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Strangerlove by Justine Elyot
Do you ever ask yourself, “How did I get here?”
I mean, of course I know how I got here – I bought a ticket and jumped on a train; easily done, although the destination on the front said Waterloo when it should have been The Unknown. But how did Adela Howard go from being a nice girl who dates losers to a woman who is prepared to meet a stranger in a hotel for no-strings sex? That is a bigger question altogether.
This is the right hotel, I think. The Luxe Noir, a big, intercontinental type of place. For the ninetieth time I recheck the email on my phone.
“Hotel Luxe Noir, Reception, 5.00 pm sharp. Give your name at Reception. Bring only yourself; we will provide everything else you need.
StrangerLover – the enigmatic mastermind behind StrangerLove.com. I think back to how Gabe described it – a dating agency in reverse.
“None of the awkward smalltalk, none of the waiting by the phone, none of the wildly promising dates that lead to disappointing sex and the inevitable hunt for an exit tactic.” The blurb had made it sound exactly what I needed.
I look back; the taxi is still there. I could jump back in. I am under no obligation to go through with this…but if I don’t, I will wonder forever where this might have led. Before I can think myself out of it, I take a brisk trot up the steps and across the lobby towards the Reception desk. The girl behind it allays my fears with her complicit smile; its warmth persuades me that I am safe and all will be well. “Room 344,” she tells me. The Unknown has a number.
The door of 344 is opened by a woman. I stand staring at her perfect skin and glossy dark hair for a stunned moment before she smiles and ushers me in, showing me to a chair before seating herself opposite.
“Hello, Adela. I’m so pleased you could make it. Before you take fright, I should explain that I am not your match for the evening – I am simply a facilitator.”
I leak out a punctured laugh. “Oh…ah. I see.”
“My role is to make sure that you are completely aware of the rules and happy with them. Do you understand, Adela, that you can call off the meeting at any time?”
“There is a panic button behind the headboard on the right if it should come to it – but let me reassure you that this has never happened before, and we are extremely careful about who we will accept on to our database. We have every confidence that you will be a very satisfied customer today.”
She smiles conspiratorially and I giggle. I am very, very nervous.
“Now I must just run through our few rules one final time, Adela. You understand that neither of you must give your name or any personal details to your match?”
“Yes, I read that.”
“If you are happy with the outcome and want to see your match again, you may make arrangements to do so through the website. We do ask you not to reveal personal details until you have enjoyed five successful encounters. Then, if you both wish, you may continue your relationship in private. If you decide to do this, do please let us know at the site. We love success stories.”
She stands, smiling again, and gestures me up with one elegant hand.
“I am going to go now, Adela, but I have one last stipulation. For this first meeting, we always ask that our clients wear a blindfold.”
“Really? Why?” I widen my eyes as the woman produces a length of black satin from her expensive clutch.
“We at StrangerLove believe that sexual compatibility runs much deeper than looks. You might remember from our application form that we did not ask any questions about your preferences on the basis of appearance. We simply asked what you found sexy in a man. We believe we have found you the perfect match, but we would be so very disappointed if some trivial prejudice against, say, moustaches or ginger hair caused you to miss the lover of your lifetime.”
“Are you saying this man has a ginger moustache?”
She laughs. “No. I am not saying that. I think you know what I am saying.”
I nod slowly. In a way, this is a huge relief. I had no idea how I was going to meet his eyes anyway. She moves behind me and I shut my eyes obediently, allowing her to fasten the stretchy material around my head until I am freed from the distraction of sight.
I allow her to lead me to the bed and perch me on its side. Two of her fingertips rest, coldly and briefly, on my cheek before she wishes me a very gentle good evening. The door clicks and I am alone.
In enforced darkness, I am aware of the cling of my blouse and a stiffness at the back of my neck. I try not to breathe, training my ears to pick up any and every sound, but the room is quite quiet. After a long time, which could be five minutes, or less, or more, I put my hands up to my face, thinking I might remove the blindfold and leave.
It is then that a tiny click and creak from the direction of the ensuite bathroom causes my shoulders to jump. It really is the faintest of sounds, but to my taut nerves it is a thunderous roar. What do I hear? A swishing sound, and the fibres of the carpet flattened by footsteps. The room is warm, but my skin goosepimples at a wavelet of air at my front. I hear more swishing, which I guess is my mystery match crouching down on his haunches. I work hard on keeping my back straight and my mouth from wobbling. The gentlest suggestion of heat radiates from the solid presence before me; I find I am guessing at height and build just from this. Tall, I think, and broad.
