Introducing Georgina(the sequel)
I left University at the age of twenty-one with a good degree in Media and Business Studies, and set about the task of finding myself gainful employment. By this time I was sharing a flat with two other girls, Katie and Jade, both of whom I had been introduced to by Jessica, and whilst we had a lot of fun and some pretty wild times together, after three years of communal student living I was beginning to feel the need for my own space. Jess herself had kind of drifted off the scene a bit after falling heavily for some guy who directed her in an independent film she was involved in over the summer holidays, but Katie Shaw had more than filled the gap in my life left by her departure. I had been introduced to Katie by Jess, and first became intimate with her when she invited me to join her and her boyfriend in a threesome he had been pestering her for. In fact I nearly turned her down as I’ve never been very keen on mixing the two sides of my sexuality, but I accepted because I was always up for new experiences, and I fancied her like crazy.
Katie had a petite frame with gorgeous boobs, pale blue eyes, long hair so dark it was nearly black, and a big generous wide, generous mouth. She had a way of wearing her clothes that gave the impression they were in imminent danger of falling off at any moment, which was rendered even sexier by her innocent girlie manner, which implied she was completely innocent of the effect she was having on the male population. She wasn’t, of course, and she and I would take great delight in winding up blokes in pubs and clubs by kissing, cuddling and touching each other.
As it turned out, my concerns were completely justified, and the threesome was a bit of a disaster. Katie and I were just too into each other to give the poor bloke much of a look in, and in the end he was pretty much forced to sit and watch while we devoured each other hungrily. In the end Katie felt sorry for him and suggested that he came over her tits while I ate her pussy, and I remember the strange feeling of power I got realising he was jerking himself off over what we were doing. In fact the whole moment was so intense that I was forced to push my hand between my own legs and finger my clit as I watched his cock jerk in his hand and his cum splatter onto Katie’s beautiful boobs. When we discussed it later, Katie and I agreed that the feeling of being watched with such uncontrollable desire was a definite turn on, and probably the best bit of the whole experience. Laughingly, we fantasised about making love in front of a group of men in a “Look but don’t touch” scenario, and what a fantastic experience that would be, and if anything we became even bigger teases in the pubs and clubs from then on.
Katie and I fell into a happy pattern of being regular fuck-buddies. We both had a number of boyfriends at different times, but always reserved a little girlie time for each other. It was a very satisfactory arrangement for us, and one of the most settled and peaceful periods of my life.
After leaving Uni I kept the wolf from the door by continuing to undertake small modelling assignments on a casual basis while I searched for a suitable job. I had set my sights on the world of advertising, but decent vacancies were proving hard to find, and I was starting to think that I might have to accept one of the many invitations to do “glamour” work (getting my kit off, basically) that I received from modelling agencies on what seemed like a daily basis. Almost at the point when I was resigned to getting my tits out, I landed a job at Merrill Silverstein.
Merrill Silverstein was on of the top London ad agencies, with a host of real big name clients, and I was under no illusions as to the pressure I would be under to perform and get results, but this was my dream job, and I threw myself wholeheartedly into my work. Of course, I would be lying if I said I got the job purely on merit – there were a lot of other young graduates equally well qualified in the London job market - and I was aware that the company had an active aesthetic employee policy, “babes, not biffers” as one junior executive charmingly described it to me. Advertising is even more image conscious than most big business, and my aristocratic lineage did me no harm either, and my business cards were proudly emblazoned with “The Hon. Georgina Harrington”.
Irrespective of the basis on which I was given the job, I was determined to prove I was good at it, and within a few months I was already one of the more successful of the company’s young executives, proving adept at securing and retain new accounts. I can’t remember who it was who was quoted as saying “we are all prostitutes”, but whoever it was they obviously worked in advertising. I shamelessly used my appearance and femininity in at every opportunity to secure business, and I soon learned to tailor my dress and make-up to a specific client – short skirt, high heels and lots of cleavage for the randy old goat who ran the mail-order wine business that was one of my first successes; sober suits and minimal make-up for the very serious family-run catering chain; and soft summer floral prints, loose hair and a heavy leaning on my Italian side for the slightly scary Sicilian boss of a small but highly successful pharmaceutical company who was rumoured to have Mafia connections.
