A Dangerous Conception
by Roger Beresford
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Roger Beresford
Published by Strict Publishing International
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Chapter 1
The chauffer driven Bentley eased to a halt outside the clinic on Harley Street. The driver killed the engine and walked round to the pavement side to open the passenger door. The early April shower, which had recently passed by, had left the pavements damp; and already the strong sunshine was evaporating the damp to create whispers of steam.
The shapely nylon clad legs of Lady Eliza Elton-Critchley emerged from the darkened interior of the car with their owner tugging at her ruckled skirt to cover them.
Lady Eliza was every inch the upright English Rose, daughter of an Earl. She carried herself with the poise and confidence that her privileged upbringing had instilled in her since her birth thirty-seven years ago. Elegant, attractive and soigné, rather than stunningly beautiful, she would easily have passed for a woman several years her junior. Her green twin set proclaimed that she was dressed by the finest couturiers in London and Paris; it clung to her feminine silhouette to emphasise her curvaceousness. Her long flowing blonde hair, whilst appearing casual, was in fact exquisitely styled each week by one of London’s top designers. Lady Eliza was fully aware of her superior status in life and her exuberant muliebrity; equally important was the fact that she had secured more than enough wealth to be able to maintain her enviable lifestyle.
Mr Ian Elton-Critchley followed his wife out of the car. Ian had not enjoyed the same advantages in his early life as his wife. Born two years before her into a middle class family of teachers, he had attended a Comprehensive State School. However, by dint of hard work and some exceptional brainpower, he had won a scholarship to Oxford where he had obtained a First in English; and remained there to gain a Master’s Degree. Ian was just less than six feet in height and weighed in at fourteen stone. Regular attendance at his gym had kept his stomach flat and his physique well toned. He might have been called handsome, excepting that he chose to hide his features behind a full set of brown whiskers that matched his untidy hair.
Ian had met his wife at University and courted her strenuously through the five years he had worked as a sub-editor at a London publishing house. When, eventually, she had agreed to marry him, Eliza had made clear from the very start that she would be in charge of their finances. She had no intention of allowing anyone to milk her of the inheritance she had shared with her elder sister when their Father had died some eight years previously. Ian had willingly accepted that he was absolutely dependent on his wife for the wealth that allowed him to work from their Oxford home as a freelance editor and publisher, and to enjoy the privileges of wealth. Without the substantial monthly allowance given him by Eliza he would barely be able scrape a living at independent publishing; a profession rapidly being subsumed by the eponymous ebook. He had an Upper Class existence, was afforded anything he wished, and was content to play second fiddle to a wife who showed him affection rather than love. Often he felt rather more of an accoutrement to her life, rather than being in an equal partnership with her; it was her views and decisions that always prevailed.
Lady Eliza ascended the steps to the Clinic front door. It was opened for her by a white-coated nurse. The nurse smiled sweetly, shook both their hands and led them into a private waiting room.
“There are coffee, tea and light refreshments available from the kitchens,” she said. “Can I order anything for you?”
“Coffee for two,” instructed Eliza without consulting Ian. “Decaf please - oh, and some Afternoon Tea biscuits.”
“Very well, Lady Eliza,” replied the nurse. “Please take a seat, and the consultant will be with you shortly.”
Ian and Eliza sat together on the enormous leather sofa and selected magazines from the coffee table. Their refreshments arrived within minutes and were followed almost immediately by the consultant.
Doctor May Thornlow was dressed in the traditional white coat of all doctors and carried the inevitable stethoscope around her neck. Apart from her accoutrements, she could easily have been mistaken for a young nurse. She was svelte and shaped like a model, and she possessed a rounded, pretty face crowned with a severely pulled back crop of brown hair. May had studied at a London hospital and decided early in her career that specialisation in human reproduction was to be her path to a comfortable lifestyle. She had so impressed her superiors that by the age of thirty she had become a consultant, and by the age of thirty-two had found herself the perfect appointment at The London Fertility Clinic.
“So, Lady Eliza,” the doctor began after the formal introductions had been completed and some social chitchat undertaken. “You’ve been trying for a child for about three years now without any success. Any miscarriages?”
“Absolutely nothing, Doctor Thornlow. No sign of a pregnancy at all”.
“And you have been to seek advice from your family doctor?”
“No, I haven’t been to a local doctor for years. We decided that GPs are not really that interested in infertility. One can wait for years to even get to see a consultant,” replied Lady Eliza. “I decided that the best way forward was to consult your clinic on a private basis.”
“Wonderful. I’m sure we will be able to offer some advice, give you both a good check-up to see that everything is in order, and if necessary get you into an IVF programme.”
