If you were looking for a woman with style and sophistication, the place to visit was the Bridge Hotel wine-bar between the hours of 6 p.m. and 8 p.m. Positioned high above the embankment of the river Tyne the wine-bar attracted a diverse range of corporate, stylish and beautiful people eager to unwind, flirt and get up to mischief, or just go straight for the desirable option of committing adultery. This particular time frame was their playground and they played life to the full.
A gaggle of smartly dressed men and women who looked like accountants held court in the corner of the room, flashing smiles that spoke of money, one of them reading the business page of a broadsheet newspaper, words like fiscal market indexes, bond yields and world trading and banking spilling naturally from his lips.
But their forced smiles betrayed their real purpose in life. When they were away from their corporate domain they could do whatever they wanted.
If the truth were known most of them just wanted a fuck and get back to making money.
It was just after seven when he walked through the door.
After pulling up a stool at the end of the bar and lighting a cigarette he casually sipped his drink, watching the accountants trying to impress each other with meaningless predictions, mathematical statistics and endless corporate nonsense.
A fleeting glance around the room, the boredom of accountancy fading into insignificance, the acquaintance of perfection momentarily caught in his peripheral vision, a beautiful and stylish woman sitting on a stool at the opposite end of the bar smoking a long black cigarette and sipping a cocktail, deep in conversation with a smartly dressed handsome man, the fast talking, over-confident Don Juan working his charm, trying his best to get into her knickers.
A captivating smile and dark penetrating eyes, raven hair falling in loose curls over her shoulders, shapely breasts and dancer’s legs, a long split up the side of her skirt betraying just a trace of bare flesh at the junction where stocking tops meet suspenders.
Her smiles were forced and unconvincing, the uneasiness in her response to his familiarity negative and uncomfortable, the flirtatious and calculated smiles in his direction hinting that Don Juan’s time was slowly running out.
The cocksure Casanova was heading for the door when a waitress delivered a bottle of wine to her table, compliments of the man at the end of the bar, the gesture acknowledged with a friendly smile, the acquaintance providing the opportunity for introductions.
Stephanie Monroe was probably in her early-forties although she looked and acted much younger. She spoke with a refined English voice, although a slight accent hinted at a seductive French nuance. They spent most of the evening talking and laughing through the deafening sound of the jukebox, mostly trivia, occasionally sharing tales of life’s adventures and inevitable disappointments.
Testing the waters of matrimonial status was always a complicated subject. It was a question he usually avoided. He regretted asking the question.
She told him she had been separated from her husband for almost six months. She said they first met when she was living in Paris with her parents and he was on holiday with some friends. They had been married for ten-years and they had a six year old daughter.
Brushing an imaginary tear from her eye she said that he arrived home from work one day and announced that he had been having an affair with another woman. Within a matter of minutes he had packed a bag and walked out of her life.
Her next statement was unexpected, her eyes concealing a deep sadness, the betrayal and infidelity still haunting her, forcing a laugh that quickly faded and lowering her voice to a furtive whisper. She said that her husband had custody of their child and she approved of the arrangement because it gave her the flexibility to enjoy her social life.
He broke the uncomfortable silence with a question about her husband’s background and profession, cursing to himself for his stupidly, but the words had already left his mouth.
A brief pause to regain her composure and to light a cigarette, her words laden with mocking enthusiasm, “Ronnie Monroe,” she smiled, blowing smoke into the air above her head. “A fucking crook… A fucking gangster… A fucking bastard… A fucking arsehole, a man with a violent temper and a reputation for being a hard-man in the West End,” she barked, crushing her cigarette into an ashtray.
The subject of matrimony and too much information about her estranged relationship living with a violent maniac left a crippling uneasiness between them, the physical attraction and the evening that once held promise dimensioning by the minute, so when she moved the conversation on to innocent topics he gladly followed.
He wanted to go straight to her flat, but she insisted on going to the Cavendish Club for one more drink and a dance.
