“Bastard!” Maddy exclaimed into the phone, “You’re getting married?”

Jim, on the other end of the line, winced. “Yeah, I got around to asking her last weekend.”

“But you’ve only known her, what, three months?”

“Come on, you know very well that we’ve been seeing each other for eight months. Well, seven and a half, anyway. Please don’t get all stroppy on me – come on, you’re my mate, you should be happy for me…”

“Well of course I’m happy for you, it’s just, well…”

“Well what?”

“Well, I guess I’m going to miss you, OK?”

“Hey, it’s not like I’m moving to the other end of the earth, I’ll still be in London you know.”

“Huh! I can’t believe you’re thinking about spending your married life in that revolting little flat in Clapham!”

“Er… well, no. We thought we’d look for something further out, affordable, you know.”

“How much further out?”

“Maybe, I don’t know, Streatham, perhaps.”

“It’s going to take you ages to get into town from there you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but, well…”

“You won’t be coming into town for nights out anymore, will you?”

“Oh, I don’t know… it depends on—“ There was a pregnant pause, as they both realised that spontaneous nights out were a thing of the past. “Listen, Maddy, you will come to the stag night won’t you?”

“Of course I will,” she soothed, adding “if she’ll let me,” under her breath. “So, when’s the big day?”

Jim launched into an explanation of venues and dates, and Maddy sighed. Jim was the last of her cronies from the early days in London – the last one to succumb to the lure of a settled lifestyle and a mortgage in the suburbs anyway. Of course, he didn’t have to stay single just to keep her in drinking buddies, but she couldn’t help feeling that it was the end of an era – the end of her youth perhaps.

“Bastard,” she repeated to herself, her hand still on the ‘phone.

Bastard was a nice generic term that Maddy liked to use. This could then be subdivided into a number of categories: chauvinistic bastards who still lived in caves; gay bastards who dressed well and could actually hold a conversation about something other than football or cars, but would turn out to prefer her male colleagues; and, worst of all, married bastards. She’d just added engaged bastards to the list. It wasn’t that she didn’t like men – on the contrary, she found herself attracted to a wide variety of the male species – it was just that after years of trying, she’d decided that they just weren’t worth the hassle. As fellow human beings they were fine, as drinking partners excellent, but as a worthwhile goal in life’s quest to find a partner and procreate the planet – no.

She kicked off her shoes and stretched. No use worrying about Jim now, she had a party to prepare for.

Maddy’s office was in Soho, where she’d carved out her own place at the PR firm of FFB. She didn’t have the private office and the big desk, because they weren’t that kind of firm and, more importantly, she wasn’t that kind of girl. The location was excellent, although the sky-high rents meant that the office was rather more cramped than she would have liked, and, in the summer, the heat and bustle of the city centre could be oppressive. Today had been one of those warm, sultry days in the capital, when the air-conditioning had done its damnedest to break down and make life intolerable. Apart from this irritation, she’d had a good day – a very positive meeting with a prospective French client who was interested in transferring several successful productions from Paris to London’s West End, and then successfully dealing with that snotty little slime-ball in accounts. She didn’t have great power in the company, but what she did have, she enjoyed using. Indeed at times, although Maddy would never admit it to herself, she felt turned on by the dominance she had over these lesser males. She’d left early, because it was the evening of the corporate reception and there was no way she was going to go feeling work-grimy, so she’d ordered a car and driver, and had come home to freshen up and change.

