Lady Lovecomes Diaries 02

Diary day two.

Oh my. What a very long day. And night.

Diary, let me pick up right from where I left you yesterday.

Remember, I'd read my first diary entry to my most excellently muscular and well-endowed gardener, Bill. While I read to him, he rewarded my dirty scribbles by attending me dirtily between the legs with his fingers and mouth. Note, just his fingers and mouth. All the while, his great veiny cock was rigid and I didn't get to visit him because I was busy reading and, anyway, a girl likes to see a man enjoying his work. Then, remember, I came so hard I blacked out. I didn't even know that was a thing, so it was quite a shock. So what's missing with this porno picture? Exactly. A shag. Oh and his release too, but mostly I was missing a shag. I guess he wasn't likely to shove it in me while I was comatose, thank goodness he's a gentleman, but then he nodded off waiting for me to wake up, bless him.

So that's where I left you. Both of us naked in the drawing room, fire still crackling, us lying along the Chesterfield with his head lolled on my belly. His member, still half hard, nudged and rolled on his belly as he slept. I felt I'd treated him rudely, not pleasuring him the way he had me, so decided I'd do him now. Ok, if I'm honest, I wanted to sit on that brutish club, repeatedly. But he was going to come before I was finished with him, one way or the other.

So, I carefully squirmed out from under him, and knelt on the rug by his hips. He could be harder. I kissed his cock head. Now, I've got a very big mouth and lips and they must have been too soft for him to feel because he didn't stir. So I did it again, and again, up and down him. Delicious. I kissed his balls, and the bit where his balls met his staff. That got a groan from him.

My toes curled, and I supressed a cackle. I couldn't imagine what he must be dreaming and wondered how it felt, this warm, moist, plumping all over his nethers. I swathed my tongue up and down him and, weirdly, kind of felt an echo of it between my own legs. Licking him was making me madly horny.

I've given a few blowjobs in my time, not as many as you might think, or as many as I'd like, but they've always achieved their goal: I get someone ready for rumpy. Sometimes, for particularly lucky someones, I've not been able to stop myself and they've made an unholy mess. (I've much to say on that subject and will come back to it, mark my words.) And I know, Bill had sorted me out good and proper with his gob so I really should've returned that specific favour, but what can I say? He was so sexy he made me feel selfish.

Anyway, I'm ahead of myself. I lapped his great rod and checked his reaction to find his eyes glittering at me. He smirked and my ears and cheeks blazed like a virgin. Jesus, I even giggled. He tucked his hands behind his head to watch me, and that's why my "suck or fuck" dilemma suddenly became so important. Everything about his body language was settling back to enjoy the ride, and why shouldn't he? But my thigh-tops were slippy. I was salivating down there. I was still hungry.

I'm such a cow, I loved him glowing down at me so much that I took his end into my mouth while I stared into his eyes. I've got wicked eyes and he gulped. Diary, I hummed. I loved that he thought I wanted to suck him off! I gave him a proper going over. I Nodded and slurped just as I was taught. (Yes I promise I'll come back to that too.)

Now he could hardly keep his eyes open. He rumbled, "Oh Ma'am. Ma'am" and I didn't correct him because in this impolite context his politeness made me actually drip. Diary, I rubbed him into my mouth! Two hands!

What does that body language say, hmm? I was performing for him, I guess. I wanted him overwhelmed by the anticipation of coming in my mouth and me loving it. That thought overwhelmed me too, but ironically got me so horny it made me want to fuck--not suck--forever. I'm such a slutty tease, I know. That was exciting too.

His fists clenched, and muscles bulged all across his chest and shoulders, his abs knotted.

My cunt clasped in frustration. I couldn't resist any longer. I hopped up, threw a leg over his hips, spread my cunt lips with one hand, gripped him with the other. My hole was almost groaning! I nudged his hard end at my mythically slippery hole. And God he was so hard, so hot.

That's when he covered himself. "No, Ma'am."

I slapped his hand away.

He tried to shuffle out from under me. "Ma'am, that's not a good idea. I've no protection."

"Pill." I gripped his cock, lunged my hips at it.

He grimaced. "They don't always work."

"I'll get one of my rubbers. Don't move."

"Condoms always split for me, Ma'am."

"Bash. Bash. For fuck sake call me-- what do you mean they always..." Stupid question. Bill had the biggest dick I'd ever seen, not freakish but in proportion to his larger-than-most frame. And I couldn't ride it!

