The Rant Room was still going strong.
“My guest tonight is Gwen Russel who runs the Cabot Theatre company, as many listeners will know. She is also an active local politician. Welcome, Gwen and tell us what you want to rant about.”
“Thank you Catherine. I’m going to rant about ecologists.”
“That might be controversial.”
“Well, it’s not because I think they are wrong, but because I think they are right, but fail utterly take on the right challenges. So, yes, everyone should do their bit to reduce carbon emissions, that’s a given as far as I am concerned. But when our geriatric activists glue themselves to the motorway, preventing ambulances getting to hospital, or disrupt sporting events they are preaching to the, largely, converted. Why don’t they take on the real monsters?”
“Who are the real monsters.”
“You know perfectly well, Catherine. I’m talking about China and Russia and America. The reason they don’t go for them is that they know perfectly well that if they did in Russia what they do in England, they’d end up in a Siberian Gulag eating gruel for twenty years. So, gutless as they are, they piss off the British and ignore the worst offenders.”
I can tell you, that Rant generated a lot of local comment and, I have to say, most of it positive. But, back to my tale.
It seemed like most of the city had turned out to watch the official opening of the Paloma Housing Development. I was there because I’d been involved in writing a number of features about the project from its very inception and, as a consequence I had got to know Paloma herself a little and admire her a lot. And finally, here I was watching her cut the ribbon across the road leading into the development of six houses which were, she said, only the start of a private initiative to house those the council persistently failed to accommodate. The houses would be made available at incredibly low rental to those in need. They would be maintained at the expense of a charitable trust and, it was hoped, the model could be made more widely available.
Paloma had funded twenty-five percent of the project herself and had urged, cajoled and nagged other people in her circle and beyond to stump up the rest of the money.
So, you are perhaps asking, who is Paloma? Paloma is a model, one of the most sought-after models in fact. Despite being internationally famous, she has continued to live in our fair city, has stayed with the local agency that first promoted her and has turned her enormous fame and wealth to good, social causes in the city. A West Indian mother and a Polish father had produced a honey-skinned, black-eyed beauty, tall of course and svelte with silky black hair that reached almost to her backside. For the opening ceremony she had chosen to wear high-waisted, pale blue jeans, and a cream V neck sweater. Frankly, she’d have looked good in a torn shopping bag. Pity, I thought then and now, that she is straight.
Beside me, as Paloma read her speech, was her agent, Angie Thompson. Angie wore brown leather trousers, a khaki shirt, brown ankle boots and a soft leather jacket of darker tan than her trousers. Her short, grey hair suited her elfin face and despite her 50years, she looked fabulous: slender, maybe 5’ 7, slight of breast, and twinkling brown eyes. Happily, I thought then and now, she’s gay, but sadly hooked up with someone. Still, can’t have everything.
“It has taken far too long to get to this point but the wait has been worth it. We have had to overcome resistance from bureaucrats: planning officers and councillors.” My nemesis, Melanie Butcher, had been the councillor in charge of planning and I was happy to see her bridle at the dig from Paloma. “But with persistence and determination we have overcome all obstacles and six families will now have permanent homes. This is just the start. Now people can see the fruit of everyone’s work and drive and I hope others will join the struggle that government, local and national, have for too long ignored.”
Huge round of applause and, as Paloma cut the tape, Angie slipped her arm through mine and squeezed. She turned her head so her mouth was achingly close to my ear and whispered, “We owe you so much.”
The local and national television news channels were there, Paloma alone was enough to ensure that. A photo opportunity with her was a guaranteed draw for them. Paloma had another dig to deliver. “Our plan has been sneered at by some commentators and obstructed by planning authorities, but the local press and media, particularly Catherine,” here she pointed to me, “Catherine has been a resolute supporter and she has my undying thanks.”
Not everyone can boast of having been kissed in public by a super model! Let me tell you, it’s really not at all bad.
As Paloma pointedly mentioned planning authorities, I glanced across the throng at Melanie Butcher. Butcher hates me, it’s history, and she scares the living daylights out of me, partly because I have come dangerously close to letting her have me. I wont bore you with the details, you may have already read in an earlier chapter. Suffice to say she appalled me but, at the same time, aroused me; aroused me a lot. If looks could have killed, Paloma would have been tuned to ashes and I’d have been with her on the pyre.
Ceremony over, we all went our separate ways.
It being a Friday I decided to go out to the Bell Tower. This is a pub known for being welcoming for gays, lesbians in particular and I knew it was a pub that Rosie liked and frequented. I’d put on a dress she had said she liked. It was the blue one that was almost see-through but with modesty panels lining the skirt front and back. It being mid-summer, it was warm and I wore over the top a gauzy linen blouse to conceal my nipples during the short walk to the pub.
