Lady Lovecome's Diaries: 02

A long, quiet moment.

Gabrielle was a black ghost behind the dazzling lights. After all my sodden fantasies in the car I couldn't decide if I felt sexy or not now. I'd had more foreplay from a gynaecologist.

"Wider," Gabriele clipped.

I spread my knees as wide as I could, legs poised on the balls of my feet. Gabrielle cleared her throat. A click. More silence. She hated me. I hated me. My arse was too big. My cunt was too small, too wizened. A toilet part, bared for all to see. I wanted to close my legs. I felt like I was being punished for being dirty yesterday.

Gabrielle stepped into the light, scowling. "You are too beautiful, it is in the way. I sense you here"--she tapped her temple-- "but not here." She grabbed her crotch. "You understand?"

"Umm." My feet and knees, tensed in their porno pose, trembled. How could I get out of this?

"OK." She put down her camera. "Come, let's relax. Have some fun, non? Loosen up." She unzipped her overalls and they flumped to her feet like an empty sack. She was, of course, naked beneath. Her body was sleek and neat with pert little breasts and bottom. Cow. Her mound sported a tuft of vivid red hair and beneath her lips were puffy and florid. Maybe I'd stay a little longer.

She stepped out of her clothes and boots together, and picked her camera up again. "Come. Come. Dance, frolic. Whatever you like! Arouse me! Now I am naked too, so you will be able to tell, non?"

I stood, shook out the stiffness in my legs, then my arms. My breasts wobbled at the velvet, stiffening my nipples. Gabrielle lit up. She stepped close, clicking her camera, biting her lip. The bit lip did it for me. I stretched out a few warm-up moves from years of ballet lessons. I pointed my toes and lifted each leg, dead straight into the air, holding, repeating. Gabrielle gasped, paced about me, clicking a flurry, and the magnetism of her naked presence raised my hairs toward her in a Mexican wave. She crouched under my raised leg, and muttered, "Your clitoris is so big and fat"--snap-snap-snap-- "it makes me horny and at the same time jealous!" My hips warmed. This was much more like it.

Feeling cheeky now, I placed my palms flat on the floor and bent double, relishing the cloak's hem creeping up over my bum. Gabrielle moaned and I wanted to cheer. I placed my feet further apart, then bent at the knee, up and down, creating a tell-tale chill between my legs. Gabrielle's "Oh," and much clicking at my rear view, sent a jolt of naughtiness through me.

I threw a leg over the wolf's back. It's fur was surprisingly soft on my bits. I wound my hips, enjoying the silky squeeze to my clit. My cheeks blazed. Gabrielle growled, this seemed to be a good thing. "There is my Red Riding hood, non?" Her lens was all over my face, and up and down my torso writhing on the back of the beast. My clit tingled like the purr of an insistent phone call.

I slid off my furry saddle and settled against the creature's side, squatting like a fertility goddess, my arms spread along its back. This wasn't a pose. It was a cry for help!

Gabrielle stood in front of me, at arm's distance, silhouetted sharply by the lights. Between her thigh tops the distinct curl of her puckered lips sported a glittering diamond of arousal. Both my mouths wanted to eat her. And be eaten. I shot her a glance that I hoped screamed, "Feed me, bitch."

She stamped her foot. "Oh Oui." She clicked, hopped about, clicked again. I wriggled, trying to mesmerise her, draw her toward me.

I sat on the wolf's back again. This time so I might raise my throbbing clit to a more irresistible height for licking. I placed my right foot on the creature's head, scrunching my toes into the fur between its ears. I splayed--for my wet admirer, not her lens. Fucking feed me.

"Oui!" She squealed. "Don't move! Merde. Merde. There is my predator."

At least she ate me with her camera, working in a feeding frenzy, getting closer and closer until she was knelt between my thighs. All my torrid horniness from the car flooded back. And out. Gabrielle slapped her knee. "Ha! Now we have the slavering beast! You are dripping! Merci. Merci, beautiful lady."

There's an illicit, primal thrill in dripping in front of a stranger. It brought a kind of shameful, debauched freedom. An exquisite vulnerability. Gabrielle, sat cross legged below me, made no secret of her arousal either. Her slipped-apart lips glistened in the light bouncing from my skin.

Gabrielle put the camera down, peering at my cunt, then my costume. "Lovely lady, I need your inner petals to match the shape of your cloak. May I touch you?"

I grunted.

