(She was on the phone. “No, Grace, I am not alone. Lauren Noakes is here. Yes, that’s right, the artist. I’ve commissioned her to do a portrait of me. Let’s call it my vanity project. She’s working really hard.”)
I’d been lucky enough to get Harriet Singer, a famous and highly attractive politician to commission me. She was a huge champion of gay rights, very left wing and yet, somehow, mystifyingly popular with people from all shades of the political spectrum.
Sessions with Harriet in my studio had been fun. On the first occasion she’d visited, she was a bit surprised that all I wanted to do was talk. It works for me. What we talk about matters very little. I like to see the subject in different but un-directed poses. See how their face works, particularly in different lighting, So we walked through my garden, sat and had lemonade, talked about what, if anything, she wanted.
She was tall and slender. Small breasted but with huge, blue eyes that seemed to beam from under a fringe of glossy black hair. The haircut was definitely not standard politico. The right side of her head was shaved to the arc of the crown. The left side, flowed to her shoulders and was purple at the rear. The nose ring was atypical too.
“Why do you want me to do your portrait?”
“Vanity, perhaps. I’ve gone further up the slippery pole than any other openly queer woman or man and I’m proud of that. ”
“Why do you think you’ve achieved that?”
“Because I’m not a single issue, gay politician. I have other causes and I’m good at bringing people to account.”
“Do you have a preference for the clothes you’re going to wear?”
“So, I dont get to pose naked, Lauren?”
“Of course, if that’s what you want but, it occurs to me, that you might prefer not to, given your position.”
She had smiled. “No, you’re right. There’s still too much resistance to gay politicians no matter what the world thinks. And a gay nude might just be a step too far if I decide to hang it in my office.”
“Even for you?”
“Yes, even for me.”
“I could always do one for you privately?”
“We’ll see how you get on with me dressed.” We’d laughed but there was already, i felt, an undercurrent. The truth was, we had got along very nicely.
The next meeting, she’d come, as I had asked her, with a few changes of clothes. I like that. It’s good to see how the subject feels and looks in different things. I’d done a few preliminary sketches for her to look at.
“I like this one.” This was her standing, her back to a window. I’d loosely sketched in a sharp blouse, a pair of cutoffs and a pair of soft low heeled shoes. The blouse was partially open but nowhere near enough to reveal her body, just a hint of the shape of her. Her hands were on the window ledge and her arse just resting on it, as if she were about to get up.
She’d seen a few more, simpler, less developed sketches but, as i poured her a glass of wine, she said,”Oh, my.” My heart stopped. I knew what she’d seen and I hadn’t meant her to.
I’d sketched a scene from my own imagination. In it, she sat on a chair, legs wide, naked but her sex concealed from the viewer by, well, by the back of my head.
She took the glass I proffered as I tried to put a brave face on my embarrassment. “We’ve only just met.” Her smile helped me to relax.
“I’m sorry, you weren’t meant to see that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, honestly.”
“Can I keep it?”
“Yes, if you’d like to.”
“I would.” She tapped the head in the picture, then turned me around by my shoulders. “Goodness, that could almost be you.”
“Let’s see what clothes you brought.”
“Changing the subject?”
I smiled, a little sheepishly. “Yes, I rather think I am.” By this time we were on first name terms and, whilst I hadn’t wanted her to see the sketch, I was secretly pleased at her reaction.
“Right, to business.” She had brought three outfits. The first was a black suit, with trousers and a red satin blouse. At each costume change she retreated behind a screen i had especially for the purpose. The second was a pair of tight, black leather trousers with a white silk camisole, the third a simple pale cream, long dress in a soft, floaty material with buttons to mid thigh. It was no contest for me, the dress looked as sexy as hell without being cheap or overly revealing, but it drew the viewer’s attention away from her eyes, which were so penetrating. I took a few photographs of each outfit and we sat at my computer desk to examine them together. I was very conscious of her, could feel her hair as it brushed my shoulder. Now, I always try to be professional but it’s not always easy.
“Which do you think, Lauren?”