Eliza looked up, somewhat shocked. “I am not getting into IVF. I conceive naturally or not at all. The idea that I might have an unnatural baby from someone else’s egg or sperm is abhorrent to me.”
“OK, that’s understood. It probably won’t come to that, but I take your point - nothing artificial.
“What about your periods? Are they normal?”
Eliza looked slightly shocked at her directness; such things were not usually so openly discussed. “They have been rather irregular over the past couple of years. Sometimes I’ve thought myself pregnant because my period was so late.”
“Yes, I see, and when they come are they heavy, painful?” asked Dr Thornlow.
“Yes, quite a lot of bleeding and rather painful,” admitted Eliza coyly embarrassed by discussing such matters in front of Ian.
“Do you take any other medications? You know, like anti-depressants or other substances?”
“No, definitely not!” she replied indignantly. “The only pills we take are vitamin additives.”
“Which ones?”
“Vitamin A, B and E. We take about 1000 milligrams a day each.”
“Too many vitamins can have an adverse effect on fertility. If you’re trying to get pregnant I would advise against any vitamin supplements.”
Eliza nodded, as if not convinced.
The Doctor stood up. “Anyway, we’ll start by giving you a thorough medical, Lady Eliza. We’ll also take some samples and run a series of tests.” She looked at Ian. “Mr Elton-Critchley will have to remain here for about an hour while I do that, then we’ll give him a check-up - will that be OK?”
Ian opened his mouth to protest, but Eliza spoke before he could. “That will be perfectly in order. My husband can amuse himself with your excellent supply of magazines.”
Ian accepted the inevitable and picked up a magazine while the two women left.
* * * * *
Lady Eliza was ushered into a superbly equipped consulting room. Pride of place in the centre of the room was a black leather and chrome gynaecological chair. Eliza shivered slightly. She did not like to be intimately examined; it was degrading and uncomfortable.
“Do you intend putting me in that thing?” she enquired, pointing at the chair.
“I’m afraid so, Lady Eliza. That will be essential if I am to take samples and examine you properly,” said Doctor Thornlow. “There will be no pain, of course, and you have no need to feel embarrassed. I have examined hundreds of women in that way and know exactly what I’m doing.”
“Very well,” agreed Eliza. “If you must, I will have to put up with it, I suppose.”
“Would you please go behind that screen and remove your clothing below the waist. You’ll find a robe there for you to put on,” requested the doctor.
Eliza emerged a few minutes later clutching a white robe around her.
“So, Lady Eliza, if you’d like to get yourself up in the chair we’ll begin with an examination of the birth passage and the cervix. After that, I’d like to take a look in the uterus and see whether the fallopian tubes are OK.”
Reluctantly, Eliza got into the chair and spread her legs in the stirrups. Her abundant pubic hair declared that Lady Eliza was not a natural blonde. It was dark brown verging on black, and perhaps that was one reason why she did not welcome such intimate examinations.
“Now, I’m going to use a speculum to open your vagina and have a look at the cervix. It won’t hurt, but it will be a bit uncomfortable,” the doctor informed her, brandishing a fearsome looking chromium plated instrument and covering it with KY jelly. Eliza screwed up her face, nodded, and accepted the inevitable.
It was twenty minutes later when Doctor Thornlow completed the examination and bottled some samples she had taken.
“Well done, Lady Eliza. That’s it, now please put your clothes back on and we’ll discuss what I have discovered.”
Eliza, re-clothed, sat in front of the doctor’s impressive Georgian desk.
“I can’t see any problem there, Lady Eliza, but can I just ask a few questions about your love life before I send you down for an endoscope examination and a MRI scan. When you have intercourse, do you usually adopt the missionary position with your husband on top?”
“Do you really need to get that personal?”
“I’m sorry to sound intrusive, but it is important. You see, the semen has a much better chance of reaching the fallopian tubes if it is spread around the cervix. With the woman on top it tends to flow the wrong way.”
“Very well then,” replied Eliza petulantly. “If you must know, we usually have intercourse with me being in charge - and on top of him.”
“Right - and frequency?”
“Frequently, but only during the right time of the month,” said Eliza with authority.
“And the pill? I assume you stopped taking that when you decided to try for a baby? The contraceptive properties can last a long while even after you stop taking it.”
“Of course, I know that, Doctor. I’ve not taken the pill for years. I was using a coil before we started trying for a baby.”
“OK,” said Doctor May. “I notice that there is a lot of talcum powder around your vagina, have you always been a fan of talcum?”
“Yes, I use it twice a day to keep myself dry.”
“And do you smoke?”
“I used to be a heavy smoker, but recently I’ve cut it out altogether,” admitted Eliza.