Gabrielle couldn't bite that smile back. Delicately, with her tongue curled out in concentration, she took my inner lips and parted them. She lightly tugged one lip into a different shape. I pulsed inside. She must've clocked my inner clasp, because she sighed a hot breath over me. She picked up her camera, then, almost as an afterthought, dipped her head to peck a featherlight kiss to my clit. She sat back, sucking a drip of me from her bottom lip. Then raised her blasted lens.

"More," I flapped my knees.

"Hmm?" Click.

"Bitch, do me or I'll knock you down and sit on your face."

"Promises." Click. Click.

"Now!" I growled.

Gabrielle chuckled, dropped her camera and, finally, pressed her pretty,naughty lips to my cunt.

She started slowly, as if relishing a moment she'd spent some time considering, but after a couple of croaky hums she was lapping and sucking my clit hood like she hadn't eaten in days.

I scrunched her thick, red hair, and enjoyed the ride of her smooth cheeks and her busily intruding tongue and that irrepressible enthusiasm. Adoration, even. In a dozen speeding heartbeats, my rush coursed from the tips of every hair on my body, it balled in my core like a fizzing Catherine wheel until I whimpered, then blasted into Gabrielle's mouth. Perhaps I was delirious, perhaps it was the set and the costume and the stuffed wolf, but I felt like I was devouring her, not the other way round. I spread my lips wide, into a gaping maw, arched, and howled into her wild, wild wood.

So that's how I met my Gabby. And yes, I returned the favour that day. She stood over me, her foot up on the wolf's back, clawing her bottom, while I nuzzled her slobbery folds and she yelped like a vixen. So I guess I was a less selfish predator back then.

Anyway, Diary Bill, I've veered off on a horny tangent, as usual. This isn't actually the point of my story. I just wanted to set the scene for my relationship with Gabrielle. Call it an amuse-bouche. Well it amused our bouches anyway. And hopefully it underlines that there were no sexual secrets between Gabrielle and me. So now I can get to my point.

After that stimulating morning, Gabrielle and I didn't indulge in each other again, agreeing the moment was too nice and we wanted to preserve it as it was. We've been good, so far. But now I think about it, perhaps I should invite her to the manor house, Bill, would you like that? I'd do her again with you. Maybe we could make a better memory.

The next time I met Gabrielle, maybe three months later, she was married, successful, and very, very wealthy. She had the best of everything. Including her husband. Alex was a six-foot-six blonde billionaire, and sleek as a sports car. He was a fantastically successful big tech investor, boasting in his sexy French accent. "I walk into a room and people, they just throw money at me."

In her messages, Gabrielle would boast how sex with him was always extraordinary. By which she meant out of the ordinary. He was into everything that involved expensive drugs and equipment and unlikely positions. When she arrived for a drink with me, she winced as she sat down.

"Good night?" I said.

"Extra ordinary." She sighed.

We were in the woodiest, quietest bar of my women's-only club. I picked her up on her sigh. "You make extraordinary sound disappointing."

Gabrielle shrugged. Pouted. Goodness, that woman could pout. "Well, sometimes, I'd just like to make love you know? I'd love to feel desired. Sometimes it is like I'm just some super hi-fi fembot for him. And he has one of those too. He made me have a threesome with it!"

"But you said you never met a man who made you come so hard."

"Oui, but it's mechanical. I want to be devoured by someone who adores me. Like you ate me, lovely lady. I want to come on the face of someone while they weep for joy! I want to be fucked in five seconds because they love me so much they immediately come, but then they can't stop and keep fucking and coming and fucking and coming!"

A loud tut came from an old dowager three tables away. She shook her head. We sniggered.

I squeezed Gabrielle's hand. "Ah, the problems of the rich and beautiful."

"Oui." She smiled, but sadly, and totally missing my sarcasm. "But how will we ever have children?"

I didn't get that, and it must've shown on my face because Gabrielle explained, as ever, loudly. "Well how do I get pregnant when he only ever comes in my mouth or my ass!"

The old dowager steamed off so abruptly she knocked her chair over. I got Gabrielle to elaborate.

It seems the problem was of her own making. When they first got together she was so obsessed with her elegant catch that she went along with his whole entitled thing: "Only the best for us, Gabrielle, only the unusual, the unique. Only life's delicacies." This meant that, in their first flushes, she'd suck him off at the wheel of his Ferrari, at the opera, under the table in Michelin-starred restaurants, anywhere he liked, and always to completion. Diary, she even pretended to come when she swallowed. And such was her conviction that, a few times, she really did come! Just from the jet of him into her mouth! Jesus, no wonder he married her.