Advertising is also extremely competitive and bitchy, and I made a conscious effort to maintain nothing more than a polite professional relationship with the other female employees. I also made sure that the more exotic aspects of my sexuality remained a secret. Whilst it seemed fine and acceptable for several of the male designers to openly gay, I wasn’t going to give anybody any ammunition to use against me, and although Katie and I still saw each other regularly, at my request we toned down our behaviour when we were in clubs in town, particularly the West End, where there was a higher chance of my bumping into work colleagues. We compensated for this by going on regular clubbing and shagging weekends in Brighton – my salary was now sufficient to enable me to afford to pay for us to stay in the Grand or the Metropole – which seemed a more than acceptable compromise.
Time passed, and I began to settle into a comfortable routine. I was doing well at my job, I’d bought my own place (a small flat in Highbury), I’d bought a suitably flashy second-hand convertible sports car, and I had several reasonably long-term boyfriends, as well as a number of more fleeting relationships with girls – some chance encounters, like the time I met Sarah Cullen at the Health Club, and others more long-term although Katie remained a constant and undemanding friend and lover. Then, just as everything was going brilliantly, I met Marcus.
Marcus Barnard was the MD of a Property Development company whose account Merrill Silverstein had been pitching for over a considerable time. The decision to put me in charge of the negotiations, I sure, was a completely cynical one. Marcus was a renowned ladies man in his late thirties, six foot five inches tall, bronzed and built to match, with a reputation for not suffering fools gladly. I have no doubt that the senior management made a conscious business decision to send the posh totty along to see if she could charm him. I gave it my very best shot, opting for an expensive navy business suit that suggested efficient and sexy – low cut enough for a hint of cleavage, but not too much – coupled with heels and stockings, and a skirt, again, not quite short enough to give too much away.
There followed a week of complex and exhausting negotiations, demands, compromises and quibbles. For a while I thought I’d failed dismally, and then suddenly, almost out of the blue it seemed, we arrived at a concord and he signed. I was over the moon, so much so that I hardly heard Marcus Barnard’s final demand as the contact was being carried from the office, ink still barely dry.
“Of course, I do have one final demand.”
My heart sank. Oh God, what now?
“You have to have dinner with me tonight.”
Well, I could hardly refuse could I? In fact, as I soon discovered, it was quite hard to refuse Marcus anything. He was a larger than life dominant personality, a successful man used to getting his own way, and frequently getting cross when he didn’t. What I also discovered was a hitherto unknown submissive side to my nature, which in a perverse way actually enjoyed being controlled by this forceful and undeniably masculine man. The third time he took me out we ended up back at his plush flat in Kensington, and we had barely got through the door before he commanded me to strip for him. I can’t think of anyone else, male or female, that I would have taken that from without a fight, but such was the force of his personality that I didn’t bat an eyelid, merely waited for him to be seated comfortably on the large leather sofa with a glass of whiskey in his hand, and then began to peel off my dress slowly. I definitely have an exhibitionist streak in me, because as I watched the bulge growing firmer in his trousers with every discarded item of clothing I also felt my own arousal growing, the warm dampness between my legs. I took a good long time over getting naked for him, spending a while teasing my nipples which obediently jumped to their usual prominent erection and writhing my hips slowly, before I finally dropped gently to my knees, unfastened his trousers, and took out his massive cock. And it was massive – I don’t think I’ve ever encountered anyone before or since as well-endowed as Marcus Barnard; the guy was hung like a donkey. As if it wasn’t enough him being rich and gorgeous, I thought, and not without a bit of a struggle, I took him into my mouth. I’ve never been able to get my head (no pun intended) around that whole deep-throat thing – I’ve watched girls do it and had them tell me it’s easy, but frankly it just makes me gag, and that really isn’t in my list of top ten sexy reactions. But please don’t for a minute think I give a bad blow-job, because I can suck dick for England, and there is very little in life to rival the sense of power you get with a guy’s cock in your mouth!
