. ‘Let’s go.’

Stu pulled me to my feet, signed the tab (conveniently paying for Cath’s and my drinks and food too), and flagged down a taxi. In the back he rested his arm across my shoulders and put his hand on my nylon-clad knee.

‘Jesus Christ, Gina, you are the sexiest woman I have ever met!’

‘Really?’ I said, flattered in my drunken state. ‘I don’t usually dress like this, you know.’

‘You should,’ he said, his mouth drawing nearer to mine. ‘I’ve been hard since I first looked at you.’

We were just about to fall into a kiss when the taxi pulled up by one of the new riverside apartment blocks – it was a very short ride. Stu escorted me through the security doors and into the glass-walled lift, where our kiss finally took place, tongues being forced down throats with abandon. His hands roamed all over my body. If he had lived on the fortieth floor instead of the tenth I think we would have coupled in the lift. I hadn’t felt such animal lust for a man for years – my knickers were soaked and I actually enjoyed the feeling of the sex juices oozing out of me.

Once inside his minimalist apartment (although to be honest I didn’t take a lot of notice of the décor at that point), we were free to shag properly. He pushed me up against the wall, tore my thong off, lifted my thighs apart and pushed his super-hard erection into my throbbing, aching, soaking, hungry puss. I locked my ankles behind his back and covered his forehead with kisses as he humped me into the wall. It was a truly animal fuck, such as I had not had since I had been newly married.

With the energy and stamina of youth he pistoned into me fast and furious, the base of his cock banging against my clitoris. I could feel the juices trickling down the insides of my thighs. I just let him use me as he wished, feeling the orgasm rising slowly inside me without any effort on my part. When it broke I threw my head back and howled, my muscles squeezing hard around his hardness. In a few seconds he too had climaxed and filled my insides with a flood of warmth.

Still joined, he walked us over to the big bed and we fell onto it. Somehow he managed to take off my top and skirt, and his shirt and pants and shoes, without once removing his still-firm cock. Then, when I was naked apart from suspender belt, stockings and shoes, he laid me on my back and rogered me anew, the fluids in my pussy squishing out and pooling under my buttocks.

This time it took longer for him to come and I had had two or three orgasms before his relentless pounding reached a peak and he shouted and emptied another load into me. After that we needed a rest. He rolled off and our breathing gradually slowed. I felt more liquids adding themselves to the lake under me.

‘Gina, you are one hell of a woman,’ he whispered.

‘What happened to that coffee?’ I grinned at him. The drunkenness seemed to have been washed away by my orgasms and now I was just very thirsty.

‘I’ll make some.’ He got up and padded to the kitchen area – the whole flat was open-plan (although not, I hoped, the toilet). I enjoyed watching the play of muscles in his superb young body - it was a long time since I had been able to admire a naked youth.

‘I’ll have a glass of water too, please’ I said, and to his credit he brought me one with the coffee. I propped myself on one elbow to drink them, enjoying his eyes roaming easily over my nudity (apart from the stockings, which somehow made me feel even more naked).

‘I’m thirsty too,’ he grinned when I had finished, indicating my crotch with his eyes. Happily I lay back and opened my sticky thighs. He cleaned me up with my top (Cath’s precious little top, I realised too late) and then bowed his head to close his mouth over the matted hair of my pussy. Despite his youth Stu was an experienced eater of women and quickly had me writhing and humping under the teasing attentions of his tongue and lips. I wrapped my legs around him and twined my fingers in his hair and pulled his face against my crotch and let myself go with a whole series of powerful, noisy climaxes.

After that he was hard again, bless him, and pulled me to my feet and bent me over the edge of the bed and took me from behind powerfully. I was so wet that he slid in and out with hardly any friction - I felt like I could fuck all day and all night. He took me in all sorts of positions, arranging my limbs and body to get the maximum exposure and penetration, and I just let him do it and smiled happily as he reamed my pussy with amazing stamina. There was something about being used by a young stud that, at my age, was supremely erotic.

After a half hour or so of unremitting thrusts I could tell that he wanted to cum but my puss was too slippery to give him the necessary friction. I took the initiative and pushed him down onto the bed and straddled him in a sixty-nine. His cock was reddened and dripping with our combined juices - it tasted wonderful! I slid my lips down as far as I could and sucked the cocktail of fluids, feeling at the same time his fingers pulling my pussy lips apart. Almost certainly I was dripping onto his face. I gave him a thorough blow-job while his tongue flicked at my clit. Eventually his cock was as hard as rock and bursting with pent-up sperm, and my clit was aching for another orgasm.

I gave him a final squeeze and suck and he burst in my mouth, filling me with another warm load of stickiness. As his spurts died away my own climax broke and it was all I could do to swallow.

We were both pretty exhausted by then and lay side by side and dozed. I woke first, saw that he was half-erect in his sleep and thought that it was a pity to waste it - after all I might not get another young stud to play with for a while. Gently I teased his cock to full hardness without waking him and then climbed on and straddled him, lowering my wet puss onto his column. That woke him up. I put my hands on his chest and grinned at him and bounced up and down, squeezing his cock tightly with my muscles. He got into the spirit of it and gripped my hips and forced me down, ramming his cock right up against my cervix, mashing my clit against his pubic bone. We fucked hard and furious and noisily and managed to climax more or less at the sae time again. Then I lay on his chest and dozed once more.

When I woke this time I saw by the wall clock that it was after six. Christ, I was supposed to be being picked up at 7, from Cath’s place. There was no way I could get back there and get tided up in time - and anyway she would probably be still shagging her brains out with Pete. Stiffly I climbed off the bed, trying not to wake Stu, and wiped my sticky, slimy crotch with his shirt, trying to think fast. OK, I could ring the office and give them this address (what was it?), have a shower and try and smarten myself up a bit. I wouldn’t be able to change - but then I didn’t have any other clothes anyway.

Right, Ms competent PA, I thought, that’s your first crisis managed. I found an envelope with the address of the apartment, rang the office and told Helen to re-direct the car. Then I stripped off the stockings and suspender belt (my shoes having been kicked off at some point) and had a luxurious shower, trying to get the smell of sex off me. Despite the strenuous intercourse, coming after a long period of abstinence, I didn’t feel sore or bruised.

