Elizabeth Coldwell (ed) - Sex in London- Tales of Pleasure and Perversity in the English Capital [MF] (), Ebooks ...
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//-->SEX IN LONDONTALES OF PLEASURE AND PERVERSITY INTHE ENGLISH CAPITALEDITED BYELIZABETH COLDWELLISBN 9781615087044All rights reservedCopyright 2012 Elizabeth ColdwellThis book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.For information:Sizzler/HotFlash CollectionA Renaissance E Books publicationTABLE OF CONTENTSINTRODUCTIONELIZABETH COLDWELLDOUBLE EXPOSUREJAY LAWRENCEFALLING DOWNJAMES "GRIM" DESBOROUGHHER MAJESTY'S BACK GARDENLUCY FELTHOUSEARTEFACTSFRANCES JONESSECURITYBILLIEROSIETHE WOMAN FROM ALDGATE WESTNEIL JAMES HUDSONDAY TRIPVICTORIA PONDJACK THE BODICE RIPPERWILLA EDWARDSLOST PROPERTYELIZABETH COLDWELLCITY BOYSRACHEL CHARMANA HAPPY FINISHLUKAS SCOTTABOUT THE AUTHORS2INTRODUCTIONLondon is truly one of the world's great cities, with its royal palaces, awe-inspiringcathedrals and modern skyscrapers that draw the eye ever upward. Incredibly diversein its culture, it is the financial heart of Great Britain, and a home to artists andmusicians, wealth creators and men (and women) of power. And beneath its stiffupper lip, passion sizzles. Everyone who lives, works and plays in London has abedtime story to tell, and this collection brings together stories that explore the sexlife of this amazing city.The stories here feature everyone from city boys on a bender in a lapdancing clubto a light-fingered shoplifter who meets her match in a dominant Oxford Streetsecurity guard. In Lucy Felthouse'sHer Majesty's Back Gardena couple areovercome with the urge to have sex in the grounds of Buckingham Palace, while JayLawrence'sDouble Exposurefeatures a female flasher displaying her charms in frontof the London Eye, among other places. A pair of very naughty soldiers have eachother standing at attention on Royal Wedding day in Lukas Scott'sA Happy Finish,and James "Grim" Desborough'sFalling Downuses the mundane setting of a Tubejourney as the starting point for an erotic game of chase. Victoria Pond'sDay Triplooks at London from the point of view of a student visitor to the city, while NeilJames Hudson'sThe Woman From Aldgate Westimagines a London lurking beneaththe surface of the one we know, where sex takes place in public beneath the noses ofunsuspecting passers-by.So take a trip into the quirky, kinky city of London. Enjoy!– Elizabeth Coldwell3DOUBLE EXPOSUREJAY LAWRENCEIt started off as a joke, a bit of a lark. I spotted the small ad in the Etcetera columnof my local evening newspaper:Wanted – Male Private Investigator with Digital CameraI need a completely confidential private investigator with a digital camera. Willpay fifty pounds upon completion of assignment. Need assignment done tomorrow.This is a one day assignment. You must be available all day and have excellentsurveillance and self-concealment skills.Please e-mail box number 747 ASAP!Well, I'd always fancied a stint as a private dick. Just call me Philip Marlowe. Thead specified a man and I could borrow the eye-spy gear. As requested, I sent off anemail, referring to myself as "Bob". I wondered how many responses the ad wouldreceive and if any, other than my own, would be genuine. The scenario seemed ripefor parody. Why the last-minute rush? Was risk involved? A mere fifty quid for alargely unspecified day's work that might involve being punched in the face by anangry boyfriend or even knifed by a drugs pusher. My imagination worked overtime.The ad-poster didn't want to involve the police – were they crooked themselves orwas it more of a civil "crime"? It had to be a jealous husband. Well, he must havebeen waiting online, as a reply pinged back into my inbox within five minutes.Bob – be at the Tate Modern north entrance at 9 a.m., SHARP. Stella.Stella, was it? Well, well, well. A jealous wife instead of a jealous husband. Whydid she need a man – to infiltrate her husband's gentlemen's club? I fired off a fewinane questions but answer was there none. It was 9 a.m. at the Tate or not. I like awoman who knows what she wants.****I crossed the new Millennium Bridge over the murky Thames and strode towardsthe rendezvous, the converted power station which now houses eclectic artwork in itsvast turbine hall. It was a weekday morning and not too busy, just a gaggle of bored-looking school kids and the ubiquitous squad of Japanese tourists grinning throughtheir miniature camcorders. What did "Stella" look like? Was she young or old or inbetween? Tall or short? Blond or brunette? My mind concocted a wish-list as theminutes passed. Five past nine and she was a buxom redhead. Ten past nine and shehad morphed into a slender, raven-haired femme fatale. At almost a quarter past the4hour, a small figure in a long, gray raincoat approached the gallery entrance, making afine display of looking at the posters and generally acting nonchalant. Instinct toldme "Stella". Casually, she