sixty-nine. There had been lots of oral sex with Roger, but they’d fallen into the habit of him doing her and then her reciprocating. Of course, once Roger climaxed, he was done for the day. So much of their play, she’d come to understand, had been arranged around that one simple fact. Young men were gloriously different. They could do so many of the things Roger had lost the strength or ability to do, getting hard over and over again being just one of them.
But they couldn’t dominate her.
Well, no problem. It wasn’t as if she were restricted to one lover and had to choose between younger and older, submissive or dominant. Now that she was a dedicated libertine, she could enjoy the benefits of all ages of men – and boys.
And girls? Maybe. If girls were half as delightful as boys, she’d be a fool not to seek out the experience.
Sixty-nine can take a long time. A woman can’t totally concentrate on either what’s being done to her or what she’s doing to her partner. Amanda decided to shorten it by giving all her attention to pleasuring the boy. With that decided, Amanda bobbed, fast and furious, until Tom squealed, stiffened and poured himself into Amanda’s mouth.
She gave him a minute to recover before she jumped off the bed, stole a jar of expensive cream from Sophie’s dressing table and returned. ‘Next, how about a nice slow hand-job, Tom? Would you like that?’
‘I – er …’
‘Of course you would.’
An hour later, Tom fell fast asleep with his head on Amanda’s breast, suckling at her nipple. She carefully worked her way out from under him. He looked so cute, lying there like a satiated little angel. It was a shame she didn’t have a camera handy.
But she did! Roger had boasted that his cell phone did everything but make his coffee – and it had a camera function. Amanda ran, naked, downstairs to her bag. A door in the hallway was ajar. Through the crack, she could see a desk. Amanda strained her ears. Tom was still snoring softly upstairs. She gave her head a shake, appalled that she’d only thought of the camera in relation to pictures of Tom. There were other, much more important uses for it. Amanda tiptoed into the room and pulled the deepest drawer of the desk open. Bingo! It was filled with hanging files. The first one held bank statements. That would be a good place for a spy to start. She spread them over the desk and started to study them.
Tom’s plaintive voice called out, ‘Ms Garland?’
Damn! No time to study, but she had the cell-phone camera. Quickly, she took snaps of as many of the documents as she could until the camera was full, then shoved them back into the drawer, dropped her phone back into her bag and hurried into the hallway.
Jesus! Tom was halfway down the flight, wrapped in a towel.
‘I was looking for the kitchen,’ Amanda told him. ‘I’m thirsty. I’d like a glass of water.’
‘Look,’ he said, as he proudly pulled his towel away.
Her eyebrows rose. Obviously, the short nap had totally refreshed Tom. His manhood was once more fully erect. Amanda announced theatrically, ‘Why drink plain old water when I can sip from the Fountain of Youth? Back up those stairs, boy!’
11
AMANDA SQUIRMED AGAINST the leather of her Lexus’s seat. Her pelvis seemed heavy, like it was full of trapped energy, and she felt squishy inside, puffy and squishy and needy. Good God, what was happening to her? She must have stored up a hell of a lot of repressed lust during her long marriage to Roger. In the brief time since she’d entered the business world, she’d had sex with three callow boys and one virile man – one of the boys not more than an hour ago – and she was already starting to ache for more.
Should she be worried? What if she was turning into a nymphomaniac? That had always seemed, to her, to be a sentence worse than death. To need it all the time and never be wholly satisfied … Amanda shuddered. Then again, while she was with Roger,
But they couldn’t dominate her.
Well, no problem. It wasn’t as if she were restricted to one lover and had to choose between younger and older, submissive or dominant. Now that she was a dedicated libertine, she could enjoy the benefits of all ages of men – and boys.
And girls? Maybe. If girls were half as delightful as boys, she’d be a fool not to seek out the experience.
Sixty-nine can take a long time. A woman can’t totally concentrate on either what’s being done to her or what she’s doing to her partner. Amanda decided to shorten it by giving all her attention to pleasuring the boy. With that decided, Amanda bobbed, fast and furious, until Tom squealed, stiffened and poured himself into Amanda’s mouth.
She gave him a minute to recover before she jumped off the bed, stole a jar of expensive cream from Sophie’s dressing table and returned. ‘Next, how about a nice slow hand-job, Tom? Would you like that?’
‘I – er …’
‘Of course you would.’
An hour later, Tom fell fast asleep with his head on Amanda’s breast, suckling at her nipple. She carefully worked her way out from under him. He looked so cute, lying there like a satiated little angel. It was a shame she didn’t have a camera handy.
But she did! Roger had boasted that his cell phone did everything but make his coffee – and it had a camera function. Amanda ran, naked, downstairs to her bag. A door in the hallway was ajar. Through the crack, she could see a desk. Amanda strained her ears. Tom was still snoring softly upstairs. She gave her head a shake, appalled that she’d only thought of the camera in relation to pictures of Tom. There were other, much more important uses for it. Amanda tiptoed into the room and pulled the deepest drawer of the desk open. Bingo! It was filled with hanging files. The first one held bank statements. That would be a good place for a spy to start. She spread them over the desk and started to study them.
Tom’s plaintive voice called out, ‘Ms Garland?’
Damn! No time to study, but she had the cell-phone camera. Quickly, she took snaps of as many of the documents as she could until the camera was full, then shoved them back into the drawer, dropped her phone back into her bag and hurried into the hallway.
Jesus! Tom was halfway down the flight, wrapped in a towel.
‘I was looking for the kitchen,’ Amanda told him. ‘I’m thirsty. I’d like a glass of water.’
‘Look,’ he said, as he proudly pulled his towel away.
Her eyebrows rose. Obviously, the short nap had totally refreshed Tom. His manhood was once more fully erect. Amanda announced theatrically, ‘Why drink plain old water when I can sip from the Fountain of Youth? Back up those stairs, boy!’
11
AMANDA SQUIRMED AGAINST the leather of her Lexus’s seat. Her pelvis seemed heavy, like it was full of trapped energy, and she felt squishy inside, puffy and squishy and needy. Good God, what was happening to her? She must have stored up a hell of a lot of repressed lust during her long marriage to Roger. In the brief time since she’d entered the business world, she’d had sex with three callow boys and one virile man – one of the boys not more than an hour ago – and she was already starting to ache for more.
Should she be worried? What if she was turning into a nymphomaniac? That had always seemed, to her, to be a sentence worse than death. To need it all the time and never be wholly satisfied … Amanda shuddered. Then again, while she was with Roger,
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