If you were looking for a woman with style and sophistication, the place to visit was the Bridge Hotel wine-bar between the hours of 6 p.m. and 8 p.m. Positioned high above the embankment of the river Tyne the wine-bar attracted a diverse range of corporate, stylish and beautiful people eager to unwind, flirt and get up to mischief, or just go straight for the desirable option of committing adultery. This particular time frame was their playground and they played life to the full.
A gaggle of smartly dressed men and women who looked like accountants held court in the corner of the room, flashing smiles that spoke of money, one of them reading the business page of a broadsheet newspaper, words like fiscal market indexes, bond yields and world trading and banking spilling naturally from his lips.
But their forced smiles betrayed their real purpose in life. When they were away from their corporate domain they could do whatever they wanted.
If the truth were known most of them just wanted a fuck and get back to making money.
It was just after seven when he walked through the door.
After pulling up a stool at the end of the bar and lighting a cigarette he casually sipped his drink, watching the accountants trying to impress each other with meaningless predictions, mathematical statistics and endless corporate nonsense.
A fleeting glance around the room, the boredom of accountancy fading into insignificance, the acquaintance of perfection momentarily caught in his peripheral vision, a beautiful and stylish woman sitting on a stool at the opposite end of the bar smoking a long black cigarette and sipping a cocktail, deep in conversation with a smartly dressed handsome man, the fast talking, over-confident Don Juan working his charm, trying his best to get into her knickers.
A captivating smile and dark penetrating eyes, raven hair falling in loose curls over her shoulders, shapely breasts and dancer’s legs, a long split up the side of her skirt betraying just a trace of bare flesh at the junction where stocking tops meet suspenders.
Her smiles were forced and unconvincing, the uneasiness in her response to his familiarity negative and uncomfortable, the flirtatious and calculated smiles in his direction hinting that Don Juan’s time was slowly running out.
The cocksure Casanova was heading for the door when a waitress delivered a bottle of wine to her table, compliments of the man at the end of the bar, the gesture acknowledged with a friendly smile, the acquaintance providing the opportunity for introductions.
Stephanie Monroe was probably in her early-forties although she looked and acted much younger. She spoke with a refined English voice, although a slight accent hinted at a seductive French nuance. They spent most of the evening talking and laughing through the deafening sound of the jukebox, mostly trivia, occasionally sharing tales of life’s adventures and inevitable disappointments.
Testing the waters of matrimonial status was always a complicated subject. It was a question he usually avoided. He regretted asking the question.
She told him she had been separated from her husband for almost six months. She said they first met when she was living in Paris with her parents and he was on holiday with some friends. They had been married for ten-years and they had a six year old daughter.
Brushing an imaginary tear from her eye she said that he arrived home from work one day and announced that he had been having an affair with another woman. Within a matter of minutes he had packed a bag and walked out of her life.
Her next statement was unexpected, her eyes concealing a deep sadness, the betrayal and infidelity still haunting her, forcing a laugh that quickly faded and lowering her voice to a furtive whisper. She said that her husband had custody of their child and she approved of the arrangement because it gave her the flexibility to enjoy her social life.
He broke the uncomfortable silence with a question about her husband’s background and profession, cursing to himself for his stupidly, but the words had already left his mouth.
A brief pause to regain her composure and to light a cigarette, her words laden with mocking enthusiasm, “Ronnie Monroe,” she smiled, blowing smoke into the air above her head. “A fucking crook… A fucking gangster… A fucking bastard… A fucking arsehole, a man with a violent temper and a reputation for being a hard-man in the West End,” she barked, crushing her cigarette into an ashtray.
The subject of matrimony and too much information about her estranged relationship living with a violent maniac left a crippling uneasiness between them, the physical attraction and the evening that once held promise dimensioning by the minute, so when she moved the conversation on to innocent topics he gladly followed.
He wanted to go straight to her flat, but she insisted on going to the Cavendish Club for one more drink and a dance.
It was hardly worth paying the admission fee. They were only in a few minutes, the time it takes to buy a drink at the bar and engage in a shameful dance.
A crushing kiss, bodies connecting in an intimate embrace, moving in a slow seductive ballet to the rhythm of the music, a shameful exhibition of two people fondling and groping with lustful intent, their reckless interaction attracting observers, a mocking voice suggesting they should ‘Get a room,’ a timely reminder that it was time to go.
It was almost three in the morning when he pulled the car into the private car park of an exclusive residential apartment block in Gosforth. After pressing a chrome button for the top floor and checking the status of her lip gloss in the full length mirror, the plush lift glided to a halt at the penthouse suites on the top floor.
Two lamps strategically placed in the corners of a spacious living room threw soft light and shadows across a delightful tableau of fine art painting hanging on pastel painted walls. And a tasteful arrangement of classical furniture spread over hardwood floors and an impressive Bose music system in the corner of the room were all synonymous with someone with style, sophistication and money.
