A retelling of the meeting of Dean and La Veuve Noire in The Redeemer. This is the scene from Dean’s POV.
“How the fucking hell would you react when a woman accuses you of being useless in bed. When you couldn’t satisfy her? Tell me you’d not need a drink. And isn’t this a bar? Serving drinks?” I protest loudly when the barman says he’s not going to serve me again. He says I’ve had enough and that it’s time to go home. “And not just any woman, but the woman you’ve secretly fancied and become emotionally involved with – even if you’re not sure your feelings are reciprocated – and she just happens to be your boss? You’d fucking drink, man. You’d be fucking mortified and you’d drink until you felt good about yourself again.”
The barman raises an eyebrow. “Not my problem, buddy. I’ve told you too many times this week already. Management doesn’t like pissheads in here; they cause too much trouble. And believe me, if you think you’ve got problems now, you better believe that they’ll be the least of your worries if security get involved. They don’t play nice. You got lucky the other night when your friend intervened and got you out of here. I’m telling you, if you push it again tonight, you’ll find your luck has run out.”
I huff loudly in frustration. “I’m not causing any trouble and I’m not a pisshead. Those thugs can fuck off. I’m not going to go pawing at the strippers or forcing myself on the dancers. I’ll be no trouble. I just want to sit here by myself and find a way out of this nightmare. I can’t even face going into work. She’s my-”
“Yeah, I know – you’ve told me countless times. She’s your boss. Mate, take my advice. You aren’t going to find a way out of your situation by getting pissed in here every night. If you can’t work, your money will run out anyway. Listen, for what it’s worth, I think you need to get yourself off to bed. Then, in the morning, get showered and presentable and then go to work. The way I see it, if you do a good job, she can’t fire you – not without risking an unfair dismissal claim. And somehow, I doubt she’d want the fact that she slept with her employee and then fired him splashed all over the local news. She’ll conveniently forget all about it. If she doesn’t, threaten her with a lawsuit and she’ll probably pay you off to leave quietly. You can’t lose, man.”
I pretend to think his advice over, just so that he thinks he’s winning. In reality, his words just swirl around my semi-numbed brain. Then I shrug. “Okay, you give me one last drink and I’ll be on my way. Deal?”
The barman looks torn before he shakes his head. I think he’s going to refuse but then he picks up my empty beer glass and I know I’ve got him.
“Just one,” he says and I smile my thanks.
I can see his annoyance as he pours my beer but I don’t care. I don’t want to go home to an empty flat.
He places it on the bar and makes it clear that I won’t be getting another before heading off to serve a couple of guys waiting at the other end of the bar. Once the fear of not getting another drink fades, some of his words begin to seep into my mind. To be honest, I’m not sure what’s worse – the thought of losing my job or the thought of coming face to face with my boss. As I nurse my final drink, I begin to think things over.
I can remember the day she came for interview at the hotel where I work. I caught sight of her, standing at the reception desk dressed in a severe black trouser suit and killer black heels. She was beyond curvy, even in that suit, viewed from behind. You couldn’t keep help but stare at her perfectly rounded arse … even when it had such competition from her brilliant red hair. She was standing right underneath a halogen downlight; the light making her hair look like fire but that arse … My cock twitches at the memory, making me shift a little on my barstool.
I remember walking towards her, feeling compelled to see her face but dragging my footsteps to give her time to turn around before I reached her and made a fool out of myself. I was racking my brain, trying to come up with an excuse to approach Belinda or Nadine, the receptionists, but it was impossible to think straight. That arse was calling to me to touch it, to grab it and give it a good squeeze. I could imagine how it would feel but I knew the reality would be even better. I was a couple of feet away when she turned.
The breath was knocked from my lungs. I think I actually gasped but I couldn’t be certain. She apologised instantly – although she’d done nothing wrong, a sign of good manners and breeding and I stood there like a teenager waking from a wet dream. If her arse was perfection then her breasts, even constrained in her fitted jacket, rewrote the definition. I felt my cock stirring and my cheeks colouring. I was staring at her tits for fuck’s sake and I couldn’t force my eyes up to her face for a couple of seconds.