Stu had no cosmetics suitable for a woman, of course, so I had to make do with a bit of talc and no make-up. I’ve never relied on it anyway, preferring the natural look. I put the stockings back on, and hunted around for my thong. It had vanished, maybe kicked under a cupboard or something. Damn! Mind you, it had been soaked anyway. I would just have to be naked under my skirt for dinner with my new boss. The thought gave me a sudden thrill ...

Then I remembered what the little white top had been used for. It was on the bed, a sticky crumpled ball. There was no way I could get it washed and dried in time. Would my jacket be decent enough if I wore it without anything underneath? It would have to be.

I checked the skirt to make sure it hadn’t got any bodily fluids on it, and discovered that the side seams had opened up a few more inches, presumably when Stu had fucked me up against the wall. Too late to mend it ... almost time for the car. I sighed inwardly.

My young stud was still sleeping so I let myself out quietly and waited in the lobby for the company car, which arrived bang on time. The driver, complete with peaked cap, opened the door for me and watched carefully as I showed ninety percent of my legs getting in. What is it about men and legs - or tits for that matter? Still, I wasn’t complaining. The several orgasms and the residual effect of the champagne had put me in a very mellow and uninhibited mood. I was ready for anything.

And so it came to pass that I entered the lobby of one of the most expensive restaurants in London wearing only a tight jacket, short skirt, and stockings. I held my head and my tits high as the maitre d’ approached me, obviously ready to throw this prostitute out on the street. I told him I was meeting Guy Hammers and his manner changed instantly.

With a double helping of obsequiousness, I was ushered to a corner table where my new boss was already ensconced, reading some papers. He stood up, smiled at me, and shook my hand! I was expecting a kiss on the cheek, at least. Maybe he really didn’t want me for sex.

He ordered a bottle of champagne (more champagne!) and said, ‘Well, Gina, let’s get the paperwork out of the way. Here’s your contract. You can sign it now or read the small print later, whichever you wish.’

I signed it hurriedly, before he changed his mind.

‘This is all routine stuff,’ he went on, handing over a sheaf of forms. ‘Bank details, emergency medical stuff, health insurance, etc etc. And here’s a company credit card. Use it for everything. Clothes, shoes, whatever you want. Got anywhere to stay?’

I noticed the card was gold in colour, presumably with unlimited credit. ‘Umm, I’m staying with a friend at the moment.’

‘Get yourself a flat close to the office. Use the card for the deposit. Helen’ll help you find somewhere. Got a full passport?’

I nodded.

‘Good, we’re going to Japan on Monday evening.’

The champagne arrived and we chinked glasses. ‘Welcome to the firm, Gina.’

Wow, from poverty-stricken temp to high-flying PA in one day. Was I dreaming? The menu had no prices on it, a sure sign that I could not have afforded to eat there. I decided to accept the dream and enjoy it.

Guy was an entertaining and charming companion and the alcohol and orgasm-induced endorphins made me very relaxed and able to chat to him as an equal and not a VIP and a boss. We were sitting in a corner, on adjacent sides of the table rather than opposite, which gave him every opportunity to run his eyes over my body, from my long nylon-clad legs, up over my stocking tops (yes, they were on show again through the slits in the skirt), to my breasts under the thin jacket. It must have been obvious from the amount of skin visible that I did not have much, if anything, on underneath. For my part I was not shy in returning his gaze, mentally feeling the muscles in his fit-looking body and the growing bulge in his crotch. My pussy was tingling, ready for more action. It made it hard to concentrate on the delicious food.

When we had finished the dessert he put his hand on my knee. ‘You’re a very attractive woman, Gina. You must have a boyfriend or two in tow.’

‘No, not at the moment,’ I said. ‘I’m what actors call resting.’

‘That means looking, doesn’t it? You must have high standards.’ His hand was slowly working its way up my thigh now, making my pussy leak alarmingly.

‘Oh, not that high. But all the good men seem to be taken already.’

‘Not all of us.’ His fingers reached my stocking tops and kept going. Without thinking I opened my thighs slightly.

‘You’re married, though, aren’t you?’ I said as casually as I could. I needed to get this resolved.

‘I am,’ he said. ‘Happily. Bettina and I understand each other. She lets me do what I want and I let her do the same. Do you have a problem with that?’

His fingers were now within an inch of my pussy - he must have been able to feel the heat radiating off it.

‘Not at all. It usually only works one way, though - as in the case of my ex-husband.’

‘He slept around, did he?’

His fingers touched my labia and I almost moaned aloud. Slowly he slipped a finger between my lips and stroked the wet flesh.

‘I don’t think there was much sleeping done. But if I so much as looked at another man ...’

Holding my eyes, he removed his hand and sucked the finger which had gathered my juices.

‘Why don’t you take your jacket off, Gina?’ he said, holding my gaze.

Slowly I undid the button which had been threatening to give up its hold anyway. The jacket sprang open, revealing part of my naked breasts.

‘That’s why,’ I said quietly.

‘I see.’ He was seeing quite a lot - I hoped the waiters weren’t. ‘I have an apartment close by - I often use it when I’m in town. Shall we go back there?’

I nodded - I was so horny that I couldn’t have refused. I was hungry to get my hands on this powerful man, to wrap my legs around his hard body, feel him filling me up. Guy called up his car on his mobile, signed the bill, and ushered me out of the restaurant. I didn’t even bother to button the jacket. The driver dropped us off somewhere near the river (quite close to where I had spent the afternoon, in fact) and Guy shepherded me into the lift. Once inside he crushed his mouth against mine and massaged my breasts, rolling the hard nipples against his palms. I nearly climaxed from the sudden throb of excitement that swept through me.

I hardly noticed the inside of his apartment. He undressed me and himself quickly and expertly, leaving only my stockings. Then he laid me on the big bed and buried his face in my crotch. I humped my hips up to grind my pussy against his face. His tongue speared into my tunnel, his nose rubbing against my clit. Dimly I wondered if, despite my shower, he would be able to detect the traces of my afternoon’s activities. But that thought was soon lost as an orgasm swelled and burst deliciously. I could feel juices running down my buttocks.

