Top of the Popsies Ch. 01bypandsal©
When the latest Rich List was published, I picked up the phone and made a call. The operator put me through at once. "You've seen the papers?" I said.
"Of course." The voice was suave and assured.
"And where would I -?"
"I have the figures here in the screen. This is close of business yesterday, of course."
"There was a little movement overnight in Tokyo, nothing in New York and Frankfurt has opened steady this morning. So we can say sixty-three. Of course, when the take-over goes through in eleven days, that will move you up to fifty-nine."
"Of course," I said. Some of his own medicine. "As well my name's not there, then." I knew these lists of the hundred wealthiest people in the country automatically became the "hundred most wanted" for the Revenue authorities.
"It's why you employ us. To keep you off those lists. And, of course, we do."
For a substantial fee. Of course.
"Just checking," I said and rang off.
So much for journalists and their lists, I thought. Why do they bother? But then I recalled that only a week or two earlier I had succumbed myself. Not that this was a list for publication. It was prompted when I fell to wondering how many women I had fucked in a lifetime of fornication. With a bit of effort, I came to a figure of ninety-three. The following day I remembered several more. And the next day, some others. That was when I gave up; doubtless the real total would comfortably exceed a hundred. By comparison with Don Juan, though, nothing exceptional. You will recall that in Mozart and Da Ponte's opera, Leporello's catalogue of his master's conquests includes - in Spain alone - "mille tre" (one thousand and three).
If my record was puny by comparison, I must admit compiling it aroused some memories still worth revisiting. However, although the subject lingered at the back of my mind, I couldn't summon the enthusiasm to try to reach a definitive total - until I began to wonder about a top ten. Could I really segregate the special women from the rest and rank them for their memorable qualities? The short answer is that I did arrive at a top ten but my ideas about ranking changed as I progressed, and may yet change again. For the present, anyway, this is that list in the traditional reverse order.
Now I am conscious that this may make me sound cynically promiscuous but such is not the case. Before I come to the list, I need to tell you a little about myself. My parents were divorced when I was aged four. The remainder of my childhood and adolescence was spent at boarding school. In the holidays I shuttled between my father and mother feeling neither loved nor wanted. That experience led me to decide, even before I gained my independence, that I would never marry, and I have not been tempted to deviate from that promise to myself.
The result was that in my most creative years the greater part of my energy was devoted to building my business empire, although even then sex was my second obsession. I was young, handsome enough and well endowed; partners were not hard to find. Later, when I no longer had youth to offer, my growing fortune was ample compensation. Thus, I have enjoyed relationships, some brief, some lasting, in various parts of the world with women of a wide variety of age and social class. If I have come to any single conclusion it is that looks and figure, while not to be dismissed, are of less relevance than sexual appetite and intelligence. In my experience these qualities are most often found in women of a certain age and this is reflected, but not exclusively, in the list that follows. All names have been changed: if I kiss and tell, I certainly don't identify.
10 Lucy. This is cheating because, by my strictest criteria, Lucy would not qualify for a top ten. She is here because she was my first fuck. Lucy was a maid at my boarding school. I was still a teenager, much given to masturbation and prey to wild fantasies. The housemaster's wife was a favourite subject for my fervid imaginings and it was her image that was in my mind when Lucy caught me furiously tugging at my cock. The boy with whom I shared a study was at football practice and I was supposedly writing an essay. I had my eyes closed and only became aware of Lucy's presence when she gave a little gasp.
"Donald - what are you doing?" An asinine question: it was obvious what I was doing but I suppose she was as surprised as I was by the discovery. Nevertheless, she recovered quickly. Instead of fleeing to avoid mutual embarrassment, she quietly closed the door and leaned against it, looking at me with a sly half smile. When I could think of nothing to say, she came over and took my cock in her hand. It had begun to go limp but quickly revived. "Nice," she said, "but not something you would want me to report, is it?"
"No. Not really."
"Best kept as a secret between the two of us." Her hand was moving up and down my shaft with devastating effect.
"Is that a promise?" She lifted her skirt to reveal white cotton knickers. There was a damp stain between her legs.
