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Her entire wanton clitoris pulsated, warming her vagina and womb. Even the shaft beneath its withdrawn shroud throbbed, as did the tip of its glans with its thousands of animated nerve ending. The pearl shone opalescent in the harsh light, much to the satisfaction of Fabien and the delight of Cindy. Becca had never felt so wantonly and blatantly exposed and turned on by exhibitionism.
It seemed to Becca that her genitals had been given a workout at Army boot camp, yet regardless of the tenderness that swamped her vulva, her licentious mind craved for Cindy to flick her clit. Perhaps the photographer's assistant might be amenable after the shoot?
Chapter 5 - A ripe Banana.
Good Friday, 18th April 2014.
Mount Pleasant Cottage, Southern England.
Sybil stared at the blazing log, the real flame typically having a mesmerising effect upon her. "And did you and Cindy get it on?"
"Oh yes... I selfishly admit I was only interested in my own gratification, yet she didn't seem to mind. She was a pretty but incredibly hairy girl..."
"Would you say you were like bi-sexual, Gran?"
"Were...? I'm not dead Sybil! You may think of me as an old shrivelled prune. I like to think of myself as an over-ripe banana. Squishier than I was but still tasty."
"You're still beautiful, Gran. So are you bi?"
"I never went in for categorisation. I'm sure Fabian would have fucked me if push came to shove. I almost turned him, which was no small achievement. In answer to your question, I was bi-sexual by profession and by necessity if it meant satisfying an urgent need. I never actively pursued another woman. Emotionally, I was hetro. Are you bi-sexual, Sybil? Is that why you ask?"
Sybil tore her eyes away from the log burner and glared at her grandmother. "Me...? Like no!"
"There is no need to be defensive about it, Sybil darling. I wasn't accusing you of some petty crime."
"Sorry, Gran... No, I'm not."
"Hum..." Becca's utterance could have been construed in all manner of ways.
Sybil felt that she needed to reassert her control over the conversation. "You said you could like feel your clit warming your vag. Was that poetic licence?"
"Didn't you do sex education at school?"
"Yeah... We were shown how to put a condom on a banana. An unripe one..." Sybil grinned at the second banana reference of the evening.
"Do you know how large your clitoris is?"
Sybil felt uneasy talking about her own body. "The size of a small pea, I suppose."
Becca guffawed out loud. "That, Sybil, is only the glans. Aside from the tactile shaft beneath its hood, the rest of the clitoris is inside you and is made up of erectile tissue in the shape of a wishbone. It engorges with blood in the same way as a penis does. They really teach a load of tosh at school these days!"
Sybil's mind harked back to the previous summer and a certain situation when she had felt a similar throbbing inside her. She was going to have to do an internet search on the clitoris.
"So posing nude turned you on like it does Isobel?" prompted Sybil.
"It did... But not to the extent that I believe you suspect. The buzz diminished the more I did it."
"You did it lots?"
"I was a popular Skumle girl," smirked Becca immodestly.
"Do you still have the pictures?"
"In the loft somewhere. I had to hide them from your mother."
"I'd like to see them."
"One day, perhaps..."
"So what happened at the next shoot?"
"Something else happened first. You're forgetting Dieter Strohhäusl."
"So what happened?"
"Start the tape recorder, darling..."
Chapter 6 - Contrite Adulteration.
Wednesday, 22nd January 1969.
Central London, England.
Irrespective of her assertions to the contrary flouted in front of the great Fabien Lethbridge, Becca considered herself to be an actress of some note. She made no claim to being a thespian. She was more a graduate of the method-acting school. She grinned when comparing herself to the likes of the fabulous Marlon Brando.
She did not act a role. She became the role. She assumed a character, living and behaving in a manner commensurate with that person's temperament. She based such characters on people she had met in the line of duty. Although the idea sounded vaguely disrespectful, she had nevertheless based her latest creation on her Aunt Margaret.
She assumed the personality principally by dress. Bunny's skill at the art of maquillage was vital in the conveyance of the performance, yet for Becca it provided little support, being unable to see what her partner saw, save for when glimpsing her reflection.
Thinking about it, in the pursuit of her career, it was amazing how mirrors frequently came into play. Purveyors of sex seemed to share the voyeuristic trait of desiring to see themselves when performing.
