A Ghost from the Past

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It was another lively day at our Mayfair offices. We were pitching for the roll out campaign for a new TV series based on the famous Russian detective-cum-spy Erast Fandorin (a bit of a Sherlock type character but more dashing – a shoe in ladies man if ever there was one!). My boss has a keen instinct for the theatrical and a deep appreciation of visual imagery and so had pleaded with me (or rather instructed me) to be part of the pitch team to emphasise my eastern European credentials – as an ice cold, blue-eyed and high cheek-boned blonde. That I could do. I was, he said, to appear refined and aristocratic, sensual and alluring. Again, tick that box.

If you recall, I am a bit of spoilt daddy’s girl. Or at least I was. And that brings with it a kind of detachment and inbred sense of entitlement which can come across as aloofness. I also inherited by mothers vulnerability (so appealing to men and women alike) and modelling looks (much desired by men and women alike) and teamed it with the grace and poise of a dancer’s physique . I had my very own fashion sense – a blend of the classic femme fatale movie star looks and the more obvious porn queen look of today’s fashion. I find that my mother dressed to please herself and be admired by her contempories and fashionistas, whereas I dressed with more of an emphasis on how a man would ideally dress a woman. A way that exaggerates femininity and sexuality. Probably a generation thing!

My contribution to the pitch was not to be based on any commercial instincts and marketing flair – though I had done much of the basic creative work and would continue to work on the pitch behind the scenes – but to be eye candy. In the words of the big boss “to change the dynamic of the pitch.”

So, you are wondering, what on earth I was wearing. To be clear, he left the look entirely to me. Just be “unavailable but desirable honey” is all he said. I mused long and hard on what to wear. How to create an emotional and physical distance and to be “Russian.” I googled beautiful Russian women and a pattern, or a certain look, became apparent. It’s a different look to a Croatian woman who have a natural beach babe beauty…Russian women are more glacial for sure, but more obviously “booby” and “leggie.” More suited to cosmopolitan cities. And money. The boobs were the problem. I am 100% natural unlike the pneumatic shape loved by Russian women, typically heavy breasted, with slim waists and enhanced bottoms.

The solution was a tight fitting, long sleeved, silk mini dress with a roll neck – clinging to my body so the shape of my breasts could be clearly seen, and not buried by clothes. The dress was tight enough to show the tone of my stomach muscles and so not only left little to the imagination but was totally unforgiving on underwear – forcing me to wear just a g string. Think of the dress as no more than the thinnest of barriers between a silent gaze and a naked body.

The roll neck had the effect of lifting the dress so it emphasised how short it was (an optical illusion). My long legs were thus given maximum exposure as the focal point of the imagery, with a serious pair of stiletto heels to emphasise the effect. My legs are toned and very slim (of course). Through matching fingerless gloves bright red nail polish peeped, adding a dramatic look being somewhat out of place in a business meeting.

A simple silver chain around my neck with a cluster of (fake) diamonds added sophistication. Don’t you just love costume jewellery. And a matching ring. I wore my hair long and straightened so all the natural curl was ironed out. The effect against the darkness of the mini dress was startling and my hair fell down to the swell of my breasts. I had applied paler than usual foundation to my face accentuating the red blood lipstick and my cheekbones. A black “hardly there” gauze veil held in place with a simple diamond tiara band hovered over my eyes. Large drop earrings completed the outfit.

The effect was simply to entice. To be cinematic.

Judging from the reception around the table my chosen attire hit the spot. I caught my boss’s eyes and a little nod of appreciation. More importantly I held my gaze steadily as the delegates from the film studio ran their eyes over me, some none too subtly, and when I had to contribute I spoke slowly, with a trace of my Croatian accent, and softly so they had to concentrate on what I was saying. I heard afterwards from colleagues that the effect was mesmerising.

(And, even though the “set up” may be an insult to some women, and certainly to my own intellect, I embrace any opportunity to use the physical gifts bestowed on me to my personal advantage, on the basis that if I help my boss he will help me in my career).

