Tsetse Ch. 02

"Would you like some Champagne, Miss Barnes, or can I get you something else?" I am so rarely referred to as 'Miss Barnes' that I took a moment to realise she was talking to me. She being the stewardess on the private jet that was about to take off and deliver me and Jenny Comer, Patel's head of security, to Mumbai at the start of my Indian exploration.

I accepted the Champagne gratefully and eased myself back into the luxurious leather of the chair. Jenny accepted too, but she was preoccupied with some work-related matters and I decided to let her get on with it while I remembered the sex we'd enjoyed after I'd visited Patel's travel guru. I also wanted a chance to make myself really believe this was happening. I mean, me, Elspeth, in a private jet on the end of a runway at a VIP airport in West London about to take off for the East and with a glass of Champagne in hand and, what is more, a bottle of the stuff in an ice bucket beside me. 'Fuck me,' I thought.

Jenny looked up, "What was that?"

'Oh, nothing." Had i actually said it?

I had decided to travel in comfortable clothing which meant: no bra, a calf length, loose and full skirt, cotton blouse with patch pockets and soft trainers. I was wearing knickers but had a suspicion that Jenny would be taking delightful liberties, so I had made sure they were suitable.

The Stewardess, 'please, call me Helen,' was predictably tall, great legs, elegant and very classy. Her uniform was a deep red and immaculately cut. Her hair, a delightful contrasting blonde tied back under a rather silly hat. She asked for our attention. The Captain did the 'welcome aboard and please pay attention to the safety briefing' bit and Helen launched into it, making it almost a dance. I felt Jenny's hand on mine. "She's flirting with you," she whispered.

"Or you."

"Possibly."

Jenny was wearing pleated-front, khaki trousers, a white shirt and chestnut coloured ankle boots. Her hair was loose and to her shoulders. She wasn't wearing a bra.

It was not long before the plane seemed to be catapulted along the runway and, seconds later, was climbing up, up through the light cloud with a view of the Capital spread out below us. I leant into the window and tried to identify things like Hyde Park and the Eye. I felt a hand on my hip. "We have to refuel in Cyprus. We won't be on the ground long, so we will stay aboard." Her voice was a whisper in my ear. The hand ran down my thigh. "I'm going to enjoy myself when we get to the hotel."

I looked over my shoulder. "Not until then?"

She smirked. "Patience is a virtue."

A light lunch of tomato and feta salad was served with a crisp Chablis. When Helen went into her pantry, Jenny slid her hand up under my skirt."While I'm with you, you will need permission for these."

"How long will you be staying?"

She kissed me, hard, her tongue pushing my lips apart and leant back to smile. "I can't be sure. Probably three or four days. We're going to a party tomorrow night."

"Oh?"

"Have you heard of Chandra?"

Had I? Of course I had. One of Bollywood's biggest stars, she was a great beauty of about forty years, a singer, dancer, fine actress and with a reputation for almost virginal purity. I remarked on that to Jenny, who simply smiled. "Did you bring an evening dress?"

"No, of course not. I had no idea I might meed one."

"We'll sort something out tomorrow."

"Do we have to go to the party?"

"Valinda," Patel, the women who had commissioned me to write Tsetse and who was one of the super-rich, "thinks it'll be good for you to see how the Indian rich live before you go wandering around the country."

"What do you think?"

"I think I want to get us to our hotel and give you a night to remember." She squeezed my nipple, hard, watching my eyes. "I love your pain face."

The stopover in Cyprus didn't take long and we were soon lifting off and on our way. Jenny pulled me to her and kissed me, sliding her hand up under my skirt once again.

"When would you like your meal, Ma'am?"

Jenny didn't break the kiss for a beat or two and didn't remove her hand at all. "Whenever you're ready, Helen, thank you."

As the stewardess withdrew to her pantry, i smiled at Jenny. "You'll embarrass her."

"Not you?"

"Well, me too, yes."

"Helen has worked for Valinda for a good few years. There is very little she hasn't seen before." She kissed me again and her hand slid right up to my knickers. I wondered if Jenny had fucked Helen too. I wouldn't have been surprised.

The Lanchester was predictably efficient. A maroon Rolls Royce (what else) had collected us from the plane and by the time we got to our suite our bags had been unpacked and our maid was ready to greet us. Jenny dismissed her with a large tip.

"Can I take a shower? Travelling always makes me feel grimy."

