Friday, 20 June 2014

204. Pt 3.

It was midnight when I crawled into bed, A, rang to ask if I'd come over now, 'I really need to get some rest, call me in the morning and lets arrange for tomorrow afternoon.'

At 2pm I arrived back at the riverside apartment, the Porter recognized me and raised the barrier waving me through, 'Good afternoon Mam.'

A, was wearing a silk dressing-gown and asked his assistant to go fetch me one too; off I went to the bedroom, undressed and slipped into the cool technicolor robe.

'What would you like Frances, some wine, a beer, are you hungry?' 'Actually I am hungry, is it possible to have something simple?' His personal Chef was summoned, 'Perhaps a salad and a few lamb-chops,' he suggested, that sounded fine. I had a glass of water, as I like to avoid drinking alcohol before 6pm, otherwise I get all sleepy and my day's done by 8pm.

After a zingy fresh lunch, we resumed our position on the sofa to administer more mutual foot massages. Whilst in mid foot rub and conversation, an elderly Arab man entered the room holding a guitar (roll with it Frances I thought), he walked up to A, took his hand and gave a gentle bow 'Hello my Prince,' turning to me he offered the same courtesy. 

'Frances, this is a very old friend of my father, a wise and beautiful man, I have asked him to sing for you, as I know you love music.' The man proceeded to play, with much encouragement from A, and quite beautiful it was too. When he'd finished I asked if he wouldn't mind playing a little more, he bowed humbly and obliged.   

The guitar was then handed over to me, but not before A brought up my own 'Youtube' performances on the gargantuan TV screen upon the wall. This was all done via his mobile phone; I'm obviously not keeping up with technology, it's all getting beyond me. I sat watching myself, it wasn't comfortable nor is it for most performers, but it's the only way to hone one's stagecraft and it does work.

After the second or third video I insisted he turn it off; I felt much more comfortable just sat there on the sofa, singing and playing the guitar. 

Michael Jackson was renowned for finishing his gig, doing the obligatory meet and greet afterwards, before rushing back to his hotel room to watch and observe the raw recorded footage of the evening's performance. And that ladies and gentlemen, is how one hones their stagecraft.

After the delightful musician left, S, the manservant came up and cut a gram of coke on the glass topped table, when he left A, turned to me, 'Frances, he's not very well today so I've called for a Transsexual escort to come give him a massage, he doesn't she a Transsexual though.'

She duly arrived an hour later and was shown up to the room. A young pretty Thai girl, nicely dressed, ridiculously large designer handbag and sunglasses, loaded down with all that ostentatious stuff one believes at that age, commands respect and gravities, causing traffic to go 'WOW' as you strut along. 

I could sense she felt a little out of her depth with all the goings on, people coming in and out. A, didn't help any by being a little too challenging with her, until I told him to behave. I made as much friendly conversation as I could, though this was limited as she didn't seem engaged, fiddling with her hair and bling accessories, and reminded us that she would have to check into the agency regarding times.

A, didn't much care for this, he'd have been happy to pay her whatever, but wasn't seeking a 'Time and Motion' clipboard exercise; it seems she has some learning to do in the diplomacy department. 

S was summoned, told of his gift, acknowledged his appreciation and meekly left with the girl to a room downstairs. I caught up with her before she left, to check if everything had been taken care of and saw her out. A and I agreed that if we were to get another girl in, it might be better if it were someone I knew, rather than a clock watching agency girl.

And with that, we retired to the boudoir.







Wednesday, 21 May 2014

204. Pt 2.

In the middle of the room were four large sofas, arranged like a wagon-train, between them an enormous glass coffee table, upon which stood a neat arrangement of various soft drinks, whisky's, vodkas, bottled water, sweets and fruit.

The art hanging on the walls was flash (vulgar), lots of gold and silver noise, expensive but tasteless nonetheless. 'Please, have a drink Frances, what would you like, wine, vodka?' 'I'll have a lemonade please; if I drink in the afternoon I'll be asleep by five-o'clock. 

He asked what I liked to do, 'Eh...music, reading, walking, gardening and cooking,' 'But don't you like to go to nightclubs dancing,' said A. 'I used to, but I've done my time, I don't much care for noisy clubs and bars where I can't hear myself talk.'  

He called his manservant on the ever present walkie-talkie, 'S, can you came upstairs,' and whoosh there he was. 'Please, can you do this for me,' pointing to a little plastic pouch of coke on the table. His manservant tipped out the contents onto an oblong black slate, took out a card and cut it into six lines, before being waved away. 

'Frances for you,' 'No thanks, I don't care for it but you go ahead.' he snorted two lines in quick succession. 'Massage my feet,' 'I will if you ask politely,' I replied. 'I'm sorry, Frances, will you please massage my feet and I'll massage yours.'

We sat for half an hour engaged in mutual foot massage, whilst he told me about himself (young Arab prince) and his dissatisfied life. He'd been up two days partying and it sure looked like it; the coke was the only thing still keeping him awake. 

