Charlotte sensed someone was in the room with her. Despite the blindfold she turned her face towards the presence; her fingers clamped around the arms of the chair. Charlotte's nostrils flared, her sense of smell heightened from fear and the inability to see. The perfume told her it wasn't Peter, the scent was definitely not his, it was a more feminine smell. Charlotte recognised it -- but where from? The answer was close ... a hazy image formed in her mind but refused to materialise. She felt a waft of breath against her cheek and tried to rise from the chair, an impossible task since her wrists were bound to the wooden arms.
A voice came from across the room; the Polish accent confirmed it was Peter: So he was there too!
"Do you trust me?"
Charlotte felt fingers trace a feather-soft line down her cheek. The stranger was touching her. She swallowed heavily but nodded in the face of her fear.
"Good," Peter murmured. "You can leave whenever you want." He spoke a single word and explained: "Say that word at any time ..." Peter paused and emphasised, "
Any
time at all, and it will stop ... Immediately." Another pause before he continued. "But," Peter said, his accent thickened by anticipation, "if you do leave, it's over; completely gone ...Finished."
The man fell silent, but Charlotte knew he was still with her; she could hear his breathing. His words comforted her even though there was a third party in that room. It was a woman, Charlotte was certain. She put aside the niggling frustration of the perfume and thought quickly. The effects of the wine were wearing off and she had a decision to make. Was she prepared to be controlled? To submit to the will of Peter and whoever else was with them? The offer by Peter of an escape route reassured her, and Charlotte recognised the finality of the situation should she balk and run. Did she really want what was on offer?
The woman considered her situation. She thought of the emails she'd discovered -- the filthy exchange between Peter, a supplier of fabrics to her factory, and her PA, Vanessa. The written exchanges had, at first, disgusted Charlotte, but there'd been a
frisson
to her discovery. Despite her offended morality, Charlotte had experienced a rush of warmth between her legs, and, red-faced with mortification, she found herself locking her office door and rubbing herself to orgasm as she imagined herself in the scenes described.
Charlotte confronted Peter about the lewd communications between himself and Vanessa -- a strange course of action given the fact that Vanessa was an employee, but Charlotte didn't reconcile her actions on a logical level; she was driven by a more primordial force.
The heat in her cunt.
They met in an expensive London eatery as arranged. Peter, tall, broad-shouldered, and with his rough, interesting face betraying his concern, complimented Charlotte in her long, black dress. Charlotte knew she looked good, understated but elegant, with a simple string of pearls around her neck. She'd chosen her dress and shoes deliberately. Her ash-blonde bob was newly cut and feathered around her face prettily. She noticed Peter's eyes flicker towards her deep cleavage and she smiled to herself -- Big tits, she thought, gets them every time.
Ignoring the polite murmur of muted conversations around them, Peter brought the subject in hand immediately to the fore. Lifting his hungry stare from the upper slopes of Charlotte's round breasts, Peter fixed his grey-blue eyes on her face. "I'm surprised," Peter said after a waiter had poured wine and left. "You find such emails between me and Vanessa, yet you speak to me and not her ... Why?"
"I can deal with Vanessa any time," Charlotte responded in her typically haughty fashion -- a self-made woman, she was used to having her own way. She shrugged, a movement that caused her breasts to jiggle, and Charlotte saw Peter glance at her chest again. "She's an employee, I can replace her, but you, Peter, are much more important to me."
The man's lips pursed and he shook his head. He ran his hand over his close-cropped hair. "No, Charlotte," he said emphatically. "I don't accept that. You could just fire Vanessa and not say anything to me. She's at fault, you're her employer ..." Peter paused, he stared intently at Charlotte -- it was a stare that caused the mature woman's sex to clench. Charlotte reached for her glass and gulped at her wine to cover her discomfit. Peter smirked, Charlotte's reaction spoke volumes. "There's more to it," he continued. He studied Charlotte's face. "Tell me," he insisted.
Peter used silence as a weapon. It was a trick he'd been taught years ago by his father. "They'll grow uncomfortable," the old man had said. "You control the silence and they will try to fill it. A useful trick in negotiations," Pappy had said and smiled.
"OK," Charlotte blurted finally. Peter smiled to himself. It had worked. "At first I was ... disgusted by what I read. The things you wrote to each other ... I've never ..."