He turned me over and so I only caught a glimpse of his cock, which looked to be larger than average both in length and girth, as befitted an alpha male. With me on all fours on the bed, he stood behind me and entered me in one powerful thrust. Yes, he was certainly bigger than average!

As he pumped away, pulling my hips back onto his impaling rod, I noticed that there were large mirrors set at either side of the bed. I could watch us rutting, which was a novel experience for me. It looked like a scene from a porn film. My tits swung back and forth with his thrusting, his thick cock slid in and out of my stretched pussy. The dark stockings just made it look more pornographic. I suppressed a giggle.

Despite his energetic technique, Guy knew what to do to a woman. His cockhead rasped across my G-spot, ramping up my arousal until an orgasm was hovering deliciously. He slid his thumb into my juice-slick anus, and I went over the top and my pussy clenched around his hardness. I howled with pleasure.

Later I wanted to feel him in my mouth, so I twisted away and sat on the edge of the bed and took his wet cock between my lips, tasting my copious juices. It filled my mouth satisfyingly, and I fellated him with I like to think a good deal of expertise (my ex had insisted I practise a lot!).

He groaned and bucked his hips, trying to fuck my throat. The thought that I was controlling this powerful man gave me an extra thrill. I kept him on the edge for as long as I could, tasting the precum that dripped from his rockhard shaft, looking up into his eyes. Then I slipped a finger into his anus, massaged his prostate, rubbed the base of his shaft with my other hand and sucked hard. He shouted, and a blast of semen filled my mouth. Another big one, then I pulled off him and let the next couple of spurts land on my face. I closed my mouth around his sensitive glans to gather up the final drops and he shuddered and his hips jerked.

I lay back on the bed, feeling smug. Nothing like making a good impression early on. Guy sat next to me, breathing heavily.

‘Jesus, Gina, you’re hot stuff. I knew I’d made the right decision.’

‘Did you only choose me because you thought I’d be a good lay, then?’ I grinned, feeling a drop of spunk trickle down my forehead.

He laughed. ‘Actually you were the best on paper. But it was the outfit that clinched it.’

‘I’ll tell you a tale about that,’ I said, and related the story of having my bag stolen and borrowing the clothes from Cath. I missed out the bit about picking up a bloke in the wine bar and spending the afternoon shagging.

‘So what happened to the top and the knickers?’ he asked.

‘Oh, a woman can’t be expected to keep track of everything, you know.’

‘I’m a terrible host,’ he said. ‘Can I get you a drink? Or coffee?’

‘No more alcohol, I think. A cup of tea would be wonderful, though.’

I watched him through the bedroom door as he prepared a pot of tea with economical movements. For a man of his age he was in very good shape - a firm belly, muscular shoulders and limbs. I guessed he worked out when he had time. He was quite hairy - I’ve always liked the gorilla look in a man: it brings out the primeval beast in me.

He brought the drinks back through, easy in his nakedness. Even flaccid, his circumcised cock was large and thick. I wiped off a blob of semen that was threatening to go in my eye and sucked my finger casually – I do actually like the taste of the stuff.

‘Do you like anal sex?’ Guy asked out of the blue.

‘If it’s done well,’ I said. ‘My ex liked it a lot - most nights, in fact. In the last few years, though, I think he only did it so he could brag to his mates. Do I gather from your question that you’d like to have anal sex with me, then?’ I grinned.

I noticed that his cock was swelling again.

‘There’s no pressure,’ he said. ‘But it would make me a very happy man.’

‘That’s my job, isn’t it?’ I smiled. ‘But please be gentle. I haven’t done it for a while and you are rather big.’ I rolled over onto my stomach and presented my arse to him. I heard him open a drawer in the bedside table, and then his fingers, cool with some gel, began to massage my anus. I pulled my buttocks apart to give him better access, feeling excited and nervous at the same time. But he must have been used to entering women’s arses (I wondered if his wife obliged in this respect), because he spent some time getting me nicely loosened up with two or three fingers - and very horny too. Eventually I was humping my arse up at him and silently begging him to fill it.

He turned me on my side and lay down next to me, and pressed his well-lubed cockhead against my sphincter. I reached back and held my buttock taut and pushed back onto him, letting my muscle ring dilate slowly and ease itself around his width. He was much thicker than my ex, the only other man who had taken me thus, and what with that and the fact that I had not had anal sex for a couple of years made me wonder whether we would succeed. But perseverance paid off and with only a slight amount of discomfort his glans popped through my ring. I heard him grunt with pleasure.

The rest of his shaft slid into me without problem, giving me that well-remembered feeling of total fullness. He snaked his arms around my body, one hand cupping a breast and the other my pubes, hugged me to him and started to pump, slowly and carefully. I relaxed in his embrace, content to be the plaything of this powerful male, skewered by his rutting cock.

His fingers sought out my clit and stroked it gently. Eventually the orgasm swelled inside me and slowly exploded, making my anus squeeze his cock deliciously. He continued to thrust in me, slowly, deeply, giving me several more climaxes, until I lost track of everything and floated off into a sort of anal nirvana. It was almost a disappointment when I felt his cock swell and pulse and fill my bowels with semen.

He pulled the duvet over us and we drifted off into sleep, still joined.

-------

I woke in the morning light and had a brief moment wondering where I was. The bed was empty and the flat silent. My face and my arse felt crusted with dried sperm. I stretched luxuriously, enjoying the slight aches in my body from the previous day’s unaccustomed sexual marathon. Then I gave a mental shrug and got up, looking for the bathroom.

After a piss I inspected my body, naked apart from the stockings, in the mirror. Not bad for 38, I decided, wryly noting the semen caked in my hair. I took a long hot shower and dried myself in the big fluffy towel, then padded around the flat in the nude while I sipped a cup of coffee, peeping in drawers and cupboards and generally being nosy. I caught sight of myself in the bedroom mirror, and stood back to admire myself again - not something I normally do. I felt free and liberated in my nudity. I stroked my breasts, thinking that they felt firmer than normal, and then my stomach. Inevitably my hand slipped downwards and teased my pussy, still a little tender from the night’s activity. I imagined myself walking out onto the street, naked except for my shoes, letting passers-by see me, flaunting myself casually to men and woman alike. Unconsciously I began to masturbate, imaging myself sprawling on a park bench, or leaning against a wall, pleasuring myself while others walked past or stopped to watch. I came hotly and unexpectedly, and grinned to myself.