I gave Marcus my full attention for as long as I felt I reasonably could, licking, sucking, and stroking him to the point of cumming, then just backing off just enough to stop it happening. It felt incredibly good to have this powerful man, who had so recently had me jumping through hoops for him, completely in my control, and I was determined to make it last as long as possible, but it was becoming obvious that the point of no-return would soon be reached. Which presented another dilemma for me. As a general rule, when I’m in a relationship I prefer to swallow at moments like this – after all the taste of a mans cum, whilst it doesn’t quite have the allure of the taste of pussy (for me at least) isn’t that unpleasant, and it’s infinitely more convenient and less messy than getting it in your hair, which is just a nightmare. However, it occurred to me that swallowing the cum of a man who I hardly knew and who was almost certainly promiscuous and slept with a lot of women, might not be the cleverest move I’d ever made. Common sense prevailed, and I opted for Plan B. Drenching his cock in saliva, I allowed him to build in my mouth until I felt the first straining contraction of his cumming, and then I jerked my head back and thrust my tits forward, working his shaft furiously with my hand as his bum rose off the sofa and his cock bucked in my hand, spitting bright globs of cum onto my boobs.
Afterwards, when he had got his breath back, Marcus pushed me slowly down onto the sheepskin rug on the floor and spread my legs slowly as he positioned himself between them. He must have read my mind, because he paused long enough to roll a condom onto his rapidly hardening member, and then he lifted my legs up onto his shoulders and forced himself inside me. He fucked me like a machine, that great powerful body just kept pounding into me, the magnificent cock stretching me and sending all the nerve endings in my pussy wild with sensation, while his balls slapped rhythmically against my ass. I came wildly, uncontrollably, raking my fingernails down his back, screaming and yelling, which only seemed to encourage him to even more athletic feats, and he carried on without a pause until we both came again, noisily and violently, finally collapsing together in a breathless, sweaty heap.
Six months later, Marcus asked me to marry him.
My parents reacted differently to the news of my engagement. My father seemed to rather like Marcus (who was beside himself with delight when he found out he was marrying into the aristocracy) and between them they did considerable damage to the family wine cellar in celebration. My mother on the other hand, although she was never openly unpleasant to him, treated my fiancé in a rather off-hand manner.
“I’m sorry my darling, I’m just not sure that he is right for you,” she said defensively when I challenged her about it. “He is charming, yes, and big and strong and masculine, and he has money…but…” she raised her had to forestall my question as to the exact problem with this. “…I fear that one woman alone will never be enough for him, and I don’t see you as the type to be the little wife at home, ignoring what is going on in front of her face.“ She paused and looked me directly in the eye. “And will one man alone be enough for you? Will man alone be enough for you?” She smiled softly at me to let me know she understood the significance of the missing numeral. “It is not my place to interfere – you are a woman now, and must make a woman’s choices”.
But I was young and in love, seduced by power and wealth and romance. I convinced myself my attraction to other women had just been a phase, the foolishness of youth. I was grown up now, a woman about to marry an amazing man, and I cast aside girlish things. We planned the wedding and the honeymoon and the post honeymoon. Marcus wanted to start a family as soon as possible, and I wanted nothing more than to please him, to take his seed and let his children grow in my womb, big strong boys in his image. We agreed I should give up work; after all, I’d be too busy with the house and the family to worry about anything else. I found someone to rent my flat and transferred ownership of it into the name of one of Marcus’ many property companies. One Sunday, a few weeks before the wedding, Marcus drove me down to Sussex and showed me the house he had bought for us, a rambling Georgian pile set in acres of parkland, with stables and barns – straight out of the pages of Country Life. I fell head over heels in love with Petham House the moment I set eyes in it. I envisaged myself in years to come teaching my daughters to ride in the paddock, while Marcus taught our sons to fish on the river that bordered the estate. I was completely and utterly in love, and I didn’t care who knew it. I even stopped taking the pill, anticipating the excitement of telling Marcus the news that I was pregnant.
Our wedding day came and went in a flurry of white confetti and ivory silk. The honeymoon lasted three weeks in the Seychelles, a blur of sun, golden sand, azure sea and physically exhausting sex. We returned home in the late summer to a frenzy of moving and redecorating, and I was slightly disappointed to discover my period arrived on schedule, having got it firmly into my head that I would get pregnant almost immediately to complete my happiness. But this was a small set-back, and I threw myself happily into the task of making a home for my husband and my incipient family. Autumn turned to winter, Christmas came and went, and I remained cosseted in the warm glow of my good fortune, the only dark cloud in my sunny sky my steadfast inability to fall pregnant. Spring was looming on the horizon, with the daffodils in the paddock by the lane already fading and dying, when my world fell apart.
