It Was Just Chloe

These events actually happened, to me, in London, in the 1970s. This is an abridged version of a much longer account I wrote last year. It is fully copyrighted.

At the fall of Saigon, thousands of desperate people swarmed around the last few planes leaving from Saigon Airport. Unforgettable images on TV. Now largely forgotten of course. That was in 1975.

Not among those people was a wealthy Vietnamese politician and businessman who, in 1972, had been appointed to serve as one of his country's observers at what had come to be known as the Paris Peace Talks. Seeing the writing on the wall, he had taken with him his family and what part of his fortune he could convert to diamonds. Once there he sought and obtained asylum in France, where in fact he had been educated.

He was eager that his beautiful daughter, Chloe, then 23 years old, should become fluent in English – she was already fluent in French – and he arranged for her to spend a year living in London. She was lodged with an English couple he knew, the Bains's, in Kensington, a fashionable district of London.

Sir Michael Bains was a senior English diplomat sent to monitor the Paris Peace Talks for the English government, and it was there that he had met and become friendly with Chloe's father.

The Bains' own children were grown, and it was exceedingly generous of them to take in this young Vietnamese woman, a stranger to London, who initially needed a lot of hand-holding. Though Chloe's English turned out to be fairly reasonable, if limited, it was spoken with a strange and sometimes almost incomprehensible Viet-Yankee-French accent. (For example her word for 'lift' was "errervayer".)

The Bains' house, a mansion really, backed onto a small private park, shared only with a little circle of other Kensington houses, most of them mansions too. In one of those other houses there had grown up a boy named Andrew Wilson – me. The house belonged to my father, Sir Andrew Wilson, and my mother, Lady Jane ("My sweet Lady Jane" as her friends mercilessly teased her after the release of "Aftermath").

At the time Chloe was taken in by the Bains I was 25 years old. The two families were fairly close – I had grown up playing with the Bains children – and when they decided someone should show Chloe some of Kensington's younger social life, it fell to me. Lady Bains told me - "No speaking French with her! - she has to get to know good idiomatic English."

It was a favour, but a chore too. Lady Bains knew very well that in younger Kensington society, being Vietnamese would be like being Martian.

But once I'd actually seen her, any doubts I had about it vanished.

* * *

Chloe wasn't just pretty; she was one of those people that turns every head when they walk into a room, both the men and the women. And her innate beauty wasn't ethereal or delicate, it was sexy and vivacious, sparkling. I was completely smitten by the end of the first evening, which we spent watching a play. A boring play. As we walked down to Piccadilly to get a taxi I asked her if she'd enjoyed it (I didn't realise at this point that she spoke quite good English).

"What did you think of the play, Chloe?"

"Well ..."

"I thought it was boring. Pretentious and verbose and ... well, justpseud"

"I don't know those words, but, if you are say the play was ...garbage... I, I, I ... am of that opinion too.."

* * *

Over the next month I took her somewhere at least three nights a week, a gallery, a walk along the Embankment, my local pub, where she caused a stir in an English sort of way, and another one up in Islington that really good live music, to Lord Delaroy's 25th birthday party (I'd been to school with him), a restaurant, a film - there was an art-house cinema not very far away from my house, a bit of a dive but we went there too - another play, anything I could think of to be in her company.

I was anxious that she should like me, but that simply wasn't an issue - she clearly liked me right from the beginning, we talked easily and we laughed, she loved to laugh, and we talked about ourselves and everything under the sun. Of course at some point these easy, straight-forward encounters came to infused with an unspoken sexual ambience, slight, but undeniably there. We didn't flirt, we didn't even approach it, but of course it's almost impossible to ignore these things.

She gave me a little double-kiss each night when I took her back to the Bains's place. One night when we were walking back there from the cinema the conversation turned to friends, and I clumsily remarked that it must be hard for her to be in this strange city where she had no friends. And Chloe said, without any drama, completely naturally "But I do have friend!Youare my friend!"

