The Countess

Ever had one of those days where you have to pinch yourself to see if you’re dreaming? That’s how I felt when I watched the Countess’s butt going over a five-bar gate in front of me, in the shortest pair of cut-off jeans you ever saw.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. You don’t know me from a hole in the ground and you don’t know what the Countess looks like. Let me put things straight.

I’m not sure she really is a Countess, but I hear her folks did have a title in France before the Revolution. Maybe the French wouldn’t recognise it these days, but she sure acts like a titled lady and we mostly call her “Madame” to her face and “the Countess” behind her back. But if you’re thinking of some toffee-nosed thing with a face like the less pretty end of a horse, think again. If the Countess had ever gone in for modelling, girls like Kate Moss and Naomi Campbell would be earning their living saying “Do you want fries with that?”

She’s around about six feet tall and at least half of that is leg; she’s got a figure like you wouldn’t believe and silver-blonde hair that she keeps shoulder-length. I don’t know what she pays her hairdresser, but he earns every penny. Mostly she wears silk and it’s my guess she gets at least half her wardrobe given her in the hope she’ll put in a good word for the makers. Strong men come over all weak when she smiles at them, and as for her scowl, I’ve never seen her mad and I aim to keep it that way.

I’ve got a job in this hotel of hers. I mean she’s the owner. The actual running she leaves to some other guy with a title of his own. But for reasons that are going to become obvious, I’m not naming names. This isn’t her only business interest by a long street. The signs are she’s got a hell of a head for making money, but exactly how she does it, don’t ask me. Businessmen come and see her from time to time, they sign stuff, and a couple of months after the ink’s dried she’s smiling as she watches the money roll in. That’s all I know about it.

My job’s not as high-flying as that. Again, I’d better go light on the details. Let’s just say it’s one of those jobs where it doesn’t hurt to be about six and a half feet tall and not too hard on the eyes. Keep myself in fair shape, too. And a lot of my salary goes on the great love of my life.

Betsy is a Harley-Davidson. You know the kind of thing, all chrome and leather. She’s a big pit to throw money in, but I’m always tinkering with her, buying little ornaments and go-faster stuff or just making with the chrome polish and elbow grease. So I’m busy one evening after work down in the hotel garage. It’s a lot safer than a lock-up, and as for the street, don’t be silly. Betsy’s getting a good going-over with a soft cloth, I’m chasing up the last few specks of squashed fly, and just as I’m putting the final touches on the mirror finish, there’s a sound like an aeroplane landing.

It’s the Countess bringing her Ferrari back in. Any other car and she’d give the keys to one of the porters, but no-one touches that Ferrari except to clean it. She can drive, too; I’ve seen her. Anyway, she parks it and sees me, and she comes over to have a look.

“Handsome machine,” she says. “You’ll have to take me for a ride one of these days, Jake.”

Yeah, really Jake. Blame my folks, OK? ’Course, in my shoes you’d figure she was just being polite, right? So do I. But a friendly word and a smile from the Countess sure makes your day, no matter what you tell yourself. I get on with finishing what I’m doing, after mumbling something about how the pleasure would be all mine. Lots of men mumble around the Countess, so I guess she’s used to it.

I’d’ve thought no more about it, except that a couple of days later it’s stopped raining for once, and it’s blue skies and warm sunshine outside. And the Countess comes by round about eleven and says, “Bon matin, Jake.” That’s just her way, by the way. She speaks better English than I do, but she likes to drop the French in from time to time. Anyway she says, “It’s a glorious day, non?”

“It certainly is, Madame,” I say, getting four whole words out without stammering. “It’s a shame to be indoors.”

“I agree,” she says. “Take the rest of the day off and take me for that ride, Jake. I’ll see you at the garage door in ten minutes.”

A hint, in case you should ever need it. When the Countess says ten minutes, she doesn’t mean fifteen, or twelve, or eleven, and I’d be careful about stretching it to ten minutes thirty seconds if I were you. So I get changed p.d.q. and I’m down there and firing up Betsy and thanking my stars she’s clean enough to eat your dinner off, if the Countess is going to sit on her. I turn the key and press the button, and Betsy sits there going “potato-potato-potato”, and if I’ve got to explain that, you’ve never heard a Hog on tick-over.

I roll her up the exit ramp on just a whisker of throttle and there the Countess is, all ready and waiting. Oh boy, is the Countess ever there. Remember how I said she always wears silk business suits? Well, not now she isn’t. She’s got a dinky little black leather jacket and black boots, and a pair of frayed denim shorts the size of a doll’s handkerchief. And a helmet that she’s just doing up, but that’s not the point.