I didn’t deliberately read the texts on Marcus’s phone, it was just one day he left his handset at home by mistake, and I was alerted to it bleeping in the alcove in the hall by where he normally kept his car keys. I saw the name Josie on the display and reasoned that this might be an important message from his PA. It was, but not in the way I imagined. “Can’t w8 2 c u tonite so horny” I read. The house swam around me as I sat on the bottom of the stairs with my head in my hands, trying desperately to find rational explanations for the evidence I was seeing with my own eyes but didn’t want to believe. For over an hour I sat there, willing myself to move, but seized by an uncontrollable inertia. Eventually I managed to force myself to take action, and took myself for a long walk around the grounds as I weighed up the situation. Marcus often stayed up in town during the week (he had retained his old apartment as a pied a terre
) and I had never thought anything of it – in fact it seemed a perfectly sensible arrangement, saving driving and enabling him to spend longer at home on the weekends. Now I had to face the fact that there was a strong possibility he was using this time to carry on an extra-marital affair. It wasn’t a particularly palatable thought, but I knew that whatever the outcome, I couldn’t live in ignorance.
It took me inside twenty-four hours to find and engage a reputable private investigator, and then a week of agony while I waited for him to get back to me. I survived the weekend, and Marcus’ presence in the house, only by pleading terrible stomach ache and retiring to my bed like the tragic heroine of a gothic novel. In truth the ache was less in my belly and more in my soul, but the end result was the same. I barely emerged from my room all weekend, and pretended to be asleep when Marcus came to bed. For the first time since the first time, we slept together without making love. On the Tuesday morning following that fateful weekend, I had a call from the investigators office, could Mr. Rogers call to see me that afternoon? The moment of reckoning had arrived.
I don’t think I was really surprised. The rational half of my brain had been telling me this since I first saw the initial text, and Mr. Rogers, a pleasant, softly spoken man in his middle forties whose mild and unremarkable demeanour completely belied the somewhat sinister nature of his profession, confirmed it. Marcus was seeing not one, but two of his female employees on a regular basis. He had the pictures to prove it, provided names and addresses, even the fact that one (the Josie of the text) had recently had a breast augmentation, paid for by money that he intimated had come from my husband.
After that it all became a bit of a blur. I remember the tearful journey to London that evening, and the agonising wait outside the flat that belonged to Josie of the plastic tits until they both arrived in a taxi, laughing and joking. I vaguely remember screaming at Marcus in the street, him trying to drag me indoors, my refusal to set foot inside her flat, and Josie’s appalled face when I went for her. After that I have cognisance of very little except the interminable wait at a south London police station before my parents arrived, looking shaken and distraught, and doing their best to pour oil on troubled waters.
The divorce was bitter and protracted. Marcus hired top-notch lawyers to argue his case and they did their level best to paint me as a hysterical obsessive with lesbian tendencies (Marcus had obviously hired his own team of PI’s). With a wonderful twist of irony it was the weekend after I confronted Marcus and Josie at her flat that I discovered I was pregnant. I told no one, not even my mother. I’ll never know if it was the fact that I was barely eating at the time, or the fact that I was drinking heavily, or just the natural course of events, but I lost the baby less than three weeks later.
So there it was. I couldn’t hold my man or my child. In my mind I was a failure as a wife and a failure as a mother – overall a failure as a women. The world became a pretty dark place for a time, and I let it suck me in, drowning the darkness in a tide of red wine and gin and tonic.
The divorce case dragged on, and with every passing day I became less and less interested in the outcome. Without my realising it things began to slowly move against me as Marcus’s crack legal team began to crank up the pressure, and my own lawyers struggled desperately in the face of my disinterest and despair, unable to count on my support to provide evidence to counter the allegations made against me. In a final act of wilful stupidity I turned up to give evidence one afternoon, having spent most of the morning in a pub in the Charing Cross Road. I don’t remember much about the occasion, which is probably just as well – I am reliably informed that I was forcibly removed from the court by the ushers, spitting, swearing and screaming abuse at Marcus and his smug band of legal eagles. After that I stayed at Petham House and waited for the inevitable verdict.
