‘Oh,’ moaned Venny, cradling his big head with her hands, enjoying the warmth of him, the male sex smell he exuded so strongly now. She allowed her own hand to drop and to lightly stroke up over the shaft of his prodigious organ. Before her trailing hand reached its straining, quivering head, she pulled away, freeing her breasts from his crushing grip. She pulled his legs round to the side of the banquette so that the table should not impede her progress, and sank to her knees between his widespread legs, her eyes fixed with admiration on his penis.
‘So big,’ she murmured as it twitched and swelled even more. ‘It’s too long for me to take it right inside my mouth. But I’ll suck the head, yes?’ she suggested, reaching out a finger to smear the moisture from its little open slit around the top of his glans.
‘Yes. Do it,’ said Robert through gritted teeth, watching her with feverish eyes.
Venny carefully applied her mouth to the silky-smooth tip of his cock. She licked the salty head assiduously, and sucked it, while Robert moaned and tried desperately to thrust against her. To accentuate his arousal, Venny pulled the skin on the shaft of his penis back towards its base, her thumb and forefinger circling his big cock quite forcefully, thus making every touch on the tip of his cock feel even more intensely pleasurable. But this trick only made Robert strain and thrust harder, seeking release. Finally, Venny had to admit defeat. She drew back.
‘I think, sir,’ she said throatily, pulling his hands back onto her breasts and encouraging him to knead them while he gazed down at them lasciviously, ‘that I had better accommodate you some other way. I think your arousal would be better served if I allowed you to put your beautiful cock into my cunt. I’m very ready, I assure you. Hot and wet enough to give you very great pleasure.’
‘Right up?’ asked Robert gruffly. ‘You won’t make me pull out? You’ll let me thrust, you’ll let me come?’
‘I want you to come,’ Venny assured him, wondering if his wife routinely objected to so massive an organ invading her. ‘If sir will just lean back a little?’
This sir was more than happy to do, bracing his hands against the plush seat of the banquette while Venny kicked off her shoes and knelt upon it. Daintily she stretched a knee across Robert’s naked lap and then knelt there, steadying herself with her hands on his shoulders and smiling into his wildly dilated pupils. He was sweating lightly, full of good food and ready now for good sex.
‘There. All ready for you, sir,’ she said sweetly.
Robert glanced down at her naked, heaving breasts, her wide-stretched legs. He moaned aloud. ‘Lift up your apron,’ he ordered roughly. ‘I want to see it go into you.’
‘Oh, sir,’ said Venny with pretend coyness. ‘You’re so rude.’
‘Do it,’ husked Robert. ‘I want to see me fucking you.’
As if reluctant to do so – when in fact Venny found that the act was extremely arousing – Venny lifted the little apron up to reveal her wide-spread and vulnerable centre, her swelling mound with its toffee-coloured curls, her softly curving belly above it, all naked and exposed to him just as he wanted.
‘So lovely,’ panted Robert, fumbling with his cock to dip its head down between her parted legs.
‘If sir will allow me?’ said Venny helpfully, and she pushed his hands aside and took his penis into her own hands, having to pull the head down very firmly because he was now exceedingly aroused.
Luxuriously Venny eased his prick between the moist lips of her swollen labia, enjoying the touch of its silken heat against her clit, pushing it hard up against the little bud and then on until the head was positioned ready at the entrance to her vagina. She pushed down carefully, admitting the big organ by an inch or two at first; then with extreme pleasure she pushed down a little further, until it was halfway inside her. Robert’s eyes were closed in ecstasy as he leaned back against the banquette and, emboldened by his obvious delight, Venny took him in still deeper, and there was still ample cock to spare. How deep could she go with this enormous thing of his?
She wanted to find out. She pushed down even more boldly, feeling herself open ever wider to accommodate him. Her progress was gentle and steady, and finally she found that she could settle right onto the base of his shaft. Perhaps she should recommend that his wife try it on top, as she was, to facilitate entry? Because it felt wonderful, quite arousing and stimulating in fact, and as she started to move up and down on Robert Fielding’s lap Venny found that his penis was causing her nothing but the most intense pleasure, touching her so deeply and setting fire to her most sensitive places.