But I was all ears, practically taking notes, making the most of Gabrielle's lascivious descriptions of what she did to her husband. In detail. She squirmed in her seat as she described running her tongue in a figure of eight around his balls, and sucking them while she wanked him to make a "human fountain." She clasped her hands between her knees when she told me about his "frenulum"--the skin holding his foreskin to his tip. He adored her lapping his so much, especially when her tongue was slippery with his cum, that it kept him hard for ages. Using our wine bottle, she'd even showed me how she'd incorporated it into her blowjobs, twisting her head and slurping her tongue under his end while she sucked. Our waiter enjoyed that.

In fact, the way Gabrielle described sucking Alex got me so worked up I had to visit the ladies. But it wasn't just the compelling detail of his hard meat in her mouth, or her erotic show, that shut me in a cubicle with my knickers round my knees. What got my fingers digging, was how Gabrielle described her husband's cum.

I have to say, I tried to avoid semen, and thought I always would, until I heard Gabrielle talk. I was twenty and had sucked my share of dicks, but had never swallowed and only tasted the odd splash of cum by accident. Meanwhile, Gabrielle described how simply swallowing was not good enough for them anymore. She liked the sensation of "his hot, heavy first splash" so much she'd contrive it so she was always licking or kissing him at the moment of orgasm. "My lips drip with him, sweetie, while I messily guzzle the rest, and I watch his eyes locked to my dirty mouth!" She made it sound joyful, like a treat. Not the slimy stuff itself--though it's no worse than girls' when I think about it--but what ejaculation represented. How desired it made her feel, how powerful she felt drawing it from her man and how, when she licked him clean, or sucked him dry, it bonded them tighter. There was no one earth who'd enjoy doing this for him, other than the one who loved him. Or so she thought at the time. She didn't know about his mistress then. Not the robot one.

But anyway, it put a dirty little demon in me. And now I can't wait to find that man who's cum I want to "messily guzzle." It's not the semen, it's the man. I fantasise about it. I think it might be you, Bill. I've thought about it a few times, licking your big spigot while you ruin my make up (I'd like to see this in a mirror) Or your hot stuff pumping thick in my mouth. I imagine what it might feel like sliding down my throat. Gabrielle says it's like oysters. I adore oysters. But the thing that got me squeaking in that woman's club bathroom, and just as a few minutes ago in my bed, is what my fantasy man's reaction might be, watching me relish his release--the most sexily intimate of all sexily intimate things. The love in his eyes as I consume him.

But when I returned to Gabrielle after my little release she carried on. It seemed Alex had grown tired of even Gabrielle's excellent head. So then came the anal, which she said she quite enjoyed, but nowhere near as much as she pretended. She didn't come with him, and started feeling more like an empty vessel than a loving partner. She got a vibrator (no manbots yet) and used it on herself so she could come at all because he wasn't interested in visiting her, claiming: "All orgasms are selfish, Gabrielle. Taken, not given." He loved her vibrator, of course, and so started the descent into increasingly more elaborate contraptions between them.

I was glad I'd had my fiddle when I did, because that quite turned me off.

So the message of this part of my tale, Bill, is that I know I seemed angry when you denied me, but I was being selfish. I blame my hungry cunt and your fat sausage. I don't mind if you don't want to fuck. I'd love to of course, but there is as much love, maybe more love, in exploring other ways to please each other.

But one more thing about fucking before I go.

After that afternoon, Gabrielle disappeared for a couple of years. When she popped into my life again, recently, she had a startlingly beautiful toddler and a baby.

She was a different woman. She'd put on a few pounds but looked good for it. Of course. She wasted no time in telling me her story.

She took long walks across the heath near their city home, and one misty, particularly magical morning, a silhouette resolved from the distance: a runner, a large, dark-haired man. Something about the way he moved, fluid as a thoroughbred, did funny things to her abdomen. He was clearly a tosser though, being one of those muscle-bound narcissists who thinks they're sexy running without a top--showing off their pecs and guns and six-packs and what-not.

As he approached, his muscles went wobble-snap, wobble-snap. Her stomach flipped. She caught his eye. He caught hers. He bound past, gawping as if she'd slapped him. She tipped her nose to the air and felt dizzy. And what was it about his smell? The wake of it behind him. Animal but oceanic. She had to sit on a bench, she felt so overwhelmed, or as Gabrielle put it: "It was winter on the heath, but in my knickers, spring was in full bloom!"

