Stories for When the Sun Goes Down (Sexy Anthology)

by Lily Harlem

  “Oh lighten up. You Americans just don’t have any sense of humour…” He ducks to avoid the cushion hitting him on the head and grins. “Your face was such a picture, you should have seen it.”

  A sharp knock at the door catches our attention and like a personality switch we straighten our features and stiffen our spines. John retrieves the cushion then reaches for the weighty policy previously abandoned on the coffee table and flicks it open.

  I clear my throat. “Enter.”

  “Carbon emissions…” John starts as a member of staff in a black dress and white apron glides in with fresh tea, followed by Drake, Harold and John’s two advisors.

  Suddenly the egg leaps to life with a pulse of sturdy vibrations and a delicious ripple of pleasure rolls through me.

  John looks over, his expression neutral. He pulls his hand from his pocket.

  I squirm, curl my coccyx and feel the buzzing egg press directly on my G-spot. It feels heavenly on the still throbbing, still needy nerve endings and the desperate desire for it to continue is instantaneous.

  Drake hands me a cup and saucer. It clatters in my shaky hand. He glances at my face, concerned. The buzzing stops. I smile, lean forward, place the drink on the table and knot my fingers in my lap.

  “We have to look at the industrial and domestic aspects as well as…” John continues and the buzzing starts up again, travels through several programs then settles in a steady beat. I have to force my eyes not to roll back in their sockets and clamp my lips shut to prevent a groan of delight. It’s the perfect tempo for keeping me aroused.

  I contract my pussy around the egg as hard as I can and focus on keeping every other part of my body perfectly still. I pray no one can sense the hum travelling along the sofa. It’s relentless, this internal massage, orchestrated by my lover who is talking earnestly and wearing his most serious, business face.

  I can’t concentrate, though I’m sure he’s giving a very persuasive and intelligent argument for his policy. I can think of nothing but the vibrating and I lean back. The position shifts and the feeling intensifies—I gasp.

  There is a sudden pause in conversation and all eyes turn to me. “Yes,” I say seriously, knowing I must offer a follow up response to my gasp. “Excellent, very novel suggestion.”

  John raises his eyebrows infinitesimally then carries on talking and flicking through documents.

  I compress my fists. An orgasm is building. There’s no clitoral stimulation, it’s all about my G-spot. The elusive G-spot only John can find, even from ten feet away. Oh, I love it. “Yes, yes.” I nod enthusiastically at a ridiculous tax proposal for industrial emissions. “Yes.”

  “You seem to be warming to all my suggestions,” John says with an obscenely wicked smile as Drake and Harold adopt confused frowns. “Do you think we could get something signed today, Madam President?”

  Sign nothing, sign nothing, I repeat mantra style in my head, not with this dreamy distraction. The British are not playing fair!

  The buzzing stops. Cruelly taken away when I was so close. I open my mouth but no words come out. Frustration and relief are a confusing soup of emotions.

  “Would you like me to go through it again?” John asks.

  “Yes, yes… please.” I swallow hard and the energetic buzzing resumes. I know he won’t let me orgasm in front of our advisors, the primitive howl I can’t control at my moment of climax would be shocking and unexplainable. Doctors would be sought, an ambulance called.

  But I’m not complaining about the British Prime Minister’s imaginative way of livening up a dull meeting. Teetering on the edge of another glorious explosion, hot, swollen and at his mercy is an entrepreneurial approach to thrashing out a global warming policy. And the four advisors, well, they need never know there was anything other than the buzz of international diplomacy stimulating me all afternoon.

  About Madam President

  Madam President won the 2009 LoveHoney Award for Erotic Fiction in the long story section. The rules stated that the story had to contain a LoveHoney product which is why John produces the Vibrating Dream Egg to keep Raine on the edge of her seat for the rest of the afternoon.

  I was absolutely thrilled with my achievement and this quote from judge Cheryl Mildenhall proved to me that I’d accomplished what I’d set out to write.

  “This story had me hooked from the first sentence! There is realism, erotic tension and satisfaction, all written in the style of a true wordsmith. “Madam President” is a delightful combination of The West Wing, the books by Edwina Currie and of course pure erotica.”

