have to?’
‘Have to stop … living the way I do.’
‘Have to start living again, you mean. Good. Because you should. You do want it, Naomi, and you should want it. And you should get it. As often as you want.’
‘Plenty of people live without …’
‘Don’t go back to that. Open your legs. Open yourself up to me.’
His gruff injunctions were kindly meant, I realised. They were for my own good – he just needed to put enough force behind them to ensure I took them seriously. Again, I loved him for it, in a way. And I opened my legs.
It did not feel the way I remembered. It felt much, much better. I was filled, for one thing, both length and width-wise. And Justus knew how to get the right angle, how to go in hard and how to ease off and how to speed up and how to vary the intensity and how to nudge against my clit and how to find my g-spot. What a lot of things this man knew. Intellectual property law wasn’t the half of it.
He knew how to take me from the front, from behind, from below and from on top. Also, from the side, over the side of the bed, in a chair, in the Jacuzzi, on the floor. He knew how to make me sigh, how to make me moan, how to make me crazy, how to make me come. There was nothing intellectual in it, but I would have liked him for my property.
By the time the hour the contract ceased had come, so had I, five times. I lay limply in the bath, half submerged in bubbles, raw, sore, chafed, satisfied, cured.
Well, perhaps not cured. Perhaps not as simply as that. But I still see Justus when I’m up in town, passing the Inns of Court, as I find myself doing quite often these days. I don’t wear a mask and I don’t wear gloves – or at least, not the latex kind. But I do wear a smile, and all the money I used to spend on Pledge now goes on underwear. Every day, in every way, I am getting better and better.
Lucky Charm
T HE OFFICE SUITED C HARLOTTE well; it was not large but it was luxuriously appointed, with thick pile carpets and a smell of expensive leather from the chairs and the antique desk blotters.
With her opening day almost at an end, and nobody else in the office for the first time since she had sidled shyly in that morning, she went over to the window and looked down at the higgledy-piggledy Soho street life. The neon lights were just fizzing into lewd life in the sex shops of Brewer Street and the waiters in the Italian joint opposite were putting out menus, pristine napkins over their forearms. It was too far away to tell whether or not they were good-looking, but their bodies, in the dark red shirts and black waistcoats and trousers, were tempting enough.
Charlotte licked her lips. She was fantasising about any and every man she saw, these days, it seemed. Working in such a sexually charged atmosphere had turned her into a raging nymphomaniac – still, it was hardly surprising. She drifted off into pleasant reminiscences of her day while the streetlights popped on, one by one, in a golden haze before her eyes.
Walking up the final flight of stairs, she had smoothed her skirt down over her thighs, feeling the telltale bump of the stocking snaps beneath the silk-lined wool. Bryant’s phrase had stayed with her – ‘the suggestion of wantonness’ – and she hoped she had captured the effect. The skirt was a dark red tartan with golden thread in the pattern; the stockings were seamed but nude; the shoes were black high-heeled slingbacks; the shirt was white silk, two buttons undone at the top. Was it a mistake to wear knickers? If so, she would have to accept the consequences – for she was wearing her favourite red and black lingerie set from the expensive knicker shop down the street. The black and red meant that the bra was plainly visible through the gossamer-thin blouse – perhaps a bit more than a suggestion of wantonness there. But somehow she doubted her employers would mind. Leeway might not be given in the other direction, though, and she hadn’t bought a
‘Have to stop … living the way I do.’
‘Have to start living again, you mean. Good. Because you should. You do want it, Naomi, and you should want it. And you should get it. As often as you want.’
‘Plenty of people live without …’
‘Don’t go back to that. Open your legs. Open yourself up to me.’
His gruff injunctions were kindly meant, I realised. They were for my own good – he just needed to put enough force behind them to ensure I took them seriously. Again, I loved him for it, in a way. And I opened my legs.
It did not feel the way I remembered. It felt much, much better. I was filled, for one thing, both length and width-wise. And Justus knew how to get the right angle, how to go in hard and how to ease off and how to speed up and how to vary the intensity and how to nudge against my clit and how to find my g-spot. What a lot of things this man knew. Intellectual property law wasn’t the half of it.
He knew how to take me from the front, from behind, from below and from on top. Also, from the side, over the side of the bed, in a chair, in the Jacuzzi, on the floor. He knew how to make me sigh, how to make me moan, how to make me crazy, how to make me come. There was nothing intellectual in it, but I would have liked him for my property.
By the time the hour the contract ceased had come, so had I, five times. I lay limply in the bath, half submerged in bubbles, raw, sore, chafed, satisfied, cured.
Well, perhaps not cured. Perhaps not as simply as that. But I still see Justus when I’m up in town, passing the Inns of Court, as I find myself doing quite often these days. I don’t wear a mask and I don’t wear gloves – or at least, not the latex kind. But I do wear a smile, and all the money I used to spend on Pledge now goes on underwear. Every day, in every way, I am getting better and better.
Lucky Charm
T HE OFFICE SUITED C HARLOTTE well; it was not large but it was luxuriously appointed, with thick pile carpets and a smell of expensive leather from the chairs and the antique desk blotters.
With her opening day almost at an end, and nobody else in the office for the first time since she had sidled shyly in that morning, she went over to the window and looked down at the higgledy-piggledy Soho street life. The neon lights were just fizzing into lewd life in the sex shops of Brewer Street and the waiters in the Italian joint opposite were putting out menus, pristine napkins over their forearms. It was too far away to tell whether or not they were good-looking, but their bodies, in the dark red shirts and black waistcoats and trousers, were tempting enough.
Charlotte licked her lips. She was fantasising about any and every man she saw, these days, it seemed. Working in such a sexually charged atmosphere had turned her into a raging nymphomaniac – still, it was hardly surprising. She drifted off into pleasant reminiscences of her day while the streetlights popped on, one by one, in a golden haze before her eyes.
Walking up the final flight of stairs, she had smoothed her skirt down over her thighs, feeling the telltale bump of the stocking snaps beneath the silk-lined wool. Bryant’s phrase had stayed with her – ‘the suggestion of wantonness’ – and she hoped she had captured the effect. The skirt was a dark red tartan with golden thread in the pattern; the stockings were seamed but nude; the shoes were black high-heeled slingbacks; the shirt was white silk, two buttons undone at the top. Was it a mistake to wear knickers? If so, she would have to accept the consequences – for she was wearing her favourite red and black lingerie set from the expensive knicker shop down the street. The black and red meant that the bra was plainly visible through the gossamer-thin blouse – perhaps a bit more than a suggestion of wantonness there. But somehow she doubted her employers would mind. Leeway might not be given in the other direction, though, and she hadn’t bought a
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