“I think the dress is glamorous without being too revealing, it shows a softer side of you, but maybe too feminine. The leather trousers speak to me and…”
“What do they say?”
‘Butch, gay, but softened by the camisole. And the camisole does show your breasts off beautifully.”
“And the suit?”
“All business and power.”
“If it were your choice?”
“The leather.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Our third meeting was a first sitting proper. I’d done more sketches as I’d promised her, showing a few poses and featuring the clothes she’d tried.
“Are these all the sketches?”
“Yes.”
“No more like the one you gave me last time.”
There was no point lying so I went to my easel and uncovered it. I’d drawn her in charcoal with some coloured highlights. She was standing, half turned to me, the leather trousers but with the red, satin shirt which was open, revealing one breast. I’d added a ring, that was straight from my imagination of her, to her nipple.
She peered closely at it. “Is that a whip?”
The whip was partially hidden, just the single tail with a little twitch on its end peeping out from under some discarded clothing. I nodded.
“My, my.” She returned to examining the other sketches then looked up at me. “Do you have a whip like that?” I told her I did not. “Then you must come to my home one day. This one,” she said, holding up a sketch of her in the leather trousers and camisole. “But, you’re right, the red shirt looks better.”
She changed once again behind the screen and I led her to the window i intended to frame her against. “Do I need to sit for hours?”
“No, no, Harriet. I’ll make a quick sketch, take a few photographs, and then I can start work and give you a call when I need you to sit for me.”
“Perfect. When you do, give me a call and I’ll arrange for you to come and visit me at home. Will that be ok?”
“I prefer to work here.”
“Even so.” She had that way powerful women have, of making herself abundantly clear without throwing her weight around.
“Yes, sure, of course.”
She pointed at my easel. “Can I have that one too?”
“It’s not finished.”
“Well, when it is. Oh, and put the whip in my hand, would you?” She gave me a wicked grin, kissed my cheek (actual contact, not an air-kiss) and wiggled her fingers as she walked out, without looking back. Some women just know when they’ve got you.
I went straight to my bedroom, couldn’t get my jeans off fast enough so, with them round my knees, I rubbed my clit, hard and fast imagining her, no, seeing her in my mind’s eye until I almost collapsed as a massive, messy tide of orgasm overwhelmed me. “Well,” I thought, “that’s professional.”
Her house in the Mendip Hills was a creamy stone cottage with a thatched roof and surrounded by a meadow, one corner of which was an orchard. It was a warm summer day and, as my aged VW rattled up the rutted driveway, I saw the door open and there she was. She was wearing a yellow jump suit, a tight white belt around her waist and espadrilles on her feet.
“The summer recess,” she said, “is a good time to be doing this. During ‘term time’ I’d be in my London flat or hopping around the country. Come on in.”
As I walked through the door, she put a hand on my shoulder and kissed me; not quite on the lips but close enough for me to taste her breath. She smelt of citrus. It was a Friday afternoon and I was staying, at her insistence, for three nights. She was anxious to get all but the final tinkering done on the painting before I left. I’d carried my portfolio case in and left my bag in the car. I noticed, on the wall of the hallway, the sketch she had asked to keep, the one of me between her legs. Christ, I thought, she doesn’t care what visitors think!
I went back to the car and got my easel and kit and she guided me through the house to a large orangery at the back. “Will this do?”
“Perfect, thanks.”
“Fancy a Pimms? I have a jug all made.”
While she poured it, I set up, pulled my smock over my t shirt and jeans and got everything ready.
I was all set to go when she returned with two large glasses of the pink and fruity cocktail. Open windows allowed a gentle warm breeze through the room.
“Have you finished the other picture?”
“Yes, Harriet. Would you like to see it?” She said she would, so I unzipped my portfolio case and got it out and put it on the easel. Her glass to her lips, she studied it. The whip was coiled and held in the hand nearest the viewer. It’s wicked little twitch dangling like a threat. Her eyes, so blue, pierced me from the paper. Her nipple, adorned with the ring was dark, hard and pointing directly at the viewer, her nasal ring showed more as a hint than anything else.
