Sexual Solstice (3 page)

“Is that thing for real?” She whispered.

“All eight inches.”

“Oh God. It has been so long.”

“It is.”

“I mean. Oh. I am so desperate.”

“For anyone?”

“No. No. For you. I just don’t want you to get the wrong impression.”

“Don’t talk.”

“Be gentle.” But Gillian didn’t have to give direction. Spokes gently took his member and teased Gillian’s hole in a circular motion, around and around, gently up and down. Gillian closed her eyes and threw her head back. She saw both the flight attendant and Spokes over her, teasing her hole, touching her with fingers, cocks, gently kissing her lips both of them at the same time, running their tongues along the growing sensitivity of her lips, both men’s faces so close, all three of them breathing, fingering and pressing against her with their swollen cocks, rubbing against her now and gently venturing within. Gillian gasped. “Fuck me.”

“In good time,” replied Spokes.

“I’ve waited so long.”

“Me too. Let’s take our time. I want this to be special.”

“You’re a tease.” But she could feel him enter her ever so gently with a slight shove. “Mmmmm, I take it back. You’re a big tease.”

“You drove me to it.”

“Well now you can drive me.”

“You’re the tease. Do you know––how––many. Oh God that’s good.”

“How many what?”

“Mmmm.” Spokes slowly started to rock into Gillian. “How many times I’ve wanted to drop to the ground in front of you and be your slave. Have you step over me to get into the car. I fantasized lying on my back and having your heels dig into my chest while I looked up your skirt. I’ve wanted to follow you in, and do what I am doing now, maybe a bit more roughly, a bit more suddenly, but I wanted to slide up your skirt and rip your panties, with my teeth if necessary.”

“Your teeth?”

“My teeth.”

Gillian inhaled at the thought of Spokes tongue tickling her. “It has been my fantasy too, that I would come to summon you in the early morning for a trip up to London and you would be fixing the tire or polishing a light and some how find yourself face height with my crotch and then well––God I am horny when I wake up in the mornings.”

Soon the banter subsided. Gillian arched her back and thrust her hips forward to take in all of Spokes cock. She became his rag doll as he cradled her back in his strong arms and thrust and thrust again. Each time he seemed to read her whole body and know just where to move to bring her to the edge of a climax. And then, she felt something she was sure didn’t exist. She felt a sustained bliss, as if she were now floating on a sea of orgasm. Her body, from her breasts to her toes was reaching, extending beyond itself, expanding into a universe of pleasure she had never known.

“I––can’t––hold on––any––more.” Grunted Spokes. Christ almighty! He drove his cock hard into Gillian, as she inhaled and inhaled and inhaled.

Chapter Two – Romping at the Savoy

“
H
mmm?” muttered Edgar.

“Nothing,” said Gillian. “I didn’t say anything.” And her thoughts of Spokes vanished like the years since they had had the chance encounter. Spokes’s loyalty for Edgar proved stronger than his attraction for Gillian, or so she thought.

They sat on opposite ends of the seat. Gillian’s hand on her elbow, as if to keep any part of her body getting too close to Edgar, while he stared blankly out the window, mind a million miles away, or just buried under layers of unfinished legal paper work at McCooey, Robson and Pritchard. What did it matter? With his wealth from a family whose––until recent generations––feet had never touched working class ground, he was part of the firm in name only, at this stage of his life. ‘At this stage of his life,’ echoed in Gillian’s mind.

At Heathrow they checked-in without waiting. Gillian surveyed the early December travelers, bedraggled, soaked, hopefully heading to drier if not warmer climes. There were men among them, traveling men, not businessmen, but the ones heading south of the equator in their sandals, hiking boots, anoraks, caps and what-have-you, all looking rugged, unshaven, and such a distance from her world of Knightsbridge lunches and careful walks in the country

“Ma’am?” the desk agent’s voice interrupted her thoughts, “you’re father’s gone ahead without his passport.”

