Professional Excellence Ch 02

Monica first appeared momentarily in

Entertaining at Large Chapter XV

and then had a starring role in the next one. That's how this all started. Be worth reading if you want to be fully in the picture, but I hope this story will stand alone. I also set myself the test of trying to make these tales shorter than the

Entertaining at Large

marathons. I'd be interested to know what readers think as well as any other comments. Suggestions and support are always appreciated.

*****

After a slight lull in my sex life of, oh, ten years, I was back on the bike. A brief foray into amateur prostitution had got me started; I'd recommend it to anyone. I'd avoided backsliding with an entirely fortuitous brief encounter with a painter and decorator From over the road. Lucky, yes, but also painful and humiliating as well as gloriously satisfying.

That had been a couple of weeks ago. After screwing the idiot tradesman, I had reined in my libido while I processed what I had been doing. The well-built, docile artisan had suddenly turned into a foul-mouthed, physically-abusive bull once he'd got into his thick skull the idea that I was going open my legs for him. I needed to develop strategies to make sure that didn't happen again: unless I wanted it to.

I had not been orgasm-free, however. My friend Susan had suggested I buy a vibrator. It arrived the day after my encounter with the painter. I was still feeling sore around the nipples, pussy and bottom and when I heard the knock I thought it might be him coming back for seconds. I don't know what the delivery guy must have thought when he saw my expression as I opened the door. The change from piss-off mode to embarrassed excitement when I realised what was in the plain brown package he was carrying, may have surprised him more. Those blokes are on such tight schedules they don't have a minute to pass the time of day, let alone ask questions.

I placed the brown box in the centre of my kitchen island and stared at it while I finished my morning coffee. I unpacked it and lay the dildo, riding crop, two packs of AA batteries and eight bottles of fruit-scented lube I had bought alongside the bright-pink rabbit vibrator. I shredded the delivery note into tiny pieces, flattened the box and took them straight to the recycling bin. I kept looking at my new purchases while I loaded the dish washer and cleared away the detritus left over from Howard and Nigel's breakfast rush.

With my kitchen cleaner than it had been for a while I sat down with more coffee and picked up each of my purchases and examined them carefully in turn. The dildo and vibrator seemed much bigger than the had on the web site. I felt my pussy clench at the thought of where they would go. The overwhelming scent-message from the lubes was chemicals. The strawberry Susan had used had seemed fragrant at the time, I wondered whether passion would do the same for the ones I'd bought.

I used kitchen shears to reduce the plastic packaging to chaff and the card and paper to confetti. Our whole street was decorated with old packaging and crisp packets on green bin day when there was a wind. I then packed everything into a carrier and rushed them upstairs to the privacy of my room. I closed the curtains as soon as I put the bag down. It was only half-way through my shower I recognised that I was wasting my time and that the object lying in the centre of my duvet was not a new lover but a machine. The laughter was just what I needed to put things in the right perspective and I was still smiling when I was drying my hair as I threw myself onto the bed.

The batteries took quite a time to fit; I had of course destroyed the instructions as to the correct order to put them in. I shrieked when I first tentatively started it up. The noise was unbelievable. I thought the whole street must be able to hear it and I twisted and pushed at it trying to get it to stop. That only made the noise of the motor louder, of course, and the movement more urgent. I threw it from me when I eventually turned it off.

The second time I switched it on I managed to get it onto a low speed without freaking out. I was still worried about the noise however and pushed it under the duvet to see whether that muffled the sound. It didn't. I was two steps down the stairs before I convinced myself I couldn't hear the noise it made from under the duvet and behind the closed door. I vowed I would only ever use it when I was alone in the house. That didn't last long.

They say you always remember your first time. By the time I was relaxed enough to settle back on the bed I was intimately familiar with the anatomy of my new toy. The ridges and spikes seemed anything but natural and the smooth head's garish colour made me smile each time I looked at it. I even thought of abandoning it altogether and trying the dildo. Am I glad I didn't. I switched it on again and adjusted the setting to low.