  Since writing this first erotic piece I’ve never looked back, and sometimes I wonder if I could squeeze a novel out of John and Raine. Should I rewind time and write about when their eyes meet across a crowded lecture hall, their first night together in Oxford then their steamy liaison in the Canadian pine forest? Maybe one day, I’ll settle down and tell their entire story. I think it would be hot, scandalous and certainly explosive!

  The Champagne Whore

  Slut-red, that’s the only way to describe the shocking colour of my new lipstick; sticky, shiny, slutty red.

  Perfect.

  My working dress is also slut-red, a daring halterneck that leaves my slim, golden shoulders bare and the cleavage open to an inch below my rather modest breasts.

  Clicking my patent slut-red heels through the grand lobby of the hotel, I especially like the way the soft material moves around my legs. It swishes just above my knees, not in a tight clinging way, but in a gentle flowing way that gives just a hint of the toned thighs and hips beneath.

  I’m wearing fishnet stockings, a tight mesh that suits my small frame. Hold-ups as opposed to a suspender belt—can’t have lumps and bumps ruining the sleek lines of my figure.

  The overall look is just as I intended, it befits a high-class whore and suits the exclusive Grosvenor House Hotel on Park Lane, the venue I’ve picked for tonight’s sales pitch.

  I glance at the display of exotic flowers flooding an antique mahogany table and sense the concierge looking my way. I strut a little more confidently, as if I belong, as if I am entitled to be here. I am—why shouldn’t I be? I’m performing a service the same way he is.

  Before me heavy double doors are propped open and a gold sign overhead reads “Champagne Bar” in black writing. I walk in and the atmosphere mellows from the stiffly formal lobby to a distinguished but relaxed lounge. A huge fire blazes through subdued lighting and an excess of contemporary leather seating is dotted about.

  There is a sleek bar side onto me and three middle-aged men in suits lean casually against it, drinks half-drunk, chatting in a familiar way. One of them looks at me, turns back, comments, then they all scan me up and down. I give just the barest tilt of my lips and step around them. The floor here is thickly carpeted and my trip-trapping heels fall silent.

  “Good evening,” one of the men says as I draw parallel.

  “Hi,” I reply, quicken my pace and choose a stool around the far end of the bar. Behind me is a window, a huge expanse of black glass which glistens as the lights of Park Lane traffic fractures through the millions of raindrops streaking its surface.

  The barman is attentive and I’ve barely seated myself and placed my slut-red purse on the bar when he’s over.

  “Champagne, madam.” He stands a tall flute of golden bubbles in front of me. “Compliments of the three gentlemen.”

  I raise the glass, smile and mouth cheers to the three men who are staring at me with hopeful expression. But I don’t linger my attention, they’re not my type, a bit old, a bit samey, not at all hunky.

  I’m fussy—really fussy.

  I can afford to be. I have a roof over my head, money in the bank and two kids doing rather well at private school. Being discerning about customers is a luxury I allow myself.

  The bar is half full and as I savour the deliciously dry bubbles popping on the roof of my mouth, I check out the clientele. Several couples sit cosy on over
stuffed sofas, a few groups laugh with reserved mirth so as not to disturb the gentle ambiance and a pianist tinkles away near the fire; something lazily jazzy, un-intrusive and mellow.

  There are two single men, one reads a broadsheet in a bucket chair by a table lamp and the other has a laptop on his knee and a glass of red wine in his hand. Neither look my type, but it’s okay, I know I’ll get lucky if I bide my time.

  I take another sip of champagne and my attention is caught by a shadow looming in the double doorway. A big bulk of a man is briefly silhouetted before he strides onto the carpeted area. He wears a charcoal grey suit which fits his wide, six feet-plus frame to perfection and my heart does a happy flip of hope. He’s so my type.

  I’ve always had a thing for men with that overdosed-on-testosterone look. Big, burly chunks of muscle do seriously funny things to my stomach, my knees and somewhere else in-between. I find myself hoping his wallet is deep enough for me to have a good time as well as him. Not just a request for a quick blow job—that’s not my style. My rate is for the night, not individual acts, unless it gets kinky, then it’s an open court for discussion and depends on my mood.