I was pleased, to say the least. When we reached the Bains house a minute later, instead of giving me my usual little kiss, she put her arms around me and held herself against me for a few seconds. He body pressed on me and I could feel every curve and detail, her breasts squashed on my chest, her flat tight tummy. Trouble was, it made me half-stiff almost instantly, and I was sure she must have felt it.

Delaroy had told me that chaperoning Chloe must be onerous because I must be stiff all the time. But he volunteered to take my place if I should tire of it. And he cautioned me - "you know, these upper-crust Vietnamese girls don't do casual sex. If you go with her for three years she might, just might, let you hold her hand."

* * *

A few nights later I took her over to Gavroche, at that time by far the best French restaurant in London, arguably still the best. It was still on Sloane Street back then. Chloe turned every head, dressed simply but with an elegance that no further adornment could enhance. One of the Roux brothers came over to our table at some point and Chloe spoke with him in rapid and impeccable French. I'm fluent, but Chloe was flawless. And she ate like a horse and drank like a fish, and by the time we left she was decidedly tipsy.

We piled into a taxi. I didn't think she should drink anything more but I didn't want the evening to end, so I told the driver to take us down to the Embankment. We would walk one of the bridges.

Chloe leaned across onto my shoulder and said to me, in French

"I didn't know you spoke French so well"

"Thank you. You too. But we mustn't speak French. You must speak ... "

"... Engrish ... " She finished my sentence.

"English"

"Engwish. But you have a nice accent in French. Sexual."

"Sexy."

"Sexy."

After a moment's silence, she asked

"Where we go now?"

"Where are we going now? We're going down to the Embankment. I thought we'd go for a walk. Is that alright?"

She absorbed this for a moment.

"Beside the river, the River Thames?"

"Yes. It's very pleasant on a warm night."

"I would prefer to go to your place. With you."

And then, astoundingly, in the half-dark in the back of the taxi, her hand arrived on my lap. She carefully handled my penis through my pants. To say she caught me by surprise is an understatement. I was absolutely speechless.

Nothing passed between us for perhaps a minute as we whizzed down towards the river. Chloe gently squeezed my penis. Once it was hard, which took just a few seconds, she concentrated on the head, sending bolts of electricity right though me. As we arrived at the river, I leaned forward and called to the driver

"Aaah ... a change of plan. We'd like to go to Kensington."

When we walked into my house I got an even bigger surprise. First, a quick tour - Chloe had never been here before. Embarrassingly untidy but the 'cleaning lady's day off' joke made her laugh. She had an excellent sense of humour. (Half of me thought, she's probably never heard it before, and another part of me thought, it's clever that she understood it was a joke - she probably had cleaning people all her life and would expect me to as well.)

"This is yours?" she asked. It was quite a big house, and rather beautiful in an English sort of way. My grandmother had left it to me. I still live in it.

"Yes, it's mine."

But, on to the surprise. After the tour, she sat us down on one of the couches in my sitting room, no lights, just the diffuse glow from the streetlamps outside, and put her arm around me and ran her hand onto my crotch again, this time opening my fly. She worked my pants and underpants out and down enough to bring out my penis, utterly stiff, and ran her fist gently over and up and down. She did all this without kissing me, just with her other arm around my neck and her face touching mine.

After a moment she stood up and pulled her dress off over her head in a single movement. She was wearing panties, no bra, and a pretty little pair of sandals with heels, which I hadn't noticed before but now seemed so sexy. In a moment that was all gone too and she was standing in front of me in the dim light completely nude.

She turned away for a moment and just stood there. It seemed to me she was showing me what she looked like all over, and this was the back view. She looked petite and slim when clothed and that was the case too now that I saw her nude - slim but curved, a neat smooth little bum, like a boy. Now she turned side on, and bowed forward so her small breasts sprung out from her chest, like a Renoir.

Of course I was absolutely agog, firstly with the show, but even more from the circumstances, totally unexpected. I wasn't completely inexperienced sexually, but I had never seen anything like this. I almost expected her to say "You rike?", it was so much a scene to me rather than a reality.