Jenny smiled. "Yes, of course. I'll have one too. When you're done, come into my bedroom (There were, naturally, two bedrooms and bathrooms).

I stripped off and entered the walk-in shower which ran instantly at a perfect temperature. Gratefully, I washed my hair and body, taking, as you will understand, care to ensure I was clean in those intimate places that I devoutly hoped Jenny might visit.

Having dried myself, I walked naked through into her bedroom to find her in the bed, her lovely breasts exposed above the duvet.

Jenny tapped the duvet beside her and just below her breast. "Put your foot here." I did and, slowly, she began to stroke my leg: my calf first, then my knee and thigh before stroking between my legs. "Such a hungry girl." She didn't seem to mind. Her finger slipped inside me and she crooked it which almost made me fall, such was the sudden flood of pleasure.

A few more minutes of that and I was very, very wet and aroused. "Enough for you for a moment," she threw back the duvet. She patted her mound. "Get down here and remind me how good you can be."

I worked my lingual magic for a while. I pride myself that no woman can take more than a few minutes before cumming, but Jenny confounded me. Her noises were encouraging and the fingers in my hair occasionally gripped me tighter as if she was going to let go but she didn't. When, finally and thank fuck she did, it was a rollercoaster: her hips lifted, her fingers nearly scalped me, she bucked and moaned and soaked my face. It took her a few minutes to recover.

"Well," she said. "I think Miss Barnes needs a little reward." She got out of bed and told me to get on all fours, which I did. I tried to watch to see what she was doing but she was having none of that and tied something around my eyes. "Lose one sense, enhance the others. Can you feel what this is?" It was, I thought a belt that she slowly allowed to caress my arse. "Correct." She administered the first blow hard, fast and unexpectedly. Being unable to see meant being unprepared and I think I screamed, more from surprise than pain. She got into a rhythm which made it somehow less painful and then, I still get wet when I think about it, she slipped a vibrator between my lips. It was small and focussed and she applied it to my clitoris and, holding it there, continued to strap my arse. I felt as if I had left my body and was floating. I was in heaven and she knew it. When my orgasm came it was, as hers had been, a whole body experience that had me squirming and writhing and screaming, from ecstasy this time.

Jenny was wonderful at aftercare and, with a smarting arse, I allowed myself to be enfolded in her arms and caressed to sleep.

Chandra's Party

The following morning we had a leisurely coffee on the suite's balcony with views across the city, marred only by the polluted air. We dressed for a morning of sightseeing and I was permitted to wear knickers under my long skirt and loose blouse. Instead of the limo, we took a tuktuk. Th driver had a good command of English and was very friendly. He drove us to the old port and Gateway to India, a relic of the city's colonial past that, generously, the Indians have left in place. From there we went to one of the oldest, Persian restaurants in the city and were spellbound by the simple vegetarian curries and breads.

Back at our suite we showered, together this time and while Jenny dressed she told me to remain naked. A few minutes later and her phone rang. "Yes, please send her up." I gave her an enquiring look but she smiled enigmatically and, when the doorbell rang, went to open it. She returned a few seconds later accompanied by a short, dumpy lady, Indian, with a wonderfully smiley face and large suitcase.

"This is Mrs Gupta. She is one of the finest saree merchants in the city and she is here to dress you for the party.'

"A saree? Isn't that bit cultural appropriation?" By way of answer, Jenny asked me how many people, young and old, I had seen on the street in jeans and t shirts. Wasn't that appropriating Western culture? Fair comment.

Mrs Gupta opened her suitcase and we were invited to select a saree. She held the silk to my skin and hair and recommended a particularly light fabric with a purple base and other colours woven, it seemed at random, but to wonderful effect. The material caressed my skin, my nipples did what they always do when I don't want them to and Jenny and Mrs Gupta remarked which, as you may imagine, helped enormously.

Mrs Gupta left us when she had finished dressing me. She had deployed a couple of well-hidden pins to provide me with some security for which I was grateful. I had been, as you may remember, naked when she arrived and she didn't seem remotely surprised or shocked. Needless to say I was still naked beneath the saree and Jenny took some delight in stroking my nipples and puss through the material. Bitch! She went to her room and returned wearing a simple, black sheath that emphasised her gorgeous shape.

The limo whispered through the crazy traffic to a gated high-rise building set in wonderful grounds. The car stopped under a canopy and we were met by one of Chandra's staff, called Marina who led us to the lift that whisked us up to the relevant floor of the building.