'Shall we take a bath together,' 'We could do that,' I replied. Walking to the bathroom we passed a table neatly laid out with fifty or more beautiful scarves, I commented how nice they looked. 'You must choose one to take, please,' and so I did, a gorgeous multicoloured silk one. 

The huge bathroom was tiled from floor to ceiling in marble, a Jacuzzi sized bath with gold fish taps, no surprise there then. I opened a large bottle of bubble bath and emptied the lot in, froth rose over the sides of the bath.

We further engaged in frothier footsie. 'I've an idea, why don't you stand up and spunk over me while I lay back here,' I said. 'I'd like that,' he replied. As he wanked off I played with myself, splashing and chopping the waters with gentle hand strokes.  

It didn't take long before he came, the first spurt hitting the mirrored wall behind my head, the next splashing onto my neck, the rest dribbled down through the bubbles and onto my cock. Stepping out, he walked over to the shower enclosure whilst I hosed myself down and dried off.

After fetching him a towel and a bottle of water (water bottles to hand on every available space), I proposed, A, you really need to go to sleep until you wake, no alarms,' 'You're right Frances, will you sleep with me?' 'I'm sorry, but I have a gig this evening, I could come again tomorrow?' 'I'd like that,' he replied. Tucking him into bed, I closed the door quietly behind me.

At the bottom of the staircase stood S, his manservant, 'Is everything OK?' 'Yes, but I wouldn't wake him until tomorrow (it was 6 pm), he really does need some rest.' 'OK Frances thank you, oh and this is for you,' as he handed me my gift. 'Will we see you again tomorrow,' said S, 'Sure, I'll see you then, bye bye.'

What I'm reading in bed...

Street Haunting: Virginia Woolf


Wednesday, 12 March 2014

204. Pt 1.

Having walked the towpath from Putney to Hammersmith bridge many times, I'd often wondered what that iconic Thames-side building might look like inside, and what a wonderful view of the Oxford/Cambridge Boat-Race it must have; I was about to find out.

A, a young Arab man, called at 8am Friday morning to ask if I could be there in an hour. ‘I'm sorry, but I've a few things that I need to get done this morning, I could see you early afternoon,’ after much pleading he reluctantly agreed.

I did however, suggest a website where he might find someone sooner, but it was myself he particularly wanted to see, he'd just have to wait a little longer then. People demand instant gratification, but what ever happened to patience as a virtue, it's simply not fashionable these days.

I told the man sitting in the booth at the main gate, which apartment I was visiting, whereupon he waved me on through without hesitation. 

Having parking the car, I walked round to the front of the building and climbed the large ornate staircase to the main door and buzzed X, 'Hello, Frances here,' the door lock clicked open. As I was about to enter the building, an older lady came up behind me, 'Excuse me, do you live here,' she asked in a snooty manner, 'Yes I do actually, the top floor, do you live here?' That shut her up.

I was greeted by S, a Philippine gentleman, he shook my hand whilst in the other he held a walkie-talkie, there was a muffled crackle, 'Yes boss, she's here now, I'll bring her in,' this could be fun I thought.

I was lead into a vast sitting room; ahead on the wall was a massive TV showing 'Al Jerez.' On the huge horseshoe shaped sofa sat A and another man, who turned out to be chief of Police in a particular Middle Eastern country.

Both rose to greet me, I shook their hands and introduced myself. S, A's manservant, was asked to pour us all a drink, a thick green yogurt looking mixture, into a shot glass, out of courtesy I knocked it back like everyone else, I passed on the second one.

A, pointed the remote-control he was holding at the TV screen, and up popped me on YouTube, performing with my band, he was firm that the other two sit down and watch it, they obliged, I felt odd. After much praise, I turned the tables and began asking them questions. 

'Frances, you must eat, please, have some of this; a plate laden with freshly prepared fruit, vegetables, rice and cous cous was pushed toward me; I wasn't hungry but obliged out of politeness, making up a small plate. 

'We're going to go upstairs said A to his two friends. I followed close behind, up a wide and winding staircase to the upper floor; the sitting room was enormous, as large as the room downstairs, but with spectacular floor to ceiling  and wall to wall views over the Thames, to the north and west.







Monday, 10 February 2014

203.

R called from Dubai, 'Frances, I'll be in London this evening, any chance you'll be around say 8pm?' I arrived at The Langham (Chuan toiletries) promptly at 8pm.

Posh hotels have a two-tier system, the higher the floor one's room is on, the more expensive the toiletries and smelly things become. The Langham also has pretty nice pink and gold pens; I've got quite a collection of them now (I always ask before taking).

Some hotels have gone cheap on their stationary and now have pencils instead of pens, yuk; I guess it's to dissuade the likes of me from taking them?

R, enjoys acting out a role-play, I'm his naughty seductress Mother, nothing new there (well not for me), it's simply one of the many and varied fantasies people have; I don't judge, it's not my place to, I simply oblige as best I can, I'm no actress but I seem to manage. 

The last time we met, we had a three-some with his out of town lady-friend. 'Frances, why don't we call Maria, she can't make it tonight, but I think it'd be cool to call her still.' 'Sure, when do you want to call her' I replied, 'I think while you're fucking me, she'll get really turned on by that,' he said.

