Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
HELENHelen Sinclair sat at the small, wrought-iron rococo table for two on the quaint little café’s grey-stone patio. The café sat perched above the harbour of Road Town, the capital of the British Virgin Islands, on the island of Tortola. From behind her fashionable sunglasses, she surveyed the vista below — colonial buildings, yachts, and sailboats moored at their marina docks, and the rich green foliage that cradled the harbour’s turquoise Caribbean waters. Protected from the island sun above her by a sliver of shade and a large chic hat, a soft late morning breeze gently flitted the hem of her light cotton A-Line dress. She unhurriedly sipped her Americano, beads of condensation beading her water glass, and glanced at the currently vacant seat next to her, her ear attuned for the sound of any cars or motorcycles approaching from the steeply inclined road out front of the café. Her cool exterior concealed nervous butterflies in her tummy. She glanced behind her, ensuring that her ‘guest’ had not yet arrived, then quickly checked her lipstick, makeup, and hair in her pocket mirror.At sixty-two, Helen’s immaculately coiffed, shoulder-length hair was now an elegant silver-white. With her green eyes, full lips, and fine symmetrical features, she remained, by any measure, a beautiful woman. In her previous career as a senior economist with Her Majesty’s Exchequer in London, she had always arrived at her office well-turned out in expensive woman’s business attire, consistently carrying herself with tasteful elegance, femininity, and a chic fashion sense. Still, despite the unmistakable legacy of a posh private boarding school background, there was always a palpable sexiness about Helen.In her dress, her blouses were always just one additional button undone, the slit of her skirts just a few inches more provocative, than what might be considered properly conservative, and men took notice.Though married, and it was presumed happily so, with three adult children, she was an object of fantasy for more than a few of her male (and female) colleagues. One look at her was enough to convince her admirers that beneath those expensive skirts, blouses, dresses, and tailored suits, was the finest in Perla lingerie and Gio silk stockings. Even into her early sixties, her figure remained fetching. Indeed, with the advancing years, and her child-bearing years decades removed, her hourglass silhouette had only become more pronounced.Her breasts, large even as a teen, had continued to expand to the present day, affording her ample opportunities for playful but tasteful décolletage. Emphasized by a narrow waist, wide hips, relatively thick thighs, and a curvaceous derriere, her figure was, in a word, voluptuous – fecund, though never overly ‘fleshy’.Sipping her coffee that lovely morning at the cafe, she mused about the events – both recent and more distant — that had brought her there. Having retired from the civil service at sixty, and hoping to slow down, she had ‘put out her shingle’ as a consultant, only to find herself busier than ever as an advisor to governments and private equity managers across Europe and beyond. When an offer came from a private equity consortium in the British Virgin Islands, she was intrigued – a twelve-week contract, lavish accommodation, and manageable demands of her time. She and her barrister husband both agreed that it would be a lovely opportunity for her to get away and recharge, while still maintaining her ‘brand’ and visibility.Dropped off at Heathrow by her eldest son, she had embarked on her journey, connecting in St. Maarten, before finally reaching her destination at Road Town. Provided with her own private ‘handler’ at the airport, she’d quickly been delivered to her temporary island home – a gorgeous, gated villa overlooking a private, white sand beach.A short walk down the narrow road from her villa was a charming little village of high-end shops, restaurants, cafes, even a spa. With Helen opting to work mostly from the office space in her villa, Nathan, the consortium representative she’d dealt with directly, had given her two options – a car of her own for the duration of her stay, or a driver on call to escort her whenever and wherever she needed to go. Nathan highlighted the advantages of the latter. Preferring to limit her driving and avoid having to navigate the sometimes-chaotic island traffic and its confusing network of roads, Helen graciously agreed.The following morning, she’d heard a knock on her door. Still, in her short silk robe, she opened the door and found herself face to face with a very attractive young black man. The young man, who appeared to be in his early twenties, smiled and introduced himself as Devon, her assigned driver. Pointing to the sleek, black four-door Mercedes in the driveway, he provided her with his cell number, explaining that he would be at her beck and call, available whenever she needed him, for drives, errands, even tours around the island.Still somewhat scantily dressed, she momentarily hesitated before inviting him in for tea on her deck.Dressed in form-fitting white trousers, Italian loafers, and a pastel-coloured shirt, Devon cut a rather impressive figure — short-cropped hair, strong jawline, dazzling smile, beautiful brown eyes, and easy confidence. Tall, with broad shoulders and an athletic frame, he looked more like a male