How shall I describe the apartment. That word suggests part of a single storey of the block's many but in this case I discovered it meant all of two floors and surrounded by a tree-lined balcony, maybe thirty feet wide. More of that later. We were escorted as far as the apartment's sumptuous entrance hall where our hostess was receiving guests.

On screen, Chandra was beautiful. In the flesh she was simply breathtaking. She was wearing a simple, dark blue evening dress that concealed but revealed her gorgeous shape and, thanks to a slit from ankle to hip, showed off the dancer's leg beautifully. She recognised Jenny and they kissed, then Jenny introduced me.

"Ah," she said, "the Tsetse writer?" I nodded. "Why was it called that?" So many people had asked me that. Vilanda's drug company had been looking into a number of insect-transmitted diseases and, almost by accident, discovered the malarial treatment whilst working on sleeping sickness connected with the tsetse.

Chandra admired my saree and told us to enjoy the party then gave her attention to next arrivals. Arm in arm, Jenny and I walked into the apartment proper. I touched her hand. "Is our touching like this considered appropriate?"

"Oh, don't worry. This is High Society and the rules don't apply here." We passed and said hello to a policeman in a military-style uniform with a Sam Browne belt and copious medal ribbons. "The chief of police," explained Jenny. She clearly knew most people at least by sight if not by acquaintance. She pointed out a few senior ministers, film directors, actors and actresses, industrialists and even a couple of religious leaders.

Jenny led me through a heavy oak door and shut it behind us. The room was small and almost bare but for one, heavy wooden, old-school type desk. I wondered why she had brought me there.

"They call this the 'Powder Room. Open the desk." I did and was surprised to see a large bowl of white powder and, in a glass, a number of silver straws. Solid silver, Jenny assured me. The floor of the desk's interior was a mirror.

"Cocaine, darling. Probably supplied by the police chief. Anyone who wants a line can simply pop in here and snort away." I was aghast.

We left the Powder Room and made our way to the large buffet room where we grazed on wonderful food, met and spoke to some of the beautiful people and drank, what else, Champagne. Later, we took a walk around the balcony. The word, 'Balcony' simply doesn't do it justice. It was a promenade, with flowering shrubs, trees, benches, and arbours. One of those, as we strolled past, was occupied by the police chief who was standing with a young man kneeling before him and clearly engaged in what the British press are often pleased to describe as a 'sex act,' and which most of us would call a blowjob. In another two men were enjoying a good buggering and in another, three women were enjoying the pleasures of the flesh, the flesh concerned being provided by a young curate, anglican or catholic I could not from my point of view, determine. The dog collar was a little awry and Jenny commented that to see a curate with his dog collar misplaced was a disgrace.

I was astonished. Jenny explained. "It's partly because it's such a repressed society that they enjoy breaking all the rules. Homosexuality is frowned upon, vilified in fact. Public demonstrations of affection are unacceptable. Drugs are, as everywhere, illegal and so those who are rich can and do flout the law to prove they are above it. Which, of course, they are. Everywhere."

With that, she took me into a small recess in the trees and kissed me, her hand playing with my nipple and I returned the kiss and stroked her back, concentrating on her delicious bum. She hitched up the skirt of my saree and stroked me, her finger toying with my clit. Just as I was beginning to feel the stirring of a nascent orgasm, she stopped. "I told you. Inappropriate physical contact is frowned upon!" She slipped her finger into my mouth to stifle a protest and looked me straight in the eye. 'I like you with my finger in your mouth."

During the course of the evening, we saw a number of people disappear into the Powder Room and come out with dilated pupils and a spring in their step. Later in the evening, people started stripping off to use the swimming pool. It was, as Jenny said, a Bacchanalia and I was, I confess, a bit shocked.

Not, however, as shocked as I was by her behaviour when we got back to our hotel. Without a word she undid the top of the saree and exposed my tits. Then she bent me over the bed and lifted the saree's skirt and gave me a stinging slap that made me yelp.

"Stay there, don't move."

She disappeared from my sight and the next thing I knew, a dildo, slippery with lube was pressing into my arse. Another slap that took my breath away and, as I recovered from it so she drove into me. It wasn't big and didn't hurt but I was unprepared and not relaxed as normal and the burn was, well, actually lovely! Who'd have thought?

She gripped and yanked my hair so my head came up as she took me, slapping my arse viciously and, ultimately biting my shoulder as her orgasm escaped.