I sense the hand moving towards me before it makes contact with my skin. To my shame, I flinch as it touches my cheek, exactly the spot that the woman had chosen earlier.
“Ah. You are here.”
The voice is seated somewhere deep in his chest. He sounds educated, professional, successful, perhaps a bit sporty. A hint of self-deprecating humour lurks behind the spoken message. Strange how much you can deduce from four words, when you cannot see.
“Did you think I wouldn’t come?” I ask. There is a pause, during which I imagine he is making the same guesses and estimates as I just did.
“I never assume,” he says. “I’m glad I’ve found you though, before I broke my shin on something.”
I giggle. “This is strange.”
“Stranger,” he says. “Shall we save the talking for later? If that’s all right with you?”
“It’s…” I tail off. Even though I know the drill, it is still surreal to be living it. I feel as if I should apologise for my shameful lusts, or qualify them. “I suppose we should.”
“If you have cold feet, you have only to say so,” he says. He reaches blindly for one of my hands and finds it. “Though these are warm enough.”
“No. I don’t want to back out. You seem…right.”
“Good. Talk later then.” He puts a finger to my lips and drags it along, first the lower, then the upper, before pulling me suddenly to my feet and into a kiss.
Not the kind of first kiss I am used to; this is more like the third or fourth – the ‘in your stride’ kiss, the ‘I can’t wait to get you to bed’ kiss, the ‘I know my way around your mouth’ kiss. Full-lipped and confident, my unknown ravisher presses me to his body, which is naked apart from a satiny dressing gown of some kind. I move my hands up beneath it and my knuckles glide against the sheeny fabric while my fingertips explore his pectoral muscles, his strong back, his shoulders. I am having to crane my neck to engage in this kiss, so I am right about the height, and his hand feels large and hot and possessive on the back of my head, holding it still under the insistent pressure of his tongue.
There are wiry hairs around his nipples and a scar at the shallow inlet between ribcage and pelvis. I investigate intently, trying to fix his body in my memory, moving down to his hips. He breaks the kiss and places a hand on mine, halting its downward quest.
“You’re still dressed,” he whispers.
He knows how to undress a woman in the dark, and that really impresses me. He does not forget my cuffs, or try to pull my shirt over my head or wrench my skirt down without looking for the button – elementary things that so many men seem to lack the instinct for. He moves in for another thorough scouring of my mouth once he has me down to bra and knickers, and his hands are everywhere, unpredictable in their pattern, rough and hot against my skin while his forearms tighten around my back, jolting me hard against him.
He has a smell about him that is not too fragrant; when I rub my nose into his neck I can discern London fumes, coffee, sweat and arousal beneath the delicate aftershave, although it is becoming more difficult to distinguish between my aroma and his. I am melting against him, my bones softening and my sex liquefying as the neverending kiss finds depths beyond those I have ever imagined. We are connected by touch, no more than that, and yet it is so strong.
His thumb yanks the cup of my bra down so that a stiff nipple pops out; he gives my lips a final nip before moving his head down and lapping greedily at my breast. My hands work through his hair – short, thickish, neatly trimmed – while I begin to moan encouragement. The other nipple is redeemed from neglect, and then his hand slips through the waistband of my knickers, pausing slightly as if for permission, which I give by thrusting my hips upwards. His fingers rush downhill to their lush destination, sliding luxuriantly around in the welcoming wetness. I take the opportunity to remove one hand from his hair and stroke the stiff length that has been denting my stomach. Its proportions are more than respectable, I find. I encompass it with one hand, rub a thumb over the rounded head and squeeze.
“Oh God,” he gasps, releasing my nipple from his mouth and tumbling me down on to the bed. He wrenches off my underwear, splays my thighs and drops down to devour my juices. His chin grazes my thighs and lower lips with incipient stubble, stoking the fires between my legs while his tongue probes and flicks, sucking on my clit as if it is manna in the desert. Two, then three, fingers stretch my opening, rotating and scissoring until the stimulation becomes painful, then unbearable, then blissful and I lose myself in the starburst of orgasm.
I hear him growl, then chuckle, then his tongue, tasting of me, is in my mouth again, and then he is sitting up, getting something from his pocket.
“You’re good at that,” I say in a satiated purr, while the telltale stretch and snap of rubber sings in the air, an unambiguous sound that foretells my fate. He is going to fuck me now.
