She’s a rich lady who knows exactly what she wants and how to get it.
I’ve never been one for travelling light. That’s why if I go anywhere for more than a few days, I always employ the services of a valet. I’m far from poor and am much beyond being merely well-off, though I would never be so vulgar as to boast of my wealth. Fact is, I can afford to be very choosy over who I employ and my criteria has very little to do with my manservant’s ability to carry my bags.
First of all, they must be a minimum of six feet tall. I stand 5’8 in heels and it just wouldn’t do for me to dwarf the help. They must be strong, and I prefer lean runners who work their upper bodies, to footballers with beer bellies or no-neck iron men. They must be over 24-years-old and under 29; well-educated, well-spoken and unattached. Hair colour I can be slightly flexible with, but a dark-haired man will ultimately always win over a blond.
I pay my servants fantastically well, which is how I get away with being so deliciously and wickedly demanding. Sometimes the applicants confuse the role with that of an escort and I have to be very clear that their duties are strictly to carry my bags, and, should I be in the mood, to fuck me. They are not my friends, my lovers, or my companions. I don’t desire their company or want them to entertain me.
Ticket To Pleasure
I booked my trip to Prague, from Istanbul via Venice, some time ago. I always book three suites on the Orient Express. They join two cabins per couple to make a suite and, although you might think six cabins extravagant, for my luxury train journeys I always employ two valets − so one suite for them and two for little old me and all my exquisite things is far from excessive. I have one suite set up as a lounge, the other as my bedroom. Trust me, it’s still far from roomy.
Adam and Mark meet me in Istanbul. I’d paid for them to fly out a day ahead, with my luggage, so that they had plenty of time to get it safely aboard the train. There’s nothing I hate more than a lot of fuss and bother. I pay good money so that I can arrive after all the commotion is done, gliding into position, reclining on a comfortable chair, with a perfectly-chilled glass of champagne promptly delivered into my perfectly-manicured hand. Bliss.
Adam’s the one I really have my eye on. Mark’s rather shy and I chose him mostly because I can tell he’s dependable. The last thing I want is an expensive bag left behind on a platform somewhere. I’m an excellent judge of character. As a lady of leisure I spend my days watching people and observing their quirks, responses and interactions. Life’s taught me a thing or two, and at 43 I’m far from being in the first naïve flush of life. I don’t suffer fools – I have no need to.
Mark is fumbling with the drink I told him to pour while Adam stands in silence by the window, peering out at the passing landscape. I’m admiring him and he knows it. There’s an air of arrogance to Adam that I find by turns repellent and compulsive. He’s every right to be proud of his physique and his looks, but there’s something distasteful about a man who’s too self-absorbed. Still, I’m not interested in his mental defects. He’s 6’3” with shoulder length black hair, which he smoothes behind his ears, and delicately pale skin of a milky hue so rare on a man. He’s a vintage beauty, with long, strong limbs and a long neck – he was born to wear tailored suits and tuxedos, or better yet, I could imagine him in tight breeches and knee high leather riding boots…
A man is every bit as appealing to me in clothes as out of them. I love the finer things in life and like my accessories to reflect my impeccable taste and style. Few women seem to fetishise the clothes their men wear in the same way a man will, for example, idolise a woman’s stockings and shoes, or fawn over her long, golden hair. Women don’t seem to be programmed that way, for some reason unknown to me. I consider myself an exception to this rule. As much as I admire the finest kid leather or the most luxurious Chinese silk, I admire the appearance of these opulent fabrics draped over a man’s flesh. I love the way a pair of trousers might pull and bunch slightly over a man’s crotch every bit as much as plain sight of his fully engorged prick.
Needless to say, I dress my valets in stylish, if plain, designer clothes and they are made-to-measure by my gentleman’s tailor, an old friend with premises on Saville Row. Adam and Mark are sartorial twins in black trousers and crisp, white, perfectly fitting shirts; the cut and fit of their clothes bringing out the best in both of them and although they are different physically, they are united by the polish of their clothes.
Mark, the shorter of the two at 6’ (just) is slightly stockier than Adam, with thick wavy light brown hair. He wore it too long when I interviewed him and I took him to have it cut into a short all-over crop which suits him much better. I had noticed a slight sadness in his eyes which, if I’m honest, warmed my hard heart a little. I’m not one for pity or a surfeit of kindness, but I do have a gift for transforming the meek and helping them realise their potential. Plus I could tell that Mark was instantly smitten with me. He was coy, a little embarrassed and totally in awe, and there was a part of me that would take huge satisfaction from making that adoring young boy’s dreams come true.
But for now, my mood was playful and provocative after three glasses of champagne and so I dismissed Mark to his cabin, leaving me free to work on Adam. He’s the kind of man who would not respond to obvious demands. No, it was clear to me that he needed more conventional seduction, that dance of tease and denial that women have honed into an art form.
Pulling In
I tell Adam to put on some music. We’re in my lounge suite, which is well-equipped. Music dock, flat-screen TV, mini-bar, but it’s cosy of course, you can’t move far without finding your body up close to another. While he’s focused on the music, I’ve checked my make-up and undone a couple of buttons on my cream-coloured silk blouse. I’m naturally endowed, proud to not have had any work done, though god knows I can afford it, but I’ve no need for a nip or a tuck. I don’t have an insecure bone in my body. I love my body in all its natural glory.