Classical music filtered softly through speakers and a row of scented candles flickered on the fireplace providing the mood for romantic liaison.
Pressing a button on a remote control and opening the sliding doors to the balcony, the invitation of a cigarette and to take in the panoramic views of the city skyline gaining his approval, an impulsive kiss and the urgency of groping hands brushing away any thoughts of a cigarette or views of the city skyline for a woman with only one thing on her mind.
“Make yourself comfortable. I won’t be long,” she smiled.
The white smoke from his cigarette drifted upwards into the dark sky, the apprehension and uncertainty following in its wake, the night although looking promising slightly marred by the haunting reminder of Stephanie’s estranged relationship with her husband and homicidal maniac Ronnie Munroe.
A soft voice interrupted his thoughts.
“I hope you like Champagne.”
A flirtatious smile and an outstretched hand shrouded in a white fingerless glove handed him a glass of wine, the flickering candles casting alluring shadows over captivating curves, the vision of wonder raising her glass in a smile, wearing nothing more than a sexy white Basque, white lace panties, stockings and suspenders and towering heels, flaunting her body like an underwear model posing for a photograph.
The haunting dilemma of Ronnie Monroe cast aside in a heartbeat, his eyes wide-open like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, his mouth open and his jaw hanging slack, spellbound and almost at the point of drooling, staring shamelessly at her breasts, the underwire pushing her tits up with appealing affect, the bubbly flesh almost spilling out of the garment.
A brief pause to take in her beauty, his eyes continuing their exploration of her unabashed nakedness, wandering in a downward sweep, an intimate path over mouth-watering curves, the diaphanous panties exposing a dark bush of pubic hair and the unmistakable groove of a bulging vulva imprinted in the tight fabric, the erotic image making the ultimate revelation of her mysterious secrets all the more intriguing.
A heart beating with increasing tempo, the pulse between her legs quickening, floating across the room on endless legs, swaying her hips and flashing her eyes with flirtatious intent, her smile widening with suggestive implications, her heels clicking impatiently across the hardwood floor as she led him to the bedroom.
“Keep the gloves on....And the heels,” he grinned, placing his wine glass on the bedside table and throwing his clothes in a heap on the floor.
Pulses racing, heart beats increasing by the second, a visceral surge of oxygen fuelling adrenaline, bleeding through veins and charging vital organs, chemicals merging with hormonal urgency, two strangers driven by lust and coital expectation, two impatient bodies pressing together, curious hands exploring intimate parts, his feather light fingers burning a warm trail over her moist vulva, her body tingling with anticipation of what was to come.
The threatening limb pressing urgently against her thigh, her heart beat banging inside her chest, her breathing becoming more urgent, sucking in short gasps of air through her nose, a curious hand descending over his toned stomach, wrapping her long painted fingers around the sturdy column, feeling the pulsing flesh between her fingers, stroking the length and gripping the girth, feeling the weight, the enormity of nine-and-a-half-inches filling her lace covered hand, the persuasion of touch forcing a responsive gasp and a whisper of approval.
A surge of blood rushing to the sweat glands of an aching vulva, the expectation of coital connection increasing arousal, a quick adjustment on the bed, placing both knees on either side of his body, her warm breasts swaying gently from side to side, sweeping sensuously over his stomach and thighs, her heart shaped bottom hovering just above his face, her dark place of intimacy peeking out between two bubble cheeks, her vagina open and inviting, longing to be filled, the intoxicating aroma of sex teasing his nostrils.
“Permet de se faire plaisir,” she smiled, reaching over to the bedside table, the introduction of wine and a carton of yogurt joining the foreplay, the playful recipe somewhat unexpected, but the surreptitious suggestion always gaining his approval.
The temptress flashed her eyes and smiled, sipping wine from the glass before spilling the cool liquid over his stomach, watching it pool in his naval, a well-practiced hand coating his cock and balls with yogurt, a warm wet tongue and hungry mouth embarking on an inquisitive trail, a mission of oral pursuit, pursing her lips and sucking wine from his naval, peppering soft kisses up and down his legs, sweeping her tongue in a flirtatious dance between his inner thighs, pulling and twisting the dark pubic hair around the anal opening, scraping a long painted finger nail over the rugged scrotum, sucking one of his testicles into her mouth, easing it out gently, licking the sticky yogurt from his hairy balls.
A firm hand gripping the fearsome limb, a slippery tongue following the thick blue vein along the shaft, marking a moist trail from the root to the head, sweeping in a playful dance around the rim of the bulbous crown, cleaning the creamy substance from the swollen head, easing him into her hungry mouth, sucking him in and blowing him out, swallowing him deep, rejoicing in the taste of yogurt and wine mixing with the sticky nectar of arousal oozing from the unblinking eye.