“Yes, I am,” he agrees immodestly. “I’m not bad at this either.”
He slings one leg over a shoulder, and then I am rigorously and unceremoniously shafted, pierced, penetrated, his hands cradling my bottom and pushing it further down and down and down on his seemingly endless cock. He manipulates my body with skill, finding the angles that sweeten the friction the most, filling me with sensation as if the excavations of his cock light up my secret passage. Every sense, barring sight, is stretched to its limit; the furious sounds, the salty tastes, the ripening smell of our mingled bodies, all leading towards the climactic flood that will roar and froth into every extremity. He holds himself off for as long as he can, mindful of my pleasure in a way that is so unfamiliar to me that I almost want to cry, until, fifteen minutes of thrusting and strumming and squeezing and gasping later, he can hold off no more.
We yell and shake and cling fast to one another under the cataract, swept off into a distant shore where only we exist for those few precious moments.
“We should do this again,” he says eventually.
“Yes. We should.”
Freaktastic Mr Fox by Justine Elyot
You have to wake up early in the morning to outsmart Mr Fox.
You have to wake up early in the morning, and you have to have a high brainpower breakfast – something with omega 3 fish oils, preferably – and a side order of vitamins and, even then, woe betide you if you leave so much as one of your wits on standby.
For Mr Fox has wiliness in his whiskers and cunning – both low and high – hardwired into his DNA.
He uses it for business and for pleasure. Since he took it over, Barnyard Bakeries has seen its market share skyrocket; bread and cakes and pastries with the seal of Fox quality fly off the shelves and into all the most discerning tummies of the town. His office above the shop plays host to more than mere numbercrunching and wheeler-dealing, though – a steady flow of bakery employees lose their hairnets and their knickers in the vicinity of his big oak desk. When Mr Fox decides that a goosing is in order, his pursuit always follows a pattern: prolonged observation of the quarry is succeeded by a stealthy, near-silent approach, keeping the unsuspecting female in his sights until he pounces. Feathers are ruffled, there is squawking and flapping, but Mr Fox keeps his pointy teeth sunk into his prey until yielding is the only option.
So surefire have these tactics been that, for many years, no cause to refine or replenish his seduction armoury arose. Until the day that he hired Miss Scarlett Henn as his PA.
“I think we’ll make an excellent partnership,” he opined, baring his teeth in a vulpine smile.
“I’m very glad you think so, Mr Fox,” she replied pleasantly. He rose, uncoiling long legs, and proffered a slim, pale hand to his captivating new employee.
“Call me Sly.”
So she did. And very well the name suited him, she often observed, as, one by one, she watched the bakery girls fall helplessly into his clutches.
She could see what they fell for. The immediate benefits of submitting to the fornicating Fox were manifold – he was powerful, he was handsome, he was witty and amusing. Luxuriant auburn hair and fine, pointed features, dapper dress and the graceful strength of a dancer all combined to irresistible effect.
Her unique position as his Girl Friday, however, also opened her eyes to the devastating consequences once he had gorged himself too fully on willing flesh. Red eyes, rejection, redundancy – a list of things Miss Henn had no use for in her life.
Hence she resisted his advances, which were lacklustre enough at first, Fox’s attentions being fairly focused on his fabulous baker girls. Sometimes she would catch him watching her at her filing or on the phone; he would withdraw his eyes hastily and smile. Then he would pay her flattering little attentions – fetching her lunch, bringing in a newspaper cutting she might find interesting, engaging her in conversation about herself and her tastes. I can see why they fall, but I’m not going to do it, she told herself grimly.
Then he would mention a new hairstyle or a pretty necklace. Then he would invite her out to lunch. Then he would stand a bit closer…hover behind her…brush past her…so that his keen scent of maleness and desire would impinge on her olfactory nerves to the exclusion of all else, sending delirious messages to her brain. I can see why they fall, but I’m not going to do it.
One wet Wednesday at clocking-off time, she ran into a gaggle of baker girls, all soothing and sighing around one of their number, who sobbed in their midst.
“He’s such a bastard,” she choked – her name was Peggy, I think. “But I can’t help loving him.”
“There, there,” clucked the girls. “He isn’t worth crying over. You’ll get over it in time.”
“And then one of you will be next,” Scarlett broke in, to general hostility and mistrust. “Yes, you will,” she insisted. “I’ve seen this happen too often. Much too often. And I’m sick of it. Who will help me teach Mr Fox a lesson?”