She held me, tenderly stroking my arm and back as I sucked comfortingly on her nipple until I fell into a dreamless sleep.

~

It was, in the end, the following day that Jenny had to leave to deal with some security problem in Singapore and I was left to my own devices. Well, naturally, I had transport in the form of a large Mercedes, access to the company planes and helicopters and a bodyguard in the delightful shape of Angelica, a very dark-skinned Tamil, who was predictably attractive but somewhat remote. "She was in the Indian Army's special forces," Jenny had explained. "She could probably kill us both with one blink of an eyelid." Angelica stayed with me, always discreetly at a watchful distance as I toured the country. When I dined, she sat nearby but unobtrusive. I tried to engage her in conversation when we drove or flew anywhere but she would have none of it; polite, respectful, but never deferential.

~

My tour took six weeks and I loved every minute of it. But by then, reality had to show its ugly face and I returned home to find that my flat had been cleaned and aired for my return; a note on my kitchen table wth Valinda's compliments and would I please visit her Cotswold home, the Manor, when convenient and to make an appointment with her PA.

I had intended to write and thank her for the fabulously generous holiday but this gave me the opportunity to say thank you in person, so I didn't.

The Cotswolds are a group hills, a little North and West of London. They are known for providing twee homes for London's Liberal elite, allowing them to leave the Westminster or Islington bubble they infest in the week, and take the fresher air at the weekend while pretending to be 'country folk,' wearing green wellies, Barbours and smug expressions. (Me? Biased? I think not!)

Friday evening, and the Mercedes that had been sent for me to deliver me to Valinda for the weekend purred it's way along the motorway and then onto the increasingly narrow roads as we approached the Old Manor House, passing through pretty villages and beside farms.

The tractor appeared as if from nowhere and I don't remember a lot after that. I remember noise and pain and then, thankfully, oblivion.

I woke up in hospital and discovered I had a few internal injuries and a couple of broken limbs: nothing life-threatening but extremely painful and likely to take a while to get better.

"Valinda is away, in the States but she insisted I come to see you." This was Margaret, one of Valinda's admin staff. A woman of about 50, somehow grey-looking but efficient and brisk. "When you're discharged she wants you to stay at the Manor. She is determined to provide the best care and treatment possible to ensure your full recovery." I got the distinct impression it was non-negotiable. I called a friend who has a key to my flat and told her what was going on and she, a sometimes bed mate, told me I was a lucky bitch and she'd take care of the flat. I confess at that precise moment, I wasn't feeling too lucky.

A few days later, a private nurse arrived at my bedside with a wheelchair and explained she was taking me to my transport to go to the Manor. If I'd expected a taxi or one of the Mercs I would have been wrong. An ambulance, complete with the nurse and a doctor drove me to the Manor. I was wheeled inside and taken to a ground floor room, with ensuite, a view across the rolling sward and a fireplace you could have parked a car in. I thanked the nurse who told me she was staying to look after me. For how long? As long as it took. Oh, and the doctor was on call anytime and the physiotherapist would arrive tomorrow and assess me.

You can imagine getting bored when you're recovering from injuries like that but the pace was relentless. Nurse - 7 am - blood pressure, temperature and wounds redressed as necessary. Housekeeper - 8 am - breakfast that had been ordered the night before, mostly scrambled eggs on toast because I love it. Physio - 9.30 - fucking sadist, obviously. She was Marta; Latvian, blonde, mid-thirties and, frankly, hot which i realised even in my discomfort. One of my injuries was a nasty femur fracture very near my hip joint and the fact that it hurt like hell whenever it moved or was dressed didn't stop me hoping the physio might give it some attention. Masochists get their fun where they can. Marta started off giving me a few short sessions a day but as I improved their duration increased.

Lunch - 1 pm - soup. Nurse - 2pm blood pressure, blood test and general assessment. Physio repeatedly. The nurse had a bedroom adjacent to mine, which was certainly reassuring.

Marta had me on my feet within a couple of weeks and walking soon after. The major problem was that pesky femur but she worked me hard and, to my absolute horror, decided that vigorous massage might be of help.

Knowing me as my readers do (I hope there is more than one) they will know that an intimate massage, that close to what my Granny always referred to as Miss Kitty was a torment of titanic proportions. How does one even attempt to hide the signs of arousal. Marta was professional and detached but I just knew she was phoning her friends and telling them abut this crazy patient whose nipples grew like Pinocchio's nose; not when telling fibs, but when being massaged and manipulated with a mix of pain and pleasure. Oh well, we are what we are.

