Читать книгу Sex and the Stranger - Justine Elyot - Страница 6

Amelie put her finger to her lips.

‘Hush, darling.’

Tom looked close to tears as he continued to beg.

‘Please, Amelie. You’re so beautiful, and I need you so badly. Please!’

‘No, Tom, not until our wedding night. You know how I feel about that. You’ll just have to do it in your hand.’

Tom’s response was a hollow groan, but he flopped down into a chair and took hold of the straining erection that protruded from his open fly. Amelie watched as he began to masturbate, unable to prevent herself from enjoying her power even though it made her feel wicked. Yet there was no choice. Tom was a nice man, a kind man, also a good provider. He would make the ideal husband: faithful, gentle and patient, while his skill as an accountant ensured that she and her children would never be in want. Yet they would not be his children. That was unthinkable. The man who fathered her children would be a truly great man, a genius, nothing less.

Again Tom began to beg.

‘Please, Amelie, at least take me in your mouth? Or your hand even, anything! Please, Amelie. I love you. I need your touch.’

Amelie shook her head.

‘You know you shouldn’t ask that of me, darling. My body is a temple, sacred until God has made us one. But I do understand your needs, so you can look, as long as you promise not to touch.’

Tom responded with an urgent nod and Amelie moved her position on the bed to allow herself to pull up the loose white dress which was all that she wore on top, showing off first her panties and then her naked breasts.

‘There we are, darling. Now do be quick.’

He gave a low sob and began to tug harder on his erection. His eyes were fixed on her body, his mouth slightly open, an expression so urgent and so adoring but also so foolish that she had to suppress a giggle. Yet there was no denying that he was turning her on, but not enough to make her give up what he wanted so badly. She stretched on the bed, languid and cool as he hammered at his cock, stroking her nipples to make them stiff.

‘There, darling. Does that look nice? Am I pretty?’

Tom’s answer came in words gasped out to the rhythm of his now desperate masturbation.

‘Beautiful. Perfect. So sweet. Oh God, Amelie … Amelie, take your panties down Amelie … please … show me your bottom … your pretty bare bottom and your lovely little cunt, please!?’

‘There’s no need to be dirty, Tom.’

Amelie had wagged a finger at him as she spoke, but she complied with his request, enjoying her power over him too much to want to refuse, despite his crude words. Rolling onto her knees, she lifted her bottom and reached back, to take hold of her panties and peel them slowly down. Tom gave a long, heartfelt sigh, his eyes riveted to her as she exposed herself inch by inch, the gentle valley between her firm little bottom cheeks, the tight pink dimple of her anus, and finally her virgin sex, with the red bulge of her hymen plainly visible where it held her inviolate to his cock.

‘Oh, Amelie!’

He came, so copiously that he soiled not only his trousers and shirt but his own face. Amelie gave a little tut as she pulled her knickers back up, then quickly rolled her legs off the bed, speaking to him as she made for the bathroom.

‘Really, Tom. I know you’re a man, and men have their needs, but you really must try and show a little more restraint. I’m not a sex doll.’

He didn’t answer, his eyes now closed in guilty bliss, while his mouth was slack and wider than before. Amelie knew from long experience that he would spend the next few minutes feeling bad about demanding that she surrender herself to him, and for what he’d asked of her. He’d always been like that, desperately eager to please her and pathetically grateful for what she chose to give. She liked it that way, and took care to conceal her own emotions, such as the urgent need to spread her thighs and have her soaking cunt filled with hard, eager cock.

She locked the bathroom door, as she always did, turned on the shower, slipped out of her dress and tugged her panties down a little. It had felt good with the material taut around her thighs and she wanted to feel the sensation again as she sat her bare bottom down on the toilet seat and spread her legs. Her hand went to her cunt to tease the moist flesh between her lips, and then lower to touch her anus in a moment of pure, dirty indulgence. The little hole felt tight and soft, deliciously sensitive, and for a moment she wondered if she had time to ease a finger in, only to decide to postpone the naughty pleasure for a more convenient moment. Tom was outside, waiting his turn in the bathroom, and while she knew he wouldn’t make a nuisance of himself she didn’t want to take too long and risk arousing his suspicions. Reluctantly, she abandoned her exploration of her bottom-hole and began to masturbate in earnest, with the ball of her thumb circling her clit and one finger gently pressed to her hymen.

Her rubbing quickly grew urgent as she remembered how it had felt to kneel on the bed with her dress pulled high to show off her breasts and her panties at half mast, the white cotton stretched taut between her thighs as she showed Tom her virgin cunt hole. It had been so good, both to be showing off and knowing exactly how he’d respond, tugging furiously at his cock in impotent desire until he came all over himself. She nearly came herself at the memory of the thick white semen erupting from his cock, but held off at the last second and turned her mind to how any real man would have behaved in the same situation.