Dr May nodded knowingly and scribbled on her notepad. She looked up and smiled. “That’s the end of the inquisition. I’d like to take you down to the theatre now and get the doctor there to take a look at your tubes and to give you a MRI scan. While he’s doing that, I’ll have a look at your husband to see if the problem lies with him.”
* * * * *
Ian put down the magazine he was reading and followed Dr Thornlow into her consulting room.
“I’ve conducted a thorough examination of your wife, Mr Elton-Critchley, and so far as I can see there is nothing obviously wrong there. What I need to do now is to give you a medical, concentrating, of course, on the genital area, and then obtain a sample from you to check your sperm count and its viability.”
“I’d anticipated as much,” replied Ian, “but couldn’t it be done by a male doctor?”
“There really is no need to be embarrassed. I have examined many hundreds of men, and I can assure you it really is purely clinical interest.”
“I’m sure it is, Doctor. OK, so let’s get it over.”
“Good. Would you go behind that screen and strip off, please. You’ll find a robe there if you prefer to wear one.”
Ian emerged a few minutes later. He had discarded all his clothes and eschewed the robe. Dr Thornlow was unperturbed. Naked men were of no more interest to her than naked females. It was simply required in her profession.
The doctor invited Ian to sit while she checked his blood pressure and body temperature, and then she listened to his heart and she took a blood sample.
The preliminaries completed, she asked him to stand and began a detailed examination of his physique. Ian was less than six feet tall, she guessed about 5ft 10ins, but his body was well muscled with no sign of excessive fat. He looked like a man who took care of himself and probably attended a gym regularly. His chest was covered in dark, manly hair and it continued down his body to link up with his plentiful pubes.
She examined his back and buttocks. All was normal there, except that she thought that she could detect some faint lines of bruising across his rump, partially hidden by body hair.
Satisfied with the general health of her patient, Dr Thornlow had Ian lie down on the examination couch so that she could concentrate her attention on his genital area.
“Have you had a digital prostate examination before?” she enquired.
“No, never,” said Ian, slightly nonplussed.
“I need to make sure that your prostate gland is in order. Sometimes an enlarged or diseased gland can affect your fertility. Could you lie on your side and bring your legs up to your chest. Yes, that’s fine. It might be a bit uncomfortable, but it will be over in a few seconds.”
She pulled on a Latex glove, smeared jelly around his anus and eased her finger into his rectum. His body instinctively attempted to resist, but the doctor’s finger slipped easily past the tightened sphincter. The gland was smooth and normal in size.
She removed her finger and peeled off the glove. “That feels perfectly normal,” she announced. “Lie on your back now, please. I have to examine between your legs.”
Ian’s penis was of well above average length and uncircumcised; his testicles were large, heavy and covered with pubic hair. The doctor peeled back the foreskin and examined the glans and urethra, and she concluded there was nothing unusual there. She gently rolled her fingers around each testicle to feel for irregularities or cysts, and found none.
“That all seems to be in order,” she said.
“Good, is that it then?” asked Ian.
“I need a sample now,” said Dr Thornlow. “Here’s a sample phial,” she continued, handing him a small glass container. “I’ll pull the curtains around and I’ll be writing up my report. Call out when you’ve done the business.”
Ian took the dish and stuttered. “I’ll try, but… you know… it’s difficult in his environment.”
“Nonsense! For most men it’s the simplest thing in the world to have an ejaculation. All men masturbate regularly, though most won’t admit to it,” she added cheerily.
“Yea, sure, I’ll try,” replied Ian defensively
“I have some magazines – if that would help?”
“It might.”
The doctor rummaged in her desk and returned with a selection of adult literature she kept exclusively for the purpose.
“What’s your preference, straight sex, full frontal, lesbian, male domination, female domination?” she asked nonchalantly.
“Well actually, I do like a bit of FemDom,” admitted Ian sheepishly.
Dr Thornlow handed him a thick copy of a magazine entitled ‘OWK’. “This should do the trick then,” she said with a broad smile. Her earlier examination had led her to suspect that his leaning would be towards being dominated, and Lady Eliza had intimated that she was usually in charge of their lovemaking, not that it mattered or shocked her.
“Let me know when you’re done,” she said, drawing the curtains across.
Ian opened the magazine and, thumbing through it, found a picture of a man being caned while securely imprisoned in metal stocks. He began to tease his penis and rub it in the traditional onanistic fashion - it simply would not respond to the stimulation of the magazine or of his hand movements. Try as he might, the organ remained flaccid and dry.
“This isn’t working,” called out Ian. “I simply can’t do it. Must be a case of ‘white coat’ syndrome.”
The doctor pulled the curtains apart and studied her patient. He was right, the penis remained unresponsive. “Well, we have to have a sample,” she said, scratching her chin in thought. “I can give you a small injection in the base of the penis that is guaranteed to get it stiff. Would you like me to do that?”
