The Alley of No Return Ch. 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: DYNAMO KIEV v CHELSEA

The thirty year old Ukranian international footballer watched transfixed as Lydia Keith removed her tight tweed skirt, and watched as its silk lining slid over her sheer stockings to her ankles. He puffed deeply on his cigar as he watched her perched on the end of the bed.

The merino wool polo neck clung tightly to her breasts, supported as they were by what he knew was a quality bra; the kind of which he remembered seeing women in when he was young. Britain had been a huge disappointment to the young Ukranian. He had imagined a world of glamour and sophistication and elegant women, and up until now all he had seen were the type of women around his colleagues that he had heard referred to as chavs. Attractive, with money, but no class. He had searched high and low for an English lady, and at last had found it in Lydia Keith.

She paused, and without turning to him reached for the packet of Dunhill International on the side table.

She was still gloved. Tan leather.

Without turning to him she spoke, fondly of a different world.

"You know Sergei, I have never smoked a cigarette without my hand being gloved. That was something that was considered ladylike. I like to see a cigarette in my gloved hand; I think it looks beautiful....."

Sergei nodded approval and caressed the stockinged thigh held by the lacy elasticated tan straps as he knelt by her side. She snapped shut the handbag by her side, and even that made Sergei's throbbing erection jerk at the class of the movement and noise of the Hermes clasp.

She exhaled, the smoke pouring down the front of her breast, and rising along her sheer thigh, crossed over the other leg. The skirt had slid now to the floor. She thought back to her days in the debutantes clubs around Chelsea and South Ken, and her weekends of country pursuits before she had met her husband.

She remembered Christine Keeler, and how she had studied her smoking style; the one whose had used to entrance men that she had her eye on. She had also studied the elegant ladies in pearls and mink stoles, long gloves and cigarettes, and how powerful gentlemen men dressed like James Bond would reach forward with their lighters eagerly. Wonderful days. Romantic, heady days. She looked at the cigarette in her gloved fingers, and tapped it in the ashtray.

"Sergei....why me?" She said softly, taking another long deliberate drag and eyeing him over her shoulder.

Sergei's erection throbbed at the sight, and he leaned towards her on his knees to massage her shoulders, cigar between his teeth.

"Because you are perfection..." he whispered; "...Russian people like perfection...always the best...especially after being brought up under communism. I don't catch how English people want what we tried to get rid of. Socialists I guess...drag everyone down. To me you are England; elegant and perfect; total upper class."

He paused and continued to massage, gently kissing her sixty something Dior perfumed neck and cheeks from behind each time she raised her cigarette to her lips.

"One does try..." she said smiling and exhaling from her nostrils as she tilted her head back in pleasure at the strong but gentle massage from the footballer.

"Even under communism, Russian people have big respect for ballet, Art, furs, good cigars, good vodka, champagne...many things. But we saw only movies from Hollywood from 1940s. And these...these movie were wonderful. I watched when I was young.... beautiful women, in fine clothes, elegant, and imagined how it would be to live in the West. But it was a lie yes?"

"No Sergei, it wasn't a lie. We have changed. Our culture, manners, traditions, everything has collapsed as soundly as communism. People don't want beauty and finery and elegance any more. It frightens me sometimes. This is a society in decay."

"You are not in decay" Sergei kissed her again.

"I am sixty odd years old Sergei" Lydia Keith said laughing," I am pretty much rapidly in decay..."

"no no...no..you are true beauty...wonderful for me"

"I remind you of those old movie stars, is that it?"

"Not just this...you are perfect English lady too. Everything is correct, pearls, fur, tweed...all...and the way you stand, and your hair and your cheekbones...and your eyes.....all. "

Releasing her hair from the velvet bow which held it neat, Sergei smiled as the bob fell to her shoulders.

"Now you look like Anna Wintour" he said excitedly.

I used to try to emulate Diana Vreeland" she said softly yearning for a former age...

He eagerly kissed her and put his arms protectively around her.

"You are my Vogue girl whatever..." he whispered .

Lydia sighed and a tear appeared in her eye that someone else at last appreciated her twenty four hour a day effort at emulating the age of classic couture she had spent her youth admiring.

Lydia moved his hands down to her stocking tops.

"This isn't very ladylike, is it?" she said falling back against his chest and exhaling a plume of smoke into his open mouth, laughing huskily.

"How many women wear such fine stockings, such a beautiful sweater..." Sergei replied as one hand , caressed her thigh, and the other her breast.

"It's not I remind you of your mother, or your headmistress then, " Lydia Keith said drawing deeply on her Dunhill with narrowed eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Hmmmm" Sergei said "maybe little bit yes...!" he smiled.

Lydia Keith stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and took Sergei's cigar.

Placing it tightly in her lips, she rose on her knees above him as he reclined.

"You are a very very naughty boy. I might have to give you a damn good thrashing."

Sergei moaned as she took his belt from his jeans, and snapped it loudly between her leather gloved hands, cigar this time between her teeth.

