Free Read: The Sexual Misadventures of Primmie Darling Book One by Viva Jones

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The Sexual Misadventures of Primmie Darling 

Book One

Viva Jones

Copyright 2013 Viva Jones 

In the Corridors of Power

The woman on the massage table had long, lean limbs and the kind of golden skin that reminded Primmie Darling of Arabian desert sands glinting under a harsh sun, the curve of her spine and buttocks emulating the dunes she’d enjoyed exploring as a teenager.  She mixed up her oils – a deeply relaxing combination of camomile and French lavender – and started the massage, working the woman’s back, shoulders and neck.

She felt a flicker of desire between her legs.  The last woman she’d made love with had been Sasha, whom she’d met on a crystal healing workshop the previous summer.  She could still remember the breathy kisses they’d enjoyed, and the feel of Sasha’s soft hands against her skin.  She remembered pulling down Sasha’s knickers and popping her tongue between her fleshy young lips, and how turned on she’d become as Sasha’s pleasure had increased to orgasmic.  They’d ended up, faces pressed between each other’s thighs, teasing and coaxing until Sasha had given way first, thrashing and crying out, overcome with the intensity.  Once she’d settled, she’d given Primmie as much pleasure herself, and they’d spent a lazy Sunday evening coiled up between each other’s legs.

What ever happened to Sasha, Primmie wondered as she poured more oil into her cupped hand.  The last she’d heard she was living in Cornwall with a druid called Gordon.

Primmie liked to fuck men as well, of course, but there was something special about girl-on-girl pleasure.  There was a certain innocence in remaining unpenetrated – not that she had anything against a huge, hard cock.  Primmie’s first lover, a burly Finn called Walter, had been extremely well-endowed.  He’d taken her in the changing rooms of the swimming pool at the diplomatic compound in Abu Dhabi, where their families were based.  She’d been a few months shy of her sixteenth birthday, but losing her virginity had felt like a hurdle to jump on the path towards adulthood.  Walter’s cock had been large, hard and hungry, and the explosion of pleasure she’d felt after several minutes of clinging to his pimpled neck aroused an entirely new awakening in young Primrose Darling, daughter of Sir Lester, ambassador of the British embassy.   Unhappily for her, Primmie had no idea that the vast majority of cocks were nothing like as big as Walter’s.  Sometimes she thought he’d rather spoiled things for her, making every cock she’d known since a disappointment.

The blonde on the table emitted a relaxed sigh and Primmie continued with her work, taking each arm – toned and firm – and working her way from the shoulders to the tips of her fingers.  She wore a wedding band, Primmie noted, but had removed all other jewellery.  Her nails were French-polished and elegant.  A banker’s wife, Primmie decided, or a lawyer’s.

Next, she started working on the woman’s legs, which were long, tanned, smooth and rather elegant.  She could imagine them trotting around smart parties in nude platform heels.  Her toe nails were immaculate and painted a deep burgundy – this was a woman who took care of herself.  As this was her first visit to the day-spa where Primmie had worked over the last year, she wondered if she’d only just moved to London, her husband transferred from another city?

As she kneaded the blonde’s buttocks, a part of her longed to slide one finger down her crack, brush past her arsehole and slip it right up inside her cunt.  Perhaps she could pass it off as a special internal massage to aid stress?  Everyone was stressed, after all.  She let the buttocks pull apart and caught a glimpse of that arsehole, puckered up as if ready for a kiss.  She imagined letting her tongue flick over it while two more fingers joined the one already inside the blonde’s cunt.  She thought she heard the blonde emit a sigh, and wondered how much she could get away with.  As part of the massage, she allowed a thumb to rest upon the arsehole, and when the blonde didn’t complain, applied a little pressure.  The woman’s crack was hairless, and suddenly Primmie was overcome with the desire to taste her, to explore her pussy with her tongue and to drench herself in the woman’s juices.

She had to get a grip.

‘I’d like you to turn over for me now, please,’ she said in her cheery-but-polite voice.

Without replying, the blonde turned over, and Primmie could see she had a strong, long face, with high cheekbones and firm jaw.  Her lips were on the thin side and her eyes looked deep-set.  There was something familiar about her but Primmie couldn’t work out how they might have met.  A diplomatic function hosted by her parents?  Primmie had met no end of foreign dignitaries in her time.  It would come to her eventually.

She set to work on the blonde’s arms again before applying pressure to her chest.

‘Do you mind me touching your breasts?’ she asked, to which the woman replied that she did not, without a flicker of emotion on her face.

Primmie set to work on her breasts, and they were full and firm with large dark nipples which grew erect as she touched them.  She would have loved to take one in her mouth and nip at it gently with her teeth, then lick and suck it before turning her attentions to the other.  Instead, she behaved herself, and let her hands roam down the woman’s stomach, which was also firm and muscular.  She clearly worked out, Primmie thought.  Probably had a personal trainer.

Primmie wondered if, in many ways, her job was not unlike a dentist’s.  Both were unlikely to engage in much of a conversation with their clients.  But unlike most dentists, or so she imagined, Primmie liked to fantasise about who her clients might be, what they might do, how they lived their lives.  She’d always been something of a fantasist.  Whimsical Primsical had been her childhood nickname, made up by her mother because of her insistence, as a six year old, that the only thing she wanted was to be a fairy, who lived in a secret forest with all the animals and went about sprinkling fairy dust on people’s lives.

Now, having reached her mid twenties, Primmie used crystals and essential oils and all kinds of New Age healing methods with which to sprinkle her fairy dust on friends and clients.   But still, there were times when she felt her life was empty.  She wanted desperately to find that person to  love and to have children with, and for them to live the kind of settled, stable home life that she’d missed out on herself as a child.  She’d never been especially career-oriented, a point which hugely irritated her mother Nicola, who, on the rare times they saw each other, accused her of drifting and of wasting her life.

With the day-spa based in Notting Hill, most of Primmie’s clients were wealthy, upmarket and body-conscious.  Primmie had to get clues about their lives from their bodies – from their secret tattoos and tan lines.  Were they plump or in good shape, what mystery scars gave anything away?  She could imagine the blonde skiing, she decided, and maybe horse-riding.  She probably liked a big stallion – then again, who didn’t?

