tagGroup SexSoirée at Lady T's

Soirée at Lady T's

bypandsal©

Her name was Casey Fernandez. She was 34, shoulder-length hair the colour and sheen of a horse-chestnut fresh from its case, deep dark eyes, high cheek bones, a mouth that promised much and (as I discovered) delivered more. We were not exactly living together all the time, which explains how it came about that we had been fucking several times a week for more than three months before she told me about the soirées at Lady T's.

Fernandez was a name she had acquired from a husband who was no longer relevant. "A mistake," she said with a grimace as though she had stepped in something nasty in the street. As for Casey - that had been imposed on her parents at the whim of baseball-loving grandparents who had been hoping for a boy.

I first saw her one morning when she came into my gallery with her father. Daddy had long ago made his first million out of real estate and multiplied it shrewdly when Wall Street could still be trusted. Then he started signing cheques with lots of noughts in favour of the party that dined out with Wall Street. In time that led to his appointment to the Court of St James. Daddy liked the perks that went with the posting: white tie dinners at Buckingham Palace, centre court seats at Wimbledon, a Covent Garden box for the ballet (but not the opera, which sent him to sleep by singing in a language he didn't understand). These and more he enjoyed to the full. But now regime change in Washington had led to musical chairs in Grosvenor Square.

Casey brought him to me because she was staying on in London, which she loved, and was preparing to adorn the walls of her mews cottage by way of a going-away present from Daddy. She chose two overpriced pictures by a self-taught young man from Orkney who was currently enjoying a surprising popularity. Daddy signed the cheque, I attached "Sold" stickers to the frames, and Casey said she would call back later to collect. They had other calls to make. I said that would be fine as long as she returned before seven, when I close.

Something in her smile and a handshake that was more of a squeeze made me curious, but I decided I was reading too much into it. My thinking changed when she sent away the taxi in which she arrived at two minutes to seven. How did she propose to transport her two paintings? While I pondered, she asked if she might browse. "Or am I keeping you from something?"

"No, not at at all."

Not anticipating refusal, she was examining once again exhibits she had seen earlier in the day. I was recalling that handshake, but at the same time I wasn't inclined to hurry someone who might buy again; she had already ensured that I would be able to report a lucrative return to my backers.

The Latitude Brothers, Cyril and Stuart, had given me a start in their own Bond Street gallery some years earlier. Given my head, I was able to demonstrate a skill that eluded them, for all their years in the trade. The key is this: the sale price of a painting has nothing to do with its intrinsic worth. The price is set by your judgement of the purchaser's desire combined with your estimate of the depth of his wallet. That's what I was good at.

C and S Latitude's turnover increased correspondingly, as did my salary. But I was stifled by the brothers' rigidly conventional portfolio: minor masters in oil and water colour. In the 21st Century that was only a small segment of the marketplace. I wanted to use my instinct for what would sell, and I wanted independence. Rather than lose me, they agreed a deal. They set me up in my own gallery a quarter of a mile away, gave me total autonomy but took an entitlement to fifty per cent of my profits for two years after they had recouped their original outlay.

I called the new enterprise Longitude. By indulging some hunches with up-and-coming artists, I found more winners than losers. The same was true of my clientele. In particular, I discovered a spin-off with women of a certain age. From time to time I would be asked if I could deliver a purchase in person, perhaps advise on hanging it. Almost invariably that was a coded invitation to bed. As a matter of policy, I never refused.

Casey failed to fit the profile by, I guessed, about twenty years, but something I couldn't pin down led me to think she was here for more than informed conversation about the contemporary art scene. So I was caught off balance when that was precisely what she asked about. I countered by suggesting that I would be happy to tell her all she wanted to know - but that my advice might be more agreeably imparted over dinner. She stopped in front of a two-tone daub I would not have recommended and looked back at me over her shoulder.

"Meaning - what?" She arched an eyebrow.

"Meaning that I know somewhere where the food is good, the staff are efficient and the atmosphere is conducive to intelligent conversation."

"I assumed you would. Is that all?"

"Should there be something else?"

She turned to face me. "Shall we be frank? This sounds to me like an invitation that would lead eventually to one question - my place or yours."