“Come here.” I moved to stand beside her and she put her arm across my shoulders, drawing me to her. “Is this how you see me? If so, you’re very perceptive. I think you’re going to do a wonderful job. Should we get started?”
“Will you change?”
“Change?” She smiled. “Oh, you mean my clothes. Yes, of course, give me a minute.” A few moments later she came back wearing the trousers and shirt.
I painted until the sun had shifted away from the orangery. She didn’t need to sit all through which was good because she had a lot to say and distracted me. Also, I could tell she was full of energy and sitting was frustrating for her. It was about 7 when she came into the orangery, changed once again, this time into the dress she had brought as one of her costume changes. I was just cleaning my brushes and packing away my oils when she arrived.
“Ah, good, you’ve finished for the day. Do you want to wash up before supper?”
“I’d love to please. I’ll just nip out to the car and get my bag.”
“No need, i did that while you were working. It’s up in your bedroom May I see how it’s going?” It’s my usual practice to cover the canvas when not working on it, so I unveiled it for her. Once more, that arm went across my shoulders. She studied it for a while. “How much of it is me and how much is you?”
Time for standard speech. “A portrait isn’t a record. I try to show a subject’s character, not just her form. I want to show attitude and demeanour.” I touched her lips on the painting. “These are wrong, somehow. I’ll get it though.”
She patted my shoulder. “Go and clean up and we’ll have a drink.” She told me how to find my room and I went upstairs, along a landing and found my room, door ajar.
My bag was on the large double bed and, next to it, lay a whip. Not identical to the one I had drawn but similar enough to make my heart stop. I touched it, picked it up and weighed it in my hand and that old craving, long-suppressed, rose in me. Pulling myself together, I put it back on the bed and stripped off. There was an en suite shower so I stood under it, washing away a day’s grime and, temporarily, some, if not all, of my cravings.
When I came out of the shower, she was there. “Just wanted to make sure you were ok?” She was holding the whip. She looked at it. “I knew I’d left this somewhere.” Her smile was feral. “I hope it didn’t frighten you. Come down when you’re ready, the gin’s cold.” Her dress floated around her as she walked away. Was she wiggling her arse? Jeez.
I got into my clothes; a long pale blue skirt, a white blouse, sleeveless, and a pair of strappy sandals. I brushed my long, chestnut hair, checked makeup and made my way downstairs.
“There you are. Come in,” she was in her kitchen, “There’s a g+t on the table for you. Is that ok?” I said it was more than ok. “Have a seat, I’m just finishing our supper. I hope you like fish?” I said I do. “I like what you’ve done so far. I’m not going to interfere, you just do your job, I have confidence in you.” Wiping her hands she turned and leaned back against her counter. “Tell me about the whip.”
“It was just something that sort of seemed right.”
“Have you felt one?”
“Yes.”
“I expect you’ll tell me more in due course. I knew you were gay when I commissioned you. It wasn’t why I commissioned you. But I’m very glad I did. I didn’t invite you here just to work, although it is more convenient.”
We ate at a table in the garden, the warmth of the evening lingering as we enjoyed the fish stew with salad and cold Chablis.
“So, do you prefer me like this,” her hands moved in front of her body, “or butch?”
“I think butch is more attitude than clothes.”
She smiled. “I do too. I like wearing a dress sometimes. Not to look femme, but because it’s comfortable.” As she said this, she took my hand and looked at me intently. “How did you feel when you saw my whip on your bed?”
“It seemed like a calling card.”
She smiled. “Tell me more about you and the whip.”
“I was in a relationship, a D/s relationship for some years. It was a special time in my life.”
“Why did it end?” She may have seen the pain in my eyes. “Don’t tell me. It isn’t necessary. She whipped you?” I nodded. “Punishment?”
“No, never for punishment. She whipped me because we both, well, needed it.”
Squeezing my hand, she said, “You don’t need to explain, Lauren. I understand. More wine?”
We sat out in the dying light, occasional touches, more wine, until it began to get a little chilly. “Let’s go inside. Your nipples suggest it’s cold.” Still holding my hand she stood and I followed and she led me into the house. “Tomorrow, we’ll go for a walk and I will get to know you better. Time we went to bed.”
