I have to admit that when I looked round the congregation at the Memorial Service I had to wonder. How many were there simply to pay tribute to a remarkable woman they had admired? How many were there with more intimate memories? The eulogy sketched in the public details of what had been a very public life.
Married at twenty, divorced at thirty-five, twenty years in politics, seven years in the City, tireless work for charitable causes. A career that seemed destined for further distinction until it was suddenly ended at the age of sixty-two. Heart failure, they said, but doesn’t everyone die of that? Unexpected in this case but apparently due to some congenital weakness.
Well, that was the public image. Having worked for her for an important part of that career, my thoughts during the Service strayed to much that wasn’t even hinted at from the pulpit. I certainly didn’t know everything; her ability to compartmentalise was remarkable. But our professional relationship meant that inevitably I had a number of windows into her private activities, some of which I had shared. I knew enough to look across the packed pews and identify many present who would have been there for entirely personal reasons. They were those, male and female, who had enjoyed, albeit briefly, the privilege of her sexual favours.
Perhaps, after a suitable lapse, some future biographer will be able to tell the full story . For the present, I must warn that many persons in the following narrative will have to be disguised to protect them from infamy, and to protect me from legal action. I shall call her Fay Middleton. That bears no resemblance to her real name but keen students of politics and the financial world may well put two and two together. And, of course, there will be others who will read this and add a private reminiscence or two of their own.
I went to work for Fay shortly after she was first elected to Parliament. Originally, I was hired as a researcher but my ability to organise an office and to get on with all kinds of people earned me swift promotion. As Fay’s PA, I came to understand that maintaining her diary, making her appointments and travel arrangements, keeping on top of her correspondence, preparing her daily briefing, and a myriad similar tasks, was much more than a nine-to-five job. I didn’t mind because, despite the twenty years between our ages, we were two of a kind; rather than employer and employee we developed a relationship that was much more than that, hard though it is to define.
There was an evening when we had been working late to clear a backlog of correspondence from her constituents. I was tired after a lengthy spell at the computer. A headache was coming on. Fay, who had a genuine instinct for the mood of those around her, came and stood behind my chair, resting her hands on my shoulders.
“You’re very tense,” she said.
“A bit weary, that’s all. We need to get this done. I’ll be all right.”
“There’s not much now that can’t wait until tomorrow.” Her fingers gently massaged the back of my neck. “Let me relax you for a moment.”
Her voice, often strong and strident on the hustings or on the floor of the House, was calm and soft. I’m not one who needs a lot of cosseting but just at that moment I was ready to welcome a little respite at the end of a hard day. The fingers moved more firmly across my shoulders. I closed my eyes and leaned back.
“That’s better,” Fay said. “I’ll just unfasten these.” When she began to open my blouse, I felt no urge to protest. Fay had just turned forty, almost a mother figure or elder sister for me.
Her hands continued their manipulation, inducing a gradual lessening of the tension. My head began to clear. Inch by inch, Fay’s fingers worked their magic down my chest, across the swell of my breasts. I have never needed a great deal of support; I know now that my bra, flimsy and lacy as it was that evening, concealed little. More to the point, as Fay told me later, it revealed nipples she was sure would respond to stimulation. At first, the contact was so minimal I almost ignored it as accidental. By the time it became clear it was more than that, I was past resisting. I was being seduced by another woman, and I wanted it to happen. Perhaps, never having known the experience before, I had subconsciously invited it.
“My dear Pam,” she murmured, moving round to remove my blouse and bra, bending closer, “You can’t imagine how much I’ve wanted ot do this ever since you came to work for me.”
Her lips closed round a nipple and teased it, drawing it out. It was as though she knew without asking how quickly I respond to being aroused by a clever mouth and fingers. And now I was discovering how much more erotic it can be when the tongue and fingers are another woman’s. I could have taken as much as she cared to give, but Fay had other ideas. She turned my swivel chair away from the desk, knelt, pushed back my skirt and parted my knees. Her hands reached up round my thighs.
“Lift up, dear,” she said. “We mustn’t be too long.” When I complied, she slipped off my knickers in one swift movement. For a moment she paused, contemplating my pussy, her face so close I could feel the warmth of her breathing. When her fingers parted my lips and the tip of her tongue fluttered across my clitoris, I bucked as though I’d been given an electric shock.
“Stay still. I’ll make it good for you. No more tension.” While I tried to do as she wanted, it was impossible. The unprecedented nature of the situation was blowing my mind; at the same time the skill of her application was producing physical responses I couldn’t control, nor wanted to. Her tongue delved, my hands clasped the back of her head, my bottom rose from the seat to force us closer together. At some point she contrived to insert two fingers. How and when it happened I don’t know bur it was the trigger point. My orgasm exploded, huge and all encompassing. When it eventually began to subside, I slumped back into the chair, panting.