It was hardly worth paying the admission fee. They were only in a few minutes, the time it takes to buy a drink at the bar and engage in a shameful dance.
A crushing kiss, bodies connecting in an intimate embrace, moving in a slow seductive ballet to the rhythm of the music, a shameful exhibition of two people fondling and groping with lustful intent, their reckless interaction attracting observers, a mocking voice suggesting they should ‘Get a room,’ a timely reminder that it was time to go.
It was almost three in the morning when he pulled the car into the private car park of an exclusive residential apartment block in Gosforth. After pressing a chrome button for the top floor and checking the status of her lip gloss in the full length mirror, the plush lift glided to a halt at the penthouse suites on the top floor.
Two lamps strategically placed in the corners of a spacious living room threw soft light and shadows across a delightful tableau of fine art painting hanging on pastel painted walls. And a tasteful arrangement of classical furniture spread over hardwood floors and an impressive Bose music system in the corner of the room were all synonymous with someone with style, sophistication and money.
Classical music filtered softly through speakers and a row of scented candles flickered on the fireplace providing the mood for romantic liaison.
Pressing a button on a remote control and opening the sliding doors to the balcony, the invitation of a cigarette and to take in the panoramic views of the city skyline gaining his approval, an impulsive kiss and the urgency of groping hands brushing away any thoughts of a cigarette or views of the city skyline for a woman with only one thing on her mind.
“Make yourself comfortable. I won’t be long,” she smiled.
The white smoke from his cigarette drifted upwards into the dark sky, the apprehension and uncertainty following in its wake, the night although looking promising slightly marred by the haunting reminder of Stephanie’s estranged relationship with her husband and homicidal maniac Ronnie Munroe.
A soft voice interrupted his thoughts.
“I hope you like Champagne.”
A flirtatious smile and an outstretched hand shrouded in a white fingerless glove handed him a glass of wine, the flickering candles casting alluring shadows over captivating curves, the vision of wonder raising her glass in a smile, wearing nothing more than a sexy white Basque, white lace panties, stockings and suspenders and towering heels, flaunting her body like an underwear model posing for a photograph.
The haunting dilemma of Ronnie Monroe cast aside in a heartbeat, his eyes wide-open like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, his mouth open and his jaw hanging slack, spellbound and almost at the point of drooling, staring shamelessly at her breasts, the underwire pushing her tits up with appealing affect, the bubbly flesh almost spilling out of the garment.
A brief pause to take in her beauty, his eyes continuing their exploration of her unabashed nakedness, wandering in a downward sweep, an intimate path over mouth-watering curves, the diaphanous panties exposing a dark bush of pubic hair and the unmistakable groove of a bulging vulva imprinted in the tight fabric, the erotic image making the ultimate revelation of her mysterious secrets all the more intriguing.
A heart beating with increasing tempo, the pulse between her legs quickening, floating across the room on endless legs, swaying her hips and flashing her eyes with flirtatious intent, her smile widening with suggestive implications, her heels clicking impatiently across the hardwood floor as she led him to the bedroom.
“Keep the gloves on....And the heels,” he grinned, placing his wine glass on the bedside table and throwing his clothes in a heap on the floor.
Pulses racing, heart beats increasing by the second, a visceral surge of oxygen fuelling adrenaline, bleeding through veins and charging vital organs, chemicals merging with hormonal urgency, two strangers driven by lust and coital expectation, two impatient bodies pressing together, curious hands exploring intimate parts, his feather light fingers burning a warm trail over her moist vulva, her body tingling with anticipation of what was to come.
The threatening limb pressing urgently against her thigh, her heart beat banging inside her chest, her breathing becoming more urgent, sucking in short gasps of air through her nose, a curious hand descending over his toned stomach, wrapping her long painted fingers around the sturdy column, feeling the pulsing flesh between her fingers, stroking the length and gripping the girth, feeling the weight, the enormity of nine-and-a-half-inches filling her lace covered hand, the persuasion of touch forcing a responsive gasp and a whisper of approval.
