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The elevator dings, a disturbingly loud tinny sound in the silent upper-levels of the Cheltenham building. The brass sheeted doors slide open, allowing me to step out onto the polished tile floor of the central hall. Through not late in the evening, the glass-walled offices line the hall and are dark at this hour, though computer screens still glow within, abandoned.

Moving into the hallway, my heeled shoes click against the polished tiles as I head towards the sole indication of life on this floor, a narrow strip of light glowing between the crack of the parted double doors at the end. I take a moment to ensure my nylon stockings are smooth beneath the skirt of my dark suit, and my hair is appropriately placed.

The stockings alone cost a remarkable sum of money. But it is more than just an affectation, it is expected. My executive clients pay well for my services, and image is of great importance – especially to them.

Once certain my attire is appropriate, I first check the clock on my smartphone before tucking it away and stepping over to the large double doors. I can hear a speaker within. With a light rap, I make my presence known, and a terse voice from within bids me to enter.

The chamber beyond is large, well suited for a business man of Mr. Cheltenham's status. Its decor is kept simple, austere. Fine art adorns the wood panelled walls, and a Persian carpet covers the polished tiles beneath the glass-topped desk situated at the back, in front of a large bank of windows that gaze out into the illuminated night life of the Old Town.

Two men are here, though one can hardly be called such.

The most senior of the pair is Mr. Cheltenham himself, sitting casually on the edge of his desk. The other has his back to me, seated in one of the large, high-backed chairs before the desk. I get a glance from the younger's sharp and curious blue eyes before they disappear once more behind the chair.

“Ah, Ms. Versailles. You are just on time,” the senior Cheltenham says, holding out his hand.

I smile, not much, just enough to let him know that the compliment is appreciated. Should I arrive late it shows to them that I am unreliable. Should I arrive early, I do not allow them enough time to put on the proper presentation of status – and that irks them more than if I would be late.
“This is my son, Edward,” he says, holding his hand out the boy in the chair. The younger man, realizing that attention is now on him, remembers his etiquette and suddenly stands. He is barely over twenty, skinny, with an unruly mop of blonde hair atop his head. Dressed in tan slacks and a white polo shirt, he seems like he would be more comfortable on a campus than in this stark office of business power.

He glances at me, then turns his eyes to the floor.

With the invitation given, I step away from the door and into the grand office – I am in their home, they are not in mine. I approach the boy, but he barely looks up at me, his hands clasped together in front of him. At the edge of my perception, I catch the shift in Senior Cheltenham's stance, he is displeased – though not with me. I do not look at him, but keep my focus on the younger man. The senior Cheltenham no longer matters, his part in this lies only in that he holds the invoice.

I hold my hand out to the boy, palm towards the floor, and wait.

“It is very much my pleasure to meet you, monsieur Cheltenham,” I say to him, prompting him. By birth, I am French, Marseilles to be precise, but I studied at Cambridge. My English is quite good, but many of my clients prefer to indulge in the accent.

He smiles slightly at me and soon takes the hint, as well as my hand. His grip is light, and the skin of his hand is smooth and soft. He bows to kiss the back of my wrist.

“A... uh, pleasure as well, Ms. Versailles,” he says in almost a whisper.

Senior Cheltenham shifts off the desk. He still bears the hallmarks of displeasure, but the crease in his brow has softened.

“I will leave you then in the care of my son,” he says to me. Heinrich at the desk has two tickets for the rendition of Carmina Burana at the National Theatre, and reservations await you at the Allegro.”

I nod to him, and smile a bit more warmly, “merci, monsieur Cheltenham.”

He then turns to leave. Edward watches his father's departure with a pained expression of remorse. I take the opportunity to study his face more closely. He isn't a bad looking boy. His cheekbones are strong, as is his jaw line – and his eyes are like the blue of a tropical ocean. But he just carries himself so meekly I could only see him as frail.

He glances my way. Mindful of my scrutiny he once again shrinks back into his defensive stance.

My smartphone chirps in the pocket of my blazer.

“Excusez moi,” I say to him.

Normally I would not check my phone in the presence of a client, it would not even be on, that is just beyond rude – but I was expecting the message and its pertinence to the matters at hand. Edward glances over as I check the two incoming texts. One is the results of a medical screening I had been waiting on. They told me what I expected. The second is of a more personal nature, and it makes me smile – a midnight dinner on the patio with a very special person.