"Ever done this for real?"
"No. Never had the chance."
"Well, now you have. But I don't want your cum inside me. Understand what I'm saying?"
"I think so."
"Be very careful then." With that, she pushed her knickers down to the floor, stepped out of them and bent over my desk, resting on her arms. "Come behind me."
I stood, feeling awkward, torn between stroking her protruding bottom and retrieving my trousers which had fallen down. Before I could do either, she reached behind her, took my cock and guided it towards her. "Now push," she said. "But go slowly. No accidents, thank you."
I slid in easily. My first experience of a warm, wet cunt was beyond anything I had been able to imagine. I began to move but she stopped me. "Wait. Leave it in, try to get used to me."
I tried but it was useless. My cock was burning and I had to have a fuck the way I thought a fuck was supposed to be. I pulled halfway out, pushed in again. "All right," she said with a little laugh. "If you must, just go for it. But remember to come out in time."
More by luck than skill, I just managed it, dribbling the result into the trousers between my ankles. Lucy stood up and turned round. "Well. Was it good?"
"Yes." Thinking about it, wishing it had lasted longer. "More than good."
"Well, take it from me, it will only get better. Next time, just try to be a bit more patient."
"Will there be a next time?"
"With me? I doubt it. I'm leaving at the end of term. Getting married."
"Yes, married to someone who knows how to satisfy me as well as himself. Something you'll have to learn. A pity I shan't be able to teach you." She stepped back into her knickers, smoothed down her skirt and asked me to take a careful look outside to make sure the corridor was clear. She gave me a quick peck on the cheek and left. There wasn't a next time. At least, not with Lucy. As fucks go, it was short and sweet. Very short, in fact. But on sentimental grounds, it is entitled to a place at number ten.
9 Shuk-yee. As my business interests expanded, I gambled on China becoming a growth area for European investors. The rewards were not immediately apparent but the take-over of Hong Kong and then the impending arrival of the Olympic Games yielded, and will continue to yield, huge dividends.
China is changing. Many of the old arcane and labyrinthine bureaucratic mysteries remain but overlaid with an adoption of western ways when it suits them. This became most apparent on one of my visits to Beijing. I held the strong negotiating position: the Chinese wanted what I had to offer but they didn't like the asking price.
One evening, after a long haggling session with nothing decided, we adjourned for a dinner of many courses and even more toasts to our mutual prosperity. Having agreed we would meet again in the morning, my hosts delivered me to my hotel. Modern Beijing has caught up quickly on hotels: the top establishments there and in Shanghai can compete with those to be found in most of the world's major cities. In the foyer there was the inevitable ritual, part Chinese, part western, of bowing and hand-shaking. That was when my opposite number said with a smile, "It has been our pleasure to discuss with you, Mr. Donald, and we look forward to a successful conclusion. Meanwhile, in recognition of your friendly co-operation, we have arranged to have a small token of our appreciation delivered to your room. We are sure you will be pleased."
Clever. Customarily with the Chinese, the successful conclusion of a deal was marked with an exchange of gifts. On this occasion I had taken a 19th Century French water colour by Auguste Constantin which was intended to be my token of gratitude. However, by delivering theirs ahead of any conclusive deal, my potential clients were seeking to put me under an obligation. To accept would weaken my position in the morning. To reject it would force them to lose face, which would be inexcusable on my part. A dilemma. I postponed a decision until I discovered the nature of the gift.
It was, as they said, waiting in my room. To be precise, in my bed. Naked and smiling. Slim and small but with the well-formed breasts which have become more common among Chinese business women. This was Shuk-yee. I now understood why, after being a silent figure in the background of the negotiating team, she had mysteriously disappeared on the adjournment for dinner.
There was more to her name than Shuk-yee but that was all I could remember from the ID tag she had worn. In the moment she beckoned me towards the bed, my dilemma was solved: this was a gift I couldn't refuse. Nothing was said. Whether she spoke, or even understood, English I don't know. What she did understand, from A to Z, was sex.