When the case was settled, and the decree nisi passed, I was forced to take stock of my situation. Pretty much all I had to show for my marriage was Petham House itself, everything else had been spent on the cost of fighting the case. Even my former flat had been absorbed by one of Marcus’s companies, and I’d written off the sports car by driving it into a ditch whilst blind drunk. Fortunately there had been no one else involved and it was late at night on a quiet stretch of road, so I managed to keep my licence, but now I was reduced to rattling around in an ancient Land-Rover borrowed from my dad.
I’m not going to dwell at length here on the depths to which I sank. I think the expression “let myself go” covers it pretty thoroughly, I stopped bothering about my appearance and stayed at home and drank. I’d always been fanatical about going to the gym, keeping myself fit and healthy, now I let my membership lapse and stayed in bed till noon, nursing the previous night’s hangover, even my sex drive vanished, like a switch had been turned off. In short, I was a mess. The bills for the legal fees and household expenses (mostly in the booze aisles of the local supermarket) mounted up, and my credit cards were al maxed out. My family did their best to help, but I was sunk into a descending spiral of self-pity and self-loathing that just grew steeper and darker.
Then Katie Shaw saved my life.
She turned up at Petham House two days before the Christmas after the divorce, and having waiting ten minutes for me to struggle out of bed and get down to open the door, stood there aghast at my appearance.
“Fuck Georgie, you look like shit.”
And with that, she pushed past me into the hallway and back into my life. With the same single-minded enthusiasm that she used to apply to clubbing, drinking and sex, Katie set out to nurse me back to health. At the time I’m sure I wasn’t a particularly grateful patient, in fact I’m certain I was a complete nightmare, but she remained undeterred by my tantrums and crying fits. After going back to London over Christmas to explain to her fiancé what she was up to (it wasn’t until several months later that I found out that her reason for calling in the first place was to tell me she was getting engaged) she came back down to Sussex and moved in on a permanent basis. At the time she was beginning a promising career as a sketch writer for TV shows, which meant she could work from virtually anywhere so she became my full time nurse and companion as she began to slowly encourage me on the path to recovery, while sitting tapping away on her lap-top at my kitchen table. David, her fiancé, would often appear at weekends, and the three of us would spend the time going on long walks in the surrounding countryside and sitting idly in front of the fire discussing things like literature and current events. Both of them studiously avoided talking about relationships of any sort in front of me, even their own marriage, which was planned for the following year.
One morning, waking early, I heard them making love, and for the first time in a long time I felt a stir of arousal on hearing Katie make the same cries of pleasure that I used to know so well. I got out of bed and took a long look at myself naked in the bedroom mirror. At Katie’s insistence I’d started going to the gym again, and my body was getting slowly back to its old self. I turned slowly, giving myself a critical once over – bum looking good and firm, tummy flat and abs starting to show nicely, thighs long and slim, boobs full and nipples jutting out. Yes, I’d pretty much got my figure back. I let my fingers drift over my nipples and felt the delicious sexual charge it caused. God, I’d missed that feeling. I threw myself back on the bed and, fingers working furiously between my legs, brought myself to a magnificent orgasm.
After that my sex drive returned with a vengeance. Of course, Katie noticed straightaway, and she made it clear that for the time being at least, she was out of bounds.
“It wouldn’t be fair on Dave,” she explained. “He’s been great about me looking after you – I think it might be taking the piss if he found out I was fucking you too!”
I was disappointed, but I understood. And Katie was far too good a friend, and I owed her far too much to press the issue. Anyway, now that she was confident I was well on the road to recovery she was leaving me shortly to attend a series of production meeting for a new series she was involved with.
“It’s a new production company,” she explained, “Part of Katyco, the publishing people. They might be looking for new people, so I’ll keep my eyes open for you – you’re going to need to earn some money to keep this place going.”
She was right – the bills were still stacking up, and I just didn’t have anyway to pay them save selling the house, which I was loath to do, seeing it was just about the only thing I had to show from my marriage.
“Anyway” Katie said with a wicked grin “I’m sure you won’t find it too hard to find someone to attend to your…ahem…” she coughed theatrically, “…needs.”
