Sir Desmond Anstruther MC (Baronet) tapped the silver ferule of his walking stick irritably on the marble mosaic floor of the Wanderers Club in London's Pall Mall. He scowled at the elderly porter behind the mahogany reception desk. "My cab?" It wasn't so much an inquiry as a military-style reprimand.

Noakes, the club's Head Porter, looked up nervously from his ledger and gave a discreet cough, masking it with the cuff of his gold-embroidered frock coat. Lifting the earpiece of an old fashioned candlestick telephone, the obsequious manservant whispered across the empty lobby: "I'll ring them again, Sir Desmond. I do apologize."

Five minutes later and much to the relief of the normally unflappable Noakes, a black London taxi pulled to a halt outside the Wanderers Club and the irrascible baronet descended the granite steps to the pavement. The taxi's driver, who didn't even show the courtesy to get out of his cab to open the door for his passenger, called through the opened window: "Where to, guv?"

As Anstruther fed himself clumisly into the rear compartment, he snapped: "Victoria Station. Quick as you can. I've got a train to catch!"

"What time does it go, guv?"

"4.35. And if I miss it I'll have two bally hours to wait. So step on it!"

The crusty baronet was only half-seated when the taxi lurched forward, causing him to be thrown across the back seat in a heap. "Traffic's terrible today, mate. Reckon you might not catch your train." 'Guv' and 'mate' were terms the aristocrat abhorred. Why couldn't the lower orders address their superiors as 'Sir', as still happened in the army?

It was almost 5 o'clock when the taxi finally deposited the agitated old gentleman on the station forecourt. The driver was paid and given a measly tip. The two men (from opposite ends of the social spectrum) scowled at each other, before a dejected Sir Desmond Anstruther was left standing in a small haze of foul-smelling diesel exhaust fumes. He decided to retreat to the station cafeteria to fortify himself with a stiff brandy. 

Sitting nursing a second brandy, the disconsolate aristocrat glanced around him at the few fellow travellers who were frequenting this shabby Dickensian watering hole. The only person who seemed vaguely interesting was a plumpish lady perched on a bar stool, smoking a cigarette in a tortoiseshell cigarette holder. She was staring resolutely ahead towards the back of the bar and it was several moments before the wealthy baronet realised that the woman was, in fact, observing him via the mahogany-framed rose tinted mirrors, which ran all the way along the back of the bar.

She had an ample figure; 50ish, Sir Desmond guessed. She was wearing a trim dark blue two-piece woolen suit with velvet trimmings, high-heeled midnight blue snakeskin boots and elbow-length blue silk gloves. She was altogether over-dressed for the hour, Anstruther decided, and was probably returning from a social function and had stopped off for a quenching drink. She downed the remnants of a tall coaster she has been nursing and languidly turned around on her stool to run her eyes up and down the inquisitive aristocrat. After a moment, she gave him a cheerful smile, before lowering herself from her perch and walking across the bar. The baronet was slightly disconcerted when the Lady in Blue calmly seated herself in the vacant chair at his table.

"Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon to you madam. May I compliment you on your very fetching outfit?"

"Why thank you, kind sir." The acknowledgement was delivered graciously and he was relieved to find her accent was crisp and refined.

"And have you been to some social occasion? Ascot, perhaps? I believe it is Ladies' Day today."

"No."

"Then perhaps you are going out to dinner?"

"Not unless you're planning to take me!"

A bar waiter was now standing beside their table, preventing the baronet from responding. He looked at her enquiringly. "Might I offer you a drink, madam?"

"Thanks dearie. Mine's a large rum and blackcurrant." She fluttered her eyelashes at the waiter.

Anstruther nodded to the man. "And I'll have a brandy. Better make it a large one."

"Certainly sir."

"I'm Marianne, by the way."

"Pleased to meet you, my dear. Call me Desmond."

Two more rounds of drinks later (and after Sir Desmond's next train for the country had long departed), the couple were getting on like a house on fire. Anstruther filled his lady companion in on the broad details of his family holdings in the City of London, his country estate in Sussex and his summer residence in Antibes. For her part, his new companion spoke openly about the fact that she had been a high-class call girl in nearby fashionable Belgravia.

