Spokes had parked the Phantom ostentatiously and characteristically in a no-parking zone, to keep busybodies from venturing a touch, snooping or smudging. “Yes well, you can relax now. We’ll have a nice ride up to Cherry Hill. Can’t imagine there will be much traffic.”
Ah Cherry Hill, a mere fragment of Edgar’s vast fortune, thought Gillian. A place where they could rest from London bustle, but most of the time Gillian spent there alone. She still couldn’t get used to the name. It sounded like a great name for a stripper. “Don’t put on your jacket, Spokes, definitely too hot this evening, for England anyway. New York was stifling.”
“Thank you ma’am. Very good ma’am.”
Gillian dozed as the amber lights of the motorway and the outskirts of London gave way to the dark countryside. She couldn’t manage to sleep, no matter how smooth the Rolls was, still she kept her eyes closed, and as it became obvious that they were soon on the secondary roads she fell asleep.
When she woke Spokes strong hand was on her shoulder. “Beg your pardon ma’am, but we have a flat. It will be a tad uncomfortable but I should be able to get us fixed up shortly. The night was silent and dark with nothing but the far off light of Cambridge. “If there was ever a night to have a flat I suppose this is it.”
“Ma’am?”
“No rain, no cold. It’s a lovely night.” She moved to get out of the car.
“You needn’t get out, it’s really no problem. I can jack you up, car and all. You just stay comfortable.”
These Brits, Gillian thought, their choice of English is enough to drive one crazy. “Well I’ll just sit here and watch, at least I can do that.”
“There are some sandwiches in the cooler, why don’t you help yourself, and I’ll tend to this.”
“I’d love a drink about now.”
“That too, all the comforts of home. It think there’s a bit of emergency bubbly.”
“Well I’ll busy myself,” and while Gillian took care of the champagne with her former waitress finesse, Spokes struggled with the car. Gillian noticed a few gasps and grunts coming from the rear but didn’t want to intrude. She knew how men could be with their work. No one needed to lose face. After some peaceful reflection of her own, and another glass of Laurent-Perrier, she called out to Spokes, “some water perhaps? Spokes, can I bring you some water at least?”
Spokes stood up from behind the door, his forehead glistening, his shirt now open to the waist, the work lamp catching the fine line of hair up his torso, highlighting the profile of his nipples touching the edge of his shirt. It was obvious that he had been struggling. “The worst is over at least.”
Gillian moved to the back passenger door, by the stubborn tire. She handed a bottle of water to Spokes and then took her place on the edge of the seat, her legs draped out the door, one foot touching the ground, the other a mere breath from Spokes’s face. “Seems alright to me.”
“We should be back on the road in no time.” Spokes wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, exposing more of his chest. Gillian sipped her champagne against a tide of excitement. “Please let me offer you a bit of bubbly Spokes. After all, you deserve it.”
“I’ll just lower the rear and then I promise to indulge you. If you insist.”
Gillian felt the car shift, listened as he slammed the trunk, and then Spokes face reappeared from the darkness. Gillian rose too quickly with the glass in her hand, and bumped the flute of champagne against Spokes’s chest, sending a small splash onto her chest, caught in the light. “Oh God, clumsy me.” They stood face to face.
“It’s alright.” He ran his stubby thumb along her sternum and then licked the drops off his thumb. Gillian gazed, wedged between Spokes now, and the rear seat. “I um, I um.”
“Cheers,” Spokes rose his glass to clink and Gillian sighed and laughed, “Here’s to emergency provisions.”
“––and emergencies.” Again Spokes’s body gave off a heavy warm masculine scent mixed with his aftershave. Gillian was sure he could see her swoon. “Forgive me, it’s gone straight to my head.”
“You’ll have some jet lag.”
“Perhaps that’s it.”
“Let me help you.”
“Oh.” Gillian was going to excuse Spokes but she was aware that her cultivated English manners were getting in the way of her American practicality, and her rising passion.
“Allow me.” Spokes, leaned forward, touched the backs of Gillian’s legs and then literally swept her off her feet. “My lady your chariot awaits.”
“This could be awkward.” Words Gillian wished she hadn’t spoken. “I mean, well, don’t strain yourself. You know. There’s plenty of room back here, and I think you should enjoy your handy work, see how evenly the car sits and all that––“
But Spokes stifled any more rambling with his soft lips on Gillian’s. “MMMMMmmmmmy God.” Gillian managed out the side of her mouth. She put her hand on his chest, and took a firm grasp of the coarse hairs. After succumbing to the delight and pleasure of finally having his mouth on hers, she relaxed and let his tongue ignite her senses. She gasped, “Come into my parlour.”
Spokes smoothly and deftly swung Gillian into the rear seat, champagne glasses and all, finally coming to rest on his knees at her lap.