Dress was the key. Yes, she wore comtemporary designs by exciting young designers. However, at heart, she preferred classic Gallic élan with Parisian flair.
Parisian couturier was nowhere to be seen. She had settled for a Laura Ashley dress, which she hoped was in keeping with Aunt Margaret. Fundamental to the assumed character was the choice of undergarment.
She was supposed to be portraying a sexually naive translator. She had considered portraying a virgin, yet virginity, despite its inestimable appeal to the male, was a difficult role to pull off. Virgins were generally saving themselves for "Mr Right" and hence unlikely to engage in inconsequential sex.
A respectable but boring boyfriend was called for, perhaps one who worked away, and hence an infrequent visitor to her bedroom. Such a staid girl would not wear daring lingerie. She would wear a sensible white Playtex Cross your Heart bra and figure-controlling girdle. When one's career involved obligatory disrobing, clothing labels could destroy an illusory creation.
The stockings would be nude coloured, her shoes attractive but with a short, practical heel. The image Becca had in her mind was of a stylish air stewardess, the figure smart and honed by foundation garments.
The obligatory meal at a chic but low profile restaurant went much as Becca expected. She adhered to the script, security and confidence being derived from familiarity. Dieter Strohhäusl was a married man with two young children. He was as likely as not contentedly married, yet like many in the diplomatic service, he found the opportunity of extracurricular sex hard to resist.
The honey trap was the oldest con in the book and remained the most effective. To be fair to Becca, blackmail and coercion were seldom in her remit. Her forte was establishing a relationship and thereafter gaining access to sensitive information.
Locked attached cases and drawers were no barrier to a snooping Becca. Following instruction in the dubious craft, she had once broken into a combination safe and photographed the contents. The ensuing sex had been highly memorable. Her mark had assumed that she was highly sexed and turned on, whereas in reality, Becca was burning off adrenalin and releasing the pent-up tension following her act of illicit larceny.
All Dieter Strohhäusl wanted was to fuck her. How long-term that arrangement might be was very much down to his perception of her desirability. If the potential intelligence yield was deemed worthy of exploitation, her other sex work would have to stop, less she was found out.
By adhering to the script, she revealed little about herself during the meal. Dieter seemed content to do most of the talking. After all, he was the one trying to impress and obtain a pass to grant him access inside her knickers. By the receipt of the invitation to dine, she had already met the pre-entry requirements. She was demure and pretty. Her intellect was a given by virtue of her ministerial position. Her conversational skills were not what he was looking for.
"Would you like to come back to my hotel for a nightcap?"
Becca gave the man and 8 out of 10 for directness. Perhaps it was the Teutonic way? "I'm not so sure..."
He smiled. He was a handsome man of his times. His thick hair was acceptably groomed and worn fashionably long. He sported a moustache that suited his full face. His square chin was strong and dimpled. She had to admit, that whilst not exactly "come to bed", his deep blue eyes emoted a reassuring confidence and virtue. Clearly, the latter observation was a fatuous one.
"You know I find you very attractive, Charlotte."
She found the pronunciation of her nom de guerre intriguing and was for a moment distracted from her intended reply. Her bashful smile seemed to suffice.
"Just one drink?" he proposed.
She had already consumed the best part of a bottle of house white. Her job involved a good deal of drinking and she could hold her drink. The requisite skill was to appear suitably inebriated and hence vulnerable. "Just one then..."
One drink was interpreted by Dieter as one bottle. She knew that Dieter had a house in the area where many of the West German diplomats lived, commonly referred to as Das kleine Bonn, where his wife and children lived. Thus, it came as no surprise when he escorted her back to a London Hotel, that like the restaurant, was smart and clean but off the beaten track.
He had sat close to her in the back of the black taxi on a wet winter's night when the plethora of passing neon signage seemed to run like wet paint when viewed through the cab window. Despite his thighs pressing against hers, his hands remained folded in his lap, their inactivity as blatant a gesture as any licentious grope.
With the wine consumed to the accompaniment of Dieter's polite and inane conversation, she timed her intervention. She felt tipsy, which implied that Charlotte would be well sloshed on the Richter scale of inebriation. She hoped her performance could realistically convey her intent.