When I did, I could see that she was distinctly unimpressed. She looked at me with distaste and I knew she had similar reactions from men all the time. I tried to say something to exonerate me but my throat seemed to have shrunk. Her face … fuck me, she was stunning. She was effortlessly confident too which only made it worse. I managed to clear my throat, mutter an apology before fleeing back behind the bar. Belinda and Nadine took the piss out of me for days.
When Isla started working at the hotel, I was both embarrassed and elated. She never said a word about that incident. I guess someone with her breeding and manners wouldn’t. She was very easy to be around and we would often have a little chat. Maybe just about the weather or something else equally unimportant but it meant that I learned to relax around her.
When she got promoted to the position of Assistant General Manager, it meant that I had to work with her more closely. Our friendship blossomed. She would often pop into the bar for her lunch or at the end of the day. We just hit it off. She made it clear that she wasn’t looking for a relationship – and I don’t think she was aiming that at me – she was just opening up to me. She said she’d sworn off men.
Sometimes though, we’d be chatting and … oh, I don’t know how to explain it. It was like we were just so close to taking the step to being more than friends. The atmosphere would change and there’d be something almost tangible in the air. More than once I’d kick myself afterwards for not reaching out and pulling her into my arms, or leaning in and kissing her when the moment was right. But I was never a hundred per cent sure it wasn’t just wishful thinking on my part. I was too worried that I might’ve misread it and that if I did anything to break the magical spell of us getting closer, it would prevent it ever becoming a reality.
So I didn’t give in to my urges and I waited.
I waited right up until a few nights ago when she got shitfaced. I didn’t intend for anything to happen. And, alright, even at the time I know it shouldn’t have happened but I wanted it to. More than I’ve ever wanted anything, I wanted to be with her. And once I had her in my arms, felt her skin against mine, kissed her lips before carrying her to bed … there was no going back. And yeah, I’m a complete fucking loser.
I could say that she made the first move but I know that’s no excuse. I wasn’t man enough to resist getting into bed next to her. I wasn’t man enough to get out of bed the minute she started to get frisky. I wasn’t man enough to resist putting my throbbing cock inside her. And I wasn’t fucking man enough to satisfy her. I couldn’t even make her come, for fuck’s sake.
My name is Dean Rogers and I’m pleased to meet you. And yeah, the pleasure’s all mine … I couldn’t pleasure a woman if my life depended upon it. I’m a complete failure in bed … I can’t make a woman reach orgasm. I leave them lying there, unsatisfied and frustrated. And nowadays, I only get that far when they’re too pissed to know what they’re doing.
I lift my beer glass to my lips and take a long, satisfying slug. When I’m drunk, I can say all that stuff. When I’m sober, I can’t even begin to face up to any of it. So I drink. Then I sleep. When I wake up, I drink again. I’ve spent years telling people standing the other side of the bar that they won’t find the answers to their problems at the bottom of a glass. And I was right. But it tempers the severity of your problems – blurs the reality and makes the fact that you can’t face up to them no big deal … as long as you keep raising that glass.
As I place my glass back on the bar, I notice that there’s now less than a third of a pint of beer left. But I’m not done. I’m not ready to go home yet. I’m not quite numb enough so fall into a dead sleep that will carry me through until the morning. I decide that the barman will be persuaded to give me one last drink.
I was wrong.
In the space of five minutes, all hell breaks loose … or at least that’s how it seems to my confused, alcohol infused brain. One minute I’m sat with an empty glass in my hand asking for another and the next, there’s four freaking huge bouncers surrounding me, telling me that it’s time to leave.
Like hell it is. I’m not done. So I tell them. And that’s where it goes badly wrong.
“Argh, fuck off!” I shout as one of them twists my arm up behind my back and forces my head down onto the bar.
He doesn’t respond. He just keeps me pinned to the bar. It’s a good job I’ve had a few. I work out. I know I could take him if I was sober. It’s his lucky day and I tell him that.
He just laughs at me. Then the other goons join in. I get the picture. They’re all as thick as pig shit and this is the only job they can do. Losers, the lot of them – that’s what they are. So I tell them.
One of them kicks the barstool out from under me and I collapse in a heap on the floor. My glass falls from my hand and shatters against the bar, showering me with shards of glass.