She looked at the clock: three quarters of an hour before the driver would arrive to take her to the reception – she’d better get a move on. Maddy perused the options available in her wardrobe, selected the bottle-green two-piece and having dealt with that decision, drifted into the bathroom. The sharp, dagger-like stabs of the power shower on her naked skin soon lifted her senses and banished any lethargy she was feeling. Her nipples, always one of her most sensitive areas, were soon reacting to the assault, and without conscious thought, she turned this way and that to vary the angle at which the water cascaded, enjoying the needles of water stinging her sensitised aureoles. Grabbing a new bottle of Daniel Galvin wonder-product, Maddy squeezed and watched a thin line of white shampoo curl into her palm, before steadily working it into her scalp. Despite the odd split end, she had good hair – a brunette with a thick mane tailored by a Chelsea stylist to hang in a long bob just below her shoulder blades. The water increased the weight of her hair but allowed it to fall like a blade to a point in the middle of her back. She felt the creamy texture of the shampoo as it flowed in a line from the tip of her hair, down the small of her back and disappeared between her cheeks. Not for the first time, she found it a pleasurable experience as it lubricated her cleft, with the most persistent flow managing to find its way to her crotch. Standing there with her nipples standing out like wheel nuts, her thighs becoming more and more silken as they moved together, she found her hands slowly straying – left to a breast, right gently caressing her mons. It must have been only a matter of seconds before she snapped out of her explorations. What the hell was she thinking? There’s no time for all that, the driver would be there soon.

She completed her shower and dried rather more hurriedly than was her custom. She’d had a good day, was in a positive frame of mind and was looking forward to the evening. These events could be interminably dull, but some good business friends were going to be there, and it would be fun to let her hair down. She could manage without Jim, without anyone in fact. With that in mind, she opened her top drawer and selected a black lace bra which, whilst not overly showy, helped boost her 34C cleavage to acceptable proportions. Trailing her fingers through the silk and lace, she found a matching high cut thong – risqué, but bugger it, she was in a good mood, so why not indulge in some rather sexy lingerie, even if no one would know about it except herself. Tights were rejected as too hot, stockings as too much hassle, bare legs – she paused before deciding that that was not an option, so it had to be the sheer hold ups that she’d bought in the sales. Only one pair, so she needed to be careful not to ladder them. Having successfully sorted her underwear, she checked it out in the full-length mirror that hung on the door to make sure there were no sags or twists. The driver would be here at any minute, so she elected to put her suit on before attending to her still damp hair.

It was just as well she did, because the bell rang right on time, and it wouldn’t have done to open the door looking– well, admittedly like a million dollars, but slightly wanton. Without thinking, she opened the door with hair being blown in all directions by her hair dryer. “Hi, come in, I won’t be a minute”.

“Bon soir,” the driver replied.

Slightly taken aback at the Gallic response, but with her mind elsewhere, she continued with her dressing. Five minutes later, the hair had been smoothed, make up applied, and her high heels located in the darker recesses of the wardrobe. She stood, checking everything for the last time before leaving.

She always prided herself on her ability to make a good impression by noting and remembering names. So much better in the PR business to greet someone by their first name, rather than carry on a whole conversation assiduously avoiding it in an effort not to say the wrong thing. Standing in the door to the living room and immediately focusing on his ID tag, she asked, “Well David what do you think?”

“I’m sorry you are wrong.”

“Pardon?”

“You are wrong. My name – it is pronounced Daveed, not David.”

“Sorry, Daveed,” she apologised a little sarcastically – she thought that as a driver it was hardly his point to be picky, but before should could add anything else he was gesturing to the door.

“You look tres belle, shall we go? The traffic was a little ‘eavy”. He had a wonderful accent, rolling his r’s, and dropping his h’s, softening the harsh edges of the words so that every sentence sounded like a caress.

The journey back into the West End was accomplished in silence, Maddy anticipating the night ahead with some relish. The car pulled up smoothly outside the Imperial Hotel. She stepped out and made some final adjustments to her outfit before entering into the rather Edwardian foyer. David discreetly disappeared.

In the Imperial’s small ballroom, Maddy was in her element. She was urbane, witty and charming. She caught up with a colleague from the Manchester office, had a quiet word with the finance director about the slime-ball he was nurturing, and exchanged cards with two rather promising leads. All in all, a successful start to the evening, she felt. Later on, she felt a hand on her elbow. It was Chris Ryan, the Managing Partner of FFB.