Then it occurred to me that Guy might have - almost certainly did have - a cleaner who might appear at any moment, so I put on a towelling robe and ate some cereal while I decided what to do. The first priority was to get some clothes. All I had was the business suit and the stockings, and I couldn’t wear those for ever.

I phoned Cath on my mobile.

‘Oh hi, Gina! I was wondering where you had got to.’ I felt this was stretching the truth since she sounded as though I had woken her up.

‘I’ll tell you all about it later. Put some coffee on and I’ll be over shortly.’

I wondered whether to leave a note for Guy but couldn’t think of anything to say. I strode out onto the street, naked under my jacket and skirt, relishing the warm air circulating around my breasts and pubes. Really, why did anyone bother with underwear? I found a cashpoint and held my breath while the gold card did its tricks. Yes! Two hundred pounds, just like that.

I flagged down a taxi and gave the driver a quick flash of boobs as I got in. He probably thought I was a prostitute going home to bed - well, maybe I was in a way. Cath let me in to her flat; she was wearing a thin dressing gown and her hair was wet. The smell of sex hit me as soon as I walked in - the place smelt like a whorehouse. We hugged and both tried to talk at once.

‘I’ve got a confession to make,’ I said. ‘I lost your top, and the thong.’

Cath sniggered. ‘To lose one may be regarded as a misfortune,’ she intoned, ‘To lose both looks like ... sluttery! What happened? Was he good?’

‘Which one?’ I said, innocently, and she shrieked.

‘You utter tart! How many have you had?’

‘Just the two,’ I said. ‘What about you? Had a hard night?’

‘I’m exhausted!’ she chortled. ‘We’ve been at it non-stop almost. If he hadn’t had to go to work I think he’d still be at it. Thank heaven for the young!’

‘Give us a coffee and tell me all about it then,’ I threw myself on the settee, inadvertently flashing my naked crotch at her. Cath fetched two mugs and sat at the table, heedless of the gown falling open. For the next hour we exchanged post-mortems of our sexual exploits, leaving no juicy detail unexplored, as only women can. Every detail of our partners’ anatomy and prowess was laid bare and analysed. At the end of it I felt as though I had been watching Cath and Pete shagging on every piece of furniture in the flat. For my part I held nothing back, even to my masturbating in front of the mirror that morning.

‘I haven’t had so much sex in years,’ I concluded.

‘Me neither! I could handle some more though!’

I said that I needed to get myself a whole new wardrobe quickly, right down to knickers and bras. ‘Mind you, I might not bother with bras any more. I quite like the feeling of free tits. They seem firmer than they used too.’

‘That’s because you’re still horny,’ said Cath. ‘Mine go really hard when I’m sexed up.’

‘I’ll just have to keep myself horny all the time, then! No, are you busy today? I need some advice what to get. Guy seems to go for the executive slut look. You’re arty, you should know what looks good.’

My friend spluttered. ‘I’m the world’s worst fashion guru! Mind you, you look a knockout in that suit - specially without any knickers! I can bunk off studio today. Let’s hit the shops!’

‘OK. That gold card is going to see some action - I’m sure I can slip a few things for you onto it too. Have you got anything else I could borrow? This suit is a bit warm for this weather. I need something I can take off and on quickly.’

‘Just in case you meet a guy you fancy? OK, I’ll see what I’ve got.’

She returned from the bedroom with a ‘little black number’. ‘This is nice and cool. It’s a bit short though - I always wear jeans or something underneath.’

I stripped off in front of her. I felt no embarrassment; in fact I got a bit of a thrill about exposing my body to her. Cath didn’t seem to mind. I slipped the black dress on. Yes, it was extremely short and very clingy. Cath had enhanced it with the addition of a few zips in random places.

‘It’s indecent,’ she said. ‘You couldn’t even bend down in it without flashing everyone - and your tits would pop out.’

I examined myself in the mirror. Certainly every contour of my body, my hard nipples, even my pubic mound, was clearly outlined. The ragged hem was about 2 inches below my crotch.

‘It’s how I feel at the moment,’ I said. ‘I’ll take it! What about you?’

‘There’s no way I’m going out showing everything I’ve got,’ she snorted. ‘But I might make some compromises as it’s a nice warm day ...’ Cath shucked off her gown and hunted around her tip of a bedroom. The bed looked like a wrestling match had taken place on it. She pulled on a sleeveless black T shirt that showed her shoulder tattoo (and nipples), and a black denim miniskirt. She pulled on a thong, saying that no-one was going to leer at her pussy unless she wanted them to. Doc Martens completed the ensemble, as befitted an art student.

Just as we were leaving she got a text on her mobile, and yelped. ‘Oh god it’s from Pete!’ She showed me.

<Are u up for round 2 tonite? Im up alredy. Yr ass bekons. P>

‘He’s not getting into my arse,’ she snorted.

‘You should try it,’ I said. ‘It can be very liberating, you know.’

‘Balls. Call me old-fashioned but I’m saving my arse for when I get married.’

‘You swore you would never get married.’

‘Exactly. Still, I like the sound of round 2. What shall I tell him?’

‘Tell him you’ll suck his balls out through his cock.’

‘Gina, sometimes you can be so crude. OK.’

We hit Oxford Street in a shopping frenzy. My barely-decent outfit turned a few heads - well, quite a lot of heads - but I just brazened it out and held my head and my boobs high, feeling quite turned on by the idea of public near-nudity. In a well-known store, Cath and I gathered an armful of stuff and occupied a changing room. I peeled the dress off and Cath stripped also, though keeping her thong on. I had seen a sign that the changing rooms were monitored by CCTV but chose not to mention it to her.

Most of the stuff was for me, so I modelled it while Cath criticised. I was surprised how much stuff was available in the corporate slut mode - it must be the way that women get on in business. Showing lots of leg and cleavage is today’s style, and I agreed. I also bought Cath a new top to replace the one which had been used to wipe up my juices.

Then we found an Ann Summers and I stocked up on stockings (elastic topped and traditional, with the obligatory suspender belt) and a few skimpy little panties and bras (although I was not intending to wear them much). Cath displayed a liking for G-strings which I had not been aware of. I realised that most of the skirts/dresses I had bought would be too short to wear comfortably with stockings. Never mind, but I did invest in a couple of pairs of stocking-tights - like tights but with a massive hole to keep the pussy and arse cool.