A surge of blood rushing to the sweat glands of an aching vulva, the expectation of coital connection increasing arousal, a quick adjustment on the bed, placing both knees on either side of his body, her warm breasts swaying gently from side to side, sweeping sensuously over his stomach and thighs, her heart shaped bottom hovering just above his face, her dark place of intimacy peeking out between two bubble cheeks, her vagina open and inviting, longing to be filled, the intoxicating aroma of sex teasing his nostrils.
“Permet de se faire plaisir,” she smiled, reaching over to the bedside table, the introduction of wine and a carton of yogurt joining the foreplay, the playful recipe somewhat unexpected, but the surreptitious suggestion always gaining his approval.
The temptress flashed her eyes and smiled, sipping wine from the glass before spilling the cool liquid over his stomach, watching it pool in his naval, a well-practiced hand coating his cock and balls with yogurt, a warm wet tongue and hungry mouth embarking on an inquisitive trail, a mission of oral pursuit, pursing her lips and sucking wine from his naval, peppering soft kisses up and down his legs, sweeping her tongue in a flirtatious dance between his inner thighs, pulling and twisting the dark pubic hair around the anal opening, scraping a long painted finger nail over the rugged scrotum, sucking one of his testicles into her mouth, easing it out gently, licking the sticky yogurt from his hairy balls.
A firm hand gripping the fearsome limb, a slippery tongue following the thick blue vein along the shaft, marking a moist trail from the root to the head, sweeping in a playful dance around the rim of the bulbous crown, cleaning the creamy substance from the swollen head, easing him into her hungry mouth, sucking him in and blowing him out, swallowing him deep, rejoicing in the taste of yogurt and wine mixing with the sticky nectar of arousal oozing from the unblinking eye.
Pleasurable moans and urgent groans of approaching climax gathered pace and volume, his body language showing all the signs of a premature eruption, letting him slip from her mouth and shifting her weight on the bed, her bottom momentarily smothering his face before rolling onto her back, her smile flirtatious, her face comically infectious, wet strings of saliva and trailing threads of yogurt glistening on her chin.
The unexpected acquaintance of his early morning stubble grazing lazily over her inner thighs forced a startled gasp and a deep intake of breath, the stimulation of touch and the expectation of physical connection brushing away the slight distraction, arching her back slightly, spreading her legs wide and opening her body, giving him access to her inner heat, the labia minora peeking out through a dark bush of pubic hair, a wanting woman overwhelmed with desire, an aching vulva pleading for penetration.
Spreading a generous amount of yogurt over the forest of pubic hair, smearing her vulva and coating her thighs, his warm lips and velvety tongue moving south over her thighs and down her legs, decorating her red painted toes with yogurt, nibbling and sucking each toe, feasting on the sticky substance before giving her toes a parting kiss.
Lifting her thighs, pulling the cheeks apart and opening her bottom, gliding a finger along the perineum valley, teasing and probing the sensitive threshold of dark pigmented skin before sliding a slippery finger inside her anal passage, easing out slowly , pulling back the sticky flaps and folds and slipping two fingers inside her wet vagina, curling and probing against the inner walls, trying to capture the g-spot, the ultimate stimulation, the burning arousal, the compelling interaction of promising pursuit greeted with a welcoming moan.
Gestures of approval responding to the emotional pleasure, twisting and jerking, wriggling and pushing, moving her hips in a rhythm of impulsive movements and involuntary thrusts, the tenderness of sensuous lips, the warmth of his mouth exploring her inner sanctum, breathing in the warm secretions of sexual arousal, an eager tongue moving in mystifying circles, bathing the urethra, sweeping between the delicate petals and teasing the pulsating glands, dancing playfully over the swollen hood, arousing the clitoral jewel, flooding her vulva in warm streams of saliva.
