angie's fuck

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: General Erotica  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

Featured Review on this writing by willnorman

angie gets fucked by a gigolo

The woman introduced herself, 'Angie, my name's Angie. You agreed to sleep with me today?'

He appraised his client. He'd never met a woman like her before. She was ageless, evergreen-young, with pure, tanned, perfect skin, roses-in-her-cheeks, melancholy-in-her-eyes, shocks of ginger curls kissing her shoulders. A proud face: high cheeks, piercing shiny grey eyes, a cute toffee nose, pursed, thin, rouged lips. A woman of considerable standing - and upbringing. A woman to show respect. She was wearing a plain indigo dress, bared arms and legs, poppy red stilettoes. Angie looked fantastic. He tried to age her: late thirties, mid-forties, early fifties? It was impossible to tell. He softened in her presence, becoming more human, loving, caring, than he had felt in his life, finding himself apologizing, sitting up straight for her, like her good boy, her puppy, about to be fed,

'I'm sorry, I'm Martin. Did you bring the...?'

She clumsily unzipped her leather bag, extracting a wad of used banknotes: £500 in £20 notes,

'Mmmn' she bite her lip, her stomach churned, she felt a hot, burning sensation in her urethra, she badly needed a pee, 'It's all here, would you like to count it?'

He shook his head, sadly, feeling sorry for her. Her first time. She must be absolutely petrified,

'Please, no, there's no need. Let's wait until we're safely inside the bedroom, shall we, Angie?'

She was touched by his surprising consideration for her. His warmth towards her. He'd used her name deliberately. Angie, feeling a warm glow of contentment inside, permitted herself a nervous smile,

'I need the loo, Martin. Can we go, please?'

'Of course, let me carry your bag.'

'Thank you.'

'If you'd like to follow me. Please.'

She wiped her lips with her wrinkled fingers, licking her fingertips with the end of her tongue, biting her rose gloss nails, overwhelming the man with her innocent, sensual allure, her scent,

'Thank you, I'd love to.'

They enjoyed a polite smattering of conversation as they left the bar, taking the grand, spiral, crystal-chandeliered staircase up to the first floor.


Angie sat on the loo, her indigo dress hitched as high as her breasts, her beige satin knickers rolled down to her knees, thinking to herself,

What am I doing here? What's got into me all of a sudden? I should be ashamed of myself. For what I am about to do.

She let go of her dress, shut her eyes, and clasped her hands in her lap, as if in silent prayer,

For what I am about to receive may somebody up there, someone who loves me, make me truly thankful.

Prayer over, Angie sighed a long, deep sigh of relief. The luxury braided Palisades toilet roll hung off a brass ring on her left. She pulled off a thick wad wiping herself, enjoying the softness of the tissue against her cleft, the imaginary softness of Michael's fingers rubbing her tenderly, rhythmically, caressing her in the way she used to love being caressed.

Michael used to caress her the way she loved most. Michael made sweet passionate love to her on the sun lounger, on the veranda, in the half-light of dawn, her favourite time of day. Once.

Angie dropped the wad into the lavatory pan, twisted her supple body at the waist, and reached for the tube. She removed the cap, squeezed an ample blob onto her fingertips, and rubbed it in,

'Forgive me Michael,' she said to herself, opening her eyes, imagining his rugged face smiling at her from inside the vanity mirror, 'It's been five long years. I have to move on now, darling.'

He was waiting for her next door, through the bedroom wall. Martin. Waiting to make love to her. One last, lingering moment of doubt,

'I'm not sure I can do this.'

'Of course, you can,' she told herself, 'You deserve it. After all you went through, caring for Michael.'

Angie shook herself, pulled up her briefs, flushed the toilet, threw the used tube into a bin under the wash hand basin, washed her hands, fluffed up her ginger hair, opened the bathroom door.

She cast her eyes to the right, seeing the brass latch and chain drawn across, securing her inside.

No sign of a Do Not Disturb notice. Must be hanging on the doorknob.