They’re pissing themselves now. At my expense. I go to get up. I can take them on. I can take them all fucking on. But they don’t let me get up. I tell myself that they’re too afraid of me. I tell them that they’re fucking cowards. I follow it up with some line about them being full of steroids to maintain their pumped up bodies – steroids that make them impotent. Pumped up bodies that make their tiny dicks look even smaller. Then, for some inexplicable reason, I decide that it’s a good idea to taunt them about how frustrating it must be to work in a sex club, surrounded by strippers when they can’t even get it up.
One of them – a particularly ugly one – stops laughing and advances, fist drawn. Then he appears … what’s his name? Smith or Jones? I forget which. One of the ex-Marine security guys my boss hired the other day who keeps following me around. He’s trying to reason with them. Fool. Can’t he see that he’s just going to get himself a beating?
The ugliest one reaches down and pulls me to my feet with one hand. He’s strong. Freakishly strong and I suddenly doubt whether I could take him down … especially since he’s now holding me up so high that only my toes can reach the floor. I predict an early finish, instigated by the huge fist that he’s drawing back again.
“Put him down.”
I’m confused. At first, I think it’s Mr Marine, trying to help me out but then I realise that the voice sounds all wrong. It’s deep and throaty but it can’t belong to a man. It just can’t. It’s too seductive.
Mr Ugly freezes and I’m left there dangling. I look at his face but it’s blank. I twist my head to see who is calling their dogs off but they must be directly behind me.
“I said put him down.” The voice is calm yet confident and, from where I’m hanging, it seems totally non-threatening.
I’m both pleasantly surprised and utterly confused when he sets me back on my feet in a controlled and gentle manner. Then he releases the handful of my shirt he’d used to hoist me aloft.
I dust myself down theatrically, unable to resist shooting them a cocky smirk but they’re not looking at me. They’re looking behind me and, from the way their huge bodies seem to shrink as their pit bull demeanour vanishes, you’d think the devil himself was holding court.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I didn’t want to turn around. But I knew I needed to … if only to thank my saviour – even if it was only to be confronted by the devil.
I turn reluctantly and notice two things simultaneously.
Number one: the devil was in disguise.
Number two: number one made my cock lurch.
Now I’m starting to think that maybe the barman had a valid point about drinking too much. I’ve obviously drunk so much alcohol in the last few days that I’m hallucinating. Or, failing that, I hit my head when my barstool was kicked out from underneath me and I’m dreaming. Either way, I’ll kill anyone who intrudes on my vision.
‘Cause man, what a vision it is. What a vision she is …
My eyes focus on her face. Even though she’s glaring at the bouncers, her distaste conveyed by her expression, there’s no denying that she’s beautiful. And desirable. Her make-up is bold and attention capturing; from her heavily kholed brown eyes to her plump, scarlet red lips, I can see she’s a lady who likes to be noticed. The halogen bar lights shine on the top of her head. It creates a halo effect on her long, jet black hair but something tells me she’s no angel.
Oh no, as my eyes sweep slowly down her body, my earlier thoughts are obviously more appropriate. This is a devil woman, put on earth to tempt men to their inevitable destruction. Huge, fleshy breasts are barely contained in a black, leather corset that pulls her waist in severely emphasising her wide hips. My eyes flare open wide when I spot that all she’s wearing on her bottom half is a triangle of leather and long, black boots. And when I say long, I mean up to her smooth, white thighs, making her legs look like they go on forever. By the time my eyes reach the pointed toes and the spiked heels, my throat is constricted and so are my boxers – my cock’s beginning to signal its appreciation.
I savour the sight of her; I know she’ll be gone in an instant. Just as my eyes settle back on her face, she looks at me. The breath is forced from my lungs. I can’t describe how it feels to have her studying me. It’s intense. It’s all consuming. It’s fucking petrifying. And all I can do is stand here looking gormless, like some sort of fucking bellend.
I barely notice the herd of goons retreating – it’s all I can do to breathe. I’ve never felt anything like the way I feel right now. This woman elicits such mixed emotions from my body, even though she’s merely breathing the same air as me. My fingers are desperate to feel her soft, pale skin. My lips want to taste hers and my cock … well, come on – I’m a hot-blooded man for fuck’s sake – I deny any man not to desire to be buried inside her.
But my conscious mind is screaming at me to run, to put a Dean shaped hole in the wall behind her and get away from this creature in front of me. It senses danger and responds with fear. But of course, even as I’m contemplating this, my cock is getting harder and common sense is drowned out by testosterone.