By this time we were thirsty and hungry so we sat at a pavement cafe enjoying the sunshine and the looks of the passers-by, and tucked into lattés and baguettes. I kept my legs crossed, pulling the inadequate dress down every so often to cover my crotch.

I visited the loos and while I was washing my hands a woman came up to me. I had noticed her casting glances at me from the next table. She was about my age, pretty and with a good figure that her tight top and short skirt only emphasized.

‘Nice to get some fresh air, isn’t it?’ she observed with a meaningful stare.

I looked at her, trying to divine her meaning, and she held my eyes and slowly lifted up the hem of her skirt. Under it she was naked and her pussy was completely shaved. Her lips were full and prominent. I felt strange.

‘I’m not doing anything this afternoon,’ she whispered.

I didn’t know how to react. I’ve never been attracted to women, except as friends, but this one was sending out lightning bolts of sexuality. It occurred to me that I could join up with her and spend the afternoon familiarising myself with lesbian sex. The idea did not repulse me. But convention and a feeling of guilt towards Cath brought me down to earth.

‘It’s very kind of you,’ I said, ‘but I’ve got lots to do.’

The woman shrugged and let her skirt fall. ‘No problem, honey. Let me give you my phone number.’ She wrote it on a scrap of paper. ‘Enjoy yourself.’ And she was gone.

I related the incident to Cath, who was not surprised.

‘Have you never been hit on by a woman before?’

‘Um, not as far as I know. Maybe the others were just too subtle. Have you?’

‘Oh yes, often. Usually in clubs.’

‘And have you ... you know?’

She grinned at me. ‘Yes, now and then. I prefer guys, though.’

‘Wow, I didn’t know. What’s it like?’

‘Different from men. Softer, gentler ... slower, usually. Good orgasms. And women kiss better. I can’t believe you’ve never tried it - specially when you walk around like that.’

‘You mean this is for picking up women?’

‘Anyone, men and women. You’re broadcasting: I’m horny, come and fuck me!’

I looked down at my naked legs, arms and shoulders, the rest of me barely disguised by the thin dress. ‘Hmm, s’pose I am, really!’

The revelation that Cath indulged in sex with other women made me wonder what her feelings were towards me. I had been exhibiting myself to her blatantly over the last couple of days. For some reason, I hesitated to ask her ...

She persuaded me that I needed something more concealing if I was going to be travelling to countries where a woman showing a bare ankle or wrist could be stoned to death. Reluctantly I agreed to a black pin-stripe trouser suit, rather like the one I had had stolen but considerably more skin-tight around the arse. Then I realised I needed a suitcase or two to carry everything in.

When we came out of the store, Cath was giggling madly. ‘What?’ I said.

‘You! When you were bending over looking at those bags, you were flashing your ass to everyone in the shop!’

‘Was I?’ I did not feel the slightest embarrassment. ‘It’s OK, they’ll all assume I was wearing a thong.’

‘Uhuh.’ Cath shook her head. ‘Believe me, your pussy was on show. Every hair and wrinkle. The poor sales guy nearly had a fit.’

‘Ooh, he was rather dishy, wasn’t he?’

She punched me on the arm ‘Gina, you’re impossible!’

Another coffee stop and some more shops later, and we were exhausted, and laden. It was nearly five and I suddenly realised that I had nowhere to stay that night, apart from Cath’s sofa-bed. I suspected that she and Pete might prefer to have the flat to themselves.

I phoned Helen at the office and asked her to let me have the names of some letting agents, as Guy had suggested. Efficiently and snottily she reeled off a few numbers, and I spent a half hour phoning round. Predictably, they all had places available which I could view in the morning.

‘It’s OK, you can stay with me,’ Cath said.

‘I don’t want to intrude on your romantic evening,’ I said.

‘You can join in,’ she giggled. ‘A threesome.’

‘Have you ever done that?’ I was feeling that my life had not been nearly exciting enough.

‘Couple of times. Me and two blokes once, me and a bloke and another woman once. It was interesting but I wouldn’t want to make a habit of it.’

The thought of sex was making my pussy itch. I realised that I had two other options – the woman who had hit on me in the café, and the guy who had thought I was a prostitute the day before. The woman would be a novelty, but the thought of a cock inside me was more appealing. I fished out his card and dialled the number while Cath looked on with open mouth.

He answered; there were office noises in the background.

‘Hi,’ I said, trying to sound sultry. ‘It’s Gina.’

Pause. ‘Hi. Do I know you?’

‘We met yesterday lunchtime. You offered me five hundred pounds.’

Another pause. ‘So I did,’ he said softly. ‘Have you considered my offer, then?’

I took a deep breath. ‘A thousand. For the whole night.’

‘That’s a lot of money. What do I get for that?’

‘Whatever you want – within reason. I’m not into drugs or anything painful.’

‘Do you do anal?’

‘Yes,’ I said, and nearly followed with ‘Of course.’

‘A thousand it is, then, Gina. Where shall I meet you?’ I could hear the excitement in his voice.

‘Pick a restaurant. I’ll need some sustenance to last the whole night.’

He named a time and a place – just long enough to get back to Cath’s, dump my purchases, and tart myself up a bit. I hung up feeling a little light-headed. Had I really just sold my body for a thousand quid?

‘I can’t believe you just did that,’ Cath observed, laughing.

‘Neither can I. Come on, let’s get a taxi. I’ve got to decide what to wear.’

Back at her flat, we quickly showered and primped. Cath’s nipples were sticking out like doorstops in anticipation of Pete’s arrival, and mine were similarly assertive. I chose a little black silk dress that I had bought that day – it hung by one shoulder strap, clung lovingly to all my curves and was cut at a slant to reveal most of one thigh. Needless to say, I couldn’t wear any undies.

I gave my friend a kiss on the cheek. ‘Good luck. Give him one from me.’

‘You be careful,’ she said. ‘Anything might happen.’

‘Hope so!’ I laughed, trying to hide my nerves. The taxi I had ordered buzzed up to us and I waltzed off down the stairs. I could get used to this lifestyle, I thought – no more buses for me.