Then Chloe knelt in front of me, without a word, and took off my shoes and socks, one item at a time. She worked my pants and underpants down and pulled them right off too. All this with a clean, neat economy of movement. She knelt up and parted my legs as wide as they would go, and leaned forward onto me, resting her weight against me, so my penis was pressed against her bare tummy, and she undid my tie and unbuttoned my shirt.

I knew where she was headed. To coin a phrase. I had never had a blow job before and I knew that was about to change. Her directness as she started in on me was breathtaking. She took my cock in both hands and although I was already somewhat slimy, she used her finger to run up the underside several times to bring up much more spunk. She spread it all over the head, and her fist made a squelching sound when she squeezed it again.

Now she leaned forward and mouthed my balls, slobbering and kissing, covering them with a sloppy saliva coating. She was still gently masturbating me, delicately squeezing and kneading the knob in her small slimy fist. I was utterly paralysed, I could neither move nor speak, I couldn't have been more agog if I'd been kidnapped by aliens.

Once she had my balls slimed to her satisfaction, she slobbered on her hand, I mean really goobed on it, and then touched her sloppy fingers under my balls, first stroking my perineum, then feeling and advancing further down. She had my legs spread so wide that the cheeks of my bum were parted, and in a moment she was fingering my anus, making it wet, touching and stroking. She got some spunk from my cock and used that too, and then I felt her finger begin to probe me and in a moment she had penetrated me, slowly but firmly working her slimy finger into my anus.

All this was just preparatory. Now, kneeling between my legs in the nude, handling my balls, a finger working in my bum, she knelt up and bowed down over me and took the head of my penis in her mouth. She mouthed me for a moment, and then began to hump me with a combination of fist and mouth. I'm not very big, average at best, but looking down at my engorged slimy penis moving in and out of her mouth made it look quite big and it was extraordinarily erotic.

I could feel I would come very quickly. But after a minute she stopped and looked up at me, letting my cock go out of her mouth and rest on her cheek.

"What you call this?" she asked.

I couldn't think of an answer, and she said "This" and took my cock in her mouth again and bobbed her head up and down in a pantomime. Then stopping and asking again

"What do you call that?" As often, her grammar was better when she had to repeat something. "Americans call it 'brow job'. What do Engrish call it?"

I didn't want to betray my innocence, but I didn't know many words for sex acts.

"Fellatio" I said, as evenly as I could.

"No, the argot ... the slang word. Like brow job, that's what Americans say. What do Engrish say?"

"Well, blow job is understood here. But perhaps "sucking me off" is more common."

Then I had brilliant memory - the term "nosh". It means "eat", but in this context it means, well, eat. I said so.

She repeated it. "Nosh. Is it verb? I am noshing you?"

"Yes."

She noshed me again for a moment then broke off for a moment to tell me

"Noshing is very popular where I come from."

"I can see why."

Then she worked on me without further comment, nude and lovely, sucking and fisting and frigging and very soon I was gasping as I started to come. Right at the last moment she took me out of her mouth and fisted me. Every muscle in my pelvis seemed to participate and I squirted jets of stringy spunk onto her face and her chest, gasping uncontrollably.

I lay back, paralysed. And, to my further amazement, Chloe quickly jumped up, visited the bathroom for no more than 30 seconds, came out fully dressed, kissed me quickly on the top of my head and said "Thank you for dinner Mr. Andrew. It's the nice night I had in very long long time"

And she clicked through the front door in her sexy heels and was gone.

"Nicest" I breathed, the most I could do.

***

I woke at first light, or perhaps 'regained consciousness' is the right term. I was still sitting with my legs wide apart, wearing only a shirt, and with dried spunk on my penis and an odd sensation in my anus. It was partly these circumstances that led me to know that the strange hallucination-like memory that filled my head wasn't a dream. I was a frequent masturbator, but I knew this wasn't the aftermath of a masturbation session. It had really happened. The gorgeous sexy girl had done me, and done me with skill and ... my head was muzzy but it was full of Chloe. My heart wassinging, there's no other word for it.

I was not very sexually experienced, but I wasn't exactly pure either. I'd slept with a couple of girls, none particularly memorable. Nor I for them I'm sure. I'd also had a few encounters with members of my own sex. This was far from rare among boys of my background in England, and I certainly didn't think of myself as gay.