I’m thinking to myself, “Jake, this is going to have to be the safest ride ever. ’Cos if she falls off she’ll be skinned alive, and that’s the same as setting light to the Mona Lisa.”

Anyone else, you’d say, “’Scuse me, my lady, I think you’d better cover up a bit.” But making the Countess’s mind up for her isn’t smart. Not smart at all. So instead I just bite my tongue and say, “Where’d you fancy going, Madame?”

“Get us out of town,” she says. “I want to see a bit of the campagne.”

Well, I let in the clutch and Betsy chugs away and pretty soon we’ve cut through the traffic and all the guys in the cars are left road-raging at each other in a summer’s-day snarl-up, and we’re out past the M25 and heading southwards. And already the Countess is telling me to hurry it up a bit, and I think, she’s going to get just as skinned if we have a spill at forty, so I wind it on like she says.

Betsy’s vibrating away; Hogs do that. It’s what we call “character”, and once you get a bit of speed up, you feel it even though the engine’s rubber-mounted. It’s all low-frequency buzz, not like those Jap screamers; it doesn’t feel like your fillings are going to fall out. We’re belting along at a bit over seventy and Betsy roars through those slash-cut pipes, telling anyone who isn’t deaf to get out of the way. She chugs a bit as we go up one of the long hills in the Sussex Downs, and the Countess thumps me on the shoulder.

“Take the next left!”

She’s left it late, but I pull in, brake hard and change down. The Countess gets flung against the back of me and she squeals a bit, but she doesn’t sound scared or cross. I’m plenty strong enough to handle the extra eight stones or so of her weight. OK, so I’m grandstanding a bit. The point is, we make the turn, with hardly any slide.

It’s a by-way leading nowhere much, and after we’ve gone a mite further I get another thump on the shoulder and she yells, “Stop by that gate!” Well, she’s given me a bit more warning this time so I bring Betsy to a nice smooth halt and cut the engine, and we’re there up on a hillside a mile from the main road and the grass is blowing a yard tall in the sunshine.

“What’s the matter, Madame?” I ask, but she smiles, takes off her helmet and gives her hair a shake. It drops back into place, no trouble; I guess it wouldn’t dare not to.

“Nothing. I just wanted to stop and enjoy the sunshine.” And she takes the five-bar gate in an easy couple of strides and I get this shot of her fantastic butt right under my nose. Of course, I follow her over the gate. There might be bears in the field, or something.

What there is, is grass and plenty of it. It’ll be cut for hay sometime soon, I guess, but right now it’s just growing tall and green and sweet-smelling, and it comes most of the way to the Countess’s waist. She turns and looks at me, and scowls; only a little one, for which I’m most grateful.

“Take those things off. They don’t suit you.” She means the shades. Everyone’s a critic; I like them, myself. Still, I do as I’m told. Then I wince a little in the sunlight and she says, “Something the matter with the view?”

She’s teasing, so I grin right back at her and say, “Not a thing from where I’m standing.”

“Good,” says the Countess, and she lies down in the grass and rolls around a bit until she’s flattened out a couple of yards of it. “Well? What’s keeping you?”

Now I nearly do literally pinch myself right there and then, but you know what faint heart never won, and so do I. I lay myself down next to her, and this pair of slim leather-covered arms reach out for me, and the Countess gives me a lazy smile and says, “This is to say merci for the ride, Jake.”

I figure I’m in for just a peck on the lips, but I get this tongue poked out at me and I reckon I ought to respond in kind, and when I give the Countess my tongue she goes to work on it like no-one I ever knew. She’s sucking my tongue in deep and her lips are squeezing it and her tongue’s fencing with mine, and when we break off for breath we sure need it. When we’ve got some air back she says, “Want some more?”, and that’s the only foolish question I’ve ever heard of her asking.

I gradually roll us over till she’s mostly on her back, and I bring my hand up to her jacket zip, slowly enough that she can tell me I’m out of line if she wants. But she doesn’t say anything, even when I start to undo it a tooth at a time. She just keeps her mouth locked onto mine and the next time we stop for breath we’re neither of us any too steady in our breathing.

