Sy Falls...

I walked up to the end of the laneway. On either side were high red brick walls with blue-star vines hanging over the tops. A narrow strip of well-cut lawngrass travelled up on one side of the lane, and a two-paver wide footpath travelled up along the other side.

It was a little cloudy overhead. And pretty cold.

I was wearing a long sleeved two-ply cashmere v-neck pullover with a white t-shirt beneath it. And dark blue skin-tight compression leggings and flashy purpley-iridescent Mizuno runners. Looks counted on this escapade and certainly as far as a fit body went - I had one. Faces, of course, are often just a matter of personal taste and even caprice sometimes, too. On the other hand, I wouldn't trade my own looks with any film star you know; not even...

Of course there are private films too these days. Private films still made in Hollywood or at least by highly competent professional directors who work on mainstream movies too that you probably have seen. Actors in those films are dramatically good looking -- much better looking than the ordinary mainstream film star; mainly because looks are going to matter more than being able to deliver lines convincingly, in this instance. Well okay, I still wouldn't trade my face with any of these dudes' faces.

Dick size? Nope -- wouldn't trade here either.

Paycheck then... Not that either. I made my first million at twenty-seven.

You know there are people like me. You know it. Okay I can't really sing but then I've never used Proactiv either. I'm talented and I make my money very privately. Katy Perry makes hers in the public spotlight. Madonna too. In some fields I'm just as much a superstar though. I have a legal, legitimate profession. And a very very very high intelligence. If you want to know what I do, put it this way everybody wants to be able to do what I do and you see them every night commentating on television and pretending. But I do the actual thing. And big.

I'm a guy. Obviously. Of course it's not so obvious anymore with all the androgynous style and cross-over attitudes and ambiguous people walking about everywhere. Not to mention the closet gays that absolutely abound. Even now. Still.

Who knows what goes on in the world of ordinary people. Or why. ...In their minds. Not me, that's for sure.

Anyway, where were we?

There was a plain wooden door in the center of an old red brick two-level townhouse towards the end of the laneway. I had a key to it in my hand. The gusting wind outside was really pretty cold and I really wanted to get inside quickly. No hanging about on the outside contemplating the insanity within.

Once I was inside it was easy to appreciate the nice warm air in there.

It was pretty empty of a place: quite a large front room, sprung beechwood floor -- expensive(!) - one floor-to-ceiling highly-polished mirror, a London-style radiator with a couple of fluffy new towels draped over it, a chrome standing fan with a shiny chrome wire guard-cover, a silver tray on the floor with a glass carafe of ice water. Over on the only window-sill were a dozen bamboo steamer baskets; hot, causing an area of the window pane next to them to fog up just a little, though still quite obviously.

There was a bottle of Sauternes wine on the beechwood floor beneath the window-sill and two tulip glasses close by next to it.

The only other things in the room were two large hip-high Bowers & Wilkins speakers, a little ways out from, but still near enough to, opposing corners of the room.

There was one rear door at the back wall.

The heavy double curtains, made from something with dark blue velveted inside-lining on the window-side, and ornate gold Baranasi brocade on the interior, room-side, were pulled apart to allow the one-way window to be fully exposed to the room - with gold and blue velvet rope ties making waists in their middles.

The other door handle turned then and the door smoothly opened. A natural chamois-coloured silk gloved hand -- the glove vamb reaching far up above the elbow -- held the door ajar for just a second or two before the whole rest of the woman entered the room. Completely naked below the waist to the high-above-knee FM boots of natural hide, the colour scheme might not have worked except for the rust-red inguinal curly tufts of hair around her pussy, and the fine milky white skin of her body and breasts thrust up high into generous mounds above the tight natural-colour leather corset, a stubble of ginger-gold beneath her armpits, and the bob-cut shortish red-golden hair that framed her face and head.

The leather was that odoriferous cowhide Volvo or Rolls Royce, Connoly bespoke stuff, that stank like sweaty used cricket gear combined with a spilled bottle of O-Cedar polish mixed up into the smell. And it creaked too, like new cricket gear also does, or Napoleonic-era Hussar or Light Brigade boots.

Above the smell of the leather there was an expensive perfume coming across too: something slightly pennyroyal minty, a little grapefruity, but above that bursting all over with osmanthus and richened-up with real African rubbed amber.

...And cunt. There was hot wet cunt there in that room too, no doubt about it.

But not any cunt. This was accessible, been-there-done-that, woman's tongue inside, man's tongue inside, knowing, experienced, used over-Thirty year old highly defined sex-radical female pussy. With that rusty-gold, olden days circus sawdust overtang that blondes and redheads have sometimes to a fault -- sort of like Maldon salt and burned iron filings and hot summer sunset Baha beach-lapping waves. And dry hickory-smoked brine-cured sturgeon roe...

On the index finger of her gloved right hand she had a five carat, 57-facet, classic round brilliant-topped cocktail ring. Not cheap, that either. Flashing and glittering everywhere it was not so simple to decide which to concentrate on -- the diamond cocktail ring or the deep yellow-coloured, long thin whippy school cane that she tried to hold inconspicuously down to one side but which was all the more conspicuous for that.

A knot was already tying in my stomach but then it turned into a real convulsive hard knotting when she suddenly raised and then placed the cane in between her legs and started wiping the end half of it through her slowly progressively, gaping-wider labia. Her clit hood was standing out like a thing with a life of its own -- clearly slick, pink, disgustingly bearded with its long, uncut, red-golden fanny hair all around the outside.

This was going to cost plenty. The money didn't go to her though. She was, for one thing, just as wealthy as me in the first place. ...This was going to cost the both of us plenty.

Giving was the focus. Sex was the life force and the driving force and the meaning behind the desire to give money to at least a few people who really needed some help: everybody who was alive -- all people - were worthy causes if they were in need while ever we who had a lot also took our pleasures from out of this life.

Desire makes us weak. ...A line out of a Cher videoclip. But for others, evil and lack makes them weak.

We can lose our brains in our weakness, and lose some money -- and it's all a huge Epicurean voluptuary's escapade for us. Albeit the peak of the peak. It's just a game; a peak game but still just a game. And that's why we play it like this. It's a huge turn-on, of course.

She and I have 'been there' enough times already -- as they say -- to know how life goes for the truly personally wealthy. I have way more than enough already for myself and those I directly have responsibility to, and for. Nobody in my outward life knows about me this way. And I guess unlike Max Mosley, my 'friends' are as wealthy as I am and are not in it for the money at all and we do things out of mutual desires and interests. There's plenty of money involved but it all goes to charity. That's the point. The more enflamed you can get the more you find you can give in the heat of it all.

Originally I placed adds in various venues designed for sex stuff: "wanted, other wealthy people who will donate to charities alongside me as the price for kink, sin, and secrecy." Sincerity is easy to evaluate; you pay first and then play... And there's only a very few like us who can truly be like this.

The Bowers & Wilkins speakers charged into life. U2 -- 'It's A Beautiful Day.'

Sarah raised the cane tip up to my nostrils. I could smell her on it. The music was so loud. So noisy. So creamy loud. Our lives were the livingest examples of the deepest dirtiest sex-radical philosophies around. We were exponents of a sex culture not known to the world at large and not known in the world except as the deepest, darkest secrets. Sort of, Michael Hutchence being just the thinnest of the thin, misadventured end of a very slender and secretive wedge.

The sky was falling down. ...As her warm piss hissed into my ass-crack and onto my asshole, she, sitting -- squatting -- on top of me across the backs of my thighs took a handful of cheek in a firm clutching hand grasp. "Nice tight ass, Johnny."