I growled, clawed my hair. "Fuck sake." I waddled up his torso. "Eat me again. Then I'll suck you off. But Bill, this really is the most--"

That's when Father's car crunched up the gravel outside.

We rushed about, gathering clothes, keeping our heads down because the shutters were still open. Bill, pale and instantly limp, bolted out the back like a burglar. I huffed up the stairs to my room.

But not before I left you, Diary, on the hallway floor, pages open like a primed bear trap.

In my bedroom, I frustratedly fingered myself, squatting over a hand mirror that I pretended was Bill's face. An insane horsey laugh came from downstairs. Jules. Father had brought his party boy home.

Oh, no.

I clasped my soggy folds and blushed all over. I didn't mind opening up to Father, in fact I wanted to torture him, but Jules is funny and cool. We're kind of friends because he's my age. As far as I know, the last few months with him has been as close as Father's ever got to a relationship since I was born and mummy died. Not that it's a relationship as such. It's Jules that refers to himself as Father's party boy. He even charges Father a thousand pounds an orgasm. "His or mine, darling, same price!"

So that loud laugh could've been Jules laughing at you, poor Diary. God it was just too awful.

Some banging around downstairs, more hilarity from Jules, then silence. The front door slammed. Gravel sprayed as father gunned his fuckwit James Bond sports car up the drive.

I curled up on my bed, wondering should I warn Bill, when there was a knock on my door. It could only be him. Naked, I jumped to it, threw it open. "Bill you've-- oh!"

"Oh!" Jules covered his eyes. "Sweetie, please."

I grabbed a bed sheet, wrapped it around me. Jules prowled in--he's the kind of man that prowls everywhere. He clocked my hand mirror on the floor, swept it up and handed it to me with a smirk. He didn't say a word but his eyes were all-knowing.

"Oh I must've dropped it." I put it on the bedstead, only then noticing the syrupy drips I'd made all over it. I am debauched. I will go to hell.

"You're in the poo, Bashie." He sat on my bed and crossed his legs, looking all cheek-bones and fabulous in his Saville Row and a shaft of moonlight, like a Bowie video. He produced my diary from his jacket pocket.

I groaned. "Did you..."

"Yup." He slapped my bottom, squealing with laughter. "Dirty, dirty girl!"

I covered my face.

He tore my hands away. "Listen to me, tart. I loved it, and yes I want to visit Bill--as intimately as he'll let me--but Daddy's gone biblical. He's called the police."

"What?"

"Duh, he owns them remember? But worse, he's driven straight to Bill's."

Typical Father to drive to the bloody gatehouse. It's only a ten minute walk.

Jules's jaw dropped. More slaps. "So get your knickers on!"

#

Jules and I ran to the gatehouse, but the flashing blue lights were already there. Two policeman lead Bill from his front door. He was handcuffed and wouldn't look me in the eye.

Father watched, smiling like a shark. "Bathsheba, darling. Are you OK? We got the bastard." He put his fat little arm around me. He smelled of whiskey and cigars. As usual. "Jules you shouldn't have brought her here."

Jules leant into Father's ear, seemed to whisper some entreaty. Father shoved him aside. He waved his finger in Bill's face. He had to reach up to do it. "Predator! You will regret taking advantage of an innocent. That's rape, you know." Spittle flew from his mouth. He wiped it with his sleeve. "My daughter's young for her age. That's what you like, isn't it? I bet you like them young. You know what prison does to men like you?"

I stepped between Father and Bill. "I'm twenty-two!"

He laughed. Slapped a policeman on the back. "Tell the commissioner I'll see him at the club."

They bundled Bill into the back of the car. He caught my eye as they shut the door, and bless my gentle man, he mouthed, "Sorry."

#

"Little tip for you." Jules walked me back to the house across wet lawns. "You should've sucked that man off. Not for him, for you. And" --he curls a lip-- "flicked yourself off while you did it. Everybody happy. Nobody frustrated and angry and wanting to hurt their fathers."

I punched him hard in the arm, but he was right. For all my whinging, there was no way I'd have really left my diary for Father to find if I'd been clear-headed.

Damn Father. It was typical of him to read you, Diary, and totally choose to miss my point. And then revenge himself by taking away the thing I want. The man I crave.

#

Ugh. Two hours later, and I'm still awake. I can't get poor Bill out of my head, locked in a cell, because of me. And worse, I still want him. Even more for being denied. Father's gone back to the city with Jules. He won't take my calls. The police have told me not to contact them again.

