Dutch Scheherazade

"You'll enjoy meeting her?"

"Yes, that is exactly what he said. His tone was oily and he spoke with what can be described with great certainty as having a leer in his voice."

"That sounds innocent enough..." my voice trailed off with what could be described as great uncertainty. My conviction was fading as she looked at me with both bemusement and an incredulity that I could be so ignorant.

She continued. "It was in a boardroom of a listed company? He was talking about me to a PR flack - admittedly a brand name PR flack - as though I was some sexual trophy he could bag. That is just lecherous and objectifying and perverse."

The truth of it was that she was so beautiful that it was hard to blame people for objectifying her. I tried to look at her anew. Middlingly tall, athletically thin and blonde, I was admiring her as she stood framed by potted lemon trees on a colonnaded terrace. The wind was teasing her golden hair: largely swept back into a softly billowing mane, a tendril or two had strayed over the high and chiselled line of her cheekbones. The face was classic and serious yet softened by the limpid, jade green pools of her eyes. Frustrated at my inability to comprehend the life a woman in a man's (business) world, she pivoted, moving with an athletic economy of motion. Just out of her 30s she could have been a decade younger. She managed to combine an athleticism with an entirely appealing hint of rounding. She pivoted back from the sea-view, and sighed. Firm, high C-cup breasts rose and fell. She leaned back and relaxed her legs - lean, long, fit: skier's legs. She was a superb, indeed enduringly superb, Nordic beauty. Her accent, European overlain by New York, only added to the allure.

"I will grant that it is objectifying. You are right." I paused, smiled and gently tried humor: "But you make a very good sex object."

The sea below was rapidly darkening to a Tyrrhenian purple; the sun had disappeared and the evening was darkening rapidly. Gathering their glasses we began to stroll back to the main building. We halted, she to perch on a squarely modern wicker sofa and he in an armchair at right angles to it. She smoothly and elegantly tucked her legs up and draped one of the outdoor blankets over the bare skin below her shirt-dress. The demure hint of thigh was surprisingly erotic. I glanced up. The temperature was dropping. The position she had chosen had stiffened her nipples and outlined the bra-less swell of her breasts against the crisp white cotton.

The sea was now a darkening Imperial purple, seizing attention. It reminded me of a far more lecherous historical figure. "Tiberius settled just along the coast. Surely that qualifies as perverse." I turned back towards her, trying out arching my eyebrows, but it was ineffective.

"You want the story, do you?" She was now smiling. Swirling her armagnac in its glass she locked eyes and said "Would that excite you?".

I nodded. She began her story.

"Three years and some before we met I was put on a trans-Atlantic deal. The law firm was very excited about it, though in retrospect I wonder if there was not a slight element of pimping out the female associates. At any rate, I ended up in London, in the boardroom of a holding company led by a lecher with the manners of a rutting dinosaur: outside of business he was a gentleman and you were safe but he viewed anyone inside his business domain, even lawyers billing an impressive amount per hour, as a safe bet for sexism, pickups and sexual banter. I'd already rebuffed him once (hand firmly removed from thigh) when he invited me in ostensibly to discuss some PR aspects of the deal. None of the bankers, no-one from the rest of the legal team. Just us. Me, placed on a low and sinking sofa, no doubt offering a nice angle up my skirt. A chair pulled close. A hand on the knee as if to emphasize whatever point he was pretending tomake. A smell of the vile cigars he smoked and Cointreau and an ill-chosen cologne. Yes, I know what you are thinking, but I removed the hand, glared sternly and he and brought things back to the deal. He gave up on chasing me. And then he called the PR firm, and displayed his innate piggishness by offering me like a trading card.

I noted (in as teasing a way as I could) that thus far the story was, while far from innocent, not exactly living up to any standard of lecherousness or licentiousness that could match up, for example, against the August standards of Tiberius. Confident in the knowledge of what was to come she waved me off.