Fay swayed back on to her haunches and looked up at me. “First time?”
she asked. Once again she seemed to know.
“Yes,” I said.
“It needn’t be the last.”
A ll I could think was that I wanted what had just engulfed me to happen again and again. But this was Fay Middleton, Member of Parliament for Backwater South, my employer, old enough to be from another generation.
“How can it?”
“Be patient, Pam dear, and be discreet, . You know how this place gossips. Well, make sure we give them nothing to gossip about. Trust me, and there won’t be a problem as long as I can trust you. And I believe I can.” She said all this with such confidence, I couldn’t find the words to express my apprehensions.
I nodded. “But what about you now? Do you want me to – ”
“There’s probably nothing I’d enjoy more, but not this evening. I have to vote in the Division and after that I’ve promised to have that supper with young Mr Spender, haven’t I?” J T Spender was the latest recruit to the Correspondents’ lobby. Thirty-six, tall, very self-confident, the subject of much Westminster speculation. He’d approached Fay for an interview to do a profile and they’d agreed the supper date. It was in the diary. “My guess is our Mr Spender is after more than just an interview, and in that case I don’t want to disappoint him. I wouldn’t want you to take the edge off my appetite. But next time – I promise.”
In twenty minutes I had learned a lot about Fay Middleton. First and foremost that she was an expert lover who could have me at any time she wanted. But secondly, she had an ability to close the door on a relationship, not permanently, but until she was ready to open it again. I had never encountered anyone like her before and I guessed no one had written a guide book. I knew I would succumb next time she beckoned; but I knew, too, I had to be very wary and prepared at any time to be either exhilarated or disappointed.
The following day, Fay left a message to say she was going straight into a meeting in one of the Committee Rooms without calling at the office first. I was not short of work: in any quiet moment I was gradually transferring Fay’s personal contacts records from an old card index to a proper data base on the computer. It was necessary but boring and I was just taking a break with my salad lunch when Fay breezed in. I brought her up to speed on the calls I’d taken during her absence. She nodded and began returning them. No reference had been made to what had happened between us the previous evening.
During a lull between calls, I tried an oblique approach. “How was Mr Spender?”
“Satisfactory.” Fay’s expression gave nothing away. “Yes, you could say very satisfactory. On the LBW scale, B.”
At that time, I didn’t understand these coded indications that were appended to some of the names of Fay’s contacts; I just added them as instructed. Though I soon noticed the subjects were all male, I doubted they had anything to do with cricket. Some time elapsed, and our relationship had developed from that first strange encounter, before I learned the secret. One day when I was updating the records, Fay casually offered the explanation. L equalled ‘long’, and W equalled ‘wide.’ B meant simply ‘big.’ “Hey,” I thought, remembering the attractive lobby correspondent, “Hey, Big Spender.”
I’ve jumped ahead of events somewhat, but I’ve already given some indication of the mercurial mood changes that governed Fay’s private life. Professionally, in her political aims and responsibilities, she was focussed to the point of being single-minded. Her appointment as a junior Minister was acknowledged on all sides as the reward for a keen intellect and hard work. Not to mention fierce ambition. She applied herself no less determinedly to satisfying her physical needs, and it was here that she was unpredictable. Whether she wanted to fuck or be fucked, whether she wanted a man or another woman, whether she wished to consult the LBW register or ignore it, seemed to depend only on the whim of the moment. For as long as I knew her, I was unable to detect any pattern to these activities even after I came to play a significantly greater, though far from exclusive, role in them.
Not long after she had seduced me so expertly in our office, we were on a weekend visit to her constituency. It was the first time I had been asked to accompany her. Ostensibly, I was there to get to know the area and to make notes during her surgery interviews and meetings. Valid reasons, certainly, but, as I grew to understand on further trips, a smokescreen for what she had in mind for me after working hours.
There was no clearer demonstration of Fay’s clinical approach to a situation than her purchase of a house in the Backwater area even before she had been adopted as a Parliamentary candidate for the constituency. The locals lapped up that sign of her commitment. The by-product was that now, on our visits, it was quite natural for her to save me the expense of a hotel by offering me the use of her spare bedroom.
We were at the end of a long day made more tedious by the pettiness of many of the problems brought to Fay for her consideration. We were relaxing in her sitting room with a glass of wine. “I’ll be glad to get back to London,” she said, “but not before you and I have had the chance to enjoy some time together.”
I guessed – hoped – where that remark was leading but chose to say nothing.
“We do have some unfinished business, don’t we?”
Curious, I still waited but I was feeling the delicious tingle start to build.