Shuk-yee simply took charge. Not aggressively but subtly, insinuatingly, removing my clothes, item by item, caressing me as she did so. When she came to my cock she said something in Chinese that was clearly approving. I was already semi-erect. She did the rest with her small hands, her sinuous body, her breasts and, finally, her mouth. Her tongue was like a moth's wings fluttering against the tip. Her lips were like velvet pincers. Her throat was deep and accommodating. I put my hands at the back of her head and contentedly fucked her mouth for long, delicious minutes. When I withdrew she contemplated a droplet of precum, flicked it away with her tongue, gently pushed me on to my back.
With remarkable agility, she twisted into a squatting position, initially across my face, holding herself a few inches above me to allow me to examine her cunt lips, the labia shaven and slightly pouting. Her fingers prised them apart. I saw moisture in the dark opening. Slowly, she lowered herself on to me. I was aware of a faint insubstantial perfume like the distilled essence of spring flowers. She continued to hold herself open while I explored with my tongue. The flavour was musky sweet. She wriggled from side to side to indicate her pleasure at the treatment she was receiving. When she pressed down, my tongue delved deeper inside. I sensed, but couldn't see, her fingers stroking her clitoris.
In time she moved forward, her cunt squishing against my torso as she went. She leaned forward, took my cock in her mouth and again went through her oral repertoire until I could bear it no longer and gave her a warning nudge. Instantly, she flexed her thighs, rose and unerringly, but tantalisingly slowly, came down on my cock. When I was fully buried in her, she rested briefly with her back to me before turning through a hundred and eighty degrees - all this without the slightest risk of losing contact. She looked into my eyes and laughed. Revelling in her own skill. Then she began to fuck me. I could only admire the strength in her legs as she rose and fell without any support. Her tits were firm, the nipples peaking with arousal. The fingers of one hand were having private conversations with her clit.
All this was only the prelude. She slid off me, fell to her knees, offering herself doggy-style. She turned me on to my back, manipulated me into a sixty-nine. She reversed our positions, clasped her ankles behind my neck and pulled me deeper and deeper into her wet warmth. I began to pound her, fucking wildly, abandoning any attempt at control until I found the explosive release she had demanded.
I climbed off her, wondering whether she had come or not, but too exhausted to do anything about it. Within minutes I must have been asleep. When I woke in the morning, Shuk-yee had gone, leaving no sign that she had ever been present. I never saw her again. She didn't attend the negotiation at which I did one of the least advantageous deals of my life. Very cunning, those Chinese.
I hope they liked the water colour.
(On reflection, Shuk-yee possibly merits a higher place than number nine. My reservation lies in the lack of spoken communication between us. Her technique was stunning, probably unsurpassed in all my experience, but there was an element of calculation about her performance. I guess she was simply doing what she had been told to do. Thrilling though it was at the time, whenever I look back I am conscious that it lacked genuine emotion.)
8 Tess. Once I had made enough money to be secure in the standards I had set myself, I was able to indulge. The Bentley arrived, the country hideaway for weekends I didn't want to spend in my Mayfair penthouse, staff to look after my needs. I must stress that I never knowingly hired anyone with the express intent of having them serve my sexual desires. Nevertheless, I have had three successive housekeepers and I have fucked them all.
Tess, the second of the three, was undeniably the best. She came in every day from eight-thirty until two, did the cleaning and tidying, organised laundry, enquired about food, restocked the fridge when necessary, in general allowed me to forget any domestic requirements. Tess had her own key to the penthouse; often I had left before she arrived and usually she had gone long before I returned. However, sometimes I liked to work from home and when I did, Tess was scrupulously careful not to disturb me other than to bring me coffee in midmorning. Having fucked her predecessor, I wasn't impervious to the presence of a female on the premises and the day inevitably arrived when I was tempted to test the possibility with Tess.
She had brought my coffee and was standing beside me at my desk. "Do you need anything else,?" she asked.
"As it happens, I might. It depends?"
She gave me a knowing look. An unmistakable green light. "Depends on what it is."
"Suppose it was something like this?" I let my hand wander on to her calf, up to her knee, up under skirt on to bare, cool thigh. "Could I have something like this?"