Pulses racing and senses swimming, a visceral surge of adrenaline fuelling the fire of seduction, hormonal chaos flirting with the power of persuasion, the influence of promise increasing arousal, a mutual interaction of engagement stimulating expectation, intermittent contractions squeezing out vaginal fluids, the emerging heat of passion spilling down his fingers and flooding her thighs, a body overwhelmed with emotional need, a vulva moist and aching, an impatient body pleading for penetration, gestures of intimacy and frustrated sighs stumbling over insistent words.
“Je veux que tu me baises…. I need you inside me.”
The bed sheets wet and sticky against her back, her legs in the air and her lethal heels resting on his shoulders, the burning inferno between her legs open and inviting, the bulging veined muscle pressing urgently against the slippery entrance, her body giving way to the brutal force, the connection of coital intimacy, the gruesome length and formidable girth filling her burning orifice, nine-and-a-half-inches of potent flesh stretching her body, a turbulent commitment of perpetual movement, in and out, entering and retreating, thrusting and grinding, fucking her fast, fucking her slow, fucking her hard, bruising her inner core, fucking the last breath air from her lungs, fucking her until she could hardly breathe.
A brief pause before pulling his swollen cock from her burning vault and lowering her legs to the bed, the kiss unexpected but nevertheless passionate, the taste of yogurt and the familiar smell of her own sex on his lips a tasteful reminder of their oral union.
A motioning hand, a breathless gesture of adjustment, shifting her weight on the bed and kneeling on all-fours, brushing yogurt from her hair and face, her body drained of energy, her mouth incapable of speech, her willingness to continue acknowledged with open legs, a nodding head and a wheezing grunt of approval.
The glistening pocket open wet and inviting, her pouting bottom perched submissively, the bubble cheeks and anal valley smeared with yogurt, her arms outstretched and her hands flat on the bed, glancing over her shoulder and bracing herself for entry, feeling his warm hand holding her waist, watching his other hand gripping his meaty limb as he shuffled his feet and manoeuvred into position, feeling the perilous length sliding deep inside her body, nine-and-a-half-inches stretching and filling her inner core , electrical pulses flooding through a bruised and tortured body, sucking the last gasps of air from her lungs .
“Oh my God!” she screamed...“Take it easy...Not so fast...It fucking hurts,” she begged.
Ignoring her painful cries and brushing away her pleas for tenderness, the pace gathering speed, his libido in overload and his stamina in overdrive, the tireless piston moving inside her body without sympathy or compromise, entering and retreating, balls deep inside her slippery opening, in and out, pulling her hips back, pushing and pulling, deeper and deeper, forward and back, back and forth, slamming his thighs against her buttocks, her lethal heels brushing against his legs, a physical and sustained fucking, letting her feel the throbbing head probing and penetrating, reaching the limits of her inner core, bringing her to heights she could only have imagined.
A mutual connection, the intimate acquaintance of two impulsive sex organs embracing in a supreme act of carnal pleasure, a heart racing at the speed of light, her face twisting in painful pleasure, the threatening length penetrating deep inside the vaginal vault, reaching the cervix and probing the womb, beads of sweat falling in waterfalls from his brow and pooling on her back, in and out, entering and retreating, a bruised and battered body regenerated with chemical changes , electric pulses flooding vital organs, a warm sensation flooding inside her vulva, thrashing and shuddering, shaking and stiffening, contractions exploding with an overwhelming force, uncontrollable tears of rapture stinging her eyes, a commentary of crude gestures and shameful curses spilling from a filthy mouth.
“FUCK ME! HURT ME!” she cried. “MORE COCK!” she hissed between clenched teeth, her voice momentarily fading to a breathless whisper before building to a guttural bark. “NO! NO! NO! Followed by YES! YES! YES! I’m...I’m coming....I’m fucking coming,” she screamed, her head thrashing violently from side to side, her arms giving way, falling onto the bed, her face smothered in the mattress, a collective gasp of crude obscenities fading in suffocating cries and choking gasps for air.