I put the smartphone back into my pocket, and smile warmly at the young man. He smiles back, but it seems painful for him to acknowledge me long enough to bend his lips upwards.

I hold my hand out to him. He regards it for a long moment and shuffles a little, then relents, reaching out. I guide his arm into a hook and slide my hand through.

“Let us go, monsieur,” I say to him, “we 'ave a busy evening a'ead.”

By all means, do go on...

We take the elevator back down, and I lead him out the front of the building to my waiting car. I am not sure the boy could have driven, even if he had his own vehicle, the way his hands were shaking.

So I took the initiative.

The BMW is where I left it. Black and sleek. I pondered red when I bought it, but decided that is best left for rich college kids trying to impress their friends. Black makes the statement that I need to make.

Even though it is my car, Edward still plays the gentleman and opens the door for me – an odd gesture given his reluctance with my presence. I thought a moment it was just a distraction so he could run down the street. But no, he climbs in the passenger side.

In moments we are away – but a silence remains in the car for at least three blocks. He is fighting with something in his mind – I do not distract him with senseless chatter. Whatever he is working on, he will work it out on his own.

And he does.

“I know why he hired you,” Edward says finally, “my father that is.”

“Do you?” I say, glancing over at him with a quirked eyebrow.

He nods. “He thinks I'm gay.”

“Are you?”

He shrugs slightly, “I don't know. I mean... I like girls, but I just can't think how to act around them. I can't talk to them. I... just can't understand.”

Edward turns to look out the window at the passing buildings and city nightlife.

“My roommate, he... well, he has a new girl over almost every week. They try to be quiet, but I can still hear them.”

“Does that bother you? 'ow do you feel when you 'ear them?”

He shrugs slightly, “I don't know.”

“Do you think of the young woman?”

Edwards shakes his head.

“Ah, you think of 'im,” I say with a slight nod.

He doesn't respond.

Leaving it there, I turn us onto the main drag that cuts through the downtown core, heading west towards the water. It does not take Edward long to notice.

“I... I think the Allegro is the other way.”

I nod, “it is.”

“We have reservations there,”  he says, his voice betraying some concern.

“Oui, we do. You are smart boy,” I say with a slight smile. “You 'ave been with girl before?” I add to put an end to the inquisition about our direction of travel.

He nods, still refusing to look anywhere near me.

“First year of college. Just once. It was a bit of a disaster.”

“Do you think me attractive?” I ask.

He nods without a word, still looking out the side window.

“Would you like to have sex with me?”

He starts, finally turning to look at me with incredulity.

“Pardon?”

I look over at him, “would you like to have sex with me?”

He looks down to his hands in his lap, “I... I don't know.”

I return my attention to the road with a slight smile – that was the answer I was looking for. The idea is now in his head. He thought of it before of course, but it seemed so unreal of a concept to him. Now I have stated it from my own lips, and a thought of a real possibility lurks in his mind – and it will continue to nag at him.

Our route takes us up and over the inlet via the suspension bridge, and into the North Shore. Out in the water, ships wait to be loaded, their lights illuminating across the waves.

“You are wrong, 'owever,” I say to him once over the bridge and swinging around the on-ramp that leads to one of the main roads around the rocky coastline.

“I'm sorry?”

“I was not employed by your father to 'ave sex with you. I am not call girl.”

“Oh.”

“The idea of you gay is concern for 'im, as it is for many of 'is generation. Thankfully, society 'as changed so much for better, even if it leaves so many old minds be'ind. Still, for whatever faults your father may 'ave, 'e is wise enough to realize that you just putting your penis in a woman is not a 'cure' for this condition.”

“Then why? Why are you here?”

“Simple, monsieur, I 'ave to 'ave pleasant evening with you. That is all.”

He studies me closely. He is getting braver, and I suspect my admission that I will not expect him to perform is a large part of it.

“Forgive me, but I don't believe you.”

I laugh.

“That is in monsieur's right, but copulation is not in my contract for this evening.”

“Then what...–“

“Monsieur,” I say, cutting him off, “do not look for motivations that do not exist.”

I turn us off the main road into a popular drive-through window, “now, what kind of burger is monsieur wanting?”

“You know, my father isn't going to be happy that we skipped out on Allegro,” Edward says holding onto the warm paper bag and soft drinks.

I shrug.

“That is your father's choice of restaurant. It is very nice, but 'ardly fitting. Nor do I think you were really keen on it.”