Primmie had reached the blonde’s thighs by now, and was kneading and pressing them when she noticed the blonde opening them just a tiny bit.  Was this a sign?  She carried on down to her calves and those elegant feet, made for summer sandals and elegant soirées.  She moved to the other thigh and once again, that almost imperceptible move apart.  The blonde’s bush was more of a fine grazing of lawn, with a tiny sprout of pale fine hair, surrounded by pale, soft skin.  How she would have loved to spread open those legs and dart her tongue between the folds of the blonde’s pussy.  But she had to be professional, and continued with the massage, down to the calf and foot.

The blonde suddenly moved one leg.  ‘My knee’s gone,’ she said with the trace of an accent.  ‘It needs to click.’

Primmie took the leg and raised the knee up, moving the joint around in an effort to make this happen.  As she did so, the blonde’s pussy was exposed, as was a tiny tattoo of a rose at the top of her right thigh.  A clue, and an unexpected one at that.  The blonde pulled her leg right up, exposing even more of her pussy and the puckered arsehole, until finally there was a loud click.

‘That’s got it,’ she whispered, lowering her leg but leaving it bent at the knee, her pussy still exposed, as if deliberately so.

‘That’s the massage over,’ Primmie told her.  ‘Unless you’d like anything extra?’  She wasn’t sure how else to put it.

‘Extra,’ came the command.

Fearing she might be overstepping the mark, but keen to try anyway, Primmie leant forward and clasped the blonde by her hips, letting her tongue slide gently into the groove of the blonde’s pussy.  The blonde sighed appreciatively and let her legs open even wider, and Primmie went further, lapping at her and exploring her, darting her tongue between her folds.  Emboldened, she pulled the lips apart with her fingers, and searched deeper still, knowing that at some point she’d unlock the source of this unknown customer; she’d tap into her very essence.

She slipped two fingers inside her cunt, massaging her g-spot in a circular motion the blonde immediately responded to.  She applied the tip and then the flat of her tongue to her clitoris, then removing her fingers, let her tongue slide down towards that arsehole, and kissed the blonde there.

‘Oh God, now my clit,’ the blonde demanded, in an accent Primmie thought sounded German.  She obeyed, and slid her two fingers back inside her cunt, while manoeuvring her thumb against her arsehole, applying gentle pressure.

‘Oh God, yes!’  the blonde’s pleasure started rising, and Primmie continued, using the flat of her tongue against her clit, and pressing down harder.  It didn’t take long before the blonde started coming, thrusting against Primmie’s wet face, pushing harder against her tongue, and holding her head securely in place with both hands.

Primmie thought she might suffocate, but carried on, accepting her role.  If this was what it took to deliver an orgasm, she was happy.  It was her grown-up fairy dust, delivering orgasms and well-being.   Once her thrusts had subsided, the blonde relaxed.  ‘Thank you.  I needed that.  My husband hasn’t fucked me since three weeks.’

A busy husband, Primmie noted.  A banker, or a lawyer mediating the takeover which would bring them great fortune.  She’d get the house redecorated and they’d buy a weekend place in the Cotswolds.  Primmie was pleased with the picture she was building up of her new client.

As the blonde got up, she turned to Primmie with the hint of a smile.  ‘Do you do home visits?’

 

The blonde went off to change, so with minutes to spare, Primmie did what any sensible girl would, and masturbated.  She was wearing a nurse-like costume the day-spa provided, with drawstring pyjama-type bottoms, and she slipped her hand inside them and then further down inside her knickers.  She dipped her finger inside her wet pussy and was impressed with the amount of moisture she retrieved.  Then she began to massage her swollen lips, and within thirty seconds (she really was quite good at this), was enjoying a huge, vigorous orgasm.

She washed her hands, wrote her number down on the back of a card, and went to the reception in search of her customer.  The blonde emerged, her hair brushed and tied back.  She was wearing skinny jeans, boots and a well-cut navy jacket, with a pair of huge sunglasses covering most of her face.  Primmie couldn’t help but notice the brooch on her lapel: it was diamond-shaped with seven stones, each of which, Primmie knew, represented a chakra.  It was the sort of thing you’d find in an upmarket New Age shop, and as such was unexpected yet familiar. Primmie was sure that she’d seen it before somewhere, but was unable to place it.

‘Here’s my card,’ she said, handing it over with a smile.

‘Thank you.  I’ll be in touch.’  The blonde then pressed two fifty pound notes in Primmie’s hand, before whispering: ‘An excellent massage.’

 

It was only later that evening that Primmie began to wonder how she knew the chakra brooch.  She thought she might have seen it in a photo, and that something had surprised her about it before.  The wearer was someone she hadn’t expected to be attuned to chakras and New Age beliefs, Primmie seemed to remember.  But who was it, and where on earth had she seen the photo?

Later that evening, when the temptation got too much and Primmie popped out to the corner shop for a bar of chocolate, her eyes were immediately drawn to a photo on the cover of a gossip weekly.  It was the blonde, and she was wearing the chakra brooch.  Primmie’s breath caught in her chest.  She was Nixie Dorchester, the Swiss-born wife of the newly-installed Prime Minister, Simon, a little-known back bencher who’d mounted a leadership challenge against the unpopular incumbent, and won.  Primmie felt her cheeks redden.  It wasn’t every day you went down on the Prime Minister’s wife, after all.

She bought the magazine and hurried home to read up on her new client.  Nixie’s name, she learnt, translated from the German into a water sprite, usually unfriendly to humans.  The press had relished this fact, as during her husband’s coup Nixie had been heavily criticised for being cold, aloof and uninterested.   Frozen Waste was one tabloid’s chosen form of abuse.  She was, they proclaimed, a handsome woman devoid of warmth or charm – in short, a waste of good looks.

Primmie marvelled at her new knowledge, and the possibilities it might lead to.  Would home calls seriously mean visiting Downing Street?