“No need to be shy, Pam. You made me an offer which I had had to decline because of JT Spender. I admit he wasn’t exactly a disappointment but I did regret leaving you at a particularly interesting juncture. It was, wasn’t it?”
This time I nodded.
“I know.” She got up, took my glass and led me to the stairs. “We’ll finish these up there. Unless we find something more exciting to do.” As she gave me back the glass, her hand brushed across my breast. A promise.
By the time she had guided me into her bedroom I had lost all ability to play Miss Cool. I knew where this was heading and I couldn’t wait to get there. Slightly to my surprise, Fay – masterful Fay – was as eager as I was. All pretence abandoned, there was no initial subtlety. We stripped and threw ourselves on to the bed. “My turn first. You owe me,” was all she said as she turned on to her back, opened her legs and thrust my head between them. Inexperienced though I was with another woman, I learned quickly, latent instincts surfacing, guiding my tongue between her labia, lapping at the wetness. And she really was wet, ready to surrender herself. I sensed that somehow she had been building all day towards this moment.
Suddenly, she cried “Wait”, pulled away from me and twisted to open the drawer of a bedside cabinet. Taking out a long black moulded penis with ribbed edges, she pushed into my hand. “Use this,” she gasped. “Inside. Fuck me with it.” When I moved to do so, she fell back, murmuring, “Lick me, too. Get me off.”
It was easy, needing little or no skill on my part. When I eased the phallus into her receptive pussy, she asked for it harder. When I changed from licking her clitoris to nibbling at the distended tip, she pulled me round at right angles to her and began to squeeze my left breast. Her body was almost impossible to control as she lunged up from the bed to force the black cock deeper and deeper into her innermost recesses. The nearer Fay came to her orgasm, the more vocal she became and the more basic her vocabulary.
Fleetingly, I had a mental image of this woman standing in her dark business suit at the Despatch Box making a formal statement to the House, and tried to reconcile that with the woman crying out, “Fuck me. Fill my cunt. Make me come!” while writhing under the promptings of my mouth and my frenzied insertion of the rigid prosthetic.
The hand that had been massaging my breast began to dig into the flesh, the grip tightening until it hurt me. I tried to prise her away but it was impossible. Her climax was upon her and there was nothing to be done now except to let it take its course. When it came, she gave a long, wailing cry and clapped her hand to her mound as I pulled away. As one woman observing another, knowing in my own body what she was experiencing, I could only watch in envy as, slowly and deliciously, the suffusing electricity drained from her and she fell back on a pillow, momentarily exhausted.
“Pam, my darling,” she said as her composure began to return, “I’d been waiting a long time for that. But it was even better than I had imagined it would be.”
“You’ve been thinking of me – doing that?”
“Sometimes I’ve watched you at the computer and been so tempted to ask you to do it there and then. I knew I would be wet and ready for you, but it wasn’t right. Not there. Not then. I wanted there to be time. And now there is. Because we’ve only just started, haven’t we?”
I nodded, unsure what to say.
“Let me look at you, then. We’ve been so involved, I haven’t really had a chance. But let’s get comfortable first.” She asked me to stand while she removed the bed covers and turned back crisp white sheets. Then, after placing a pillow against the headboard and making herself comfortable against it, she motioned for me to join her. “I like small tits,” she said, caressing mine. “My own are nothing special, are they?”
It’s true they were not large but their shape, more pointed than round, gave real prominence to dark, unusually long nipples. Tentatively, I put out a hand to touch and felt them instantly spring to life. “That’s nice,” she murmured, “but you’ve already looked after me, at least for the moment. We need to think about you.” She looked own. Her hand traced a path across my groin. “You don’t have to shave, do you? Not the way I do. You’re lucky not to be dark.” Her pubic mound, which I had already discovered was quite pronounced, was bare while mine never displayed more than a light fuzz as fair as my hair.
“Do something for me,” she said. I looked into her face, needing more encouragement. Not having come down fully from our earlier exploits, which had been largely for her benefit, I wanted to go on but I wasn’t sure how. Looking back, I can see that from the outset I always acknowledged that Fay would lead and I would follow.
“Touch yourself. Show me what’s good.” She took my hand from her breast and placed it at the top of my pussy opening. After what had gone before, I had no reason to be shy but I felt awkward, hesitant. Fay soon realised she had to take charge. Propping herself on one elbow she used her free hand to begin manipulating my tits, first one, then the other, working the nipples. “Please, Pam,” she murmured, “Show me what’s good for you – so I’ll know what to do.”
I let my finger slip inside me. As I’d expected, I was already wet. My normal means of getting myself off is with my middle finger (I’m left-handed), although sometimes I need to use my first and middle fingers, one each side of my clitoris. Because the latter always works, and because I wanted to please Fay, I went straight away to the two-finger method. Fay pushed herself up and leaned in to see exactly what I was doing; satisfied, she lay back and looked intensely into my face, all the while offering soft words of approval and encouragement.