“Yeah right.” I wasn’t sure that I wanted to get involved in a new relationship yet. “I’m not going to hold my breath. Besides, I’m in no rush.”
Katie reached out and touched my left boob with the tip of her finger. Under my T shirt and bra my nipple stiffened immediately. “Could have fooled me!” she remarked.
Two days later she left, and I was alone in the house for the first time in months. At first it was weird, quiet and unnatural without her happy chatter, but then I began to get used to it, and to start to feel at home again. On a bright, warm spring morning about a week after she went, I was dozing on a sun bed in the conservatory, when the doorbell rang. I was surprised, because I wasn’t expecting anyone, so I smoothed down the short blue dress I had elected to wear that day, slipped on my heels, and tapped-tapped my way down the hall tiles to the front door.
The big door swung open to reveal a tall blonde girl standing at the base of the steps. Even before she opened her mouth to speak I would have put money on her being “from the colonies” as my dad would have put it. There was something about the easy grace of the way she stood that suggested a latent athleticism, and the flowing mane of thick blonde hair was bleached the kind of gold that only a prolonged spell of outdoor living can achieve. She was tall, much taller than me, athletically built and her face was tanned with a smattering of freckles. She wore very little make-up; her strong features simply didn’t need it. Even from one quick glance my modelling experience told me she would photograph superbly. In short, she was fresh, natural and gorgeous.
“Hi” she said in a broad Australian accent. “I’m Jo. You must be Georgina?”
“Don’t look so worried!” she flashed a broad grin. “Katie sent me.”
“Your friend? She asked me to give you this.”
She handed me a small white envelope. Her nails were immaculate, short, but beautifully cared for. I decided I was right about the modelling – this girl spent at least part of her time in front of the camera.
I peeled the flap back and took out the photo inside. It showed Jo and Katie side by side against a brick background. I flipped the picture over and read: “This is Jo; she’s a present from me to you. She knows all about you, and she’s doing this of her own free will. You’re still pretty damn hot, you know! Love Katie xxxxxxxxx”
I looked up from the picture and took a longer look at my present. She was wearing a short denim skirt, a white cropped T shirt, denim jacket and cowboy boots, with a canvas bag slung over her shoulder. On any one else it could easily have looked trashy or slutty, but on her it looked just as elegant as if she were clothed head to foot in Dior.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Jo looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “Or are you going to refuse the offer?”
I swallowed hard. “God, no! Come in…”
She walked slowly past me into the hallway, just a little too close, the heady scent of her perfume floating around her as she went by. She walked with loose-limbed ease down the hall as I closed the door behind her, and paused by the door to the living room.
“Nice place” she said, appreciatively. “Katie said it was pretty cool.”
She crossed to the big bay window that looked down the gravel drive. She turned, silhouetted in the light of the spring sunshine.
“She also said you were pretty cool.”
“I like to think so”.
“And that you were really into girls.”
The knot in my stomach experienced a sudden contraction. I nodded dumbly.
“She also said that you hadn’t had sex in a while and that you needed reminding just how good it was.”
Jo was walking back towards me. She slipped her bag off her shoulder and dropped it onto the couch. Nonchalantly she began shrugging her jacket off.
“She said she was sure I’d like you because you were drop-dead gorgeous – showed me lots of pics to convince me. But I have to say they didn’t do you justice.”
The jacket followed the bag onto the couch. I could see her breasts straining against the material of her t shirt. She clearly wasn’t wearing a bra, and the fullness of their shape was wonderfully apparent.
I felt myself being drawn in, and took a small step towards her. Her hands reached out for my hips as I did so. In a quiet voice I said.
“You’re not so bad yourself…”
She pulled me too her and our lips met. Her tongue darted into my mouth like a live thing, licking, touching teasing. I could feel the press of her breasts against mine as her hands slid down and cupped my arse cheeks, pulling me towards her. As she did so my dress rode up as her thigh slid between my legs parting them further, and I felt the firmness of her leg press against my pussy. I groaned into her mouth. Her mouth moved away from mine and her lips and teeth caressed and bit my neck, travelling upwards towards my ear. One hand remained on my arse, the other walked up my back towards the zip of my dress.
