I've filed this under Erotic Couplings, though it includes lesbian fantasies. So if that's not your thing, then you can move along without wasting any of your valuable porn-surfing time.
May also contain nuts.
Oh, there you are. Seems like ages since we last chatted. Let me fill you, then, shall I?
In the days before I met Nellie, I was a shy boy. A little backward, an only child, sexually naïve other than internet porn. My only experience in the flesh had been some heavy making out that concluded with a brief penile sojourn into the vagina of a girl named Stephanie, the daughter of one of Mum's tea friends. After several strokes, my moment arrived much earlier than I had planned and she bawled 'pull out, pull out, pull out!' When I did (Mum says I'm always to be a good, respectful lad), Stephanie jumped up and ran to the bathroom, cupping her hand under her stomach to keep me from running onto the floor. I cleaned up with a kitchen towel and left her flat before she came out of the shower, and I never saw her again.
After that I didn't date much. It was mostly just me and work and Mum. On rare private moments when I could, I would wank off to internet porn, nothing exotic, just fucking and sucking between a man and a woman. Just enough to get my cock to stand on end, and then my hand and I would take it from there.
When Mum's friends came for tea, I could hear them downstairs chatting around the Queen's Golden Jubilee commemorative teapot and the caddie with milk and sugar and spoons. Someone would always ask if I were dating, and Mum always had to tell them no, not anyone she was aware of. Once one of her friends asked, with some hesitation over her cup of tea, "You don't suppose he's...gay...do you?"
"Just hasn't found the right one, is all," Mum said defensively. She sounded a bit annoyed, either with her friend for asking or with me for seeming to be gay.
That all changed when I met Penelope Bell. Our boss Mr. Grisham assigned Nellie, as everyone calls her, to be my cubicle mate when she came to work at our advertising firm, Corporate Concepts. She was pretty but not in an over-the-top way, the kind of girl who might blend into a crowd, somewhere between middle height and short, with hair colour that changed like a chameleon, usually some shade of blonde, though occasionally a ginger red or some primary colour. Round, green eyes with thick lashes, like little emerald suns with black rays emanating from them. Nellie prefers short skirts with thigh high stockings in the summers and tights in the winters, blouses, frequently white, with no bra or a sheer one so that the nipples of her small breasts can be seen if they're erect enough and she's positioned just so.
Nellie's an artist and responsible for much of the work you see in magazines in the U.K. and in Europe. But back then she and I were unknown quantities in the world of London advertising. She was new to the city then, a girl from Nottinghamshire in the Midlands, all alone in a new place. A few days after she arrived in our cubicle, she asked me to go with her for drinks after work. But because I was a shy boy then, I stammered until I finally begged off. She seemed a little hurt.
To make matters worse, when she stepped out of our cubicle for a moment, I thumbed through her sketchpad and noticed some homoerotic drawings she'd made. The shocker was that several of them were me with other men. She returned just in time to catch me looking, and she cried. Maybe she was embarrassed at my having found myself in her fantasies. But she cried, cried that I had turned her down for a drink, cried that I had violated her by looking through her sketchpads. It's the only time we've ever quarreled.
It wasn't for long. Before she and I could settle into the trench warfare of long-term animosity, Mr. Grisham called me to his office with a proposal. There was an account Corporate Concepts was courting in Paris, a family-owned flooring business of three or four French brothers. We were considered longshots to land it. I'm fluent in French and a little knowledgeable on things like flooring. I owe this to my French Canadian papa, a man who was adept at laying carpet and women, which led to my parents' divorce and my being raised in mother's England rather than my father's Quebec. Because of my fluency and basic knowledge of flooring, Mr. Grisham chose me to represent us, and because Nellie had put together some lovely concept drawings, she was chosen to go with me.
