Wednesday, 15 January 2014

202.

2014 got 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



Friday, 20 December 2013

201.

 It's nearly time to shut up shop again for the year and the rush is on, as my regular clients indulge themselves with their Christmas gift to themselves, some 'Frances time;' today was particularly busy.

 Fortunately, I'd gone to bed unusually early last night (9pm), I'd bought a new gardening book and was rather excited to start on it, and I'd a new pair of 'Jim-jams.' I normally sleep in the buff (nude), except for the occasion I'm under the weather (rarely), or feel the need to close the boudoir door and hide away from the push-pull demands of this world.

So, when Mr Latex gloves (he'd rather I wear them) texted me at 8am for a 10am appointment at The Berkeley Hotel (Bamford toiletries), I was already up and about. The Berkeley is one of the higher end London hotels favoured by foreigners, noticeably Americans; if they were hoping to pop their heads out of the window to catch a Nightingale singing in the square, they'd be disappointed, as that particular square (Berkeley) is a mile or more down the road

I was in and out literally, in half an hour, as is always the case with Mr Latex Gloves. He doesn't offer much in the way of conversation and is paranoid as to anyone seeing me coming in; 'Eh yes S, there was the lovely doorman who greeted me as I entered the hotel, then the nice Concierge chap who wished me a cheery 'Good morning Madam,' then the maids down the hallway and now you.'

Anyway, S's tribute to the gardening fund is generous enough, that I don't let his lack of social intercourse bother me.

It was 10.40am, as I left the hotel G called, he'd paid TS Becky several visits, a thoroughly charming girl (pretty, sane, polite and English), and had found a link to myself on her Friends page. He sounded exceedingly warm and enthusiastic, 'Yes, 8pm would be just fine, I look forward to seeing you then.'

Arriving back at the Office, I slipped into jeans and T shirt (I don't wear lingerie and stockings 24/7, sorry to disappoint), there were a few bits and bobs of Christmas shopping still to do, I jumped on my bicycle and scooted off to Spitalfields market, where they sell some wonderfully crafted goodies.

My early start was beginning to catch up on me, I usually rise at 9am, perhaps next year I'll try push it to 8:30am, but then I'm a night owl and rarely get to sleep much before 1.30am, no matter how early I crawl into bed.

I'd just curled up on the sofa for an afternoon catnap, but this was thwarted by a call from J and a 3pm visit, I'd not seen him in over a year, so it would be nice to see him again. J is 6ft 9 inc, that's a good 17 inches taller than I and wears shoes the size of boats, I could quite comfortably sleep in one if I had to, and like to slip them on for comedic effect.

After J left I took a long bubbly soak in the bath, smothering myself in a creamy scented body moisturizer then chose a nice black basque from the wardrobe; I paired it up with black silk embroidered knickers and a pair of high lace-top stockings that I'd bought in Paris on my last trip there with S, a long-time client.

G was bang on time, and as charming as he sounded on the phone. He'd brought along a bottle of pink fizz, 'I’ve been reading your Blog, and I know you'll like this,' I did, a bottle of 'Billet Carte Salmon,' still the finest Rose champagne I've tasted, yet.

'Do you mind if I take a shower Frances,' 'Not at all' I replied, let me go run it for you and fetch you a nice fresh towel.' 

We started by giving each other an all over body massage, 'I'm just going to lie here awhile and you can explore,' I said. Where G's hands explored, his mouth soon followed. 'I reciprocated; sitting over his face I firmly clasped his head between my thighs and took his cock into my mouth. 'Don't stop Frances,' I'd no intention to, 'Aghhh,' and that was it, all over...my lips. 'G, there were half a dozen more positions to explore before that,' 'Sorry Frances.' 'No matter, I shall take it as a compliment,' I replied.

G took a shower whilst I went and fixed him a Cognac. Before stepping out of the Office door we did a quick 'sign of the cross' once over, 'Testicle's, spectacles, wallet and watch,' a kiss and a promise that he'd return again soon.

So, that's it for this year folks; may I wish you a very Merry Christmas and God bless us all, everyone.

What I'm reading in bed...

The Bedside Book of The Garden: D G Heessayon

Tuesday, 10 September 2013

200.

My Little Dressing Up Box, has seen quite a bit of use this week, three times to be precise.

It's the box where I store all my spent stockings and lingerie, things I no longer wear, as well as the bits 'n' bobs clients have bought on a whim, but for reasons best know to themselves, can't take back home, they're rarely suitable for me (too large) therefore are donated to The Box.

J paid a visit too this week, however, he keeps his own little dressing up box (Pilot's flight case) stored at The Office, and at six-foot six, there's no way I'll be dipping into his to borrow anything.

It was lovely to see M again after a two year gap, he'd been posted to Russia, the cold bit (isn't it all cold?), he used to visit me once a month, an amazingly easy person to please, which is often the case with older men, they don't feel the need to throw you all over the bedroom.

There's one young man I've seen several times of late, polite but far far too demanding for me, full of energy and a libido that could power a small town, I think I'll be suggesting he see someone his own age (early twenties) next time he calls. 

G came by, which entails me dressing up in my nurse's outfit, and acting out the femme fatale school-nurse at his boarding school, with my ever-wondering stethoscope, I boldly go where no stethoscope has gone before!  