I attempt to smile but my muscles are as taut as my nerves and I’m sure I must look like a rigor mortised comedian. Then I feel myself blushing.
She looks down at the bulge in my jeans and I see her eyebrow twitch. Oh man, double blush. How fucking typical that the only parts of me that can move are my rapidly expanding blood vessels.
Without a word, she moves past me and I can smell the heady scent of her perfume. With a start, I realise how much more sober I feel suddenly. I see Jones, staring past me. His eyes are literally on stalks. I follow his gaze and …
I’ve died and gone to fucking heaven!
She’s sitting on a bar stool, talking to the barman. Below the black corset and shiny, black hair is the most perfect arse I’ve ever seen. I mean, ever! It’s lifted up slightly as she’s leaning forward so it’s facing me. Two smooth, ivory globes separated by a skinny strip of her thong … there, almost within touching distance. My cock lurches and my eyes almost fall out of my damn head.
No fucking wonder Jones is standing with his tongue hanging out. I’m sure I’m pretty much doing the same thing until she turns, points at me and then beckons with her finger before patting the stool next to her. My fucking lungs almost collapse but somehow, my feet manage to take the few steps forward before I sprawl onto the barstool.
I’m vaguely aware of Jones taking the stool on the other side of her but that’s about it. I hear her voice but I can’t make out what it’s saying because of the blood pounding in my ears … whoosh … whoosh … whoosh … that’s all I can hear. A pint of beer appears in front of me and I hear the sound of people talking but it’s muffled behind the whooshing noises.
I grab my pint and sup quickly. As soon as I’m near the bottom, another pint appears. I smile my thanks at the barman but he ignores me. Gradually I get myself under control and the whooshing stops as my heart rate settles. I automatically tune in to the conversation and almost recoil in horror as I hear Jones telling her all about my disastrous night with my boss … in fucking detail.
I will the floor to open up and swallow me. Of course it doesn’t. I want him to shut his fucking mouth but it’s too late.
“Couldn’t satisfy her. She didn’t orgasm.” I hear him say and the whooshing noises start up again.
My fingers curl into fists as the red mist descends. I’m going to fucking kill him. I’m going to tear him limb from fucking limb the big-mouthed bastard. But I’m too mortified to move. From the corner of my eye, I can see that she’s turned towards Jones slightly. I’m contemplating slipping off my stool and getting the fuck out of there when she turns to be abruptly and puts her hand on my arm.
I jump so violently that I almost fall off my stool. She gives my arm a squeeze and then laughs. It’s a deep and seductive sound and oddly, it settles my nerves.
I feel her moving and realise that she’s sliding off her stool. Yeah, now that Motor Mouth Marine has finished telling her what a pitiful excuse for a man I am, she’s leaving. I’m both grateful and disappointed in equal measure.
She keeps hold of my arm though and leans down to whisper, “Come with me.”
I frown in confusion wondering where she wants to take me and what she plans to do with me. She smiles reassuringly and I find myself following her through a doorway at the far side of the room into a corridor. With every step, I wonder what the hell I’m doing but my feet keep on moving until she turns into one of the rooms and flicks on the light switch.
God alone knows what I was expecting … but it wasn’t this. It looks like a cosy living room; chairs and a sofa are arranged around a coffee table. The room is quite small so there isn’t much space. She bends down and switches on a table lamp, affording me another prime view of her arse – that alone made this worthwhile, regardless of whatever happens next. Then, as she switches the main light off again, she tells me to sit down.
I sink stiffly into I’ve never felt more self-conscious in my life. I’m furious with my feet for following her and, to say I haven’t got a fucking clue what’s going on is the understatement of the year. She sits across from me and I studiously avoid looking at her.
“Hello Dean,” she says in a voice that sounds like a cat purring.
I look at her but I don’t speak – I have no idea what to say.
“Jones told me that you fucked your boss the other night and that you couldn’t make her come. He says you’ve been unable to face your boss since then, preferring to get pissed instead of going into work,” she says as though it’s nothing. Like she’s commenting on the weather or something.
I feel my cheeks begin to burn and I can’t bring myself to look at her any longer. My eyes drop to the floor.