“Maddy there’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”

“Sure Chris,” she replied, giving her apologies to the group that she was with.

He led her across to a corner where a little knot of people was clearly waiting for them to join them. “Maddy. I’d like to introduce you to Peter Huxley. Peter would like you to use your skills in a new venture he’s planning. Peter, this is Maddy Freeman, a person of rare talent. I know you’re going to get on.”

Maddy was not one to gush, but she was well aware who Peter was, and what an alliance with him and his company could offer both FFB and her own career. FFB had made a name for themselves in the theatrical field, representing a number of theatres and theatre companies, as well as a small number of individual actors, and Maddy was just beginning to focus on a portfolio of playwrights. She was happy to do her best for anyone who asked, but writers were definitely easier than actors, she’d decided. Peter was the head of the American media firm of Eastside, who were looking to launch a European spin-off company. Eastside represented a wide range of companies and artists, focussing on the New York theatrical scene, and an alliance between the two companies made sense in terms of matching their primary interests. For the rest of the evening they were inseparable, and before long, Maddy was making arrangements to go to New York on Wednesday to talk through the project. The evening just flew by and it was with some surprise that she noted that it was well past midnight before she left the Imperial. Such was the efficiency of the place that David had brought the car round and was patiently waiting on the concourse.

“Did you have a good evening?” he asked politely.

“I had a bloody excellent evening,” Maddy replied as she settled into the middle of the rear seat and stretched her arms out along the seat back. Despite the late hour, the traffic was still heavy as they drove back down the Embankment. A flashing blue light indicated an accident and the reason for the delay. Filled with fine wine and a selection of exquisite canapés, Maddy relaxed and allowed herself to study the back of her driver. Dark, wavy hair that swept down from his crown into a rich mane that fell just short of his shoulders, shoulders that were broad and square and clad in a black jacket. Just visible from her position, was a strong angular jaw line, which, even at this hour, like many dark haired Europeans, had a definite shadow to it. She wondered what else there was to her driver that she couldn’t see from the back seat. She began to imagine the rest of his body, hidden so effectively by his regulation uniform. She seemed to remember he was tall, and she pictured a wide, muscular chest, lean flanks and thighs, and expressive, Gallic hand gestures. She wriggled in her seat as she realised that she was beginning to feel quite horny. Mmm. Not a good idea, she decided. It was late, she was half-way to being tipsy and a fling with one of the contract chauffeurs was not going to earn her brownie points at work.

The delay safely behind them it didn’t take them long to get to her Chelsea apartment block. It might be late, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to let the evening end. “You’ll come up for a coffee?” she asked.

“Café? Non, I have to get back.”

“Please, I insist. After all, it’s the least I can do after making you work late.” She could be very persuasive at times.

“OK,” he accepted with reluctant grace, “Thank-you.”

Her flat was on the second floor and it really wasn’t worth waiting for the lift to appear. She led the way, but as she turned at the half landing she stumbled. With lightning speed, she felt an arm around her waist that prevented her from falling. Maddy was surprised at his swift reactions, surprised at how close he must have been following her, and even more surprised at the response she felt in her groin – a sudden clench of muscles as a perceptible tremor ran through her. It was no good, her libido was well and truly awake and sending excited alarm calls to a number of parts of her anatomy. They entered the flat, and Maddy immediately went to the fridge where there was a rather good Chablis that she’d started the previous evening, and required an excuse to finish. Two glasses were poured and almost absentmindedly she handed one to David, despite the previous offer, and acceptance, of coffee. Being a Frenchman, he knew a good wine when he tasted it, and besides, he was too much of a gentleman to turn it down. Maddy turned on the CD and let the subtle sounds of Billie Holliday fill the space that existed between them. Small talk was stilted but with each passing moment, she knew with more certainty what she wanted from the evening.