But I have to admit that my principal sexual outlet up until this point, more reliable and more satisfying than these, had been masturbation.

I had an elaborate range of fantasies and I masturbated to them with gusto. I had same-sex fantasies, but I also liked submissive scenarios involving either sex, or both, either me or someone else being submissive; I was strongly attracted to the idea of sexual service, to themes involving people being tied up, to a person being done by two or more men - or by a man and a woman, to a little S&M, the list was long. Everything except conventional sex with a conventional girl. On the continuum from sacred to profane, my tastes were way down the profane end and always had been.

All this was very private though. It saw no expression at all in the few sexual encounters I'd had with women. My same-sex experiences - also not very numerous - were on the whole more enjoyable, and I vaguely understood that this was because they more-closely resembled my masturbation fantasies - the sex was more candidly dirty, no niceties or proprieties, just wallowing in unbridled profanity, and with an heady whiff of submission involved in each of them, imparted to some extent by the fact that I was younger than the other person on each occasion.

All very private though. My public face bore no trace of these dirty secrets and fantasies. And it wasn't difficult to keep the two separate because nothing I'd ever done sexually had the power to reach through into what I thought of as the real me.

Until now.

***

Still in a reverie, I took a long shower and went to work. On the tube, I could feel my anus twitching, and the memory of why made me half stiff.

I arrived at work much earlier than was usual for me, and there was almost no-one else there. I sat down and in less than an hour wrote an article about prostitution in Soho. My story outlined the fact that above and beyond the somewhat sordid street-corner / club prostitution, there was a realm in which cultured, discreet and wealthy clients were catered to by a small elite of ladies who were usually good looking, and usually had some genuine expertise in sexually pleasing a man.

To give my article a protagonist, I invented Charro, a very attractive young Philippino woman who was expert in certain types of sex, especially oral sex, and I interviewed her. I asked if she could introduce me to one of her clients and she got back to me a few days later with the good news that her favourite client would be prepared to have dinner with me, and allow our interview to go into print.

The client was a well-to-do middle-aged Londoner - I based him loosely on Mr. Bains, the neighbour who had taken in Chloe as a visiting student - and the whole article was actually quite good, authentic, not overdone, within the realm of taste, at least insofar as London magazines were at the time. And of course, it was complete baloney, as the Americans say. (I've always admired the American facility with slang, including the way they enunciate it. 'Baloney' sounds a little bit fake when I say it but from the mouth of an American it conveys exactly the concept.)

I didn't know at that time that making up stories is a fairly common practice among journalists, I thought it was only me who would stoop to that, and I wasn't proud of it. But nevertheless I did it whenever it suited me.

I filed my completely-fabricated piece of 'reporting' under my nom de plume identity, the one I used for articles I might not want my parents or friends to recognise as mine. It was still early, earlier than I would normally even get to work, and I felt at a loose end. Normally I can keep myself busy, I have a 'life of the mind' as they say, but that morning I couldn't settle down. Writing the piece had been cathartic, but now I needed ... activity.

I went for a walk. London is one of the great walking cities in the world. I wouldn't say it's the best, though it may be, but it's the one I know the best. I walked for miles and miles, all the way up around Hampstead Heath - my office was near Trafalgar Square - and on around and back down the streets through to Bayswater, and then across and back to the office.

Still restless.

***

Chloe's days were filled with English instruction and English cultural immersion. Lady Bains was a naturally bossy lady - her father had been a very senior naval officer - and in things like this it made her superb. She arranged for a whole series of people to tutor Chloe in English, take her to museums, shops, galleries, she organised lunches with London literati, with politicians, visits with designers and arts people, tours of the historic city with professional guides, historians and architects. Leaving out only the one thing a twenty-three-year-old craves - the company of people of her own age. I used to thank Lady Bains for it constantly, in my mind. The social side of Chloe's life was left to me.

Towards the end of the day I phoned Chloe. The Bains were out and she answered herself.

"I enjoyed last night" I began.