worked her way along the row of adverts for comingattractions of the intellectual variety, her eyes flickering over the words but not takingthem in. When she reached me, she murmured, "Follow me and don't say a word.Act as if we're not together 'til I give you a sign."I thrust my hands in my coat pockets and whistled a brief air fromMy Fair Lady.It seemed as good a response to give as any. Off went Stella at a brisk pace, the high,narrow heels of her boots clicking rhythmically on the damp pavement. She took thewalkway that leads along the Thames embankment and I followed at a respectfuldistance, watching the pleasing wriggle of her neat little hips beneath the tightly-belted coat. She was a pretty girl, early twenties, with heavy, straight dark hair cutinto a short, thick bob. She had a square-ish jaw and a wide, scarlet-painted mouth.And she was fit. I began to pant slightly as Stella disappeared into the distance, adiminutive, determined figure marching on towards – what?I fingered the borrowed digital camera in my coat pocket. It was perfect for thetask at hand, no bigger than a small pocket calculator. I stroked its rounded metalcontours as I watched Stella's pleasing behind vanish into the shadowy confines of anunderpass. To be truthful, I felt like stroking something else. I was getting quite hardand required some relief. When I entered the passageway, I found that she stood,casually leaning against the tiled wall, her raincoat unfastened."Get the camera out," she hissed, her eyes firmly fixed upon the tunnel entrancebehind me. I reached in my pocket and drew out the spy-cam. I raised one eyebrowand smiled. She frowned. Espionage was a serious business. Suddenly, there werevoices behind us and footsteps, approaching the underpass. Stella fixed me with asteely, commanding gaze."Now! Take this!"Quick as a wink, the young woman whipped open her coat and gave me a flash ofwhat she had on underneath. Obediently, I pressed the button and felt my manhoodpress against my fly. As two girls entered the passage, Stella moved away, like a batout of hell, swiftly wrapping the raincoat around her nubile body. She stalked off ather former brisk pace, again leaving me in her dust. Outside, near the sturdyVictorian arches of Blackfriars Bridge, a faint London drizzle was beginning to fall. Ireplaced the camera in my pocket and turned up the collar of my coat. So, Stella wasa flasher. Well, well, well. An image of her exhibitionist's outfit was burned into my5 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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//-->SEX IN LONDONTALES OF PLEASURE AND PERVERSITY INTHE ENGLISH CAPITALEDITED BYELIZABETH COLDWELLISBN 9781615087044All rights reservedCopyright 2012 Elizabeth ColdwellThis book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.For information:Sizzler/HotFlash CollectionA Renaissance E Books publicationTABLE OF CONTENTSINTRODUCTIONELIZABETH COLDWELLDOUBLE EXPOSUREJAY LAWRENCEFALLING DOWNJAMES "GRIM" DESBOROUGHHER MAJESTY'S BACK GARDENLUCY FELTHOUSEARTEFACTSFRANCES JONESSECURITYBILLIEROSIETHE WOMAN FROM ALDGATE WESTNEIL JAMES HUDSONDAY TRIPVICTORIA PONDJACK THE BODICE RIPPERWILLA EDWARDSLOST PROPERTYELIZABETH COLDWELLCITY BOYSRACHEL CHARMANA HAPPY FINISHLUKAS SCOTTABOUT THE AUTHORS2INTRODUCTIONLondon is truly one of the world's great cities, with its royal palaces, awe-inspiringcathedrals and modern skyscrapers that draw the eye ever upward. Incredibly diversein its culture, it is the financial heart of Great Britain, and a home to artists andmusicians, wealth creators and men (and women) of power. And beneath its stiffupper lip, passion sizzles. Everyone who lives, works and plays in London has abedtime story to tell, and this collection brings together stories that explore the sexlife of this amazing city.The stories here feature everyone from city boys on a bender in a lapdancing clubto a light-fingered shoplifter who meets her match in a dominant Oxford Streetsecurity guard. In Lucy Felthouse'sHer Majesty's Back Gardena couple areovercome with the urge to have sex in the grounds of Buckingham Palace, while JayLawrence'sDouble Exposurefeatures a female flasher displaying her charms in frontof the London Eye, among other places. A pair of very naughty soldiers have eachother standing at attention on Royal Wedding day in Lukas Scott'sA Happy Finish,and James "Grim" Desborough'sFalling Downuses the mundane setting of a Tubejourney as the starting point for an erotic game of chase. Victoria Pond'sDay Triplooks at London from the point of view of a student visitor to the city, while NeilJames Hudson'sThe Woman From Aldgate Westimagines a London lurking beneaththe surface of the one we know, where sex takes place in public beneath the noses ofunsuspecting passers-by.So take a trip into the quirky, kinky city of London. Enjoy!