The meeting went well, was completed in quick order, agreement reached and the decision taken to retire to the cocktail bar at the Mayfair Hotel, just off Berkeley Square. I took off the veil and grabbed my leather jacket, and jumped into the first waiting taxi and within 10 minutes was sat at the bar drinking güvenilir canlı bahis siteleri a nice rose champagne and making small talk when I felt a hand on the small of my back and a voice said “Excuse me, forgive me, you are Tihana are you not? I don’t know if you remember me but we met at one of Tom’s parties at the Monte Carlo beach club.”

My heart skipped as beat and I felt the room close in me. I looked around as if time had been stood still for a second. I had not been Tihana for many years – Tihana was my alias for when I conducted an affair with my own father as his consort, companion, lover and girlfriend after my mother had passed. That’s another story. Another life. Or so I thought.

“I’m sorry, but I am afraid you are mistaken. I’m Charli” and I extended my hand as if introducing myself to someone for the very first time. My smile open and friendly.

The man, in his late fifties, in decent enough shape, well dressed in a suit paused, took in the group I was with, smiled and fished out a business card and, as he handed it to me, simply said:

“My apologies Tihana, I mean Charli” (he smiled as he corrected his mistake). “It is just that you remind me so much of a very pleasant evening I spent in the company of another woman that was nearly as beautiful as you. Please, I am in London for a few days and it would be my pleasure to apologise properly over dinner. Text me if you are free to join me.”

And he turned, nodded to a small entourage of what looked like a security detail and left without another word.

Lola, our pocket sized sex bomb and sometime receptionist leant over to me and whispered just loud enough for everyone to hear something to the effect that that was a very polished pick up and was I going to take up the invitation. Lola had a long term crush on me and as so often before had manipulated an invite to join the party in the hope that I might take proper and more considered notice of her.

I laughed.

“Yes”, I replied “very smooth and I liked that mistaken identity line. Very imaginative indeed.” I smiled at Lola with affection, and with a hint of lust. “You never know, my life has been rather dull in recent months.”

“You look very beautiful today, C. More than usual. The unobtainable look suits you.”

“Thanks Lola.”

I left her comment hanging for a second, then almost without thinking added “You know Lola, I am not unobtainable. I am, believe it or not, very shy and insecure and I dress up like I do not to attract attention, as some might think, but in fact to scare people off. Many guys – and yes girls – are intimidated by someone that looks great and dresses sexually and I like it like that. Because I find dealing with people difficult.” I reached out and took her hand holding her fingers lightly. “Don’t give up on me babes.”

Lola blushed. I of course knew she fancied me, even desired me, but she had never been with a woman before and was confused about her feelings and whether she was somehow broken.

“Well,” she replied, hesitating for a moment whilst debating what to say, “He wasn’t exactly intimidated was he?”

“No,” I replied,”He wasn’t.” And at that, Lola turned away from me, struggling with her own feelings and perhaps jealousy.

“No,” I repeated to myself, “Our Count of Reiberg is not the intimidated sort.”

My thoughts tuned to that balmy night some 3 years ago in Monte Carlo, when my great love affair was disintegrating and I had tried to level out with a few too many glasses of champagne and vodka shots. I had tried to make Tom jealous, to show him what he would lose, by flirting with other men that night. Tom struggling with the guilt from our forbidden sexual intimacy, had tried to show disinterest in my flirting. God only knows how much he was tearing up inside. But he never showed it.

The Count of Reiberg, from Liechtenstein, had been particularly responsive to my charms that evening. He was a business colleague of my father. Where my father was full of Irish wit, passionate, strong, crude, impulsive, the Count was the polar opposite. Smooth, charmingly polished, refined, tasteful, articulate, powerful and rich. Very.

In the evening the Monte Carlo beach club is an upmarket party that goes on to the early hours. I was dressed to party in long flowing chiffon roman style beach dress, light blue with silver straps, slashed to the waist and backless, with matching roman style stiletto ankle boots. And party that night I did. The young men were polite in their attention, careful not to overstep the mark in front of Tom and invoke his legendary quick temper.

And so it was left to the Count. To dance that little bit closer, to hold me that little bit gentler, to absent mindedly caress my naked back, to guide me to a seat out of the eye line of Tom so his fingers could trace little affectionate circles on my legs without causing offence, to feed me vodka so I lost that little bit more inhibition so he could rest his hand discretely on the warmth of my inner thigh güvenilir illegal bahis siteleri and, when he had taken things as far as would be polite, to gracefully retire. To take my hand and kiss my outstretched fingers, and bid me farewell privately with a long and searching look into my eyes, with the clear message that he wanted me there and then but was exercising complete self-control. As he left he dutifully returned me to Tom, with a little bow to my father extracted a promise that should Tom ever lose his senses and we part he was to have first option on my affections, after a suitable period of mourning of course.