  He stands at the bar beside the men who sent me champagne, dwarfing them as he catches the barman’s attention. I lip read his order of bottled beer, exactly what I’d have predicted, then I pout and run a hand through my long dark hair as his brooding gaze scans my way.

  But his glance hits me so briefly and with such disinterest I wonder if he’s even noticed me summing him up. I try not to crease my forehead into a frown, reach into my purse and pull out a gold compact and my slut-red lipstick.

  I keep my eye on the hunk.

  He signs the drink to his room and the sight of his big-man hands tip me over the edge. That’s it. He’s my target for tonight. No one else will do. It’s him or nothing.

  He moves to take a seat nearer me, but not at the bar, a creased brown leather armchair next to a Tiffany lamp and with a view of Park Lane. I settle into re-applying my lipstick and peer at his face over the compact. He has a strong, square jaw that protrudes slightly giving him an air of proudness, his nose looks like that of a rugby player, or a boxer, squint but tough and his mouth is wide and soft. I watch fascinated as he licks a drip of beer from his bottom lip and then leans his meaty shoulders back into the chair.

  “Another champagne?”

  A quiet voice jolts me from my study. I re-focus and see the shorter of the three men from the bar standing at my side.

  “No, I’m fine thank-you,” I say, watching his thin weasel moustache twitch.

  “Perhaps a night-cap, a brandy perhaps, the hour is getting late.” He nods at the over-sized clock behind the bar that shows eleven.

  “No, really, I’m fine.” I tuck away my compact and lipstick. “Thank you so much for this one though.” I hold up my nearly empty glass.

  “Well,” he says, and leans in so close I can smell his musty aftershave. “I’m sure we could come to some sort of arrangement for you to say thank you properly.” He places a clammy hand on my bare arm.

  I swallow tightly. This is not what I want. Not by a long shot.

  “The lady said no.” A deep voice growls.

  Weasel man turns and comes face to chest with the hunk I’d been happily admiring until a few moments ago. “What’s it to you?” he questions in a squeaky voice.

  “She’s my date.” Hunk moves closer and Weasel sidesteps around the corner of the bar to avoid becoming trapped. “You got a problem with that?” Hunk adds with a scowl.

  “No, no, not at all, I just thought she was alone… you were sitting over there.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Okay, okay.” Weasel holds up his hands. “No harm done, sorry mate.”

  I watch with relief as he heads back to his friends giving a forced nonchalant shrug as he goes. “Thanks,” I say, smiling at my rescuer.

  I get one raised eyebrow in reply.

  “Would you like to er… join me?” I ask.

  He bangs his beer on the bar, pulls up a stool and sits down—very close. “I’d better now I’ve told them you’re my date.”

  “I really appreciate it, unwanted attention can be a hazard for a woman like me.”

  The same thick black eyebrow lifts again as his eye line drops to my displayed cleavage. “I’m guessing you want attention wearing that dress.”

  “Oh, yes.” With a dainty flick of my tongue I lick my freshly glossed top lip. “But I only like attention from a certain type of man.”

  “And what type would that be, no…” He holds up his palm. “Let me guess… the rich type.”

  “Rich works, so does…” I pretend to be thoughtful, rest an index finger against my temple. “So does… handsome.”

  He snorts and rocks his head back. “That rules me out then.”

  I make a show of slowly dropping my eyes from his buzz-cut dark hair, over his slightly stubbled, rugged face and then down his suit, all the way to his shiny leather shoes, one of which rests on the gold bar of his stool. “Another glass of champagne and I think you’d be very handsome to a woman like me.”

  “Champagne it is.” He holds one hand up to the barman and using sign language orders. “You gonna tell me your name?” He turns his attention back to me.

  “Ruby.”

  “Ruby.” He nods slowly. “And tell me Ruby, what do you do for a living?”

  “Can’t you tell?” I reach for the fresh champagne the barman has placed next to me.

