Sexual Solstice (First Class Woman)

by Tracey B. Bradley

  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.

  When she came out of the bathroom, Edgar was under the sheets holding two glasses of Cordon Rouge. “To you.”

  “No, to you, and whatever it was you were celebrating this evening.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mmmm. This is lovely.”

  “Glad you like it

  “I definitely don’t want to rush things but I really have been having a good time and would love to continue.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?’

  “Mmmm?”

  “You know, are you hitched.”

  Gillian was caught off guard by this question since she had aba
ndoned any romantic allusions since leaving Nicholas. “No just recently broke up.”

  “Oh good. I mean. Oh dreadful.”

  “No, it was good, to end it. He just didn’t seem to have much hope of growing up, and he was all grown up if you know what I mean. He was twenty-seven.”

  “Ah, an older man.”

  “I like older men as you may have guessed.”

  “So, an older man, incapable of––”

  “Anything really, that involved commitment of any kind, to anything, from having a cup of tea, to an honest to God dinner date. I was stood up beyond belief.” What Gillian didn’t mention was that Nicholas loved to have sex in as public a place as possible––movie theatres, late night at an empty tube station, phone booths, public washrooms, even one time in the kitchen at the pub where she worked. He was forever in pinstripe from his banking job, which made him look positively innocent most of the time. The public sex was fun and didn’t bother her much, and yes, she admitted it was downright fun most of the time although there was never any payoff, everything was always on his terms, so there were no dinners afterwards in which to catch one’s breath.

  “He just ran his life for himself. That’s all. Up and coming banker.”

  “Met him at the pub too?”

  “No. No. I was doing one of those touristy walks in London, you know, see all the famous places where murders, Jack the Ripper and all that took place.” Gillian didn’t mention that while they were wandering down a lane near Tower Hill tube stop Nicholas pretended to be Jack the Ripper and Gillian willingly succumbed and let him fuck her, with the group off in the distance gaping at something the guide was pointing out. The thrill of knowing they could be caught, plus the fact that the guide had set them all on edge made it that much more exciting. “Anyway he’s long gone. Living in world of his own making I suppose.” Gillian turned to Edgar. “Now let’s get back to––”

  “––work?”

  “––God no. Let’s get back to the moment. You had broken the ice I do believe.”

  “––And you were about to light the place on fire!”

  “More or less.” Gillian realized she could teach him a few tricks of her own. “I hate to say this, but just lie there.”

  “What are you up to?”

  “You’ll see.” She pulled the sheets back and was pleasantly surprised to see that this Fleet Street solicitor hadn’t neglected his body. “You workout obviously.”

  “Squash. The Fleet Street league.”

  “Let me see your bum.”

  “Your wish.” Edgar rolled onto his side.

  “Oh my God, a true squash bum. You weren’t lying. Magnificent if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “Not at all. But genetics may have had a role. Or the landscape. I grew up in the counties.”

  “Well whatever did it. It’s prime.”

  “Never heard it described that way.”

  “Now back onto your back. I need to have a look at––oh my goodness what balls! Were you raised on a cattle farm in the counties?”

  “Bane of my existence. Hard to keep them under control.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Gillian took Edgar’s ample balls and fondled them. “Wow, I hope these don’t get in the way while you’re playing squash.”

  “There have been a few accidents, to be honest.” Edgar rolled his eyes back in ecstasy.

  Soon a rise and some movement began, something that couldn’t be ignored. “You seem to like this.”

  “You could say.”

  “You shave them?”

  “Just a trim, you learn by observation in the club showers and change room. Seems de riguer nowadays. Good God that feels incredible.”

  “I’m only just touching them.”

  “But it’s the way you’re touching them.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I didn’t realize they were so sensitive.”

  “Hasn’t anyone ever touched them?”

  “Not really. No. Usually lights are off and––”

  “You’re married?”

  “No. Not anymore.”

  “Someone special?” Gillian, for her few years, knew that getting involved with someone who was involved would only end in drama, histrionics and lots of sodden Kleenex. She’d seen what it had done to her mother and vowed it would not happen to her.

  “No.”

  When was the last time you had sex?” As she spoke the head of his cock became swollen like the head of the champagne cork. “What on earth, the end of this thing is huge.”

  “It’s been some time.” Gillian, in retrospect realized that for a man to not have had sex ‘in some time’ was a bad sign. Men, most men, the majority in fact, loved sex, or at least needed it. There was always a penis to be had, as long as your were selective.

  “Did your wife ever blow you?”

