Dirty Aristocrat

‘Milk. I’ll have a glass of milk,’ he said decisively.

But after I called for milk and it was brought to him he smiled and refused it. ‘Isn’t this wonderful?’ he asked. ‘I feel so good.’

At that moment I knew. Even so it was incomprehensible that he was really gone. I never wanted to believe it.

‘In the end you wanted to go, didn’t you?’

There was no answer.

‘It’s OK. I know you were tired. It was only me holding you back. You go on ahead. Find a place for me.’

He lay as still as a corpse. Oh god! I already missed him so much.

‘I understand you can’t talk. But you can hear me. When it is my turn I want you to come and get me. I’ll be expecting you to come in through the window. Go in peace now. All will be

well. They will never know the truth. I will never tell them. To the day you come back to collect me.’

I opened up my nail kit and began to do his nails. With gentle care I filed and polished the yellowed nails.

‘There you go. That will last you forever. No one will ever be able to say I did not do a good job.’

Then I began to cry, not loud ugly sobs, but a quiet weeping. I didn’t want the servants to hear. To come rushing in or call the doctor waiting downstairs to come in and pronounce him

dead. I knew what waited for me outside this room. Another hour … or two won’t make a difference. This was my time. My final hour with my husband.

The time before I became the hated gold digger.

Ivan De Greystoke

Mayfair, London

I closed the door and turned to her. She was looking up at me with a secret little smile. As if she knew something I didn’t. Quite frankly, I profoundly disliked girls who played these

kinds of mind games.

‘Can I take your coat?’ I offered, shrugging out of my leather jacket and throwing it onto a chair nearby.

She turned away and stood quietly with her back to me. Her accent and her manner were all reminiscent of someone from a much higher class than the people who frequented The Dirty

Aristocrat. Perhaps it was that disconnect, that thread hanging loose from the sweater that made me bring her home with me. I helped her out of her coat and tossed it on top of mine.

‘Want a drink?’ I asked walking into the hallway.

‘Screwdriver, heavy on the screw.’

I turned to face her. Her expression was bland and yet there was something about her. Something I couldn’t place my finger on. She was sexually aggressive in a fake way. I understood

Kitty. You got what you saw. I didn’t understand this one. ‘What did you say your name was again?’

She smiled. ‘Chloe.’

‘Right,’ I said and carried on walking towards the bar. I poured myself a large cognac.

‘Did you fuck the slut in the red dress in the toilets?’

I let the fiery liquid run down my throat. ‘Yup.’

‘Was she any good?’

I looked at her curiously. ‘Why did you come back with me?’

‘I liked what you did to her on the dance floor.’

Somehow that was not the end of the story. ‘And?’

She bit her bottom lip. ‘My mother knows yours.’

My mouth tightened. Ah, the loose thread waiting to ruin the entire sweater. ‘Look, I went to The Dirty Aristocrat for a mindless fuck and I brought you back here for more of the same.

If you’re looking for a relationship I’m not the guy for you.’

‘You’re exactly the guy for me. Wouldn’t you like a hot little cocksucker to finish the night with?’

I smiled, my cock twitching. ‘Yes, I could do with a hot little cocksucker.’

‘Then you won’t find a better one this side of the Atlantic,’ she said huskily.

I threw my drink down my throat and said, ‘What are you waiting for then?’

The hot little cocksucker got on all fours and fucking crawled towards me. When she reached me she rose to her knees, unzipped my jeans, and with her mouth stretched wide around my cock

she began to swallow it like she was starving.

Tawny Maxwell

Barrington Manor, Bedfordshire

It must have been hours before I finally raised my head from his body and looked around me. The fire had become embers, and there was no warmth left in him. A light pinkish-brown mucous

was coming from his nose. I scrunched a bit of tissue and gently inserted it into his nostrils.

‘You’re free now,’ I whispered.

There was no answer.

Time to go find the good doctor. Time to start the whole merry-go-round. I straightened my back and walked down the great staircase with its blue runner carpet. On the walls were

priceless paintings. I found the doctor sitting in the Yellow Room reading a book. It was a grand room with several sets of superb hand-painted Oriental wallpaper depicting stunning

artwork of idyllic scenes from everyday life in ancient China.