Angie would hate to be found out. How would she explain to her friends: at the Bridge Club, Aquarobics, Swimming, Zumba, Pilates, Tennis Club for that matter? How could she explain?

I can never tell them. Not in a thousand years. My friends wouldn't understand. Think of all the gossip, the scandal in our village.

Angie permitted herself a wry smile,

He's gone so far as to stick a blob of blue tack over the spyhole! Martin certainly isn't taking any chances, taking any chances with me. I wonder how many other women he's had, here, in this bedroom. Wonder if he'll be kind, gentle, and tender with me. I wonder if he'll hurt me.

The nerves returned to haunt her. She found herself trembling, shuddering, at the idea of him, his lips kissing hers, his hands caressing her, his body interlocked with hers. Blinking her insidious fears aside, she stepped into the bedroom. Facing her was a full-length, glass-fronted, wardrobe with its doors closed. Next to that, a polished wooden shelf filled with notepads, the hotel guide, two menus, a full tray of cups and saucers, selected fine teas, coffees, shortbread, a kettle. At the far end of the shelf, next to some flutes and Slim Jims, stood an ice bucket filled with bottles of mineral water, a bottle of champagne, sparkling wine, some miniatures of claret? Angie couldn't tell from where she was standing. There was a narrow mirror over the shelf, a telephone for room service, a wireless internet connection. And, lying beside the ice bucket, a bunch of blood red roses. She thought of the five hundred pounds tucked inside her overnight bag. He has left it on the chair for her, considerately, unopened,

How much has this cost? she asked herself, the champagne, wine, flowers, the room, the bed?

The bed itself was sheer unadulterated luxury, a layered wedding cake of a bed: an eiderdown, indigo bedspread, fluffy cream pillows. All cosy and snug! Her heart warmed, she felt herself relax,

Indigo. Cream. My favourite colours.

A bed in which to curl up with her lover.

He lay on top of the bed at the centre. He was naked, well-tanned, with an incredibly muscled physique: barrel chest, taut abs, and extremely well hung. Angie could barely bring herself to look at him. She stood at the far end of the bed, turning away, facing their mirror, murmuring,

'Martin, can you help me unzip my dress, please?'

He didn't respond, didn't answer her. Instead, Martin lay, spread-eagled, on the king-size bed, studying her. Truth be told, he'd never encountered a woman so beautiful, fragile as a porcelain doll, so vulnerable, in his life. He found himself intrigued, beguiled by her, the sadness in those big, tired, grey eyes. He desperately wanted to help her.

Neither of them spoke.

Angie glanced up at the hideous plasma screen tv hanging off the wall to her left. There was a slideshow playing shifting images of Palisades: the restaurant, lounge, cocktail bar, a bedroom featuring a luxurious four-poster bed, a table setting for afternoon tea, the rooftop garden, palm tree, indoor heated swimming pool, underground car parking facilities. She found it distracting. Her brief encounter, her fleeting romance, she hoped, with him, her craved-for reawakening, would be testing enough for her without the distraction of an advertorial. Angie picked up the remote and switched it off.

Martin closed his eyes and pictured Sian asleep in bed, her magnificent breasts cushioned by their duvet, kissing her soft lips before his illicit meeting with Angie. Sian, forever demanding, challenging, insistent that he make love to her until they created her new life, her baby. They'd been trying so long. He questioned whether she was infertile. How would their lives change if Sian's dreams of motherhood ever came true? Did he want a child at all? How would he cope as the baby's father - with his terrible shame? His mind returned to the fragile, porcelain doll.

Was she a mother?

The wall between the bedroom and bathroom was covered in floor-to-ceiling mirror, a hallmark of the lover's suites at Palisades. Angie set down the remote. She suddenly realized they might be being watched. The floor-to-ceiling glass pane looked out over a square, a green space dotted with elm, oaks, a few wrought iron benches clustered round a stone water fountain, a statue of a cherub with a harp, spouting water into a basin. A tramp stretched out over one of the benches enjoying the warm afternoon sunshine. A plump elderly woman with her hair tied in a bun fed a flock of pigeons, titbits, crumbs of stale bread from a paper bag. Angie thought,

That will be me one day.

