2 comments/ 17720 views/ 1 favorites It Was Just Chloe By: canitbethatlong These events actually happened, to me, in London, in the 1970s. This is an abridged version of a much longer account I wrote last year. It is fully copyrighted. At the fall of Saigon, thousands of desperate people swarmed around the last few planes leaving from Saigon Airport. Unforgettable images on TV. Now largely forgotten of course. That was in 1975. Not among those people was a wealthy Vietnamese politician and businessman who, in 1972, had been appointed to serve as one of his country's observers at what had come to be known as the Paris Peace Talks. Seeing the writing on the wall, he had taken with him his family and what part of his fortune he could convert to diamonds. Once there he sought and obtained asylum in France, where in fact he had been educated. He was eager that his beautiful daughter, Chloe, then 23 years old, should become fluent in English – she was already fluent in French – and he arranged for her to spend a year living in London. She was lodged with an English couple he knew, the Bains's, in Kensington, a fashionable district of London. Sir Michael Bains was a senior English diplomat sent to monitor the Paris Peace Talks for the English government, and it was there that he had met and become friendly with Chloe's father. The Bains' own children were grown, and it was exceedingly generous of them to take in this young Vietnamese woman, a stranger to London, who initially needed a lot of hand-holding. Though Chloe's English turned out to be fairly reasonable, if limited, it was spoken with a strange and sometimes almost incomprehensible Viet-Yankee-French accent. (For example her word for 'lift' was "errervayer".) The Bains' house, a mansion really, backed onto a small private park, shared only with a little circle of other Kensington houses, most of them mansions too. In one of those other houses there had grown up a boy named Andrew Wilson – me. The house belonged to my father, Sir Andrew Wilson, and my mother, Lady Jane ("My sweet Lady Jane" as her friends mercilessly teased her after the release of "Aftermath"). At the time Chloe was taken in by the Bains I was 25 years old. The two families were fairly close – I had grown up playing with the Bains children – and when they decided someone should show Chloe some of Kensington's younger social life, it fell to me. Lady Bains told me - "No speaking French with her! - she has to get to know good idiomatic English." It was a favour, but a chore too. Lady Bains knew very well that in younger Kensington society, being Vietnamese would be like being Martian. But once I'd actually seen her, any doubts I had about it vanished. * * * Chloe wasn't just pretty; she was one of those people that turns every head when they walk into a room, both the men and the women. And her innate beauty wasn't ethereal or delicate, it was sexy and vivacious, sparkling. I was completely smitten by the end of the first evening, which we spent watching a play. A boring play. As we walked down to Piccadilly to get a taxi I asked her if she'd enjoyed it (I didn't realise at this point that she spoke quite good English). "What did you think of the play, Chloe?" "Well ..." "I thought it was boring. Pretentious and verbose and ... well, just pseud" "I don't know those words, but, if you are say the play was ... garbage ... I, I, I ... am of that opinion too.." * * * Over the next month I took her somewhere at least three nights a week, a gallery, a walk along the Embankment, my local pub, where she caused a stir in an English sort of way, and another one up in Islington that really good live music, to Lord Delaroy's 25th birthday party (I'd been to school with him), a restaurant, a film - there was an art-house cinema not very far away from my house, a bit of a dive but we went there too - another play, anything I could think of to be in her company. I was anxious that she should like me, but that simply wasn't an issue - she clearly liked me right from the beginning, we talked easily and we laughed, she loved to laugh, and we talked about ourselves and everything under the sun. Of course at some point these easy, straight-forward encounters came to infused with an unspoken sexual ambience, slight, but undeniably there. We didn't flirt, we didn't even approach it, but of course it's almost impossible to ignore these things. She gave me a little double-kiss each night when I took her back to the Bains's place. One night when we were walking back there from the cinema the conversation turned to friends, and I clumsily remarked that it must be hard for her to be in this strange city where she had no friends. And Chloe said, without any drama, completely naturally "But I do have friend! You are my friend!" I was pleased, to say the least. When we reached the Bains house a minute later, instead of giving me my usual little kiss, she put her arms around me and held herself against me for a few seconds. He body pressed on me and I could feel every curve and detail, her breasts squashed on my chest, her flat tight tummy. Trouble was, it made me half-stiff almost instantly, and I was sure she must have felt it. Delaroy had told me that chaperoning Chloe must be onerous because I must be stiff all the time. But he volunteered to take my place if I should tire of it. And he cautioned me - "you know, these upper-crust Vietnamese girls don't do casual sex. If you go with her for three years she might, just might, let you hold her hand." * * * A few nights later I took her over to Gavroche, at that time by far the best French restaurant in London, arguably still the best. It was still on Sloane Street back then. Chloe turned every head, dressed simply but with an elegance that no further adornment could enhance. One of the Roux brothers came over to our table at some point and Chloe spoke with him in rapid and impeccable French. I'm fluent, but Chloe was flawless. And she ate like a horse and drank like a fish, and by the time we left she was decidedly tipsy. We piled into a taxi. I didn't think she should drink anything more but I didn't want the evening to end, so I told the driver to take us down to the Embankment. We would walk one of the bridges. Chloe leaned across onto my shoulder and said to me, in French "I didn't know you spoke French so well" "Thank you. You too. But we mustn't speak French. You must speak ... " "... Engrish ... " She finished my sentence. "English" "Engwish. But you have a nice accent in French. Sexual." "Sexy." "Sexy." After a moment's silence, she asked "Where we go now?" "Where are we going now? We're going down to the Embankment. I thought we'd go for a walk. Is that alright?" She absorbed this for a moment. "Beside the river, the River Thames?" "Yes. It's very pleasant on a warm night." "I would prefer to go to your place. With you." And then, astoundingly, in the half-dark in the back of the taxi, her hand arrived on my lap. She carefully handled my penis through my pants. To say she caught me by surprise is an understatement. I was absolutely speechless. Nothing passed between us for perhaps a minute as we whizzed down towards the river. Chloe gently squeezed my penis. Once it was hard, which took just a few seconds, she