"It's role-play, Charlotte," Peter interrupted. "A game." He sipped at his wine and glanced around the room. Nobody was paying any attention to the couple. They were an innocuous sight. Well-dressed, obviously wealthy -- they could even be married. "You said you were disgusted. What changed? How come you're not so offended anymore?"
Peter used the silence again.
"I—" Charlotte began.
"—were turned on," Peter finished for her. His voice fell to a whisper: "You grew excited." The man leaned across the table, he held Charlotte's gaze: "You played with yourself, Charlotte. You used your hands on yourself ... down there." Peter nodded towards Charlotte's lap.
The woman blushed and looked away. He was right; Peter had known exactly what she'd done. "It wasn't like that," Charlotte blustered. Her usual, assured demeanour evaporated. The man could read her like a book. Damn him, damn his intriguing eyes and his harsh good-looks. An image flashed into her mind. She saw Peter above her as she lay supine, with her legs wide apart, as she offered herself to him. Charlotte blushed at the vivid picture; she saw Peter's assured smirk as he held himself above her submissive form, she felt her nipples tighten as, in her mind, his big cock nudged her opening ... Charlotte squirmed against her seat. A pulse throbbed between her legs.
"It was exactly like that, Charlotte." Peter's accented English brought her back to the present. The residue of her fantasy lingered; her breasts ached and her teats longed to be sucked by this man -- Charlotte's insides melted.
Forty-five minutes later and Charlotte found herself in a black cab with Peter. She heard Peter speak to the driver -- she recognised the address from somewhere, but lust and wine blurred her senses. Besides, as soon as the cab turned a sharp one-hundred-and-eighty towards their destination, Peter fell on Charlotte like a predatory beast.
His hands were on her thighs instantly. Charlotte, feeling his fingers travel down her limbs, allowed her legs to fall apart. Peter growled as his hand slid up under the hem of the dress. He pushed roughly at Charlotte's thighs, eager to get to the hot place at their junction. Charlotte shuffled forward to accommodate Peter's insistent probe; she pushed her legs wider apart, and, at the same time, saw the driver observing the goings-on in his mirror. Aroused by the voyeuristic intent of the cabbie, Charlotte stared back at him belligerently -- as though challenging him.
Fuck you, she thought. Watch all you like, I don't give a damn. She groaned as Peter's palm cupped her mound through the fragile material of her underwear. She pushed back against the pressure while Peter moved across her body to kiss her.
Charlotte returned the kiss. Her lipstick, so carefully repaired following the meal, smeared across her face. Her hair also fell into disarray, smudged against the seat while Peter's tongue explored the wet cavern of her open mouth.
"You want to do this." Peter murmured during a break in their frenzied kissing. "We agreed."
"Absolutely," Charlotte acquiesced. "You've never cheated me so far ... in business ... why should this be any different?" She gasped as Peter's finger pushed beyond the taut film of her underwear and found the oily gape of her opening.
"You must trust me," Peter breathed into her ear. "It will be strange, but you must trust me."
Charlotte groaned and looked at the mirror again. The man was watching as Peter fingered her hole. The situation was already strange to Charlotte. A divorcee and 42 years old, she was used to straight sex behind closed doors. Sprawled in the back of a cab with the driver ogling her gaping snatch was just not her style. A modern day ladette would be more inclined to such lewd behaviour, but Charlotte, having conquered her modest upbringing, considered herself more refined. She moaned, turned on enough to agree to anything: "I do," she panted. "I trust you ... I ... I ...."
Peter grinned into the shadowy interior of the cab. Charlotte couldn't see his expression; her attention was on the cabby's eyes and the flame between her legs. Things were going better than he'd anticipated. He was pleased he'd made the call ahead when the opportunity arose. Charlotte's make-up repairs had given him the chance to use his mobile phone. His cock, already stiff, throbbed at what was to come.
The taxi driver accepted the fare and tip and, with a smirk, drove away. As the cab's engine noise dwindled, Peter led Charlotte up a short flight of steps towards the impassive façade of an expensive London mews.
With some trepidation Charlotte allowed herself to be blindfolded and bound to the chair by her wrists.
And now she had to make her choice.
Decisive in business, and, once a decision was made, she stuck to it. Charlotte opted to stay. "I trust you, Peter," she said determinedly. "I want to do this."
"Excellent," a female voice whispered in Charlotte's ear. The accent was quintessentially English; the speaker was well-educated, the product of indulgent parents and a girls' private school. Charlotte recognised the voice of Vanessa, her PA.