If I’d hoped that was an invitation into her bed, I’d have been wrong. She kissed me, her tongue entering my mouth gently and exploring while her hands roamed feely over my body. “Not tonight. I know you’ll go to bed and masturbate thinking of me, as I will of you. But you’re going to have to wait. I may fuck you, I may hurt you, but not tonight.”
I stripped off and got into bed. She wasn’t wrong about me masturbating. It was a frantic, determined assault on my clitoris, there’s no other way to describe it. Eyes closed, I fingered and squeezed and rolled her between my fingers until, I have no idea after how long, the banks burst and I had to press my face into my pillow to muffle my scream of orgasm.
When I went down to breakfast, she was there, in her kitchen again. No floaty dress today, she was all butch: black jeans, a pale blue, denim shirt with sleeves rolled a little way up.
“Grab some breakfast and then we’ll take a walk.”
I had tea, toast and marmalade and then we went out into the warm morning air. I was wearing a pair of khaki shorts, a white blouse and a pair of flat sandals that, she assured me, would be fine for the walk she had in mind. We walked for about an hour, mostly through woods. When we were out of sight of her house, she stopped.
“Did you masturbate last night?” I confessed I had. “So did I. I was imagining you.”
I decided to ask a question that had been occupying my mind. “Harriet, why exactly am I here?”
She stopped walking and turned to look at me. “You’re painting my portrait.”
“No, I’m not. I’m walking through beautiful woodland with you.”
“Well, that’s true at this moment but there’s plenty of time. And I want to get to know you.”
“You could do that while I am painting.”
“I could, but the questions I have for you might be a little distracting. You sketched me with a whip. You’ve told me you have experienced the whip. I have too, but from a rather different perspective from yours. How long where you with her?”
“Eight years.”
“It ended badly, or sadly?”
“Sadly.”
She held me then. It was a tender, understanding moment. “Then we wont open old wounds.” She looked into my eyes. “Do you think you’re ready to delve into your, our needs again?”
“With the right woman, yes.”
She lifted one eyebrow. “Is that saying, not me?”
“No, I didn’t mean that at all. I just meant that I’d need to know someone was right for me.”
“Define ‘right.'”
“Well, let me start by saying I don’t expect to replicate what I had before. I know I need to adapt to form a relationship. Right means,” I took a deep breath, “being willing to learn about me, and willing to teach me about her. Does that make any sense?”
By way of answer, she kissed me. It was a firm, intrusive kiss. “Perfect sense. We’ll take our time.”
She didn’t take much time to kiss me again. We’d walked a few yards deeper into the woodland, her hand holding mine, when she stopped and turned so we were face to face. Her free hand reached up and stroked my face, then curled behind my he’d and pulled me to her. We stood there for hat seemed a lifetime, our lips almost touching, and then they were. The kiss was firm, only slightly parted lips until she pressed her tongue hard into me and, unlike the gentle exploration the previous evening, this was a statement, a raid. He hand let mine go and held my breast firmly, her thumb caressing my braless nipple through the linen of my blouse.
She broke the kiss. “Come along, time’s a-wasting and I’m paying you to paint my portrait. Cant have you enjoying yourself on my payroll.”
I asked her to sit for me for a while. “I’d like you not to talk for a few minutes, if that’s ok. I’m having trouble with your lips.”
She laughed at that. “You didn’t seem to earlier.”
I ignored her and concentrated, mixing, shaping, adjusting until I’d got it to my satisfaction. “That’s better.”
“Let me see.”
“Just a moment.” I was brusque as I so often am when working on a knotty problem. Her left eyebrow rose in an arc of what looked like an angry question and I said, “Yes, like that, hold that.” It was perfect. I’d seen it in so many of the photographs of her, that incisive, forensic questioning look.
It was a relief and I felt almost exhausted.
I turned the easel so she could see. “I look like I’m about to give someone a good bollocking.”
“You don’t like it?” I was crestfallen.