Gillian rolled her eyes. Father. She took the two passports and caught up with Edgar and as they proceeded to the first class lounge. On that walk, the walk of reckoning, Gillian looked through glass walls of glass corridors, and caught her reflection, and again, that strange intuition, and for the first time in twenty odd years she thought of what she saw as somewhat bizarre. She had fallen from grace, as a so-called high-powered advertising executive. What was this persona? Did she look like no more than a hooker, or more so a trophy wife? Who was she? What was she? She had convinced herself once upon a time that she was indeed in love with Edgar, regardless of the age difference. But now, as she studied her motion, her legs, her gait and how accustomed she had become to her favourite shoes––McQueen––which seemed to keep her in the stratosphere, she realized she was losing the confidence to pull it off. And no matter how much she adored emerald green and it adored her too––the wrap around mini leather skirt and matching jacket setting off her red hair, now composed into a conservative and tame bun which at other times ran wild––she was plagued by those words––hooker, call girl, trophy wife––like never before. She was having a bona fide identity crisis. She had always liked thinking that she left people wondering, and perhaps slightly intimidated, but now, in this sexless state she felt she stood out like a sore thumb. No wonder her tits had defied the years, and gravity, for the most part; no one had laid their horny hands on them since Spokes.

What had she come to? In those first few years she had to admit that it was Edgar’s fatherliness that had attracted her. Real father had fled at the realization he couldn’t have sex without having kids. So she had needed the coddling, and if a man almost thirty years her senior could give it to her, she relinquished all sense of duty and romanticism, and any thought that she would be finding a Romeo. The Romeos she had known only wanted a hole to shove their dicks in, as far as she could tell. So it happened at the Nags Head, just off Fleet street. Gillian was working as a waitress on a student visa. “I’ll have a pint,” said Edgar.

“Of––”

“Of whiskey.”

“Whiskey?”

“We’re doing a loving cup, my friends and I.”

“The occasion?”

“Exactly. An occasion.”

Edgar’s eyes glistened, enough for Gillian to fall under the spell. He could have been drunk or teary, but this teariness was a quality that caught her off guard. He wore a crisp Saville Row pinstripe and black oxfords, and when he sat, the hem of his pants rose and she could see his argyle socks. His shoulders filled out the suit nicely and he was trim at the waist. The man was traditional, and tradition was something that had driven Gillian to England in the first place. After growing up in Brooklyn and doing her time at the eateries on Coney Island, she wanted to change identities, know that there was more for her than hot dogs, ball parks and Manhattan rat race. It was as if she had been born into it just by her sheer physical stature and beauty.

She had watched him from behind the bar: He was handsome––a Gregory Peck of a figure––with just the slightest bit of grey at his temples. And Gillian noticed things too, like his attempts to rise every time she came to the table, later that evening; his careful, though not fussy, manicured nails; his scent with just a hint of bay rum. “Join us.” He said, and then rose to offer her his seat.

“I’m. I’d um. Hell, alright.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“I’ll have a shandy. I’ll get it.”

“No. No. I’ll get it. You stay here.”

Gillian knew very well that drinking while working was a no-no in this particular establishment, and letting a customer go behind the bar was an even bigger crime. But, at twenty-two, and on the verge of graduating, she didn’t care if they fired her. She was ready for the world. Wanted to climb in the ring and start a career in public relations. She had a promising offer of apprenticeship, and it was time to turn her back on the groping overgrown boys who worked Fleet Street and patted themselves on the back, or on her behind. Englishmen
en masse
could be annoying. On their own was another story. This gentleman seemed too good to let get away. 

So Gillian joined them while a few stragglers sat in the corners nursing their beers.

“He’s single,” said one of the other men at the table, “Just divorced.”

This comment seemed to make Gillian’s mind up. She had been doubtful that she was doing the right thing but now she was ready for a bit of adventure.

The lawyers closed the bar and that same night, caught up in the occasion, Gillian escorted Edgar back to the Savoy.

“How much?” Edgar said.

“How much what?” Gillian asked.

“You do this sort of thing regularly?”

“If you’re trying to insult me, it’s working.”

“God no. I just thought––”

“––thought what would I see in an attractive fleet street solicitor?”

“Well?”

“We get hundreds of them in there. You’re a bit different. Dare I say a bit more relaxed?”

“You’re American aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Makes sense.”

“Hmmm?”

“That you like my relaxed-ness.”

“Well stuffiness does have its charms. By the way I’m not a hooker.”