“Was it that obvious,” he asks, frowning at me. Good, he is at least looking my way now.

I shake my head. “Not really, but it was a hunch.”

He turns his eyes back out the side window. I can almost his brow knitting as the closed shoppes and boutiques of the North Shore's picturesque urban landscape slip passed the car.

I take the opportunity to shift slightly in my seat, enough to cause the hem of my skirt to rise slightly – just an inch or two, not enough to display the darker band of my stocking tops, but give the boy a little more of a view of my legs. It does not escape his notice when he turns his eyes back to me.

I can almost feel his eyes stroking the sheer, dark stockings that encase my legs.

“Uhhh... where are we going?” he finally asks.

I glance over at him, his eyes dart up to mine. He flusters, like a schoolboy suddenly caught pulling all the fire alarms.

“A quiet place I know,” I say, and cut a corner that takes us away from the water and up towards the coastal mountains that frame in this area of the city. He is perplexed, but says nothing, settling into his seat. After another short glance at my legs, he watches out the window as I merge us into the late evening traffic.

Ten minutes later we leave the heavy city traffic behind and turn onto the wide, switch back road up one of the mountain slopes. Free from the constraints of city traffic, I kick the car up a notch, and accelerate, zipping up the dark road with a gleeful laugh. I am not a speed freak of any sort, but sometimes it is just fun to let the car perform. Keeping up the speed, we race up the switchbacks to a picnic and viewing area perched on the edge of the mountain. The city is splayed out below us, its lights twinkling and shimmering in the night air.

Only one other car is here, a young couple making use of the scenery for some night-time romance. Not wanting to infringe on their business, I park on the other side of the narrow lot.

“Here?” Edward asks. I nod and get out. He looks a little dubious, but follows me. It is a cool night, but not cold. The wind is mild and carries the scent of the salt air. We make our way to a picnic table with a good view of the city below and sit opposite each other. He takes the honour of tearing open the bag to lay out our fare.

I nibble on my share. Fast food is not something that agrees with me in any quantity, but that doesn't stop the boy. I smile at him, he is actually very cute.

The other car, apparently bashful to continue their rendez-vous with strangers nearby, starts up and departs, leaving us alone.

“I'm surprised you turned down Allegro for McDonald's,” he says after finishing off a sizable mouthful of his burger.

“It is not about me.”

“Pardon?”

“I told you. That was your father's choice for us. You did not agree with it, so we did something more to your liking.”

“Oh, yes... well, I'm a student. Exam times and homework can get very busy, you have to eat what you have time for.”

I nod to him, smiling, “of course. And what are your studies?”

“It is not especially interesting,” he says.

“Ah, well 'arvard itself always is,” I reply.

He blushes a little, bashfully flattered that I know where he takes his studies. This allows us to move into a more comfortable mood. We talk for a bit, not really about anything of import, just directed small talk so that I can feel him out a bit – his studies, his time at Harvard, and a little about his friends, of which he does not have many.

He relaxes more with the conversation, and becomes actually able to look me in the eyes for an extended time.

So, it is time to make him uncomfortable again.

I have been sitting upright, my back straight and neutral. Clasping my fingers together, I lean forward, resting my elbows on the picnic table and my chin on my hands. I only gain about two inches, but the gesture becomes suddenly much more intimate.

He looks at me curiously, once again nervous and unsure.

Perfect.

Then he spots the ring on my finger.

“You're married?”

I glance at it, then nod.

“Does... does he know you go on fast food dates with other guys?”

I smile slightly, “I do not recall saying that they were a man.”

“Oh.” He looks down at his hands. I smile as that statement will get his mind churning out various scenarios. I take the time to study him further.

“That is bothering you?” I then say after several moments of silence.

He glances up at me, “that you're married?”

“Mmmm... that you 'ave been wanting to put yourself inside a married woman.”

He sputters.

“Come now, monsieur,” I say, tilting my voice into a more challenging tone, “you 'ave been staring at my legs since we got in car. You would pretend now that you 'ave not thought what it would be like to be between them?”

“I... what? I thought this was not about... sex.”

I give him a slight smile, “it is not, it is about 'onesty. Admitting to yourself what you feel.”

“Does it matter?” he asks.

I nod.

Pushing what remains of my food away, I stand up and circle the table. He shifts to the side, not really certain what I am doing but politely tries to make room. I do not sit beside him, but step up to perch myself on the table – a difficult task to do with dignity in heels and a tight skirt. But the height over him gives me a mental advantage.