David drained his glass and stood up to leave. This was make or break time for Maddy. She crossed the room towards him, then, looking him straight in the eye, kissed him full on the lips. Would he reciprocate? Would he pull away? Would he fail to react and simply leave when she’d released him? The answer arrived as she felt a hand on her rear and a tongue in her mouth. There was already a distinct moistness between her legs, and as they held each other close, she felt his stiffness under his clothes as he pressed towards her pelvis. His right hand gently smoothed her hair, whilst the left was without a doubt creeping up her thigh to explore the panty line. She had slipped her hand under his jacket and was slowly easing it from his shoulders, and this was soon to be followed by his crisp white cotton shirt. Oh yes! He was almost as good as she’d imagined. An impressive chest covered by a reasonable layer of hair which ran across his taut muscles and then tailed off as it descended towards his navel, where it was met with more hair that appeared from his trousers.

Not one to waste an opportunity, she soon located his belt and having released that, the fastener and fly soon followed. As the trousers fell to the floor, her slim manicured fingers trickled along the top of his close fitting boxer shorts, and then wandered down to trace through the fabric, the strong line of what was now a very erect penis. Power, her power and position were without doubt a very good aphrodisiac. Having aroused him to this state she took him by the hand and led him to her bedroom. He was now just where she wanted him, and boy! – did she want him. He sat on the edge of the bed while she stood just out of arms reach and slowly unbuttoned her jacket and discarded it. The sight of her beautifully clad breasts caused David to let out a little gasp. He reached towards her, but playfully she slapped his hand away. She unzipped her skirt and allowed it to fall to the floor, mentally praising her decision to wear the dark knickers because a lighter pair would have given away the fact that the fabric had already soaked up a considerable flood of juices. Her hold-ups and shoes remained, to demonstrate the fact that she was very much in charge.

Taking his shoulders, Maddy pushed him to the bed as she straddled his groin. The proximity of cock and cunt was not lost on either of them. David was content to let his fingers follow the contours of her breasts, first down the straps, round the underwiring and then diagonally across the fabric before finishing with a single digit down between her cleavage. Maddy reached behind her and unfastened the catch to remove her bra. She sat there proudly, her whole posture announcing these are my breasts, you are a man, suck them.

He of course, did not need an explanation, as his tongue expertly teased her nipples to an erectness that no power shower could achieve. She let out a groan as the beginnings of an orgasm began to build somewhere in her body. Each breast was given equal attention, while his hands gently moved up and down her flanks before coming to rest on her bottom. His grip tightened, and, before she knew what was happening, the tables were turned, and she found herself lying on the bed with her suitor purposefully making his way down her body. A hand on her inner thigh made her involuntarily part her legs. As David’s face grew closer to her knickers, now soaking wet, the unforgettable odour of a woman fully aroused met his nostrils and he paused to inhale and savour the achievement of his labours.

As with the bra he enjoyed tracing the boundaries of the fabric without yet straying towards the quivering quim. It wouldn’t last however, as his hands expertly removed the garment and his tongue went to work, licking and teasing her sex-lips, whilst his hands returned to knead and fondle her breasts. Maddy was by now writhing in ecstasy. It might have been a long time since the last occasion she’d found herself in this position, but fuck, it was worth the wait. Her hands grabbed at the ornamental iron bedhead, her wrists twining themselves around the curved ironwork as if she wanted to be tied to her pleasures. In the beginning, her mind had been the dominant force in her actions, now it was weak in the face of the basic sexual instinct that enveloped her. Her composure began to shatter, with her last coherent thought being that she never realised French oral could be like this!

Each time David used his flicking and probing tongue to explore her clitoris, it was met by an ever-rising short, sharp gasp from Maddy, who was now almost oblivious to anything other than the delicious sensations in her core as she detached herself from the physical world. Before she had a chance to drift away completely, David released her to slip off his shorts and begin the return journey of his mouth up her body. He dropped light, fluttering kisses on her thighs and her belly, trailing his fingers along the sensitive skin over her hip-bone as he moved up the bed. As his tongue began to traverse the valley between her breasts, his hand drifted back to burrow into her pubic curls, whilst his prick and the pre-come mingled with her juices as he slowly rubbed her back and forth. Maddy was almost there, her senses focussed on the exquisite build-up of pressure, the uncoiling of some inner heat, as David gradually increased the pace. She moaned, as suddenly, explosively, she came.