concentrated on the head, sending bolts of electricity right though me. As we arrived at the river, I leaned forward and called to the driver "Aaah ... a change of plan. We'd like to go to Kensington." When we walked into my house I got an even bigger surprise. First, a quick tour - Chloe had never been here before. Embarrassingly untidy but the 'cleaning lady's day off' joke made her laugh. She had an excellent sense of humour. (Half of me thought, she's probably never heard it before, and another part of me thought, it's clever that she understood it was a joke - she probably had cleaning people all her life and would expect me to as well.) "This is yours?" she asked. It was quite a big house, and rather beautiful in an English sort of way. My grandmother had left it to me. I still live in it. "Yes, it's mine." But, on to the surprise. After the tour, she sat us down on one of the couches in my sitting room, no lights, just the diffuse glow from the streetlamps outside, and put her arm around me and ran her hand onto my crotch again, this time opening my fly. She worked my pants and underpants out and down enough to bring out my penis, utterly stiff, and ran her fist gently over and up and down. She did all this without kissing me, just with her other arm around my neck and her face touching mine. After a moment she stood up and pulled her dress off over her head in a single movement. She was wearing panties, no bra, and a pretty little pair of sandals with heels, which I hadn't noticed before but now seemed so sexy. In a moment that was all gone too and she was standing in front of me in the dim light completely nude. She turned away for a moment and just stood there. It seemed to me she was showing me what she looked like all over, and this was the back view. She looked petite and slim when clothed and that was the case too now that I saw her nude - slim but curved, a neat smooth little bum, like a boy. Now she turned side on, and bowed forward so her small breasts sprung out from her chest, like a Renoir. Of course I was absolutely agog, firstly with the show, but even more from the circumstances, totally unexpected. I wasn't completely inexperienced sexually, but I had never seen anything like this. I almost expected her to say "You rike?", it was so much a scene to me rather than a reality. Then Chloe knelt in front of me, without a word, and took off my shoes and socks, one item at a time. She worked my pants and underpants down and pulled them right off too. All this with a clean, neat economy of movement. She knelt up and parted my legs as wide as they would go, and leaned forward onto me, resting her weight against me, so my penis was pressed against her bare tummy, and she undid my tie and unbuttoned my shirt. I knew where she was headed. To coin a phrase. I had never had a blow job before and I knew that was about to change. Her directness as she started in on me was breathtaking. She took my cock in both hands and although I was already somewhat slimy, she used her finger to run up the underside several times to bring up much more spunk. She spread it all over the head, and her fist made a squelching sound when she squeezed it again. Now she leaned forward and mouthed my balls, slobbering and kissing, covering them with a sloppy saliva coating. She was still gently masturbating me, delicately squeezing and kneading the knob in her small slimy fist. I was utterly paralysed, I could neither move nor speak, I couldn't have been more agog if I'd been kidnapped by aliens. Once she had my balls slimed to her satisfaction, she slobbered on her hand, I mean really goobed on it, and then touched her sloppy fingers under my balls, first stroking my perineum, then feeling and advancing further down. She had my legs spread so wide that the cheeks of my bum were parted, and in a moment she was fingering my anus, making it wet, touching and stroking. She got some spunk from my cock and used that too, and then I felt her finger begin to probe me and in a moment she had penetrated me, slowly but firmly working her slimy finger into my anus. All this was just preparatory. Now, kneeling between my legs in the nude, handling my balls, a finger working in my bum, she knelt up and bowed down over me and took the head of my penis in her mouth. She mouthed me for a moment, and then began to hump me with a combination of fist and mouth. I'm not very big, average at best, but looking down at my engorged slimy penis moving in and out of her mouth made it look quite big and it was extraordinarily erotic. I could feel I would come very quickly. But after a minute she stopped and looked up at me, letting my cock go out of her mouth and rest on her cheek. "What you call this?" she asked. I couldn't think of an answer, and she said "This" and took my cock in her mouth again and bobbed her head up and down in a pantomime. Then stopping and asking again "What do you call that?" As often, her grammar was better when she had to repeat something. "Americans call it 'brow job'. What do Engrish call it?" I didn't want to betray my innocence, but I didn't know many words for sex acts. "Fellatio" I said, as evenly as I could. "No, the argot ... the slang word. Like brow job, that's what Americans say. What do Engrish say?" "Well, blow job is understood here. But perhaps "sucking me off" is more common." Then I had brilliant memory - the term "nosh". It means "eat", but in this context it means, well, eat. I said so. She repeated it. "Nosh. Is it verb? I am noshing you?" "Yes." She noshed me again for a moment then broke off for a moment to tell me "Noshing is very popular where I come from." "I can see why." Then she worked on me without further comment, nude and lovely, sucking and fisting and frigging and very soon I was gasping as I started to come. Right at the last moment she took me out of her mouth and fisted me. Every muscle in my pelvis seemed to participate and I squirted jets of stringy spunk onto her face and her chest, gasping uncontrollably. I lay back, paralysed. And, to my further amazement, Chloe quickly jumped up, visited the bathroom for no more than 30 seconds, came out fully dressed, kissed me quickly on the top of my head and said "Thank you for dinner Mr. Andrew. It's the nice night I had in very long long time" And she clicked through the front door in her sexy heels and was gone. "Nicest" I breathed, the most I could do. *** I woke at first light, or perhaps 'regained consciousness' is the right term. I was still sitting with my legs wide apart, wearing only a shirt, and with dried spunk on my penis and an odd sensation in my anus. It was partly these circumstances that led me to know that the strange hallucination-like memory that filled my head wasn't a dream. I was a frequent masturbator, but I knew this wasn't the aftermath of a masturbation session. It had really happened. The gorgeous sexy girl had done me, and done me with skill and ... my head was muzzy but it was full of Chloe. My heart was singing, there's no other word for it. I was not very sexually experienced, but I wasn't exactly pure either. I'd slept with a couple of girls, none particularly memorable. Nor I for them I'm sure. I'd also had a few encounters with members of my own sex. This was far from