“Why do you not touch me? I am right 'ere.”

“Uh... you're married?”

I laugh. He furrows his brow.

“Monsieur, my spouse knew what my career was before we married, and they are accepting of it now.”

“Still...”

“There is no still, monsieur,” I say, leaning in, “do you not think yourself good enough? Do you think you are just some student, and 'ow can you 'ave a hope with a woman like me because I am so gorgeous, sophisticated, and very, very sexy? 'ow could you even dream of satisfying a goddess of sexual energy such as myself?”

He is silent, looking suddenly like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

I lean further to whisper in his ear, “you are supposed to say “yes,” else I will be very cross with you.”

His moistens his lips with his tongue, and asks in a shaking tone, “are... are you insane?”

That surprised me. I am not typically surprised, but I will admit, it tickles me. My manicured eyebrows rise in display of my emotion.

He looks away, mumbling, “sorry.”

I reach down and touch his chin, bringing his face back to look at me.

“I was wanting reaction from you, monsieur,” I say. “Though that particular response was unexpected. My sanity 'as never really be questioned before, it is a curious thing. Do you thing I am crazy?”

I see him smile slightly in the darkness of the night, “well, you don't exactly have a normal job or lifestyle.”

I smile back.

“Now we are being 'onest.”

I move my hand from his chin to his wrist. He doesn't resist when I lift it to place his hand on my stocking-sheathed knee. He looks stunned, staring at it. I have to resist the urge to just eat this cute little boy up!

“You see, monsieur... I am just woman. I am not mysterious or misunderstandable,”  I say, squeezing his hand around my knee. He moistens his lips again. I try not to giggle as he looks like he is about to pass out.

I leave his hand there and lean down to him, tilting his chin up to face me. Our mouths hover over each other for a short moment. He is going to taste like burger, but that is my punishment.

“Flesh and blood, just like you,” I whisper, and press my lips to his. His grip on my knee tightens as I gently work against his lips. His responsiveness is lacking, to say the least – but I will give him the benefit of shock and surprise. At least he was thoughtful enough to not get onions.

Our lips work on each other, opening and closing with the gentle caresses of my tongue on his. Then his instincts start to take over as his hand slowly begins to massage my knee, his fingers tickling against the smooth silky fabric of the nylons. I cannot help but groan ever so softly as he gets just a little braver and pushes against the hem of my skirt with his wrist, his fingers tracing a path leading a little higher up my thigh.

He is getting comfortable, and again it is time to dump him out of that zone.

I nibble on his lower lip before pulling away.

“One thing about women, monsieur,” I say to him with a wry smile. He looks at me a little confused.

“We like to play games with your 'ead.”

I slide off the table and out of his reach. He almost cries, and I almost feel bad. But if this boy hasn't been with a women in a few years, the last thing I am wanting is him getting too excited and... well... needing to change his underwear.

Confident his eyes are on me, I step over to the stone wall built to stop tourists from falling down the rocky ledge. I lean on it, bending over just slightly and propping myself up on my elbows.

“My father hates me,” I hear him mumble behind me. I smile.

“Why do you think that,” I ask, looking over my shoulder at him.

“Is he watching? Do you have a camera letting him see you torment me with your confusing antics? I already knew he didn't like me, but this... you... this is too much.”

I cock my head, “is monsieur getting upset?”

He purses his lips and looks down at his food, “no.”

“How come not? I am playing with you, leading you around like little doggy. Making you 'ave excitement, then refusing it.”

“Why bother, you just hate me too.”

I sigh, turning around to sit on the wall's edge and folding my arms across in front of me.

“In truth, monsieur, I like you very much. But you do not make it easy. Come 'ere.”

He looks up at me, “pardon?”

“I said come 'ere, please.”

His brow furrows once me, suspicious that I am going to trick him again. Realizing that he is not getting away easily, he relents and leaves the table to join me at the wall. I turn around to enjoy the view of the city with him.

“I love it up 'ere,” I say.

Edward says nothing. I glance at him. He then nods, “it is quite nice.”

“You can see the old theatre, it glows like fire on nights like this.”

He tries to be polite, to see what I see, to look where I am looking. But ultimately he shakes his head, “I don't see it.”

I point out over the city, “it is there, next to the building with three lights on it. 'ow can you not see? It is there, gorgeous.”

He tries to follow my point, but still fails miserably.