“It’s okay,” she continued, nonplussed. “I’m a sex therapist. I can help you work through this.”
My first thought is that she can’t be a sex therapist. I mean, I don’t know much about them but I’d kind of assumed that they looked like straight-laced do-gooders … you know what I mean, all cardigans and sensible shoes … not like a brazen beauty straight out of a porno.
The second thought is what the hell she is going to do, dressed like that, in a place like this in order to help me.
My final thought (probably originating from my cock or my balls) is that I don’t care. It’s a no-brainer … I’m in!
“Okay,” I say, still unable to look at her. As I study the laces of my trainers, I can feel her eyes on me though.
“Don’t you want to know what that might involve? How I’m proposing to help you satisfy a woman?”
She’s teasing now; I can hear the amusement in her voice. I don’t know what to do. Part of me wants to gather what’s left of my male pride, tell her to fuck off and storm out. But another part of me, yeah that part, says not to be stupid because I’m sitting opposite the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever dreamed of, let alone met, that she’s barely dressed and offering to teach me how to fuck. So I simply shrug.
I hear movement, a soft creak of leather and, without moving my eyes from my feet, I see her advancing in my peripheral vision. I feel her place her hand above my knee and it’s like my world stops. All I know, all I can feel is her hand burning through the denim on my leg. I’m hyperaware of her presence and, on some distant level, my mind says it’s no wonder I can’t give women a decent shagging, because here I am, getting off on a woman touching my clothed leg. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
Yeah, time simply stops. It’s just me and her. I feel like a fly, trapped in a spider’s web.
Then she speaks.
“If I’m to help you, I need to desensitise you. To my voice, my presence … my touch.”
My mind implodes. It doesn’t even register the possible implications of her words. Her voice is pure sex. It does things to me … things I can barely explain. I literally feel like she’s pulled down my jeans and wrapped that lascivious mouth around my cock. How fucking crazy is that?
My cock joins in at the thought of her warm mouth on it. It lurches twice, straining hard against the confines of my clothing and then … oh god … then … my balls contract so forcefully it hurts. Just the thought of her touching me … anywhere … fuck, I swear I’m not far from coming.
Suddenly, I need to get out of there. I have enough trouble around ‘normal’ women. There’s no way in hell that I’m going to embarrass myself in front of this one. She’s obviously very experienced and that just makes it worse.
I’m on my feet and heading for the door but – and fuck knows how – she’s suddenly in front of me, barring my exit. What do I do? Do I barge past her? Do I demand that she moves? My head banging and my nerves are shot.
“Calm down, Dean,” she purrs. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to help you. Do you understand?”
I want to tell her that I understand fuck all that is happening to me right now. I want to tell her that I have enough problems without her heaping more on the top. But, when she smiles at me … such a pretty, disarming and entirely non-sexual smile, I find myself nodding. She takes my hand and I feel safe. I can’t say how but I just do.
She leads me back into the main room and stops just inside, leaning close to me so that I can hear her over the music.
“We’re going to find your friend and have a drink together. We’re going to get to know each other a little, that’s all. Then, if you want me to help you, I’ll tell you what I need you to do. Okay?”
I nod, entirely thrown that she’s gone from sex goddess to my best friend in seconds. At least that’s how it feels.
“Oh, I can’t see your friend at the bar. I wonder whether he’s gone. Can you see him anywhere?”
We stand, both of us scanning the room for his blonde hair. Finally, I see him and I point … oh fucking hell … I hope she’s not noticed. No such luck. I want to crawl up my own arse and disappear.
“It looks like he’s been busy while we’ve been away. Come on, we can get to know his lady friend too.”
She makes to walk on, tugging my hand but I stand firm. She turns back, a look of confusion on her face.
“That’s not someone he’s picked up; that’s my boss,” I explain. “So I can’t go over there and … oh fuck, she’s seen us.”
She presses her face right up to mine and, for a second, I think she’s going to kiss me. But she looks me in the eye and says, “You want to get over this and get your life back? Do you want to be able to fuck a woman to within an inch of her life so that she comes crawling back for more?”
Of course I do but facing Isla? That’s just too much. I’m not ready for that. She clearly disagrees.