With R in the doggy position and me bringing up the rear, he made the call. 'Do you want to know what Frances is doing to me right now honey, she's fucking me up the arse, isn't that nice.' I could hear Maria on the end of the line, encouraging R with his moment-by-moment relay. 

'Would you like to talk to Frances,' he asked, I took the phone in one hand, whilst the other remained firmly gripped around his waist, as I rocked gently back and forth fucking him. 'Hello Maria, how are you, yes I'm fine thanks, I'm just fucking R,' R meanwhile was making groaning noises of a pleasurable nature. 'I'll hand you back to him now, I hope to see you again soon, bye Maria.'

R hung up the phone, turned and laid on his back, 'Now if you really want to be Mummy's favourite little boy, then Mummy would like to watch him wank himself off until he shoots his creamy milk all over his tummy.'

It was probably the word-play that brought it all to a head and finished him off, as his body gave a spasmodic wave from head to toe, before shooting his load over his tummy and chest.

Mummy tucked her tired little boy up into bed, planted a goodnight kiss on his forehead and switched out the lights, before wishing him pleasant dreams.

What I'm reading in bed...

The Enchanted Places: Christopher (Robin) Milne

  


Wednesday, 15 January 2014

202.

It's 2014 and we're off to a flying start, well, actually even before then. The usual lull at the Office from Christmas Eve through to mid-January didn't transpire, several people even called on Boxing Day.

I didn't return to the Office until the 28th, in the USA they go back to work on the 26th, what! I guess that’s the price you have to pay for being the world’s biggest consumer of goods; sadly, we’re not far behind in the UK.

New Year’s Eve the band (The Frantastics) had a gig, at a very large restaurant/bar in Kings Cross, there was a sound-check to be done in the afternoon, which meant my being unavailable to rendezvous with one of my long-standing regulars.

I tried to juggle the math, but it’d have meant fine cutting my timing to the point where I’d arrive at the evening’s gig all in a flurry and without having taken a much needed nap, as I wouldn't be getting to bed before 5am the next day.

I don’t like turning down appointments, as I’m aware most people have a very limited window of opportunity in which to visit me, but what to do?

New Year’s Day, G paid me his first visit, he’s presently learning ‘The Knowledge,’ to become a London Black Cab driver. I find it funny that cab drivers have their Sat-Nav’s on, I thought they knew the streets inside out, I’d guess it’s more for the company of communication. On the occasion I do use it, I like to ignore its instructions, for the amusement of hearing what other routes it might come up with, it's still  never as good as mine.

G left, not nearly so nervous as when he’d arrived, returning a few weeks later and requesting I take his virginity. ‘But will it hurt,’ he asked, ‘No, not if it’s done correctly, we take our time, use plenty of lubrication and start with fingers, first one, then two then…’

‘Wow, that was amazing Frances and it didn't hurt at all,’ ‘Well, G, there’ll be no turning back now.’ I felt rather pleased having popped my first cherry so early into the year; no matter how many more times one might experience it, one never forgets their first-time, a kind of immortality I guess?

I've not heard from M for some ten months now, unusual for him, not even one of his unexpected calls to say, ‘Darling I’m in town, put on a nice frock, jump into a cab and come join me for a spot of lunch.’

M was a big fan of stockings and the finest lingerie, two years ago we’d arranged to go to ‘Glorious Goodwood,’ a yearly event for which people dress up in their finest 40s-50’s attire, a seamed stocking and stiletto heeled paradise, drive around in their vintage cars and dance along to big bands. He’d given me his credit card details to order a couple of hundred pounds worth of hosiery and stockings.

Alack, the day before we were due to go he took ill, ‘Frances darling, you’ll just have to do a little fashion-show for me in the boudoir next time I’m up, enjoy the lingerie.  M had been ill but stable for some eighteen months; unfortunately, I think he may have expired; terribly sad, I shall miss him; I can only hope there's a lingerie heaven. 

Still, it's good to see the Colonel is in rude health, he’ll be 76 this year. He called at 7pm one evening, sounding rather merry, ‘And where are you now, at the Office or home,’ ‘I’m at home at the moment my dear, but I could be at the Office, I replied. ‘Right you are then, shall I see you at the Office in an hour? 

The Colonel was in good spirits when he arrived, as is usually the case, perhaps it was that large G & T...or two? We spent some cosy time together, after which I suggested we go have some supper at a marvelous Argentinean steak-house just across Tower Bridge. 'If that is what you want to do then we shall.'

Having consumed pretty close to half a cow, he one side, me the other, I suggested I drive him home and put him to bed, as I’d need to follow suit shortly afterwards. ‘Aren't you going to go into Soho and trip the like fantastic then,’ he said , ‘What, after eating that, I don’t think so,’ and so it was to bed.

Oh, and don’t be fooled by that photo, it’s not how I'm usually dressed for gardening, yeah, disappointing I know, but roses have thorns.

What I’m reading in bed…

Gardening Through The Year: RHS