Soon I began to relax and concentrate on the warm glow developing between my legs. Fay suggested I should go faster but asked me to tell her when I was getting close. That wasn’t necessary. The way my breathing grew heavy and irregular, combined with the movement of my hips as my groin rose to meet my fingers, told her all she needed to know.
“Yes.” My voice was almost a groan. My fingers were taking me where I needed to be. But on the point of reaching a wonderful orgasm, I felt my wrist gripped firmly by Fay’s hand. “No, Pam, not yet. I want to help you. Will you let me?”
Stopped like that in mid air, I would have agreed to anything. Fay knew that and didn’t wait for my approval. I felt two fingers slide inside me. She had changed position and was kneeling over me so that she could still watch my face. Her fingers curled inside me, exerting subtle pressure, sometimes no more than a caress, at others moving in and out, finger-fucking. “Both of us together,” she said. “Keep touching yourself.”
My fingers resumed contact with the most sensitive spot, almost as though they had a will of their own. The inexorable build-up quickly returned, never having completely subsided. But again, when it seemed it was about to burst through, Fay contrived to hold it at bay. The fingers inside me were still. Her other hand arrested my own contribution.
After perhaps thirty seconds, she said, “Wait, let’s see if this helps.” She delved into the bedside drawer and produced a small pot of white cream. Scooping a tiny amount on to the end of her finger, she dabbed it on to the tip of my clitoris and gently rubbed it in. The result was strange: a kind of cooling effect without in any way impairing sensitivity. “It’s quite harmless,” she said. “It just has a mild anaesthetic effect. It’ll slow you down ever so slightly. Give you more control. All right now?”
“Yes, I’m ready.” In truth, I could hardly wait.
“Good. Spread wide for me.” Her fingers suddenly rammed into me, starting a fiercer finger-fuck. With the hand that had previously prevented me me from continuing, she turned her attention to my nipples, tweaking them, squeezing them, hurting me. “Can you take this?” she asked, smiling down at me without breaking rhythm. To my surprise I found that not only could I bear what she was doing, it seemed to add to my pleasure. The cream was having a beneficial effect, too. The build-up was undeniably slower but it was even more pleasurable. Encouraged by Fay, I began yet another drive for fulfilment with my own fingers. “That’s lovely, Pam. Go on.”
I redoubled my fingering efforts. Once more, I was sure nothing could come between me and what was now an all-consuming desire. Once more, I was mistaken. Fay’s mastery of my body was complete. I have no idea how many times she led me to the edge only to hold me back, helped no doubt by the effect of the cream. It was indescribably delicious torture, sustaining me in a state of extreme arousal that I had only ever experienced before in the most brief bursts of intensity.
Of course, it couldn’t continue indefinitely. For all that I wanted it go on, that desire was overcome by the compelling necessity for the ultimate reward. Probably the effect of the cream was wearing off. I simply couldn’t take any more and I cried out for release. “Fay! Do it for me. For God’s sake make me come!”
“Excellent,” she responded, as though she had achieved what she had been aiming for. For the brief time that was necessary her hand and mine found an immediate harmony. My most sensitive internal nerve ends took the message and sent it in wave after wave through my entire body. It was an orgasm whose like I had never known, hardly dreamed could be possible. I heard, distantly, Fay’s voice. “Now tell me: wasn’t that special?” Still gulping for breath, I let her know it had been very special indeed.
“I’m sure it was. Just take your time getting over it so you can remember everything. It can’t always be quite that sensational, I’m afraid, though we can always try.” I smiled up at her, wanting to let her see that I would be willing whenever she was. “When you’re ready,” she went on, “we’ll try something else.”
Older and wiser though I now am, it still seems to me there wasn’t much we didn’t try. There was a lot of sixty-nine, licking, sucking and fingering, and there were – for me – new experiences. I was spanked across Fay’s knee and I found myself urging her to be firmer; she lubricated her finger and put it into my bottom ; towards the end, she extracted a strap-on harness from the bedside drawer, buckled it on to herself and fucked me with that, though I confess it didn’t do as much for me as the rest of her repertoire. However, there is no denying that I lost count of my orgasms before I fell into an exhausted sleep.
The next morning at breakfast Fay said very matter-of-factly, “About last night.
It was good for you?”
“More than good.”
“And for me. The question is, where do we go from here? If we go on, can you cope?”
“In what way?”
“In the office, everything will have to be normal.”
“If we get together, it will have to be my call. And it might not be often. That’s what I meant when I asked if you can cope.”
“Better than nothing.”
“Do you have a boy friend?”