"I'm sure it would be a pleasure," she said, grasping my wrist and pushing my hand up ito her groin. I needed no further encouragement. I stood, bent her over my desk and lifted her skirt. The bare thigh my hand had discovered was an enticing contrast between dark stocking and purple knickers. I pulled them down and opened my trousers.
Tess was in her thirties, auburn-haired, blue-eyed, on the plump side but not offensively. She looked over her shoulder at me. "Do you want to have me like this? I don't mind. To be honest, I like it."
"Put it in for me, then. When you're ready."
"Oh, I'm ready." She reached back, took my cock and performed the insertion with a smooth thrust of her buttocks.
"How would you like it?" Ever the courteous gentleman. I've found it pays.
"Hard. Hard as you like. I can never get Stan to do it really hard. But he's not as big as you." Stan was her husband, whom she had always disparaged affectionately, though never before in a sexual context. I banged into her. She clutched the edge of the desk, I held on to the skirt bundled around her waist. Her cunt was wet, not particularly tight (Stan can't have been that small) and I was able to go in and out with ease. The lack of intense friction also meant I didn't fall victim, as I sometimes do, to getting excited too soon when experiencing a new cunt for the first time. When the moment came, I pulled out, grabbed the purple knickers from beside her feet and deposited my cum into their slippery folds.
The routine was established and there were few mornings when I worked from home without Tess asking "Do you need anything else?" It became the recognised signal between us. If I said yes, she never refused. We fucked almost everywhere. For some reason she didn't want me to take her to my bed. Other than that, we fucked on my desk, on the couch, over the arm of a chair, on the work surface in the kitchen, standing against the bathroom door, and lying on the floor with a cushion under her head and another under her ample arse. Always a relative quickie, always partially clothed, but always very satisfactory, ending with a discharge into her knickers.
One day she came to tell me Stan had been promoted in his office, would be getting more money; he wanted her to give up work. She was disappointed but couldn't see a way to avoid it. At least she gave a month's notice, during which I worked from home far more often than was my custom. On the final day, she left me her purple knickers. I have them still and occasionally, just for old time's sake, wrap them round my cock and masturbate.
7 Olivia. Litigation becomes an unavoidable experience for a man in my circumstances. As far as possible, I like to prevent any issue ending in court; it draws unnecessary and undesirable attention. Sometimes, however, it can't be avoided. I am never walked on. Which is how I came face to face with Olivia. Quite literally. She was representing my opponents in a complex suit over building rights. I lost. It was one of my rare defeats and resulted in my firing my legal team. I repeat, i don't like losing and I felt they missed a trick or two in court, so they paid the penalty.
In fairness, I have to admit that our defeat was due in part to the keen mind representing our opponents. When Olivia cross-examined me, I knew I needed to be at my most alert. I felt that I broke even but in the end that wasn't the judge's view. Never mind. That's in the past now, filed away under experience. The immediate by-product was Olivia. She was another of the forty-somethings who linger in my memory. Dark-suited, dark-eyed, dark hair tied back, minimal make-up, she was a formidable adversary. But, in the way some boxers are said to do, our contest forged a mutual respect.
The day after the verdict, when I had delivered the bad news to the Senior Partner of the firm who would no longer be my lawyers, I telephoned Olivia at her office. I had it in mind to discover whether her employers would be interested in representing me. But, not wishing to declare my interest prematurely, I asked her if she would have dinner with me one evening. She declined; her husband, she said, wouldn't approve. Oh. But, she went on, perhaps lunch?
I had given up any expectation of that half-promise ever being fulfilled when my phone rang one morning. The case she was engaged in looked likely to be adjourned shortly. Was lunch still an open invitation?
We met outside the Law Courts and lunched at Simpson's in the Strand. The electricity that had been sparked between us in court hadn't dimmed. Neither of us though, was prepared to let the conversation stray from the carefully neutral until, over brandy for me and a glass of port for Olivia, I wondered whether we might lunch again. She said that would be nice. I replied it was a pity we hadn't been able to have more time, have dinner. I let her digest that before adding, "Because of your husband."