She turned the TV on to catch the News at Ten.  Suddenly politics had become a whole lot more interesting.  Simon Dorchester was handsome enough and seemed sincere, if a little earnest, about his policies, but something about him wasn’t clicking with voters, who seemed to resent his stratospheric rise from nowhere.   Poor Simon Dorchester, Primmie thought, turning off the TV.  He hadn’t made love to his wife in three weeks.

She allowed a piece of chocolate to melt in her mouth.  To think that she, Primrose Darling, had given his wife the orgasm she’d desired only that afternoon.  She’d snaked her tongue through the folds of her pussy; she’d explored the very corridors of her power.

The following day, Nixie called to arrange a private session.  Primmie’s ensuing fantasy took her beyond Nixie’s bedroom and to personal adviser status, turning the Frozen Waste into someone more approachable and respected, and then it took her across the cabinet, through Westminster Village and inside the House of Commons, sprinkling her very own type of fairy dust upon everyone she came in touch with.

Primmie had never considered herself ambitious before, but in that moment, she could feel the hand of history upon her shoulders.  This, at last, was her chance to make a difference.  This was her chance to shine.

 

 

Behind Closed Doors

 

‘Primmie Darling, are you hungry yet?’  the blonde woman on the massage table whispered as Primmie concluded her full-body massage with a vigorous calf rub.

A perfectly natural thing to say, you might think, but the woman on the table was Nixie Dorchester, wife of the British Prime Minister, and she most certainly wasn’t about to suggest a ham and cheese sandwich.

‘Of course I’m hungry,’ Primmie admitted, as the blonde parted her thighs and Primmie sank down to meet her lips.  Nixie smelt clean, of alpine-fresh shower gel and spring flowers mixed with the essential oils of jasmine, neroli and sandalwood that Primmie had just been using.  Her thighs, strong and lean, were soft and smooth, and her pussy, with merely a delicate grazing of soft blonde hair, was warm and moist and soft.  Primmie lifted her up by her buttocks and delved her tongue inside her, parting her folds to reveal an elegant, orchid-like cunt that tasted sweet and just a little salty.

Two floors below, Nixie’s husband Simon would be holding a cabinet meeting, Primmie realised, blissfully unaware of his neglected wife’s new obsession.  Because since her first massage at the spa, Primmie had now made no fewer than four house-calls.  It would be nice, she mused, if Nixie decided she’d like to try giving as well as receiving.

As Primmie lapped at her pussy, Nixie moaned softly, and when she popped her index finger inside her she shifted to greet it.  Primmie knew what she liked by now.  Her massages had increasingly become a form of foreplay, with both women knowing precisely where they were heading.  As Primmie located Nixie’s g-spot, she couldn’t help thinking of the headlines in one of that morning’s crueller newspapers.  It showed an unflattering photo of Nixie, dressed in a military style double-breasted jacket, a starchy skirt and low flat heels, awkwardly greeting a well-wisher at a charity function.  THE FRUMPY WASTE  it blazed, a pun on the more usual Frozen Waste jokes, referring to Nixie’s Swiss background and icy demeanour.  The fact she’d never worked a day in her life was much set upon, too.

‘Is it my fault my father’s an industrialist multi-millionaire?’ Nixie had grumbled earlier.  ‘And think about it, with this high unemployment, if I did get a job, I’d only be criticised for depriving someone more needy, or cashing in on my name.  In the public eye, you can’t win. I wish I was ordinary, like you, Primmie Darling.  I wish I could go about my business unnoticed.’

While not exactly flattered by these comments, Primmie knew an opportunity when she saw one, and the photo had given her an idea.  Nixie, a keen horse-woman, hiker and rock-climber, had never been interested in clothes.  Primmie, on the other hand was, and knew that, by overseeing the right outfits and a haircut for her boss, she could help transform one of the most reviled women in Britain into – well, perhaps not exactly one of its most respected, but at least someone more likeable.

All a PM’s wife had to do, Primmie thought, was to look good and smile, after all.

Nixie came on Primmie’s face, and Primmie let her aching tongue subside.

‘Primmie Darling, you’re wonderful, thank you.’  Nixie sat up and pulled her white bath robe around her.  They were in her pale yellow bedroom, with its ensuite bathroom at one end and walk-in wardrobe at the other.   ‘Pass me my handbag and I’ll pay you.  Same time tomorrow?’

‘I do work at the spa, you know, Nixie.  I can’t keep on having dental appointments.’

‘The day after then,’ Nixie relented.  ‘I have a speech to make and I’m terrified.  I need your help to calm me down.  Will this help persuade you?’  She handed over two hundred pounds in crisp twenty notes.

‘I’ll see what I can do.’  Primmie tucked the money into her purse.  It was far more than she would have earned at the spa, and she calculated that, if Nixie carried on engaging her like this, she’d be able to clear a chunk of her credit card debts by the end of the month.  But what she really wanted was a full time position, and the chance to leave her job entirely.

‘Haven’t you got that function tonight?’  she asked.

When not going through her rapidly improving finances, Primmie had begun paying a lot more attention to the newspapers these days.

‘Yes, darling.  Such a bore.  Stuffy financiers and minor MPs.  This is my interested face, what do you think?’  She pulled a studious and thoughtful look.

‘Impressive,’ replied Primmie.  ‘What are you wearing?’

‘I don’t know, you know I hate to dress up.  I have this dress, it’s blue – ‘

‘You’re going to be photographed again, you do know that, don’t you?  As you go in.  You have to make the right impression.’

‘It’s over there.’  Nixie waved a bored finger across at the walk-in wardrobe.  ‘Behind the door.’

Primmie went to look, and found a shapeless, tent-like structure that might have given shelter on the Matterhorn, but would almost certainly fail to meet with the papers’ scrutiny.

‘What do you think?’  Nixie called out from the table.

‘It’s shapeless and dull, and this colour does nothing for you,’ Primmie told her, surprised at her own bluntness.  ‘You could do so much better.  You have an amazing body, what have you got against showing it off?’

‘Simon.  He’s very prudish, you know.’

Primmie picked through the evening dresses in Nixie’s wardrobe.  Most were too fussy, with frills and flounces, or too summery for a cold February evening.  Then she stumbled upon a floor-length deep navy dress with long sleeves and a jewelled collar above a key-hole opening that exposed the cleavage.  Primmie knew instinctively that this was the one.