David was consideration itself, holding her as she came down from the plateau of delight.

“You haven’t- I… I mean-“ Maddy muttered incoherently.

“It makes nothing,” he shrugged. “A part of the – how do you say – service?”

Maddy smiled, overcome with tiredness, now that her libido had been sated, and only too happy to see David politely collect his clothes and leave.

What, she wondered, had prompted such a display? It wasn’t something she was prone to do, at least, not often anyway. Okay, so she hadn’t had a shag in ages, but she didn’t think she was missing it too much. There was always her trusty vibrator, nestling in her bedside drawer. Perhaps it was Jim’s defection – her agile mind had skipped from loss of drinking mate to loss of social life to loneliness, in one gargantuan leap. She knew she should think about this some more, but right now, all she wanted to do was sleep…



Next morning, she shook her head as she dragged herself out of bed and into the bathroom. It had been a jolly successful evening, she reflected – some good contacts made, a very promising opportunity with Eastside, and a decidedly enjoyable closure to the evening. Still, she had rather surprised herself with the single-minded way she had pursued her quarry, and questioned again what had prompted her to succumb to her baser instincts. It wasn’t that she was frigid – she was pretty damn sure of that – and it wasn’t as if she was deeply unattractive, it was just, well, she’d somehow felt men – and sex – were rather over-rated.

It hadn’t always been that way. Those late teenage years and the time spent away at university, whilst not exactly awash with suitors, had had a reasonable throughput of alliances, some forgettable, some noteworthy – and then there was Craig. If ABC had needed a reason to write ‘Poison Arrow’ then he was it. “Who broke my heart, you did, you did…” – you know the rest. She studied English whilst he was doing a Masters in Physics, two years older than her, he from up north whilst she was Home Counties. Eighteen months they lived together in that scruffy loft just off the Iffley Road. Living, loving, laughing and crying together, and then, as so often happens, it just fell apart. Craig graduated in some style and the world seemed to be his oyster, whilst she flunked a term and went back to re-sit, and the closest she got to seafood was crabsticks. It wasn’t surprising that he felt trapped and tied down, he was doing mindless jobs in supermarkets and burger joints in an effort to wait for her – but he couldn’t stick it. It wasn’t much of a shock when he broke the news that he was going, but the destination – a post in California – was like a slap in the face with a very large halibut. This could have worked for her too, but he couldn’t wait, the bastard had put his lousy career ahead of her – well fuck you pal.

That was then, so she’d sworn that that was the last time any man was going to shit in her emotions for the sake of a buck, and the emotional cupboard had been slammed shut. Now, eight years later, the lock was seized closed. Sure, there had been encounters since then, but not that many, and she had been careful to keep them to one-night stands. She just wasn’t prepared to get involved with someone who could hurt her again. She’d given herself a rule: if you shag them, never see them again; if you want to see them again, don’t shag them. It was a good rule, she felt, it kept the occasional sexual forays completely separate from her real life. Perhaps though… she was twenty-eight, twenty-eight and a half to be honest, and perhaps these one-night stands, well, belonged in the life of a younger woman. Perhaps she should be trying to grow up and get on with a proper relationship. She shivered – she only had to look at Jim, and the way he had fallen so fast from carefree party-goer to dependent house-husband. No, that wasn’t for her. And damn it, if she wanted an occasional shag now and again, who was there to stop her?

As she leaned towards the mirror, she was aware of the soreness between her legs – it would seem that even if the emotional lock had rusted shut years ago, then had been more than enough oil in the passion of the Frenchman to unseize it. She smiled, thinking about opportunities wasted and opportunities to come.