Ian hesitated, his eyes concentrating on his limp member. “I suppose so, if you must, yes please. I don’t think I can do it without some help.”
Dr Thornlow drew a clear liquid into a small disposable phial and tapped the side to expel the trapped air. Reaching across Ian’s tummy, she inserted the needle into the base of his penis and injected the liquid. Almost immediately his penis stirred and began to grow thicker, and within five minutes it was bone hard and stood proudly erect from his bushy pubes.
“Try now,” she said, admiring her work. It had become a truly impressive organ, straight, thick and with its purple glans thrusting clear of its puppice. Despite her purely professional interest, Dr. Thornlow had to inwardly admire such a truly formidable phallus.
Ian resumed his hand movements while Dr Thornlow looked on. The fact that he was being watched must have provided the necessary stimulation, for, within a couple of minutes, a thick stream of semen pulsed from him to be caught in the glass container by Dr Thornlow.
“There, that wasn’t too difficult, was it?” she congratulated him, putting a lid on the container. “It will stay stiff for about fifteen minutes, so you’d better sit there and recover. I may need another sample, but I’ll let you know in good time if I do and you can provide it from home. You’ll need to abstain from sex for three days before ejaculating for the sample, which will give time for your body to generate sufficiently strong sperm. People trying for a child always think that sex every day is best, but in fact the male needs time between each ejaculation to recover his full fertility.”
Twenty minutes later, Ian was dressed and sitting beside Lady Eliza back in the waiting room. They did not discuss their experiences with Dr Thornlow.
* * * * *
A week later they were both back in the waiting room for their second consultation. Dr Thornlow called them into the consulting room together.
“We now have the results of all the tests we undertook last week. Let me say at the outset that there is no problem with Ian’s sample of sperm. They were plentiful, had good shape and excellent movement,” Dr Thornlow stated matter of factly. “I’m afraid to say that the problem lies with you, Lady Eliza. Let me explain: a woman’s fertility starts to decline after the age of twenty-secen. By the age of forty, only 3% of a woman’s ovarian reserve remains, and by about fifty most women will experience the menopause. Our tests have shown that in your case the ovarian reserve has virtually disappeared, I suspect from some premature ovarian failure. My diagnosis is that you have probably already experienced a premature menopause, and you will find it virtually impossible to conceive without IVF treatment. I’m sorry, but that’s the sad truth. It may be that you inherited the genes that cause a premature menopause from your mother.”
Lady Eliza listened in shocked silence. Eventually she spoke.
“So I’ll never experience a natural birth? It’s out of the question, is it?”
“I’m afraid so, Lady Eliza. We could help by artificial means, but you have already said that you could not consider that. You could adopt?”
Eliza flicked her hair over her shoulder and wiped a tear from her eye. “It’s a bitter blow to me. I’ve left it too late, and now I will never have the baby I so yearn for. You see, Doctor, our hereditary title follows the distaff line. My elder sister has not had children either, and if I don’t produce an heir the title will go to some distant cousin.”
“Then IVF or adoption has to be the answer.”
“No,” insisted Eliza, “it has to be a natural heir.”
“Well an IVF baby would be nearly natural. I’m really sorry, Lady Eliza, but I fear that the fact is that you will never have a naturally conceived baby,” declared Dr Thornlow. “I’m very sorry.”
Eliza stood up, and tears of anger and frustration rolled down her cheeks. “I’m going to the ladies room. I need to compose myself.”
“Let me show you the way.”
When she had left, Dr. Thornlow re-entered the room and closed the door behind her. She put her hand on Ian’s shoulder. “There’s something else you should know, and it’s certainly not the right time to tell your wife.”
Ian looked puzzled. “Well?”
“There were minute traces of cancer cells in the samples we took from her cervix. It’s nothing too serious at the moment, but they will need monitoring. I suggest that she had a biopsy within a couple of months. If we catch it early, there is a good chance that it can be retarded if not completely stopped.”
“My God! That’s awful. I’ll have to tell her - but how?”
“I’ll leave that to you, but do it gently. She has had enough bad news for the time being, and there’s no need to rush into telling her. Let her know in a couple of months.”
Eliza and Ian returned to Oxford in virtual silence. Ian’s attempts to soften the news regarding her infertility were firmly rebuffed. Eliza did not want to talk about it; she needed time to come to terms with her bitter disappointment. Ian did not mention the other news Dr. Thornlow had imparted to him.