“Do you have sex with him?”
“From time to time, yes.” I had been with Miles, on and off, for about eighteen months. I think he took our relationship more seriously than I did. Once or twice he had mentioned marriage but I told him firmly I wasn’t ready for the foreseeable future. Nevertheless, without being a dream lover he could satisfy me so we continued to share a bed most week-ends.
“That’s good. You’ve probably deduced that I’m not a lesbian; I simply like women as much as I like men. It was one reason why I divorced David, and why I’ve looked ever since for short-term relationships. At Westminster, with so many people away from home for most of the week, they are easy to find. There is no need to become dependent on anyone, no matter how good they are in bed. Besides, I’ve discovered I like the variety. Not knowing how the next one will be. My only concession is occasionally to have a second fling with one of the better ones.”
Maybe it was then that she explained the LBW code to me but I can’t be certain. At that time it wasn’t what was uppermost in my mind, because she went on, “What I could foresee here is something less impermanent for us. If you can accept it on my terms. If you can’t, I could understand that. I just think we need to confront the question now.”
I was absorbing the fact that I would be one among a number, albeit with a somewhat privileged position. Could I cope with that? It was a valid question and only I could answer it. Yet there was really only one answer. So soon after the events of the previous night, there was no way I could turn aside, confine all that ecstasy to a one-night stand. “I’d like to try,” I said.
“Good.” Fay picked up my hand from the table and kissed the tips of my fingers. “If it ever gets too much, just tell me.”
She never broached the subject again. Returning on the train to London and back in the office, it was as though I had never known the erotic thrill of her fingers inside me, the ultimate command she had assumed of my body and its responses.
Over the following months and years, everything worked out exactly as she had outlined. Inevitably, I often knew when she was leaving the House to go to bed with her latest conquest. If it was male, and he didn’t fail the LBW criteria completely, the following day I would have to make the appropriate note on the contact database. Of course, it wasn’t easy. I eventually ended my relationship with Miles but found replacements from time to time when I felt the need, to put it plainly, of a good fuck.
However, what kept me going were the occasions when Fay wanted whatever it was she derived from our relationship. I never fathomed her motivation and after a while gave up trying. To be fair, our times together were more frequent than I had feared they would be. One reason was a minor coup whereby Fay persuaded the senior Civil Servant in our Department to dispense with the official chauffeur for her ministerial car, instead allowing me to act as her driver. There was a prolonged hassle over insurance but the saving of the chauffeur’s salary won the day.
As a result I drove her to meetings and other official functions, took notes when required, and drove her back. It was on these return journeys that Fay would sometimes tell me to look for a conveniently secluded place to pull off the road for a while. I invariably discovered an element of premeditation on her part because she would start by guiding my hand under her skirt – where I would find she wasn’t wearing knickers.
One evening, she spotted a sign to a turning ahead and suggested we gave it a try. It was a country road that soon reached a dead end on the edge of a wood. Thinking our luck was in, we set the seats back and were soon into a heavy session of fingering and licking. It was Fay, lifting her head from my lap, who saw the first face at the window. “Keep still,” she said to me very quietly, “We’re being watched. Does that worry you?”
I’d been into so much with Fay, I suppressed my first instinct and whispered cautious assent. Fay made me sit up, half turning me in my seat and opening my legs so the man could see. She opened the window a couple of inches. The man, who seemed to be fairly elderly, said, “Can you give us a show? There’s three of us. We thought you was the regulars. They sometimes come here about this time.”
Fay’s response was to start fondling my pussy with one hand while she parted her own lips with the other. Clearly, the situation had aroused her. I guessed she had decided that in this place and in semi-darkness there was no risk of being recognised. Already turned on by what we had been doing, she was getting an extra charge from the presence of the onlooker. And as soon as I was aware that she was very relaxed about things, I realised it was getting to me too.
As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, two more men appeared to join the one who had spoken. All three had their trousers open – one had his round his ankles – and they were handling cocks in varying states of erection. “Are you wet, miss?” asked the first man. Throughout he would be the only one to speak. In response, Fay dipped three fingers into her pussy, opened the window a little wider and held out her hand for inspection. I knew, because I’d been there moments earlier, the voyeurs wouldn’t be disappointed. The one with his trousers down, thrust his cock towards her. She let it rest briefly on her upturned fingers, then closed it round his cock and gave a few gentle tugs. The man gasped and a jet of cum escaped from the end of his cock, leaving a dribble down the glass.
Emboldened, a second cock was offered and received the same treatment, surviving not much longer than his predecessor.