I’m not really bothered by the music, but I feign disinterest in his choice of track, positioning my body around his so that I can lean in close, my hair brushing against his cheek to skip the track on, turning to face him so that our lips almost touch.
“That’s the one,” I say, before swiftly gliding away from him.
I sit back down on my chair and wait for him to turn around and look at me before I expertly cross my legs. This is a carefully planned movement of course.It’s not designed to flash as a form of sledgehammer seduction. Rather, his focus will be on my calves and ankles and the exquisite sheen of my silk stockings. His mind will be filled with the memory of my body pressed close to his, the scent of my perfume, and now the view of my divine legs. Legs are one of a woman’s most powerful weapons of seduction. They so visibly lead to the prize, but do so in such a graceful and unobvious way. He’s transfixed.
Still, having him just staring at me is not enough in itself. He needs permission to make a move on me. Men are cowards these days. Gone are the times when they felt a sense of entitlement over women, and rightly so. I don’t believe that ‘men should be men’ and ‘women should be women’ – I have no idea what that means. But the problem nowadays is that men don’t know what it is to be a man and it causes their brains to short circuit. They want to be animals and respond to their urges, but they’re taught that doing so might get them into trouble. So, what do they do? I’m all for keeping it simple: simple rules for simple creatures. He just needs to know I consent, then I can let him do as he will with me.
The ‘come to me’ signal, the permission to act, is not one size fits all. Some men are completely blind to a woman’s sexuality and can’t read their bodies at all. Mark is one such man. He and Adam will have totally different ‘come to me’ signals. Adam’s a predator, I have to give him cause to pounce on his prey.
I fidget a little on my chair, sigh, complain of being hot and run my hand through my hair. It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s all carefully orchestrated. I’m signalling that I’m bored; willing for action and interaction. Eventually, I stand and glide to the window with my back to Adam. I arch my back to stick out my arse and ruffle my long blonde hair so that it refreshes its cascade down my back. Again, every move draws his attention to me and to my body.
It doesn’t take him long. He’s pounced, he’s behind me, his mouth is on my neck, his body is hard and firm against me. His hands are at my wrists, and his cock is like a gold bar pressing into the cleft of my arse.
He kisses my neck, softly at first, the mark of a sensual lover. He’s willing to take his time for me and I can feel myself getting hotter and wetter. I love anticipation, the build up, the gentle tease of an expert lover as he licks and sucks and strokes me with lips and fingertips. I feel him pull the zipper on the back of my skirt. The material instantly slides off, over the friction-free smoothness of my silk blouse. I hear him gasp a little at the sight of me in my suspender belt and stockings – I’m not one for knickers, no matter how expensive or sexy.
His fingers slip between my thighs and he hooks them up and round, teasing my lips and the bud of my clit. He tries to turn me around to kiss me but I resist. Instead, I move my own body around so that he has his back against the window and I’ve a view of the room and the door. Just as I predicted, Mark is there, watching.
Hot Destination
I pretend I haven’t seen him sheepishly watching us and move my hands behind me to reach for Adam’s zipper. I release his cock quickly and he responds by grinding himself into the flesh of my arse. He tries to force himself into either of my openings but I’m not ready for that yet. I start to unbutton my blouse and as I do so, I lock Mark into a gaze, smile at him and mouth the words, ‘Come to me’.
A timid, awkward boy like Mark isn’t going to have a discreet ‘come to me’ signal. He needs something explicit, a clear and obvious announcement of intent. I mouth the words again, and repeat them over and over as my blouse falls open and Adam positions his hands over my breasts, holding them and kneading them as I begin to gasp with pleasure and Adam’s cock begins to find it’s way between my thighs. All I need to do is bend over and he can ram his way into me and fuck me.
But I don’t want that, not yet. I want Mark to join us first. And finally, he finds the courage to open the door and come inside, once I’ve raised my hand and beckoned him in with my finger.
Slowly he crosses the short distance from door to me and, as Adam continues to try and fuck me, I point Mark to the chair and have him sit down. With a slight shift of position I can now bend down and reach for Mark’s flies, and once his cock is free and proud, I pull him by the collar of his shirt towards me, and kiss him with passion and heat.
Once he’s added the condom that’s a requirement of being in my employment, Adam has no trouble finding his way into me, bent over Mark on the chair. I gasp at his first thrust and it interrupts the motion of my kissing. My body jolts with the force of Adam’s fucking, while I’m hungry for yet more cock. I knew there was another reason I wanted to employ Mark − his cock is huge, much bigger than Adam’s, and I slide my mouth over it with some considerable effort. It’s virtually impossible to take it all the way in, but Mark’s now found some never-before-seen bravado and has my head in both his hands, pushing me hard onto his shaft.
Mark comes first, hardly surprising really and I’m a little relieved. I swallow (it’s just not becoming to spit), then push the shuddering, ecstatic Mark onto my heaving breasts, holding him there as he catches his breath. Then I let myself come. I’ve had to hold back given the concentration needed to take Mark’s massive cock in my mouth, but as I finally relax my muscles and allow myself to breathe deeply it’s all over; the beautiful, pulsing, pounding and throbbing takes its hold and delivers me into that profound state of pure pleasure, while Adam sees this as his cue to let go also, and shoots into the condom, before collapsing on top of me in sexual ecstasy.
There’s little decorum in sex and my expensive clothes are in a mess on the floor. I’ll throw them away and buy new ones. Perhaps I could be persuaded to travel light, though there are some accessories I couldn’t possibly manage without.
