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As someone who seemed to spend half of his life living out of a suitcase, Jeremy Swan had come to prefer staying in hotels with a bit of character. Over the past two or three years, he’d stayed in a former monastery, a converted foundry, a small castle, and an 18th century granary. And, on the whole, they had each turned out to be a lot more enjoyable than any cookie-cutter Sheraton or Marriot.
All of which partly explains how he came to find himself sipping a glass of New World Pinot noir in what looked more like an antique shop than the house bar of a four-star hotel.
‘D’you ever get people wanting to buy any of this stuff?’ Jeremy asked the barman.
‘Occasionally, sir. In fact, at about two o’clock this morning, an Australian gentleman was quite keen to purchase that campaign chest.’
The chest to which the barman nodded was certainly attractive. Two piece. A nice dark reddish mahogany. Brass bindings and handles. Jeremy could see why the Aussie bloke might have made a pitch for it.
‘I take it that it wasn’t for sale?’ he said.
The barman smiled a wry smile. ‘I think the gentleman might have been rather disappointed if he had woken up this morning — possibly with a slight headache — to discover that he had paid top price for a fine example of the faker’s craft.’
Jeremy was surprised. ‘It’s not real?’
The barman shook his head.
Jeremy took another, more critical, look around the bar. The various items of furniture and other bits and pieces certainly looked the part. ‘Just that piece? Or are some of these other pieces less-than-authentic as well?’
‘One or two of the cheaper pieces are reasonably real,’ the barman said. ‘But most of the more impressive-looking pieces … well, let’s just say “genuine imitations” would be a fair description.’
‘And what about the mojitos?’ It was woman’s voice. ‘Are the mojitos real?’
‘They certainly are, madam,’ the barman said. ‘Each one crafted by my own fair hand. Would it be your wish that I should craft one for you now?’
‘Thank you. I would like that. I would like that very much,’ she said.
And then, stepping up to the bar stool next to Jeremy’s, she said: ‘May I?’
‘But of course,’ he said.
Jeremy’s new drinking companion was a good-looking woman, probably in her mid-to-late 30s. She had shortish dark hair and dark sparkling eyes. Think of a slightly softer version of Chrissie Hynde at 35 or so and you’re almost there.
‘You know, I don’t think I’ve ever tasted a mojito,’ Jeremy said.
‘No, neither had I until a couple of weeks ago,’ the woman said. ‘But I was reading a story in which two of the characters had an argument about how to make an authentic mojito.
‘One insisted that a proper mojito is made with sugar syrup. The other was adamant that you should use raw sugar rather than sugar syrup, and that you should add a dash of Angostura bitters. Unfortunately, the story ended without the author making a ruling. So I decided that I should do some research of my own.’
‘And what did your research tell you?’ Jeremy asked.
‘Well, I still don’t know which is the authentic recipe — if, indeed, either of them is,’ she said. ‘But I did discover that I prefer my mojitos sans bitters.’
A few seconds later, the barman placed a sparkling concoction in a tall Collins glass in front Jeremy’s new companion.
‘There you are, madam,’ he said. ‘One mojito — sans bitters.’
‘Ah ha!’ she said. ‘So you agree.’
‘The customer, madam, is never wrong. Isn’t that what the great César Ritz taught us?’
Madam took a sip of her drink.
‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘And I admire your diplomacy …’ she peered at his name badge, ‘… Kenny. However, I’d now appreciate your professional opinion. And don’t worry, I’ll still give you a decent rating on the guest survey.’
‘Thank you, madam.’ Kenny reached for an unlabelled bottle of clear liquid and tapped it with two fingers. ‘I guess I’m of the sugar-syrup-and-no-bitters school,’ he said. ‘I think it brings out the mint flavours. But, as to whether that’s the authentic mojito recipe … well, who knows?’
As Kenny returned to slicing lemons escort beşevler and limes, Madam extended a well-manicured hand in Jeremy’s direction. ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘I’m Terri.’
‘Jeremy,’ Jeremy replied. ‘Nice to meet you, Terri.’
She smiled a broad smile. ‘Well, well. Jeremy,’ she said, nodding slightly. ‘I was hoping to meet a Jeremy. How lucky is that?’
‘There are one or two of us about,’ he told her.
‘I suppose so,’ she said. ‘But still.’
‘And may I ask why you were hoping to meet a Jeremy?’
‘A little bird told me that Jerermys are very good company,’ she said, ‘good chaps to share a mojito with.’
As she spoke, Terri turned further towards him and allowed her skirt to ride a fraction higher. She also tilted her head ever so slightly forward, and ran a couple of fingers through her silky dark hair. The cheeky tart. She was flirting. Not that Jeremy minded. Not that he minded at all. But, yes, she was definitely flirting.
Well, Jeremy thought, I guess that’s something else you get with the quirkier hotels: quirkier guests.
For the next ten minutes or so, the two of them chatted easily as she sipped her mojito and he sipped his Pinot noir.
Then, when both of their glasses were empty, Terri gently placed a hand on Jeremy’s thigh and said: ‘You know … another thing I’ve heard about you Jeremy chaps is that you’re rather partial to the occasional glass of champagne.’
