Written by Eleanor

20 Mar 2004

I live in an Elizabethan manor house with my widowed father. I'd like to think of myself as pretty, fair and tender with a weasel's body, a mouth as sweet as honey and a voice as musical as a nightingale, however in reality I'm dark, sallow, with rubbery lips and a voice a rasping crow would be proud of. We open to the public twice a week and it is my job to show our guests around our lovely house. On a recent tour a dishy golden haired man in his 30's asked me for a dinner date. He was really handsome in his Italian tailor made suit, handmade shirt, posh tie and snakeskin shoes. I seemed to attract men more so than any gorgeous flighty blonde. At least I do not have junk in the trunk and I always wear bum hugging trousers and revealing all-cotton blouses. My sexy thong and bra is guaranteed to turn men's legs to water. I am also such a good cook and organiser that my dad leaves the running of the property entirely to me. We also rent it out for conferences, wedding receptions and for various TV drama programmes. My man friend was an Englishman called Paul. He worked mainly in America for an import and export firm the job involving monthly trips to Europe. My intuition told me he was married as he was immaculately dressed no signs of missing buttons which is a give-away for someone on his own. Moreover on his wedding finger you could still trace a slight indentation where a ring had been. I'm certain he was not divorced. As my dad had gone away for a few days to stay with racing chums in Doncaster I invited Paul to a meal at home to be prepared by my own sweet calloused hands. We had scallops with prawns, beef in Barolo, duchesse potatoes and asparagus, finished off with a calorie bursting scrumptious chocolate gateau. He had a terrific appetite leaving not a morsel on any plate. God I was going to make him pay in kind for this and I felt my quim itching for some rough action. After dinner he was stand-offish, slightly sheepish. He looked delicious in the evening light catching his golden curls. I made my intentions clear pretending to feel the quality of his suit cloth while brushing my hand across his fly area. He said he was married and really should return to his hotel. I insisted that he stay that I was the soul of discretion provided he used his marriage tackle on me that evening. He came across and boldly caught me by the quim expressing his desire for me.

Soon we were in the eerie Oliver Cromwell room with its dark musky tapestries and ancient 4 poster bed. Next we were cavorting naked as I chased him around the room. I got hold of him and soon his fingers were in me exploring one of my finer attributes while I tongued his rather aristrocratic endowment licking away the seepage forming at the mouth of his urethra. My clitoris and nipples were on fire. I shoved him forceably back onto the groaning bed and mounted him. I squealed as I lowered my dribbling vagina onto his solid knotty rod. Then I rode him as though I was in the Derby. He came so quickly before I even thought about climaxing. We had an intermission fag. The animals in the tapestries were staring out in wonderment at the bestial human behaviour. Next we shagged missionary style. He thrust away so hard I felt he must have a heart attack then he shuddered as another salvo of bullets went into me. This time I opened up and gave him a good drenching. God I made him labour that night so much so that his buttock muscles were so stiff he could hardly walk in the morning. However I felt as young and as fresh as a daisy and looking forward to pulling another man during the tour that we were to have tommorrow.