“I'm sorry, I still can't see it.”

I sigh with exasperation and step in behind him. With our bodies close, back to front, I lift his arm, sighting my vision down it like a rifle.

“It is right there,” I say, my chin resting on his shoulder. He strains to see what I am indicating. I try to help, leaning into him further, allowing my breasts to press against his back. But he pulls his arm from my hand, catching on to my antics.

“There's no theatre that looks like fire is there,” he says.

I giggle, “no, monsieur.”

“Is this another trick?”

“Why did you kiss me,” I reply, ignoring his question.

“Because... you were kissing me,” he says, looking back at me.

“That is not it, monsieur.”

“Pardon? I think I would know...”

I cut him off, “you were acting as any man would with the object of his affection presenting themselves to 'im. You are not gay. That will bring some comfort to your father, despite 'owever irrelevant your sexual preference should be.”

He looks back to the cityscape, confused.

I then add, “you masturbate to the....”

“I don't masturbate,” he says, a little too loudly and a little too quickly. I smile.

“Of course you do, monsieur. You masturbate to the thoughts of your roommate not because you desire 'im, but you desire to be 'im – to feel what 'e feels when 'e is with girls.”

I slide my hand around his waist and hold him against me, letting him ponder his reality.

“Tell me what you want, monsieur,” I say after a long moment.

“I think... I think I want to kiss you again.”

I giggle softly, “then why are you talking about it?”

I arrive at home, having returned the boy to his father's house up in the Properties with the promise of a meeting the following day at the park.

My smartphone says 11:58 as I step off the elevator. Right on time.

I let myself into the dark apartment. Most of the lights have been turned off or down, allowing the illumination of the night-time cityscape to shine through the floor to ceiling windows and into the open design of the neomodernist upper levels apartment. I discard my suit jacket on the back of the couch, leaving me with the silk blouse, and head to the glass doors that lead out onto the gardened patio.

The night's fare has been laid out on the patio table, still steaming in the cool air. It looks like dim sum. The hostess stands at the railing, looking out over the city, and the water in the distance. I take a moment to appreciate her form, slim and lithe, with a trim waist. She is attired in a short white cocktail dress. Smooth ivory stockings cling to her long legs – legs made more shapely by her high white pumps. She looks young and virginal, and the decor is topped off with a neat and trim cap of shock pink hair. A slim wine glass hangs in her hand.

“You're late,” she says, sensing me behind her.

I smile. She knows well enough that I am not, but it is a need for her. It is her means of establishing some control over me, making her feel stronger. I told the boy that she accepts my line of work – but acceptance is not akin to liking.

“I am sorry, L,” I say to her.

“Dinner is probably cold now,” she berates me, turning around to lean back on the railing, “and I spent two hours in the kitchen putting it all together for our special night.”

I cannot help but smile again – it is from the Cantonese restaurant on the second floor.

She turns her face away and frowns, “screw you. Fine. I hate that stupid stove.”

I step up to her. Even with my own heels, she has a slight height advantage over me. My arms slide around her trim waist, and my hands lock behind her, pulling her to me.

“Break any hearts tonight?” she says with a slight pout.

“No, he was very polite and dignified about everything.”

Her eyes slide back to mine, “do I want to know?”

I nuzzle against her cheek, “we kissed, that was all. I was to bring him out of his shell, to give him confidence. Not break him.”

She turns back to me, “that was it?”

I nod, “that was it.”

“I missed you,” she whispers.

I smile and lean into her, our breasts pressing together as our lips lightly touch and caress each other. She tastes like cherries.

I intended only a gentle kiss, but her hands lift to cup my head, holding me in place as her lips move against mine with sudden earnest intensity. I groan as her desire infects me, and forces me to pull her hips to mine, compressing our bodies together. Against my thigh, I can feel her special secret hidden beneath the fabric of her cocktail dress.

“L,” I say between breaths, “what of dinner?”

“Forget it,” she replies, locking her cherry lips with mine again. Our mouths open, our tongues teasing and exploring, twirling and flicking as our passion ignites. I keep it calm and cool all day – professionalism is something I always force myself to portray, even if a client desires something more than the standard personal assistant duties. I do not let the emotions run free, but they do build  up.

At first I was not sure that marriage was the best for me, my life is already unusual as it is. But it has since become a column of support and something I apparently needed – to have one person, a different sort of person in her own right, that I can pour all my pent up sexual and emotional frustrations into, and who delights in the intensity I give back to her as a result.