My arm is almost yanked clean out of its socket as she strides off, pulling me along behind her. I feel like a sullen toddler being dragged out of a sweetshop by my pissed off parent. I look back over to where I’d seen them, hoping that they’d disappeared but no, of course they hadn’t. Then, my stomach churns as I catch Isla’s eye – just for a moment – before her eyes land on the woman next to me.
By the time we reach them, I feel sick. I keep my head down, feeling acutely embarrassed to be confronted by the woman I failed in bed who just happens to be my boss and because I realise that I don’t even know the name of the scantily clad woman next to me. I’m praying that nobody asks me to make the introductions. I needn’t have worried. The woman next to me takes matters into her own hands when she says bluntly, “So this is her?”
To say I was mortified, doesn’t begin to cover it. All I can do is nod.
‘I’m Isla Hamilton, if that’s what you mean. And who, may I ask, are you?’ Isla sounds pissed off but I suspect she’s trying to sound more confident than she’s feeling.
The woman next to me doesn’t miss a beat. ‘So you’re the one who told him that he was useless, that he couldn’t satisfy a woman?’
Isla’s tone softens slightly but she’s clearly not impressed. ‘Not that I can recall, no. But then, I don’t recall most of that night. I was very drunk. If I said anything to upset Dean then I apologise unreservedly. It was certainly not intentional.’
I begin to lift my head so that I can tell her that I accept her apology but the so-called sex therapist gets in first. I cringe once again.
‘What are you apologising for? It’s the best thing you could do for him. If he’s shit in the sack, he needs to know or else he’ll keep being a shit shag. And who wants that?’
I hear Jones gasp and I begin to hope that this is all a really shit dream, brought on by a dodgy beer or something.
The therapist’s not done. ‘But now he knows it, he’s going to change all that. In my hands, he’s going to become the best fuck in London. Or one of them at least. He’s going to know what women want and how to give it to them whilst making sure that he gets exactly what he needs. No more awkwardness around women. In fact, he’ll be melting their knickers with just one glance. He’s a good looking guy with the sweetest personality – he should have no problem getting laid. But he doesn’t just want to get laid and who does, if they’re honest? Anyone can get laid. It takes talent to fuck, at least to my exacting standards of satisfaction.
‘When I’m finished with him, he’ll be a legendary fucker, waking up women’s inner whores and leaving them begging for more. Nobody knows what women want and how to give it to them like I do. And nobody can satisfy a man like I can. And, believe me, nobody knows how to fuck like I do. And I don’t just mean the physical act of cock meets cunt, thrust for all you’re worth and then bingo! You come. Fucking isn’t just physical. You could have a body to die for and a fitness level of a stallion but still be a crap lay.’
Her words begin to seep into my brain and I find myself hoping that it’s not actually a dream – not if she’s going to do that to me. And not if she’s going to actually teach me, one on one. I have no doubt that she can back up her words – I’ve never heard someone speak with such conviction. She pauses and I find my eyes drawn to her face. Suddenly, I want her to begin my lessons right now but she doesn’t even look my way. Instead, she begins to speak again and I’m not even kidding when I say that it’s sex that’s dripping off her tongue.
‘Good fucking is an art; it’s as mental as it is physical. I can seduce a man, or woman, in seconds if I desire them. Fucking makes you feel good; great fucking makes you feel incredible. And intense, orgasm inducing fucking with me . . .? I don’t think you can begin to imagine the pleasure I could inflict on your poor, delicate body. I’d make you come so hard you’d feel like you were having an out of body experience because your brain just couldn’t cope with the intense sensations that accompany a truly mind-blowing orgasm. Can you imagine what that feels like . . . to come so hard that it feels like you might not be able to survive it? And all from my pretty, little mouth. My wicked, little tongue on your sensitive skin. You want that right now, don’t you?’ She flicked out her tongue to moisten her bottom lip making Isla’s pupils dilate completely as her arousal refused to be denied.
Her voice seduces me and the words … man, I cannot tell you how it feels to be spoken to like this. She flicks out her tongue along her bottom lip. I want to taste her – right here, right now – but she’s not looking at me. I feel disappointed for a split second but then … fucking then … I realise that she’s speaking to Isla and man, that’s fucking hot. Believe me, that’s hornier than fuck. I glance over and find Isla and Jones almost whimpering with desire. She’s mesmerised them completely. I know then that this woman is something special – able to seduce men and women in seconds, without even fucking touching them. I find myself gazing at her in complete adoration.