At the restaurant, the waiter looked me up and down sourly and then directed me to where my ‘date’ was already waiting in a corner table. His eyes lit up when he saw me – perhaps he had been wondering if I was really as sexy as I had seemed. We kissed on both cheeks, lingeringly, and I smelled his expensive aftershave. He seemed like a genuine guy, clean, well-dressed, intelligent … and young. I wondered if he would be a good lay. His name was Mark, by the way, according to his business card.

‘Before we begin, Gina …’ he said, blushing, and handed me an envelope. ‘I thought you’d probably prefer cash.’ Actually I was so horny that I had forgotten about the deal, and would have fucked him for free. Still, I put the envelope in my handbag.

‘I’m not a prostitute,’ I said, ‘despite what it may seem. But the money is useful. Thanks. I hope I’m worth it.’

He stroked my hand. ‘I’m sure you will be. I can see it in your eyes.’

‘Oh? What can you see?’ I laughed.

‘You think about sex a lot. And you know what you like.’

‘Yes, well, I haven’t had much lately,’ I said. ‘Whether I like it or not!’

‘We’ll change all that,’ he purred. ‘But let’s get the eating out of the way first, shall we? By the way, I love your dress. It makes you look naked.’

I laughed again, and lifted my leg slightly so that he got a glimpse of my nude pussy with its freshly combed hair. He grinned at me and licked his lips. I nearly jumped on him there and then.

It was quite a struggle to get through the meal. The sexual tension between us was palpable. I could feel hot juice oozing out between my labia. The bulge in his trousers seemed to get larger every time I looked at it. We were just two animals, one young, one somewhat older, desperate to copulate.

By mutual agreement we skipped desert and he paid hurriedly. Standing up, he ran his hands down my body, checking that I was indeed naked under the dress. In response I squeezed his fat, hard cock through his trousers, and shivered with lust.

‘My hotel’s just next door,’ he said. He wasn’t lying – a few yards and we were walking up to the first floor, his hand on my buttock. I wondered how much the room had cost – it wasn’t a cheap hotel. After a brief fumble with the keycard we were inside. Wordlessly he bent me over the desk, ripped my dress off, and plunged his cock into my sopping, boiling, dripping, clutching, quivering pussy. He gave a loud groan of satisfaction as his cockhead bottomed out against my cervix and his pubic hair was crushed against my arse. My vagina caressed his hardness gratefully – I realised that this was what I had been lacking all day.

Mark held my hips firmly and fucked me steadily and deeply for a good fifteen minutes, grinding the underside of his cock against my G-spot. I didn’t come – it wasn’t an urgency. I knew that I would come eventually and was content for things to take their course. I just enjoyed the feel of my pussy being used for what it was designed for. In due course his pumping accelerated and his cock swelled and erupted deep inside me, to the accompaniment of loud grunts and oaths. He withdrew and I just stood there, my feet planted wide, my elbows on the desk, feeling the cool air filling my gaping hole and the sperm trickling out and dripping onto the carpet.

He turned me round and made me kneel in front of him, and fed his cock into my mouth. To my mild surprise he was still as hard as before. I sucked the semen off it and began to fellate him slowly and sweetly, massaging his balls with one hand. I even managed to get him right down my throat, a skill I had had once but which had fallen into disuse. Eventually, just as my jaw was starting to get tired, he fired off another load of sperm and coated the roof of my mouth.

I got up and lay on the big bed, spreading my thighs as wide as I could.

‘Two-nil,’ I said. ‘Time for me to come.’ His eyes lit up and he dived between my legs. Despite the semen covering my pussy and clit, he sucked and licked with a will. Gratefully I accepted a string of delicious orgasms, not holding back on the noise. Then he lifted my legs up to my chest and plunged his rock-hard erection into me again, fucking me relentlessly for a good half-hour before he came powerfully again. I was beginning to think he was some sort of android that never went soft, but his cock was flaccid when he pulled out and knelt between my legs watching the semen drip from me onto the bedspread.

‘I love creampies,’ he observed, and it took me a few minutes to work out what he meant.

‘Well, I love cups of tea,’ I said. ‘If we’re having a break, that is. No obligation, though – after all, I’m all yours.’ Truth to tell, I had been enjoying the fierce rutting and was disappointed at the thought that he might be finished so early.

‘Don’t worry, Gina,’ he grinned. ‘Plenty more where that came from. But I’ll fix you a drink first.’

The hotel was not so expensive that there wasn’t a kettle and equipment in the room. Mark busied himself with the cups while I lay on the bed and watched his naked body.

‘How old are you?’ I asked.

‘Twenty-two,’ he replied. ‘Old enough to know you should never ask a woman her age.’

‘How old do you think I am then?’

‘Hmm, got to be careful here. I’d say … thirty-five, max.’

I chuckled at his tact. ‘I’m thirty-eight. Got a thing for older women, have you?’

‘You bet.’ He handed me a cup. ‘Older women are much sexier. They’ve done everything and they know what they like.’

I gulped the tea down and reached out to caress his cock, which was already starting to swell.

‘This is what I like,’ I said, lying back and spreading my thighs obscenely. ‘And this is where I like it.’ I held my pussy lips apart. His cock sprang to full attention and he climbed hurriedly on top, his rod finding my entrance as if by magic. Once again I was filled with firm man-flesh. I wrapped my legs round his waist and humped my hips up at him, grinding my clit against his pubes. He raised himself on his arms and pumped into me, holding my eyes with his.

My pussy was awash with our commingled fluids and gave out some loud slurping and sloshing noises. I could feel the trapped air farting out around his  shaft. I squeezed him rhythmically, incidentally stoking up my own orgasm, which broke and rolled over me deliciously. When I had come back down to earth he stopped pumping and held his cock deep inside me.

‘Time to fuck your arse now, Gina. Turn over.’

I scrambled up onto all fours and he knelt behind me. My arse was so swamped in liquids that he must have decided he didn’t need any extra lubrication, for I felt his cock pressing against my sphincter. At least he wasn’t as thick as Guy. I relaxed and he slipped inside without much trouble, burying his shaft to the hilt in me. He began to pump, treating my arse just like my pussy. I rested my head and shoulders on the bed and he straddled my upthrust buttocks, plumbing the depths of my bowels relentlessly while I just lay there relishing the feeling of being a sex toy. This wasn’t like when my husband used to bugger me, in order to humiliate me; this was just a male animal and a female animal pleasuring themselves without any shame.