rare among boys of my background in England, and I certainly didn't think of myself as gay. But I have to admit that my principal sexual outlet up until this point, more reliable and more satisfying than these, had been masturbation. I had an elaborate range of fantasies and I masturbated to them with gusto. I had same-sex fantasies, but I also liked submissive scenarios involving either sex, or both, either me or someone else being submissive; I was strongly attracted to the idea of sexual service, to themes involving people being tied up, to a person being done by two or more men - or by a man and a woman, to a little S&M, the list was long. Everything except conventional sex with a conventional girl. On the continuum from sacred to profane, my tastes were way down the profane end and always had been. All this was very private though. It saw no expression at all in the few sexual encounters I'd had with women. My same-sex experiences - also not very numerous - were on the whole more enjoyable, and I vaguely understood that this was because they more-closely resembled my masturbation fantasies - the sex was more candidly dirty, no niceties or proprieties, just wallowing in unbridled profanity, and with an heady whiff of submission involved in each of them, imparted to some extent by the fact that I was younger than the other person on each occasion. All very private though. My public face bore no trace of these dirty secrets and fantasies. And it wasn't difficult to keep the two separate because nothing I'd ever done sexually had the power to reach through into what I thought of as the real me. Until now. *** Still in a reverie, I took a long shower and went to work. On the tube, I could feel my anus twitching, and the memory of why made me half stiff. I arrived at work much earlier than was usual for me, and there was almost no-one else there. I sat down and in less than an hour wrote an article about prostitution in Soho. My story outlined the fact that above and beyond the somewhat sordid street-corner / club prostitution, there was a realm in which cultured, discreet and wealthy clients were catered to by a small elite of ladies who were usually good looking, and usually had some genuine expertise in sexually pleasing a man. To give my article a protagonist, I invented Charro, a very attractive young Philippino woman who was expert in certain types of sex, especially oral sex, and I interviewed her. I asked if she could introduce me to one of her clients and she got back to me a few days later with the good news that her favourite client would be prepared to have dinner with me, and allow our interview to go into print. The client was a well-to-do middle-aged Londoner - I based him loosely on Mr. Bains, the neighbour who had taken in Chloe as a visiting student - and the whole article was actually quite good, authentic, not overdone, within the realm of taste, at least insofar as London magazines were at the time. And of course, it was complete baloney, as the Americans say. (I've always admired the American facility with slang, including the way they enunciate it. 'Baloney' sounds a little bit fake when I say it but from the mouth of an American it conveys exactly the concept.) I didn't know at that time that making up stories is a fairly common practice among journalists, I thought it was only me who would stoop to that, and I wasn't proud of it. But nevertheless I did it whenever it suited me. I filed my completely-fabricated piece of 'reporting' under my nom de plume identity, the one I used for articles I might not want my parents or friends to recognise as mine. It was still early, earlier than I would normally even get to work, and I felt at a loose end. Normally I can keep myself busy, I have a 'life of the mind' as they say, but that morning I couldn't settle down. Writing the piece had been cathartic, but now I needed ... activity. I went for a walk. London is one of the great walking cities in the world. I wouldn't say it's the best, though it may be, but it's the one I know the best. I walked for miles and miles, all the way up around Hampstead Heath - my office was near Trafalgar Square - and on around and back down the streets through to Bayswater, and then across and back to the office. Still restless. *** Chloe's days were filled with English instruction and English cultural immersion. Lady Bains was a naturally bossy lady - her father had been a very senior naval officer - and in things like this it made her superb. She arranged for a whole series of people to tutor Chloe in English, take her to museums, shops, galleries, she organised lunches with London literati, with politicians, visits with designers and arts people, tours of the historic city with professional guides, historians and architects. Leaving out only the one thing a twenty-three-year-old craves - the company of people of her own age. I used to thank Lady Bains for it constantly, in my mind. The social side of Chloe's life was left to me. Towards the end of the day I phoned Chloe. The Bains were out and she answered herself. "I enjoyed last night" I began. It Was Just Chloe "Me too!" she answered, fervently. "Are you available for er tonight?" "I am, very available." "Is there anything you would especially like to do?" "That restaurant was nice." "Yes, it's actually the best restaurant I know." "But, we shouldn't go there again, not right away, anyway. Can you perhaps pick something else." "The Dorchester Grill" "Pick me up at 20 hours." "Eight o'clock." "A-yee o'crock." *** Chloe was pretty and cheerful and happy. We went straight to dinner - "I'm so hungry" and once again she ate and drank with gusto. "Perhaps you'd like a walk along the river?" I asked as we tottered out of the restaurant, three sheets to the wind, if anything worse than the night before. "That would be so nice, but I think I'd rather go back to your place" she said with a grin that managed to be both shy and lascivious. When we got in my house, Chloe took me by the hand and led me through to the couch. No need to do a house tour this time. She sat me down, sat next to me, again proceeded to open my pants. All this without a kiss or a word. She brought out my raging stiff prick and used her fist on me for a minute, ending by bringing up spunk. She stood up and shrugged out of her skirt and blouse. This time she was wearing a bra, but that was gone too a moment later, along with her shoes and pants. She fossicked in her little handbag for a moment, brought something out, I couldn't see what, and put it away again. She stood in front of me for a moment with her hands behind her back, and then knelt down and pulled off my pants and shoes and socks. Once she had me in the nude, completely nude this time, she slobbered over my cock, and brought up more spunk. Of course I thought I was going get a brow job, but instead, she stood up, closed my legs, and stepped forward and straddled me, facing me, sitting on me astride. She reached under and took my penis firmly in her hand and maneuvered it up against her bum. Holding me like that, she pressed the knob onto her crack. My penis was slippery and so was her anus - the item she'd retrieved from her handbag was apparently something like vaseline - and she squirmed herself