Because I was so tense, what with the noise and everything, I decided to use it as a massager to start with. Susan had told me if felt nice. It did feel good as I ran it over my head and lips, by the time I got to my nipples I was on fire. I barely had time to open the watermelon-flavoured lube before introducing it to Kitty. I gasped as it parted the lips of my sopping vagina, then giggled as the little attachment for anal-stimulation tickled the bud of my opening.

It was all I could do not to turn it up to maximum straight away. I was in a frenzy, just like I had been with my human lovers. I writhed and bucked as new sensations flowed into and through me. Thank goodness I had turned on radios in every room available. I screamed as I was wracked with the first orgasm. I managed three more before releasing it to work its own way free of me. It lay gently buzzing against my inner thigh as I panted and groaned.

Over the next week or so I was like a young girl again. As soon as my men had left the house I was back in bed with Josh and Roger. Josh - the vibrator - was named after a boy I was at school with. That was his nickname, I can't remember what his parents had called him. He earned it because as the class joker he would always make us laugh. I still laughed almost every time my bum was touched at its intimate entrance. Roger the dildo did exactly what it said on the tin. Guaranteed to leave you sweating and exhausted. I could feel myself developing new muscles in my wrist.

Everyone noticed the change in me. The ladies I have coffee with every Wednesday all commented on how well I was looking. I blurted out the reason like a new convert to religion. I regretted it instantly and tried to change the subject to the increase in prices at our favourite hair salon. Marjorie, the oldest of our group, smiled at me and started fishing in her handbag. She placed a small silver vibrator on the coffee table.

'I never go anywhere without mine.'

Another of the girls did the same. Janet, my closest neighbour, spoke up.

'I've got a butt plug in. Lionel likes me to be ready for him. Wednesday is anal night. He deserves a weekly treat, doesn't Howard?'

There was general laughter as others shared their sex-toy experiences. They all had pet names for their favourite toys, just like I did. I was frankly speechless. For two or three years I had been meeting with the group at least once a week. We had shared baby sitting, competed with each other over children's examination results, boasted about new cars and foreign holidays. But I had had no inkling of what went on behind their closed doors.

'You'll have to come to our next little party evening. Like Tupperware but with toys and sexy lingerie.'

Marjorie was grinning as she apologised for not asking me before.

'You always seemed so, I don't know, buttoned down. We thought you'd be offended.'

I blushed, mostly with embarrassment, but partly I was proud I had kept up such a respectable image. The ladies were not the only ones who noticed the changes. Howard looked up from his morning coffee and eggs the next morning and sniffed.

'Are you wearing a new perfume? There's definitely something different about you.'

'No darling, I bought a vibrator. It's probably the scent of the tangerine lubrication you can smell.'

'Very nice dear.'

He folded back his

Financial Times

and started checking the price of his shares. I looked at him as he read. He was the epitome of someone stuck in their ways. I had vowed - after a long chat with Roger and Josh, of course - that I would force myself to be more open with him. I don't know what I expected after my admission; but it certainly wasn't a verbal pat on the head.

Nigel spotted changes too. I was just putting a casserole into the oven when I heard him come in from college to the usual accompaniment of banging doors, bags hitting furniture and indistinct chatter and jokes with whichever friend was with him. I heard the door open behind me.

'Goodness, mum. You look smashing. Is it dad's birthday or something?'

I was wearing one of my new dresses. The hem had snagged on a suspender clip as I crouched in front of the oven showing my legs at their best.

'Don't be cheeky, young man. And I guess from the fact that your mate is not joining in, that it must be Spike.'

All Nigel's friends had been, how shall I put it, increasingly forward over the past few months. I had had comments galore on any new article of clothing I put on. One of them, I think it was Kieran, the most upfront of all of them, had even gone so far as to say he'd like to see me in my stockings and suspenders when he'd found a pair drying on a radiator in the downstairs loo. Spike, a sweet-natured, chubby boy, was the least vocal. But I could tell from the way he looked at me that his thoughts were much the same as the others'.

'Mum, this is Alice.'

I spun round almost twisting my ankle on my heels. Nigel had never brought a girl home before. I didn't even know he was dating. I brushed a stray strand of hair away from my face and smoothed down my apron. Both reflex nervous reactions. I regretted inserting my new egg after my afternoon tryst with Josh; my collection had rapidly expanded under Marjorie's tutelage though I hadn't yet had the courage to try the butt plug she insisted I purchase emphasising it was the smallest on the market. Rapid movement meant sudden egg-stimulation. I took a deep breath to steady myself.