Mark seemed to have unlimited stamina. My anus grew quite numb after a while, and his cock seemed to be made out of stone. I reached back and rubbed my clit to generate an orgasm, thinking this might bring him off, but he just rode out the intense squeezing and kept on going. Eventually he pulled out, leaving my arse gaping, and asked me to roll over. His cock was huge and shining with wetness. He laid me at the edge of the bed, pushed my legs up to my chest again, and stood by the bed and fed his cock into my arse once more, gripping my hips to pull himself into me. I relaxed and let him use me as he wished. Truth to tell, I was enjoying it immensely.

After another long period of continual pumping, he pulled out and lay on the bed next to me, pulling my on top of him.

‘Sit on my cock, Gina,’ he said roughly. I squatted over him and held his iron-hard shaft upright and lowered my gaping anus over it. It went back in as though it belonged there. I rested my buttocks on his hips, burying him totally inside me, then leaned back and grabbed his ankles. I humped my arse up and down, wanking him strongly with my sphincter, displaying my florid pussy to his eager gaze. He held my hips and matched his rhythm to mine. We fucked tirelessly.

He used a thumb to massage my clit and soon I howled through another climax, my arse clamping down on his cock. It was almost with a feeling of regret that I felt it swell and explode inside me, coating my bowels in another load of semen. I lay forward on his chest and let his cock slide out, followed by a warm rush of sperm – which surprised me, as I assumed he would have been drained by now.

Even more surprising, as we lay there caressing each others sweaty bodies, was his almost immediate recovery. The guy was getting hard again! Was I really that sexy?

‘Hey, better wash that before you put it anywhere,’ I laughed as he started to poke my labia. I got up, dripping slightly, and pulled him off the bed and into the shower. As we soaped each other he grew fully erect and as hard as ever, and of course it was only a matter of time (a couple of minutes, in fact) before he lifted me up and impaled me on his cock, my back against the wall and my legs wrapped around his waist.

‘What the fuck are you on?’ I gasped as he got into his stride.

‘Super-Viagra,’ he said. ‘Took a couple in the restaurant. Makes me last all night.’

Wow, I thought, he’s really going to get his money’s worth.

I won’t bore you (you weren’t bored, were you?) with the details of the night’s activities. Suffice it to say that I didn’t get  more than an hour or two’s sleep, and that in short bursts while he recovered. By the morning, my jaw, pussy and arse ached from stretching themselves around his irrepressible cock. I must have had a couple of pints of semen deposited inside my various orifices – increased volume seemed to be a side-effect of the pills he had taken. My limbs and whole body felt like they had had the mother of all work-outs. I couldn’t complain, though: he had not stinted on the orgasms that I was encouraged to enjoy.

About 7 a.m. he finally ran out of steam and fell into a deep sleep. I slept too, but was woken rudely by my mobile phone. It was one of the letting agencies, reminding me that I had arranged to view an apartment at 10 o’clock that morning. Shit, it was quarter to ten already! I told them I’d be a bit late, leapt out of bed and into the shower.

No time to go back to Cath’s for some decent clothes; I would have to wear the littler black dress again. But when I came to put it on, I discovered that the side seam had gone, all the way from thigh to arm. So much for designer clothes. I thought fast. Sewing kit – there had to be one provided by the hotel. Yes, in the bathroom. I found a couple of small safety pins, which, strategically placed at hip and bust level, made the dress just about decent within the meaning of the law – although it revealed my nakedness all down one side. I sighed. Not again …

Another taxi driver was made very happy and I got to the apartment block only fifteen minutes late. The agent, a very pretty young blonde woman, was waiting for me, and her eyes nearly popped out of her head when I turned up showing most of my skin. She flushed and stuttered and forgot her prepared spiel. Once inside the apartment, she turned to me and gasped, ‘Oh, I wish had the courage to do that!’

‘Do what?’ I asked innocently.

‘You know ... wear next to nothing ... or even nothing at all.’ She pressed her hands down the sides of her skirt as if to stop it flying off.

‘Oh, there’s a story behind that,’ I said, amused by her embarrassment.

‘You know, I have this dream, I’ve have it loads of times, where I’m showing clients round and I’m completely naked!’

I looked at her. ‘Well, why don’t you?’

‘You mean ...?’

I shrugged. ‘Take your clothes off if you want. I don’t mind.’

The young woman wrung her hands and hopped from foot to foot. ‘Can I? I mean, you really don’t mind? You won’t report me or anything?’

‘If it makes you feel better, I’ll do it too,’ I said, starting to undo the safety pins. The woman gawped at me as I shrugged off the thin dress and stood there naked and unconcerned. Then she gave a start and began hurriedly to undress, which, as she was wearing a full complement of clothing, took a good deal longer than I had. She left a pile of blouse, skirt, tights, shoes, bra and panties on the floor, and stood nude and flushed. She had big puffy pink nipples and a little tuft of blonde pubic hair.

‘Well, go on then, show me round,’ I said, grinning.

We wandered around the furnished apartment and she got through her descriptions without too much distraction. It didn’t take long as it wasn’t a very big flat, and I had already decided not to take it as it overlooked a noisy road junction. But it was fun padding around naked and watching the girl’s obvious twinned excitement and discomfort. She alternated between trying to conceal her intimate bits and striking poses which displayed them blatantly to me. Her nipples were swelling visibly. She couldn’t help touching herself.

Finally we stood in the lounge and she was twisting with impatience. ‘Oh, would you mind if I just excused myself, just for a minute?’

She dashed into the bathroom and shortly I heard the unmistakable sounds of a woman in the throes of orgasm. (The walls were very thin.) Then running water as she washed her hands. She emerged looking pink and misty-eyed.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, whatever must you think of me?’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t want the flat - nothing to do with you. It’s too noisy.’

Her face fell. ‘Oh. Oh well, never mind. At least it gave me the opportunity to act out my dream. I have to thank you for that.’