onto me and in a moment I felt the head of my penis open up her tight little ring, incredibly tight and greasy, I thought I would come immediately. Then she slowly and deliberately sat down on me, panting a little as my penis slid all the way up her anus. She paused and looked me right in the face, it was fairly dark but I could see a little, and she frowned with concentration and clenched her anus on me, squeezing me like a very tight firm fist. Then she started moving up and down, slowly pumping me, and she leaned forward so her tits were against my chest and breathed onto my face "What you call this?" "Well, sodomy of course, but slang - taking it up the arse, bumming." "I bumming you?" She was panting as she bounced her petite nude satiny body up and down on me, driving herself down as far as possible at each perigee so her cheeks spread flat against me. "Perhaps. No, I think I'm bumming you." She sighed and a moment later, as she worked herself obscenely on me, sort of serving me with her anus - "I like when getting bumming." Then she settled in to bring me off, twitching my nipples delicately in her fingers and sliding herself up and down on my cock, no kissing, no words of endearment, and brought me to a shattering orgasm, almost painful, with my penis gripped so tight. A quick visit to the bathroom and she was gone. Sex without overt affection, just raw dirty sex acts, that summed up my fantasies. Now I was experiencing it for real, I liked it for real too. I was by now totally besotted with Chloe, but I found I didn't need her to smother me with kisses or whisper endearments. These intense almost anonymous couplings were perfectly in tune with my sexual make up. *** The next night Chloe was going to a private gallery showing with an older couple, friends of the Bains. I wasn't invited - not a slight, it was part of Lady Bains' cultural immersion program for Chloe. By now Chloe was constantly in my head, but I was surprisingly relaxed about her, not at all paranoid. It was evident that she was completely genuine in her liking for me, viewing me as perhaps her only friend. I went and had a couple of beers at my local. Delaroy was there and asked if I'd managed to kiss Chloe yet, and I told him "Well, a peck on the cheek, you know" and he smiled his worldly smile and offered to take her off my hands. "Do both of you good" he said. Later I was reading before bed when the doorbell rang. Of course it was Chloe, "Come to say you goodnight". She looked around my sitting room and said "I like better with light off" and switched them off - she had never been there with the lights on before, I realised. She shucked out of her dress. No bra. Then she once again sat me down, opened up my pants, easier this time because I was in my pajamas, took out my penis and began manipulating it with her expert little fist. She drew up spunk and casually started to masturbate me. "Is this alright?" she asked. "Yes" I croaked. She smiled and said "The gallery was interesting, photos of men with no clothes." "Of nude men. What did Mrs. Prescott think?" I laughed. "Oh, she couldn't come, just me and Mr. Prescott." She reached down onto my balls and massaged me a bit, continuing "I think he like me to do him nosh" and she giggled. "To nosh him." "Yes, to nosh him. Or him to do me bumming ... I mean or him to bum me. I think he like of that too." "Like that too. Isn't he a bit old for you?" and even as I said it I realised it was a childish thing to say. "Oh, yes, perhaps. I have done men who are more old though." "Older." "Yes, I have done men who are older then Mr. ... um ... Plescott." She went back to gently masturbating me, and said wistfully "I like to nosh men who are older." I wouldn't have thought Chloe could surprise me any more, but I was absolutely flabbergasted. It didn't make me jealous, it was such a casual, unaffected statement, as if she'd mentioned she liked ice cream. But I didn't know what was the right response. Chloe went on "And I like to do older man with my bum. I like to do younger man with my bum too." She was clearly quite aroused. So was I. "Would you like a younger man to do you in the bum right now?" I asked. "Oh, yes!" she breathed, almost panting, and she stood both of us up and we quickly offed the rest of our clothes. "Yes, do me bum" and she knelt down on the floor, against the couch, facing away from me, presenting her bare little bum. "My handbag" she said. "There is ... glisse" "Something slippery" I translated, picking up her handbag. There was a tube of something like KY Jelly. I had never seen or even heard of this before, but I had used vaseline to masturbate for years, and I understood what it was for. I took a big dollop and lathed it on her crack, and worked it into her anus. I knelt behind her. Her legs were already spread wide, waiting for me, and I placed my knob against her tight slippery little anus and applied a little pressure. I needed very little, it was so slippery, and in a moment, accompanied by a gasp from Chloe, the head of my penis opened her up and went through her ring and right into her hole. I paused and then pressed on, feeling the delicious muscley resistance, sliding all the way up while she panted and grunted with the effort of accommodating this hard, stiff object in her bum. I paused again, and then began slowly humping her bum, and, incredibly, she picked up our conversation from where we had just paused. Panting, breathless, she said "Yes, I like to get older man and nosh him, I like to take my clothes off and kneel in front and do him like that, brow him ... " "Suck him off" "Yes, suck him off and make him ... " "Ejaculate? Come?" "You know, like squirt - you know, like hose? - on my face." and she gasped and panted, rubbing her bottom on me, her anus clenching on me in a mounting sexual frenzy. (I know you might be thinking that I'm embellishing this, but I'm not, if anything, I'm having trouble finding words to convey just how coarse, how lewd she was. I had never imagined, let alone encountered, anything like it.) Catching the moment, I joined in with her - "I'm sure an older man wants a little slut to go down and kiss his balls too, and lick under his balls, maybe even get her to lick further down ... " "Oh, yes!" Chloe breathed. "He make me lick in his bum!" "That's right, put your face right in between his buns, lick right in his crack ... " and Chloe came, long and intense, gasping and groaning again and again, shuddering, her tight anus grabbing my hard cock like a fist, and I realised she had her hand on her twat, rubbing herself. After a long silent pause, she knelt up half way and slowly took my penis out of her bum. I was still as stiff as a bottle. She stood up and went to the bathroom, coming back with a warm wet facecloth, and she cleaned my penis. Then she sat me on the couch and sat beside me, and, amazing, picked up again - put her hand on my penis and gently masturbated me. "What do you call that?" "I'm not sure I know a word - " "In French it is 'fantasie', yes?" "Oh, yes, same in English, fantasy. Yes, you have fantasies about older men." "Yes. About many other things too, but tonight we talk just of older men." "But in English, the word fantasy usually means it's just in your mind, you