A chorus of curses and compliments hissed through breathless gasps and wheezing pants, a blizzard of energy sweeping through her body, a powerful and sustained climax, an explosive release, a breath-taking orgasm consuming her body and flooding her thighs , her bottom glistening in smears of yogurt and perspiration, her breathing unsteady and erratic, wheezing gasps stumbling over breathless pants, an exhausted body rejoicing in the post-orgasmic bliss, waiting for the tremors to subside, waiting for the inevitable storm.
The continuous use of vocal abuse, the moans and groans and barking growls, his heart banging like a drum inside his chest, the persuasion of impulsive movement, the connection of genitalia, a coital display of give and take, a tireless and sustained performance, a wild and insatiable shafting, a physical demonstration of lust and carnal need, his energy sapping eruption fast and powerful, a generous amount of seminal cargo spilling inside her body in progressive bursts, streams of emotional ballast coating the inner walls between her legs.
He had only been in the bathroom for a few minutes. The time it takes to empty his bladder and clean yogurt from his body. So when he walked back into the bedroom he was surprised to see Stephanie holding a telephone to her ear and dialling a number.
Acrylic nails tapped impatiently across the bedside table as he gathered his clothes from the floor, sitting on the end of the bed and glancing at his watch, wondering who she was ringing at this time in the morning.
“Ronnie is that you?” she barked into the phone....“I thought you ought to know that I’ve just been fucked to death by a handsome young man with a massive cock,” she snapped, the crippling silence at the other end of the phone giving her enough time to add a few crude remarks into the mouthpiece. “And this time I didn’t have to fake an orgasm,” she laughed, a trace of hurtful scorn in her voice.
The cold chill of nausea suddenly fed his panic, his head spinning in turmoil, the knots of dread tightening inside his stomach, his heart banging like a drum inside his chest, his urgency to get dressed increasing by the second, the violent threats of a maniac echoing through the earpiece, the reckless calm of a bitter woman telling him to ‘go fuck himself,’ a vulgar finger gesture accompanied by a blast of crude remarks spilling like acid off her tongue as she dropped the phone into the cradle.
“Fucking arsehole,” she laughed, falling flat on the bed. “That’ll teach the bastard.”
He wanted to tell her what he thought about her verbal assault on a man who she had earlier referred to as a violent maniac, but the lack of intuitive rational that panic sometimes induces left him stammering in helpless retreat.
“Where…Where does he live?” he nervously stammered.
“In Gosforth…Not far from here…About a mile,” she casually replied.
“In Gosforth…A fucking mile away,” he repeated, choking back a lump in his throat, the fear of a confrontation with a violent maniac getting him to his feet.
It was time to go.
Pulling his pants up with one hand and buttoned his shirt with the other, slipping into his shoes without tying the laces, walking towards the bed, questions forming at the back of his throat, a deep intake of breath, a finger pointing accusingly at the telephone.
“What the fuck was that all about?” he barked, giving her a look he reserved for fools. “What the fuck were you thinking about calling him at this time in the morning just to tell him you were getting fucked?”
A head plagued with chaotic confusion, the sound of a car engine in the street below forcing him into nervous recoil, his mouth dry, searching for answers, clearing a lump in his throat.
“I could hear him shouting down the telephone....What did he say to you?”
A bitter and scornful woman forced a thin smile, flashed her eyes and spoke with shameless ease....“Ronnie said he’s going to kill you.”
The room was still reverberating with echoes of threat as he left the apartment, his stomach and bowels churning, his breathing erratic, his increasing heart beat showing all the signs of an impending heart attack, the car tyres screeching across tarmac, driving through the anger and fatigue, speeding away from another crazy woman.
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with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.
<a href="https://www.lushstories.com/stories/straight-sex/keep-on-running-circa-1976.aspx">Keep on Running (circa 1976)</a>