She laughs – a deep, dirty laugh that suits her so well, not least because I know from the twinkle in her eye that she knows exactly what she’s just done. When she speaks again, her tone is more serious. “I can see, smell and feel your arousal but sadly – for you – I can’t taste it. I only see clients by appointment and I don’t fuck all of them. Some I don’t even touch at all.”
‘But some you do?’ I blurt out in desperation. The thought of her not touching me is one I can’t even begin to face. Right now, I think I’ll do anything to make her say yes.
She turns to me and places her index finger under my chin, pulling my face closer to hers. ‘Yes handsome. Some I do,’ she whispers and, just like that, I know she’s going to fuck me.
She releases my face and turns away to look at Isla again. For some reason, I’m not finding it so hot anymore – I’d rather have her attention on me. That is until she leans close to Isla and says, “So I’m the first woman you’ve wanted to fuck? And now you’re feeling confused. Don’t be. I walk, talk, eat, sleep and breathe sex . . . oh and fuck, yeah I fuck sex too.’ She grinned at Isla and leaned in closer still. ‘Your body knows what I could do to it and it wants to experience it. That’s all. It doesn’t mean you’re a raving lesbian or even bi-sexual . . . although frankly, you should never knock anything until you’ve tried it . . . at least three times. And if you’ve never had a feminine tongue laving at your pussy while your lips are wrapped around a pulsing cock, well my dear, you haven’t lived.”
Fuck me backwards! My balls threaten to explode. I look from one woman to the other and I know that they both want it. And fuck me, I’d pay a million pounds just to watch. I’d kill to be able to join in.
The spell is broken when the therapist jerks her head towards Jones and I see Isla look across quickly. I realise he’s feeling exactly the same as me but it’s like he’s in some sort of trance. Isla giggles at the sight and it breaks it. He shakes his head and then looks slightly sheepish but the women can’t seem to keep their eyes off each other so he’s spared any further embarrassment. I feel like a gooseberry until someone’s phone starts ringing.
It’s Isla’s. She steps away and I watch the therapist’s eyes trail up and down the impressive rear view of her. Jealousy sweeps through me. I want the therapist to look at me like that. I want to captivate her so that she doesn’t ever want to look at another living soul – male or female. I want her undivided attention. I want her. End of.
Isla steps back and says she’s got to go. She tells me to take a couple of weeks off work – handy since I already am. At least now I have authorisation. She says goodbye to the woman beside me and attempts to get her name. She’s out of luck – the therapist just smiles at her knowingly. She waited for the other woman to fill her in with her name but all she got was a smile.
It clearly threw Isla – something that’s not easy – I know how confident she usually is. ‘Well, it was nice meeting you.’
‘Nice?’ The therapist teases. ‘I don’t do nice. Love me or loathe me but don’t like me. Words like nice make me shudder.’
‘It was a pleasure meeting you,’ Isla says and then my cock threatens to burst out of my boxers when the therapist grabs a handful of Isla’s hair and kisses her. It looks like she’s raping her mouth but then I realise that Isla’s giving as good as she gets. They’re literally making out right in front of me. Man, it’s the single sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I mean I’ve seen it in porno movies but … fuck me, that’s nothing compared to this. My balls feel like they’re being crushed in a vice. I feel an overriding urge to get laid, preferably with either of the two stunners in front of me, but, I have to be honest. Right at this moment, I’m horny enough to fuck anything.
I realise that my hand’s gone to my cock and I’m gripping myself, rubbing slightly over the top of the denim. I jerk it away just as the therapist pushes Isla away as she says, ‘I was just making sure you knew what it felt like to experience real pleasure. I can tell that you do and I must admit, part of me wishes that I was the one who was going to be pleasuring you tonight. There are some pleasures that only a woman can elicit on another woman’s body. Should you decide to explore the full scope of that pleasure, you know where to find me.’
Then she grabs my arm and pulls me away from them. I can barely walk. It feels like I’ve got iron balls. With every step she takes, I’m willing her to take me out back and fuck my brains out. But does she fuck! She takes me over to the bar and climbs back onto a bar stool. I’d be happy to stand behind and admire her impressive arse but she pats the stool next to her and I feel compelled to obey.