"Yes, well that's the funny thing. The PR guy he called came almost immediately (the offices were close by). His firm was smaller then, but he'd already made a substantial amount of money and he was a bit of a big deal. He was early 40s, I imagine, and elegant and handsome. Unlike the CEO, he smelt faintly of a lovely and perfumed soap, nothing else. He had wavy hair, swept back, serious glasses worn for effect, and lovely and clear grey eyes. He had a reputation as a bastard, and after the 'phone call I was expecting the worst, but his manners on first meeting were lovely, and other than a smile and a focus on me as though I were the most important woman in the room, he did not look anything like he was 'enjoying meeting' me in any obviously sexual sense of the word. He even moved the conversation immediately to communications and the closing timetable, and suggested we do it at the boardroom table (as opposed to the peeper's delight sofa). 'Far more efficient and sensible for our chat,' he said, smoothly and he then went on to joke about saving on lawyer's bills by keeping the pace up. In that first meeting he was a lifeline. We met, he was entirely professional, he defused and he left without even a sidelong glance of conspiracy at his older client.

"We met again the next day, a larger group this time. The meeting was long and it wasn't until the evening, when I was leaving, that I found him next to me, as if by chance. 'Fancy a spot of dinner?' , and he smiled. And I said yes. And other than a chaste kiss on the cheek at the end of an evening a nearby restaurant - no reservation - he was a complete gentleman. He even asked if he might ask me out again. I was more than a little taken. He was good-looking and charming and professionally respectful.

She must have sensed a mix of growing boredom on my part. "Yes, yes, I'll get to the good bit now.

"The way he seduced me was to use the next all hands meeting to single out my work for praise. The senior partner was there, surprised but evidently happy to hear him speak so positively of me. After he had praised me he paused and smiled at me; let me tell you, the attention and praise worked. And then he stopped talking to me. No more sidelong glances. No more calls. The deal advanced and he ignored me. After a week, I was comprehensively confused. He seemed ... interesting. I'd turned over more than one pretend Prince Charming by this point, so there was disappointment someone seemingly so nice and good looking had shifted to radically. And then one day my 'phone rang, and it was him and he point blank invited me to a house party at his villa in Ibiza along with a 'few friends'. After the deprivation of attention I had basically given up, so this fell like a bombshell."

My contribution was to lamely observe that 'so presumably you went?'. As exciting as her stories could, the process of listening was sometimes tinged with a little retrospective jealousy.

"Yes. I did. The deal ended. I had billed a small fortune for the firm. I deserved a week off but I had no intention of letting him fly me. I bought a pair of bikinis, some light summer clothes and sandals and off I went.

"His house was large and discerningly designed into the landscape. It overlooked a picturesque cove with a sliver of sand. Well off the tourist track, it was a good half hour to the town life of sunburnt hooligans, lager and fish and chips. It backed onto a dozy landscape of farms and farmhouses stretching towards the forested backdrop of the Truntoi mountains. It was an E-shaped structure open towards the cove, with an infinity pool occupying one indentation, and terrace the other. The modern villa layout was compensated for by a traditional sort of Finca décor, all wood beams and white walls."

"The house had half a dozen bedrooms and it was full. The taxi deposited me as everyone had gathered on the terrace for drinks. I was the clearly the youngest of either sex. They were a diverse group, but united in their curious yet slightly distant attitude towards me: the new woman they assumed was sleeping with their host.

"There was an older couple, German... well I suppose they were the age we are now, so perhaps not 'older', but older than me. She was thin, blonde, freckled but (despite that) severe in a sort of younger Anna Wintour kind of way. Impeccably dressed in couture bohemian, she was the most censorious of the bunch: dagger-eyes in a sort of 'why do attractive men my age want to fuck young things like this?' way. Her husband was red-faced with the usual paunch over his bright trousers. That paunch must have been a sort of discord for a woman that focused on fashion. There was another single girl, a slightly pudgy but languorously sexy brunette. She was the friendliest of them, the first to say hello, and despite a slight reserve surprisingly tactile. I recall thinking how she had mastered a powerful but ill-defined sexiness. There was a picture perfect American couple, he taller with chiselled chin and ever-so-vacuous Ivy League poster boy thing going on. She was a dyed-blonde altar in the church of plastic surgery. Late 30s, the face was without lines and the breasts were perfect, not big, but just so very perfect under a tight Lacoste polo. Finally, there was another English couple: she was what happens ten years into marriage when you've moved to the country, developed a fondness for gin, have let yourself go ever so slightly, concluded your husband is a bore, and still have the personality to attract but a body that hasn't quite kept pace. Her husband, yes, he was a sort of afterthought. I can't even remember what he looked like. Finally, there was one of his 'mates' from the office. A reasonably good looking Englishman, but not my type.