She’d have been fucked. There would have been no begging, no pathetic entreaties. He’d have climbed on the bed behind her, given her bottom a few firm smacks to teach her not to be a tease, and pushed his cock to her cunt, to burst her hymen and fuck her until he’d added the white of his semen to the red of her deflowered sex. Maybe he’d have taken a little longer with her and made her suck his beautiful big cock for a while as he explored her body, or spanked her properly, leaving her red-bottomed and whimpering. One way or another he’d have come inside her and left her pregnant with his child.

Amelie bit her lip to stop herself crying out as she came, holding the image of her virgin cunt speared on a truly massive cock, her hole straining taut on the thick shaft, which would be streaked red and white with her blood and his semen. The only question was: who was worthy?

* * *

It was not an easy question to answer. All her life she’d been the most methodical of girls, with her progress neatly mapped out, stage by stage. So far she had successfully resisted all the boys and men who’d found her slender young body appealing, never giving in to more than the occasional blow job when one of them proved especially desirable or particularly pushy. She had done well in her exams and secured the place at university she needed to give her polish and make it easier to select a man who would make a suitable husband. That man had been Tom, who possessed all the right attributes, principally earning power and a mild, obedient nature, but he was blatantly unsuitable to be the father of her children.

So were all the other men she’d met, even the vice chancellor of the university, who’d propositioned her one evening and got his face slapped for his troubles. A mere vice chancellor was not enough. What she needed was a man whose intellect and achievements would ring down the centuries, a man whose name could claim equity with Beethoven or Churchill, with Darwin or Joyce, a true great. Unfortunately such men were impossible to identify until they had achieved their status and hard to find and seduce even then. Besides that, her timing needed to be immaculate, as in order to conceive she would have to have sex almost immediately before her wedding night and somehow conceal from Tom the fact that she had already surrendered her supposedly sacred virginity.

Yet she was nothing if not determined. Her choice was made and her plans laid. To celebrate the final days of freedom she would choose a weekend of riding in La Mancha, sat astride the magnificent Spanish palominos, which would allow for a tear-stained explanation of how she had come to ruin her hymen while providing the perfect excuse to visit a rather different destination, the villa of Vicente da Silva near Valdepenas.

Da Silva was perfect, a brilliant, fiery writer during his early years in Cuba and Central America, a man who’d fought time and again for what he believed in. He was also a composer, an athlete and, if rumour was to be believed, a dedicated lothario. Now in his seventies, he had spent the past two decades living the life of a recluse, alone in a great, decaying mansion surrounded by vineyards and olive groves, at least if the information she’d gleaned from the internet was accurate.

Amelie had no doubts at all of her ability to seduce him. A man was a man, and she had taught herself well, always ready to take in what would arouse a male, to the point at which she’d made more than one frustrated admirer come in his pants without so much as touching him. Da Silva would be no different, and if his age was a trifle off-putting, then it would be a sacrifice well worth making.

She would stay with him for a week, carefully timed to give herself the best chance of conceiving, then leave as suddenly and mysteriously as she had arrived. A day of riding and she would have the horsey photographs she needed to show Tom when she returned to England, now pregnant with the great man’s child. Only she would ever know.

Everything went smoothly. Tom fussed a little when she told him she was going to Spain, but he soon gave in, as usual. The night before she left she allowed him to come in his hand as she knelt naked on the bed, then made him promise to behave himself while she was away and not to get up to any mischief on his stag night, a night in the pub with a handful of old friends. There was worship in his eyes as he swore he’d never so much as look at another woman, and Amelie had no reason to doubt his word.

The flight to Spain and journey south in a hired car were uneventful, although Amelie could feel her tension growing with each passing mile. La Mancha was as she had imagined it, and seen it in pictures, a great open plain baked brown by the sun and giving way to more broken country in the south, where da Silva’s villa stood in a secluded valley. It took a while to be certain she had the right house, but she was sure of the man disporting himself in a great weather-beaten wickerwork chair. He’d been twenty years younger in the most recent photograph she’d been able to find. His famous mane of black hair had turned to silver and his lean body showed his seventy years, but the set of his limbs still spoke of confidence and strength, while his eyes burnt bright with intelligence.

Amelie watched for a while to get over her nervousness and just in case there was anybody else about, but the only sound was the hum of cicadas and the occasional call of a bird among the vines behind the house. Finally she stepped through the tall gateposts and up the short drive to where the great man was taking his rest in his chair. He saw her, looked up and said something in Spanish. Amelie put a finger to her lips and with a single motion shrugged the loose cotton dress that was her only garment from her shoulders. It fell away in a puddle of pure white cloth to leave her nude, her breasts exposed to his eyes, and her belly, with just the faint down of her hair concealing her virgin cunt.

His eyes went wide and again he spoke, but again Amelie put her finger to her lips, motioning him to silence as she stepped forwards, naked and ready. All he had on was a pair of sun-bleached shorts, the hems ragged and the crotch showing a conspicuous bulge. Amelie knelt down and reached out, taking hold of his cock through his shorts and massaging him gently, making her intentions even more obvious than before. He took a moment to respond and then his hand came out and made tentative contact with her back. She didn’t resist, and his hand slipped lower, first to her hip and then to the turn of her bottom.