I wondered then whether he knew something was afoot or was working on a sixth sense. Whatever. That was 3 years ago and until tonight I hadn’t seen the Count since. And, anyway, Tihana was no more.

My phone buzzed with the tell-tale message alert. My skin tingled nervously in anticipation as I checked my in box. It was Mike. A nice guy that was trying to romance me, bless him, and getting nowhere. In fact a very nice, handsome guy. Great sense of humour. Fit and athletic, chiselled jawed. But with no edge. No danger. Sorry Mike, not for me. I deleted his message and blocked him. That’s one way of replying I guess.

I keyed in the number from the card I had been presented with earlier and left a simple message.

“Tihana has been asleep for 2 years. How can she help you?”

“I’m intrigued by Charlize. She sounds interesting.”

“Charlize is boring. She is the person I should be but am not.”

“Tell me her story, dear lady.”

“I have been Charli all my life both before and after Tom. Tihana is my way of honouring my mother’s memory and being who I truly am. I have only been that with Tom. And so when we ended, Tihana died”

“I know all about Tihana” he texted “and clearly she is far from dead.” I hesitated. The blood racing through my veins and my head feeling numb as to how much he knew.

“Tom had to confess to someone. He came to loathe himself for abusing you. He told me. But I knew or at least suspected there was something, how do you say, beautifully unnatural.”

“He didn’t abuse me. I wanted it. I wanted him.” My heart was beating audibly now.

“So who do I take to Dinner? Charli or Tihana”

“Tihana is more fun”

“I don’t doubt it. But I’m guessing Charli is nicer. Perhaps more suitable for a Count. “

“Tihana can be a bitch of course. You met Tihana in Monte Carlo and knew it then. But you still wanted her.”

“I did young lady. What if I want Charli too? I do like nice people”

“I can only be one. You must choose. Then I will see.”

My nerves were jittery and for the first time in years I felt my skin tingle with excitement and the dull pussy ache of expectation that I realised I had missed so much. Which way would the Count decide? What if he chose Charli, and wanted romance and affection? Would I be disappointed? Was the feeling I now had a distant memory caused by my time with my father. When Tihana lived? Or was it for the Count? He had a certain aura, a confidence, a power that I found seductive.

“Do you feel sexy now?” His text cut to the point as if he anticipated my inner questions.

I smiled at his insight. “Do you?”

“My fingers have unfinished business and I want to taste you. Now. Do not think of denying me. My cock is hard at the thought of you.”

I sent a smiley face.

“In that case the car will be with you in 10 minutes. Be ready.”

“I am ready.”

I was answering honestly. She was ready. My nipples ached and I’m sure the more observant guys might be enjoying the view through the shimmering fabric

“What are you thinking?”

“That I haven’t felt this way in ages.” Again I was being honest.

“I had forgotten that you are the most beautiful creature on earth. I have always wanted you. “

Another smiley. This time followed by a yellow face blowing a kiss. He sent back an emoticon of a bottle of champagne.

“Yes please.”

“On ice. In car. 5 minutes. Say your goodbyes and be at the front.”

I quickly made my excuses and popped to the ladies to freshen my make-up and re-perfume.

“One thing before you get in the car.”

“Yes?”

“When we were in Monte Carlo did you want my fingers inside you? Answer truthfully.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Even with your father there.”

“More so because of that. And because of you.”

“Why me”

“You can have anyone you want with your title, breeding and money. I was flattered you paid me attention.”

“You are uniquely designed for sex Tihana. I’m glad you want my fingers. Now come out into the street and get into the car. And you are not to utter a word from now until I say you can. Text me back to say you agree and consent to sex.”