They backed away from the determined PA, muttering amongst themselves.
“Not I,” said Kitty.
“Not I,” said Dot.
“Not I,” said Pippa.
“Very well,” decided Scarlett briskly. “Then I will do it myself.”
After all, perhaps it would be fun. He wasn’t unattractive. He wasn’t inexperienced. He would probably be…memorable, at least.
Scarlett Henn dressed for the occasion. Her sober hemlines slid three inches up her leg and down her cleavage. She wore shiny patent heels instead of the usual ballet flats, and sprayed herself all over with Plaisir d’Amour.
The bakery girls all looked daggers at her when she strode through the furnace heat en route to Fox’s office and for a moment she wondered if she might get pecked to death there on the flour-dusty floor. They let her pass, though, and she tripped lightly up the stairs, hearing his voice drift down to meet her.
“Yes, sounds good. We’ll touch base then. No. Yes. Don’t worry – I’m sure you’ll blow her house down.”
Just as she reached the doorway, he put the phone down and bit the head off a large gingerbread man, his snakeskin boots up on the desk while he reclined.
“Business?” she asked breezily, inwardly gratified by way his eyes popped and body tensed at the sight of her.
He fought to swallow his gingerbread before replying in a gravelly purr, “Pleasure.”
“Oh, lovely,” she said. She licked her lips. “Gingerbread? My favourite.”
“Come over here and I might be persuaded to share.”
She pulled up a chair and sat down beside him. He broke off an arm of the gingerbread man and put it to her mouth, teasingly pushing it at the lavishly reddened and glossed lips.
“That was a friend on the phone,” he said. “Wolf. Needed some relationship advice.” Scarlett felt Fox’s fingers linger over her wet lips as the spicy sweetmeat slipped inside. “His new girlfriend has seven little kids. I think he should get out while the going’s good.”
“That would be bad,” objected Scarlett.
“Well, he is bad,” grinned Fox. “Big, bad Wolf.”
“You have a lot in common then?” she asked innocently, chewing at the gingerbread before letting it disintegrate and dissolve down her throat.
Fox ran a hand through his luxuriant coppery mane, flashing his eyes at her.
“If you’re implying that I’m bad…” he purred menacingly.
“Only in a good way,” she smirked back. “And I’m sure you’re big. I mean, how tall are you?”
“Six two,” he said, uncrossing his legs from the desktop and standing up to demonstrate his towering height.
“Gosh yes,” she said, craning her neck up and then unambiguously dropping her eyes to his crotch, which lay directly in her line of sight now. “You really are awfully big.”
“Too big for some,” he said, putting his thumbs in his belt loops and striking a pose of pure machismo, pulling his trousers tight over the outline of his bulge.
“I can see it might be a tad intimidating,” she said, making her voice as lispy and little-girly as she could. “For a little old thing like me. Just a helpless chick.” She fidgeted coyly with the hem of her skirt. “I mean, gosh, you must be so strong. You could overpower a weakling like me in an instant.”
Mr Fox, sure now that Scarlett was begging him for a slice of sinful over-the-desk action, grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her to her feet, reeling her seamlessly into his chest, holding her there with a hand on her bottom.
“Well, well, Miss Henn,” he growled, patting her seat while his lips grazed her ear. “I didn’t know you cared. But now I do, make no mistake about it, I mean to have you in every way I can think of. And nobody has ever complained of my underactive imagination. You are going to be leaving this office on your hands and knees, girl.”
Scarlett gasped and giggled as she was efficiently manipulated over the desk top. Her nose pressed into a pile of invoices, she began to squirm when she felt his hands yanking at the bottom of her skirt. “I’m going to have my wicked way with you, Scarlett!” he vowed.
“Oooh, goood,” she crooned. “I did wonder though…in fact, I’ve often wondered…do you mind if I ask a very personal question?”
He held himself still, the bulk of his erection indenting her tight skirt-bound arse. “Go on,” he said guardedly.
“Are you a vanilla sponge kind of guy…or do you prefer a cinnamon danish?”
“Much as I love a bakery-themed metaphor, Scarlett, can we cut to the chase? What exactly are you asking me?”
His fist in the small of her back held her fast, sprawled and trapped on the desk.
“Are your tastes in any way unusual, Mr Fox? I mean, Sly.”
“Unusual? What sort of unusual? Why, are yours?”
“Well, yes, a bit. It’s a bit embarrassing for me to say, really.”
“I’m open-minded. Nothing involving poultry or kids or killing, is it?”
