Chapter 1 of Grey’s Chateau
Ahead of the release of book 4 of the Grey’s Chateau series (coming out next week), I’m giving away for free a few chapters from earlier books. This is the very first chapter in the series. There’s a full-length free erotic fiction romance available at my website, Kink Ideas, if you sign up for the newsletter. Come and join me on my crazy sexy adventures!
Pasha Bailey eased out of the perpetually revolving doors of the imposing DaraBank building on Temple Street and tripped easily down the marbled stairs.
She looked up cursorily, just in case there was a hint of blue, but the monotony of the low sullen sky had not changed since she entered the building at seven.
It had been raining while she worked inside the steel and glass cocoon, and the pavement was wet. It would rain again soon; she could smell it in the air.
She drew a long satisfied breath, filling her lungs slowly with the wet, cool air, and was surprised at the small cloud of vapour that she exhaled. It was colder than she’d thought.
A pair of eyes watched her from across the street, a lanky figure in a dull corduroy jacket.
She had caught his attention as soon as she burst out of the smoked glass of the fancy bank building. She was tall, and he liked tall girls. And she was a real looker.
Everything about her met with his approval.
He liked her dark, observant eyes, and the way her long black hair was plaited into a thick rope which hung down her back; her strong, clean face with its wide jaw and straight nose; the way her chest swelled inside her snug polo-necked sweater, and the way she wore her jacket casually unbuttoned.
He liked that she didn’t carry a handbag or an umbrella, as if she was unafraid of the weather. He liked her tailored below-the-knee skirt, and her stylish long boots with their big chunky heels.
He leaned back against the wall where he had been resting and watched her quick eyes assess the traffic on the busy street, looking for a gap.
It was the second time he’d seen her and she was actually better looking than he remembered. A sweet gift. Mostly the women he spied on grew more attractive in his imagination, but this one was even more beautiful and statuesque in real life.
She turned toward the subway; perhaps she had decided not to jaywalk.
She walked with a loose athletic confidence, overtaking most other pedestrians as she weaved and zigzagged through the lunchtime throng.
He pushed himself off the wall with a sinuous movement of his back, without taking his hands out of his pockets, and sauntered lazily towards the other end of the subway where he knew she would emerge.
While she was underground he had time to observe several other women along the street, looking them up and down with his wolfish eyes, cataloguing their attributes and blemishes with his practised eye.
There were none that compared to the gorgeous raven-haired beauty from DaraBank.
She came up the stairs with brisk energy, and turned sharply west along Temple with the turn of heel of one who knows exactly where she is going.
He followed twenty paces behind, admiring her trim buttocks and long legs.
Two hundred yards along the road, she turned into a new pedestrian shopping mall, a trendy collection of boutiques and sandwich bars alongside an anchor department store.
He followed her into the well-lit shining mall with its glass-fronted shops and their bright displays.
He felt a little uncomfortable. The wet street was his turf; the grimy kerbs and thunder of passing traffic. There he felt anonymous; just another drab Londoner.
In the mall, amongst the suited office workers in their high heels and brogues, his professorial attire marked him out. Still, he skulked along with grim determination; why should he let the swanks deprive him of his little lunchtime treat?
He watched with excitement as she turned into an up-market lingerie shop, the kind with scantily clad mannequins in the windows dressed only in expensive silk teddies and briefs. He sauntered past, pretending to glance in her direction quite by accident as he passed the door, in the way of one looking here and there as he strolled along killing time.
She was standing next to a rack of underwear, holding something up to examine it more closely.
He felt he had to keep moving — he lacked the confidence to actually stop and stare — and he couldn’t make out what she was holding. Too big for briefs or a bra, though; maybe a teddy.
Harmless, he thought, his girl-watching pastime, but it was rare luck to pick a woman who immediately dashed into an underwear shop. Witnessing a tall beauty like Pasha in the very act of buying delicate lingerie oiled his ongoing sexual fantasies.
He walked along until he found a suitable shop window to look into.
He stopped and pretended to examine the men’s shoes in the M&S window, glancing sidelong every few moments to ensure he didn’t miss Pasha coming out of the lingerie shop. He had to keep this up for ages, and was feeling self-conscious by the time she emerged, carrying a small pink bag with the shop’s logo printed on the side.
What had she bought, he wondered.
He knew he would never know, and perhaps that was for the best; not knowing meant that his fantasies could take any direction he fancied.
He tried to imagine her naked, drying herself after a bath, and then pulling the silky garment up her long smooth legs.
She stopped at a sandwich bar to buy a baguette; he found another shop window to pretend interest in.
He glanced up in time to see her pulling a loose ten pound note from her jacket pocket. She dropped the change back into the same pocket and he noticed that she smiled easily as she thanked the counter staff, a wide, friendly smile that crinkled her eyes.
Then she was walking again, cutting through the crowds with her long stride, and he followed her sadly, using the walk back towards her office to commit her to memory, a memory he would use that night lying alone in bed.
Then she was gone through the revolving doors, swallowed into the belly of the plush office block, and the street felt empty without her.
He wondered again what she had inside the little pink bag. He would have been surprised to learn that she had bought a pair of pink silk panties, not for herself, but for her lover.
She had seen him, before, she realised, a week or two earlier, watching her surreptitiously as she bought a sandwich.
She was fairly sure he’d thought she’d not noticed him — she had observed briefly, obliquely, never explicitly turning her head in his direction.
It was not unpleasant to be admired from afar by a lean handsome man with long hair and a brooding look.
His stubbled chin gave him a slightly roguish appearance but his clothes and spectacles suggested an academic, perhaps, a lecturer at the nearby college.
Could one spot intelligence at twenty paces? She fancied so, although she knew she might be kidding herself. She liked intelligent men.
She allowed her mind to run as she walked up the long flights of stairs to her office.
Many of the staff in her office went to gym at lunch time and then took the elevator back to the fifth floor, a sort of one-track thinking that sometimes amused and sometimes exasperated her.
Paul was a catch, she liked him very much. A keeper, as her girlfriends said. And… she had a roving eye. A time would come to introduce other partners into their lives. But not yet.
She imagined the three of them, herself and the two men, Paul and the academic, one of them tied to a chair, watching, the other in leather collar and cuffs, loosely chained, still able to move his limbs.
This one, the one with wrists and ankles shackled with eighteen inch chains, would be naked. Or almost naked. Perhaps just a pair of tight spandex boxer briefs with access holes.
A cock ring behind his balls, to keep everything tight and bulging. She would have his penis sticking through a hole in the front.
The one in the chair would be sheathed, completely covered in leather or rubber or something.
Gagged, obviously — grunts and moans would enhance the scene, words would detract — and very tightly strapped.
His erection would also be accessible, and from time to time she would stroke it or suck it, just to make him squirm and beg inarticulately.
Edging was a wicked pleasure — maintaining arousal in another, seeing the trembling desire, but withholding the climax, the release.
It was a game that never failed to give her pleasure.
Her little reverie was cut short by a call. Yes, she hadn’t forgotten the meeting, she was almost there.
A pity, perhaps, that she had not allowed herself to inadvertently bump into the academic. It would have been interesting to flirt just a little.
Perhaps she would have inveigled his phone number out of him. But for all she knew he was unavailable, a devoted father and husband in a sexless marriage who satisfied his desires watching women at lunch time.
It was of no consequence, there were many fish in the sea.
Pleasing Pasha and the other books in the Grey’s Chateau series are available on Amazon.