"Now you go from English lady to Russian KGB bitch," he laughed, and placed both hands on her breasts, and massaged them firmly . The wool was soft, her breasts erect in the structured bra. She sighed in ecstasy and dropped the belt for a passionate kiss, her gloved hand holding the cigar against the back of his head as they both fell on their side.

"I am old enough to be your mother" she said helplessly as her hips moved rhythmically against his and his erection pressed against the gusset of her Walford girdle affair.

For half an hour they romped in passion, her gloved hands clawing at his back and beads of sweat falling from his forehead as he petted every inch of her body.

Lydia suddenly paused.

"I wouldn't go all the way with you last night Sergei....but tonight I am ready. Just give me a moment or two?"

Sergei reached over to the ice bucket and shook the empty bottle.

"Hmmm we need maybe some more champagne, and some kir, and a little vodka maybe no?"

"Kir Royale" said Lydia Keith "would be perfect."

Sergei picked up his belt and relooped it and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Don't go anywhere ...I will be right back" he said.

His t shirt was still out of his jeans and he made an effort to replace it as he left the room for the lounge to get drinks from the cocktail bar.

Lydia Keith sprang to her feet, removed her sweater and looked at herself in the full length mirror.

She had worn full metal jacket all her life; and often wondered why she did ...it had been a long time since she had need it. But it made her feel good about herself. She at least felt sexy. And she looked good, she had to admit. The only thing that gave her age away was the liver spot on her hand, and...well... she still had gloves on, and it seemed appropriate. Shiny, over the wrist cut, buttery soft tan leather and expensive. A three hundred pound indulgence from a Christmas trip to Paris. She turned in the mirror and straightened the seams on her stockings, the sheerness of them against the leather turning her on even more. She strode across the room in her high heels, picking up her mink and the cigarettes.

She put the coat on, as it was quite chilly in the room she kidded herself, and lit a cigarette. The pearls stayed. Sergei liked them. She pulled the plush sable collar around her face and watched herself flick the long cigarette in her gloved hand. She undid the catch on her girdle discreetly, then raised the cigarette to her lips, smiling.

"Not bad..." she said aloud.

Sergei almost dropped he drinks at seeing Lydia in the fur and suspenders, smoking the cigarette.

Placing his down, he rounded his arm around her waist and his other hand placed the cocktail in hers.

"Thankyou young man" she said, the cigarette no bobbing in her lips as she accepted the glass. "Can I interest you in a puff from my cigarette?"

Sergei's erection throbbed against her buttocks, as he leaned over her shoulder to take smoke from the cigarette she now held to his lips.

"Oh you are a hungry little chappy aren't you?" she said as he drew eagerly with eyes narrowed.

She turned on her heels to meet his exhale.

"I love men who smoke Sergei...and I know you love women who smoke too don't you, you naughty boy? I am old enough to be your grandmother...." she smiled, the soft tributaries of her smoker's lips quivering expectantly at Sergei as she spoke in the best Fenella Fielding manner she could muster.

Sergei looked at her with pure wickedness in his eyes, and lifted her into his arms, her legs wrapping herself around him as they kissed, passing smoke between each other. His huge sinewy cock slammed against her leg, thumping at her thigh and mound of soft pubic hair and demanding entry.

She slid gently onto his huge endowment, just losing her breath in small gasps for a moment as she took the monster cock in her gloved hand and eased it until he was completely inside her. Lydia Keith had kept her weight to eight stone all her life. Ladylike as she was, and as little sexual encounter as she had had since losing her husband, she knew that was a good weight for a man to find it easy to perform what she liked. Ah yes to be fucked standing up, as she had been the very first time she had had sex at a Hunt ball in her elegant velvet gown, by a dashing and smart Hunt Master; a man married to a woman who didn't smoke, and he couldn't get enough of Lydia. Now Sergei Smilov, Ukranian International footballer held her aloft, and she writhed on the monster inside her, holding her cigarette aloft and wriggling it suggestively in her leather gloved fingers as he pumped her with all his strength.

"Harder you useless boy!" she teased as he rammed her against the wall, teeth gritted as she took the most nonchalant sexiest puff she could, and French exhaled half an inch from his face. She felt his cock swell again inside her, and exhaled more smoke through her now gritted teeth as she rode him has hard as she used to ride the magnificent bay Hunter she once owned . He buried his fingers in the back of her mink, and rubbed his face into he sable collar, as he started to lose control. She dug her heels into the small of his back to squeeze the extra mile out of him , and then he exploded inside her as she filled his lungs with smoke once again.

Relaxing, sweat pouring from his brow, he lifted her from him and into his arms.

Carrying her to the bed, still smoking and holding her glass, Sergei smiled.

"you are very fit horsewoman" he said as he took her glass, stubbed out her cigarette, and they flopped into each others arms, reclined on the bed, and rested for a while.

Sergei Smilov picked up the tv remote and flicked it to the sports channel. Lydia caressed his chest as he did so, and then took a sip of her drink.

The commentator said it all. Despite noble resistance by Chelsea, on the snow covered far away pitch, to onslaught from the Ukranian side, Dynamo Kiev were a goal up. Sliding down into the cold sheets, their warm bodies caressed by Russian fur, they wrapped their legs around each other, giggling, and fell asleep.