At the Savoy Edgar tried to start out by making true and traditional love to Gillian. But Gillian tried to shake things up. It would have been too much like something she imagined her parents would have done.

“Undress me,” she asked.

“Hmmm?”

“Please, go ahead and undress me. Then maybe I’ll do the same.”

“This is unexpected.”

“Well, I have been on my feet all night. I could use a little help.”

But what Edgar started at a swift pace, Gillian slowed. “Take your time, we have all night.”

“Of course.” Edgar got to his knees and carefully undid the straps on Gillian’s pumps. “Sore feet?”

“No, oddly enough. I thought opened toed backless might be torture but they work, up to a point, and they do help with tips. Keep going.”

Edgar undid the other shoe and soon Gillian was three inches shorter but still a statuesque red-headed goddess looming over Edgar.

“What next?” Edgar asked.

“Surprise me.”

“Well, since I am down here.” Edgar touched the rim of Gillian’s jeans, his fingers tickling that skin just below her navel.

He silently and conscientiously pulled at the zipper and slowly peeled back the jeans over her behind. “Lace? For work?”

“Lace undies make me feel sexy.”

Edgar tickled at the lace with his fingers. “They don’t leave much to the imagination.”

“And what’s going on in your imagination?” Gillian asked.

“Let me show you.” Edgar brought his face close to Gillian’s crotch and then she felt his tongue as it gently lapped against the lace. “Ooooh. That’s some imagination.”

Edgar touched the elastic of her panties on each side and gently tugged them down. “You’re a true ginger.”

“In more ways than one.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’m a ball of fire when I need to be, but right now I’m just an ember.”

“A glowing one.” Edgar pushed her panties to the floor and eagerly and deliciously started to lap at her.

“Gently, gently. Oh my God you are good at that.”

“First time for everything.”

“Not true.”

“Yes quite true.”

“Well you certainly seem to know what you’re doing.” Gillian grasped the top of Edgar’s head in a hope to control his movements and to keep herself from climaxing, which possibility seemed to have sneaked up on her. “Let’s take it easy,” she said, slowly guiding his head towards her and back as his tongue did its work, shoving ever so gently into and out of her. Next she felt his hands move up under her blouse and press under her breasts. “Oooh, God.”

“You must be exhausted, being on your feet all night, why not come over to the bed and sit?”

Edgar was right, and Gillian stepped out of her panties and over to the bed, where she sat. Edgar’s face seemed entranced by her crotch as he shuffled over on his knees. Gillian opened her legs wide now and let him enter full force, his big nose pressing against her and his tongue greedily lapping and slurping.

Finally he pulled his face away. “Should we, you know get comfy? Maybe lie down?”

Gillian felt like it would be a much more pleasurable and lengthy evening than she had originally imagined. She was glad that it was the night shift that she worked. “I’ll just need a moment to, um.”

“Catch your breath? Yes definitely. Would you like some champagne?”

“You were expecting someone?”

“Be prepared. I learned at an early age. I am an optimist, you could say.”

“I would love some champagne, just please excuse me for a moment while I let down my hair. I may need to splash some cold water on my face too.”

“Don’t change, don’t go far. You are perfect the way you are.”

But Gillian would have to go far, as the suite at the Savoy was anything but compact or convenient. The bathroom was marble and mirrors and soft lighting that flattered an already perfect form. She undid her blouse and removed her bra. Edgar had brought her to the brink, and she touched her nipples, imagining all that had come before. It wasn’t so much that he had a fine technique as that he had had so little chance, as she believed, to actually use it and enjoy it. She heard the champagne cork pop. This was all too much. She wasn’t overcome so much by the luxury of it. Luxury existed all through London, even if it remained at arms length. But an older man knew how to take his time and how to enjoy that time. She felt like she had landed in a pot of honey for the moment ––a nice change from going home to an empty bed. Yes, lots to be said about age since she had dumped Nicholas, a forever boy. Now, there was something exciting about knowing that the man who was licking your pussy seemed to be doing so for very nearly the first time. It made the whole thing seem dirtier, and definitely more arousing. To know that he was doing so out of a sense of sheer joy and not simply to pleasure her drove her to the brink again and again.