“Can I have a turn?” It was the elderly spokesman for the trio. Fay didn’t answer. Instead, she beckoned him closer while she opened her blouse and pulled her bra up above her breasts. She wound down the window and indicated what she wanted. The man obviously understood but it took some effort before he could deliver. His cock was quite long with a circumcised head, but only half erect. He began to masturbate it in a series of rapid jerks while trying to aim it through the window. Fay put her hand under her tits and thrust them upward. The man was grunting with the effort of his masturbation, but suddenly he groaned and spurted, continuing to handle himself until every last drop had been extracted. Most of it had reached its intended target and Fay was massaging it into her bosom.
“Thanks, miss. Thanks a lot,” said the man. He closed his zip and the threesome melted away into the shadows.
Fay pressed the button to wind up the window and closed her blouse. “Well, that was a surprise,” she said, “but I enjoyed it. Were you scared at all?”
“No, not really.” Surprisingly, I hadn’t been.
“I’m still a bit in the air and I wish you could finish me off, but I don’t want them to think they can come back. We’d better go.”
That unexpected episode apart, our really satisfying sessions were when we could escape to Fay’s house in the constituency. But then came a setback we were not prepared for. The reader will probably remember the Election: the Government went into it with a healthy lead in the opinion polls and came out of it with an overall minority of fourteen in the House of Commons. Fay survived, granted with a reduced margin of victory, but everything else went: her junior Minister’s post and with it all hope of the cabinet place that had seemed only a matter of time and the next reshuffle but one. And, of course, we lost the official car and my role as chauffeur. Up to a point our sexual activities seemed to benefit: fewer functions, more time, though, of course, I was still sharing Fay with others, known and unknown.
The single-mindedness which characterised virtually everything Fay did was now turned to the future. Resolved not to stand again at the next General Election, she set about planning for what lay after politics. Her reputation was fortunately undamaged by the defeat; her ability was still bankable. She already had useful contacts in the public and private sectors, and these she cultivated assiduously. How much that entailed offering favours of her own I can’t say but it seems improbable that she didn’t.
The need arose quite quickly. The new Government’s small majority was making legislation difficult. The Prime Minister called a snap Election and won it in a landslide. Fay kept to her resolution and didn’t stand. When I was wondering where this would leave me, she asked me to stay on as her PA. She was into her fifties but with no thought of retiring (from private as well as public activity). Naturally, I accepted. I hadn’t married and still derived more satisfaction with Fay than with any of the men I took to bed when I felt the urge.
Predictably, Fay was as successful in her new campaign as she had been in everything she undertook. Seats on a handful of quangos and charitable organisations gave her public profile and an image of one who worked for the general good. But it was three directorships in the private sector that enabled her to sell the house in Backwater and buy a new base in Chelsea. Over the years I had retained my own London apartment and was able to disappear there when not needed by Fay.
It was almost a year before Sir Bernard loomed large on the horizon. Sir Bernard was Chairman of a group of financial companies that had a vacancy for a non-executive Director. He and Fay had met on a number of occasions when she was still in office. They both knew that what she could contribute and they both had an idea of what her qualities were worth. I was present at a few of their meetings while they circled each other in search of clinching rapport. When that point was reached, Sir Bernard said, “You drive a hard bargain. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Come and spend the weekend with Betty and me, and we’ll sign on the dotted line then.” Fay agreed with a satisfied smile.
We were just leaving when Sir Bernard said, “And when you come next weekend – you know where we are – bring Pam with you.”
Outside, I asked, “What was that about? Won’t I just be in the way?”
“I doubt it. Bernard and I are, shall we say, old acquaintances. If he’s invited you, it’s for a reason. All I would say is, wear your sexiest undies.” She wouldn’t elaborate further but as soon as we were back at her house in Chelsea she led me up to bed and initiated an encounter as aggressive as anything I had experienced from her for a long while, a sure indication of how much her libido was responding to whatever was in store. Pleasantly sore when it was over, I left the bathroom to Fay and escaped to my little office. The computer showed me something I should have remembered: Sir Bernard was a B.
Fay’s car was more modest than her erstwhile official limousine but it was luxurious enough and she still liked to have me drive her. Soon after seven the following Friday evening, fifty miles out into rural Hampshire I parked outside an imposing Georgian mansion. By the time we had collected our bags from the boot, Sir Bernard, casually dressed in corduroy trousers and a plaid shirt, was waiting for us at the door. “Come in,” he said, waving us through. “I’ll show you your rooms in case you need them, then you can grab a drink. The staff have got the week-end off.”
We mounted a broad staircase, Fay leading, Sir Bernard bringing up the rear. The hand that alighted on my bottom and squeezed was no accident. Fay and I had adjoining identical guest rooms. Sir Bernard saw us in, then said, “You’ll probably need fifteen minutes to freshen up, but don’t take too long. I’ll come and find you when your ready. I’ve already started warming Betty up but she’s dying for you to join the fun.” After he had disappeared back downstairs, Fay raised her eyebrows and said, “Well, I did warn you.”