Unprepared for so forthright an approach, I was still considering a response that would sound neither too eager nor so stuffy it might close the option, when she went on, "I'm right, aren't I?"

"Well, you are a very attractive woman ..."

"Thank you.," This time she smiled and laid a hand on my arm. "As it happens, I am also in the mood to take an attractive, virile man to my bed. Does that shock you?"

I was surprised rather than shocked but this was no moment to admit it. I shook my head.

"Good. Then the next thing to establish is whether you are the kind of man I need."

"Well, I certainly hope so."

"I'm sure you do. But hope is one thing, certainty is another." Her hand left my arm and brushed against my crotch so lightly it might have been by accident. "If we spend time over dinner and then bed doesn't work out, I will be disappointed and you will be embarrassed. We could avoid that."

"We could?" I still had much to learn about Casey; at this juncture I was simply bemused.

She looked around. "Is there somewhere here more - more private?"

"Only my office."

"Are you closed? No more viewers expected?"

"Yes. I mean, we are closed. I can close the inner blind on the door."

"Good. Do that and then show me your office."

It was a small room at the back of the gallery, spare and functional with room for little more than a desk, a leather chair and a pair of file cabinets. Fortunately, I like a tidy operation so the desk was clear of clutter. How fortunate that was, I was about to discover.

Casey closed the door and leaned against it, surveying me. "I would like you to kiss me,"she said, "but that will have to wait. I don't want to have to repair my face before we go out. Do you mind if we skip the preliminaries?"

If this was seduction, it was far from subtle. In any other woman it would probably have been off-puttingly brazen, but there was a smile in Casey's eyes that hinted at something else - a deeply feminine sexuality few men could have resisted. I certainly couldn't. I said, "Perhaps it would be best - just for now - if you took the lead."

They were the last words spoken for a while. With a swift movement, Casey opened a fastening at the side of her skirt and let if fall to the ground. She retrieved it and folded it carefully on the chair behind the desk. When she turned to face me, my gaze descended from the elegant lace top and pearl choker to the garter belt, the black french knickers, the white thighs, the black stockings, the small feet that kicked off her high heels.

I was still gorging my eyes when she dropped to one knee in front of me, opened my zip and felt for my cock. Extracting it from my boxers wasn't easy: I was already fully erect. That didn't deter her from manipulating it so that she could slide her hand along the underside of the shaft, pointing the circumcised head towards her open mouth. Presumably mindful of her lipstick, she wasn't intending to to take me in. Instead, her tongue snaked out and flicked beneath my knob. Her hand cradled my balls as she began to lick. This was different from full fellatio; it was exquisite testing and teasing, promising so much but never taking me beyond the limit of my endurance.

After a while, she sat back on her heels and surveyed the result of her efforts. "Nothing wrong with that," she said. "Now let's try. But let's not be extravagant. No grand finale. If all's well, we'll save that for later."

Before I had chance to decide exactly what was required, Casey had risen and stepped elegantly out of her knickers, placing them on the chair beside her previously discarded skirt. She moved to the desk and bent over it from the waist, face down. Her weight was on her forearms, her feet were straddled. The invitation could not have been more blatant.

I allowed myself the luxury of standing behind her to admire the toned muscles of her buttocks, the pink sphincter, the white thighs contrasted with black stockings. A brief investigation with my fingers confirmed that she was eminently capable of accepting me. I steadied myself with one hand on her hip and with the other guided my cock into her cunt. Uncertain of what she meant by 'nothing extravagant,' I held myself in place and waited.

Without looking back, she said, "That's good. Now move. But remember - be careful."

It wasn't easy. The generous lubrication from her arousal was countered by her natural tightness. As I began to feed her a steadily rhythmic penetration, I found it necessary to concentrate on the clock on the wall facing us, watching the second hand slowly circle the dial, trying to extract from memory the appointments in the next day's diary. Anything to take my mind away from the delicious sensation building below. I now understood what she meant by the forbidden 'grand finale.' I had to do everything in my power to stop it happening.

Just in time, Casey said, "Enough. Let's not get carried away. Either of us." In one supple movement, she slipped away from me and stood up. It seemed it took her no more than a few seconds to retrieve knickers and skirt and recreate the sophisticated woman who had come through my door less than half an hour earlier. "I think we should find that restaurant, don't you?"