‘If sir will just put his hand there?’ she gasped, guiding one big mitt to her clitoris.
Robert happily obeyed, enjoying his own passivity as she moved energetically up and down on his pole. His eyes were open now, dwelling lasciviously on her bouncing breasts and then moving lower to her wetly glistening slit to watch himself being repeatedly enveloped by its hot, velvety clasp.
Venny threw her head back in abandon as she felt the first glimmer of orgasm start to dart from her engorged nipples to her clitoris. Sensing her building excitement, Robert tightened his grip on her mound and rubbed faster at the hot bud between her legs, keeping up a rhythm that matched the one she was setting by her movements on his cock.
Sweat and love-juice melded their groins together in a heady, slippery alchemy as they lost, found, regained their mutual rhythm and finally, when it grew too intense, too much to bear, Venny cried out madly as climax after climax crashed over her.
Stimulated by her cries, Robert came too, issuing his own cries, masculine echoes of her own. His gigantic cock swelled and swelled inside her as he pushed up, desperate for release. Venny felt his cock twitch as it shed its load, and she slumped against his shoulder, spent, exhausted.
For a few moments there was only the soft beat of the music, and the steadying thuds of both their hearts.
‘Well,’ said Robert finally, just a little hoarse from his exertions, ‘that was most satisfactory, Miss Halliday.’
‘I’m so pleased you liked it, sir,’ said Venny, with a smile. Ha! she thought vengefully. Just let Micky Quinn try and compete with that.
Micky moved quietly back from the circular window in the swing door that led into the restaurant. He wasn’t quite sure what he felt about what he had just witnessed. Angry, he supposed – angry that she seemed to have gotten over him so thoroughly, and so quickly too. And aroused. Fiercely and desperately aroused by the spectacle he had seen, by the huge dimensions of the man at the table, by the way she had serviced him, her tits bouncing crazily, her orgasm – if he was any judge, and he thought he was where Venny was concerned – perfectly genuine. His own cock was up and full in sympathy for the man’s arousal. And maybe he felt a bit – just a teensy bit – jealous?
No. He was never jealous.
Was he?
‘I really shouldn’t have let you in here, you know,’ hissed Kate, who was waiting for him by the back door that led out into the yard behind the kitchens. ‘Venny’d have a fit if she knew you were here. Come to that, she’d blow her stack if she thought I was still here too. What she does with the customers is her own affair, Micky.’ Kate’s tone became petulant. ‘Anyway, I had things to do tonight. Jez was going to meet me here.’
‘Well, he hasn’t shown up, has he?’ Micky pointed out in a whisper, moving away from the tempting, tormenting scene in the restaurant and going over to where the waitress stood.
‘Look, that isn’t the point,’ pouted Kate. ‘I shouldn’t have let you talk me into any of this. You shouldn’t even have come here. And when Venny came in here to strip off, we shouldn’t have hid in the larder and – and spied on her like that.’
‘Look, guilty on all damned counts, all right?’ snapped Micky with an ill temper that was quite unlike him.
Kate was absolutely right. He had come here to see Venny, to rebuild broken bridges, hopefully to restart their affair. After all, they might be rivals now, but they could still be lovers.
And what had he found? That she was busy seducing a judge for the Blue Ribbon awards, busy pushing her business forwards, and quite clearly she had forgotten about him already. She had even got a new chef already – some Swiss control freak called Anton, according to Kate, who had hung a bloody cuckoo clock on the wall over the door and who did everything by the clock and by the book. Hell, the guy himself sounded cuckoo. But Kate said he was a good chef – if a little unimaginative.
Micky felt the pressure of anger and sexual frustration building up such a head of steam in him that he felt he might very well burst. God, he needed a shag. He looked at Kate, who had obviously been stood up. She was a good-looking girl, with straight blonde hair cut in a bob, a petite fair-skinned body and snappish blue eyes. They were snappish now, certainly. Well, he supposed her loyalty to Venny was to be commended.
