Stories for When the Sun Goes Down (Sexy Anthology) (3 page)

His cock is a rod of solid steel, igniting every hot spot
inside my body. The intensity of his entire weight blasting at my clit, belting
at my G-spot, sends me over the edge of my precarious cliff and I grab for my orgasm.
It’s not hard to catch, it’s hovering, playing, teasing me so I let it win with
overpowering majority and take it for all it’s got. I erupt into a heavenly
spasm of convulsions. A volcano of pure pleasure pounds through my veins and
arteries. For that moment it overtakes every thought, memory, piece of
knowledge I’ve ever had.

A primitive howl tries to escape my lips, but anticipating
this usual wild animal reaction John clamps a firm hand over my open mouth. I
try not to bite down on his palm but fail and feel soft, tender flesh squeeze
between my teeth.

 My attempt at howling turns to a squeak and he shifts
his hand to brace harder against the door. “Oh, fuck… fucking hell…” he blurts
out. “Fucking good… good… good, God.” His eyes screw up and his features twist
in ecstasy as he too explodes. I feel him blasting out the powerful
contractions of his almighty orgasm, shunting upwards, impaling me against the
door. He holds me exactly where he wants me and goes on and on with his
pleasure rollercoaster.

“Bloody hell…” he says, a final shudder snaking down his
spine and his eyes blinking open to the harsh light of the room.

I match his shiver and feel boneless as he continues to
hold me. “That was…” I struggle for the right words to describe our explosive
reunion. “Amazing, Prime Minister.”

 He grins and the dimples I adore sink deep. “Glad to be
of service, Madam President.”

I would love to curl up in his embrace now. Slide down to
the floor, pull up a cushion and a blanket. Have a light doze and then do it
all over again in a lazy, meandering way. Indulge in some serious foreplay, him
on me this time. But we can’t. We have to get back to reality. We have to get
back to the sensible world of global politics to which we hold the keys.

He pulls out and supports me while I unhook my ankles and
lower my legs.
His hair is sticking up at the back and as he
fiddles with his belt I smooth it flat, then grab a Kleenex and wipe away the
semen seeping down my leg.

“Your present,” he says, pulling the egg
by its tiny string from his jacket pocket. “A little extra persuasion for when
we review that environmental policy.” He holds the egg to his lips, kisses it
and then with long, skilled fingers slides it into my vagina. I spread my legs
and wriggle as he pushes it deeper, so deep it becomes lodged and settles into
position. It’s cold and rigid against my swollen, super-sensitive flesh, but it
feels soothing and reminds me of having him there. I like it, welcome it.

He pulls his moist fingers from me and
then holds up a pink remote control. “This is going to be so much fun.” He
winks and licks his lips. “Can I order more tea?”

“Sure.” I smile, excited at the thought of
John holding the controls to my pleasure, plus his need for a cup of tea after
sex has always amused me. It’s so very English of him.

“I’ll give you a second to straighten up.” He reaches for
the lock on the door, slides it free then tucks the remote back into his inside
jacket pocket. “See you in a minute.”

He slips out and I pull up my panties and
tug down my skirt.
My insides are still trembling. I can still feel him
right there doing his stuff and the egg is only enhancing that memory.

I turn to the mirror
—
damn I look wild.

My reflection shows a woman who’s been ravaged and savaged.
A woman who’s just had flaming hot sex. My hair has been backcombed against the
wooden panels of the door. My cheeks are a shiny apple-red and my neck blotchy
pink from John’s chin bristles. My lips are puffy and swollen and the brightest
shade of crimson imaginable, certainly not my usual, rather reserved colour.

But my eyes, it’s my eyes that catch my attention. It’s
been a long time since I saw my alive, excited, woman-in-love look. It’s only
ever there when John is around. I indulge in the sight of my own soul glowing
from within. I know I must tidy up, but just for a second instead of being
Madam President, I just want to be Raine
—
Raine who is
head-over-heels in love and lust with John.

I zip through appearance reconstruction
and head back into the Oval Office, clenching my vaginal muscles as my naughty
present rolls with my sashay.

John is sitting on the couch wearing a
sombre expression. “Did you order more tea?” I ask.