She drew the curtains, plunging the room into darkness. He was afraid of the dark. Angie broke the silence, 'Turn on the lights for me.'

Martin fumbled for the dimmer light switch.

The main bedroom light came on. Angie moved to the other side of the bed, more confident, ready now, for him. She stood facing the full-length mirror, watching him slide across the bed to be with her. He stood behind her, pressing his body against her smart indigo dress, her back. Offering him no resistance, she explained, her classy, articulated voice reduced to a whisper,

'My husband died five years ago, Martin. He was my steadfast pillar of support, my best friend, my lover. I talk to him every morning when I wake and pray for him each night before I go to bed. I think of him every minute of the day. My life is empty, pointless, without him.'

'I'm sorry. How long were you married for?'

'Thirty years.'

Martin felt an overbearing sense of remorse, a compassion for her. Felt sorry for her. He wanted to love her, care for her, make up somehow for the loss that she'd endured, her loneliness, to do something good in his life for once.

Thirty years? She must be fifty, maybe as old as sixty, and yet she doesn't look a day over thirty.

'That must be really hard for you, Angie.'

'It is hard. Michael and I were inseparable. We played together, shared the same interests: golf, tennis, swimming, keeping ourselves fit. Even worked together: we set up a successful cleaning company.'

Martin looked surprised, 'Cleaning company?! I thought you might work as a beauty therapist.'

The slightest hint of a smile appeared on Angie's thin, cherry red lips, 'Why do think that?'

'Because you have such a beautiful face.'

She blushed, 'You're very kind.

'Not at all. You're a very attractive woman.'

'I try to stay young.'

He changed the subject, 'Do you have any children?'

'No, I couldn't have children.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Please, don't be. Michael and I were perfectly happy without children. We led very busy lives.'

She paused for thought,

And you, Martin. Are you married? Do you have children waiting for you at home? Are there women, passing strangers, in your life, rearing your unwanted bastards? Tell me your secrets.

She decided against. The thought of discussing his marriage, surely he wasn't married? -- she found distracting, his illegitimate children,

Do I really need to know?

She ran out of small talk. He talked silently, exploring her with his fingertips, his puckered lips.

Angie sighed as her gigolo gently unclasped the hook on her indigo dress, drawing its zip down as far as her bra strap, fluffing her red hair, kissing her earlobes, the tell-tale gingery-red hairs on the nape of her neck, pressing his lips into the soft tanned skin, kissing her tattoos, the hairy down on her upper back. She felt the goose bumps rise on her exposed skin. Felt him pull the zip as far as the small of her back, licking a trace down her spine, savouring her skin, she felt him lick her body, felt a fresh, tingling sensation in her body, one that she hadn't felt for years,

God, it's started!

'Martin,' she murmured.

He eased the dress off her shoulders. She slipped her dress down her arms, pulling it down as far as her hips, exposing her shoulders, her slender back, her midriff, her waist, for him to hold to kiss. His lips pressed into the small of her back. He held her by the hips. The dress fell in a crumpled heap round her ankles. She stepped out of her dress showing off her beige underwired bra, her satin briefs. Angie's body was magnificent, perfectly proportioned, well cared for, she had a blemish-free tanned complexion, her skin was well nourished. He leaned into her. His lips brushed her golden skin. Addicted to her intimate body scent, he couldn't stop kissing her divine flesh,


'Be Michael for me.'


Martin had engaged in roleplay for clients before as part of their erotic fantasies. But this was the first time that he'd ever performed the role of a woman's dead husband. He found the prospect strangely daunting, detecting a change in Angie who had shaken off her pre-sex jitters, becoming more strident, more dominant. Martin suspected she had a plan, a screenplay, for him, her performing sealion, her captive puppet-on-a-string, to act out. He wasn't far wrong,

'How would you like me to act, talk to you, Angie?' he asked, gently massaging her shoulders.