His eyes dropped to the front of her red T-shirt, under which she was very obviously not wearing a bra. Her nipples stuck out proudly, so Micky could tell that what had gone on tonight had aroused her too. She was looking back at him now, little tight-arsed and small-breasted Kate, and the look was speculative and overtly sexual. Well, why not? he thought to himself. One woman was much like another. All cats, after all, were grey in the dark, and all cunts were wet and warm.
‘We may as well get out of here,’ he said quietly, but their eyes were exchanging other messages now. Kate quickly passed her tongue over her lips as she stared at him. She turned and Micky followed her on tiptoe to the door. With extreme care Kate let them out into the yard and hot summer night, then as quietly as possible locked the door behind them. She dropped her key back into her bag, then turned and was suddenly in Micky’s arms being shoved up against the restaurant wall, his mouth hotly welded to hers, his hands roaming her body in a frenzy of lust.
‘Steady, lover,’ she chuckled breathlessly when she could get her mouth free. She reached down to his jeans and unzipped him; Micky’s naked cock sprang out like a siege weapon, ready and armed. Kate gave it a salutary rub with both hands, and Micky cursed, his face screwing up with his hunger for her. She ran a finger over his cock-head, and felt him creaming and ready for her. Quite a compliment, she thought. And ignored the fact that it was Venny who had aroused him so violently.
Micky slipped his hands under her thighs and lifted her up against the wall, spreading her legs so that they surrounded his waist. Pants! he thought in irritation. Here he was ready to roll and she was wearing pants.
Micky ripped them away. The sheer fabric tore loudly, and Kate let out a squeak of protest, which Micky ignored. Ramming his cock up between her soaking sex-lips, he found the opening he wanted and pushed hard, entering her in one heavy thrust. Kate cried out and her legs jerked around him. Micky put a hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.
‘Creamy delicious little bitch,’ he whispered against her ear, and thrust into her hot and hard, ramming his cock home time after time, relishing the slurping sounds that her dripping sex made as he had her. It was true, after all. Women were all alike. But it was the image of Venny, naked and glorious as she paved her way to first prize in the Blue Ribbon awards by so sweetly fucking one of the judges, which floated in his brain as he shut his eyes and sought his orgasm. And when he came, in three short, hard jolts of sensation that seemed to come from his thighs, his scrotum, his arse and his prick all in one delectable moment of time, he had to bite Kate’s neck quite hard to stop himself from calling out another woman’s name.
Chapter Twelve
Next morning, Venny came into work early. She told herself that everything was going just fine and that she did not feel even a tiny bit down. She had laid the foundations for success in the Blue Ribbon competition by obliging Robert Fielding last night; she was just about to catch up on all her paperwork before the staff arrived, and she relished the unusual peace of the place; she had a good chef – oh, all right, he was unimaginative, some might even say a bit pedantic, and he’d hung a cuckoo clock in the kitchen, for God’s sake; what the hell was that all about? But he was good; and the troublesome Micky Quinn was out of her life. This was, she assured herself, a plus.
Now there were no tantrums over organic fruit and vegetables. Anton didn’t care if the produce was coated in every pesticide known to mankind or even if it was radioactive, so long as it wasn’t actually rotten. Although the staff did whinge a bit about Anton doing everything by the clock, and being a humourless bastard, and although the kitchens did seem very quiet, even subdued, since Micky’s departure, nevertheless Venny was moderately pleased with her new chef. Box of Delights’ warm ambience, her spadework and Anton’s perfectly competent cooking would combine to win the Blue Ribbon. She just knew it.
She was engrossed in feeding figures into the Sage program on her computer when she heard a clatter downstairs. Someone else was obviously in early. Or were they? She paused and looked thoughtfully out between the slatted blinds on the window at the bright new day. It was just that she’d had the oddest feeling last night when she was with Robert Fielding, almost as if she were being watched. Strange things did happen. Someone could have got hold of Neil’s spare key, or Kate’s, and made a copy. She hadn’t reset the alarm system after she’d come in, so it was entirely possible that some unauthorised person could have used a key to gain entry downstairs. Or maybe they had forced their way in, broken the lock, who knew?
