Lady Lovecome’s Diary: Part 4.
Cavorting with artists.
Based on a post by A Big Cat.
Listen to the Podcast at Explicit
Novels.
By Lady Bathsheba Ottoline Lovecome.
I glugged my wine and declined a refill from the waiter
forever hovering at my elbow. I gave him my glass. My head was spinning
already. From wine or this woman, I couldn't tell.
She blinked at me as if performing a calculation. "Your
bush, it is black like your hair?"
"Merde!" She flapped me away.
"Well, not all over; I mean;” I wished I hadn't necked
that wine. "Oh fuck it." This is the thing about being a Lady.
Everything you do is fine. You're never crude, or drunk, just eccentric. For
example, only a Lady could, right there and then, in that room of doting
spaniels, tug the front of her skirt up, and the front of her knickers down.
The girl's left cheek dimpled, biting back her smile. Bless
him, the waiter turned his back to us and did his best to shield us to the rest
of the room. In the glass frame of a dark photograph my reflection;
figure-hugging dress, tied back hair, knickers down, prim and dirty; was better
The sulky artist nodded at my display, contemplating it and
ignoring; probably relishing; the dropped jaws around us. "Je suis
Gabrielle," she said eventually.
"Bash," I said. "Enchantée."
A rickety goods lift trundled me up into a dark, cavernous
warehouse the size of a small airport. Gabrielle's Studio. She clattered the
lift-gates open for me, her face deadly serious, but gone was the sulky
Parisian. She was dressed in paint-spattered overalls and workboats, both
oversized, with her wild hair tied back. She was dressed for work. Or worse, to
turn me off. My stomach sank. I was ready to continue our fun, dressed in my
predatory Chanel and heels. I'd even toyed with going commando but changed my
mind at the last minute, as removing panties for someone is always as exciting
as being secretly naked. Having said that, such was my state of mind in the car
on the way over; imagining what Gabrielle might have planned for me once I'd removed
said knickers; that I'd quite ruined them.
She shook my hand and nodded, like a miniature bow.
"Come see your wild, wild woods, Miss Riding Hood."
In the middle of the timber and brick expanse, lit by a
barrage of lights and reflectors, was a stage-set of a black and twisted forest
springing from a snowy hillock. Centre stage was a stuffed wolf so huge it came
to my knees even reclined on the floor. Waiting, draped across the poor
creature, was a crimson, velvet cape.
Gabrielle snatched a sketch from her workbench and presented
it. "This is what I need." She only spoke French to me now. The trust
and respect implicit in this, not to mention the breathy musicality of her
voice in her native tongue, quite undid all her efforts to play down her
The sketch showed a woman; Beatrice Dalle, clearly; sitting
on the wolf's back, smoldering. She was naked but for the iconic cloak, her
knees spread into a wide M, her vulva petaled and pink between.
I snorted. "Gabrielle, have you even read Little Red
"This is not Little Red. This is the girl grown into a
woman, like we all must, into the feline, vampiric queen of our own wild woods.
We must rule over canine masculinity, non? And she is displaying the secret
core of her power, the power after which she is named. This is not clear?"
Now I understood why she'd asked about my minge. She wasn't
(just) trying to be outrageous. The whole set was one massive, stylized
pudenda. The tortuous wood was dark, pubic hair, the snowy hillock was the skin
of a mound and I guess Red Riding Hood, I, was supposed to be the cunty
The lurid reality of what I'd agreed to hit me, and my heart
hammered so hard the page shook with my pulse. Yesterday, when I revealed
myself to Gabrielle, I was in control. Now I was here at her pleasure. This was
exciting in its way, but her focus on her work, and not on me, made me feel a
sleazy imposter. I was only here to get cheeky. I'm a vain and horny creature
and will do anything for someone who finds me sexy. But I'm also spoilt
aristocracy. I won't be used.
But fuck it. I had nothing else to do.
I gulped, handed the drawing back to her, and kicked off my
At last, Gabrielle's cheek dimpled with the secret smile
that so beguiled me yesterday. "I like you, Lady Bash," she
She stepped behind me to unzip my dress, but I sensed she
was stalking, taking me in as I stripped. I hoped so anyway. This was more like
I imagined. I wriggled off my Chanel, then my panties, and pirouetted.
Gabrielle blinked, swallowed.
Nudity, under the right conditions, is the scariest
battledress in a woman's wardrobe. Gabrielle was jittery as she wrapped me in
the cape. She pulled the big hood over my head and tied a single fastening at
the neck. Velvet inside and out, the thigh-length cloak felt divine, like a big
hand stroking my back and bum. It left me feeling even more naked.