"He told me I was last to arrive so he'd had the maid make a bed up in his library. It was a lovely room, but it did have one inconvenient fact: it had a communicating door with his room. No one said he was not smooth.

"The dinner that evening was served with gallons of rose and some passed around joints. The initial frosty curiosity towards me faded. I chatted. He sat next to and was respectfully attentive - certainly not possessive. He waited 'til I had gone back to my room and came in through the connecting door with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He undressed me and made an attempt at foreplay before fucking me on his desk. He had a surprisingly thick cock with a large dark-red head. It was also unusual in that it was circumcized, which is not at all normal in Europe. We finished in his room... he surprised me by pulling out and cumming on my tits... but I suppose he was nice and normal enough and I didn't think this was so abnormal as to be a deal-killer.

"He was already up and gone when I awoke the next day. He had an enormous shower lined in blue ceramic; it had multiple jets and I subjected myself to a surprisingly stimulating aqua-massage. His towels were absurdly soft. I put on a new red bikini and a cover-up and went to breakfast. The other women were lounging topless by the pool. I concluded that eating and then joining that group, particularly as the youngest (and firmest) tits in the bunch, would be a bad idea, so I grabbed some melon and a croissant and descended from the terrace onto a twisting sort of staircase down to the beach. He was down there with his workmate and the German man. They watched me descend and crunch across the mix of sand and pebbles to within ten feet (close but not too close), where I laid out a towel. At first I sunbathed with my top on, but he came over, flopped down and said 'relax, it's all ok'. Soon I was topless - just as the other women were doing. There was a gentle breeze playing over us and the water. This produced a series of tiny wavelets on the water, which the sun caught in a shimmering mass of bright movement.

"The workmate was sent up to the house, and he returned with a tray with a jug of iced mint tea and a bottle of white on ice. He set it near there towels, and soon I was sandwiched amongst the two men (still topless) as Mr PR paced. The mood softened as we drank, and the two other men horsed around in the water. They emerged from the water to flop either side of me and Mr PR stood before us and whipped out a digital camera.

"In the first shot I was seated between the other two men, but with knees up. The second my knees were down and, relaxed as I was, my tits were visible as I leaned back on extended arms. With the sun and wine they were grinning and casting sideways glances at my chest.

"With his encouragement, for the third shot I stood. It was a string bikini with a triangle in front and back and just a cord over the thighs, so there wasn't that much left to hide. He liked the photography, and so I pirouetted for him for a fourth shot. It was done jokily enough, and this was Europe... everyone was topless. He made every effort to display consideration and attention. I had expected a playboy and wondered if I had ended up with a boyfriend.

"It was lunchtime soon and he sent the other two men up to the house. As they ascended the stairs he began to fondle his camera and asked if we might have just one more shot. I was sitting and obliged with a straighter pose. Snap went the camera, but then he asked if I might stand again. Perhaps walk. Perhaps splash in the water. Perhaps put a hand on the hip. Perhaps undo a string on the bikini bottom - just to be a little flirty. And I did, holding the strings twined in one finger. Oh untie both strings, great shot, great body, he said. And I did. I waited a long time as he gazed at me intently and then, parting my legs a bit wide, let go of the strings. The bikini bottom fell and I stood completely nude before him, the sun glistening on me, legs slightly apart. I put my hands on my hips and enjoyed the sensation of being admired, of being on show. I remember how the breeze had stiffened my nipples. And he just stood, soaking in the view. Then he photographed me. He took perhaps two shots and then I heard voices on the terrace above and I slipped the bottoms back on. That was cause for laughter and moving up for lunch.

"Things continued at that night's dinner. It was a lovely evening on the terrace: warm enough but character was added by a standing cauldron that held a crackling wood fire. The lighting was subtle, and the view of the dark night sky above was enhanced by a dense scattering of jewel-like stars. Once more there were impressive quantities of wine - champagne then something lovely and white - and a slow meal and joints passed round and lots of banter; very flirtatious banter. The fatter English woman had moved by this point to sit and flirt with the young colleague. He had the young brunette and myself arrayed on either side, and the Vogue-reading German woman had been shunted to sit next to the American Ken-doll and his wife.