Throughout this, Valinda was in frequent touch as she crossed the globe in search of business opportunities. Of Jenny Comer, on the other hand, I heard nothing aside from a card telling me to pull my finger out, stop enjoying the pain, and get better quickly.

I was coming out of the shower, unassisted by this time, with a towel around my hips but otherwise naked to find Valinda Patel sitting in a chair in my room. I did what I think most women would do and instinctively covered my breasts.

"Hello, Elspeth. You're looking well."

'Thank you, Ms Patel. And also thank you for giving me the holiday of a lifetime, and for, well, for all this." I waved my hand airily round the room.

"Valinda, please, and I am delighted you had a good time" She looked good, her long legs in wide-legged, cream silk trousers, with a pale blue, button down shirt. Her hair, long and black, was loose and fell to her shoulders. She used her hand vaguely to indicate my chest. "Please, I didn't mean to embarrass you." Still coyly covering my tits, I sat down on the edge of my bed.

Valinda looked at my leg which, below the modesty of the towel, revealed a couple of livid scars. She could not see or know that they went all the way up. "Your scars are healing?'

I nodded, "They are but I don't think they will disappear entirely."

"You will permit me to introduce you to Mrs Gifford, a very fine cosmetic surgeon. She is a close friend and a remarkable woman. If anyone can deal with your scars, she can."

Where does she practice? Switzerland, oh yes, and Martinique.

Without asking, she pushed my towel up and ran her finger along the line of one of the scars, the one that led to my inner thigh where it met my pelvis. I was naked beneath the towel but she persisted, gently tracing the scar until her finger was a hair's breadth away from my cunt. She seemed fascinated by the wound. She also seemed oblivious to the fact that my body was absolutely not unaware of her gentle finger, my awareness being manifested by the hardness of my nipples and a distinct swelling of my labia.

"Forgive me Elspeth," she said sitting back in the chair. "I was trained as a doctor and still find myself intrigued by the body and its ability to repair. I am also excited by the way the body reveals our inner reactions." She smiled. "Yours is particularly articulate." So much for me thinking I had got away unnoticed.

Before I could apologise, she rose from her chair, stepped close, took my face in her hands and kissed me, deeply, her tongue pressing into me. She held my face after the kiss had ended and, her mouth almost touching mine, said, "I think we will be very close. Do you feel the same?" I said that I did. She kissed me again and her hand went from my cheek to my breast which she palmed, arousing my nipple even more. Our mouths locked, she pushed me gently down onto the bed and pulled my towel open, her hand sliding down over my belly to my mound. I was a bit surprised, not to say disappointed when she broke the kiss and moved so that she could see my groin more closely. Touching the scar she asked, "What has Marta done with this so far."

"She has manipulated my hip, massaged hydrating cream into the scar and made me walk until I am exhausted. She is a sadist."

"The best physios always are." Her finger traced the scar again but, this time, kept travelling north until her finger was between my swollen labia and she stroked gently there. My legs spread of their own volition. "I could have been a physio I think."

In my aroused state I did not make the effort to analyse what Vilanda had just said. instead I gave a small gasp of pleasure as her finger circled my clitoris.

"Your body reacts well."

Now, I have to say that all this was totally unexpected, however welcome it might have been. And, looking back, I realise that she knew more about me than I might have wanted her to thanks to Jenny Comer's highly intrusive investigation into me for security reasons.. I also wonder if Comer was almost 'talent-scouting' for Patel. Either way, at that moment, all in know is that I was feeling things that I had not felt since that tractor almost killed me. Consequently, I was squirming and moaning and generally acting like the frustrated bitch I was and Vilanda didn't seem to mind a bit.

Her hand covered my mound as she moved back up to kiss me again. Her finger entered me, slowly. The hand of experience. She was talking me to the edge and holding me there, skilfully. "When I say, Elspeth, when I say."

Fucking say then. I didn't actually say that but I have to admit, I thought it. I gave a keening and extended, 'please' and I swear I could hear her smile and she somehow flicked the orgasm switch and I lost most of my senses for a few moments.

We lay like there, my head on her shoulder, her hand still between my legs when Marta arrived. I tried to move, to cover myself but Vilanda was having none of it. "How is she doing, Marta?"

"She is lazy. But I give her one thing, she handles pain well."

'Oh my," said VIlanda, "that is good to know."

To be continued .......