Perry Homer, theatrical impresario, multi Olivier Award winner and philanthropist hugged his panting wife Emma, as they hid amongst the rails of colourful costumes that lined the wardrobe department at The Lake Theatre in London’s West End.
Emma giggled as the tiara she was wearing slipped off and fell into her naked lap.
‘Shhh.’ Perry hushed. ‘I think someone’s coming.’
The naughty couple sat still, listening out for any approaching footsteps, not wanting to get caught.
‘I can’t hear anything,’ Emma said.
‘Wait a minute,’ Perry put his finger on her lips as if to quieten her, but it proved the opposite effect.
Emma opened her mouth and licked his finger.
‘Stop it,’ Perry joked. ‘Someone may hear us.’
Emma looked at her husband with her naughty blue eyes.
‘I don’t care,’ she said. Let them look.’
‘Not here. It’s too risky.’
‘Well you didn’t say that the last time we went dogging, did you?’
‘That was different.’
‘Because, that’s why.’
Perry carefully stood up and peered over a rail of suits of armour costumes.
‘I can’t see anything,’ he scanned the dark room.
‘I can!’ A big grin grew on Emma’s face.
‘What? Where?’ Perry looked around the cluttered room again as Emma opened her mouth and engulfed Perry’s hard cock. ‘Emma,’ Perry purred as he gripped the clothing rail, knocking the clunky costumes back and forth. ‘Stop that. No don’t stop. Yes stop!’ he protested as he shot his load in her mouth. ‘One of these day’s you’re going to get me into trouble.’
Perry bent down and kissed his wife on her cum sodden lips. The naked couple embraced on the floor, tangled within a mountain of fake fur and bales of crushed velvet, unaware that a pair of snooping eyes had watched their sexy show on CCTV.
Loaded down with a large assortment of heavy, glossy Chi-Chi designer bags after having completed a successful morning’s worth of essential clothes shopping, Phyllis Harrison-Smythe rummaged through her precious purchases in the back of a London black taxi and smiled with delight.
Oblivious for the passing traffic and the noisy London streets, Phyllis tenderly caressed one of her new outfits from Prada, chaperoned with a matching hand bag and an exquisite pair of handmade Italian shoes. Well, she couldn’t buy one without completing the set, could she?
As her heart fluttered like a butterfly trapped within a gilded cage, she then flicked through her Gucci wallet, slowly running her glossy red talons over her exclusive gold store cards, enjoying the sound as they clicked under her nylon nails until they reached her new passport to paradise, the black Centurion credit card from American Express.
Not wanting to damage her invitation only prized possession, she carefully slipped it out from its protective leather home and lovingly caressed it, imagining the endless fun that she could have with this piece of black plastic. A similar feeling that reminded her of another piece of plastic, her monstrous 9 inch black dildo that she kept hidden in her wardrobe for special occasions.
Finally she had been deemed worthy of the honour by being given the golden ticket that she had craved for so long. And now that the trophy was rightfully hers, she could hold her head up even higher than before as this sexually desired, powerful credit card symbolized her wealth, stature and worth within the high bred community. At last she had the key she needed to unlock the infinite bounds of the imagination. This unique card gave her the freedom and the ultimate thrill of entering an invited world of the privileged social elite and become a member of an exclusive club where the wondrous Universe of Shopping was hers to conquer and divide.
Catching the taxi driver as he watched her through his rear view mirror, intrigued by her salacious movements, Phyllis switched in to auto pilot and teased the perving driver with one of her controlling freak games.
‘Is it me or is it hot in here?’ she breathed, fanning herself with the card as she undid the top button of her beaded vintage Escada jacket, revealing a momentary view of her black lacy Wonder bra.
‘Yeah luv. It’s hot alright,’ coughed the driver, excited with the private peep show from the posh totty in the back of his cab.
Smiling to herself as she enjoyed his undivided voyeuristic attention, Phyllis slid the card over her face, down her neck, across her two mounds of lace encased flesh and down to her sculptured legs.
Licking her Christian Dior painted lips, she rested her head back against the head rest, arched her back and parted her legs to let her tight skirt rise up over her stocking clad legs. Fingering the card suggestively, she slowly slithered it gracefully up the inside of her thigh, making sure that the driver caught a fleeting glimpse of her black stocking tops and her knickerless muff.
‘I hate being sticky,’ she said, looking into the back of his head through her long Elizabeth Arden covered lashes.’
‘Sticky’s not good. I like comfort myself.’
‘Yes I do enjoy a comfortable ride, don’t you?’
‘It’s all about the comfort, luv,’ he grinned.
‘I agree. Comfort all the way up to the hilt.’
Slipping her card suggestively back into her wallet and bringing the impromptu porno show to an abrupt end, the taxi turned the corner and pulled up outside one of her infamous nightclubs.
‘Thank you driver for the smooth ride,’ Phyllis said as she paid for her fare.
‘Anytime luv. Here’s my card. Call me if you want to sit on my thick leather seat again.’
‘Oh I can’t wait,’ she smiled as she dropped his card into one of her bags and stepped onto the pavement.
‘I bet you can’t,’ he laughed as the taxi disappeared within the heavy traffic.
Phyllis loved toying with men and their egos. This was the kind of power trip she enjoyed, indulged and wallowed in. Only one vital ingredient made this possible and Phyllis relished in it most of all.
And that was money.