“On the contrary, I like it very much. One of the great pleasures of being a senior politician is the opportunity it provides to tear a strip off some self-satisfied mandarin. I’d like my pictorial record to reflect that.” My relief must have been obvious. “I’m delighted with it, thank you. How much longer do I have to be motionless?”
“I’m done with you for now, thank you.”
She stood. “Are you indeed?” Before I could apologise she came to me, kissed my mouth, slipped her arm yet again across my shoulders and studied the painting. “You have a good eye for detail.” She rested her finger close to the tip of her nipple under the red shirt. “My lack of a bra is apparent. Do you know why my nipple was hard?” I said that I didn’t. “Because yours are. Are you done for today?”
“I need to clean my brushes and I’d like to a bit more before I stop.” It was about 2 in the afternoon. I looked up into her eyes. “Would that be ok?”
“You’d know if it wasn’t.”
I finished about 5. I cleaned up my brushes and palette, covered the picture, but not before standing looking at it for a while. Was I ready to ‘delve’ into my needs again? Oh, I fancied her, no question about that. But could I face am emotional involvement. I’d never been one of those who could pay a ‘professional.’ It wasn’t about the pain, it was about the connection, the deep intimacy of mutual need and trust and vulnerability. But the painting was one of my best, I knew that, and it seemed like a statement of my feelings toward her. I wanted it to be the very best I ever painted. For her.
So, that was that.
I went up to my room and showered, tied my hair back and chose my clothes carefully. I wore the long blue skirt again because it always felt right. On top, I wore a translucent cotton blouse. I studied myself in the long mirror. I could see my nipples, hard beneath the fabric. I was on the brink of choosing another but decided, fuck it, let her see I’m offering myself. I was, after all. Why be coy?
“You studied your work for a very long time.”
She was in the kitchen, wearing the outfit she wore for the sitting. Her feet, like mine, wear bare.
“I like to examine it.”
That eyebrow lifted again. “Really? I got the impression you were trying to make up your mind about something. Anyway, I’ve poured a gin and tonic for us both. Let’s go and sit on the terrace.”
She picked up the two long glasses and carried them out through the open kitchen door and to the table with a sun shade, creamy canvas and large, offering shelter from the brightness.
“I love sitting here. It’s so quiet. I’ve never been a city girl really. London’s a swamp and politics is a sewer.”
“So why do you do it?”
“Because I want to help clean that sewer. And don’t let anyone tell you it’s one party that is dishonest or whose members are corrupt or useless. There are some very, very good, decent people there. But it’s the quest for power that fucks the whole place up, infects almost everyone. Those who make it to the top, they’re the worst because they fight dirtier, have power over others.”
“Can you succeed?”
She shrugged. “It depends what you mean by success. I can, have achieved a little. I know that because I’m loathed. Not by all, but by the top people. So,” she turned and smiled at me, raising her glass, “I must be doing something right.”
We talked until the sun began to fade and then we went inside to a meal that she’d left in the oven, a delicious coq au vin. Replete, we moved into a sitting room I’d only glimpsed before. It was large but somehow cosy and furnished with three large sofas arranged as three sides of a square, with tables at the ends of each. There was a ceiling chandelier but it was unlit. All the lighting came from low lamps, set around the walls. Deep purple curtains, floor to ceiling, covered the windows on two sides of the room.
We sat side by side, and she poured armagnac into two balloon glasses. “Water?”
“A dash, please.”
“Good girl. People only refuse water if they don’t know anything abut good spirits.” She chuckled. “Are you in good spirits?” I nodded. “What was it you were making your mind up about?”
“Are you always sure you’re right.”
“Not always.”
“You asked me if I was ready.”
“I did.”
“That is what I was considering.”
“Good. It’s an important question. And?”
I put my glass down and kissed her. Actions, I thought always speak louder than words.
“What convinced you?”
“The portrait.”
“Oh, how?”
“Because it matters so much to me.”