"I'd better go..." She deliberately elected to speak in short snatches.
"Would you like me to arrange a cab?"
Oh, most gallant, thought Becca. Ten out of ten for chivalry, you lecherous shit. She found it helped her performance if she disliked him. Loathing him added the essential piquancy necessary if she was to fuck him with any semblance of perceptible passion. "Thank you..."
He too stood up as she pushed herself erect. Taking advantage of his gesture, she stumbled and toppled towards him, relying on him to catch her and stymie her fall. She thought her giggle and hiccup a nice flourish.
"I'm not sure I should let you take a taxi ride home alone..."
Then escort me home, you shit. "Maybe not..." She giggled again, her face pressed against his jacket as he wrapped his arms around her and smiled apologetically at the other guests drinking in the bar. "I think I've drunk too much..." The second hiccup confirmed the supposition. "I don't feel very well."
"Come, Fräulein... Let me help you upstairs."
Becca swooned into the lift, her weight borne by Dieter. The grope was seemingly innocuous, a by-product of his support. Nonetheless, in the parlance of her co-courtesan, Sally, he certainly "copped a good feel" of her right boob, his hand remaining in situ, seemingly satisfied with the tactility of her breast.
Despite the supposed disassociation encouraged by her alcohol consumption, Becca appraised the bedroom. The floor area was a fraction of what if had been, space having been sacrificed to accommodate the en suite bathroom. At least the room appeared to be clean. She hated fucking in squalor.
"Dieter, I need to use the bathroom..." Becca announced her desire plaintively.
"Let me help you."
She allowed herself to be assisted into the room and noted the linoleum on the floor, which assuaged her guilt over her premeditated course of action. She had deliberately refrained from peeing all evening, thus her need was genuine enough. Nevertheless, it required a concerted effort on her part that defied polite convention to release the stream of urine prior to reaching the toilet.
"Dieter!"
Her cry puzzled him at first until she pushed herself away from him and stood mortified, rooted to the spot. With what appeared to be a sudden frenetic spate of culpable activity, she hiked up the long floral patterned skirt to bunch at her waist, so revealing her stockings attached by suspenders to the emergent white girdle.
Many seconds of cogent analysis were required on his part after her impromptu exposure before he noticed the pooling of liquid around her right foot. He visually traced the flow up her stockinged leg to the source of the discharge. She had grasped the elasticated front of the girdle and raised it allowing her leaning torso to grant her a view of her incontinence.
Her urine found egress around the right-hand side of the tight gusset of her knickers, where it rushed down her right leg. The flow seemed to last an age before it ebbed to a trickle before abating, leaving Becca standing in a pool of her own making.
She finally looked up and peered aghast at the grinning Dieter. "I'm so sorry, Dieter! This has never happened before!" The display of incontinence appeared to have momentarily sobered up the girl.
"Don't worry, liebschen. Go into the room and I'll clear up." He was good to his word, mopping up with the hand towel before tossing it in the bath. Satisfied with his house cleaning duties, he returned to the room.
His heart skipped a beat when he spotted her huddled figure cowering beneath the sheets and blankets. That she had willingly put herself in bed made his seduction so much the easier. Thank God for her weak bladder.
He carefully removed his suit and shirt, placing them over the chair. His socks and underpants were abandoned with haste. In his hand, he clutched the box of condoms purchased specially for the occasions. He doubted that she was on the pill.
Having climbed into the bed, he noted its yielding mattress and wondered if the room was reserved for dubious assignations. He assumed rightly that the hotel staff could easily identify those involved in an illicit liaison when requiring a room for only one night and arriving with little or no luggage.
Only as he crept up on her could he make out her silent sobs of anguish. He curled up behind her and felt her flinch when his had alighted upon the succulent curve of her bare ass. His tracing fingers detected where the girdle had impinged upon and indented the skin of her waist. Moving onward, he discovered that she was still wearing her brassier and that her arms crossed her chest.
"Let me remove that for you, liebschen... You'll be more comfortable." He felt her tense, her arms contracting around her torso as he dealt with the impediment of the hooks and eyes. He allowed the elasticated band to spring asunder and paused.
"I can't do this..."
He had half-expected her sob of denial and had prepared a counterattack for such a situation. He had no idea if it would work, yet took succour from having come so far.