"I was a bit relaxed when I noticed three things. Firstly Imogen, the heavier English flirt, had begun to stroke the thigh of my 'boyfriend's' younger colleague even as her husband watched from across the table. Her shirt was also three buttons undone and an ample and unconstrained pair of breasts were coming increasingly into view. The husband was leaning forward with interest.

"The second thing was that the frosty fashionista had melted to a surprising degree. Leaning provocatively against the American man she was gazing at him with a sort of lustful intensity even as she was letting her hand graze over her husband's midsection.

"Perhaps most relevant to me, my playboy-turned-boyfriend had turned playboy again: he was riding his hand up the thigh - and the skirt - of the sexy brunette. I was intoxicated at this point, and my head was spinning. I was a little jealous... a lot jealous... I had moved into his room after all and now this?

"And then he turned and smiled and kissed me deeply. We broke that off and I was about to speak when he swivelled and banged a glass asking for attention. The coupling that had begun stopped, or paused might be a better word, and people began to focus on their drinks again as he told a tale of a movie. He was stroking my leg as he did it, and probably that of his other neighbor at the same time. In my state it still felt rather good - his hands were lovely and soft.

"He began to discuss the plot of this Spanish movie he had seen. Artistic in intent it had a dinner scene in which a villa party was entertained when the older host persuaded one of his young female guests to undress another young female guest. The other diners were naturally amused, and then aroused. Shouts of 'super idea' and light clapping from around the table...

"As he spoke the American man and his wife had unbuttoned the blouse of the fashionista and her breasts were half exposed. I was a little uncertain as to where - or rather how far - this would go. I'll grant to having been a little curious about the brunette, and wondered if a threesome was what he wanted. And then he spoke. 'Perhaps my two dear friends Sienna and our dazzlingly bright and beautiful Dutch lawyer could entertain us in a similar way.

"Cheers went up. 'Show us your tits' yelled the voyeuristic English man, who clearly wanted to see younger women in contrast to his wife. The brunette - Sienna -stood and walked behind his chair to mine. She traced fingers over my shoulders, which felt nice as well as scary, and gently traced down my arm to clasp my hand. She slowly raised me up and led me to the side, to a soft puddle of lighting. The table resolved itself into an audience, coalescing in odd pairings and strokings around one side. Music on the stereo mingled with scraping of chairs and an expectant hum. More than little middle aged flesh was creeping on show, but the eyes were turned to myself and the other young woman.

"I was wearing a grey silk dress, bare shouldered except for two thin straps. I wasn't wearing a bra, and the dress was thigh length. It was summer, after all. He handed me a glass of champagne to enormous cheers. And there I'd been thinking perhaps Sienna would be undressed for the crowd. I was about to speak, but as I did I lost track of Sienna and was distracted at the sight of the American woman shrugging off a buttoned cotton cardigan to reveal a strikingly see-through camisole top.

"I felt a had reach behind me and start to unzip my dress. Slowly the zipper descended. I was committed now. I felt the zip slide then pause and be tugged over an awkward lie where the fabric had bunched. Looking back it was curious what made me accept this. It felt somewhat powerful to have the attention of so many people, some of whom were powerful in their own right. He evening was intoxicating, as was the wine. And Siena was caressing my back, now far more open, in a most unnervingly erotic way. There was a chorus of encouragement... Why not I thought , the Vogue-reading woman had her tits basically out, and the other two women were not far behind. Let them see mine... nothing I hadn't shown on the beach earlier in the day.

"And so I did not hesitate or argue when Sienna began to slip the straps off my shoulders - other perhaps than an involuntarily raising of them, something she forestalled with a stilling, and thrilling, stroke along my lower back. The silk sliding off combined with palpable anticipation into a combined physical and emotional bath of excitement. It seemed to take an age for silk to puddle at my feet, and yet then I was standing in a g-string and sandals. I stepped out of the sandals and bent to pick the dress up, the better to drape it over a chair. That gave a view of my ass which raised a murmur. He was praising me 'Look at this ravishing beauty' and other nonsense I only half heard as I saw the looks of lust of those faces...