– Elizabeth Coldwell3DOUBLE EXPOSUREJAY LAWRENCEIt started off as a joke, a bit of a lark. I spotted the small ad in the Etcetera columnof my local evening newspaper:Wanted – Male Private Investigator with Digital CameraI need a completely confidential private investigator with a digital camera. Willpay fifty pounds upon completion of assignment. Need assignment done tomorrow.This is a one day assignment. You must be available all day and have excellentsurveillance and self-concealment skills.Please e-mail box number 747 ASAP!Well, I'd always fancied a stint as a private dick. Just call me Philip Marlowe. Thead specified a man and I could borrow the eye-spy gear. As requested, I sent off anemail, referring to myself as "Bob". I wondered how many responses the ad wouldreceive and if any, other than my own, would be genuine. The scenario seemed ripefor parody. Why the last-minute rush? Was risk involved? A mere fifty quid for alargely unspecified day's work that might involve being punched in the face by anangry boyfriend or even knifed by a drugs pusher. My imagination worked overtime.The ad-poster didn't want to involve the police – were they crooked themselves orwas it more of a civil "crime"? It had to be a jealous husband. Well, he must havebeen waiting online, as a reply pinged back into my inbox within five minutes.Bob – be at the Tate Modern north entrance at 9 a.m., SHARP. Stella.Stella, was it? Well, well, well. A jealous wife instead of a jealous husband. Whydid she need a man – to infiltrate her husband's gentlemen's club? I fired off a fewinane questions but answer was there none. It was 9 a.m. at the Tate or not. I like awoman who knows what she wants.****I crossed the new Millennium Bridge over the murky Thames and strode towardsthe rendezvous, the converted power station which now houses eclectic artwork in itsvast turbine hall. It was a weekday morning and not too busy, just a gaggle of bored-looking school kids and the ubiquitous squad of Japanese tourists grinning throughtheir miniature camcorders. What did "Stella" look like? Was she young or old or inbetween? Tall or short? Blond or brunette? My mind concocted a wish-list as theminutes passed. Five past nine and she was a buxom redhead. Ten past nine and shehad morphed into a slender, raven-haired femme fatale. At almost a quarter past the4hour, a small figure in a long, gray raincoat approached the gallery entrance, making afine display of looking at the posters and generally acting nonchalant. Instinct toldme "Stella". Casually, she worked her way along the row of adverts for comingattractions of the intellectual variety, her eyes flickering over the words but not takingthem in. When she reached me, she murmured, "Follow me and don't say a word.Act as if we're not together 'til I give you a sign."I thrust my hands in my coat pockets and whistled a brief air fromMy Fair Lady.It seemed as good a response to give as any. Off went Stella at a brisk pace, the high,narrow heels of her boots clicking rhythmically on the damp pavement. She took thewalkway that leads along the Thames embankment and I followed at a respectfuldistance, watching the pleasing wriggle of her neat little hips beneath the tightly-belted coat. She was a pretty girl, early twenties, with heavy, straight dark hair cutinto a short, thick bob. She had a square-ish jaw and a wide, scarlet-painted mouth.And she was fit. I began to pant slightly as Stella disappeared into the distance, adiminutive, determined figure marching on towards – what?I fingered the borrowed digital camera in my coat pocket. It was perfect for thetask at hand, no bigger than a small pocket calculator. I stroked its rounded metalcontours as I watched Stella's pleasing behind vanish into the shadowy confines of anunderpass. To be truthful, I felt like stroking something else. I was getting quite hardand required some relief. When I entered the passageway, I found that she stood,casually leaning against the tiled wall, her raincoat unfastened."Get the camera out," she hissed, her eyes firmly fixed upon the tunnel entrancebehind me. I reached in my pocket and drew out the spy-cam. I raised one eyebrowand smiled. She frowned. Espionage was a serious business. Suddenly, there werevoices behind us and footsteps, approaching the underpass. Stella fixed me with asteely, commanding gaze."Now! Take this!"Quick as a wink, the young woman whipped open her coat and gave me a flash ofwhat she had on underneath. Obediently, I pressed the button and felt my manhoodpress against my fly. As two girls entered the passage, Stella moved away, like a batout of hell, swiftly wrapping the raincoat around her nubile body. She stalked off ather former brisk pace, again leaving me in her dust. Outside, near the sturdyVictorian arches of Blackfriars Bridge, a faint London drizzle was beginning to fall. Ireplaced the camera in my pocket and turned up the collar of my coat. So, Stella wasa flasher. Well, well, well. An image of her exhibitionist's outfit was burned into my5 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]