'Lovely to meet you.'

'You too, Mrs Thurston.'

She was a beautiful young woman of medium height. Her make-up free face sported freckles and deep blue eyes. Her shoulder length brunette hair was tied back in a sensible pony tail.

'Please, call me Monica.'

I smiled at her taking in her slim figure and pert medium-sized breasts. She was wearing the uniform of the young, smart jeans and a short padded jacket.

'Will you be staying for dinner? I'm afraid it'll be a while, I've had a rather busy afternoon and only just started cooking.'

'No. Thank you. Monica.'

She forced herself to call me Monica, obviously unused to being on first-name terms with adults.

'I'll have to get home. My mum's been on an early shift and we have to take every chance we can to get together.'

Nigel was looking at us with amused detachment.

'She's not my girlfriend mum. She's just come to help me with my English project.'

'Obviously. A girl as beautiful as she is can do loads better than you.'

All three of us laughed. Both the youngsters blushed. I shooed them out of the kitchen loaded with unhealthy snacks to offset any nutritional benefits of the juices they poured themselves. I think it was then I made the definite decision that I was going to screw all my son's little gang. If even Nigel was on the road to getting some, I reasoned, then surely his mother deserved a good work out. I went back to the task of preparing the meal with a smile as I began to formulate strategies for having my wicked way with them.

My first resolution was to get out more. The arrival of Josh and Roger had meant that a good proportion of my day had become devoted to pleasuring myself, fantasising about pleasuring myself or researching on the internet for new ways to do so. I was keeping Susan updated by text. We had managed to meet up once for a midday snack, but I failed to persuade her to join me on another evening excursion to The Royal. Poor lamb was up to her neck in work with some sort of project she was leading coming to an end and had been roped in to help organise the re-opening of her favourite pub as well.

I was passing The Royal hotel on a regular basis. It was on my way home from the gym; so long as I took a three mile detour. Every time I went by my pussy reminded me of what a good time she'd had and my brain told me not to be silly when I considered pulling into the car park for a quick visit to the bar. It was when my bladder cast a deciding vote that I actually managed to do it. I had given myself an extra hard work out on the cycling machine that morning because I'd missed a session earlier in the week. I'd probably drunk the best part of a litre and a half of water during and after the digital ascent of Mont Ventoux and the urgent need to pee kicked in conveniently close to the hostelry.

Monica walked confidently through the foyer, but it was Monique who pushed open the door of the 'Hideaway'. It was a shocking sight. To put it in a nutshell, the place was tawdry. Open curtains meant shafts of sunlight sparkled with floating dust and exposed the slight shabbiness of the upholstery. The dark wood and leather furniture which had given the place an air of sophistication under the night-time side lights now just made it look gloomy. I seriously thought about turning tail and leaving whilst a few of my sexual fantasies about the place still remained intact.

But nature was calling even more desperately and I rushed through the bar towards the Ladies. The lugubrious barman, I was sure it was the same one who was on duty on the night of our escapades, nodded at me as I passed him. He seemed to recognise why I was half-running, half-hopping which was a good job because I'm sure the frantic hand signals and distorted facial expressions I made to try and convey the reasons for my rush would have fooled anyone.

The cold, tiled echo-chamber of the toilets made the piped Muzak sound even more funereal. I would not have been surprised to find the lifeless body of a depressive dangling from a noose attached to the cistern in the stall.

The relief I felt as my bladder emptied raised my spirits a little. I silently laughed at my own wasted emotional investment in the place. Even more so at the nervousness I had felt about returning to the scene of my crimes against my marriage vows. Sodom and Gomorrah this was not, just a down-at-heel hotel with pretentions above its station in a struggling town in a failing country. I sighed as I washed my hands, decided I may as well have a drink and a sandwich seeing as I was here and then hightail it back home to my new best friends.

'Good afternoon, madam. Nice to see you back again.'

Michael, the barman had a name tag like the rest of the staff, sounded like he'd be better employed as a gravedigger.