‘No problem,’ I said, picking up my dress and doing up the safety pins again. The girl bent to collect her clothes, and hesitated.

‘I wish I didn’t have to get dressed. I want to be naked all the time!’

‘Leave your undies off,’ I suggested. ‘I do.’

‘Oh, what a good idea. I can walk around naked under my skirt and blouse and no-one will know - unless I show them, of course. Thanks!’

I shook my head. The young have no imagination. I watched as she put the skirt and blouse back on and gave a little shiver of excitement. She stuffed her underwear in her bag and let us out of the flat. In the street, she suddenly leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek, thanking me once again. I watched her walk away, swinging her buttocks, trying to make her short skirt lift so that her naked pussy was visible ...

I had another appointment at 11, a couple of blocks away, and just time to get there. The agent was waiting for me - a tall, handsome young black guy who radiated male sex hormones. I felt my a sudden warmth in my pussy - oh oh, I thought, I can guess what’s going to happen here. A big smile spread over his face as he took in my state of undress. I saw his eyes roaming blatantly all over my body. Well, I thought, why fight it?

We went up to the apartment and I fell in love with it immediately - lots of light, spare, plain furniture and a huge bed. The agent, whose name was Barry, was the soul of politeness and never came within a foot of me, although his eyes were constantly undressing the little of me that was covered. I just wanted him to grab me in his big hands and take me. Although my pussy was a little tender from the exertions of the previous night, nevertheless it was demanding further action.

‘I love it,’ I said, when we had finished our brief tour. ‘How much?’

He named a monthly sum that was horrifyingly big, even with my new salary. I pursed my lips and grinned at him, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

‘Are you open for negotiation?’

He grinned too, and I noticed the bulge in the crotch of his trousers.

‘I could be.’

‘What would it take to make you drop a couple of hundred?’ I lay back on my elbows and lifted one knee, causing the dress to fall away and display my naked pubes to him.

‘We’d have to have meaningful negotiations about that,’ he smiled, loosening his tie.

‘When do you want to start?’ I let me upraised leg fall to the side, exposing my swollen and already well-moistened labia. I was hoping that the oft-repeated myth about black men was true, at least in his case.

He stripped off his suit and shirt and underpants and I saw that, alas, it was not true. Oh, he was a fair size, as big as Guy, but not the monstrous pussy-wrecker that I had been hoping for in my super-horny state. He knelt between my legs and pushed the dress out of the way. I heard a faint ripping sound as the safety pins pulled through the silk. There was no matching ripping sound as his cock stretched my entrance - my generous lubrication took care of that. I wrapped my arms round his strong torso and my legs around his waist, and whispered ‘Fuck me as hard as you can’.

He did his best. He had fitness and stamina and he pummelled the inside of my vagina for fully half an hour without a let-up. Then he flipped me onto my stomach and did the same for another half-hour. I had been on an orgasmic plateau ever since the previous evening so I achieved several more climaxes during this process. Finally he flipped me over again, grasped his cock in both hands and spurted an amazing amount of cum over my breasts and stomach and loins. I gripped my breasts tightly and massaged the warm silky goo into my skin, feeling another mini-orgasm rippling through me.

When I had finished coating my front with his sperm, I sat up and took his still-dripping cock in my mouth, coaxing it back to life. I was determined to get this flat at a big discount. He swelled almost instantly and I gave him the best blow-job that I could, teasing him up to unbearably aching hardness before letting him explode into my mouth, then all over my face. It felt so sluttish, I squeezed my thighs together and achieved another micro-orgasm.

Barry seemed a bit stunned by my sexual appetite, and by his two draining climaxes so close together. He sat on the bed while I watched him, the spunk trickling down my face.

‘Have we negotiated enough, or do you want to carry on?’ I smiled.

‘Jesus,’ he gasped. ‘I think that’s enough to be going on with.’

‘You can have that every month in lieu of rent,’ I said. I had noticed a wedding ring on his hand and decided that I was in a good bargaining position. We agreed on the figure I had been hoping for, a very good deal for a central London location.

‘Do you want me to come to the office to sign the papers?’ I said.

‘What, looking like that? No, it’s OK, I’ll leave the keys with you and bring the papers over later.’

Truth to tell, I was a little disappointed. The thought of walking around in public covered in sperm, however impractical, was turning me on something rotten.

He looked at me with his head on one side. ‘You a hooker, then?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I just like it.’ Although, I thought, technically, having just accepted a thousand pounds for a night of sex, I could be classed as a hooker.

‘You ever thought of doing porn? Photos, videos, that sort of thing?’

I shook my head.

‘I’ve got a mate, he runs a studio. I think you’d be good. Want me to introduce you?’

‘Does it pay well?’

‘It can do. If you get a name for yourself. Do you anal? Girl-girl? Bondage, watersports, fisting?’

‘Hey, steady on,’ I laughed. ‘I don’t even know what some of those are. Well, OK, maybe I do. Yes, I do anal. Never tried girl-girl but I’m not averse to learning. Bondage - only if it doesn’t hurt. Watersports ... hmm, not sure. Fisting ... I don’t think so!’

He shrugged. ‘Here’s his number. Tell him I recommended you.’ He licked his lips. ‘I do some of the shoots, if that’s any incentive.’ I noticed that his cock was swelling again.

‘It might be. Maybe we should rehearse a bit, eh?’

I stroked his cock to full erection - it didn’t take long - and climbed onto his lap, feeding the shaft into my hungry pussy. I sat down firmly, feeling it thud against my cervix, and started to bounce up and down on him, milking him with my internal muscles. It was delicious. Soon I took control totally and pushed him down onto the bed, holding his shoulders while I rose and fell on his mighty shaft. His big hands massaged my tits and bursting nipples and then strayed round to play with my swollen lips and dilating anus. I managed to synchronise our climaxes and felt his cock explode inside me while my pulses squeezed its base.

I rested on his chest.

‘That does it,’ he said, reaching for his mobile. ‘I’ll get my mate round right now. He’ll be blown away.’

I lay on top of him, licking his sweaty neck, gripping his softening penis with my muscles while he spoke to his mate, giving him the address. I wondered how often he used his agency’s properties for porn locations. I wondered too how I would dovetail my two new careers ...

[to be continued when I get round to it]

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 last modified 19 March 2009