“There was a fresh pot on the table already.” His heavy
gaze finds mine. “Someone must have been in whilst we were… you know.”

My heart does a giant flip of panic. Keep calm. It doesn’t
matter, just one of the domestic staff. No harm done. They probably didn’t hear
anything. They wouldn’t have even known it was us in the dressing room,
probably thought it was workmen banging around or something.

I sit on the sofa opposite him and the egg
tilts forward, pressing against my responsive front wall. I’m struggling to
stay calm. I need damage limitation.

“Hey,” he says leaning forward so his elbows are angled on
his knees. “I’m only joking, I’ve just ordered more tea from Hilda, it will be
here in a minute.”

The black dots dancing before my eyes disappear and the nausea
subsides. I grab a fat embroidered cushion. “You…” I say, hurling it at him
with the skill of a professional baseball player. “Are not funny, Prime
Minister.”

“Oh lighten up. You Americans just don’t have any sense of
humour…” He ducks to avoid the cushion hitting him on the head and grins. “Your
face was such a picture, you should have seen it.”

A sharp knock at the door catches our attention and like a
personality switch we straighten our features and stiffen our spines. John
retrieves the cushion then reaches for the weighty policy previously abandoned
on the coffee table and flicks it open.

I clear my throat. “Enter.”

“Carbon emissions…” John starts as a
member of staff in a black dress and white apron glides in with fresh tea,
followed by Drake, Harold and John’s two advisors.

Suddenly the egg leaps to life with a
pulse of sturdy vibrations and a delicious ripple of pleasure rolls through me.

John looks over, his expression neutral.
He pulls his hand from his pocket.

I squirm, curl my coccyx and feel the
buzzing egg press directly on my G-spot. It feels heavenly on the still
throbbing, still needy nerve endings and the desperate desire for it to
continue is instantaneous.

Drake hands me a cup and saucer. It
clatters in my shaky hand. He glances at my face, concerned. The buzzing
stops.
I smile, lean forward, place the drink on the table and knot my
fingers in my lap.

“We have to look at the industrial and
domestic aspects as well as...” John continues and the buzzing starts up again,
travels through several programs then settles in a steady beat. I have to force
my eyes not to roll back in their sockets and clamp my lips shut to prevent a
groan of delight. It’s the perfect tempo for keeping me aroused.

I contract my pussy around the egg as hard
as I can and focus on keeping every other part of my body perfectly still. I
pray no one can sense the hum travelling along the sofa. It’s relentless, this
internal massage, orchestrated by my lover who is talking earnestly and wearing
his most serious, business face.

I can’t concentrate, though I’m sure he’s
giving a very persuasive and intelligent argument for his policy. I can think
of nothing but the vibrating and I lean back. The position shifts and the
feeling intensifies
—
I
gasp.

There is a sudden pause in conversation
and all eyes turn to me. “Yes,” I say seriously, knowing I must offer a follow
up response to my gasp. “Excellent, very novel suggestion.”

John raises his eyebrows infinitesimally
then carries on talking and flicking through documents.

I compress my fists. An orgasm is
building. There’s no clitoral stimulation, it’s all about my G-spot. The
elusive G-spot only John can find, even from ten feet away. Oh, I love it.
“Yes, yes.” I nod enthusiastically at a ridiculous tax proposal for industrial
emissions. “Yes.”

“You seem to be warming to all my
suggestions,” John says with an obscenely wicked smile as Drake and Harold
adopt confused frowns. “Do you think we could get something signed today, Madam
President?”

Sign nothing, sign nothing,
I repeat mantra style in my head, not with this dreamy distraction.
The British are not playing fair!

The buzzing stops. Cruelly taken away when
I was so close. I open my mouth but no words come out. Frustration and relief
are a confusing soup of emotions.

“Would you like me to go through it
again?” John asks.

“Yes, yes... please.” I swallow hard and
the energetic buzzing resumes. I know he won’t let me orgasm in front of our
advisors, the primitive howl I can’t control at my moment of climax would be
shocking and unexplainable. Doctors would be sought, an ambulance called.