"Yes. Of course. We can pick up a taxi at the corner."

Casey smiled. "Perhaps it would be a good idea if you - " Her gesture drew my attention to an open zip and a still semi-erect cock protruding from it.

*********************

Dinner was such a pleasant experience I was able to push to the back of my mind speculation about what awaited us later. Casey talked frankly about her reasons for staying in London. Daddy had contributed substantially to providing her with a home but from here she needed to support herself. To that end she had set herself up as an interior design consultant. Her clients, she said, were people with little or no taste but with the money to buy it. Grosvenor Square cocktail parties had been a profitable hunting ground. Now she was dependent upon word of mouth recommendations.

I enquired whether her new way of life would entail substantial changes. She understood the implication. She raised an eyebrow. "Being independent, you mean? I'll certainly have more freedom not living with Daddy. Not to mention the servants. I envisage taking advantage."

Which led to the foreseen question: my place or yours? Mine was a two-bedroom apartment I had managed to buy a few months before Islington became fashionable; hers was the mews cottage in Belgravia which had not been out of fashion for at least two centuries. That night mine was nearer and by the time we left the restaurant we were neither of us in favour of unnecessary delay.

Inside the hour, I was naked and Casey was down to the garter belt and black stockings. She was kneeling on the bed and I was inside her, erect, and happily in icy control. I had no illusions: Casey had made her wishes plain. "I want you to fuck me and fuck me hard. And no premature conclusions. You can come where you like - I take it anywhere - but not when you like. Let me be the judge of that and we can do a lot for each other."

Fortunately - or perhaps by design - the preview we had enjoyed in my office seemed to have done the trick. I found that, as long as I didn't withdraw completely, I could establish a rhythm of firm thrusting without getting towards my threshold. Every time my pelvis slapped against her buttocks, Casey gave a little grunt.

"Good," she said. "Like that is good for me." Steadying herself on hand, she reached back with the other to cup my balls, squeezing gently as the end of each deep stroke brought them swinging through.

We reached that wonderful equilibrium where it was possible to enjoy the heady sensuality, the nerve-end tingle, as though it were happening at one remove, as though we were vicariously watching two other people.

Casey broke the spell. "I want it faster," she murmured, almost as if she were unconsciously speaking her thoughts aloud. "But not like this. You'd never last. Let's change."

When I withdrew, my cock glistening with her moisture, she gestured me on to the bed on my back. It took only a few seconds for her to straddle my head, offering her cunt lips to my tongue. I gripped her bottom, pulled her on to me, and sucked. Only after several minutes did she lift herself to let me breathe freely while she slid down my body before fitting my cock into that salacious opening.

"Get my tits," she whispered, leaning forward. They were firm, offering small pointed nipples. I grasped, kneading, squeezing, hurting. It was apparently the right response. She was moving on my cock, but now the tempo had changed. Whereas I had been giving her metronomic thrusts from behind, she treated me to wonderful variety. One, twice, three times she would descend with ravenous ferocity; then she would hold herself with my cock buried in her to the hilt while she squirmed and flexed her muscles around the base of my shaft; satisfied that I could cope, she withdrew until she was able to perform the same rotations around the head; suddenly then, she forced herself down, fucked herself on my rigid member. Unbelievably, I had reached that nirvana that told me I could last until she was ready.

The moment came, somewhat surprisingly, in basic missionary position. Casey was on her back, ankles on my shoulders while I pounded her. With each full penetration, she murmured, "Fuck me. Fuck me hard. Fuck me harder." Until at last she cried out, "I'm there. Let go now."

It took longer than I had expected to relinquish the separation of mind and body so that I could concentrate exclusively on the incredible sensation that was growing in my cock. At the last minute, I pulled out and twisted to my knees, pumping my slippery shaft with a loose grip. It was all that was needed to discharge a big arc of sperm across her tits. Casey sighed and fell back, rubbing in the contribution she had extracted from my inner depths. Her other hand was cupped across her vulva, seeking to sustain the final tremors of the orgasm she had been able to generate while I was still inside her.