“No. I’m not the fox around here. No, I mean…to get really turned on, I like to have certain conditions fulfilled.”
“Oh, don’t worry. You’ll get to sink your cock into my slippery pussy. But first, I want to…can I whisper in your ear?”
“Be my guest.” Fox bent down to her level, brushing burnished hair from his ear, all the better to hear her with. “Oh. I see. That’s your bag, is it, Miss Scarlett Henn?”
She blushed, her cheeks paying tribute to her given name. “I know it sounds silly,” she said shyly. “It’s just my funny little way. I like things to be done in the right order.”
“Go on then. Shall we begin?”
“Yes. I’m starting to feel hot, Sly, but I’d like you to kiss me a little, just to loosen me up.”
“That doesn’t present too much of a challenge.” His smile was white and bright as he released Scarlett from her position over the desk and spun her around to sink his lips into hers. His whiskers bristled against her face and his tongue forged a swift path through her lips, to forage within. Mr Fox had practised his kissing technique until it was irresistible and Scarlett had to fight to keep a clear head, so tempted was she to simply give in to the siren lure of his experienced lips and fingers. Just as the void began to open beneath her feet, he withdrew, still holding her chin and checking her eyes for signs of helpless infatuation. She only had to fake a little bit.
“Wow,” she breathed.
He struck a pose, leaning one palm on the desk, hip thrust out. Sleek and slinky, slick and sinuous, Mr Fox signalled his strongest Come Hither.
“Getting hotter?” he asked urbanely.
“Definitely warming up. Now would you please touch my breasts?”
“With pleasure.” Mr Fox’s deft fingers made short work of Scarlett’s blouse, unbuttoning it in a flash and opening it to reveal snowy peaks in an expertly-cantilevered bra.
“Good enough to eat,” he growled, lowering the cups and weighing the fleshy spillage in his hands, frowning down at them like an antiques expert confronted with a rare piece of glass or china. “Best quality.” He gave them the benefit of his expert opinion, pressing and stroking and pinching the heavy mounds with their pert red cherries on top, then putting his lips to them, licking and flicking with his tongue, and kissing and sucking. Scarlett’s mind grew hazy; her breasts were sensitive and she could feel, with some reluctance, even a little regret, uncomfortable heat and wetness between her legs now.
“Don’t tell me you aren’t hot, you horny little slut,” he hissed, coming up for air with a farewell nip to a nipple.
“I’m getting there,” she assured him, her chest fluttering. “Just put your hand between my legs and I’m sure I’ll be ready for you soon.”
His fingertips curled in just the right way; he knew exactly how much pressure to exert to get the juices flowing. He pulled her knickers down to her knees and treated her to a long, slow massage, sweeping strokes across her clit until it ached and throbbed with the need to come.
“Oh, that’s good,” she almost sobbed. “It’s so good, but I can’t…”
“You can! You must be hot enough! Just get back on that desk and get those legs spread, Henn.”
“Just one, please, just one more thing, then you can fuck me into the next dimension, I swear it.”
Mr Fox sighed and huffed, making it clear that he would not tolerate this aggravation from anyone else. “Quickly then!” he barked.
“I want to blindfold you.”
“Fine. Just do it.” His blood was raging fit to burst all his major arteries – a blindfold seemed a trivial concession now.
Scarlett reached for her bag and grabbed a length of black silk, which she wrapped, once, twice, thrice, around the golden eyes of Mr Fox. She dropped to her knees, unzipped his trousers and took his frustrated cock out, bathing it briefly but unforgettably in the soft, dark, damp haven of her scarlet-lipped mouth. He groaned.
“Fuck me, Scarlett.”
She released his cock and stood, grasping it firmly and sliding it between her hot, wet pussy lips. She basted it in her juices, rolling it over and over her clit, sliding up to the tip of her entrance then back again until he was in a torment of denied lust and she – well, she was not. She slammed it hard against the fat cushion of her clit and came, hard and victorious, bucking on his length while he clawed and plucked at her, begging her to take him inside.
“Thanks,” she said, stepping back and adjusting her clothes.
“Wait a minute. Where are you?”
She opened the door that led down the iron stairway and out to the bakery floor.
“Come up and have a look, girls,” she called cheerfully. “The Fox has let a cock make a fool of him. His own cock, come to that.”
She left the door open and swung out of the building, whistling cheerfully.
Fur and feather flew amidst the flour that day. And Fox stopped hunting, at least for a little while.