"Give me your hand, Charlotte..." He waited patiently until he felt the tension in her shoulders ease a fraction. He supposed that she expected him to touch her and most likely concluded that offering her hand as requested constituted the least provocative escalation in the stakes.
Her higher right shoulder drop away as her left arm moved and he facilitatingly rolled over onto his back before taking her hand in his. In doing so, Becca had to abandon her foetal position and turn round to face him, lying on her right side.
His free left arm reached around to cuddle her and help slip off her bra. His other hand reassuringly squeezed her hand.
"I can't do this...," she repeated quietly.
"Yes you can..." He was going to add, "That is why you are here." Wisely, he did not. Instead, he drew her hand lower beneath the bed covers and blatantly placed her hand upon his erect cock.
Rebecca Seehofer had often considered writing a book about the seemingly sentient independent life forms that went by a raft of names, none of which she found especially endearing. She supposed that the German noun of Schwanz as good as any. "Tail" fitted the nomenclature of the artefact her hand was coerced to handle.
The Latin for penis was coles. Adopting her own form of Linnaean taxonomy, she had conjured up names to describe the varieties of coles that had infiltrated her during many a fuck.
Coles gargantuan was a specimen that had to be handled with care. Coles scimitarus was a curved strain that if handled well could yield distinctly pleasurable outcomes. Coles miniatures was often a disappointment. Dieter was on the shorter side of Coles mediocris. But then weren't most men? The glans felt affably plump, implying that she would garner some satisfaction from coitus. He was evidently aroused by virtue of the viscous pre-cum leaching from the eye.
"It's for you..."
Did he expect her to thank him? It was clearly his cock speaking, not the erudite German who had wined and dined her. She supposed she had better stroke it. She didn't want to appear too keen and yet she had no desire to prolong the inevitable. Her haste he would conceitedly interpret as her succumbing to lust having felt his offering, the shackles of restraint cast aside by the magnificence of his phallus.
She loved the complex psychology of sex. Being a woman who loved to be fucked and who was paid to do so was no hardship. The acquired skill was revealed by the manner in which she acquiesced. It amused her no end the lengths a man would go to in order to insert his Coles mediocris inside her, how seemingly intelligent men would fall for her often blatant lies simply to cum inside her. It was a game she played so well.
As her effective pimp, Mary Weaver had told her at her interview, a woman seldom exhibited true empowerment other than in the bedroom and then only until a man reached orgasm, when his lust ignominiously vanished as he fell into the so-called refractory period of sexual torpor.
Becca assumed that foreplay was not going to occur, which suited her fine and dandy. She could tell by his twitching shaft and leaking glans that he was good to go.
The abruptness of his actions was reminiscent of her incontinent dash to the bathroom when she watched him sit up and grab for the box of condoms on the bedside unit. Had she not been playing the innocent then she would have offered to fit the condom, for to watch his clumsy efforts was embarrassing to behold. She was glad she was on the pill because there was no guarantee that he had not ripped the prophylactic in his haste to mount her.
And mount her he did, in the good old missionary position, or "Route One" as she and Sally called it. With her legs dutifully splayed, he rutted her with the ineptitude of the sexual dilettante and opportunist she had taken him to be. She instinctively knew that he wouldn't be on the nest very long.
In the man's defence, Becca had to concede that she was a good fuck. As well as physically providing a honey pot that she could manipulate so as to control a man's milking as she so desired, she knew how to provide the appropriate soundtrack to provide an additional stimulus. She even responded admirably to the fortunately few kisses he bestowed upon her lips.
Sally had always proclaimed that Becca's one weakness as a paid courtesan on behalf of Her Majesty's Government (or one of the Queen's Fucking Whores, as Sally was fond of saying) was her dislike of, hence disinclination, to kiss her marks. In some form of perverse logic, Rebecca Seehofer would take a cock, of multiples of, in any bodily orifice. Yet she found kissing distasteful.
The shafting was unfulfilling from Becca's viewpoint, as she knew it would be. He was no experienced roué. If she was not his first infidelity then she was certainly one of his earlier conquests. With time, he would become more accomplished. As it was, it was Becca's job to do just enough to enthral him and keep him coming back for more.