“Do you want to fuck here, or in the bedroom?” The twang of her accent seemed to add eroticism to her words. I shuddered; my legs were shaking, my nipples hard and my pussy already soaked with desire. I clung to her.
“Just fuck me, Jo, I need it. I need it so badly…”
I felt the zip of my dress tugged downwards. Without releasing me she pulled it from my shoulders and let it fall to the floor, her hands immediately unfastening my bra and letting that fall too. I gave silent thanks for the fact that I was wearing matching underwear, although I doubt if Jo would have noticed. Releasing me for the first time, she pushed me gently backwards until I found myself sitting on the cold leather of a Victorian chaise-longue I’d picked up several years ago in Brighton. She bent down and kissed me as she tugged off my thong. In less than a minute I had been skilfully undressed, apart from my shoes.
Jo straightened up and kicked off her boots. I lay there, watching her with undisguised lust, sliding my little finger into my mouth and licking it provocatively. She pulled her t shirt off over her head, and looked at me as she touched her own nipples.
“Jesus, Georgie, I’m gonna fuck your brains out!”
“What are you waiting for?”
She undid the zip on her skirt and slid it off. She wasn’t wearing any panties either. She knelt down between my legs.
“I’m allergic to underwear”, she said as she kissed me slowly up the inside of one thigh. I squirmed. She blew gently on my pussy and then kissed back down the other thigh. I gasped. Then up the first thigh again, his time with her tongue, a gentle blow on my pussy and back down the other. I moaned.
“Please what?” She carried on licking up and down my thighs.
“Please lick my pussy! Please!” I grabbed the lion’s mane of sun-blonde hair and pulled her between my legs, raising my hips to meet her mouth, my whole being craving the pleasure she could give. Her tongue touched the tip of my clit and I cried out, throwing my head back in delight. Her fingers spread my lips and exposed as much of my clit as she could, and then her mouth closed over my pussy, and Jo took me to heaven.
She was so skilled, so exquisitely talented at playing my pussy that I think I could have cum in seconds. As it was I held back as best I could because I wanted it to last, but Jo must have understood how desperate my need was, because the moment she felt my stomach muscles tense she lifted her head and said softly “Don’t fight it babe, we’ve got all day.”
But I didn’t want to end. And I did want it to end. And I felt a coiled spring in my belly so taut that when it broke loose it was going to tear me apart, split me in two, and I would be broken, shattered, no longer capable of movement or thought, just a limp, exploded rag doll.
And then Jo slid a finger into my pussy and found my G spot without apparently trying, and I felt the tension mount to the point of no return, the bonds of self control breaking, the links snapping. I reached behind me and grabbed the back of the chaise as my muscles bunched and tightened, and I exploded.
I screamed and screamed and screamed. The wave of pleasure was so intense I had no choice; I knew I could not survive this. My body was in spasm, bucking and writhing in Jo’s arms, my pussy banging against her mouth. Fireworks went off in my head, and I blacked out.
“Jesus Christ, babe”.
Slowly, a sense of reality returned. I could see again, down my body that was still shaking from little aftershocks which shot through me, to Jo’s beautiful face, eyes wide with astonishment, her face dripping wet.
“Fucking hell, you came some! I think you squirted, you horny bitch!”
She was laughing, delighted at her achievement. I reached out to grab her hand still not really able to speak.
“Hold me…” I gasped. She slid alongside me and gathered me into her arms. I let myself sink gratefully into the sanctuary of her protective, warm, soft, damp, perfumed femininity.
It was some time before my breathing returned to normal and I could talk properly again.
“That was incredible” I said, sighing with delight “God, I thought I was going to die!”
“Now that would have been embarrassing. And you’d have missed my next treat.”
“Next treat?” I gently took her nipple in my mouth. “I thought it would be my turn. I’ve neglected you badly.”
Jo gave a little grunt of pleasure as I bit gently. “Oh no, this is entirely my treat. You’re the one who’s been suffering – just think of me a therapy”
She gently pulled away from me and leaned over to reach for her bag on the couch. I watched the muscles of her back and the sway of her breasts with intense pleasure.
“Oh my God, if I could get you on the National Health…”
She threw back her head and laughed. “I thought you posh English bitches all went private?”
“Is there a difference in the quality of service?”