  “I want to hear you to say it out loud.” His knowing gaze bores into me. His eyes so dark they have no gap between pupil and iris.

  “You want me to say it?”

  “Sure, then we’ll know where we stand and I won’t make a cock-up that’ll earn me a slap.”

  “Okay.” I tip my head and hold eye contact. “I’m a whore.”

  He grins and flashes a neat row of white teeth. “A whore.” He rolls the word around his mouth. “A whore. Ruby the whore. I think just whore is a better name, forget the Ruby.”

  I shrug. “Whatever turns you on…er…?” I extend the sentence wondering if he’ll offer his name.

  “You don’t need to call me anything.” He lifts his champagne to his lips and takes a deep sip. His silver wedding band twinkles in the headlight of a Bentley passing by outside. “You want to set up a deal, whore,” he says.

  I like him calling me whore. He says it with such deliciousness. He savours each syllable and ekes out the “r” at the end. His mouth plays with the word and I hope he wants to play with me that way. “A deal,” I say, knowing I must stop fantasising and think business. “What have you got in mind?”

  He leans his head to mine, moves my long hair with the back of his hand and whispers into my ear. “A quick fuck in the toilets.”

  The request doesn’t even deserve a response so I tilt my chin with a haughty flick.

  “Too downmarket for a whore like you, eh?”

  “I could have had that with them.” I nod at the three guys at the bar ordering more drinks. “I’m not up for that, not with you.”

  “So what are you up for?”

  “The whole night or nothing. Sex, foreplay, a soap down in the shower. Eight hours from the time we get to your room.”

  “How do you know I have a room?” He frowns.

  “I saw you sign your tab earlier.”

  “You were watching me?”

  “Why not? You look like you have deep pockets.”

  A deep rumble of laughter spills from his lips. “Not all I got in my pocket,” he says as he shifts his weight on the stool.

  I smile but stay in business mode, cross my legs and hook a heel on the rung of my own stool. “Fifteen hundred for the night.”

  The smile slips from his face. “You must be joking, you got a gold-plated pussy or something?”

  “I never joke about money.”

  “Me neither, seven hundred and fifty.”

  “Thirteen hundred.”


  “How do I know you’re any good? You might shag like a sack of potatoes.”

  “I can assure you I’ve never had complaints before, the odd heart attack yes, but no complaints.”

  He props an elbow on the bar and leans in close. “One thousand,” he murmurs. “For the whole night, my rules, I’m in charge—you do what I say.”

  “That could work.” I pretend to mull it over and try not to look too excited at the deal about to be struck and what delights might lay ahead. His cool water aftershave and his intensely primitive stare are making me wet for him already.

  “But one thing first.” He straightens and his suit jacket stretches across his chest.

  “What?”

  “Uncross your legs.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You heard what I said—I want to sample the goods before I cough up a grand.”

  “You want to sample the goods… here?”

  “Oh, yeah, right here, right now, my rules remember.”

  I unfurl my legs and slide to the edge of the stool, grateful that apart from a few drivers whizzing along Park Lane I’m hidden from view to everyone in the Champagne Bar.

  He stands, nudges my legs further open and reaches to pull his stool closer. He sits back down.

  I take a sip of champagne and feel a thrill as the tip of his cool index finger sneaks up the hem of my dress onto my fishnets. I make a point of not reacting to the burst of pleasure as he winds higher and higher onto the warm flesh of my thigh. The material of my dress is bunched and rucked around his wrist and his wandering fingers find and sweep the silk gusset of my lace panties.

  I don’t look down though I know I’m on show, exposed, instead I hold a serene, confident expression as his unblinking gaze drills into me.

  “You’re hot,” he whispers. “Are you wet, too?”

  “Just for you.” I squirm against his inquisitive finger.

  “Dirty little whore,” he mouths, a twitch catching his upper lip and a wicked glint sharding through his eyes. He pulls the elastic of my knickers aside and a single thick finger strokes up the soft folds of my now hypersensitive flesh and flicks over my buzzing clitoris. Just once, just enough to tease and make me want more.