Maybe it was because of months without the simple, intimate attentions of a man, but Gabrielle couldn't get the dark stranger from her head. He wasn't as tall as Alex. He wasn't as refined-- more marine than man-about-town, more beast than man, and much hairier than her body-waxed husband. But the way he moved, smoothly, with the determined grace of a predator. And the way he smelled. Like the sea and the earth, and a fresh breeze. And his startled, startling eyes, partly due to their shocking paleness, mostly his expression...

Something about her seemed to shock him. He'd taken a deep breath of her as he passed. Had he been as bedazzled by her too? She was dressed in her trench coat, baggy peddle-pushers and walking boots. She wore no makeup that morning. Her big hair was unkempt and loose. But he made her feel like she'd sashayed by him in lingerie after a five hundred pound makeover.

Then, further along her walk, she saw the meat-head again, in the woods beside the path. He was doing pull-ups on a thick branch.

She found herself wandering from the path and weaving through the trees toward him. ("I felt like you, Red Riding Hood, stalking another wolf!) She ambled over to the man, her knees jelly. He didn't stop hefting his body up and down, up and down.

She put the thick trunk of a gnarled and ancient horse-chestnut between herself and the path, standing practically at the man's crossed feet as he dipped. His aura made her woozy.

She unfastened her trousers and dropped them.

He dropped from the tree.

Then he dropped to his knees.

He yanked aside the gusset of her everyday panties and nuzzled his bristly chin between her thighs. His tongue slid into her like an overexcited eel, squirling into places only her fingers ever visited, but with a fluidity and speed only a tongue can manage. It tugged her inside out. In a dozen puffed breaths she squealed and tumbled into a quivering orgasm, clawing at his sweating buzzcut and shoulders, chewing her cunt at his mouth for more and more of that gorgeous muscle.

Then it was too much. She shoved him away. He grinned omnipotently, wiped his wrist across his lips and stood. He adjusted the front of his tenting shorts, winked, and trotted into the mist.

Gabrielle didn't see the stranger on the heath again, even though she spent as much time as she could there after that. And even more time fantasising how else she might get this brute to please her next time they met. And then how she might please him. Maybe they'd please each other at the same time. The thought made her weep once, when she was hog-tied and suspended in a stainless-steel cage, Alex face-fucking her, the cum from his first orgasm dripping from her lips and down her throat while he rammed her for another.

Then one week Alex was away "on business" and Gabrielle knew he was with his mistress because he never freshly waxed his balls for AI conferences. She should've been tortured by jealousy but was glad for the break and, honestly, was more preoccupied by her dark stranger's whereabouts than her husband's.

She was in her new rooftop studio when her life model, Tarquin, cancelled. She was doing an epic painting based on the song "It's raining men" and had spent months painting naked bodybuilders in different positions in the feeble hope one of the thick-cocked beauties might have the balls to do her like the stranger did. Unfortunately, those that weren't gay were more into themselves than her.

So she was bored and needy, browsing on her laptop, flicking through the porn Alex left for her ("I will test you on it when I return!") when her door chime sounded.

She pressed the answer button and the screen lit up to reveal, surprise, the dark stranger.

He winked. "Tarquin says you need a life model. Will I do?"

She charged down the stairs and threw open the door. The stranger staggered back a couple of steps at the sight of her. It seemed like her beauty walloped him, but she was only wearing her work overalls. She clutched the door frame as his fragrant aura hit her. He took a breath too. His tight jumper bulged. So did the front of his jeans. Her mouth watered. It was like they'd discovered each other in the wild wood again.

"So, will I do?" he said again.

"Those eyes..." She sighed. Then her cheeks inflamed.

"All the better to see you with."

The world seemed to summersault. Was that a joke? Did he know her work?

He flushed, then he gathered himself, stood tall and put out his hand. His hard, warm clasp unhooked Gabrielle's limbs. It was all she could do stand aside and let him in. She lead him up the stairs into her studio. All the way, she felt his eyes on the wobble of her bottom in her loose clothes, and tingled for the sharp teeth that might sink into her any second.

She pointed to a sturdy table with a set of library steps beside it. "I need you to take off your clothes and stand on this. I am working on a painting of naked men in the air, so will take reference pictures from a low viewpoint. This is OK?"