But I’m not complaining about the British
Prime Minister’s imaginative way of livening up a dull meeting. Teetering on
the edge of another glorious explosion, hot, swollen and at his mercy is an
entrepreneurial approach to thrashing out a global warming policy. And the four
advisors, well, they need never know there was anything other than the buzz of
international diplomacy stimulating me all afternoon.

About Madam President

Madam President won the 2009 LoveHoney
Award for Erotic Fiction in the long story section. The rules stated that the
story had to contain a LoveHoney product which is why John produces the
Vibrating Dream Egg to keep Raine on the edge of her seat for the rest of the
afternoon.

I was absolutely thrilled with my
achievement and this quote from judge Cheryl Mildenhall proved to me that I’d
accomplished what I’d set out to write.

 
"This story had me hooked
from the first sentence! There is realism, erotic tension and satisfaction, all
written in the style of a true wordsmith. "Madam President" is a
delightful combination of The West Wing, the books by Edwina Currie and of
course pure erotica."

Since writing this first erotic piece I’ve
never looked back, and sometimes I wonder if I could squeeze a novel out of
John and Raine. Should I rewind time and write about when their eyes meet
across a crowded lecture hall, their first night together in Oxford then their
steamy liaison in the Canadian pine forest? Maybe one day, I’ll settle down and
tell their entire story. I think it would be hot, scandalous and certainly
explosive!

Slut-red, that’s the only way to describe
the shocking colour of my new lipstick; sticky, shiny, slutty red.

Perfect.

My working dress is also slut-red, a
daring halterneck that leaves my slim, golden shoulders bare and the cleavage
open to an inch below my rather modest breasts.

Clicking my patent slut-red heels through
the grand lobby of the hotel, I especially like the way the soft material moves
around my legs. It swishes just above my knees, not in a tight clinging way,
but in a gentle flowing way that gives just a hint of the toned thighs and hips
beneath.

I’m wearing fishnet stockings, a tight
mesh that suits my small frame. Hold-ups as opposed to a suspender belt
—
can’t have lumps and bumps ruining
the sleek lines of my figure.

The overall look is just as I intended, it
befits a high-class whore and suits the exclusive Grosvenor House Hotel on Park
Lane, the venue I’ve picked for tonight’s sales pitch.

I glance at the display of exotic flowers
flooding an antique mahogany table and sense the concierge looking my way. I
strut a little more confidently, as if I belong, as if I am entitled to be
here. I am
—
why shouldn’t I
be? I’m performing a service the same way he is.

Before me heavy double doors are propped
open and a gold sign overhead reads “
Champagne Bar”
in black writing. I
walk in and the atmosphere mellows from the stiffly formal lobby to a
distinguished but relaxed lounge. A huge fire blazes through subdued lighting
and an excess of contemporary leather seating is dotted about.

There is a sleek bar side onto me and
three middle-aged men in suits lean casually against it, drinks half-drunk,
chatting in a familiar way. One of them looks at me, turns back, comments, then
they all scan me up and down. I give just the barest tilt of my lips and step
around them. The floor here is thickly carpeted and my trip-trapping heels fall
silent.

“Good evening,” one of the men says as I
draw parallel.

“Hi,” I reply, quicken my pace and choose
a stool around the far end of the bar. Behind me is a window, a huge expanse of
black glass which glistens as the lights of Park Lane traffic fractures through
the millions of raindrops streaking its surface.

The barman is attentive and I’ve barely
seated myself and placed my slut-red purse on the bar when he’s over.

“Champagne, madam.” He stands a tall flute
of golden bubbles in front of me. “Compliments of the three gentlemen.”

I raise the glass, smile and mouth cheers
to the three men who are staring at me with hopeful expression. But I don’t
linger my attention, they’re not my type, a bit old, a bit samey, not at all
hunky.

I’m fussy
—
really fussy. 

I can afford to be. I have a roof over my
head, money in the bank and two kids doing rather well at private school. Being
discerning about customers is a luxury I allow myself.

The bar is half full and as I savour the
deliciously dry bubbles popping on the roof of my mouth, I check out the clientele.
Several couples sit cosy on over-stuffed sofas, a few groups laugh with
reserved mirth so as not to disturb the gentle ambiance and a pianist tinkles
away near the fire; something lazily jazzy, un-intrusive and mellow.