“Oh yes, go private you get the whole thing” she made a gesture to indicate her whole body. “On the NHS you only get the essential parts..like this!” With a flourish she pulled a purple strap-on out of her canvas bag.
“Oh my God!”
Jo grinned, and let the dildo fall gently between my boobs. “Katie said she didn’t think you’d ever used one?”
“No, I haven’t…either way.” I put the tip of it in my mouth and let my tongue play over it. “I guess I’m going to now, though?”
Jo grinned and stood up. “Damn right you are!” She stepped into the harness and pulled it up slowly, adjusting the black straps as she did so. Checking it was fixed in place to her satisfaction, she wiggled it playfully from side to side. Unable to resist, I reached out and encircled it with my hand, playing with it like a real cock. Moving closer I spat gently on the tip and let it slide into my mouth. Jo looked down at me with pleasure.
“God, you look fantastic with a cock in your mouth.”
“It’s been said. I’m guessing you don’t look too bad either.”
“Maybe later on you’ll find out. But right now…” she gently pushed me back onto the chaise, spreading my legs as she did so “…I’m going to fuck you again, Miss Posh-Bitch Harrington.”
I don’t know why, but on a whim I said, “Mrs. Georgina Posh-Bitch Barnard, to you!”
Jo smiled as she positioned herself between my legs. She let the tip of the dildo tease my pussy for just a few seconds, and then she slowly pushed it into my soaking pussy. I wrapped my legs around her arse and held her inside me, savouring the wonderful feeling of being so full, so open and so possessed. Jo gently rotated her hips to pull the plastic cock out of me, and then began a steady rhythmic fucking, which began gently and slowly built in tempo.
If I’d thought she was talented at licking pussy, she was a positive artist at the art of strap-on fucking. Every movement, every thrust, every change of speed, angle and force seemed calculated to provide me with the most intense pleasure she could arouse. And the sight of her gloriously athletic and beautiful body pumping steadily between my legs, her eyes fixed on mine, her small firm breasts bouncing with each thrust, her little grunts of exertion, all combined to provide me with the most gloriously erotic experience I think I have ever had. Inside me the dildo slid back and forth, generating waves of pleasure which were intensified by the sensitised nature of my pussy. Never before in my life had I ever been fucked so sensuously or intensely. Jo knew exactly when to slow to hold me back from tipping over the brink, knew exactly when to play my clit with her thumb to build the excitement, and even knew to lean forward to pinch and play with my nipples as my orgasm built to a point where I couldn’t hold back. It wasn’t as intense as the first, but it built slowly and lasted longer, a rolling tide of wave upon wave of pleasure which I surfed at the mercy of the skilful movements of Jo’s plastic cock. I clung to her as she fucked me from peak to peak, crying, moaning, screaming, until finally I was spent and slumped back on the chaise, pulling her down on top of me, savouring the strange experience of a cock that didn’t go limp and floppy after sex, but remained firm and strong, gripped by my shuddering pussy.
Jo stayed for three days and in that time, apart from when we were eating and sleeping, we did nothing but make love. When she finally decided that she had to go we realised that our clothes were still lying discarded in the living room, where we had left them on that first afternoon. As she dressed, Jo said conversationally:
“Katie said you might be looking for a job?”
“Well, yes I suppose I am really. I’ve got a hell of a lot of bills to pay.”
She grinned “Who hasn’t? Well, I might know someone who could help you out in that department. You’ve done a fair bit of modelling, Katie said?”
“Yes, lots. It got me through Uni.”
“OK, well, I can’t make any promises, but I can’t see why they’d turn you down. Especially if I give you a glowing recommendation. Which I will.”
“Ok thanks – I assume it’s modelling work, then?”
“That kind of thing.” She pulled on her jacket, and slung the bag over her shoulder. I could see the faint outline of the contents where it pressed against her side.
“Someone will be in touch. I’ll see you soon.” She kissed me deeply, and made her way past me to the front door.
“I’m sure we haven’t seen the last of each other, Georgie.”
“I hope not.”
“So do I, babe.”
And with that she let her self out of the front door, and walked off down the drive.
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with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.
<a href="http://www.lushstories.com/stories/lesbian/introducing-georgina-part-two.aspx">Introducing Georgina (Part Two)</a>