‘I don’t know where you’re getting your information,’ Jeremy said, ‘but it does seem to be pretty good.’
‘Oh, I only use the most reliable of sources,’ she said.
It was Jeremy’s turn to nod. ‘Very wise.’
‘Kenny, do you think you might be a sweetheart and pour a glass of The Widow for my friend Jeremy?’
Kenny removed Jeremy’s wine glass. ‘With pleasure, madam. And for you?’
Terri glanced at her empty mojito glass and frowned slightly. ‘You know, I think I’ll have a glass of bubbles too. After all, it’s not every day that you meet a Jeremy, is it?’
Kenny smiled what Jeremy thought was a knowing smile. Although what it was that he knew was hard to tell. ‘Possibly not, madam,’ was all he said.
Kenny placed two flutes on the bar and filled them with Veuve Clicquot.
‘The Widow’s finest,’ he said.
Terri lifted her glass and proposed a toast. ‘To birthdays,’ she said softly.
‘Weddings and bar mitzvahs,’ Jeremy added conspiratorially.
Terri frowned slightly — but then she laughed. ‘You Jeremy chaps have your own sense of humour, don’t you.’ She offered this as an opinion rather than as a question.
‘Do we?’ Jeremy asked.
‘Oh, I think so,’ she said.
Again they settled into easy chat as they sipped their champagne. But then Jeremy felt a familiar flutter in the region of his heart. Well, in the region of his shirt pocket anyway. His Blackberry was calling.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. He quickly scanned the message. ‘I’d like to ignore this, but it’s my boss. Not good for the career, if you know what I mean.’
‘No, of course. Do what you need to do,’ Terri said.
Olivia, Jeremy’s boss, knew how to get to the point.
Urgent [the message said] mtg CW 3:30, need Q3 update, Q2 actuals, now — thx, O
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I need to go and update some figures. My boss is in a different time zone — literally — and she has an important meeting in a bit over half an hour. Should only take me ten minutes. Fifteen at the most.’
‘No. You must go,’ Terri said. ‘Even if it is your birthday. But perhaps afterwards we could ….’ She tilted her head and ever so slightly raised her eyebrows.
‘I’d like that,’ Jeremy said, although he had no idea what it was that he was agreeing to. Also, he had no idea why she was continuing with the birthday gag. Nevertheless. ‘Yeah, I’d like that a lot. Maybe we could grab something to eat? That is if you’re not otherwise ….’
Terri smiled her winning smile. ‘Oh no, I’m all yours,’ she said. ‘Well, in a manner of speaking. And, yes, I’m sure we can do something. In fact I’m absolutely positive we can do something.’
Jeremy had half expected Olivia’s request escort balgat and had already done some work on it. He just hadn’t expected the request to come when it did. Nevertheless, he raced back to his room, got together the necessary files, made a few tweaks, attached the files to an email, and clicked Send.
He glanced at his watch. Less than ten minutes since Olivia’s text message. Not bad. Not bad at all, Jeremy. Just time to quickly freshen up and he’d be back in the bar with Terri and ready for whatever the ‘something’ was that she had in mind.
But fate had other plans.
He had just shut down his laptop and slipped it back into its bag when there was a light-but-sharp knock on the door. He placed the laptop bag in the bottom of the wardrobe and was just walking towards the door when there was a second, more urgent, rat tat tat.
Expecting to see a housemaid, he opened the door. But no. Instead he was greeted by the smiling Terri carrying two glasses of champagne.
‘The bar was starting to get a bit noisy,’ she said.
‘You had better come in then.’
Terri placed the glasses on the desk and looked around the room. ‘Well, well. You’re a remarkably tidy fellow, Jeremy,’ she said. ‘You know — for a bloke.’
‘Sometimes,’ Jeremy told her.
‘Not even a stray pair of socks on the floor. In fact, it’s altogether too tidy for my taste,’ she said. ‘Why don’t I mess it up a bit?’ And with that, Terri hoisted her skirt, briefly revealing lacy stay-up stocking tops and a pair of skimpy black knickers.
Was he seeing things? Well, yes. He was seeing a pair of long shapely legs and some sexy lingerie. Was he imaging things? No, definitely not. In what was clearly a practiced move, Terri slid the knickers down over her hips towards her ankles and, with a flick of her right foot, sent them flying across the room where they came to rest on the arm of one of the (reproduction) Louis XV-style chairs.
‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘Gives the room a more lived-in look. And anyway, I’m told that you Jeremy chaps prefer your women without knickers. Or have I been misinformed?’
‘No, as we agreed earlier, your source is most reliable,’ he told her.
‘Excellent,’ she said. But then, after a moment, she said: ‘But of course you can’t really see whether I’m wearing knickers or not, can you?’
‘I’m pretty sure I saw you take them off,’ he assured her.
‘Hmm, but knowing is not really the same as seeing, is it?’ she said. ‘Perhaps I should take my skirt off. That way you will be in no doubt that I am, indeed, knickerless.’
Jeremy was beginning to like this Terri woman more and more.
Keeping her eyes firmly on his, Terri slowly unzipped the skirt and, after a moment or two of teasing, let it drop to the floor. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Better?’