The Mercedes limousine was at the kerb and the chauffeur was standing at the door patiently. As I approached he opened the door and closed it softly behind me and I climbed into the pampered interior. güvenilir bahis şirketleri I saw the Count in the corner in the soft pink glow of the interior lights with a white shirt unbuttoned. A bottle of opened champagne was in the ice bucket with a glass turned upside down. I sat down and filled the glass as the privacy window closed between us and the driver and the car set off. The lights of Mayfair slid by silently, providing an electrical ambience like candlelight, as I watched my Count loosen his trousers and slip them off so he was sitting there naked apart from his unbuttoned shirt. He was looking at me lustfully and caressing his cock…which was smooth, hairless and rock hard. He was staring at me lustfully, something I found strangely exciting.

He had a bit of a tummy from too much good living but was in good shape no doubt from regular ski seasons and sailing and swimming. I slipped my hands into my g string and began to pull them down, wiggling my hips suggestively, when I felt his hand on my wrist stopping me and then gently push me back so I didn’t spill my drink.

He slid a finger along my slit, smiling as my plump pussy lips opened to him, appreciating the moistness he found waiting for him. He motioned to me to drink as he slid his finger inside, hooking it back towards my belly button to find the cluster of nerve endings of my g-spot in one simple, efficient moment. What is it with older men that know exactly how to turn a girl on?

He began to circle his fingers applying pressure and I began to quicken my breath and gyrate my hips squeaking on the leather of the limos bench seat and opening my legs lustfully, my dress riding up my thighs. He had two fingers inside me now, pushing against me and increasing the pleasure fivefold. The Count took the bottle of champagne and took a long swing, his fingers still inside of me moving all the time, then held the bottle to my lips and poured the champagne into my mouth so it bubbled out over my chin and onto my dress. He began to lick the bubbly liquid off my face, licking my neck and then finding my lips with his.

His mouth was unlike a man’s. He was not particularly hairy and his skin was generally smooth, lips soft and tongue soft and gentle. It was almost like kissing a woman. Almost but not quite. His tongue began to probe inside my mouth, gently finding and caressing mine and inviting me to follow his tongue into his mouth, at which point he moaned like a little boy and for a second stopped moving his fingers inside me to concentrate on the kiss.

I took the opportunity to recover myself (his finger fuck technique had been overpowering me and all I had been able to concentrate on were the thousands of little explosions each time his fingers hit the spot and how my whole body went weak) and reached down between his legs to locate his smooth shaft. Yummy. His balls were tight. I squeezed them and his mouth stopped on my mine, his tongue flicking out in a soft languorous lick into my mouth, his breath warm. I squeezed his shaft firmly and then running fingers lightly up to his shaft, rubbing his smooth head shaft with a finger and thumb as he reciprocated by recommencing his stimulation of my g spot.

He was beginning to create waves of sensual tingling throughout my body through his technique – expert almost clinical. Unlike the rough urgency of my father this was more commanding, more irresistible. Whilst his fingers danced inside of me I stimulated his shaft, adjusting my caresses as I noticed his feedback through his soft moans, his trademarked motionless “lick kiss” when I hit the pleasure receptors in his cock and his longer, deeply sensual soft womanly kiss.

As the first wave of orgasm approached he hooked his finger tighter inside me pressing down on the bundle of nerves he had been stimulating so I gasped out loud, feeling an intensity like never before. He reached over to a side compartment and took out a small silver dagger. I paused, slightly unsure, gripping his cock hard and causing him to place a finger to his mouth, still holding the dagger, and make a soft comforting “ssshhhh.”

He had taken his fingers from out of my pussy now to steady himself as he cut off my g string with the knife and knelt between my legs pushing his cock into me. In the darkness he had slipped a cock ring onto him which had made his shaft swell and the stimulator on his cock immediately hit my clitoris causing an explosive mini orgasm after a few thrusts that made me wrap my legs around him and pull him deep into me and I began to moan and gasp loudly and without any control as the major orgasm began to build. He responded by turning the music up a few notches so I could moan without embarrassment as he began to thrust into me. A man in touch with his woman!

As he moved inside me, the cock ring hitting my swollen clitoris with every gentle thrust, he took the knife again and began to cut my dress open, from the bottom all the way to the neck until my breasts were exposed. He began to trace the tip of the knife along my neck line down to each breast and circling each nipple, the cold steel on my skin sending shivers of delight through me, as he expertly compensated the pressure of the knife for the bumping of the car. I could see the pleasure in his eyes as he performed his ritual and how I was responding to his little fetish.

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