She smiled for the first time. The smile lit up her face, 'I'll help you, Michael. Listen to me, carefully. Listen to what I say, what I tell you to do. Pretend you have just come home late after a long, hard day at the office. You find me waiting for you in our bedroom, getting undressed for bed. You love to watch me undress. You love me to wear satin for you. I dress in my silky satin slip for you. Pretend for me! Please? Then you can let your imagination run wild. Is that any help?'

Martin swallowed hard, 'I think so.'

Angie reached behind her back, unclipping her bra, 'One more thing. Call me Angela, Michael. My husband always used to call me Angela when we made love.'

Made love. Such an old-fashioned expression. We're about to fuck, and she wants me to make love to her, as her dead husband, he mused.

He remembered her £500 payment, the cost of hiring the lover's suite for the night, the cost of Moet & Chandon, his train tickets. Sian, awaiting his return, none the wiser. What would she do to him, to herself if she ever found out? The consequences of his infidelity, his fake life, did not bear thinking about. Martin re-focussed, checking his watch. If he got his skates on, he might just catch the 16:43 back to Paddington. He could be home with Sian by eight, pretending he'd had another tiresome day, selling financial investment proposals to recently bereaved widows. He heard Angie's refined voice, articulating in the background. She hadn't paid yet,

'Shall we make a start?'

She had his full, undivided attention. He held her slender waist, 'Yes, where do we begin?'

His client was sweating profusely. She commenced, 'You're home late tonight, darling.'

'I had a hard day at the office, Angie.'

'No, not Angie,' she chided, 'Angela.'

Martin removed his hands from her midriff, realizing, he shouldn't be touching her there yet,

'Sorry, I meant Angela.'

She unclipped her bra, 'There's no need to apologize. Being so in love means never having to say sorry to each other, doesn't it?'

He nodded his understanding, as the truth finally dawned on him,

This fantasy, this roleplay of hers, isn't just make-believe. This is for real! She thinks I'm him!

He watched dry-mouthed in the mirror as she casually slipped the bra straps over her shoulders, let the straps hang off her elbows, easing the cups off her breasts. She let her bra fall on the carpet, reaching for him, wanting him to touch her. He gasped at the sight of her buoyant, busty, buxom, breasts, her round cherry red nipples, speckled with sweat. She craned her head, they kissed, deeply, pausing for breath. She spoke, her voice was hushed,

'You can rub my breasts, if you like, Michael. Would you like to rub my breasts?'

He cupped her breasts in his hands, loving the feeling of the soft undersides, her sore bra weals, kneading her rounded, doughy breasts, flicking, rubbing her nipples, until her teats stood erect,

'Love that, don't you? Love it when you rub my breasts. I love you, Michael. Do you love me?'

He gulped, lost for words, he'd never felt, touched, caressed, loved, a woman like this before - a mature woman like Angie. Her allure erased Sian from his mind, obliterating her completely. After several tense, silent moments, her gigolo, her puppet-on-a-string, found his voice, hissing the fatal words in her ear, his voice slurred, dreamy, happy, held in a magic trance, her trance,

'I do, Angela, I love you so much, I worship the ground you walk on.'

The sad truth was he really meant it.


He moulded his body round hers, freeing her, releasing all her pent-up inhibitions, her mournful grief. Languishing under his forceful pressure, relishing the rub of his cusps of muscle against her back, the divine sensation of his proud flesh: erect, turgid, pressed into the crevice between her fleshy buttocks, she relented, capitulating. Angie lost control, gasping as he kneaded her breasts. She reached behind her, and drew his hungry mouth to hers, kissing-him-some-more. She covered his hands with hers, sliding his palms over her tummy, pausing to explore her deep navel, her pearl charm, her neatly concealed belly button, his rough hands, caressing her belly as she slipped his fingers inside her satin briefs. She tantalised him, allowing him to fondle her soft, hairy mound,

'Pull down my pants,' she croaked, her voice hoarse, husky with sex.