swimsuit model, film star, or Chippendales bursa escort bayan dancer, than a chauffeur. Despite his obvious youth – likely some four decades her junior – his looks and physique were matched with impeccable manners and an engaging charm.They sat together on the patio, engaging in pleasant conversation over lemon tea. Helen, legs crossed, self-consciously but surreptitiously drew down the hem of her short robe with her manicured fingers, aware of the slightly indecent amount of thigh that was exposed.”Are you a born and bred islander?” she asked, taking note of an English accent very similar to her own.”No,” he replied, explaining that he was a fellow Londoner and recounting how he found himself living in the British Virgin Islands and working for the consortium.Their pleasant conversation lasted close to an hour, and Helen found the young man’s company quite delightful, deciding that having a gorgeous twenty-something black man at her beck and call was not a disagreeable situation.Initially, Helen was a little reluctant to take advantage of Devon’s services; however, over the next few weeks, she found herself relying on him more and more frequently, and the pair soon developed a burgeoning friendship. She enjoyed taking breaks from her office laptop to do a bit of shopping or run errands. Over time, and with the young man’s gentle persuasion, his services expanded to include midday trips exploring the island, which she enjoyed immensely.On one particularly pleasant excursion, Devon escorted her around several historic sights on the back of his motorcycle. At sixty-two years of age, dressed in short shorts and a thin blouse, she felt delightfully exhilarated as they bobbed and weaved through the two-lane traffic.Perched on the back of his motorcycle, Helen wrapped her arms around Devon’s taut midsection and held on tightly, her full bust pressed against his strong back.Touring through a former island Governor’s Mansion, they walked together as part of a group of tourists accompanied by a guide. When they came upon the house’s master bedroom, with its elaborate eighteenth-century four-poster bed, Helen playfully tugged at Devon’s pinky finger.”Such a lovely big bed,” she said with a naughty smirk. “Seems such a waste. Shall we try it out?” Devon turned and gave her a somewhat surprised but knowing smile.She blushed, suddenly regretting her risqué remark.Later that afternoon, riding along an oceanfront road overlooking several beaches, big and small, they had stopped for lunch. They laughed and shared stories over Creole-fusion dishes and cool drinks. At one point, Devon pointed to the entranceway to a white sand beach across the street.”That’s Road Town’s nude beach,” he grinned. “You won’t find many locals there,” he added, “but the European tourists seem to like it.””Another site on a future itinerary?” she teased. “Careful,” he replied with a cocky grin.Helen would often talk about her family back in London – her husband, now approaching seventy, and her three children that ranged in age from her eldest son of thirty-two to her youngest daughter, twenty-three. Devon confessed that save and except for an uncle and his immediate family, he was an island ‘orphan’ – everyone else being back in the United Kingdom.In short, order, as Helen depended on her handsome young guide more and more, the two of them became relatively close.Young Devon had succeeded in winning Helen over completely with his manners and charm, his intellect, his sweetness, and his delightfully understated sense of humour. She quickly came to look upon Devon with a kind of maternal-like fondness.In truth, their rapport quickly evolved, as another layer of complexity began to emerge. What began as a playful but subtle two-way flirtatiousness, slowly but perceptible evolved into something more overt. Was it possible that Helen, some four decades older, had developed a bit of a schoolgirl crush on young Devon? If so, it went beyond his looks, and though loathe to admit it to herself, their time together quickly became the highlight of her day.When she was honest with herself, and she was whenever — moments after he escorted her to her door — she found herself alone in her thoughts, she would shake her head with a self-mocking smirk.’You silly woman, she would reprimand herself – you’re old enough to be his grandmother.’ She was quite sure Devon would be mortified if he knew about the existence of her, albeit harmless, crush. Still, after three and a half decades of marriage, it was fun to fantasize.She could be forgiven for being seduced by the idyllic sensuality of the island, its light, fragrances, rhythms, and energy.Postmenopause, Helen’s sex drive had remained insatiable, and as her husband’s had waned, she had been forced to find alternative outlets – for example, the latest erotic romance novel, accompanied by a luxurious bubble bath and a measure of self-care. She went to great effort to please her husband in the bedroom and enjoyed the way expensive bras and panties and stockings made her feel feminine and sexy, even if that effort often went unappreciated by her husband.There was something in the way Devon looked at her – never crudely – that made her feel truly sexy for the first time in years. It was rather easy for a woman her age, voluptuous figure görükle escort notwithstanding, to feel slightly invisible to men. Despite the conspicuous age gap, Devon’s appreciative gaze