“You’re not only handy with cars I see.”
“I am your servant. My job is to please you, my lady.”
“Spokes, you are so old fashioned,” Gillian giggled. “Have another sip, this time don’t spill any,” she teased.
Spokes dipped his finger in his glass, licked it and then drew it between her breasts. “I hate to waste it.”
“Me too,” Gillian said and leaned forward. She touched the line he had traced. The neckline of her dress opened and she knew that she was exposing her breasts. She felt Spokes firm hands softly and barely touch her nipples. She moved her face up to meet his waiting lips. It had all seemed so long since she had felt a real man against her skin.
She gasped quietly as she felt his rough warm hand cup her breast. It had been so long she thought, so long. And so long seemed to be the refrain of her relationship with Edgar. After a few good years the well had run dry. For now, she felt justified in her desire.
Spokes’s fingers played with her nipple as his tongue imitated the short meandering movements. With her, it had always been the same thing when she was aroused, it seemed her breasts somehow felt as if they were growing or rising to the occasion. She swelled. Her being swelled. Her senses swelled and expanded. “Touch me,” she sighed. “Mmmmm, touch me.”
“You needn’t ask.” She felt Spokes’s other hand touch her knee and trace a circle ever so gently before slowly pushing the hem of her dress up her thigh. Again her whole being shivered and she let her legs relax and open ever so slightly. She didn’t want to seem desperate and she wanted the moment to last for so much longer than she felt she deserved. Lays with Edgar had been quick, and every other ad agent lived by the moniker “quickie,” so that now she really was on foreign territory. Yet there she was, taking to it, one of his big hands caressing her breast while the other wandered up her thigh. Spokes nose whistled as he pressed against her face and kissed so much harder now. Gillian responded, her lips on his tongue, wanting to devour this man who was confined to a uniform daily, but now was revealing all she had ever wondered about him: how much hair covered his arms, how it arranged itself in a swirling pattern on his chest, the colour of his nipples and whether they were large and soft or small and tight. Her hand pressed between his pectorals, feeling the round curve of firm muscle pressing back towards her palm. She inhaled again, inhaling everything about him, his cologne, the male scent of his body after working on the car, his touch, things that had been kept from her behind that glass window separating the driver from the passenger, where he remained in a sterile state with little to stimulate her senses. But now the wall was down and she had Spokes’s solid body over her own, she placed her drink on the floor and ventured to grab Spokes’s as
s.
“Mmmmm, please do,” he whispered, without losing a step in the dance their tongues were taking in each other’s mouths.
“Please?”
“Yes, please.”
“You English are so polite. Mmm, tell me exactly what it is you want me to please do?”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“If you insist.”
“I insist. I know who pays your wages after all. It is your job to please me and get me to my destination as smoothly as possible. So abandon the politeness and just be straightforward.”
“In that case, to keep going, to get to your, um, destination, well, put your hand on my ass.”
“Done.”
“Now apply pressure.”
Gillian did so and Spokes moved his pelvis against her other thigh for a treat even Gillian couldn’t have imagined. “Goodness.”
“Mmmm. Very goodness.” Spokes pressed his pelvis harder.
“Oh my God.” Gillian couldn’t put into words her arousal but it was as if Spokes were already inside her. Was it the anticipation? Her horniness? His?
“Now grab the top of my underwear and pull.”
“You English are so––”
“––so?
“Kinky”
“Just pull.”
Gillian’s hand traced the orb of Spokes rear end until she arrived at the waist of his pants and his belt.
“Your underwear.”
“Mmmm. Pull.”
She grabbed the elastic and pulled and each time she pulled Spokes groaned and ground himself harder into her. “Torture, you’re torturing me. God I’m going to come, with you. I’ve wanted you for so long.” But as he spoke he moved his hand up between her thighs and Gillian felt his fingers gently rub her. “You rascal. Oh God. You rascal.” She pulled at his underwear and then grabbed his shirt. “To hell with this,” and she ripped his shirt down his back and bit at his chest.
Spokes took his hand from her breast and drew the sundress up over Gillian’s head so she was now naked. He arched over her and she took it as an opportunity to grab for his belt buckle and pull.
It all seemed so sudden as if Spokes’s cock was some kind of bound medieval catapult wedged within his pants that took no time to spring forth after Gillian undid his belt and started to undo his zipper. The head of his erect penis pressed against his cotton Fruit of the Loom creating the likeness of a tent that forbade any to enter until they figured the magic touch. Gillian had that touch and gently pulled at the rim of his underwear letting the head of Spokes’s cock out for some fresh air. What Gillian couldn’t see in the dark, she could feel and she felt drive, desperation, pleasurable pain and downright horniness from a man who was all decorum and duty.
“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
“Hmmm?” 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.
Sexual Solstice Page 2