‘How about this?’  she asked, showing it to Nixie.

‘Darling, I bought that years ago, look at the hole for the boobs.’

‘It will look sensational on you.  The press will love it.  Wear your hair up, maybe loosely so that a little tumbles down your neck, and some heels.  They’ll be blown over.’

‘You think?’  Primmie had caught Nixie’s attention.  She climbed off the table and joined her in the wardrobe.  ‘Simon won’t approve.’

‘He will when he sees the papers loving it.  Their approval is worth far more than his, and he knows it.’

Nixie sighed.  ‘They were bad today, weren’t they, the headlines?  I’m only thirty-two, I can’t be frumpy.  Maybe you’re right.  I’ll wear it.  It might be tight.’

She let her bath robe fall to the floor and began to pour herself into the dress.  Once it was on, even Nixie had to agree that she looked sensational.  The only trouble was her hair, which she usually wore pulled back or with an Alice band.

‘You could take three inches off your hair, you know,’ Primmie suggested.  ‘Maybe some soft layers around your face.’

‘Primmie Darling, you think so?’ Nixie asked, pulling her hair up and studying her profile.  ‘Maybe you’re right.  How is it you know me so well?’

‘I just have your best interests at heart.’

 

The following morning, in the reception area of the day-spa where Primmie worked, she was thrilled to see the papers enthusing about Nixie’s fresh new look.  FASHION TRIUMPH FOR THE ICE QUEEN screeched one headline.  THE ICE MELTETH roared another.

It didn’t take long for her mobile to ring.  ‘Primmie Darling, please come to me today,’ Nixie purred.

‘I can’t, I’ve got appointments all day.  I’ll see you tomorrow as we agreed.’

Primmie had decided to be firm, even if her visits to Number Ten had been the most exciting thing to happen to her since spotting Liz Hurley buying dog food in her local Tesco.

Although she considered herself easy-going, Primmie had inherited a steely touch from her mother, a doyenne of charity work and mistress of no fewer than three ambassadorial homes.  She’d whipped Chinese, Russian and Arabic staff into order during her years as wife of the British Ambassador, running her homes like an elegant sergeant major, while at the same time coaxing business leaders into contributing to the children’s charities, women’s groups and educational foundations she’d supported over the years.  Primmie often wished she was more like her mother.  Had she actually got to spend much time with her, of course, that influence might just have rubbed off.

‘Primmie Darling, I need you.’  Nixie sounded petulant.

Her mother would have swept her aside like leaves on an autumnal lawn.  ‘Tomorrow,’ Primmie told her firmly.

There were times when you just had to say no.  If there was one thing Primmie had learnt over the years, it was that the act of saying no, no matter how tough, sometimes delivered the very thing you most desired.

 

The following day, as Primmie was escorted inside the PM’s private apartment at Number Ten, a tall, overweight black man she recognised as Jerek Winston, the PM’s media spokesman, approached her.  The hiring of Jerek Winston had been considered a triumph on Simon Dorchester’s part.  Brought up by his grandmother in Hackney, Jerek had attended a local comprehensive fortunate enough to boast a charismatic headmaster who strongly believed that each of his charges could make something of their lives.  He’d encouraged, cajoled and bullied his pupils into reaching for the skies, and Jerek, with the help of the woman he fondly called Nanna, was his star of 1990.   After graduating in media studies, Jerek became the junior political correspondent on a broadsheet, where his wit, intelligence and outstanding ability to network, quickly got him noticed.  A stint on breakfast TV sealed his superstardom.  Jerek was outspoken, outlandish and openly out, and the world seemed to love him for it.  From ageing grandmothers to fawning teenagers, everyone adored Jerek.  When Simon Dorchester made him his media spokesman, insiders all agreed that his leadership challenge was a foregone conclusion.  Press conferences, far from being the yawn of yesteryears, were now the hottest tickets in town.

Today, Jerek was wearing a striped navy suit, white shirt and flamboyant purple tie adorned with Bugs Bunny.   He stopped at the stairs, taking Primmie in.

‘You must be Primrose?’ he said, openly studying her.  ‘Primrose Darling?’

’That’s right.’  Primmie held out her hand for him to shake.  ‘People call me Primmie.  Sometimes Prim.’

‘You could never be Prim, Darling, I can tell that a mile off.  So you’re the goddess whose ass I’ve got to kiss?’

‘I am?’

‘The Ice Queen Melteth?  That was your doing I’m told?’

Primmie giggled.  ‘I helped her pick out a dress.’

‘Primmie Darling, you achieved more in one evening than I’ve been able to in three months.  And I’m good at this stuff.  Are you in fashion?’

‘I’m a masseuse.’

‘Oh, that’s right, of course you are.  You know, maybe we can come to an arrangement?’ Jerek said thoughtfully.  ‘We need to strategise.  The rehabilitation of Nixie Dorchester.  The other night was a good start.  Today it’s a charity speech.  Work your magic on her.  Your special calming technique, perhaps.’

This last sentence was accompanied by a wink that implied he knew more about their massages than he was letting on.  But how was that possible, Primmie asked herself, showing her pass to a bodyguard before mounting the stairs to Nixie’s apartment.  How could anybody else know what happened on her massage table?

On arriving in Nixie’s bedroom, she found her wearing a brown tweed skirt, bright purple silk blouse and a pair of low, flat heels.

‘I think this says: “I’m sensible, honest and perfect to be patron of your dull little charity.”  What do you think?’

‘No, no, no,’ Primmie cried, heading towards the wardrobe.  ‘All it says is: “I haven’t got a clue about clothes”.  Let me take a look.’

She began to pour her way through Nixie’s wardrobe, which was full of bold colours, stripes, spots and patterns, and oversized double-breasted jackets.  Finally, Primmie found a pretty pink skirt suit and a soft chiffon blouse.

‘Primmie Darling, this is for a wedding!’ Nixie protested.

‘Not when you’re the PM’s wife it isn’t.  This says: “I’m approachable, warm and sensitive, and I want to do my bit for underprivileged children.”  Little girls will love it as it’s pink, and the colour will flatter you in the photos.’