On a cold winter day, we flew together to Paris to deliver our proposal, merely as two coworkers on a business trip. We were dressed for business, me in a suit, Nellie in a smart dark blue pinstriped pencil skirt, white blouse, with the hint of a lacy bra under it, and a dark jacket. Her hair was swirled back into a short rooster-esque ponytail, and she wore glasses, more for appearances than for eyesight. It was her first time to fly, and when the plane thrust us into the air, her sweaty hand grasped the back of mine as she nervously chewed the gum I'd given her. It was the first time we ever touched. I felt a certain electricity, but I didn't know what it meant just then.
We found the offices of the flooring company, Rousseau Frères, and I gave the pitch in Canadian French with Nellie's drawings and watercolors as a backdrop. They were fantastic, a visual treat, rugs and carpets set in exotic locales like Morocco and Japan. With each flip of the easel the eyes in the room became more and more enamored with our proposal, and the body language of the people around the conference table suggested that we had their full attention. Nellie and I had no sooner gotten in the taxi to go back to our hotel rooms when we received a text from Mr. Grisham saying that the Rousseau Frères had been wowed by our presentation. It was a major upset, a dark-horse finish, and the largest account ever landed by Corporate Concepts. By ten-fold.
Unable to contain his excitement, Mr. Grisham called right after we received his text. I could hear champagne corks popping in the background as Mr. G told us that he had moved us from our three star hotel near the airport to a five star hotel on the left bank across the Seine from the Eifel tower.
"You two take a week and enjoy the City of Lights and Lovers," he said.
When we got there, we found out that he had only booked one room, a huge suite with a bathroom that Nellie said was bigger than her entire flat. Perhaps it was an omission on Mr. G's part to just book one room. Or perhaps he knew what he was doing all along. He liked both of us, even before we had landed what became to be known at CC as "The Big Deal." I believe that secretly he wanted to see us together. Actually, I'm quite sure of it.
It happened that afternoon with the curtains open to the cold, rainy Paris outside our window. We made love and then just fucked, just fucked and then made love. We sucked, fingered, licked, arched our backs, panted, moaned, and then napped. Then we woke up and did it all again. It was more sex in one afternoon than I had had in my entire life. By ten-fold.
I learned her body. The vine-and-bird tattoo that meandered up the ivory skin of her side, the crossed ballet slippers at the nape of her neck just under the edge of her blonde hair. On that cozy afternoon we became the center of each other's universe.
Because she was an artist, she and I went to the Louvre, the Musée d'Orsay, Rodin's gardens, bundled up in winter coats, arm in arm under an umbrella. I watched her looking at the art, pausing here and there to sit on a bench and sketch, her feet in sensible black flats, the sole of one foot resting on the top of the other, her legs, shapely-white in the tights under a pleated gray plaid skirt, her small, perky tits in the bra that only I knew was sheer and lacy white under her blouse and sweater.
Between the museums there was good wine and good food, Nellie's eyes taking on a look of besotted adoration as I effortlessly conversed with the waiters in French. The winter nights fell quickly, and the lights of the Eifel tower rose above the Seine and the twinkling lights of the City of Lights, the city of lovers, Paris. Because we were lovers now, we felt like all lovers feel, that Paris belonged only to us.
We made love until we were sore, and then we made love some more. We bathed together, napped together, came together. Then, on our last day we bought a lock and wrote our names on it, Nellie & Pete, and attached it to the fence on the Pont-des-Arts. Then we threw the key into the murky green water of the Seine. We returned to London as heroes to the people of Corporate Concepts. And we returned as a couple.
Nellie and I got a nice raise and a flat together in Kensington, a really nice flat with a living room done up in white with a high ceilings and two gray Chesterfield sofas facing each other and a black iron fireplace at one end, a well-stocked kitchen (though neither of us cook much), a bathroom with a glass-enclosed shower, and a bedroom with big floor-to-ceiling windows and a four poster bed. A combination study-art studio. And we made love in every room.
"What shall it be tonight, Peetie? Studio or living room?"