Chapter 2
Over the next four weeks, Eliza rejected all of Ian’s sexual advances. She was simply not interested in having intercourse now that the purpose behind it had been expunged. In some way, she needed to apportion blame for the situation away from herself - so Ian would be made to suffer as well! She considered sex to be a rather overrated pastime, messy and sometimes uncomfortable. However, she had, before her diagnosis, enjoyed the power it gave her over Ian, and she luxuriated in her powerful orgasms when she was in control.
From the start of their relationship she had taken charge of their coupling, permitting it or denying it as the mood took her. She had discovered that Ian had mildly masochistic tendencies: he enjoyed being bossed, and welcomed the occasional whacking on his buttocks with a riding crop or a leather tawse. These sessions were mutually enjoyed for different reasons. For Eliza, they reinforced her superior role in their relationship, while to Ian they were stimulants to his enjoyment of sex. A nicely sore bottom gave him a powerful erection and an intense climax. Their intimacy was also occasionally enhanced by Eliza encouraging Ian into a bit dressing up. She particularly enjoyed punishing his manly buttocks when they were erotically enhanced by the simple expedient of having him wear a suspender belt, together with fishnet stockings. Her dominance of proceedings, and the acquiescence of her partner to indulge himself in any scenario she set, gave Eliza a particular frisson. A man could be completely controlled when a woman controlled his sexuality, and denial, in particular, was a powerful weapon. The male gender might be physically stronger, but in the hands of a clever woman the male psyche could be shaped and ruled to level the playing field. The inherent advantages males enjoyed could be easily snatched from them and their cockiness subdued. But, although Eliza was using her female wiles to control her husband, she did so from the standpoint of being infatuated with him and willing to enhance his fantasies. She enjoyed his company, his wit and his solid support for all she did to enhance their life together. There was no malice in slightly hurting him, or belittling his maleness - it was fulfilling for her femininity, entertaining, and it also gave her delightful release.
To begin with this mildly deviant behaviour had been nothing but playful, a game in which the recipient of the pain remained in charge of his own chastisement. He was imposing his own requirements on his willing partner, but Eliza had gradually adopted a more dominant role and a heavier hand. She found herself even more sexually stimulated by making Ian suffer a supplement of pain over and above that for which he craved. He might have suggested ten strokes of the crop, but Eliza made sure that he received double that amount just to show who was actually in charge. For Ian, his submission was rewarded by being permitted to adopt the missionary position, in which he, for once, was in control. Without some form of punishment in their foreplay, it was always Eliza who straddled him, controlling their coupling and the subsequent orgasms, and sometimes she would deliberately enjoy her own climax while denying him an orgasm. Ian found such denial enormously stimulating. After being denied his ejaculation he would experience multiple erections throughout the day, and hang on to the hope that some form of release would be permitted in the evening - it usually was.
Their coupling methods suited Ian reasonably well. He did not care what Eliza did, or did not do. The act of making love was essential to his life and he needed regular sexual contact - however it was presented. Ian found the month of abstinence impossibly hard to bear. He needed not simply sexual release but also the relationship that went with it. Eliza’s refusal to have anything to do with his pleading advances was deeply hurtful, but this treatment of him was confined to the bedroom. Their everyday relationship continued calmly, and Ian simply had to accept that, for the time being at least, he would have to provide his own sexual release.
The Elton-Critchleys, since their marriage, had always enjoyed the luxury of a living-in servant. It was not for Eliza to stoop to vacuuming and dusting. Her wealth was such that employing someone to attend to the domestic chores was a minor expenditure. They had had a succession of maids, some young some old, but they had one thing in common: they usually only remained in Eliza’s service for relatively short periods because she harried them so mercilessly.
The current incumbent was a twenty-three year old immigrant from the Ivory Coast. She was very dark skinned, but blessed with long black hair and a busty, rounded figure. Her native language was French, and she spoke with the distinct Gallic accent that all French speakers have when speaking English. Isabelle Lestrange had fled her hometown of San Pedro during one of the frequent civil wars that ravaged her country, a war that had claimed the lives of her parents and her two sisters. She had easily received refugee status and the right to live and work in the UK, and now her intention was to make a new and better life for herself in her new homeland.
Isabelle was not required to dress as a maid, simply to look smart. She chose to wear short skirts over bare legs, and a succession of t-shirts to emphasise her abundant breasts. She had been placed in the Elton-Critchley home by an agency six months earlier, and had settled into the routine with smiling contentment. For Isabelle, the hard work of keeping the large house clean and tidy was well compensated for by the beautifully appointed attic room she had been given, and the completely free food she enjoyed consuming. Her wages, £200 a week, also gave her enough money to enjoy the vibrant nightlife of the city. Isabelle had not so far experienced too much haranguing from Eliza because her work was excellent and Eliza could find little to complain about. To Ian, Isabelle was just another maid. He had never attempted to become too friendly with any of the servants as they had come and gone. He had a partner in Eliza who met his needs in every department, so he had no desire to rock his very comfortable boat by getting involved elsewhere. However, Isabelle was a very attractive young lady, and different in that she was black. It is in the biological nature of men to admire an attractive female and imagine what they might do to her, and Ian was no exception in that regard.