Come daylight I'll go to the police station. I won't move until sweet Bill is released. If necessary I'll let the whole bloody station read you, Diary, so they know that none of this is Bill's fault. I don't care if it revolts them, if they think I'm a shameless slut. I don't care if it makes them hard or wet in their uniforms. Actually I'd quite like that. Whatever. Bill will come home.

I wish I could get a message to him, tell him not to worry, tell him how I feel.

Ah but I can. Via the medium of you, dear Diary. I'm sure to read it to him sometime.

So, Diary, Bill, this is what I'm thinking.

I've been thinking about the last time we were together, and that I was cross with you. The thought of you in a cell is awful, and that you're sitting there thinking I was disappointed with you too, that you don't have my affection and support, is even worse. This lead me onto considering why you won't fuck me and how that might not matter and it called to mind my friend Gabrielle. Coincidentally, this is the woman who told me how to please a man orally. Or at least she told me how she pleased her man and I've copied her ever since. It remains to be seen whether I'm as suck-sessful as she was. I plan to practice on you Bill, carefully and over some time, to find out if I'm as good as I think I am. And to find out what you like. God knows you deserve it.

But I'm ahead of myself as ever. Here's Gabrielle's story.

Gabrielle's Life Lessons.

By

Lady Bathsheba Ottoline Lovecome

Gabrielle was an up-and-coming artist I met at a gallery opening. She was one of a handful of bright new things being touted by a gallery famous for finding new talent. I'm always invited to these affairs. Having aristocracy show up at a gallery puts it on the map, and having them show interest in an artist can make a reputation. Also bear in mind that when you don't have to work, and when you're rich enough to have everything you want, life is very, very dull. You become obsessed with novel ways of passing the time. Horrors are committed by my kind because of that simple fact. Boredom.

Anyway, I love artists, they're always surprising company, and these events are always an ego-trip because cool people wine-and-dine me and fall over themselves to attract my eye. That's why Gabrielle caught my attention, because while all the other artists fluffed me, plying me with fizz and flirtation, this red-haired waif sat sullenly by her artwork, glowering at the world.

I couldn't take my eyes off her. She was cat-like and exquisite: big green eyes and a love-heart face with naughty lips. Even though she was dressed in a short, floaty summer dress, she sat with the elegant carelessness of a drunk ballerina, willowy limbs sprawled.

An older artist with bright red cheeks, was telling me how "fabby" I looked in my dress and all I could think was how to visit the grumpy pussycat doll. (Though I did look fabby. I was wearing a little black Chanel number that made me sleek, yet curvy, and gave me legs that another artist, via a hot, boozy whisper, suggested I wrap about her neck.)

Finally, I approached the girl. Of course, she ignored me. I pondered her painting: a large, square canvas depicting a pink, very fleshy, very dewy flower.

"Goodness," I said, swilling my wine glass and trembling a little, for some reason. "You paint exquisitely. This is more real than a photo. It looks... solid. Like I might tumble into it and find myself in a magical land."

The girl tutted. Looked away. I didn't know if I wanted to punch her or snog her. I blathered on, hoping to sting her instead. "But of course, it's very derivative of O'Keefe's work."

"Pah!" The girl glared at me. "O'Keefe, she paints flowers to look like cunts." She thumbed her chest, which wobbled bralessly. "I paint cunts to look like flowers, and what are flowers but ravenous mouths? I paint cunts to look ravenous!"

Of course. French. Parisian by the accent. I carried on, in French. "Well it's a beautiful cunt. Who's is it?"

"Mine, of course," she replied in English.

Saucer-sized green irises flicked about my face. She'd need to try harder than that to get a blush from me. Instead I carried on, in French. "Well I'll buy your lovely blossom. Do you have other--"

"Not for sale. It's shit. Shit idea. Shit execution."

"You are the worst salesperson--"

"But maybe you come to my studio, I make some beautiful art of you, non? You know Beatrice Dalle?"

"Not personally--"

"You look like her. I want to paint Beatrice Dalle like a predator, she's so feline, but I can't afford her. And you look like a huntress in that dress, Lady Vampire." She ran a gaze up and down me. "I paint you as that predator Little Red Riding Hood, you know this story?"

"She's a predator?"

"Oui."

I glugged my wine and declined a refill from the waiter forever hovering at my elbow. I gave him my glass. My head was spinning already. From wine or this woman, I couldn't tell.

She blinked at me as if performing a calculation. "Your bush, it is black like your hair?"

"I'm waxed."

"Merde!" She flapped me away.