"'course I was never a street walker, you understand. My gentlemen clients would always visit me in my apartment. It's just around the corner actually." She bemoaned the fact that her clientele was fast dwindling through old age. "Half of 'em's fallen off their perches and the rest have a job getting it up!" she said with a cackle as she knocked back her fourth rum and blackcurrant.

Sir Desmond nervously crossed his legs in order to conceal the bulge that was forming in his trousers. He was becoming quite aroused by the bawdy talk (and the brandies), along with occasional glipmpses of Marianne's generous cleaveage. "Not got any trouble in that department yourself then?" she noted wryly, glancing down at his crotch.

He adjusted his silk necktie nervously. "Err no. Been rather fortunate, as a matter of fact. Old tackle still in perfect working order." Involuntarily, Sir Desmond stroked a hand across his aroused member.

She gave a mischievous smile. "So I see!"

She glanced up at the clock behind the bar. "There's only two more Brighton trains tonight, dearie. How'd you like to come back to my place? I could fix us up with a nice cold colation, if you like. Glass of two of Chablis perhaps?" And then added - just in case her invitation hadn't been plain enough: "Then maybe we could have an early night. How does that sound?" That sounded altogether delightful the old man decided.

And so it was (after a hastily executed mobile phone call to Lady Marjorie in Sussex) that the unlikely couple - a knight of the realm, with a lady of the night on hs arm, tottered out of the station buffet and headed for a Victorian mansion block two streets behind the terminus.

Marianne was as good as her word. Not only was she an excellent hostess, conjuring up a delicious cold salmon salad and an impressive bottle of vintage French Chablis in no time at all, but she soon had the elderly baronet feeling thoroughly relaxed.

As she leaned over to pour him another glass of wine, she kissed him softly on the bak of the neck. He smelt her heady perfume for the first time. "I think we might have a little bit of naughty fun before we go off to bed tonight Desmond, don't you?"

"I'll say!"

She loosened his tie and undid the top button of his starched white shirt. "What d'you fancy?"

"How do you mean?"

"Some kinky stuff perhaps? You know, naughty things like you get up to with wifey?"

"Oh dear me no.

Marjorie wouldn't have any of that! Straight missionary position stuff only. Usually Christmas and birthdays."

Marianne came and sat beside the old man on the leather Chesterfield sofa. She gently slid the palm of one hand slowly up his thigh. "Oh dear. That's so sad. No naughty kinks at all?" He shook his head. "Like me to show you a few?"

"Rather! What exactly did you have in mind?"

His new courtesan was on her feet in a trice, heading for the bedroom. "Stay there dearie. I'll be right back!"

Sir Desmond Anstruther emptied his wine glass and noted that a whole bottle had been consumed. And by the light-headed feelings he was now experiencing, most of it by him. A few minutes later his fragrant companion returned. The transformation was truly remarkable.

From the demure Ascot-like outfit she had been wearing in the station buffet, Marianne was now dressed in a body-clinging silver basque, with a voluptuous low-scooped, sequin-encrusted neckline revealing her ample bosom, including the tops of lovely large nipples. She had silver lame split-crotch tights over black patent leather stiletto heeled boots. For all the world, she looked like a seductive mermaid. "This is my watersports costume. Ever tried watersports, Desmond darling?"

"Can't say I have, I'm afraid."

She nonchalantly rapped the thin riding crop she was holding against her thigh. "Or spanking?" she enquired coquettisly.

A somewhat flustered Sir Desmond harrumphed. "Err no, not really. Used to get beaten when I was at Eton. of course."

"Well we are going to have fun and games, aren't we? Let's open a bottle of bubbly to celebrate, shall we?"

She returned from the kitchen with two glasses of champagne, then took a remote control from the mantlepiece and pointed it at a wall-mounted TV screen. She deftly channel-hopped to a site entitled 'Dungeons of Despair' and came and sat beside him on the sofa. "I think you're going to like this." She dextrously unzipped the baronet's flies and slid a hand inside, simultaneously turning up the TV sound to show a full-screen display of torrid lesbian punishment., Naked nubile maidens, manacled by ceiling mounted chains, were being subjected to floggings with thin leather lashes by cruel uniformed women jailers. The girls screamed passionately with every blow, with the welts on their pert bottoms growing ever-more lurid and red. 