Eliza had left the house to do some ‘retail therapy’ in the boutiques of Oxford. Ian was busy in his study editing a particularly erotic novel in which a husband had a penchant for cross-dressing and being submissive to his wife while in female clothing. He leaned back in his chair and exhaled deeply. ‘That is a brilliant descriptive passage,’ he mused, realising that he had become powerfully erect from reading it and imagining Eliza doing the same to himself. He touched his cock through the cloth of his trousers, and it responded with demanding twitches and urgent contractions which, his body was telling him, simply had to be satisfied after so long a period of abstinence. He turned off the computer and climbed the stairs to their bedroom.
Ian rummaged around in Eliza’s underwear drawers until he found a pair of exquisitely embroidered silk knickers and a matching bra. Stripping off rapidly, he slipped into the knickers and fastened the stuffed bra across his chest. He faced the wall mirror and liked what he saw, but he decided that to complete the picture he needed stockings and a suspender belt. After a brief search, he found a suitable suspender belt and some of Eliza’s sheer stockings. He put them on and returned to the mirror. The feminine image he had produced was made utterly incongruous by the huge penis that stuck out lasciviously from the side of the knickers and dripped clear liquid down his stocking. He reached down with both hands, encircled the expectant organ and began to stroke it gently.
It was at that moment the bedroom door swung open and Isabelle walked in, trailing a vacuum cleaner. She stopped dead in her tracks as she took in the scene, her mouth opened, then closed, and then she began to giggle.
Ian stopped what he was doing and gaped at her, his mind fumbling for an explanation as to why he was dressed in his wife’s underwear and standing in front of a mirror masturbating. He could not devise one!
“Sorry, sorry, Sir,” said Isabelle. “I had no idea you were up here. I thought you were working in the study.”
“You shouldn’t barge in like that,” snapped Ian, his embarrassment reddening his face.
“Maybe you should lock the door when you play these little games?” suggested a sniggering Isabelle.
“Yes, well, perhaps I should, in future,” said Ian, turning away slightly to hide his still rampant erection.
“I think it’s rather sad for you. I mean, I know that Madam has gone right off sex these last few weeks. There’s been none of the usual evidence when I’ve made the bed. It must be very hard on you to be denied sex for so long. I quite understand your need, and the underwear is some sort of substitute for your wife, I expect.”
Ian looked at her in amazement. How could she be so astute, unconcerned and observant?
“If you like,” said Isabelle smiling sweetly, “I could help you. I’m very good at what you English call ‘the blow job’. At home on the Ivory Coast we did it for the boys all the time. It’s quite harmless, and it relieves their frustrations without any danger of us getting pregnant, and means we don’t all get to be HIV positive. It’s really no big deal – just a kindness”
“It would be most... er… most improper,” stuttered Ian
“Ok. If you say so. But it wouldn’t hurt anyone, and I’d enjoy pleasing you.”
Isabelle sidled up to the hesitant Ian and reached down as if to take the still hardened penis in her hand. She was quite literally taking matters into her own hands - and there was no objection from the owner of the cock.
“Shall I?” she asked mischievously, angling her head to look up at him. “It looks very inviting.”
“It would be nice,” admitted Ian as her hand expertly squeezed and collected his oozing pre-come, “but what about Eliza? Would she ever get to know?”
“Of course not. It would be our little secret.”
Without further invitation, Isabelle knelt and pulled the silk knickers down until they rested on Ian’s thighs. Cradling his scrotum in one hand she lowered her mouth and began to gently circle the purple glans with her wet tongue.
“Now, that’s nice, isn’t it,” she said. “You have such a lovely big cock, so hard, proud and with gorgeous purple veins. I’m going to eat it right now.”