don't actually do it." "Oh, I see. Then is not the right word." I thought about it for a moment. Language is so tricky. I told her "Well, sometimes a person does act out a fantasy, and I suppose it's still a fantasy for them. It's hard to say - I suppose it can still be a fantasy even if you've done it." "Yes, I definitely done. But still has strong excitement for me to - think about?" "Fantasise?" "Yes, I like that, I hope you not - object. About older men, I mean" "No, not at all." "It is very, very exciting for me this thought." "I can tell." and we laughed. "Exciting for you too, a little bit?" "Yes. But not a little bit. It's extremely exciting." "That I have pleasure from older men?" "Yes, the whole thing." And it was true. The image of Chloe going off and sucking off an older man sent a powerful thrill through me. "So, would be exciting for you if I pick older man up, perhaps in Dorchester, and go with him and get in nude for him and take off his pants and make him stiff and put my mouth on his penis and suck him till he - hose me on my face. That would be exciting for you?" I groaned, it was the most arousing thought I had ever heard, and all the more intense because she was expertly masturbating me as she said it. "Get his spunk all over your face ... " "That I really do it? Not just talk about like this. Actually do it?" "Yes, actually do it. It would make the fantasy even more exciting if it was - true." Another fantasy for me – to have a relationship with a girl so dissolute that we would share our pasts during passionate sex sessions, and when we ran out, go and commit new acts even more shameless, to tell one another about. "Alright, I do it like that. Dorchester Bar is good?" "Yes, I suppose so." Another pause. "What about you, you have fantasies also. Tell me what are your fantasies." "Well, I like ... " She was still gently fisting me, sliding her whole fist up and down my penis, sometimes pausing to squeeze the head. "Do you masturbate?" she asked. I realised this wasn't the moment to be coy. "Yes." "Much?" "Yes, quite a lot." "Yes, I think all men do. I like to see man masturbate. I like to masturbate man. But ... what do you think about?" "Well, I like the idea of someone being tied up." "Like prisoner?" "Yes." "The word is tydup?" "Two words - tied is the first word, up is the second word." "Oh, I see. Yes, I like that too, very much." "I like the idea of someone being made to do things - forced. To take clothes off, to please the other person." "Yes, me too. To be like a slave." "Yes, or a servant." I had to pee, and when I got back she had moved herself to my bed. I got in beside her, still no lights on, and she snuggled over, handled my cock, brought it back to being hard, and said "Now, where are we?" "Where were we?" "Ah, yes, where were we. So, idea of being servant is very exciting, or prisoner, especially no-clothes-on prisoner." "Nude prisoner. Yes. But I haven't been in such a situation." "No? Not even when you were more young - younger? You never nosh someone, suck someone's cock?" I faltered. This was really getting down to a level of honesty I had never practiced, not even with myself. But she was always frighteningly perceptive and she understood my hesitation instantly - "Ah, yes, so you did suck someone cock. Yes?" "Yes. I did." "More than one?" "Several. Not ... many. But more than one. More than two." "Your age or older?" "Older." We talked about all this, candid, lewd, obscene, our heads touching, lying in the almost-dark room. She took my hand and placed it on my cock and had me masturbate myself as we talked, and she took some spunk and slimed my crack and as we talked she gently frigged my anus. I came buckets and almost immediately passed out. A minute later Chloe, now fully dressed, bent over me and kissed me lightly on the lips. "I really enjoy this. We do some more." And she kissed me lightly on the lips. "Marry me" I whispered to her, dazed. "Definitely we can talk about that. You make very good husband for me. I make very good wife for you." "I'm serious." "Me too. We talk." she said, seriously, and was gone. *** In the morning I wasn't sure whether that last bit had happened. The rest of it had definitely happened - I had never seen so much dried spunk on my sheets. Once again I'd woken at first light, and I showered and went to work, arriving earlier. I sat down and in less than an hour wrote another piece about my invented character, Charro, the Philippino prostitute. It seems she had also a wealthy Greek client, a businessman who came to London fairly regularly. She was aware that it was a cliché that he liked her to engage in anal sex with him, even a little bit funny because it was such a stereotype. But he did, and she enjoyed it, she told me. She enjoyed everything she did, though she knew girls for whom that wasn't true. But as for herself, she had a small and select group of clients, and she was fastidious about who she would take. She saw nothing wrong with what she did. In fact she bristled at the thought that some people did think it was wrong. "If they don't like it, I say, they don't have to do it." What about the charge that she takes men from their wives? "Ridiculous. How about if man goes to good restaurant and eats better meal than wife can cook for him? I don't take the husbands. I don't want to take them, any more than chef does. Just an arrangement, satisfies healthy appetite, suits both of us." I signed it with my pseudonym, and gave it to Sue Watt, our pretty but bossy office lady. She glanced at it and said "Oh, yes, about that prostitute again. They printed the first one in the current issue. Editor Dan said he didn't want to change a word." Dan was the editor of several of the magazines. He was fussy and I was flattered that he felt no need for changes. "Oh, do you have a copy?" and she came back a minute later and dropped the current issue on my desk. I can't remember who it had on the cover, some narcissistic advertising twit showing off his new Jensen. But of three articles mentioned on the cover, one was by 'Percy Smythe" - my pseudonym. It pleased me to get on the cover. I was in a good mood all round, in fact, but with a feeling of excess energy. I went for a walk, and then went shopping. I felt completely alive, fulfilled, as happy as I'd ever been. But when I got back to the office Watt immediately chewed me out. "I've been looking everywhere for you, do you know how long you've been gone? Voltan wants to speak to you, he phoned earlier." and she handed me a slip with a long phone number on it. My job was at Swinging London Magazine, a weekly glossy focusing on what we would now call lifestyles. The word 'swinging' had not yet acquired its present-day slang meaning of casual sex; in those days it captured a group of traits centered around style, fashion, youth, and liveliness. This connotation of 'swinging' had almost run its course at that point. As in fact had Swinging London Magazine, as it turned out. It was one of a group of niche magazines, living off advertisements for luxury cars, travel agents, airlines, luxury clothing makers, and upscale shops. We were all owned by the German newspaper tycoon, Viscount Lindmann. Voltan. Viscount Lindmann had rescued Swinging London and