She has saved my sanity, though my clothing does not fare as well.

I am pushed back to the table, and the dishes clatter when I bump into it. I lift my bottom to prop myself on the edge. She is so aggressive, I can tell something is gnawing at her, but I do not question it now – now is not the time for talking. I release control of myself, kissing her back with unbridled ferocity, my lust and love forcing dirty words from my smeared, painted lips into her ears

Her hands leave my head. My skirt is pushed up, and the cool night air caresses the smooth skin of my thighs above the stocking tops. I can feel her fingers trace a path up my thighs, tickling me through the nylons, then tugging on the garter belt straps playfully. Without ceremony, my panties are hooked and pulled off my legs.

I cannot help but moan as I feel myself exposed to the cool air. My thighs part for her, my legs hooking around behind hers and pulling her to me. Her bulge, now fully engorged, presses against me through her dress. With my hands shaking and eager, I yank up her cocktail dress as she did to my business skirt and free her from the confines of her pantyhose.

“Don't need a warm up?” she asks with a grin.

I answer her only by gripping her buttock with one hand, and guiding her to my entrance with the other. She only needs to push twice, then she is inside me. I stifled my cries into her neck as I feel every inch of her spreading me, sliding and penetrating. She wraps me in her arms, pulling me to her, fully embedding herself. My thighs quiver, the muscles tightening around her, holding her as she holds me.

Once we have our breaths again, she draws herself back out, slowly... then pushes, once more slipping back inside with ease. Her hips roll rhythmically as she thrusts, moving herself inside me. Our lips lock, feverous and heated, my own moans of pleasure vibrating and reverberating with her own.

Bound as we are in each other's limbs, she cannot move much, but it is enough. I feel her touch and stimulate every part of my inner core, as my own vaginal contractions stimulate her.

It is exquisite.

It is the only Heaven I would ever need.

The raw thrust and sheer animalistic nature of the act... the passion and pleasure of pure unadulterated lust. My entire world, for this brief moment of time, is condensed down into that singular sensation of a lover, my lover, releasing her desire for me – into me.

It seems to go on without end, pushing me to greater heights. My own hips roll back against her, urging, wanton.

And yet the moment can remain only for so long. After the raw intensity of our passion, our kiss breaks, her arms tensing around me as she rests her chin on my shoulder, her thrusts become more demanding, her breathing more insistent and wanting. I pull her into me with my thighs, in tune with her own gyrations.

I whisper in her ear, “do it.”

With only two more thrusts, she pushes into me as deeply as she can and her whole body shakes. A long, low groan escapes from her lips. In my mind's eye, I sense her ejaculate filling me.

Then with a gasp, she collapses into my arms, and I hold her there.

Hmm I thought the boy might have been bisexual... hihi, dress him up like a cute co-ed and I wonder how he would feel about his womanizing roommate . Oh, I hope you didn't get any runs in your stockings.

Lol some1 making sex book here 

PART V

I arrive at home, having returned the boy to his father's house up in the Properties with the promise of a meeting the following day at the park.

My smartphone says 11:58 as I step off the elevator. Right on time.

I let myself into the dark apartment. Most of the lights have been turned off or down, allowing the illumination of the night-time cityscape to shine through the floor to ceiling windows and into the open design of the neomodernist upper levels apartment. I discard my suit jacket on the back of the couch, leaving me with the silk blouse, and head to the glass doors that lead out onto the gardened patio.

The night's fare has been laid out on the patio table, still steaming in the cool air. It looks like dim sum. The hostess stands at the railing, looking out over the city, and the water in the distance. I take a moment to appreciate her form, slim and lithe, with a trim waist. She is attired in a short white cocktail dress. Smooth ivory stockings cling to her long legs – legs made more shapely by her high white pumps. She looks young and virginal, and the decor is topped off with a neat and trim cap of shock pink hair. A slim wine glass hangs in her hand.

“You're late,” she says, sensing me behind her.

I smile. She knows well enough that I am not, but it is a need for her. It is her means of establishing some control over me, making her feel stronger. I told the boy that she accepts my line of work – but acceptance is not akin to liking.

“I am sorry, L,” I say to her.

“Dinner is probably cold now,” she berates me, turning around to lean back on the railing, “and I spent two hours in the kitchen putting it all together for our special night.”

I cannot help but smile again – it is from the Cantonese restaurant on the second floor.