Her mouth opened and Ian felt his penis being drawn deep into her. The soft, warm and slippery embrace was only checked when his glans met the back of her throat; she had swallowed his entire length in one deeply erotic movement. Moving her head slowly back and forth, she licked and sucked as if consuming an ice lolly. Ian’s legs buckled under him and he reached down to rest his hands on Isabelle’s head. The intensity of his stimulation felt so much stronger than vaginal intercourse, and his long delayed climax was rearing up inside him. She slowly withdrew her mouth along the length of his shaft, nibbled the tip, and thrust it back deep into her warm orifice. The plunging motions grew more urgent as Isabelle’s mouth persistently swallowed the slippery phallus before withdrawing to allow it to slip out of her mouth completely. Each time she enclosed her mouth around it and thrust down along the length until her mouth reached his pubes was more exhilarating than that special moment of first penetration in normal sex. Isabelle had not exaggerated her skills at fellatio. She knew exactly what would drive the recipient to unexplored summits of delight. To sustain and prolong the act she began to lick the engorged glans, tasting the sticky lubrication that oozed onto her tongue as she gently squeezed the base of the shaft with both hands. She took the hardness deep into her throat once again, and began to slowly withdraw from it. After three more such treatments, Ian was unable to control the intense stimulation. He ejaculated in a juddering crescendo of delight, his seed hurling itself into the back of her throat as he now thrust himself uncontrollably into the willing mouth. As the tumult of his orgasm began to subside, Isabelle sank her teeth into the base of the quivering penis, squeezed his testicles and sucked hard, as if to drain every last drop of semen from the pulsating cock. Ian’s whole body shook at the intensity of his climax. He would never have believed that oral sex could produce such a momentous conclusion.
As suddenly as it had begun it was all over. Within a few minutes of kneeling to take hold of his manhood, Isabelle was standing up again and smiling at Ian. A small quantity of semen remained on her lips, and using her finger she scooped it up and sucked it from her finger.
“I love that flavour,” she said, pursing her lips. “Back home they say that swallowing a man’s seed takes away your period pains, and just now I need that.”
Ian had recovered from his sudden shattering climax. He quickly removed his female clothes and slipped into boxer shorts, his now satiated cock quickly losing its firmness almost as quickly as the guilt now filled his mind. What had he done! He had allowed a young woman to bring him off while he was dressed as a woman in Eliza’s bedroom. The consequences could be horrendous if Eliza ever found out. He should have been less easily persuaded. He should have rejected the very idea and sent her packing. But he had not. And it had been exceptionally satisfying.
“Shall I get on with the vacuuming now?” said Isabelle nonchalantly.
Ian was nonplussed by her casualness.
“Does it really mean so little to you? Just a quick blow job, and then on with your work?”
“Yea, it’s no big deal. Like I said, back home most girls do it to their boyfriends all the time. It keeps them happy and stops them always pining for a proper fuck, and it’s very satisfying for a girl to be in control of a boy’s sexuality. I’ve known lots of boys who are happy to return the compliment,” she replied suggestively.
“I don’t think so,” replied a slightly disconcerted Ian. “I couldn’t get involved in that! Anyway, we agreed, no telling Madam, eh?”
“Of course not! I don’t want to get the sack. I really like it here. Maybe I could do it again for you - a regular thing, eh?”
“Absolutely not!” exclaimed Ian. “It was a very nice experience, but it was definitely a one off.”
“OK, please yourself then” said Isabelle, giggling at her pun. “As you wish, Sir. Shall I get on with the cleaning now?”
So saying, she plugged the Dyson into a socket and, turning her back to Ian, did just that.
* * * * *
“I shall be going up to Yorkshire this weekend,” announced Eliza several days later. “I have to settle some matters at Daddy’s old factory in York. I’m sure you can look after yourself for three or four days. There’s plenty of food in the freezer and Isabelle can always do some cooking for you.”
“Not a problem, Eliza,” replied Ian. “As you say, I can eat in or go down the pub for some food.”
“I’ll drive myself up there in the Merc on Friday morning. I’ve booked a room at the Hilton because my flat is let at the moment,” Eliza informed him.
“Didn’t you say that your cousin was visiting us this weekend?”
“No, I think she’s arriving on Monday. I’ll be home by lunchtime and she’s expected during the afternoon. If she arrives early, I’m sure you can look after her for a while.”
“Fine, that’s all settled then. I’ve plenty of work to do on this new novel; the punctuation is terrible!”
Ian waved his wife’s car away on Friday morning and returned to work on the novel. He cooked himself and Isabelle a light lunch, after which Isabelle had asked if she could take the weekend off as she had an invitation to stay with friends in Oxford.
“But I need you here this weekend,” stated Ian. “Madam is away and I need help around the house.”
“Please,” rejoined Isabelle. “I think you owe me - you know - the other day.”
“Oh, very well then, if you must,” agreed Ian reluctantly. The need to preserve her goodwill was paramount in his mind, and he had little choice but to submit to the implied blackmail. “I’ll have to manage without you. When will you be back?”
“Would late on Sunday evening be OK?”
“Right, see you Monday morning for work then.”
* * * * *
Ian was working on the novel later that afternoon when the doorbell sounded. He did not immediately go to answer it because it was Isabelle’s duty to see to visitors and tradesmen, but then he remembered that she had gone into the city.
He hurried to the door and opened it. Standing in the porch was a young lady with a large pull-along suitcase.