“That’s a good answer.” Her hand rested on my breast. “It’s little things. I bet when you normally wear this blouse, you wear a t shirt or camisole under it to conceal your nipples. But tonight, you’re showing them to me, letting me see how aroused you already are, even though all we’ve done is kiss.” She squeezed my nipple gently. “Do they get harder?”
“They do.”
She kissed me again, her hand still playing with my nipple, making it harder. She shifted so she was able to handle the other nipple and maintain our kiss. It went on and on, our mouths working together. Our tongues didn’t fight, they cooperated, moving to accommodate each other, first in my mouth, then in hers. She deftly unbuttoned my blouse and, for the first time, i felt her hand on my naked breast. Her nails stroked along its underside, that sensitive skin immediately below and to the side of the breast. She want back.
“The whip hurts there, doesn’t’t it?”
“It does, yes.”
“Is that where it hurts the most?”
“No.”
She put her finger to my mouth. “Don’t tell me. I want to find out for myself. Will you allow that?”
“Yes, I will.”
“We are not going to hurry. Can you find time to come and stay again, soon, before the summer recess ends?”
“Yes.”
“It wont interrupt your work.”
“I can work around it.”
“You can work here if that would help?”
“I don’t think I could bring my clients here, not with that picture of you in the hallway.”
“It’s a picture of us, isn’t it?” I nodded. “I don’t care what anyone thinks. I had the party chairman stay a month or so ago and put a picture in his bedroom. I hoped it would shock him. He’s a thoroughgoing homophobe.” Her eyes glinted with fun. Abruptly, she stood up and took my hand to pull me off the sofa. “Come with me, I”ll show it to you.”
She led me up the stairs, to the first door on the passage that led to my room. Her bedroom. It was large and had curtains similar to those in the sitting room. Standing behind me, one hand on my shoulder, she pressed a light switch and a single lamp illuminated a picture of a naked woman, explicitly masturbating. Her back was turned to the camera, bending forward, her arse revealed and a finger penetrating her cunt. Over her shoulder, out of focus, was a naked woman, watching.
“Like it?”
“I bet he didn’t.”
She laughed, and as she laughed, so she eased my blouse off my shoulders. She slid her arms around me and cupped my tits, her thumb and forefinger of each hand squeezing my nipples. Her mouth was at my ear. “Look at the picture. Are you watcher or the watched?” I said I was the watched. She let go of my left nipple and her hand went up to cup my chin, lifting it so my head went back onto her shoulder. Her finger entered my mouth and she left it there, about two knuckles deep. I let my tongue caress it.
“Are you a screamer?”
“Yes. If it hurts enough.”
“Then, when the time comes, I’ll just have to make sure it does, won’t I?”
I didn’t get a chance to answer. She turned me around and kissed my mouth, hard. Her fingers were then at the zip on the side of my skirt and she undid it, then the button and moved her body back enough to let it fall to the ground. I wasn’t wearing any knickers. She didn’t stop kissing my, but her hand was between my thighs, covering my cunt, not moving, just covering. I was, of course, wet. I’d trimmed my pubic hair before leaving home. I’d wanted to look tidy. Then she crooked her finger and opened my lips, her nail gently scraping my inner skin. She turned me again and stood behind me, her finger now deep inside me.
“Look at the picture.” Her finger slid inside me. “I’ll want you to do that for me, show yourself to me. Can you do that?” I nodded. “Put your finger in with mine.” I reached down and pressed my finger in beside hers. She pushed me so I was bending forward and then removed her finger. She left me like that as she moved to stand beside the picture, facing me. “Work your finger.” As I did, she began to undress. The red shirt first, opening, revealing her breasts to me, their nipples hard and longer than I’d imagined. It was no wonder they showed through the shirt. The trousers came down and she wasn’t wearing knickers either. Her hair was a thick, black triangle, untrimmed, wild. She stood there, naked, watching me. “Turn around and bend further. Put another finger inside.” It was a few minutes and then I felt her hand on my arse. I hadn’t heard her move. I was startled and straightened and looked over my shoulder. “Get back as I told you.” Her hand on my back pushed me further down. Then I felt her finger at the top of my arse crack and slowly, agonisingly slowly it ran down my crack, over my arse, over my perineum and then entered me along with my fingers.