*********************

Once it had been established that I was the kind of man she needed, we fell into an irregular routine of meetings; sometimes there was dinner first, sometimes not, sometimes it was at her cottage, sometimes at my apartment. There were gaps, but rarely for more than a few days, when we didn't communicate. What Casey did in those intervals I don't know. I didn't ask and she didn't volunteer. To be honest, sex with Casey so was fulfilling, so all-consuming, I was quite glad of the occasional opportunity to recuperate.

Several weeks had passed when I saw a Bentley pull up outside the gallery. The woman who was helped down from the rear seat looked at name above my window carefully, as though making sure she had come to the right place, and then entered. The chauffeur, I noted, climbed back behind the wheel but gave no indication of moving away. The lady wasn't expecting to stay for long. In that case, I wasn't expecting a sale.

The woman was immaculately dressed in a dark grey tailored suit. Her figure was trim, slim waist, excellent breasts; the whole maybe a tribute to an expensive corsetière. Her age could have been anything from fifty-five to seventy-five. She nodded without speaking and made a tour of the exhibits that was just short of cursory, but only just.

"Does anything interest you?" I enquired, trying not to reveal my annoyance at what I felt had been on the verge of insulting to the artists whose work she had strolled past.

"Not at the moment, thank you," she said. At the door she paused and turned. "Casey speaks well of you. I have told her to bring you along next time. I shall look forward to that."

Before I could respond, she had gone. The door of the Bentley was already open and the chauffeur was helping her inside.

*********************

It was Friday evening with a wisp of autumn mist as we left the motorway and turned on to Oxfordshire's country roads. I had hired a Mercedes convertible, closed the gallery an hour early, but leaving London with the week-end rush hour had made for infuriatingly slow progress. Casey, though, was relaxed and unworried in the passenger seat. "Tell me more," I said."

"There's not a lot to tell. I've told you she was already persuaded before she gave you the once-over. That was only a formality. My recommendation had aroused her curiosity. And she is always saying that there are never enough young men. Suitable young men, that is."

"And what does 'suitable' mean?"

"You'll see. We'll be there soon. But just remember - go along with things, just relax and enjoy. Whatever, don't ask questions."

That had been more or less as much as she had been prepared to disclose since she passed on the invitation. Our hostess, she said, was Lady T (there are a number of names it will be prudent to disguise), someone who gave occasional soirées for a select circle of friends. Pressed, Casey admitted that of course sex was involved, but stubbornly refused to provide any details.

Frustrated, intrigued, impatient, I drove wondering precisely what was in store. Sex, Casey said. And I now knew enough to be sure that if Casey was involved the sex wouldn't be tame. What then? Were we expected to fuck while Lady T watched? Could I cope with that? Yes, because once Casey got to work on my cock I could cope with anything.

On a straight stretch of road, I took one hand off the wheel and stroked Casey's thigh. She removed it. "Down, boy. I don't want you overheating unnecessarily. Look out for a sharp turn left in about half a mile now. The gates will be open. There's a long drive."

At the top of a slight rise, the approach curved to reveal a large Edwardian mansion. The front door, at the top of half-a-dozen stone steps, was open. A liveried footman greeted us, ushered us in and took the Mercedes keys to park it.

"Good evening, Mrs Fernandez." The speaker was in butler's uniform. "I trust you have had a pleasant journey."

"Thank you, Jordan. Very nice."

"Her Ladyship is in the drawing room."

"Are we the last?"

"I believe Sir John and Lady J " - I must beg your indulgence for another concealed identity - "are still awaited, madam."

"How many altogether?"

"I understand, madam, you will be fifteen in total. Seven couples and her Ladyship."

"You will be joining us?"

"Her Ladyship has been kind enough to suggest that my services may be required for the finale, yes, madam. "

Jordan stood to one side and indicated that we should precede him. Casey clearly knew the way. We crossed a large hall whose walls, I noticed, were hung with pictures that would not have been out of place in the Latitude brothers gallery. At the door to the drawing room, Jordan moved discreetly in front of us, opened the door and announced, "Your Ladyship - Mrs Fernandez and partner." I appreciated 'and partner.' A degree of anonymity was welcome.

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