It turns out there’s nothing under that leather jacket except twenty-four carat Countess, smooth and firm like no-one over the age of eighteen’s got any right to be. She’s pale-skinned and her nipples are salmon-pink and just starting to firm up, and in case I’ve got any doubts she brings my hand up and cups it round her breast. I start right in to fondling it, one perfect-sized handful, and I feel her nipple start to poke into the palm of my hand.

We’re both having to break for air a bit more often by now, and hers is getting sort of ragged, especially when I give her breast a harder squeeze. She makes a noise in the back of her throat and whispers, “Hard enough.” Her nipple’s hard enough, too. It’s made to be licked and nibbled on, and she gives a little mew when I start doing that.

She starts undoing my jacket no quicker than I undid hers, and she runs these inch-long nails through my chest hair. I tell you, I’ve had screws that were less erotic than that alone. Then I let my mouth take care of her nipple by itself and my hand goes down to her leg, starting at the knee and heading on upwards. When it gets to the frayed hem of those cut-offs, she says: “Take them off. I know you want to.” And she undoes the waist-button herself to prove she means it.

I take the shorts down as far as her knees and she’s got a little pair of lacy panties more or less glued to her with her wetness, and she jumps when I touch her pussy through them, but she says, “Them too. All the way off. I want to open my legs.” If there are six more exciting words in the English language, I can’t think what they might be. We have a little trouble getting her cut-offs and her panties off over her boots, but it’s worth the trouble. If you’d ever seen the Countess bare from the waist down but for a pair of black leather boots, you’d know what I meant. You never will, of course; I never thought I would.

She opens her legs a bit so I get a good square look at those pink lips and the fringe of blonde hair; oh, the Countess is a natural blonde all right. It’s just a couple of shades darker than what’s on her head. And I open those lips with the tips of my fingers and she’s leaking a little trickle of milky juice, just like what you get when you cut a dandelion stem.

When I touch her clit she starts leaking faster, and she gasps out, “Ah, oui! Make me come, Jake.” You know, I’d have to be a real klutz not to manage that. Her love-button’s swollen up almost like a baby’s cock and she goes wild when I start to run the pad of my second fingertip over it. She starts moaning and gasping and muttering stuff in French, and I’ve got one arm round her, my mouth sucking on her nipple and my fingers busy in her crack, and she’s putting frantic hot little kisses on the side of my face and breathing hard in my ear until she stiffens and goes:

“Jake! Put your finger in me, please!”

All right, those’re six more exciting words. What’s a gentleman to do? Right as she starts to come, I slide two fingers in deep, palm up, and I hook ’em upwards slightly behind her pubic bone, and she yelps, not in pain, and I think: bullseye. She’s sobbing and yelling and tearing up handfuls of that good green grass, and I rub away at her G-spot like there was a djinni hiding in there, and that warm wet muscle of hers squeezes my fingers and lets go and squeezes again and lets go, again and again and again.

When she starts to come down I take my fingers out and I hold her in both arms, partly because now would not be a good time for the boss to decide she’d had second thoughts, but mostly because it would be impossible not to if you aren’t heartless. And her arms go round me and she kisses my face, over and over again, and the tears run down her cheeks, and I say, “Wow!”

“Wow!” she agrees. “But what’s a girl to do after spending an hour sitting on that two-wheeled vibrator?” And she wags her head over towards the gate, where Betsy’s still ticking slightly, not quite cold yet.

She strokes my face and looks me in the eye. “In a little while, I’m going to want you inside me. But you’re due for some attention first, Jake.” And she undoes my jeans, and there I am, hard as a beer-bottle and leaking a little.

“Oh, you good man, letting me come first!” she coos. “Poor Jake, you’re nearly bursting.” She bends her head over my lap and that silver-blonde hair of hers spills all over my bare thighs, and she takes a cool firm grip of me with her hand and her lips close around me without a pause.

You know, it’s my guess she could’ve got me there in less than a minute from a cold start; and I’m not starting cold at all, not after she’s just gone off in my arms like that. Hell, the whole scene, right from when she said “Well? What’s keeping you?”, is about the biggest turn-on I ever had. Anyway, she goes to work with a good will, sucking, licking, stroking with her hand and breathing real deep through her nose. She’s teasing all around the ridge with the tip of her tongue and I’m going crazy, I mean clean out of my head.