“Hello, yes? What can I do for you?” asked Ian, looking the woman up and down appreciatively.
“You’re Ian, aren’t you? I’m June, Eliza’s cousin. I’m expected - I think?”
“But,” stuttered Ian, “Eliza said that you were coming on Monday. Today’s Friday!”
“No. We definitely agreed that I would come today and stay until Monday lunchtime.”
Ian shook his head but quickly recovered from his surprise.
“So, anyway, it matters not. You’re most welcome, come on in,” said a slightly flustered Ian as he picked up her suitcase.
“I expect Eliza got muddled up with the dates, but, as I said, you’re most welcome, although you might not see her,” added Ian as he ushered her into the house. “Have you come far?”
“I came by train from Harrogate, via London. I live in up in Yorkshire with my parents. After six hours on various trains I’m absolutely exhausted.”
Ian led the way into the kitchen. “I’m sorry, our maid is off this weekend. We’ll have to look after ourselves.”
“Oh, that’s good. I’m very handy in the kitchen. By the way, you said that I may not see Eliza; where is she?”
“She disappeared up to your home county this morning and I’m not expecting her back until Monday. She definitely told me that she’d be back to greet you, but now it looks as though you’ll probably be gone again when she returns - unless you can stay a few extra days.”
“I’ll probably stay on a bit. We’ve got some catching up to do.”
Ian made tea and gave June a hastily prepared salmon sandwich. As she ate it, he gave her a closer examination. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties, slightly taller than Eliza, and definitely an inch or so taller than Ian. She had a curvaceous body and long curly brown hair. Her Tweed dress and jacket had a fashionably short skirt, and she wore expensive high-heeled booties. The combination of short skirt, high heels and her height resulted in her possessing the most perfectly shaped long legs, especially when she crossed her legs to reveal a lot of thigh. Her face was soft, rounded and seemed to have a permanent smile. She wore only the very minimum of makeup; her flawless complexion and kohl rimmed blue eyes not needing it. She looked a very desirable woman and, what was more important to Ian, he noted that she wore no engagement or wedding ring.
Putting down his teacup, Ian said, “I’ll show you up to your room. Maybe you’d like to take a shower – it will freshen you up after your long train journey?”
“That would be great. I feel grimy, and a shower would be really refreshing.”
Ian carried her suitcase up to the guest bedroom next door to his and Eliza’s room.
“Hope this will suit you?” he said showing June into the beautifully appointed room, the showpiece of which was an antique four-poster bed draped in pale green satin and equipped with black linen. “Shall I show you how the shower works?” he enquired.
“No thanks, I think I’ll work it out,” June replied confidently. “I’ll be down in half an hour and then I think I’ll take up your offer of a restaurant meal.”
“Great, I know just the place. I’ll slip into something a bit more formal than these jeans. At ‘Le petite Blanc’ they like you to wear a tie and look smart. I’m sure you’ll have something suitable in that big case of yours.”
Ian was putting his shirt on when June, dressed only in a large white towel, knocked at his door and entered sheepishly. In her hand she held a showerhead.
“I turned on the water and this fell off. It just missed my head!”
“Wow! Sorry, you’d better use the shower here,” Ian suggested, pointing towards the en-suite.
“Ok, I’ll try again. Can you just make sure this one works?”
Ian went through to the bathroom, June followed. The room was extravagantly decorated from floor to ceiling with beige Italian marble, and a sunken bath in matching marble dominated the centre of the room. There were twin washbasins to one side and a shower area on the other side, protected by a glass screen. The whole area was brilliantly lit by dozens of concealed ceiling lights.
“This is gorgeous,” said June, clasping the towel to her bosom and pirouetting around to drink in the atmosphere. “Such good taste, but then Eliza always had very good taste, and the cash to indulge it.”
Ian tried the shower. It worked just fine and he left it running. “There you go then. I’ll leave you to it. See you downstairs in a while.”
Ian resumed his dressing and was pulling on a fresh pair of trousers when he realised that June had omitted to fully close the bathroom door. Moving to one side, he had a clear view of her as she showered. He watched in fascination as she massaged shower gel all over her nubile body and then rinsed it off. As she lathered her hair, he moved even closer to get a better view. Her back was towards him now and he marvelled at her long legs and voluptuous bottom. June was a sensual woman, and he wondered if he might have the opportunity to get to know that body better. Then he put such thoughts aside. He could hardly screw Eliza’s cousin!
She appeared half an hour later in the kitchen wearing a pretty summer frock and with her hair platted neatly into a bun on the back of her head. She had put on more makeup, eye shadow, red lipstick and some powder on her cheeks. Whereas before she had appeared a very attractive woman, now she was ravishingly beautiful.