MICHAEL

Immediately, I withdraw from her, but now it’s my turn. My cock slick with her juices, I ease into her ass, watching her face from behind as I do so. James is watching too; her expression. I love taking her up the back, so does he; but always we are careful when we do so.

But she seems comfortable, her breathing short and rapid, eyes a little glazed, but okay.

“Charlotte, am I hurting you?”

She shakes her head, still with that same dreamy expression, and now, after a couple of short, slow test thrusts, I sheath myself inside her.

Her orgasm hasn’t fully died away. She still pulses inside, and her hips are a-quiver.…

Another one, Baby?

With easy slow thrusts, I fuck her ass, but reaching around again to her clitoris, I start to work her again. She’s moaning softly. James, seeing what’s happening, reaches in, tweaking at her nipples, rolling and pulling. And with each movement, she trembles and shivers.

And now, she comes again, this time rising back onto her hands, face upraised as she howls her climax.

And that’s enough for me. Irresistibly, I cum, and balls tight, I shoot into her, slamming in my load as I bend close over her, holding her tightly at the hip and waist.

She may want me to be her ‘Golden Lover’, and for her, I will be, but still, I want to fuck my Charlotte.

*****

CHARLOTTE

It is very good of Beth to invite me out, and Richard encourages her to be my friend, but I find shopping with her a bit surreal. It’s great fun, but the shops she uses have sky-high prices and, although my Master always encourages me to buy something, still I don’t like taking money from him or Michael. It doesn’t feel right.

I buy myself a pair of pretty but cheap ear-rings, paying from my own account, and keeping my Master’s credit card firmly in my purse.

And now it is time for afternoon tea….

*****

I sit, surrounded by twittering airheads; a dozen women, all newly introduced to me, and already, I have forgotten most of their names.

The topics of conversation involve how much their husbands are earning, hairstyles, fashion, who might be pregnant next, how much shopping allowance their husbands give them….

Don’t any of them actually do anything?

None of them seems to have any life outside a procession of parties, entertainment and shopping. All live in the reflected glow of their husband’s business or occupation, satellites to someone else’s reality.

What do they do all day?

It occurs to me that Michael must make quite a bit of money out of these women. As I listen, it is clear that his Centre is a popular destination. They talk of gyms and make-overs, pamper days and manicures, who is the best masseur….

“The handsome, blond guy…. you know the one…. with the beautiful eyes….”

Mmmm.…

I am bored rigid, trying to remain polite, and to at least appear to be paying attention to the prattling around me. Some of the woman are lovely to look at, or at least, perfectly made up and turned out, which often amounts to the same thing, and around us, I see male heads turned, looking in at the group, scanning the perfect faces.

Sitting, sipping tea from fine porcelain, exchanging meaningless chit-chat with these primped and preened ladies, nonetheless, I can’t help but notice that Beth stands out among them. Noticeably, some of the surreptitious male admirers from around us are looking at her in particular. Although she is, like the others, perfectly turned out and spotlessly groomed, there is, in her eyes, a spark. She, like me, came from humble beginnings, and I know that she also had, in her own way, a fight to get to where she is.

And does she like it now, where she is?

Our eyes meet, and she sucks in a smile, rolling her eyes at the Barbie-like, conveyor-belt-produced beauty sitting next to her, whose current conversation centres around the best choice of polish to avoid chipped nails.

I begin to think that I may wear my roughened hands with pride.

The tea party disperses, one after another of the Stepford Wives making her excuses and leaving. Eventually, only Beth and I remain.

“Want something a bit stronger than tea?” she asks.

I sniff. “A glass of wine would be nice, wouldn’t it.”

We order a bottle of chilled rosé, with some nibbles to stop the alcohol sitting too heavily.

Beth looks at me. “Sorry about that,” she says.copy right hot novel pub