felt quite wonderful.He made her feel like the center of his attention, and it was intoxicating. In the reverse, she’d certainly enjoyed discreetly casting her feminine gaze upon her young chauffeur.The way his tight behind filled out his light-coloured chinos sometimes prompted her to bite her lower lip. The way he filled out the crotch of his pants led her to suspect that, at least in Devon’s case, the myth about black men may indeed be true. Nearly a virgin when she married, her husband was rather modestly appointed in that regard, and her feminine imagination sometimes wandered when her thoughts turned to her young chauffeur.As there was no money transacted between them, Helen began repaying Devon for his kindness and dedication by tipping him handsomely, paying for his meals, buying him expensive clothes and cologne, a Swiss watch, even having him fitted for a tailored suit.One evening, she’d treated him to dinner, at a restaurant that was decidedly romantic in terms of its ambience, even awkwardly so. She had dressed that evening in a low-cut summer dress, open-toed heels, and pearls – the latter drawing attention to the way her size 32GG push-up bra accentuated her rather deep cleavage. Still, when they were together in such instances, she remained quite sensitive to how they might appear to others. When the waiter brought them their aperitifs that evening, she thought she’d detected a slight smirk at the corner of the waiter’s lips. She imagined she wouldn’t have been the first older white woman from abroad, far from home, and temporarily freed from the responsibilities of husbands, families, and careers, to find herself a little black male ‘companionship’. That said, she was keenly aware of the assumptions she assumed those around them were made from such an unconventional ‘couple’. But when Devon placed his large hand on hers from across the table, she nevertheless allowed his touch to linger, feeling a private little shiver of excitement. When he’d escorted her to her door after dinner that evening, her head still buzzing from the wine, conversation, and his beautiful eyes and smile, there had been a pregnant pause of prolonged, slightly awkward silence. She eventually bid him goodnight by softly drawing her hand across his cheek. When she’d undressed later, she’d noticed that the gusset of her lacy panties was soaking wet.DEVONDevon Clarke parked the consortium’s black Mercedes in the parking lot of the café where he and Helen had arranged to meet that morning. He glanced at the time on the gold watch she’d bought for him.He was fashionably late, especially as it was his off day and he wasn’t on the clock. He was allowed to keep the car even on his days off, especially when he needed it for ‘clients’.He sat there and collected his thoughts. Though Helen was completely in the dark as to what manner of client she was, she was certainly that. His role with the consortium was part headhunter, part facilitator, part gigolo.Bottom line, he was there to seduce the women he was assigned to. The consortium was angling to offer Helen a permanent appointment, and his job was to keep her happy, very happy. If that meant sex, that meant sex. He didn’t normally feel guilt for the subterfuge, but in the case of Helen, he did.Since he’d signed on a year ago, he’d been assigned to several older women, usually in their forties or fifties, a few married, a few not, always with the same goal. He adored older women, loved making them feel adored, and the sex was not unpleasant.He was invariably their first black man, and he endeavoured to deliver on the sexual mythology. Still, married white women, after several decades of married life, could sometimes present a unique challenge. He remembered one instance where the client, after being neglected by her husband for years, hadn’t achieved an orgasm in almost a decade.He’d managed to best that challenge, and he recalled how as he’d held her in his arms, post-coitus, tears streamed down the woman’s cheeks, so grateful was she for being able to feel like a sexual being again after all that time. He often genuinely liked his older female clients, but he never allowed himself to become attached emotionally.So how had it happened, he asked himself as he sat there in the air-conditioned Mercedes, the Caribbean sun beating down on the black leather interior? How had he come to feel the way he did about this admittedly beautiful woman in her sixties? Against his better judgement, and despite her being three times his age, Devon had allowed himself to become emotionally involved. That was a clear breach of the arrangement. His other clients had been younger and often quite attractive in their own right, but Helen was different. There was something regal about her — polished, lady-like, and so feminine. She was beautiful, articulate, extremely bright, and effortlessly sexy in such an unassuming way. Despite her years, the posh accent, and the somewhat reserved demeanour, she positively exuded sex to the young man. Devon had found the combination irresistible. Though just twenty-two, he had never wanted to fuck a woman so badly in his life. Precisely the reason, he recognized, that he needed to proceed with caution.He had been educated in England and France, was fluent in French, passable in Italian, Spanish, and German. Despite his academic achievements, he had been destined for a professional football career before a devastating