‘Better and better,’ he told her.
Terri stepped away from the abandoned skirt, smiled, and ran her fingers through her neatly trimmed patch of dark pubic hair. ‘Tell me, Jeremy, what’s your preference? Hair or bare?’
‘Umm … I think hair,’ he said.
Terri nodded. ‘Yes. So do I. I’ve tried bare, but it somehow doesn’t feel right.’ She reached out and took his hand. ‘See what you think,’ she said as she gently placed his hand on top of her undeniably-silky thatch. ‘See if you think this feels right.’
‘Feels just about perfect to me,’ he said.
If he was honest, he wasn’t quite sure how far he was being invited to go. It was all happening rather quickly. Tentatively, he allowed his hand to move a few millimetres to the south. And as he did so, Terri pushed her hips forward. Just slightly. It was not a big movement. But it was just enough to ensure that Jeremy’s pleasure finger slipped into the groove between her slightly parted labia.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And that feels just about perfect to me.’
Taking Terri’s comment as a sign of approval, his finger slowly continued its journey south. The valley became deeper and damper. And, by the time he reached the entrance to her vagina, a ‘Slippery When Wet’ sign would not have been out of place.
‘You know what would make this even better, escort batıkent Jeremy?’
‘Tell me,’ he said.
‘If, while you are doing such a wonderful job of exploring my pussy, I might be permitted to perhaps fondle your cock. I suspect it is probably not without a certain stiffness by now.’
‘Again, your information would seem to be pretty reliable,’ Jeremy said. ‘And, yes, it does seem fair that you should … well … you know.’
‘Exactly,’ she said.
From the deft way in which she went about her work, Jeremy got the impression that it was not the first time that Terri had removed a man’s trousers while still managing to keep her warm wet pussy locked onto his hand.
‘There,’ she said. ‘That’s better. Now we can see what we’re doing. And I must say, Jeremy, I like what I see. I like it a lot.’
There was no question about it: Terri was an expert cock-fondler. She knew exactly what she was doing.
‘You know, Jeremy, I like a nice firm cock,’ she said. ‘I like the feel of it in my hand. I like to feel its weight in my fingers. And, of course, I like to feel its smoothness. Do you like to feel of your nice firm cock in your hand, Jeremy?’
‘Well, if it’s my own,’ he said.
‘Then could I ask a favour of you please, Jeremy? Could I just get you to look after this beautiful cock for me — just for a moment? I just need to get something.’
And before he had a chance to say anything, she had handed him his own cock.
‘That’s right, just keep it nice and hard for me, Jeremy. Just keep stroking that fabulous cock. Hmm. I think that you like that, don’t you, Jeremy,’ she said. ‘I think you like stroking that fabulous cock — that fabulous … hard … cock.’
And, of course, she was not wrong.
‘But now,’ she said, having somehow produced a condom, apparently out of nowhere, ‘I want to feel that fabulous hard cock deep inside me. I think you might like to feel that too, don’t you, Jeremy?’
Again, almost without him noticing that it was happening, Terri slipped the condom over his cock and led him to the edge of the bed.
‘I think if I just get on my hands and knees here …’ she said.
It was a very sexy sight — her shapely thighs parted, her toned-but-womanly buttocks presented at just the right angle, her now-exposed inner lips glistening in the lamplight … he didn’t need a second invitation. He entered paradise.
‘Oh, that feels so good, Jeremy,’ she said. ‘That feels sooo good.’
And it certainly felt good to him.
It wasn’t a fuck that was going to set any records for duration. From entry to orgasm was probably no more than five minutes. But, for Jeremy, they were five fantastic minutes. And Terri didn’t seem to be complaining either.
‘Whee!’ she said. ‘Was that good? Or was that fucking wonderful?’ And then, after a moment or two, she said: ‘I think we might need another sip of champagne after that.’
He handed her her glass.
‘Here’s to birthdays,’ she said, raising her glass in a toast.
‘Whatever you say, Terri,’ Jeremy said. ‘Whatever you say.’
For a few minutes they just sat there, quietly sipping their champagne, catching their breath, and — in Jeremy’s case anyway — wondering what was coming next.
But then Terri suddenly glanced at her elegant Raymond Weil watch.
‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t realised it was so late. You Jeremy chaps certainly know how to distract a girl, don’t you.’ And, next thing, she was gathering up her scattered items of clothing and heading for the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, she reappeared looking as immaculately groomed as she had when she had first walked into the bar.
‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ she said.
Reaching into her handbag, Terri pulled out a small pale blue envelope tied with a darker blue ribbon. As she handed it to him, Jeremy noticed a handwritten ‘Jeremy’ partly obscured by the ribbon.
‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘The card that goes with your birthday present.’
‘Your wife arranged for me to give you a little birthday treat. She said she thought it was something you had always fantasised about.’
‘You’re surprised?’ Terri said. ‘You didn’t realise that your wife knew about your little fantasy?’
‘Oh, I’m very surprised,’ Jeremy said. ‘Very surprised indeed. You see, I don’t actually have a wife. And it’s certainly not my birthday. Although I guess in some ways ….’
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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