'Thank you, Michael. Do you prefer that, or Mike? I'll have a St Clements please and can I order a tuna and salad sandwich on brown?'

He was looking at me with a hangdog expression as he polished a glass prior to preparing my drink.

'I prefer Michael. Thank you for asking. May I be so bold as to recommend the cheese. We have a particularly nice cheddar in at the moment. I think madam would find it very satisfying. Ice?'

Experience has taught me that listening carefully to what staff in hotels like this one say about the food they serve is quite important. Roughly translated, I was being told that if I stuck with the tuna which had been hanging around at the back of a none-too-efficient fridge in an overheated kitchen there was a two-to-one chance I'd spend the next few days with vomiting and diarrhoea. The cheddar, on the other hand, was fresh in and anyway whoever heard of anyone getting a nasty surprise from cheese?

I smiled at Michael and told him I'd go with his choice. He sort of grimaced at me, phoned my order down to the disease-pit where such things were made and turned back to putting the finishing touches to my drink. You didn't need to be medically qualified to know that here was a man whose outlook on life would be immeasurably improved by the simple application of a willing mouth to his penis. I grinned at the prospect as he placed my drink in front of me followed shortly afterwards by a hefty sandwich.

It was surprisingly good. I'd even go so far as to guess that the cheese had not come from a factory somewhere in Eastern Europe and the bread had felt the touch of a human hand at some point in the baking process. I thanked Michael for the recommendation and settled back on my barstool and surveyed the scene around me. I had no need to revise my earlier opinion.

There were only four or five customers in the cavernous room. One, an elderly man, was snoring gently behind an open copy of the

Daily Telegraph

, a middle aged couple sat sipping coffee and not speaking to each other. The rest were business types who had commandeered tables at discrete distances from each other on which to spread out their files and open lap tops. I presumed the Wifi in the bar was better than that in the rooms. One man was talking loudly into his mobile phone, berating whoever was at the other end for sending him to this shit-hole - his words - in the first place. I heard a quiet cough from the other side of the bar.

'Does madam have some free time this afternoon? Or is this just a quick stop for refuelling in the midst of a busy schedule?'

I was flabbergasted. Was this sad-looking man a mind reader? I dismissed the possibility that the NHS was somehow prescribing blow jobs to mildly-depressed men for instant relief. I tried to look sympathetic.

'I may have an hour's window, or so. Did you have something in mind?'

I was surprised to hear the words leaving my mouth. I checked my handbag and was relieved to find that the condoms and lube Susan had given me were still there, nestling next to the tube containing my emergency tampon.

'It's just that the gentleman in the corner - he's a guest at the hotel - asked me earlier if I had numbers of any local ladies who may be available.'

The word available was heavily accented; you could almost see the inverted commas around it. I looked across the room at the prospective client. He was about forty, I would guess. He could have been even younger as he carried a world-weary air about him. He was about six-foot tall and had a body which had probably been quite presentable a few years ago. Now the beginnings of a paunch and a head of mousy hair which was crying out for a cut gave him a beaten look. A wife and two kids draining his bank account monthly and ragging him for more than he could afford, was my guess.

'And you think he might appreciate me approaching him, Michael?'

'Yes madam, I do.'

'Please, call me Monique.'

Just saying the name made me feel more confident and in control. I smiled at the barman again. His facial tick that passed for a grin was growing on me. He leaned over the bar and beckoned me closer. I lowered my head towards his.

'If I might be so bold, Monique. I wouldn't expect he would give you much trouble.'

He coughed again and looked around to make sure no one could overhear him. I leaned closer to him and rested one of my breasts on the back of his hand.

'And why is that?'

'He's had two G&Ts since I had to disappoint him and I'm sure he's been watching pornography for the last hour. He hasn't consulted his paperwork once.'

I grinned conspiratorially and looked back at the man. There was indeed an earphone snaking between his head and the laptop. The glasses, small bottles of tonic and the other paraphernalia posh bars deliver with simple drinks orders lay close at hand. He seemed engrossed in whatever he was viewing on the screen. I pushed my boob more firmly against Michael's hand. I could feel my nipple stir in her lacy hammock. Michael's face remained stoic.