She whispered to tell me to take my fingers out as hers left me too. “Turn around.” I did. “Kneel for me.” I did that too. “Bring your head close and watch.”
My face inches from her she began to finger herself, opening herself, entering herself. She took her time, until she took her finger out and touched it to my lips. “Take it, taste me.” Lips open, I took her finger and tasted her, sweet, a hint of musk.
“Good, very good. Stand up. Bed time. Together tonight. Do you want me to fuck you?”
“Yes, Harriet.”
“Say it, be explicit.”
“Yes, please Harriet, I want you to fuck me.”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Get into my bed.”
It was beautiful. She was slow, gentle, exploring me, letting me explore her. No ‘toys’ just two bodies, fingers, hands, skin, mouths and tongues. The only sign of her dominant nature came when I was right on the brink and she told me to wait, and wait, and wait. Her timing was exquisite and our orgasms, if not simultaneous were very, very close.
Afterwards, we lay together, my cheek resting on her breasts, her fingers in my hair.
“Well now, it was as good as I could possible have hoped.”
“it was beautiful.” I kissed her breast.
We slept, but at some point in the night she woke me and we did it again, and it was just as good that time, as indeed it was when the light of the morning filtered through the gaps in the curtains.
“Let me go and make us some tea?”
“No. You’ve got work to do and so have I. We’ll shower and have a quick breakfast and then we can start our day.”
“Yes, Harriet.”
“You have no idea how I like hearing you say that.”
She wasn’t good to her word though. The shower we shared took far longer than strictly necessary. I did wonder if I’d be able to keep up with her appetite. I intended to give it a good shot, though.
I’d nearly finished the painting. There were still a few days work to be done but I’d do them in my studio. As I was washing my brushes and tidying up she arrived bringing a couple of glasses of wine. I had no idea of the time.
“Have you done?”
I nodded. “All done. A bit to do when I get home but it should be finished by the end of the week.”
“Will you bring it down with you on Friday?” It was Sunday and I’d be going home the following day. “You will come down on Friday, won’t you?”
“I’d love to, and yes, of course I’ll bring it. Do you want me to choose a frame or would you prefer to do that yourself? Or, of course, no frame at all?”
“I’ll leave that up to you.” She came close, handed me a glass and did the arm around the shoulder thing studying the portrait. “Are you pleased with it?”
“Yes, I am. I need to make a few final adjustments, but on the whole I am.”
“Tell me about those adjustments.”
I took a brush and, using the ‘wrong’ end, I pointed to a few things. The light is wrong here, the shadow too short there. Her hair was difficult in a couple of places and I wanted it right.
“I’ve done us a light supper, I hope you like seafood?”
“I do, very much.”
“Good. Get yourself showered and changed. I’ll come up in a few minutes, I want to see what you have to wear.”
I showered, dried myself off and, naked, walked out of the en suite. She was there, in a purple jump suit, calf length, a shirt-like bodice and a wide, black leather belt. “Show me what you brought.”
So, I opened my case and laid out the remaining clean clothes. A white dress with large red flowers printed on it, a silky blue camisole and a short pale grey skirt. I had a selection of knickers but, typically, no bra.
“The skirt and camisole.” I reached for a pair of knickers but she told me not to. So I slipped on the camisole and skirt. The atmosphere had changed. She came close and stroked my face. “Good. Time for supper.”
When I got down to her kitchen she’d changed into a thin cream dress. Her nipples were clearly visible through it. The seafood platter was set on the table, a bottle of Muscadet stood beside it, condensation running down the glass.
We ate, the food was simple, delicious served with crusty bread.
“Come with me.”
I followed her into her sitting room and she sat and indicated I should sit in a chair facing her. We talked for a while, sipping more armagnac between comments until, abruptly, she put her glass down and said, “Come, on your knees here.” She was pointing to the carpeting front of her.
She pushed her arse towards me so that it was only half on her chair, opened her legs to reveal her naked cunt under her dress. “Kiss me, lick me, show me how good your tongue and lips can be. Keep your hands by your sides or behind your back. Just your mouth.”