"Tres bien." Gabrielle picked up a camera,
gestured to the stuffed wolf. "I will take photographs and sketches so you
are not here for days watching me paint, Okay?"
Suddenly hit by stage fright, I sat primly on the wolf's
back. It was a giant, big as couch, and its bones might have been replaced by
welded steel, but it still felt like it could spring back to life any second.
I draped my cloak just like the sketch, labially flaring to
half-reveal my boobs but exposing me from the waist down. Then I took a breath.
Gabrielle was a black ghost behind the dazzling lights.
After all my sodden fantasies in the car I couldn't decide if I felt sexy or
not now. I'd had more foreplay from a gynecologist.
"Wider," Gabriele clipped.
I spread my knees as wide as I could, legs poised on the
balls of my feet. Gabrielle cleared her throat. A click. More silence. She
hated me. I hated me. My arse was too big. My cunt was too small, too wizened.
A toilet part, bared for all to see. I wanted to close my legs. I felt like I
was being punished for being dirty yesterday.
Gabrielle stepped into the light, scowling. "You are
too beautiful, it is in the way. I sense you here"; she tapped her temple;
"but not here." She grabbed her crotch. "You understand?"
"Umm." My feet and knees, tensed in their porno
pose, trembled. How could I get out of this?
"Okay." She put down her camera. "Come, let's
relax. Have some fun, non? Loosen up." She unzipped her overalls and they
flumped to her feet like an empty sack. She was, of course, naked beneath. Her
body was sleek and neat with pert little tits and bottom. Cow. Her mound
sported a tuft of vivid red hair and beneath her lips were puffy and florid.
Maybe I'd stay a little longer.
She stepped out of her clothes and boots together, and
picked her camera up again. "Come. Come. Dance, frolic. Whatever you like!
Arouse me! Now I am naked too, so you will be able to tell, non?"
I stood, shook out the stiffness in my legs, then my arms.
My tits wobbled at the velvet, stiffening my nipples. Gabrielle lit up. She
stepped close, clicking her camera, biting her lip. The bit lip did it for me.
I stretched out a few warm-up moves from years of ballet lessons. I pointed my
toes and lifted each leg, dead straight into the air, holding, repeating.
Gabrielle gasped, paced about me, clicking a flurry, and the magnetism of her
naked presence raised my hairs toward her in a Mexican wave. She crouched under
my raised leg, and muttered, "Your clitoris is so big and fat";
snap-snap-snap; "it makes me horny and at the same time jealous!" My
hips warmed. This was much more like it.
Feeling cheeky now, I placed my palms flat on the floor and
bent double, relishing the cloak's hem creeping up over my bum. Gabrielle
moaned and I wanted to cheer. I placed my feet further apart, then bent at the
knee, up and down, creating a tell-tale chill between my legs. Gabrielle's
"Oh," and much clicking at my rear view, sent a jolt of naughtiness
I threw a leg over the wolf's back. It's fur was
surprisingly soft on my bits. I wound my hips, enjoying the silky squeeze to my
clit. My cheeks blazed. Gabrielle growled, this seemed to be a good thing.
"There is my Red Riding hood, non?" Her lens was all over my face,
and up and down my torso writhing on the back of the beast. My clit tingled
like the purr of an insistent phone call.
I slid off my furry saddle and settled against the creature's
side, squatting like a fertility goddess, my arms spread along its back. This
wasn't a pose. It was a cry for help!
Gabrielle stood in front of me, at arm's distance,
silhouetted sharply by the lights. Between her thigh tops the distinct curl of
her puckered lips sported a glittering diamond of arousal. Both my mouths
wanted to eat her. And be eaten. I shot her a glance that I hoped screamed,
She stamped her foot. "Oh Oui." She clicked,
hopped about, clicked again. I wriggled, trying to mesmerize her, draw her
I sat on the wolf's back again. This time so I might raise
my throbbing clit to a more irresistible height for licking. I placed my right
foot on the creature's head, scrunching my toes into the fur between its ears.
I splayed; for my wet admirer, not her lens. Fucking feed me.
"Oui!" She squealed. "Don't move! Merde.
Merde. There is my predator."
At least she ate me with her camera, working in a feeding
frenzy, getting closer and closer until she was knelt between my thighs. All my
torrid horniness from the car flooded back. And out. Gabrielle slapped her
knee. "Ha! Now we have the slavering beast! You are dripping! Merci.
