Read Online THURSDAY'S ORCHID by Robert Mitchell - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Mitchell
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cuddly . Some other guy was trying to get off with the friend and having a reasonable amount of success. It was up to me to cut down the crowd for him.
I ordered a bottle of the best champagne I could find on the wine list, and two glasses; and had the waiter deliver it to their table with my business-card, together with an invitation for the blond to join me. It works every time. Well, nearly every time. But it usually does when the card is engraved and simply states my occupation as Banker , with a Swiss address.
She left the girlfriend with her new-found companion and walked slowly across, the opened bottle in one hand and the two glasses in the other.
Gerry Brady was on the loose and married, which was a decided advantage as far as I was concerned. The married ones usually go back to their husbands and don’t keep bugging you about broken promises. Gerry’s husband was away on another of his regular business trips. She was certain that he had taken his secretary with him again, and if it was good enough for husband Rob, then it was good enough for her.
We got back to the hotel just after midnight. Gerry was going to teach her husband a thing or two ; intent on enjoying herself even if she hated herself in the morning. She cuddled up to me the whole way back in the cab, not saying much. Come to think of it, I had done most of the talking. Even at the club she hadn’t had much to say – quiet, demure. I didn’t think she had done this sort of thing before. The schoolgirl blush creeping over her face as I threw back the bed-covers was not totally unexpected. She reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t think who it was.
When you get most women this far they’re usually no problem at all. But not so with Gerry. She had to be petted and stroked and coaxed, and convinced that she was doing the right thing as far as she was concerned. But once the clothes had been reluctantly removed and the blankets were over us, it was a different Gerry entirely. She was ravenous, a firebrand – as hot as they come, demanding, tireless, insatiable. No wonder her husband had taken off for a break.
Who the hell did she remind me of? It was there at the back of my mind, teasingly close. That blush and then the frantic effort. I tried to go back over the girls I had known during the past few years, but it wasn’t easy to concentrate with sharp nails digging into my back.
There had been many women over the years. I’ve usually got a good memory for faces; but I couldn’t pick it. I shook my head and got on with the business in hand. And that’s where my business was at the moment: clasped in her soft hand. But it did worry me. Not the urgent squeezing, but the memory of times gone by trying to edge around into my thoughts.
By now we had got into the rhythm of things . She might have been petite, but there was power in those thighs, and their gyroscopic action was closing in on me.
My mind drifted back to the old days. Not to the days with George ; nor to the days on the island resort where I had been pinning the tourist tail. I had drifted much further back; back to the days of my first real burst of good, solid sex; of sex without recrimination, without pretended shame; back to the days in the bush, back to my days as a rouseabout on a sheep station, fifty kilometres out of Swan Hill – in the dry northern part of Victoria.
And then I had it. Susie! Sweet Susie Stephens: the cutest, coyest nymphomaniac you could ever hope to meet. Gerry was the spitting – probably biting would be more appropriate – image of sweet Susie. She was maybe a few centimetres taller, but the rest matched up fairly well.
God, but we’d had fun with Susie! Always willing, and she loved every minute of it. Dave Stephens, her father, was the owner of the sheep station. Dave was a real rough diamond, but religiously straight-laced. She was his golden-haired little girl, and it wasn’t until he found her in bed with the one of the shearers and the
I ordered a bottle of the best champagne I could find on the wine list, and two glasses; and had the waiter deliver it to their table with my business-card, together with an invitation for the blond to join me. It works every time. Well, nearly every time. But it usually does when the card is engraved and simply states my occupation as Banker , with a Swiss address.
She left the girlfriend with her new-found companion and walked slowly across, the opened bottle in one hand and the two glasses in the other.
Gerry Brady was on the loose and married, which was a decided advantage as far as I was concerned. The married ones usually go back to their husbands and don’t keep bugging you about broken promises. Gerry’s husband was away on another of his regular business trips. She was certain that he had taken his secretary with him again, and if it was good enough for husband Rob, then it was good enough for her.
We got back to the hotel just after midnight. Gerry was going to teach her husband a thing or two ; intent on enjoying herself even if she hated herself in the morning. She cuddled up to me the whole way back in the cab, not saying much. Come to think of it, I had done most of the talking. Even at the club she hadn’t had much to say – quiet, demure. I didn’t think she had done this sort of thing before. The schoolgirl blush creeping over her face as I threw back the bed-covers was not totally unexpected. She reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t think who it was.
When you get most women this far they’re usually no problem at all. But not so with Gerry. She had to be petted and stroked and coaxed, and convinced that she was doing the right thing as far as she was concerned. But once the clothes had been reluctantly removed and the blankets were over us, it was a different Gerry entirely. She was ravenous, a firebrand – as hot as they come, demanding, tireless, insatiable. No wonder her husband had taken off for a break.
Who the hell did she remind me of? It was there at the back of my mind, teasingly close. That blush and then the frantic effort. I tried to go back over the girls I had known during the past few years, but it wasn’t easy to concentrate with sharp nails digging into my back.
There had been many women over the years. I’ve usually got a good memory for faces; but I couldn’t pick it. I shook my head and got on with the business in hand. And that’s where my business was at the moment: clasped in her soft hand. But it did worry me. Not the urgent squeezing, but the memory of times gone by trying to edge around into my thoughts.
By now we had got into the rhythm of things . She might have been petite, but there was power in those thighs, and their gyroscopic action was closing in on me.
My mind drifted back to the old days. Not to the days with George ; nor to the days on the island resort where I had been pinning the tourist tail. I had drifted much further back; back to the days of my first real burst of good, solid sex; of sex without recrimination, without pretended shame; back to the days in the bush, back to my days as a rouseabout on a sheep station, fifty kilometres out of Swan Hill – in the dry northern part of Victoria.
And then I had it. Susie! Sweet Susie Stephens: the cutest, coyest nymphomaniac you could ever hope to meet. Gerry was the spitting – probably biting would be more appropriate – image of sweet Susie. She was maybe a few centimetres taller, but the rest matched up fairly well.
God, but we’d had fun with Susie! Always willing, and she loved every minute of it. Dave Stephens, her father, was the owner of the sheep station. Dave was a real rough diamond, but religiously straight-laced. She was his golden-haired little girl, and it wasn’t until he found her in bed with the one of the shearers and the
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