its sister magazines from the financial rocks, put in reasonably competent management, hired some new blood to write something people might conceivably want to read, and then fairly much left us alone. I came aboard under the 'new blood' category. I'd had very little contact with Voltan and I was a bit worried that I hadn't even been in the office when he'd phoned – I was supposed to help write advertising copy for clients when not writing my own articles. I settled my nerves, wrote a list of talking points, and dialed the number. Clicks and warbles, phones were very different then, and then "Gutten morgen ... bitte" etc, and in a moment Voltan himself came on the line, his booming exuberant voice shaking me and reviving me, an impossibly enthusiastic and bouyant man. "Andrew! I'll be in London on, ah, let me see, next Wednesday, and I'm hoping you will be able to have dinner with me." "Yes, Sir, I would be delighted." "Excellent! Let me give you back to Beryl and she'll give you details. But please, don't call me "Sir", it makes me feel old. You don't call me "Sir" and I won't call you "boy", ja?" He laughed unaffectedly at his own joke. "You are Andrew. I am Voltan. Cheers!" A true anglophile, Viscount Lindmann. Though he apparently hadn't noticed that no-one in Socio-Economic Group A said "Cheers". (They do now, though.) Beryl came back on the phone and said "The Count would like to have dinner with you at 2100 hours on Wednesday. Is that alright?" "Certainly." "He would like you to choose a restaurant. Do you have one you think he might enjoy?" "Has he been to Le Gavroche?" "He has, and he loves it. Excellent choice. I'll make reservations. Auf Wieder!" and she was gone. *** The day dragged on. In the late afternoon Chloe phoned. Dinner? We went to the Bistro, a pre-chic little place on Kensington High Street. She was looking absolutely stunning. The owner, Maurice, came over and gave us a warm "bon soir" - I was a regular, and a few months before I'd managed to slip a discreet positive reference to the Bistro past Editor Dan and into Swinging London Magazine. After the initial greeting Maurice said to me in rapid French something to the effect that absurdly sexy girls like Chloe were meant for real men like him, not for pip-squeak faggoty pseudo-intellectuals like me. I said "Yes, she's very pretty. But perhaps you are right, perhaps she would prefer to be with you. Why don't you ask her, she speaks excellent French, fluent in fact." Maurice coughed and gave us the menus. As soon as he'd left I said "So, have you thought about it?" She gave me a puzzled smile. "About, marrying me." "Yes." She nodded her head. "I have thought about it. I have thought about nothing else all day. We would make very good ... " It Was Just Chloe "Couple?" "Couple, very, very good couple. We know that. But I have to ask you one thing, something I have to know. And I have to tell you one thing, something you have to know." A little flutter of apprehension ran through me. I wanted Chloe to be serious, but perhaps not this serious. "Go on. I don't think I've ever concealed anything from you, so far as I know I don't have anything worth concealing. What do you need to know?" Chloe pursed her lips and looked me in the eyes. "Please, don't take this the wrong way, but ... Are you rich?" "I have ..." I started to reply but she interrupted me. "No, please let me finish. Please understand. There are many things I need in life, I need a nice place to live, I need to travel, to go to nice restaurants, I need ... for me to be happy, I must have these things. "For many girls, this is truth, but they don't know it truth, and they only realise when it's too late that they need have married some person who have money. For me, I know I cannot be happy without, number one, good man, I got that." She smiled at me. "And number two, money. So, don't be insulted, it is important we understand together." She trailed off from her unusually long soliloquy, a little embarrassed I think that she had been so blunt. I waited a moment to be certain she had finished, and then said " 'Understand one another'. I have some money my grandmother left me, not a fortune but quite a lot. My father is well-to-do, and my mother is rich. I am their oldest child, I have one younger brother. In England, it's customary for the well-to-do to leave most of the fortune to the oldest child. So - I'm quite well-to-do and I have excellent expectations." "You're mother might not like me." "Possible. She'll get used to it. I understand your bringing up this point, about needing money, I mean, and I think it's not rude of you, it's intelligent. But, I am very sure that there is enough money that it won't be an issue." "Good, I am glad." "What's the thing I need to know about you?" "Actually, its several things." Maurice arrived with our order. After placing everything on the table he stood almost at attention and said to Chloe, in English, something like "M'selle, I am embarrassed for my remarks, I hope you know it was making joke, and please, I make my apologises for you." Chloe gave him a radiant smile and said "No, please, I am quite flattered. And, you are fine man, just as you say." After he'd gone, she said to me brightly "I like him. He is first person I meet in London who has English more worser than mine." " ... worse." ' ... more worse." Once again she ate and drank with animation. I asked what she wanted me to know, but she darted her eyes at other tables and said, "Perhaps is better when we are alone." "Alright. Um, what about your father?" "He will do, what I ask him to do. He will leave me some money perhaps one day, but much of his money was lost in the war. And he have plenty children." "But, this is definitely going to happen, we are definitely going to get married?" As I spoke I took her hand in both of mine. She smiled, and then laughed out loud as she took her hand away and saw what I had done - I had put on her finger a rather gorgeous diamond ring I'd bought at Asprey's that morning. "That, must have cost fortune!" she laughed. "... a fortune. Yes, it did." So we chatted and cooed and ate and drank and tumbled out of there to walk home an hour or so later. "I bought you a present too" she said, waving a little parcel she had with her, but she wouldn't tell me what it was. Same thing when we got to my house: No lights, she seated me on the couch, undid my pants and took out my penis and masturbated me a little. But then she put my hand over my penis and gestured with her own hand over mine, obviously meaning that I should masturbate myself, and she got up and took her clothes off in front of me, posing and strutting for a minute while I watched and masturbated. Then she came back and finished taking my clothes off. Once we were both in the nude she pulled me up and turned me round and had me kneel up on the couch, facing the back of it. "Now, my present" she said. She jumped up and came back in a minute, walking lightly in the dim light, and stood behind me. I looked around. "Nice?" she asked me, smiling. She was wearing what we now call a strap-on. I don't know what we called it then, I had no need for that word, having never even heard of one, much less seen one. The 'cock' wasn't very big, and on the back of the