 

An hour later, as a tense Nixie descended the stairs of Number Ten, Jerek approached Primmie.  ‘She looks fabulous, however did you manage it?  You and I need to have a little talk, maybe a cocktail later?’  Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Nixie.  ‘Your speech.’  He handed her a piece of paper.  ‘No big words.  Now remember, speak slowly and keep your pitch low.’

Nixie took the paper and glanced at it, before turning back.  ‘Primmie Darling, come with me.  Please?  Help me go over this in the car.’

Primmie readily agreed.  Just whatever did Jerek have in mind for her, she wondered, sensing that her life was about to change.  Personal advisor to the PM’s wife would most certainly open up doors for her, and there was a definite thrill at being close to the seat of power, even if all she ever did was lick it.  There had been no massage that day, as she’d spent the hour fussing over Nixie’s appearance and trying to style her hair.  As a result, Nixie looked great, and it amazed Primmie how little someone with such natural beauty had bothered with her appearance until now.

So what exactly was it that had drawn Simon Dorchester, Britain’s new Prime Minister, to the multi-millionaire heiress?

In the car heading towards the inner city centre, Primmie helped Nixie to rehearse the words Jerek had given her.  ‘It is a great honour to become your patron today, as I care so deeply and passionately about the welfare of underprivileged children…’  She looked at Primmie.  ‘I won’t have to kiss any, will I?’

‘Someone will probably give you a posy,’ Primmie suggested.  ‘Which you accept graciously.  Just smile.  Pretend to be warm.’

‘I hate giving speeches.  It scares me.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ Primmie reassured her.  ‘Just take a deep breath and read it slowly and it’ll be over before you know it.’

 

Inside the children’s centre, Primmie watched as Nixie chatted to the children and staff, graciously accepting a bunch of tulips and smiling warmly under the flashbulbs of cameras.  Minutes before she was due to make her speech, however, she made a lunge at Primmie, pulling her inside a disabled lavatory.

‘Primmie, do me quickly, it’s what I need, please,’ she urged.

‘Here?  Now?’

‘Here and now.’

The pressure on, Primmie sank to her knees as Nixie unzipped her skirt and pulled it up around her waist.  Then, she raised one foot up onto the loo seat, allowing Primmie to catch the gusset of her knickers with one finger and pull it to one side, before immersing her tongue in Nixie’s pussy, and lapping at her clit using both the tip and the flat of her tongue.  She inserted her free index finger inside her and kept the pressure firmly on Nixie’s g-spot.  As if heightened by their extraordinary circumstances, Nixie’s juices began to flow down Primmie’s face, and Primmie let her remaining free fingers roam towards her butt, which she tickled softly.  As Nixie’s orgasm rose, she pulled Primmie’s face in tighter towards herself, buffeting against her.

‘Mrs Dorchester?’ came an anxious voice from outside the booth.  ‘Are you ready?’

‘Yes, yes!’  cried Nixie.  ‘I’m coming!’

Once her orgasm had subsided, Nixie wiped herself with loo-roll and went to make her speech, leaving Primmie to wash her hands and face.  She arrived in the hall in time to hear Nixie pronouncing her final words.  As the applause swelled, Primmie gathered, to her relief, that her speech had gone down about as well as she herself had only minutes earlier.

 

Jerek Winston was waiting for her in the corner of a hotel bar.  Discreet and expensive, with private cubicles, it was the perfect setting for illicit romances and political coups.

‘The rehabilitation of Nixie Dorchester,’ Jerek was saying as he sipped a Screwdriver.   ‘You’ve started on the makeover, but we need more.  She’s got to be seen to be doing something useful.’

‘She loves the great outdoors,’ Primmie suggested.  ‘Hiking and climbing, that sort of thing.  Perhaps  she could take on a few nature charities?’

‘I like your thinking,’ Jerek said, tapping notes to himself into his iPhone.  ‘I’ll have someone check a few out.’

‘But she does need help with her clothes,’ Primmie insisted, sipping a Margarita.  ‘I lucked out these last couple of times, but I’ve been in that walk-in wardrobe, and believe me, it’s not a tasteful experience.’

Jerek sipped thoughtfully, listening to her.

‘And her hair’s a disaster.  I’ve suggested she cuts three inches off and adds a few layers, but she’s one of those women who’s wedded to long hair.’

‘I know just the guy.’ Jerek snapped his fingers.  ‘Sven-Mikael.  We’ll get her on his books.’

Sven-Mikael, as everyone knew, was the celebrity hairdresser of the moment, famed for his versatility, his flattering use of colour and his exquisite cutting.  He’d moved to London from Gothenburg years earlier and built his business up from a tiny salon off the King’s Road into a multi-salon franchise, with units in every world city, an ever-growing range of organic hair products and regular appearances on daytime TV.  There, his blonde good looks, boyish charm and elegant basin-side manner made him perfect for TV makeovers.  Sven-Mikael adored glamorous women, and was renowned for turning up at celebrity events with extension-bearing wags and IT-girls on his arm, but despite being obviously gay, he was fiercely private about his sex-life.

‘I adore him,’ Jerek said with a sigh.  ‘But he only dates male models.  I don’t stand a chance, I know that.  Though maybe this will raise me in his esteem?’

Primmie smiled, trying to disguise her excitement.  She was entering a whole new world.

‘Now, can you handle the clothes?’ Jerek was back to business.  ‘Take her shopping, befriend fashionistas, you know, magazine editors, who can guide her.  I’ll discuss the budget with Simon.’

‘Magazine editors?’

‘You think Waity-Katy manages on her own?  Everyone needs guidance.’

Primmie felt now was the time to negotiate.  ‘I’m happy and honoured to get involved,’ she started.  ‘But I do have work obligations, you know.  Of course, if I were remunerated well, I could give in  my notice.’

Jerek looked at her with a wry smile.  ‘I’ll discuss it with Simon.  Maybe Nixie can pay you out of her private account, God knows she’s loaded enough.  We’ll call you Nixie’s lifestyle consultant, something like that.  You’ll take care of her looks and smooth over the cracks with all her public appearances.  You’ll be there for whatever she wants, whenever she wants it.’