G is one of a few clients, whom when he orgasms, I'll be sure that the bedroom door is fully closed, lest his blood-curdling shriek of ecstasy has the neighbours calling for the Police. To my credit, he leaves the sickroom feeling far better than when he walked in, though perhaps paler and tired; still.

Me, I'm more the quiet type when I come, a bit of squirming perhaps, but I'm certainly no foghorn.

And next week I shall be off to Rye to see my Plumber, however, it’ll be I who's sorting out the plumbing, his.





Saturday, 10 August 2013

199.

As one grows older, not 'old' perish the thought, I become increasingly comfortable with this skin in which I was born.

When I was young, I wasn't crazy about being the smallest amongst my friends (though I’d often use it to my advantage), nor was I pleased with my big blue saucer like eyes, which I was often teased about and my mop of platinum blonde hair, all this earned me the nickname 'Mouse.'  

I wanted to look like Elvis in the ’68 Comeback Special,’ perhaps I was setting my sights a little too high, and strutting about with upturned shirt collars didn't fool anyone, but at least I tried.

I inherited the name Francis (now Frances) from my father, who in turn inherited it from his father, the Johnny Cash song ‘A boy named Sue,’ often played in my mind. Suffice to say, I’m over my inferiority complex nonsense, delighting in what I once was and warmly embrace what I am now.

My clients only encourage this when explaining why they've chosen to visit me, and I'm aware that there's a lot of choice out there; three reasons (sex aside) constantly pop up, in no particular order...

Being English, I'm able to communicate beyond, ‘Hello, it will cost you £X; now we go to the bedroom; goodbye.’ 
I’m a mature person.
The Blog; having already provided some background, people feel warmed toward me. 

I receive my share of calls from people who 'just want to come,' or request a 'Blow & Go,' I can think of an easier and certainly more economical option than visiting me.

J paid me his first visit today (perhaps not his last), politely requesting I not wear lipstick or perfume, understandable; it saves for a lot of explanation later. ‘But darling, why do you smell of Chanel No 5, I never wear it;’ it's the reason I suggest one may want to take a shower before leaving?

J had a few things he wanted to explore, well OK it was more like a bucket list, and certainly more than could be accommodated in the hour he was to spend with me; ‘It’s not the arriving, it’s the journey,' I suggested, 'If we don’t cover all bases this time around, perhaps there’ll be another?’

‘Eat all you can buffet’ springs to mind. Some men are like that, having put away two starters already, they’re halfway through the main when it hits them. I’d already produced one orgasm, or rather J had provided one orgasm, in my mouth, his second spurt wasn't far away, this time splatting all over his tummy as I wanked him, after which the poor chap conked out; he still had to go back to work, ouch!

Whilst he went off for a rejuvenating shower and to wash away any evidence of a naughty afternoon, I neatly laid out his clothes upon the bed; a little touch I like to do and one which always brings a warm smile of appreciation and a thank you; tis but a little thing. 

'Right then' I said, giving J the once over before leaving, 'Wallet, watch, phone, keys...virginity, oh I'll get that next time;' a kiss and a mutual 'Thank you' and he was away.

What I'm reading in bed...

RHS Plant Finder: RHS







Wednesday, 10 July 2013

198.


S had been dithering over whether he should come see me, it's not that he'd never seen me before (twice), but he enjoys texting back and forth and I'm suppose to eventually demand he
'Come see me right now!' 

However, he'd sext'ed me far longer than I care for, a couple of text's to arrange things is fine but that's it, I'm done. Personally, sexting doesn't do it for me, I find it all quite a bore (reader take note), but each to their own .

Sure, I accept that sexting is a 21st Century way of getting one's sexual kicks, but me, I find it to terribly dull, dull dull, if ever I did entertain the thought of providing such a service, I'd be sure to charge for it; it's also the preferred choice of communication for time-wasters.

S was having difficulty getting over to my place due to local commitments, he lives some twenty-five miles away from the Office, and so we decided upon a 'Hotel No Tell' rendezvous. I took care of arrangements at a place in Sevenoaks, where back in the 'Great Storm of 87,' all seven oaks were blown down; they have since been replanted.

S lives so far out in the sticks (Kent still has swathes of deep woodland), that it was easier for me to go pick him up from his house in the country and drive to the local hotel. 

Upon arrival, I sent him off to the bar and suggested he get himself a drink whilst I booked into the room, whereupon, I'd await his arrival and a refreshing glass of champagne, driving in the countryside is thirsty work. The room was pleasant enough, but was in need of updating.

I'd been requested to bring a rubber hood for him to wear, something about the feel and smell of rubber really does turn him on. S stripped off, as I got down to my lingerie and stockings. The hood had a zip at the back, so I let him put it on before zipping it up for him.

It was shiny black with red perforated holes for the eyes and mouth, he was able to breath ok but couldn't see much. As he lay on the bed, I peeled back the hood from beneath his chin, and decanted my cock into his mouth.

'And now...I'm just going to stand here and watch you play with your cock,' I said, as I stood next to the bed. 'And now, I think I'll wank you off until you cream all over your tummy;' it took only a few firm strokes before he did. As with some men, after their passion is all spent, that's it, so I offered to drop him back home. 

As S had already paid for the room, I was left with the option of staying overnight and having breakfast at the hotel. Most other times I would have, but after what had been a rather long day, I hankered to wake up in my own bed, amongst and surrounded by familiar things; sometimes there's no place like home.

What I'm reading in bed...

Wrinklies Guide To Gardening: Brian Alexandra