There are two single men, one reads a
broadsheet in a bucket chair by a table lamp and the other has a laptop on his
knee and a glass of red wine in his hand. Neither look my type, but it’s okay,
I know I’ll get lucky if I bide my time.

I take another sip of champagne and my
attention is caught by a shadow looming in the double doorway. A big bulk of a
man is briefly silhouetted before he strides onto the carpeted area. He wears a
charcoal grey suit which fits his wide, six feet-plus frame to perfection and
my heart does a happy flip of hope. He’s so my type.

I’ve always had a thing for men with that
overdosed-on-testosterone look. Big, burly chunks of muscle do seriously funny
things to my stomach, my knees and somewhere else in-between. I find myself
hoping his wallet is deep enough for me to have a good time as well as him. Not
just a request for a quick blow job
—
that’s not my style. My rate is for the night, not individual acts,
unless it gets kinky, then it’s an open court for discussion and depends on my
mood.

He stands at the bar beside the men who
sent me champagne, dwarfing them as he catches the barman’s attention. I lip
read his order of bottled beer, exactly what I’d have predicted, then I pout
and run a hand through my long dark hair as his brooding gaze scans my way.

But his glance hits me so briefly and with
such disinterest I wonder if he’s even noticed me summing him up. I try not to
crease my forehead into a frown, reach into my purse and pull out a gold
compact and my slut-red lipstick.

I keep my eye on the hunk.

He signs the drink to his room and the
sight of his big-man hands tip me over the edge. That’s it. He’s my target for
tonight. No one else will do. It’s him or nothing.

He moves to take a seat nearer me, but not
at the bar, a creased brown leather armchair next to a Tiffany lamp and with a
view of Park Lane. I settle into re-applying my lipstick and peer at his face
over the compact. He has a strong, square jaw that protrudes slightly giving
him an air of proudness, his nose looks like that of a rugby player, or a
boxer, squint but tough and his mouth is wide and soft. I watch fascinated as
he licks a drip of beer from his bottom lip and then leans his meaty shoulders
back into the chair.

“Another champagne?”

A quiet voice jolts me from my study. I
re-focus and see the shorter of the three men from the bar standing at my side.

“No, I’m fine thank-you,” I say, watching
his thin weasel moustache twitch.

“Perhaps a night-cap, a brandy perhaps,
the hour is getting late.” He nods at the over-sized clock behind the bar that
shows eleven.

“No, really, I’m fine.” I tuck away my
compact and lipstick. “Thank you so much for this one though.” I hold up my
nearly empty glass.

“Well,” he says, and leans in so close I
can smell his musty aftershave. “I’m sure we could come to some sort of
arrangement for you to say thank you properly.” He places a clammy hand on my
bare arm.

I swallow tightly. This is not what I
want. Not by a long shot.

“The lady said no.” A deep voice growls.

Weasel man turns and comes face to chest
with the hunk I’d been happily admiring until a few moments ago. “What’s it to
you?” he questions in a squeaky voice.

“She’s my date.” Hunk moves closer and
Weasel sidesteps around the corner of the bar to avoid becoming trapped. “You
got a problem with that?” Hunk adds with a scowl.

“No, no, not at all, I just thought she
was alone… you were sitting over there.”

“Not anymore.”

“Okay, okay.” Weasel holds up his hands.
“No harm done, sorry mate.”

I watch with relief as he heads back to
his friends giving a forced nonchalant shrug as he goes. “Thanks,” I say,
smiling at my rescuer.

I get one raised eyebrow in reply.

“Would you like to er… join me?” I ask.

He bangs his beer on the bar, pulls up a
stool and sits down
—
very
close. “I’d better now I’ve told them you’re my date.”

“I really appreciate it, unwanted
attention can be a hazard for a woman like me.”

The same thick black eyebrow lifts again
as his eye line drops to my displayed cleavage. “I’m guessing you want
attention wearing that dress.”

“Oh, yes.” With a dainty flick of my
tongue I lick my freshly glossed top lip. “But I only like attention from a
certain type of man.”

“And what type would that be, no…” He
holds up his palm. “Let me guess… the rich type.”

“Rich works, so does…” I pretend to be
thoughtful, rest an index finger against my temple. “So does… handsome.”