‘I would have to consider it,’ said Primmie, trying to appear tougher than she felt.

‘She thinks the world of you, that much is true,’ Jerek said, running his finger thoughtfully around the rim of his glass.  ‘All that you have to remember is, what happens behind closed doors, stays behind closed doors.’  He looked directly into her eyes.

‘Of course.  Confidentiality and all that.  I expect I’ll have to sign things, that’s understandable.’

Jerek allowed a brief pause, before saying, ‘Primmie Darling, I know all about your special massage tricks.’

Primmie blushed.  ‘I really don’t follow you.’

‘The other day I needed to take a leak, but the foreign secretary was stuck, something about a dodgy balti in his Midlands constituency.  So I popped upstairs to use the private one, and I heard certain noises coming from Nixie’s bedroom.  Well, I’m only human, so I took a little peek through the keyhole.  And I saw a helluva lot more of her than I’d bargained for, I can tell you.  And as for you, my saucy little darling, I saw you, how shall I put this, delivering your secret services.’

‘I don’t know what to say – ‘

‘Say nothing.  Like I said, what happens behind closed doors stays behind closed doors.  You’re clearly working some kind of magic on her, so just go with it.  Providing you don’t steal her away from Simon, of course.  A messy divorce and lesbian ex-wife are the last thing he needs.’

‘You won’t tell him?’

Jerek made a dramatic lips-sealed gesture.  ‘Just don’t get too good, they need a baby soon.  Play the royals at their own game.’

Primmie took another sip of her Margarita.  She’d lost her bargaining power through the key-hole, and cursed her bad luck.  Jerek, she was sure, could be a powerful friend, but a savage enemy.  She was stepping into a hotbed,  but decided to relish, and not fear this new opportunity.

There was only one direction to go, Primmie told herself.  She didn’t have a reverse gear.

Secret Services

‘Darling, you have such beautiful hair, but it hangs around your face like a used dishmop!’  Sven-Mikael, tall, sculpted and stylish, threw back his own shiny blonde locks with laughter.

For ordinary mortals, there was a three month waiting list for a first appointment with Sven-Mikael, the famed celebrity hairdresser adored by socialites, supermodels and assorted A-listers, but for Nixie Dorchester, wife of the British Prime Minister, the doors to his Mayfair salon were discreetly opened one Tuesday evening.  All staff had been dismissed, and as Primmie watched on with two bodyguards for company, the champagne flowed faster than Sven-Mikael’s scurrilously indiscreet gossip.

‘I haven’t seen such dry hair since I took out Posh Spice’s hair extensions,’ he announced with a dramatic huff.  ‘All split ends and dry twigs,’ he added, oblivious to his client’s discomfort.  ‘It’s like a forgotten bush behind the garden shed that hasn’t been pruned, but with my magical touch, it can flourish!’

He poured his fingers through Nixie’s blonde locks, pulling them and manoeuvring them while she stared impassively at her reflection in the mirror.  ‘Soft layers around the face,’ he stated with the passion of someone on the verge of a great discovery.  ‘Gentle but stylish.  A soft fringe, just wisps of hair on the forehead, and then to cascade down around your ears and bounce off the shoulders.’

‘Nothing too dramatic,’ Nixie protested.  ‘We have this big EU dinner tomorrow, I just want to look good for that.’

Simon Dorchester was enduring two days’ of negotiations with EU Commissioner Richard de Castellane, a Frenchman known, not only for his culinary and sexual appetites, but also as an EU hardliner determined to keep the recalcitrant Britain in check.  The two had been portrayed only that morning in a popular tabloid as two boxers slugging it out, a foppish-looking Dorchester clinging to the ropes while the euro-heavyweight prepared to throw his first punch.

‘It will caress your smooth shoulders like the softest of cashmere shawls,’ Sven-Mikael insisted.  ‘And volume – we’ll give you volume like you’ve never known – up to number eleven, no less!’

Nixie cast a despairing glance at Primmie, who smiled in encouragement.  ‘You’re in wonderful hands,’ she said.  ‘Remember what he did with the speaker’s wife?’

‘Darling, you have no idea what I did with the speaker’s wife!’ Sven-Mikael quipped with another burst of fey laughter.  ‘And you know what?  I’m never doing that again, I can tell you!  Now, soft highlights, to flatter your skin tone, in a mix of my own making.  You shall have your own, unique colour, my darling.  More champagne?’

Primmie watched on as Sven-Mikael painstakingly painted strands of Nixie’s hair in different tones, wrapping them in foil with his delicate, manicured fingers.  She thumbed through a magazine or two, and cast surreptitious glances at her watch.  Jerek had suggested a drink after it was over, and she hoped this meant he was about to offer her a full-time position.

‘You know who’s hair I dream of styling?’  Sven-Mikael asked anyone who was listening.  ‘Princess Anne!  I could turn that woman into such a beauty they’ll want her as the centrefold of Maxim, I promise you!  And don’t talk to me about Madonna, I’m so bored with those straggly blonde rats’ tails.  She’s looking more vaudeville than pop queen these days.  I’d give her a going-over she’d never forget, I can tell you.’

An hour later, as Nixie sat there, her head a mass of tin foil and cotton wool,  Sven-Mikael offered to show Primmie the treatment rooms located above the salon.

‘There’s nothing more exciting than a new client,’ Sven-Mikael went on as they mounted the stairs.  ‘Especially one so prestigious.  I hear you’re the little miracle-maker who’s been dragging her into the 21st fashion century?’

‘I’m trying to do my bit,’ Primmie admitted, flattered that someone so famous knew about her.

‘In this room, we do our facials and body treatments,’ Sven-Mikael told her, as Primmie looked into a warm, gold and beige space with gilt mirrors, subtle lighting and mood music.  ‘But this next room is my favourite.  I call it the immersion room, where you can succumb to your innermost desires and senses.’

The room, while decorated in the same gold and beige style, had at its centrepiece a large curved bed.

‘The latest thing, new in from Sweden.  Take off your boots and lie on that,’ Sven-Mikael instructed, and Primmie did as she was told.