She turns her face away and frowns, “screw you. Fine. I hate that stupid stove.”

I step up to her. Even with my own heels, she has a slight height advantage over me. My arms slide around her trim waist, and my hands lock behind her, pulling her to me.

“Break any hearts tonight?” she says with a slight pout.

“No, he was very polite and dignified about everything.”

Her eyes slide back to mine, “do I want to know?”

I nuzzle against her cheek, “we kissed, that was all. I was to bring him out of his shell, to give him confidence. Not break him.”

She turns back to me, “that was it?”

I nod, “that was it.”

“I missed you,” she whispers.

I smile and lean into her, our breasts pressing together as our lips lightly touch and caress each other. She tastes like cherries.

I intended only a gentle kiss, but her hands lift to cup my head, holding me in place as her lips move against mine with sudden earnest intensity. I groan as her desire infects me, and forces me to pull her hips to mine, compressing our bodies together. Against my thigh, I can feel her special secret hidden beneath the fabric of her cocktail dress.

“L,” I say between breaths, “what of dinner?”

“Forget it,” she replies, locking her cherry lips with mine again. Our mouths open, our tongues teasing and exploring, twirling and flicking as our passion ignites. I keep it calm and cool all day – professionalism is something I always force myself to portray, even if a client desires something more than the standard personal assistant duties. I do not let the emotions run free, but they do build  up.

At first I was not sure that marriage was the best for me, my life is already unusual as it is. But it has since become a column of support and something I apparently needed – to have one person, a different sort of person in her own right, that I can pour all my pent up sexual and emotional frustrations into, and who delights in the intensity I give back to her as a result.

She has saved my sanity, though my clothing does not fare as well.

I am pushed back to the table, and the dishes clatter when I bump into it. I lift my bottom to prop myself on the edge. She is so aggressive, I can tell something is gnawing at her, but I do not question it now – now is not the time for talking. I release control of myself, kissing her back with unbridled ferocity, my lust and love forcing dirty words from my smeared, painted lips into her ears

Her hands leave my head. My skirt is pushed up, and the cool night air caresses the smooth skin of my thighs above the stocking tops. I can feel her fingers trace a path up my thighs, tickling me through the nylons, then tugging on the garter belt straps playfully. Without ceremony, my panties are hooked and pulled off my legs.

I cannot help but moan as I feel myself exposed to the cool air. My thighs part for her, my legs hooking around behind hers and pulling her to me. Her bulge, now fully engorged, presses against me through her dress. With my hands shaking and eager, I yank up her cocktail dress as she did to my business skirt and free her from the confines of her pantyhose.

“Don't need a warm up?” she asks with a grin.

I answer her only by gripping her buttock with one hand, and guiding her to my entrance with the other. She only needs to push twice, then she is inside me. I stifled my cries into her neck as I feel every inch of her spreading me, sliding and penetrating. She wraps me in her arms, pulling me to her, fully embedding herself. My thighs quiver, the muscles tightening around her, holding her as she holds me.

Once we have our breaths again, she draws herself back out, slowly... then pushes, once more slipping back inside with ease. Her hips roll rhythmically as she thrusts, moving herself inside me. Our lips lock, feverous and heated, my own moans of pleasure vibrating and reverberating with her own.

Bound as we are in each other's limbs, she cannot move much, but it is enough. I feel her touch and stimulate every part of my inner core, as my own vaginal contractions stimulate her.

It is exquisite.

It is the only Heaven I would ever need.

The raw thrust and sheer animalistic nature of the act... the passion and pleasure of pure unadulterated lust. My entire world, for this brief moment of time, is condensed down into that singular sensation of a lover, my lover, releasing her desire for me – into me.

It seems to go on without end, pushing me to greater heights. My own hips roll back against her, urging, wanton.

And yet the moment can remain only for so long. After the raw intensity of our passion, our kiss breaks, her arms tensing around me as she rests her chin on my shoulder, her thrusts become more demanding, her breathing more insistent and wanting. I pull her into me with my thighs, in tune with her own gyrations.

I whisper in her ear, “do it.”

With only two more thrusts, she pushes into me as deeply as she can and her whole body shakes. A long, low groan escapes from her lips. In my mind's eye, I sense her ejaculate filling me.

Then with a gasp, she collapses into my arms, and I hold her there.

Bravo, I could not set it down. You now have me looking at every black BMW, hoping  for a beautiful driver to pull to the curb and invite me in.