Martin obliged her, stripping Angie's satin briefs off, as far as her knees. Mesmerized by her explicit nudity, her daring, final denouement, in the mirror, he let her go. She dropped her pants, stepped aside, reaching for her bag, breathing sharply, struggling to speak, she was so aroused,

'Fetch the chair, Michael. Sit facing the mirror. Close your eyes. And wait.'

Angie went to the bathroom. Martin fetched the padded chair. Sat, shut his eyes, and waited...

'You can open your eyes now.'

He opened his eyes. Angie knelt between him and the mirror, sipping a glass of red wine. She'd applied fresh lipstick, make-up, he noticed: a bold slash of blusher, primal war paint scarred her cheeks. She downed her glass of wine, and moved in, closer. Angie reeked of statement-making sexy perfume. Martin had only smelled it once before, at an exclusive perfumery in Paris. The unmistakable fragrance of chocolates, red berries, with caramel: Angel, the 23-year-old cult fragrance by Thierry Mugler, the sexiest scent in the world. He was impressed. Her sharp aroma, her irresistible masque, her satin fetish panties, took his breath away. Overcome with pride for her, he wanted to fuck her, so hard,

Angie. Angela. Angel. My Angel. My Angela. My Angie.

'Well, Michael?' she asked, posing for him with one hand on her hip, 'Will I do?'

She was wearing single chain diamond dangle earrings that accentuated her tired face, gilding her swan neck. She stroked the base of her throat with her wrinkly fingers. Her lips were sealed. Her eyes shone with tears. For one sacred moment, he was lost for words. His heart went out to her,

'You look beautiful, Angie, just beautiful.'

She sat on his lap, facing him, her arms wrapped around his neck, kissing him. With just one secret left to share, she showed him her intimate tattoo, squatting on his cock, then she fucked him.

He protested, 'Angie, I'm not wearing a...'

She pressed her fingertips to his lips, 'It's alright. I've had my menopause.'

They kissed-some-more. She impaled herself on him hungrily feeding him inside her lubricious cleft, sliding up and down his slippery shaft, clenching his girth with her birth muscle. He bore her body weight, grasping her small buttocks, stimulating her naughtily with his stubby middle finger. She shuddered at his intervention, writhing in ecstasy on his glorious spear, cupping her breasts, forcing her stiff nipples between his dry lips, suckling the baby she couldn't birth. They ascended, flashing pinpricks of light, glowing scarlet fireflies, pervading their ruptured minds. They bonded, their bodies melded, locked-together-tight, they gripped, clawed, clenched, tore, fighting each other. Soaring to her climax, she screamed out loud,

Submitted: November 05, 2022

© Copyright 2022 harriet jacqui furl. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:


sweet lemon

A nice "read" that captured all the emotions of a professional sex session

Sat, November 5th, 2022 9:40am


Ah, that's very sweet of you to say, lemon, thank you x

Sun, November 6th, 2022 2:53pm


I remember the sweetness of the intimacy of this one! So sexy, so smooth!!!

Sun, November 6th, 2022 12:27am


Thank you so much Spyguy - if you fancy the full audiovisual version of Deceit (includes Sian Gets Fucked and Angie's Fuck) feel free to visit my free website ( as often as you like and listen in! HJx

Sun, November 6th, 2022 2:54pm


There are times and circumstances when someone needs to relive intimacy no longer possible so badly that paying for a lover is not only justified but required. There can be a special bond between two people who understand the deep desire to perform certain acts in secrecy, with or without role play.
It is more often related of men seeking love, lust and sex by paying a woman, (or possibly two) to live out a fantasy. But surely there are women who crave that same private intimacy with a partner or partners and who are willing to pay for the "perfect sex." Kudos to any of them, and the lucky men whom they choose to participate.
Long live illicit sex!

Fri, November 11th, 2022 4:26pm

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