Once there, I got myself a large gin and tonic and moved to a booth and, to pass the time, read the news on my phone.
“Room for a small one?” Fuck! Melanie Butcher in all her leather-clad glory: tight leather trousers, leather shirt, boots, chain belt. Without asking she sat beside me and pressed herself against me. “You and your friend had fun today. Did you write her speech?”
“Of course I didn’t.”
“You might as well have done. You did a hatchet job on me as good as any as I could have done. Why don’t you come home with me and I’ll whip you to thank you.”
“I told you, I didn’t write it.”
A voice from behind made us both turn. “Are you trying to steal my girl, Mizzzz Butcher.” The extended Ms was mocking, since Butcher was known to Rosie and me as ‘Le Butcher’ or ‘Butcher than thou.’ There was Rosie, looking as gently butch as Butcher was stone and she was carrying a bottle of champagne and two flutes.
“I didn’t realise you were joining us or I’d have brought you a glass. Will you stay and have a drink or do you have to leave?” Butcher, with an attempt at dignity, got up out of the seat and left. “Lovely to have chatted,” said Rosie to her back.
Rosie sat facing me and poured the drink.
“We, my girl, are celebrating.” Obviously I asked what we were celebrating. “Your companion has been elected Deputy Head of Chambers.”
“Oh, Rosie, that is absolutely fantastic, well done you.” I leaned across and kissed her.
“Thank you. It will mean a 2% rise in income, a 50% rise in non-fee earning work which is probably why everyone voted for me including those standing against me.”
“Well, I am delighted.”
“Was Butcher being charming?”
“The use of charming in any sentence with Butcher in it is, I’d say, optimistic. She was accusing me of doing a hatchet job on her over Paloma’s development.”
“Went the ceremony well?”
“It did.”
“Excellent. Now, to celebrate my apotheosis, I propose we deal with this excellent bottle of Champagne, indulge in a light supper at a restaurant of your choosing then return to my home where I propose to fuck your brains out. After a much-needed sleep we will repair to your hovel, where you will change into appropriate attire and I will take you for brunch or lunch and then back to your place for further gymnastics. How does that sound as a weekend plan?”
We ate at a lovely little fish restaurant in the village before getting a cab back to Rosie’s imposing house overlooking our famous bridge. She was, by this time, a little eager and she virtually propelled me upstairs to her bedroom where, in short order, my dress came off as did her clothes and she was, as she put it, tooling up. She liked her strappy but, when she was in the right mood, nothing worked for her as well as her feeldoe. The purple plastic inserted appropriately (“Like hitching a caravan onto a tow ball,” said Rosie as I helped get it hitched, which took longer than strictly necessary because I was enjoying her taste) Rosie took a little time to arrange me as she wanted me. On my back, with a pillow under my arse and my legs wide, knees up, she mounted me and as our mouths engaged so she pushed gently into me and I wrapped my arms and legs around her. She loved watching my eyes when we fuck, so sometimes if she has decided to have me from behind, she does so with us both facing her full-length mirror. She’s thoughtful that way. I was getting to the point of no return after a few minutes and Rosie, ever alert to my body language, withdrew and rolled me onto my front and facing that mirror, and entered me from behind, a position she knows has a pretty solid guarantee of a total loss of control of my body.
“I love your cum face. You look like you’re in agony and then, it sort of dissolves into a rapturous ecstasy.”
She was lying behind me, both of us on our sides and she was giving me time to recover. She kissed my back and neck, licked my ear and whispered, “You’re my good girl, aren’t you? Were you glad to see me in the pub?”
“On so many levels. You called me, your girl in front of Butcher.”
“Did I? I don’t remember.”
“Well you did.”
“Don’t get ideas above your station. Did she frighten you?”
“She always frightens me. She said she’d take me home and whip me to thank me for shafting her in public.”
“She is not whipping you. That’s my job.”
“Would you?”
“Would you let me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’d like to, I think I’d like you to, and I trust you and love you.”
I almost bit my tongue off. I’d vowed never to reveal my true feelings and here I was blurting it out. Happily, Rosie appeared not to have heard so I thought I’d got away with it. Instead I felt her ‘doe pressing, moistened and slippery, to my arse and, after the usual initial burn as my muscle stretched to accommodate it, she slowly pressed it in and started to fuck me again. She loved fucking my arse and often said she was more likely to cum when doing so than any other penetrative sex. And cum she did; loudly and wetly. Before she did, she had me on my knees again, facing that mirror and I was able to observe her cum face. Rapturous dominant. I was in heaven.
The following morning, refreshed by a good slept that was only interrupted once when Rosie had the urge again, she told me there had been a change of plan. “I want you to get a cab home and change into jeans and a blouse and light coat and trainers and wait for me.”
“Why?”