strap, another cock protruded into Chloe's twat. And, standing behind me, she proceeded to use it on me. And it was extremely exciting. She told me to masturbate myself as she did me, but I had to be careful because I didn't want to come immediately. Deliberately and evenly, she sodomised me, her little panting noises reminding me that the other end of the device was in her twat. After a minute she said "Have you ever been done bum like this?" "You mean with a real cock, not a - device" "Yes, done up your bum by a man, like sodomy." "Yes, I have. Several times." "You liked it?" "I did, I really liked it." "You still think about it? When you masturbate, I mean." "Yes, I do." "And you think about sucking a man's cock too?" "Yes, that's always been really exciting for me. I used to imagine a man had tied me up in the nude and he had me alone and he feels me up and rubs his cock all over my face, and then he makes me suck him off. He's much bigger and stronger than me, not a muscle man, you know, but he's - heavy." "Ah, yes! I have that same, fantasy, The man is older too, yes?". Chloe was decidedly breathless now. "Yes, much older than me." "Did you ever do that?" "Not the tying up bit, but I've had sex with a man who was older than me." And I recounted to her how someone just a couple of years older than me had seduced me, and how that later led to me having sex with this older man, and how he would phone me every now and then when his wife was away and I'd go to his place and he'd use me. I loved it. "When did you last do him" "Oh, a couple of years ago." "Would you do him again?" "It's a bit different now. Isn't it? Would you want me to?" "Yes, perhaps! It's very, very exciting. Do you think he would like to do both of us?" "I ... I think he would. I'm quite sure. Yes, definitely." Chloe worked me continuously, panting and grunting from her own pleasure. Then, changing her tone, she said "Now, I tell you what I was going to tell you. Something you must know." I couldn't imagine, with everything we'd already covered, what there could be that needed such a special introduction. She leaned forward until her breasts were pressing on my back and she was all the way in me so my bum was pressed against her hips. She put her mouth near my ear and whispered. "I was plostitute." "Prostitute." "Pwostitute." *** When she said this, a thrill like an electric current ran right through me, the idea that she was a prostitute was so powerfully erotic for me. I almost came. After a moment she added "Is alright? That I did that? You have to know, you see that." "Yes, it's ... " I couldn't think of a word. "Its delicious!" And it was, it was so lascivious, so lewd. I used to fantasise about having a former prostitute for a girlfriend. I told her that. "How about for a wife?" she asked "Yes, absolutely yes. How long were you er working?" "Quite a long time." "How old were you when you started?" "Young." "How young." "Young." Something dawned on me. "What about your father?" "He is not my father. He is ... " "Customer?" "Yes, customer. He was very good to me. He got me out of Saigon, with his family, before the ... fall. He got me family to stay with in Paris. He was very good to me." And she explained how, once in Paris, he had arranged through his diplomatic connection with Sir Michael Bains for her to come to London, where he believed she would have a better chance of finding a suitable husband. The Bains's thought she was his daughter too. *** As Chloe had predicted, my mother did prove to be less than thrilled about the marriage. "I mean, what do you have in common, darling?" she asked, in the unanswerable fashion of all her questions. Of course, the fact that one of the things we had in common was an enthusiasm for sex bordering on debauchery couldn't be introduced into this conversation. "Mother, she's intelligent and attractive and she has a wonderful sense of humour. Everybody adores her. Ask Bee!" (Our affectionate name for Lady Bains). "Yes, I did, and she does think she's nice," said my mother, as if pondering an unfathomable lapse of judgement on Lady Bains' part. "Wherever we go, people congratulate me on my good fortune in being with her!" "Yes, I can see all that. But what I mean is: You have a very good Second from Cambridge. You're well off. Your mother is a Baroness, your father is a Baronet, your uncle is a cabinet minister and so was your grandfather. You are descended from Edward the First and Charles the Second. You're widely traveled. You speak several languages ... " "Every second person in England is descended from Charles the Second. And Chloe's French is better than mine." "Oh well, that's something." Mother was a francophile, in fact she owned quite a lot of property in France and went there regularly. "But you see what I mean, dear..." *** In the end it came down to this: Mother was not pleased, but she wouldn't stand in my way. She invited us to dinner and behaved herself with Chloe, not warm, but gracious and taking an interest in her conversation. My father was the same. Chloe always had great poise, not just like a model, but in her social manner too, what the French call sang froid, and she was witty and genuine and she won both of them over. Or anyway, at least to the degree possible - all the sang froid in the world can't make you be descended from Edward I. So by the end of the evening she had gone from being Andrew's unsuitable fiancée, to Andrew's witty, charming, francophone, unsuitable fiancée. *** The next night was my dinner with Voltan, Viscount Lindmann. I was a little uneasy about it - perhaps he wanted to fire me? I wouldn't be the first. But then, why take me to dinner to do it? And why be so friendly? But Sue Watt - Watt The Twat we called her, inevitably - said, "Oh, no, I've heard he always takes people to dinner to fire them. And he's always so friendly and respectful to everyone, even people he can't stand. Such good manners." "I enjoy your work, Andrew. I always read your pieces." "Oh, that's, flattering, Voltan. I'm very glad to know it." "Yes. Always with you the interesting subject, and very well written. Enjoyed the one on the Westway, and the one about the Docks becoming fashionable - in fact, I liked it so much that I'm trying to buy a flat down there, and you're right, they're very hard to come by, and very expensive!" We ordered food. M Roux visited us again - no M'selle tonight? "I need to lose a little weight" said Voltan after M Roux had moved on. This was certainly true. "But, perhaps tonight is not the night to think of that" and he gave one of his hearty chuckles and ordered a meal that would sink a barge. Then he got to what turned out to be the point of the evening. "Loved your pieces about the prostitute in SoHo, too. Again, beautifully written, nicely observed. In fact she sounds like a most interesting person." "Yes, she is" I agreed. "In fact, I'd like to meet her!" Well, Charro, my prostitute, didn't exist of course. I had made her up. But I had always been good with the badly-bouncing ball, and I didn't fumble. "I'll ask her. Of course, I undertook to protect her identity, that's why she was so frank with me. What she's doing isn't illegal, but ... she's, a little sensitive about it." "Yes, yes, I