In no time at all Marianne had removed her elderly lover's penis and was stroking it to a lovely erection. She ran the palm of one hand across his glans, scooping up his pre-cum, licking it with feline enthusiasm. "Mmmm, you taste nice tonight, big boy. I'm so looking forward to having a mouthful of that later in bed!" She rested her head lightly on his shoulder and nodded at the screen. "You like?"

"Err, very much so. Nice looking wenches."

"Cute little bums too? Bet they've got lovely tight arses, dont't you?"

"I'll say!"

"It gets better."

"It does?"

Marianne fast-forwarded the lesbian action to a new level of depravity. Now the nude duo were streched out, face down, on the dungeon's stone-flagged floor, spread-eagled and secured by chains to huge wooden stakes. Their evil jailers stood menacingly astride them. Each lifted her grey military-style skirt up to her hips, revealing black-bushed vaginas. In unison, the two guards pinched their labia lips and began urinating over the prisoners, splashing their amber piss onto the ugly swollen crimson welts of the girls' behinds. Marianne began stroking Desmond's cock vigoriously, clearly excited by the on-screen action. "I told you it gets better!"

The intrepid baronet knew he was close to climaxing. And being a professional and in charge of the proceedings, so did Marianne. Pinching the base of his shaft, she abruptly switched the TV image off. Sir Desmond was clearly disappointed. "I say, old girl, we were just getting to the good bit!"

"But we are sweetie, we are!"

"We are?"

"Why yes. The good bit - the best bit - is when we do it for real. Here in Marianne's living room."

"Really?"

"Yes. Trust me."

She stood up, pushing her tits further out of her basque. Her large nipples stood out proudly. Then she moved a hand down to the split in her tights and widened it to reveal her smooth shaven cunt for the first time. He could see it was very wet. "See," she said glancing down. "Naughty Marianne's wet down there too! Want to lick it for me. Tongue-fuck me a little?" He needed no second inviation and dropping to his knees willingly obliged, savouring her sweet vaginal fluid.

"Now be a good boy and bend over the arm of the sofa for me will you? With your bum pointing up in the air. And hang onto something, 'cause it's gonna be quite painful to start with."

Gingerly Desmond manoeuvred himself as instructed. "It is?"

She was swishing the riding crop now. Her next words were laced with menace. "It is darling. But it's what comes after that's gonna be extra-special. Speciality of the house as you might say." With which, the first fearful stroke of her riding crop landed squarely across his raised rump.

A dozen? Twenty? He soon lost count of the torrent of cruel, expertly-placed strokes that reined down on the cheeks of his virgin arse. The wounds criss-crossed his buttocks, until they 'read' like a crazy airport radar picture. He gripped handfuls of the sofa's leather arm and thought of the Normandy landings. German machine fire coursing across the water as they waded ashore. Friends falling to left and right of him. And so the relentless 'enemy barrage' continued, until he was on the point of passing out. Then suddenly it ceased.

He heard her slowly walk around his exhausted prone body. Then move close, until her crotch was only inches from his face. She smelt of sex. It positively oozed from her slit. She pushed against him excitedly, smearing his face with her secretions. His tongue moved forward to lick up her wetness. She ground herself into his face provocatively and purred. He cautiously eased his nose between her lips, inhaling and swallowing her heavenly nectar.

"Now comes the really good bit," he heard her murmur, as she helped the exhausted baronet to sit down on the sofa. From the bedroom she fetched a large waterproof sheet and carefully positioned it in the centre of the room. Then she created a small mound of cushions at one corner and gestured for poor dazed Sir Desmond to lie down on the floor.

Marianne peeled back the top of her basque, allowing her big breasts to hang free. They were huge but handsome. She smiled at him as she stroked her nipples to hardness.

"Right darling, lie nice and still on your back for me, will you. And just enjoy." Cocking one leg onto a small stool and enlarging the lower slit in her tights, Marianne pinched together her cunnie's labia lips with one hand, then expertly aimed a lovely golden arching shower over the tired old man's rigid cock.

Her final command (which he dutifully obeyed) was: "Now wank yourself off for me, while I flood my warm pee-pee all lover your lovely cock!"