There's an illicit, primal thrill in dripping in front of a
stranger. It brought a kind of shameful, debauched freedom. An exquisite
vulnerability. Gabrielle, sat cross legged below me, made no secret of her
arousal either. Her slipped-apart lips glistened in the light bouncing from my
Gabrielle put the camera down, peering at my cunt, then my
costume. "Lovely lady, I need your inner petals to match the shape of your
Gabrielle couldn't bite that smile back. Delicately, with
her tongue curled out in concentration, she took my inner lips and parted them.
She lightly tugged one lip into a different shape. I pulsed inside. She must've
clocked my inner clasp, because she sighed a hot breath over me. She picked up
her camera, then, almost as an afterthought, dipped her head to peck a feather
light kiss to my clit. She sat back, sucking a drip of me from her bottom lip.
Then raised her blasted lens.
"More," I flapped my knees.
"Bitch, do me or I'll knock you down and sit on your
"Promises." Click. Click.
Gabrielle chuckled, dropped her camera and, finally, pressed
her pretty, naughty lips to my cunt.
She started slowly, as if relishing a moment she'd spent
some time considering, but after a couple of croaky hums she was lapping and
sucking my clit hood like she hadn't eaten in days.
I scrunched her thick, red hair, and enjoyed the ride of her
smooth cheeks and her busily intruding tongue and that irrepressible
enthusiasm. Adoration, even. In a dozen speeding heartbeats, my rush coursed
from the tips of every hair on my body, it balled in my core like a fizzing
Catherine wheel until I whimpered, then blasted into Gabrielle's mouth. Perhaps
I was delirious, perhaps it was the set and the costume and the stuffed wolf,
but I felt like I was devouring her, not the other way round. I spread my lips
wide, into a gaping maw, arched, and howled into her wild, wild wood.
So that's how I met my Gabby. And yes, I returned the favor
that day. She stood over me, her foot up on the wolf's back, clawing her
bottom, while I nuzzled her slobbery folds and she yelped like a vixen. So I
guess I was a less selfish predator back then.
Anyway, Diary Bill, I've veered off on a horny tangent, as
usual. This isn't actually the point of my story. I just wanted to set the
scene for my relationship with Gabrielle. Call it an amuse-bouche. Well it
amused our bouches anyway. And hopefully it underlines that there were no
sexual secrets between Gabrielle and me. So now I can get to my point.
After that stimulating morning, Gabrielle and I didn't indulge
in each other again, agreeing the moment was too nice and we wanted to preserve
it as it was. We've been good, so far. But now I think about it, perhaps I
should invite her to the manor house, Bill, would you like that? I'd do her
again with you. Maybe we could make a better memory.
The next time I met Gabrielle, maybe three months later, she
was married, successful, and very, very wealthy. She had the best of
everything. Including her husband. Alex was a six-foot-six blonde billionaire,
and sleek as a sports car. He was a fantastically successful big tech investor,
boasting in his sexy French accent. "I walk into a room and people, they
In her messages, Gabrielle would boast how sex with him was
always extraordinary. By which she meant out of the ordinary. He was into
everything that involved expensive drugs and equipment and unlikely positions.
When she arrived for a drink with me, she winced as she sat down.
"Extra ordinary." She sighed.
We were in the woodiest, quietest bar of my women's-only
club. I picked her up on her sigh. "You make extraordinary sound
Gabrielle shrugged. Pouted. Goodness, that woman could pout.
"Well, sometimes, I'd just like to make love you know? I'd love to feel desired.
Sometimes it is like I'm just some super hi-fi fembot for him. And he has one
of those too. He made me have a threesome with it!"
"But you said you never met a man who made you come so
"Oui, but it's mechanical. I want to be devoured by
someone who adores me. Like you ate me, lovely lady. I want to come on the face
of someone while they weep for joy! I want to be fucked in five seconds because
they love me so much they immediately come, but then they can't stop and keep
fucking and coming and fucking and coming!"
A loud tut came from an old dowager three tables away. She
shook her head. We sniggered.
I squeezed Gabrielle's hand. "Ah, the problems of the
"Oui." She smiled, but sadly, and totally missing
my sarcasm. "But how will we ever have children?"
I didn't get that, and it must've shown on my face because
Gabrielle explained, as ever, loudly. "Well how do I get pregnant when he
only ever comes in my mouth or my ass!"
The old dowager steamed off so abruptly she knocked her
chair over. I got Gabrielle to elaborate.