understand, Andrew. Not illegal in Germany either by the way. Some parts, anyway. But, yes, I would be very pleased if she would grant me the favour of meeting with me." "I will. But, Voltan, you need to know that to help protect her identity I made her Philippino. She's actually Vietnamese." *** And so it came that Chloe went to dinner with Viscount Lindmann. I had Chloe read my article so she could play the part. And I impressed on Voltan the need for discretion, but ... he took her to Gavroche! After dinner they went to his flat in Mayfair, in fact right around the corner from Gavroche, and she gave him a demonstration of her skill in oral sex, made renowned by my article. He was impressed. After this, Chloe came back to my place in Kensington, and she gave me a detailed account of the entire evening, especially the sex part, while she did me, expertly, with her mouth and her hands. It was perhaps the single most stimulating episode of sex I have ever experienced. We both remarked on how perfect it was that after our excited fantasies that Chloe would do an older man, actually do him, and share the experience with me ... shazzam! - here was an older man and she was doing him! We both took intense, exhausting pleasure from the theme of her submitting to this rather overweight, older man, letting him use her pert, tight little body. She showed me the streaks of spunk on her neck. But I was a little concerned that Voltan had flaunted her at Gavroche. He was quite well known, of course, and Chloe was soon to be my wife and she was known there too, at least to M Roux, and I could see that it could lead to trouble. But I needn't have worried, as it turned out. *** She went with Viscount Lindmann the next night too, and this time she demonstrated her skill in anal sex. He was even more impressed. Again, she came to Kensington afterwards and we had an intensely erotic session while she described to me every detail. She had knelt down in front of him as soon as the front door closed behind them, and fellated him. Then she gave him her anal treat - sitting astride him in the nude and taking his penis in her bum and doing him. Telling me all this she was in a sexual frenzy, taking me into her anus and grinding me up to the point of pain, gasping and grunting as she worked herself on me, and seeming almost to lose consciousness after she came. Then she revived, and masturbated me as she re-lived it again. And now she introduced the other side of this coin - the idea that perhaps Viscount Lindmann would like to do me too, do both of us together. I had doubts about this and said so. It was too close to home, too near, too - complicated. I could tell Chloe was a little bit miffed, it took the wind out of her sails. But I could tell it had to be said, it was moving too quickly. But it was too late. After this, over the next week, things began to move very quickly indeed. *** "Your mother would never have accepted me." "She's already accepted you!" "No, yes, I mean, she will never be pleased about it." "Chloe! My mother doesn't have to be pleased about it, you're not marrying my mother. You're marrying me!" Chloe's eyes refused to meet mine and a tickle of fear grabbed me. Looking intently at the floor, she said "No, Andrew, I'm very sorry. I don't think it will work." And that was that. Chloe had come to my house unannounced. She kissed me lightly on the cheek and I could tell immediately something was wrong. After she left I numbly opened the envelope she had given me and found it contained the engagement ring. *** Chloe and Voltan married in a quiet ceremony at his place in Nice, just a few friends. Where I had known I was getting a former prostitute, Voltan believed that he was getting a current prostitute. Like me, Voltan was apparently delighted with this, but, also like me, he wasn't going to advertise it, hence the almost secretive arrangements, unusual for a man of Voltan's flamboyance and wealth. Of course, he had no knowledge of my relationship with Chloe. I had, after all, delivered her to him as the prostitute about whom I had written for his magazine. So, I was invited to the wedding, not an easy thing for me then. Even now ... *** I was utterly crushed, blown to pieces. I was numb for two weeks, hardly ate anything, lost 10kg. I didn't go to work for a few days, and when I did, pretended I was sick. I was sick, it was the worst I had ever felt in my life. After the numbness wore off my mind unconsciously sought people to blame, and that didn't help, because there was no-one. Voltan? He had no idea of what had happened, his motives weren't perhaps pure, but he never pretended that they were, and he didn't know there was a loser, that anyone had lost anything. My mother also had no idea whatsoever of any of this. She kyboshed the whole thing I suppose - Chloe's perception of my mother's hostility was certainly corrosive. But it's hard to actually blame my mother. She was right - Chloe was unsuitable. And Chloe was right too, in thinking my financial situation wasn't up to snuff - Firstly: My mother died just last year, more than 30 years after all this happened. By that time Chloe herself was 54, rather late in life to be inheriting the fortune. But as it turned out that wouldn't have been an issue either because - Secondly: I, Andrew, Lady Jane's elder son, was almost left out of her will. She left 80% of it to my younger brother, James, five years younger than me. And then a splendid endowment to a charity she had chaired for decades. I got the rest. As the only son of a family that traced itself back to Edward I, I hadn't pulled my weight. And finally, of course, I wanted to blame Chloe. And I didn't want to blame Chloe. I think it would be fair to say Chloe led me on. But in her defense, she was also utterly candid with me about the issue of money. She had actually said to my face 'I can't be happy without money'. And I had hummed a few bars to her, my mother is rich, I have some money and I have expectations. How I regretted not taking it more seriously. I might have convinced her that, in this society, unlike Vietnam, you don't have to be as rich as Voltan, that my own more modest wealth was easily enough for a very comfortable life, even a privileged one. In the end there was no-one to blame. Me, of course, yes, I was to blame. But that's not really blame. *** Popular myth has it that for each of us there is someone who is perfect. Statisticians sneer and say, yes, there's 7 billion people, so it's probably true, but, there's 7 billion people so your chances of meeting her are basically nil. Sociologists say, nonsense, if she's perfect for you it's because she grew up in your culture and that means chances are that she lives right around the corner, and also that there's more than one of her. Who's to say who's right. But for me, there really was just one person, and a freak of history brought her to me. Unfortunately, there the myth broke down, because although she was perfect for me, I was not for her. Perhaps, too, Chloe had seen something then that I myself saw only later: In Chloe's company I was charming, witty and lively. I was animated and it made me glow, so that I was even quite handsome. But in fact I am none of these things. It was just Chloe. ------- END