He snorts and rocks his head back. “That
rules me out then.”

I make a show of slowly dropping my eyes
from his buzz-cut dark hair, over his slightly stubbled, rugged face and then
down his suit, all the way to his shiny leather shoes, one of which rests on
the gold bar of his stool. “Another glass of champagne and I think you’d be very
handsome to a woman like me.”

“Champagne it is.” He holds one hand up to
the barman and using sign language orders. “You gonna tell me your name?” He
turns his attention back to me.

“Ruby.”

“Ruby.” He nods slowly. “And tell me Ruby,
what do you do for a living?”

“Can’t you tell?” I reach for the fresh
champagne the barman has placed next to me.

“I want to hear you to say it out loud.”
His knowing gaze bores into me. His eyes so dark they have no gap between pupil
and iris.

“You want me to say it?”

“Sure, then we’ll know where we stand and
I won’t make a cock-up that’ll earn me a slap.”

“Okay.” I tip my head and hold eye contact.
“I’m a whore.”

He grins and flashes a neat row of white
teeth. “A whore.” He rolls the word around his mouth. “A whore. Ruby the whore.
I think just whore is a better name, forget the Ruby.”

I shrug. “Whatever turns you on…er…?” I
extend the sentence wondering if he’ll offer his name.

“You don’t need to call me anything.” He
lifts his champagne to his lips and takes a deep sip. His silver wedding band
twinkles in the headlight of a Bentley passing by outside. “You want to set up
a deal, whore,” he says.

I like him calling me whore. He says it
with such deliciousness. He savours each syllable and ekes out the “r” at the
end. His mouth plays with the word and I hope he wants to play with me that
way. “A deal,” I say, knowing I must stop fantasising and think business. “What
have you got in mind?”

He leans his head to mine, moves my long
hair with the back of his hand and whispers into my ear. “A quick fuck in the
toilets.”

The request doesn’t even deserve a response
so I tilt my chin with a haughty flick.

“Too downmarket for a whore like you, eh?”

“I could have had that with them.” I nod
at the three guys at the bar ordering more drinks. “I’m not up for that, not
with you.”

“So what are you up for?”

“The whole night or nothing. Sex,
foreplay, a soap down in the shower. Eight hours from the time we get to your
room.”

“How do you know I have a room?” He
frowns.

“I saw you sign your tab earlier.”

“You were watching me?”

“Why not? You look like you have deep
pockets.”

A deep rumble of laughter spills from his lips.
“Not all I got in my pocket,” he says as he shifts his weight on the stool.

I smile but stay in business mode, cross
my legs and hook a heel on the rung of my own stool. “Fifteen hundred for the
night.”

The smile slips from his face. “You must
be joking, you got a gold-plated pussy or something?”

“I never joke about money.”

“Me neither, seven hundred and fifty.”

“Thirteen hundred.”

“How do I know you’re any good? You might
shag like a sack of potatoes.”

“I can assure you I’ve never had
complaints before, the odd heart attack yes, but no complaints.”

He props an elbow on the bar and leans in
close. “One thousand,” he murmurs. “For the whole night, my rules, I’m in
charge
—
you do what I
say.”

“That could work.” I pretend to mull it
over and try not to look too excited at the deal about to be struck and what
delights might lay ahead. His cool water aftershave and his intensely primitive
stare are making me wet for him already.

“But one thing first.” He straightens and
his suit jacket stretches across his chest.

“What?”

“Uncross your legs.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard what I said
—
I want to sample the goods before I
cough up a grand.”

“You want to sample the goods… here?”

“Oh, yeah, right here, right now, my rules
remember.”

I unfurl my legs and slide to the edge of the
stool, grateful that apart from a few drivers whizzing along Park Lane I’m
hidden from view to everyone in the Champagne Bar.

He stands, nudges my legs further open and
reaches to pull his stool closer. He sits back down.

I take a sip of champagne and feel a
thrill as the tip of his cool index finger sneaks up the hem of my dress onto
my fishnets. I make a point of not reacting to the burst of pleasure as he
winds higher and higher onto the warm flesh of my thigh. The material of my
dress is bunched and rucked around his wrist and his wandering fingers find and
sweep the silk gusset of my lace panties.