All of a sudden I feel I’m going to shoot and I can’t even get the words out. She doesn’t even break stride, she takes me right over the edge and she makes a kind of “mmm!” noise with her mouth full. I feel this torrent pouring out of me, and she doesn’t flinch away, she just squeezes me a little with her hand and lets it out a bit at a time, swallowing all the while. Eventually it stops, though for a time there I’m not sure it ever will, and she lets go, giving me a couple of soft little licks at the end there, and she looks up at me with the most mischievous grin you never saw.

“Sorry,” I whisper, when I can manage it. “Woulda figured on askin’ first, at least, only I just couldn’t talk.”

She comes up and snuggles in my arms and brings her mouth up to mine. Well, if she doesn’t mind how I taste, nor do I; and she says “Don’t be silly. I knew what I was doing. J’ai l’aimé.” And she nestles her head in my chest hair and we both get a bit of breath back.

“Thought you said you’d want me inside you,” I say after a while; and she looks up at me and grins again.

“Mais si! I still do.” She strokes J.T. and he gives a sort of a twitch, like the spirit’s willing but could he have another five minutes first? “I don’t think it’ll take this fellow long to wake up again.”

“Me neither,” says I; and while we’re waiting, I slither down the Countess’s body, leaving a trail of kisses on her lips, chin, throat, breasts and belly-button, until I’m down between her legs, and she opens them again and rests her hands on my head. I get nice and settled with her legs over my shoulders, and then I start licking.

She smells sweet and fresh, a gorgeous smell that she ought to bottle and sell by the quarter ounce. It’d put Chanel out of business in a week. And she’s firm-fleshed, and slick and wet with her own juices, and she coos when I bring my tongue down on her clitoris and start in to licking it, nice and slow. I get both hands up to her tits and stroke and fondle them, and it ain’t long before she grips my head real hard and starts grinding herself against my face, and then she’s screaming and yelling out loud and this time I don’t bother with the fingers, I just use my tongue to wring every twitch I can out of that little love-button of hers.

As soon as she starts to come down a bit, she turns herself around so she can suck me as well. I’m already up to about ninety percent just from the sight and smell of her, not to mention being all pleased with myself for making her come again. Trust me, she adds the other ten percent mighty quickly, and maybe a few percent more. And right when I can feel she’s more than halfway to coming again, and I’m so hard it nearly hurts, she takes me out of her mouth and gasps: “I want you inside me, now!”

All right, that’s the six most exciting words. So we shuffle round again and she opens her legs wide, and I slide right in as easy as winking. She’s tight, all right, but she’s so wet and slippery it’s almost like she’s Teflon coated.

“Oh, fuck!” she gasps. “You’re huge!”

I like a girl with nice bedroom manners. The four-letter word doesn’t sound coarse on her lips, and there’s hardly a man in the world who doesn’t like to hear his manhood praised. I start to grind in and out of her slow and steady, and her eyes go wide and round as I push in deep. She bites her bottom lip and pushes up to meet me and we hit each other’s rhythm straight away. That doesn’t often happen, the first time with a new woman, but it’s great when it does.

She lifts her legs right up so they’re resting on my shoulders, and I’m in so deep I almost expect to cut off her breathing on the up-stroke. I’m trying to keep it slow and regular, but it’s not easy. She pulls my face down to hers and licks her own wetness off my lips and chin, looking like she loves it, and then she starts going “Oh… oh… oh…!” and I know she’s about to go over the top yet again.

So I hammer her for all I’m worth, hard and deep, and she squeals and bucks underneath me like she was trying to throw me off, only I can tell she isn’t really, and I say “Ride him, cowboy!” and she bursts out laughing and gives me a push backwards as she starts to come down again.

Back I go, pulling her after me, and she’s easily light enough to go where she’s pulled, and more or less straight away we fetch up with her astride and me on my back. That’s when I get a bit of a look at the sky, and I see this monster of a black anvil-topped thundercloud coming up from the southwest. I can see the grey mist sheeting away from it and right while I’m watching, I see a flash of lightning and I count up to twenty before I hear the rumble. Four miles.

She can tell what I’m looking at, and she smiles. “Are we going to reach shelter if we run for it?”

“Reckon not,” I say. We’re in for a wetting, no matter what.

“Then I don’t see the sense in stopping,” says the Countess, and she sits right back, takes me in real deep and squeezes me hard with her cunt. Since she puts it that way, neither can I. So she grinds herself down on me and up again, down and up, slowly and ruthlessly, still with that hard muscle hugging me tight, and it’s just like she’s sucking me all over again. And it comes as no surprise whatever when she gives a long, loud wail and sits right back again, and I feel her cunt go squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.