He took a remote control and started adjusting the settings, and Primmie immediately became immersed in a warm embrace, like a baby being wrapped up in a warm fluffy towel by its caring mother.  The bed kneaded her gently, caressing her limbs rather than massaging them, and as she lay back, tentacle-like attachments stroked her head and feet.

‘I know just what you’re thinking,’ Sven-Mikael said, as Primmie closed her eyes and succumbed to the sensations.   ‘You’re thinking, what can it do for me down there?  Am I right or am I right?’

Primmie started guiltily – she  had indeed been thinking just that.  Her pussy had started throbbing with desire.  For all the time she’d spent administering to Nixie’s needs, she’d hardly had a chance to think about her own, and suddenly she craved sex with an animalistic force.

Sven-Mikael stopped the machine and held out his hands to help Primmie up.  But instead of letting them go again, he pulled her towards him and kissed her, gently on the lips.  His lips were plump and soft and he smelt womanly, of shampoos and conditioners, of hair masks and smoothing lotions, but he kissed well, and in her champagne-drizzled surprise, Primmie allowed herself to be kissed, and to kiss back.

When they came to a natural pause, Primmie pulled away.  ‘But I always thought you were – ‘

‘Shhhhh.’  He put his forefinger to his lips.  ‘It’s my naughtiest secret.  I’m straight.’

He took her hand and ran it down his taut, muscular body until she was stroking his stiff cock through his white jeans.

‘I’m doing this to you?’ she asked in astonishment.

‘I may act like a queen darling, but inside I’m all man.’

Primmie unfastened his gold crocodile skin belt, undid his fly and unleashed Sven-Mikael’s stiff cock.  She sank to her knees and took it in her mouth.  She hadn’t tasted cock in months, and his was a pleasure, clean and sweet and hard, and as she sucked and stroked, she cupped his hair-free balls and admired the neatly-trimmed grazing of pubic hair above his shaft.

He sighed and stroked her head, before whispering, ‘Darling, I want so badly to fuck you.  We’ve got ten minutes until Nixie’s time’s up.’

He pushed her to the edge of the immersion bed and pulled down her opaque black tights and the knickers she wore under them, all the time kissing and nibbling at her face and neck.  Then he yanked up her woollen skirt and plunged his tongue inside her.  The feeling was exquisite, and Primmie knew she had to come, that nothing else could happen until she’d enjoyed her next orgasm – it was as if the whole world could be put on hold while she existed in this moment: Nixie’s hair could go platinum white and fall out for all she cared, as long as she could enjoy this most delicious of experiences, and savour its ultimate outcome.

He darted his tongue around her clit until she was wet, then, as she took off her skirt, he unravelled a condom over his cock, before plunging inside her, tussling with her jumper and bra until she was naked.  As he plunged in and out, the feeling was so unexpected and so divine that Primmie forgot all about Nixie waiting in the room below, and the bodyguards who could enter at any moment, but just held on to his smooth back, inhaling his sweet scent.

He kissed her, and their kisses were full of juices and saliva, sweet and slightly salty, and in the moment Primmie thought that nothing could taste more perfect.  As he pushed harder and harder inside her, Sven-Mikael pulled open her cheeks and slipped a finger in her arse.  Primmie bucked and thrust beneath him, pushing herself to meet both his finger and his cock, and when she came it was explosive and violent, an act of rebirth, it was as if the world as she knew it had ended and in the resultant chaos she was becoming a whole and a new person.

As she subsided, so Sven-Mikael came, his face wrinkling up in ecstasy, and he slumped on top of her with a giggle and a kiss.

‘Our little secret, darling.  Be sure not to tell anyone.  You’re such a pretty little thing, I just couldn’t resist you.’

‘But why do you tell everyone you’re gay?’ she asked, minutes later as Sven-Mikael was sluicing himself down in the basin.

‘I don’t, as a matter of fact.  Everyone just makes that assumption, and who am I to correct them?’  He started pulling on his clothes.  ‘My customers adore me gay, they want me gay.  They open up to me, they tell me things they’d never dream of telling a straight man.  I’m their comfort factor.  If they knew the truth – my career would be in ruins!’  He tossed his hair in a dramatic flourish.  ‘Promise me Primmie.’ He turned and looked at her directly.  ‘Promise me you’ll never tell a soul.  Not Nixie, certainly not Jerek Winston, not anyone?’

‘I promise.’

‘And I’d love to do that again sometime.  I can’t possibly get involved, I’m sure you understand why, but if you’d agree to a non-exclusive physical relationship, I’m all yours.’  His mobile phone emitted a sharp beep.  ‘Oops, Nixie’s colour’s done.  Must dash.’

Primmie spent the next hour watching as Sven-Mikael snipped, grazed and lunged at Nixie’s hair, before blow-drying it as if conducting an orchestra, a look of deep concentration in his eyes and great flourishes of the turbo-dryer.  For his finale, he applied some of his own-brand finishing gloss, infused with Bulgarian rose and organic mandarin oils, and when Nixie turned around to reveal her new self to Primmie, her cheekbones had become more prominent, her nose more aquiline and any signs of wrinkles had all but disappeared.

‘You are amazing,’ Primmie gasped.  ‘Both of you.  Nixie, you look incredible, and Sven-Mikael, you’re a magician.  You’ve brought out all her features.’

‘She was a dry stone before, but now she shines like a diamond,’ Sven-Mikael agreed proudly.  ‘This is my skill.  I have chipped and polished and worked her to her best advantages.  This is what I do.  This is why Kate, Naomi and Claudia all adore me.’

‘It’s not too much?’ a worried Nixie asked.

‘God, no,’ Primmie told her.  ‘For photographs you’ll look fabulous.’

‘And in this world, that’s really all that matters,’  Sven-Mikael added, with a wise nod.

 

‘That man’s a total genius,’ Jerek Winston told Primmie over Champagne Coolers in a discreet Mayfair bar.  ‘You’ve sorted a decent dress for tomorrow night?’

‘Yes, don’t worry.  We had a fitting this afternoon.  Everything will be perfect.’

‘I have a little something for you.’  He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope.  ‘Your contract.  I think you’ll be pleased.  I want you to give up the spa and devote yourself one hundred percent to Nixie’s needs, OK?’