Venny picked up her pretty but very substantial St Louis floral paperweight and hefted it in her hand as she rose from her chair. Carefully she crossed the room, trying not to make the boards creak too much. She passed by the open door to what had been Micky’s room. It was empty now. Anton had his own loft apartment across the city, and she was glad about that. She didn’t want another man under her roof – or under her skin.
Stealthily she went downstairs. At the padded burgundy door she paused, frowning, listening intently. Her own heartbeat was the loudest thing she could hear now. She pushed the door open, just a little.
It was Anton.
He was setting out pots and pans, pausing occasionally to consult a well-thumbed book which lay open on the counter. Venny let out her breath and relaxed. Knowing he hadn’t heard her approach, she took a little while to study him. Actually, she thought after several minutes’ consideration, he was pretty damned good-looking. He was about five feet eleven, but looked taller because he always wore the full chef’s regalia while he worked, and that included not only chef’s whites but also the chef’s high traditional hat, the toque. He was solidly built, neither running to fat nor too muscular. His thick mat of pale blond hair was cut close to his well-shaped head, but small curls peeped out from beneath the toque. He had a moustache – which was also blond – like a dedicated follower of fashion fresh from the Seventies. His brown eyes were intense and rarely sparkled with any sort of humour, but their very intensity was attractive. Hm, she thought. There was a lot of the stern disciplinarian about Anton; and that was an attractive trait to a lot of women – including her.
Venny pushed wide the door and walked into the bright strip-lit kitchens. She put the paperweight down on a table. ‘Hi, Anton,’ she said casually, because he couldn’t know that she had been eyeballing him with extreme sexual curiosity for some time. ‘What’s on for lunch today?’
Anton turned and gave her a formal half-bow. He was so quaint, she thought. But nice.
‘Good morning, Venetia,’ said Anton cordially. Damn! thought Venny. Why the hell did he always insist on calling her by her full name? And what jerk had told him her full name? She hated the thing. She felt her warm smile cool a little as he spoke.
‘I am going to concoct a fondue,’ said Anton, showing her the incomprehensible but excessively neat jottings in the book. Neat was the word that defined Anton, she thought. He was probably an anal retentive. ‘Also some rosti with a pepper sauce, yes? And of course the sachertorte, very rich, very chocolatey.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Venny encouragingly. She liked his accented English. It was sexy. She gl
anced over his shoulder as the cuckoo clock over the back door chimed out. The cuckoo, painted in garish colours that no real cuckoo had ever flaunted, shot out and chirruped. There were two chains hanging down below the ghastly contraption, and big lead weights shaped like fir cones dangled at the end of each chain. Maybe this gross little item reminded him of home in the Alps, she thought. It must have some sentimental value, surely, because it certainly was not a thing of beauty.
‘Perhaps you can help me?’ Anton was asking.
Venny’s attention snapped back to him. ‘What? Well, I don’t cook.’ She smiled. ‘House rule. The boss doesn’t have to cook if she doesn’t want to. And I never want to.’
‘But this is such a shame,’ said Anton as if her words were the cause of deep dismay. He went over to the cuckoo clock, stood on a chair, and made some sort of adjustment to it. Then he came back to her. ‘Come, help me here, Venetia.’
‘Please call me Venny,’ she said with desperation, but she knew he wouldn’t. She’d said the same thing before, half a dozen times; the man was just so formal that he had to use one’s full name. Anything less probably seemed like sacrilege to him.
Anton nodded; but he didn’t call her Venny. Sighing inwardly and feeling that a wicked twinkle in the eye and a broad grin would be a pretty welcome sight right now, Venny approached and stood facing the worktop. There were weird-looking nobbly little potatoes laid out ready for peeling. I don’t believe this, she thought. This guy is going to get me peeling potatoes. At least Micky had never done that. Not that she missed him being here – no way. She picked up the scraper, stifling another sigh. Well, let’s get it over with, she thought glumly.
‘Now you hold the scraper like so,’ said Anton, coming up close behind her and putting his arms around her like a golf pro showing an amateur how to hold the club.
After Hours: Black Lace Classics Page 16