It seems the problem was of her own making. When they first
got together she was so obsessed with her elegant catch that she went along
with his whole entitled thing: "Only the best for us, Gabrielle, only the
unusual, the unique. Only life's delicacies." This meant that, in their
first flushes, she'd suck him off at the wheel of his Ferrari, at the opera,
under the table in Michelin-starred restaurants, anywhere he liked, and always
to completion. Diary, she even pretended to come when she swallowed. And such
was her conviction that, a few times, she really did come! Just from the jet of
him into her mouth! Jesus, no wonder he married her.
But I was all ears, practically taking notes, making the
most of Gabrielle's lascivious descriptions of what she did to her husband. In
detail. She squirmed in her seat as she described running her tongue in a
figure of eight around his balls, and sucking them while she wanked him to make
a "human fountain." She clasped her hands between her knees when she
told me about his "frenulum"; the skin holding his foreskin to his
tip. He adored her lapping his so much, especially when her tongue was slippery
with his cum, that it kept him hard for ages. Using our wine bottle, she'd even
showed me how she'd incorporated it into her blowjobs, twisting her head and
slurping her tongue under his end while she sucked. Our waiter enjoyed that.
In fact, the way Gabrielle described sucking Alex got me so
worked up I had to visit the ladies. But it wasn't just the compelling detail
of his hard meat in her mouth, or her erotic show, that shut me in a cubicle
with my knickers round my knees. What got my fingers digging, was how Gabrielle
described her husband's cum.
I have to say, I tried to avoid semen, and thought I always
would, until I heard Gabrielle talk. I was twenty and had sucked my share of
dicks, but had never swallowed and only tasted the odd splash of cum by
accident. Meanwhile, Gabrielle described how simply swallowing was not good enough
for them anymore. She liked the sensation of "his hot, heavy first
splash" so much she'd contrive it so she was always licking or kissing him
at the moment of orgasm. "My lips drip with him, sweetie, while I messily
guzzle the rest, and I watch his eyes locked to my dirty mouth!"
She made it sound joyful, like a treat. Not the slimy stuff
itself; though it's no worse than girls' when I think about it; but what
ejaculation represented. How desired it made her feel, how powerful she felt
drawing it from her man and how, when she licked him clean, or sucked him dry,
it bonded them tighter. There was no one earth who'd enjoy doing this for him,
other than the one who loved him. Or so she thought at the time. She didn't
know about his mistress then. Not the robot one.
But anyway, it put a dirty little demon in me. And now I
can't wait to find that man who's cum I want to "messily guzzle."
It's not the semen, it's the man. I fantasize about it. I think it might be
you, Bill. I've thought about it a few times, licking your big spigot while you
ruin my make-up (I'd like to see this in a mirror) Or your hot stuff pumping
thick in my mouth. I imagine what it might feel like sliding down my throat.
Gabrielle says it's like oysters. I adore oysters. But the thing that got me
squeaking in that woman's club bathroom, and just as a few minutes ago in my
bed, is what my fantasy man's reaction might be, watching me relish his
release; the most sexily intimate of all sexily intimate things. The love in
his eyes as I consume him.
But when I returned to Gabrielle after my little release she
carried on. It seemed Alex had grown tired of even Gabrielle's excellent head.
So then came the anal, which she said she quite enjoyed, but nowhere near as
much as she pretended. She didn't come with him, and started feeling more like
an empty vessel than a loving partner. She got a vibrator (no manbots yet) and
used it on herself so she could come at all because he wasn't interested in
visiting her, claiming: "All orgasms are selfish, Gabrielle. Taken, not
given." He loved her vibrator, of course, and so started the descent into
increasingly more elaborate contraptions between them.
I was glad I'd had my fiddle when I did, because that quite
So the message of this part of my tale, Bill, is that I know
I seemed angry when you denied me, but I was being selfish. I blame my hungry
cunt and your fat sausage. I don't mind if you don't want to fuck. I'd love to
of course, but there is as much love, maybe more love, in exploring other ways
But one more thing about fucking before I go.
After that afternoon, Gabrielle disappeared for a couple of
years. When she popped into my life again, recently, she had a startlingly
beautiful toddler and a baby.
She was a different woman. She'd put on a few pounds but
looked good for it. Of course. She wasted no time in telling me her story.
She took long walks across the heath near their city home,
and one misty, particularly magical morning, a silhouette resolved from the
distance: a runner, a large, dark-haired man. Something about the way he moved,
fluid as a thoroughbred, did funny things to her abdomen. He was clearly a
tosser though, being one of those muscle-bound narcissists who thinks they're