Ten minutes later, after I’d had time to do no more than take a quick pee, wash my hands and brush my hair, Sir Bernard was knocking at my door. “Ready?” he called, and without waiting for an invitation, walked in. He had shed his shirt and trousers in favour of a gown which was open at the front and didn’t conceal a cock that stood out at right angles. As you can see,” he said, waving it with one hand, “we’re completely informal here. You call me Bernard and the wife is Betty. Fay knows the way so she’s gone on ahead. Come on, I’ll show you our little play den.”
On the ground floor, he led the way to a door which opened to reveal a flight of carpeted stairs leading down. “Used to be part of the wine cellar until I had it partitioned off. Keep the door locked, normally, Let the staff believe it’s where the most valuable wines are stored. Fortunately, it’s soundproof.”
The room was large. Its centre piece was a double bed. There were mirrors on two walls, chairs, a padded bench like a vaulting horse, vertical bars on one wall. A large cabinet held wine and spirits bottles. On a sideboard was a range of sex aids, prophylactics and lubricants. I took all this in gradually and peripherally because the action had already begun. A naked woman of indeterminate age was bent over the bench, her ankles tied with silk cords to the legs on one side, her wrists on the other. Long dark hair fell forward, obscuring her face.
This, of course was Betty. Later, when I came to know her as intimately as I knew Fay, I learned that she was fifty-three but looked ten years younger. Her body was firm with large round breasts. Her libido was strong to the point that I never discovered whether she preferred the active or passive role; she embraced both with fervour and perceptive imagination. In fact, with Betty, I even came to enjoy submitting to a firmly wielded strap-on. On this occasion, Fay, wearing only lemon-coloured bra and knickers, was kneeling behind her, parting the woman’s buttocks with her hands and applying her tongue to the aperture between.
“That’s Betty,” said Bernard casually. “I’ll introduce you properly when there’s a chance. The thing is, I’d already got her started and she and Fay are always like this. Can’t wait to get at each other. When she’s come a couple of times, it’ll quieten down.” He looked me over, unabashed, taking me in from head to foot. “Very nice. I’m glad I asked Fay to bring you. Always good to have a new body. But you’re somewhat overdressed, I think.”
I have to admit, though it embarrasses me to recall it now, I was already caught up in the heady aura of imminent depravity: Betty’s loud moanings as she was serviced by Fay’s tongue; Bernard’s protuberant cock, which was undeniably big and which he was stroking casually with his left hand; not to mention all the surrounding apparatus. With a boldness that I could scarcely believe, I said, “Shall I take them off, or will you?”
“Why don’t you? I shall enjoy watching.” He dropped into a chair and lay back, letting his gown fall open while he continued to massage the purple-headed weapon that was the object of my attention. I shed my dress and drew a nod of approval. “Perfect. Black knickers, suspenders, black stockings. Did Fay tell you to do that?”
I smiled noncommittally, hoping to suggest that sexy lingerie was my daily habit. The bra came off. It was really not much more than decoration anyway. I massaged the nipples until they stood out. This couldn’t be me, I kept thinking, behaving so brazenly in front of a tycoon I had previously met on only a handful of formal occasions. Yet I was not acting provocatively just because it seemed to be what the occasion demanded, I was turned on by doing so. When Bernard beckoned me to him, I walked the few paces backwards, letting him enjoy the sight of my bottom, its curves emphasised by black silk. I felt the hand that wasn’t attending to his cock trace a line down until it reached my arsehole. A finger probed. I parted my legs. Bernard searched further, found wetness. He sighed in contented anticipation but the sound was suddenly eclipsed by a long, loud moan from Betty. I looked and saw that Fay had brought her to orgasm, fingers supplementing that cunning tongue.
My expectation that I would then be introduced to Betty wasn’t to be. No sooner had Fay released her partner’s wrists and ankles than the two women threw themselves on to the bed. Betty dived between Fay’s legs. Bernard, following my look, said, “Leave them to it. Come and sit on me. But let me take these off first.”
His removal of my knickers was a masterpiece of prevarication: a small tug here, a finger inside the waistband there, each movement an excuse to explore the orifices slowly being revealed. After he had at last allowed the garment to slide to my ankles so I could kick it off, he used both hands on my waist to pull me towards him. I realised he wanted me to be able to still see Fay and Betty while he and I were coupled. Cautious of that oversized instrument, I reached between my legs to grasp the shaft and guide it into me a little at a time. When I eventually felt confident enough to subside on to it fully, I felt an extraordinary thrill seize my whole body. The reaction was as much mental as physical: a result of the total novelty for me of being fucked in this position while a few feet away two women writhed in what had become a sixty-nine of voluptuous carnality.