I did. I used my full repertoire, licking, kissing, squeezing bits of her between my lips, swirling my tongue over her clit. I was loving her reactions. Little purrs, soft moans, fingers in my hair. A phone warbled and, to my surprise, her fingers gripped my hair, holding me in place. and she answered the bloody thing.
“No, Grace, I am not alone. Lauren Noakes is here. Yes, that’s right, the artist. I’ve commissioned her to do a portrait of me. Let’s call it my vanity project. She’s working really hard.” She paused. “She’s very good, conscientious, focused.” Her fingers gripped me tighter and she gave a sort of groan and I felt a sudden increase in her wetness and her thighs tightened around me. “No, no, sorry. I was just taking a sip of brandy. I think she’s finished for now.” Her hand released me and, as I looked up, she pointed to my chair. “Of course you can see it when it’s done. I’m hoping she’ll bring it down next weekend. Come for lunch?” She was still sitting, her legs wide, a glisten on her lips, a smile on her face. “Of course you can meet her. You might even want her to paint you too. Excellent, see you on Saturday.”
She rang off and set the phone down on a small table beside her chair.
“How did that make you feel?”
“Surprised.”
“Lift your skirt up, I want to see you.”
She stared at me for a while, then reached and took my hand. “Bed. I want to fuck you. Go to your room and wait for me.”
I took my empty glass to the kitchen and went up to my bedroom. She hadn’t said to undress but I did, and slipped into the bed. She arrived, naked but for a leather harness and strapon. She got into bed with me, took my hand, and guided it to her dildo. “Hold it, stroke it.” I did. “Do you like it?” I said I did. “I love to wear it. It’s not because I want to be a man, have a cock, it’s because I love penetrating a lover, taking her. When did you last have a strappy inside you?” I told her it was about six months. “Nobody should have to wait that long. Lie on your side with your back to me.” I rolled and she told me to lift my knee forward. When she was satisfied and I was expecting to feel her enter me, she began kissing my neck, moving my hair aside with gentle fingers. She kissed my ear, bit my earlobe then licked a little way down my spine and a finger slowly stroked my wet cunt. She ran her finger backwards to my arse and circled it. Hot breath on my ear, she said, “You’ll give me this too, won’t you?”
“Yes, Harriet.”
“Will that be a first?”
“No.”
As I uttered that word, she entered my cunt, making me give a small gasp of surprise. “So wet, so ready. Just as you should be.” She pushed deeper and her hand gripped my shoulder. “I’ve wanted this.”
She found her rhythm and fucked me, gently but firmly, her grip on my shoulder unchanging until, making me sigh, she pulled out. “Get on your knees.”
I changed position and she knelt behind me, pushing back into me, pushing my face down onto the pillow. One hand gripped my hair, the other lifted my hip as she wanted me. She was rougher now, harder, faster and twice she slapped my buttock, firmly. It was all too much. I lost track of time, felt her strength and her power until, unbidden, unexpected, my body betrayed me and I arched, lifted and screamed as my orgasm overwhelmed me. She didn’t stop, even though she must have known I was spent because I”d slumped. She pressed down on me and fucked me until, with a roar of pleasure, her orgasm came too, a long, enduring one that made her grip my hair and shoulder tightly until she calmed. I felt wet between my thighs, and couldn’t know or care if it was hers or mine.
I felt her withdraw, slowly pulling out of me. She rolled onto her back and said, “Clean me.” I went down on her, licking and sucking, her knees high and spread to give me access. I lapped at her and decided the wet was hers, so much of it, everywhere.
As I packed my things into my car the following morning, she came out and held me. She kissed me. “Friday?”
“Yes, Harriet.”
“What time can you get here?”
“Whenever you want me to.”
“Get here about lunchtime then. I ought to be free by then, but,” she said with a smile, “if I’m not, a little waiting, anticipation, will do you good, won’t it?”
“Yes, Harriet.”
She hugged me close, kissed me again then told me to, “Fuck off and finish my vanity project.”
I smiled all the way home.