"Well, not all over--I mean..." I wished I hadn't necked that wine. "Oh fuck it." This is the thing about being a Lady. Everything you do is fine. You're never crude, or drunk, just eccentric. For example, only a Lady could, right there and then, in that room of doting spaniels, tug the front of her skirt up, and the front of her knickers down.

The girl's left cheek dimpled, biting back her smile. Bless him, the waiter turned his back to us and did his best to shield us to the rest of the room. In the glass frame of a dark photograph my reflection--figure-hugging dress, tied back hair, knickers down, prim and dirty--was better than the photograph.

The sulky artist nodded at my display, contemplating it and ignoring--probably relishing--the dropped jaws around us. "Je suis Gabrielle," she said eventually.

"Bash," I said. "Enchantée."

#

A rickety goods lift trundled me up into a dark, cavernous warehouse the size of a small airport. Gabrielle's Studio. She clattered the lift-gates open for me, her face deadly serious, but gone was the sulky Parisian. She was dressed in paint-spattered overalls and workboats, both oversized, with her wild hair tied back. She was dressed for work. Or worse, to turn me off. My stomach sank. I was ready to continue our fun, dressed in my predatory Chanel and heels. I'd even toyed with going commando but changed my mind at the last minute, as removing panties for someone is always as exciting as being secretly naked. Having said that, such was my state of mind in the car on the way over--imagining what Gabrielle might have planned for me once I'd removed said knickers--that I'd quite ruined them.

She shook my hand and nodded, like a miniature bow. "Come see your wild, wild woods, Ms Riding Hood."

In the middle of the timber and brick expanse, lit by a barrage of lights and reflectors, was a stage-set of a black and twisted forest springing from a snowy hillock. Centre stage was a stuffed wolf so huge it came to my knees even reclined on the floor. Waiting, draped across the poor creature, was a crimson, velvet cape.

Gabrielle snatched a sketch from her workbench and presented it. "This is what I need." She only spoke French to me now. The trust and respect implicit in this, not to mention the breathy musicality of her voice in her native tongue, quite undid all her efforts to play down her beauty.

The sketch showed a woman--Beatrice Dalle, clearly--sitting on the wolf's back, smouldering. She was naked but for the iconic cloak, her knees spread into a wide M, her vulva petalled and pink between.

I snorted. "Gabrielle, have you even read Little Red Hood?"

"This is not Little Red. This is the girl grown into a woman, like we all must, into the feline, vampiric queen of our own wild woods. We must rule over canine masculinity, non? And she is displaying the secret core of her power, the power after which she is named. This is not clear?"

Now I understood why she'd asked about my minge. She wasn't (just) trying to be outrageous. The whole set was one massive, stylised pudenda. The tortuous wood was dark, pubic hair, the snowy hillock was the skin of a mound and I guess Red Riding Hood, I, was supposed to be the cunty centrepiece.

The lurid reality of what I'd agreed to hit me, and my heart hammered so hard the page shook with my pulse. Yesterday, when I revealed myself to Gabrielle, I was in control. Now I was here at her pleasure. This was exciting in its way, but her focus on her work, and not on me, made me feel a sleezy imposter. I was only here to get cheeky. I'm a vain and horny creature and will do anything for someone who finds me sexy. But I'm also spoilt aristocracy. I won't be used.

But fuck it. I had nothing else to do.

I gulped, handed the drawing back to her, and kicked off my shoes.

At last, Gabrielle's cheek dimpled with the secret smile that so beguiled me yesterday. "I like you, Lady Bash," she whispered.

She stepped behind me to unzip my dress, but I sensed she was stalking, taking me in as I stripped. I hoped so anyway. This was more like I imagined. I wriggled off my Chanel, then my panties, and pirouetted. "OK?"

Gabrielle blinked, swallowed.

Nudity, under the right conditions, is the scariest battledress in a woman's wardrobe. Gabrielle was jittery as she wrapped me in the cape. She pulled the big hood over my head and tied a single fastening at the neck. Velvet inside and out, the thigh-length cloak felt divine, like a big hand stroking my back and bum. It left me feeling even more naked.

"Tres bien." Gabrielle picked up a camera, gestured to the stuffed wolf. "I will take photographs and sketches so you are not here for days watching me paint, OK?"

Suddenly hit by stage fright, I sat primly on the wolf's back. It was a giant, big as couch, and its bones might have been replaced by welded steel, but it still felt like it could spring back to life any second.

I draped my cloak just like the sketch, labially flaring to half-reveal my boobs but exposing me from the waist down. Then I took a breath. And opened my legs.