  “Oh God no. You know, lights out, that sort of thing, face to face. I don’t understand why she left me for someone more dashing when she didn’t seem to want to go the distance herself.”

  “Well you have a lovely prick and that knob, if you don’t mind my language, is very tasty looking.” While Gillian spoke she felt Edgar’s hands slowly venture up her thighs, touching her public hair and then running along her tummy toward her breasts. “Enough about my cock. It’s you. You are so––well, my cock wouldn’t be doing what it’s doing if I didn’t feel this way about you.”

  “May I?” She asked.

  “Please do.” Edgar replied.

  And Gillian did, licking the mushroom head of Edgar’s cock until the shaft grew to a stiffness that betrayed his calm demeanour.

  “Oh my God, it still works.” Then Edgar moaned.

  “Mmmmm.” Gillian slowly started to move her lips lightly up and down the tight shaft, licking the head in a circular motion each time she returned to the top. Meanwhile Edgar’s fingers tickled the soft skin on the way from her tummy to her breasts.

  She couldn’t help thinking of the luxury that surrounded her. Though she wasn’t easily impressed, a king size bed was so much more pleasant than the futon back at her student digs. And champagne instead of cider. And a gentleman instead of Jack the Ripper-offer. So if someone had ever suggested that Gillian was a fortune hunter, or in search of a sugar daddy the answer was no. She just found it so much more convenient to be attracted to someone who paved the way with silver and gold.

  She brought Edgar to the brink, alternately kissing him––he was a remarkably good kisser––while her hand stroked him, and sucking his cock. His simple touch on her front was keeping her by him, on all fours, in throes of easy pleasure.

  Edgar gasped, “I can’t hold it any longer.”

  “Hold on,” Gillian manoeuvred herself, gripping the base of his cock until she could bring herself on top of him. She gently pressed down on the large head until there was a shift and he was inside. With this older man she liked being in charge, it was like a drug to her. Edgar reached up and gently twisted her nipples, causing Gillian to relax further and press down as he responded and shoved his pelvis upward. Edgar’s cock was thick and comfortable once inside her, and Gillian started to ride him like a stallion. She was in control now, and she liked it, as did Edgar. And the pleasure was limited only to what she thought she was capable of. He looked at her throughout, looked at her breasts, her belly, watched his cock go in and out of her, all of which made him shove even harder. He was there, all present, no closed eyes and off somewhere else.

  After, Gillian struggled with her idea of this attraction. Was it just Edgar’s wealth––he had money and land, on the south coast––the south coast of several places, England near the Isle of Wight, Spain on the Costa del Sol, France somewhere between Marseille and Toulon, as well as a recently acquired property in the Caribbean––or was it love? Love? As time went on it always seemed that she was charged with giving Edgar pleasure, the times that they had done it.

  Gillian stared out the window of the first class lounge. A 747 s
tared back at her, rain trailing down the windshield, two pilots beyond going though pre-flight checks, making sure they had enough lube and condoms, she thought, a smile momentarily lighting up her face. Her resolve to sleep with Spokes all those years ago came back like a wave now. It knocked her off balance. This was the twenty-year mark of life with Edgar, with more than two decades of marital celibacy if you added the celibate parts together. It was time to do something––but what? London to New York for the compulsory family pre-Christmas visit, and then New York to Barbados to escape the northern darkness.

  Her own reflection startled her. She admitted that she had found, over the courtship, that perhaps she couldn’t separate her attraction for Edgar, from her love of his money, or stature. She’d had time for neither with her own career. The lines were blurred and she virtuously tried to convince herself that it was Edgar she loved, time and again. Where others couldn’t separate love from lust, Gillian’s problems were more abstract. Still, she had felt proud to be on his arm for the first years. And perhaps she loved him. But something happened. Edgar started to treat her more as a decoration than a person. She could tell right away that he had lost interest in the bedroom. She realized that she had fallen for a man who was constantly obsessed with new. New purchases and acquisitions. New friends. But perhaps, Gillian thought, new women. New sex. Was that what she was feeling? She had been new and now she wasn’t.

  Chapter Three – Falling for Cliff

  The New York leg of the flight might have been uneventful––Edgar disappeared to the lounge behind the cockpit for a conference call just before take-off, as happened frequently when they traveled together––until a young steward with a red face and red hair, like her own, and a Scot’s accent leaned down by her seat. “Ma’am, excuse me.”

  Gillian had been dozing, never one to turn down an offered glass of bubbly, it was the right time of day, cocktail hour, and t’was the season to enjoy.