Primmie opened the envelope, glanced through the contract and was genuinely astonished at the amount they were offering to  pay her.  It was about double what she would have asked for herself.

‘We’re expecting total discretion.  Nothing leaves Number Ten, you hear me?  No unauthorised leaks to the press – that’s my job!’  He broke into a smile.  ‘Seriously.  I’m very happy to have you on board the Team Dorchester super-highway.  I think we’ll get on a treat.’

Primmie put the paper away.  ‘I’m thrilled to bits.’

‘Did you put in a good word for me with Sven-Mikael?’

Primmie shook her head.  ‘He never stops talking, you know, about the celebrities he’s done, the ones he’d like to do – ‘

‘The boys he’s done!  I saw him once with a Calvin Klein underwear model.  Oh, for a sandwich with those two.’

Primmie just sipped her champagne and felt a slight pang of guilt.

He looked at her quizzically.  ‘Do you do boys too?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Hmmm.’  Jerek looked pensive a moment.  ‘Do you want to come to a party with me?’

‘Now?’

‘It’s time you entered my den of iniquity.  If we’re going to trust each other, this is the best way.’

‘I don’t understand?’

Jerek drained his glass.  ‘You will.’

 

The chauffeur drove them to a non-descript house in Ealing, and as they got out, Jerek instructed him not to wait.  As they walked up the hydrangea-filled gravel drive, Primmie could hear music and chat, and wondered for a second if there was any chance Sven-Mikael might be there.  His cock might not have been the size of  Walter’s, but it had ignited a fire inside her that she never wanted to put out.  Fucking him again would be like stoking the flames, and suddenly that was all she could think about.

Two suited men let them in, and the moment they entered, they were hit with the smell of incense and oils, and the sound of lounge music and muted laughter.  The stairs directly ahead were littered with beautiful and partly-naked female bodies, some enwrapped in leather and bondage gear, others in lacy underwear.  Some were kissing each other, while others were wrapping themselves around middle-aged men, grateful for the attention.  On the landing at the top  of the stairs Primmie could see a girl suspended on a swing being fucked by a man whose trousers were down by his ankles.   As they entered the main room, a dark-haired girl was on her knees giving head to a Labour MP Primmie recognised, while over on a sofa an older woman, somewhere in her forties, had straddled a celebrity chef and was bouncing up and down on his cock.

‘Champagne?’  Jerek handed Primmie a glass.  She was feeling more than overdressed, but refused to look shocked in his company.

‘I don’t see any man-on-man action,’ she said to him.

‘That’ll be upstairs.  Back bedrooms,’ he added, with a knowing wink.   ‘Knock yourself out.’  He took his drink and headed towards the stairs.

‘How are you?’ A beautiful girl in her twenties approached Primmie, brushing her hand up against her pussy as if by way of introduction.  She eased it under her skirt and down her tights and they began to kiss, and she slipped her fingers into Primmie’s knickers and began to explore her cunt.

Primmie was now overwhelmed with desire.  She played with the girl’s breasts as they lapped at each other’s tongues, and Primmie was aware that several men had begun to circle around them.

‘You’re sweet,’ the girl said, removing her fingers and popping them inside her mouth.  Then she turned away and put her fingers in the nearest man’s mouth, kissing him through Primmie’s juices.

‘You’re very overdressed,’ one of the men said to her.  ‘I can help you with that.’

She smiled and shook her head.  Primmie was fascinated.  She wanted to explore some more.  She took a hit of champagne and looked around herself as apparent strangers began licking and sucking one another.  She walked around, a little drunk and tired, and watched in awe at the variety of scenes unfolding around her.  In the corner one girl was on her knees going down on another, over a chair a man was fucking a plump woman from behind.  She wished she was with Sven-Mikael on his voluptuous bed, and wondered if she dared call him.

Outside the kitchen, a dominatrix was making a fat, naked man beg for pieces of lurid pink sponge cake, which she squished between her fingers before inserting them in his mouth.  Two women were taking it in turns to blow the same man, who was smiling like he’d just found Jesus.  There was a floorshow in the conservatory where three men lay on their backs on a Persian carpet while a parade of knickerless girls danced above them, offering them the show of their lives.

A fat, balding man approached her and Primmie smiled but shook her head.  It was like a dream, where anything could happen, and none of it seemed very real.  She walked into the next room only to see a large, middle-aged man fucking the girl she’d not that long ago been kissing.  The girl was sprawled on her back on a large armchair, her legs held up by a sling that was suspended from the ceiling, and he was easing his cock in and out of her, his eyes closed, oblivious of his partner.  She stared at him, knowing she recognised his face from somewhere, until realising that he was none other than Richard de Castellane, the Euro Commissioner who’d been giving Simon Dorchester such a hard time.

Primmie watched, in awe, at the sight of his cock.  It was the Empire State Building of cocks, it was a colossus of a cock, it could even put Walter’s to shame.  She circled them, studying it, making sure she wasn’t mistaken, and envying the girl who was getting so thoroughly and wonderfully fucked.  As he came, Richard de Castallane held on to her suspended legs, pushing them further apart, and drove into her, harder and harder.  Their cries grew louder than the music, and he came, suddenly and sweatily, wiping his forehead on his shirtsleeve once it was over.

Primmie was both intrigued and revolted, aroused and ashamed, and thoroughly mesmerised by the dimensions of his cock.  She had to have it.  And with a major EU dinner to prepare for at which he was the guest of honour, the chances were, Primmie told herself, she might even get it.

COMING NEXT: 

In Book Two, Primmie gets to grips with Richard de Castellane’s enormous dimensions, climbs to dazzling heights with a Russian oligarch and unwittingly embarrasses the Chancellor of the Exchequer on Budget Day…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Viva Jones is the author of numerous erotic short stories published by Xcite Books, House of Erotica, Lovehoney and Mischief.  Her first full-length erotic novel, The Summer of Aphrodite (Desperate Housewives meets The Magus) is published by House of Erotica.

Find Viva at:

http://vivajoneserotica.wordpress.com/

http://vivajones.hubpages.com/


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