knee injury precluded all ambitions of a life on the soccer pitch. When an uncle in the British Virgin Islands suggested he sojourn there for a time to lick his psychological wounds, he jumped at the opportunity.Desiring to maintain his fitness level post recovery from injury, he frequented his Uncle’s exclusive men’s gym and social club. One afternoon after a workout, standing under one of the overhead nozzles of the communal showers, his hands pressed against the dark granite walls, he’d noticed a man – in his early forties, he guessed – casting more than a few glances in his direction. He endeavoured not to notice.Devon was, it must be stated, rather massively endowed, and it wouldn’t have been the first time a gay man, or even an incredulous straight man, gave him more than a second look in such a setting. Indeed, the young man’s flaccid, circumcised penis was truly awe-inspiring — in length, thickness, and shape. From its root below a neatly-trimmed patch of dark, tightly-coiled pubic hair, it hung down some seven or eight inches, handsomely shaped, and as thick as a woman’s forearm. His feminine conquests, and there had been more than a few, knew that the size of his erection was enough to strike fear in the horniest and most intrepid among them.For young Devon, the world of women lovers fell into four camps. The first group was women, young or older, who were just too afraid to try. For the second group, try as they might, it just would not fit, even after repeated, gentle and incremental attempts. The third group, their curiosity enflamed, was determined to persevere, despite the initial challenges and discomfort and having their cervix repeatedly bumped.The fourth group, of which there had been very few, achieved a sort of dizzy euphoria and simply could get enough of his cock, despite the sex causing them to walk and sit down somewhat gingerly for a day or so afterward. ‘TheyFit G3’ brand condoms were a godsend, advertised as the largest condoms on the market. He never went anywhere without them. Before that, condoms had been a nightmare, invariably tearing during sex. Turned on, terrified or both, there was always that inevitable shock when a woman first laid eyes on his cannon of an erection – almost eight inches around and eleven inches in length, one woman had dubbed it his “Pringles can.” As much a curse as a blessing, he had been highly motivated to learn how to use all that excess, lest he be continually denied access to that hallowed spot between a woman’s thighs.Changed and headed for the exit of the club that day, he was approached by the same man he’d spotted staring at him in the showers. The man now wore a well-tailored suit. He sighed, fearing the worst, but he needn’t have been anxious.The man introduced himself as Nathan. He was associated with an island equity management consortium. Though he remained somewhat vague as to what his specific role was, he offered Devon his card, pointed at his gleaming Porsche 911, and asked Devon if he could buy him a drink, someplace public. With a knowing smile, he assured the handsome young man that he wasn’t gay, but that he might have a somewhat unconventional business proposition to make. Having nothing better to do that afternoon, Devon first hesitated then, shrugging his shoulders, agreed to hear the man out.Over single malt scotches, Nathan’s initial line of questioning made Devon feel a bit like he was in the middle of an audition, rather than the reverse. But Nathan seemed to have an innate ability to draw him out, and as they continued to speak, the tone of the conversation began to change. After a while, it became clear to Devon that he had passed the ‘audition’. It was then that Nathan pitched the idea of work as a ‘male companion’ to wealthy older women visiting the island on business.The money was impressive, as were the perks – cars, clothes, even travel. Not to mention, in all likelihood, and depending on the client, a great deal of sex. Lots and lots of sex.”I’ve seen you in the shower,” noted Nathan. “With a cock that huge, you would be an acquired taste – a young, handsome, well-educated, well-mannered, and charismatic black man,” Nathan observed. “But with a cock big enough to make any woman tear the bedsheets with her teeth.”In short, Devon did indeed go on to become one of Nathan’s stable of young men and women. There had been early wins and losses. Despite eating like a bird the entire time she’d spent on the island, a married woman in her fifties from New York had swallowed so much of Devon’s semen that she’d gained weight, before finally inking a lucrative deal with the consortium and boarding her plane back to the United States. A woman from Stockholm had proposed marriage, threatening to divorce her husband and abandon her children before Nathan was forced to diplomatically intervene. Women fell in love with Devon’s cock, but they fell in love with Devon just as often or more. That said, there were other situations where Devon’s largesse proved to be a liability, like the middle-aged heiress from Berlin who, as a promising contractual agreement with Nathan’s group was approaching the finish line, discovered the size of Devon’s penis, and was too frightened to have sex, no matter how gentlemanly, how gently persuasive and reassuring, he was. Happily, for Devon, the deal was untimely finalized just the same, despite the fraulein’s fantasy remaining unfulfilled.