“Move, Pam,” said Bernard, and I began to do so, sliding up and down on that hungry pole now slippery with my juices. “Go faster, I can cope.” He reached a hand round to search for my clitoris, found it, fastened on to it as I rode. We found a rhythm that seemed to work for us both. I had no idea how good his control would be but his breathing was easy and regular, allowing him to murmur frequent soft words of encouragement. He wasn’t shy with his vocabulary, either; perhaps when you are the big boss in the workplace and master in the home, you don’t need to watch your language. “Nice cunt, Pam,” he said. “Smooth. Good grip. Fay said you knew how to fuck and she wasn’t wrong. But I bet you haven’t had something like this up you very often.”
Though this was further indication that Fay had set up this whole encounter, I was past caring. I knew I was coping well with taking his cock but sooner or later his persistent manipulation of my clit was going to be decisive. And it was.”I shall come,” I cried, ecstatic now with the combination of penetration and external stimulation.
“Good, good.” Bernard somehow maintained his pressure on my little button while wrapping his other arm round me to keep us in contact. Several times it seemed his cock must slip out but whenever I sensed impending disaster, I managed to plunge down and bury him inside me again. “My God,” Bernard exclaimed, “You are just magnificent. Now let me feel you come.”
Betty, who was the top half of the sixty-nine with Fay, lifted her head at the sound of her husband’s voice and immediately rolled off. “Look at this, Fay,” she said, tugging my employer round to watch.
There was no question of my having a choice, Bernard was rapidly bringing me to the boil and the two women looking on with lascivious eyes did the rest. I drove myself down on Bernard’s rampant cock, held myself there, leaned back against him for the support I knew I would need when the moment arrived, and let his fingers do the rest. Something told me I should have resented the way Fay had manoeuvred me into this situation, but so shattering was the orgasm that wracked my entire being I could only be grateful.
To describe all the events that followed during that weekend would be beyond me. So many orgasms, so many couplings, male and female, female and female, have merged into a happy blur in memory. I do recall an occasion when we were all four involved together. Betty was on her back on the bed. I was kneeling astride her face, dipping down from time to time to let her tongue explore my pussy, which I kept alive otherwise with my fingers. Fay was kneeling, licking Betty. Bernard was standing behind Fay, vigorously ploughing her with his cock, which retained an astonishing firmness throughout the time we were there.
We had agreed to see if we could contrive four simultaneous orgasms. Of course, it was impossible, but we came reasonably close. I was the last to come, having been in more or less complete control with my fingers. When Bernard gave a great groan and cried out, “I’m done for,” and pulled out his cock to send a huge jet of sperm along Fay’s back, I let myself go, too, and collapsed on to three heaving bodies. The recuperation after that wasn’t quick but the sexual chemistry between the four of us was so powerful it only needed one of us to make a move and the whole tinder box was in flames yet again.
Needless to say, Fay’s enrolment on to Sir Bernard’s Board of Directors was rubber stamped; my guess is that it had been agreed in advance, anyway, and was merely the ploy to enlist my presence. When we left, Bernard made us promise we would return. We did, at irregular intervals over several years until Fay’s death. Sometimes it was for a long weekend, sometimes just for an evening. Always, we tried the simultaneous orgasm trick but never made it work. In fact, nothing ever quite equalled the extraordinary mix of spontaneity and stamina of that first occasion, but I have to say that I never came away disappointed.
The service ended and we rose to filter from the church. Music was playing. I recognised the slow movement of Schubert’s String Quintet, music that reaches into the very depths of grief. It may have moved some who heard it there but I knew such sublime emotion was uncalled for: in all the years I knew her, Fay never gave herself emotionally to anyone. I gained much from knowing her but I was always aware of the calculating mind behind everything she did.
Outside the church the air was warm with autumn sunshine. I stood for a while on the steps watching the congregation disperse and reliving a few memories. A hand touched my arm. I turned to see Sir Bernard and Lady Betty in their elegant dark attire, carefully appropriate to the occasion. That is, as long as you had not seen them, as I had, in the throes of sexual excess with the dear departed.
“So sad,” said Betty. “You will miss her.”
Bernard coughed, indicating the chauffeur who was holding open the door of their Rolls. He offered a few platitudes about having to draw a line, time to move on, as though his company had just marked the retirement of its senior accountant. “Anyway,” said over his shoulder as they departed, “you’ll still come and see us, won’t you? It’s what she would have wanted. I’m sure we could invite someone else, if you’d like that.”
What she would have wanted. It’s the phrase those who are left behind always use to justify doing what they themselves want. I called after Sir Bernard that I would think about it. And I will. In a few days I will call them and tell them what I have decided.