It’s 1918 and the Great War is coming to an end in Europe; but for one middle-aged and well-born gambler and womaniser in the English Home-Counties a time of strife and torment has just begun.

On the hook to a gangland thug for more money than he can raise and fearful of his life, Howard Gaskell jumps at an opportunity to rescue himself when a solicitor friend tells him of a woman and her friends who are willing to make good his debt…

In return, that is for certain favours.

Favours that will lead to his shame and emasculation as he becomes their sexual and domestic Manservant.



The face staring down into his eyes was familiar and unfamiliar at one and the same time; though each had known the other many times in such an intimate way in his pursuit of lust and her desire for the same – with the added necessity of earning a living, in the woman’s case.

The expression beaming down to him, as her fabulous body sat astride his own seemed, he would decide after the event, like a final and irrevocable valediction.

As the woman rode his hard-cock, in no hurry to reach her destination and simply disappear like so many of her calling, her vivid green eyes – in pretty but street-hardened features, unimpeded by the tresses of her silken blonde hair she had piled and fastened atop her head, stared down into his as if making a goodbye.

That she was only a common or garden variety lamp-post prostitute, whose living had been decimated by the incomprehensible onset of the Great War with Germany and the absence – some never to return – of her previous clients, did not mean her ears were not in perfect working order.

And prostitutes, of courtesan or lamp-post variety, could always be relied upon to have a finger on certain aspects of the social pulse.

She had been working on him for nearly an hour now, but there was no hurry; having been paid, after all, for the whole of the night. An extravagance she sensed might be his last for some time to come – perhaps ever. And one he appeared in no hurry to bring to a close.

Or she either, for that matter.

Why would she be?

Especially when his trade and what it bought was so dear to her – it having been during the last few years a welcome piece of commerce and one of her more enjoyable adventures in the world of flesh-for-sale.

A no strings commitment – apart from the cash he handed over when their coupling was exhausted – that suited them both.

The longer his cock remained in the embrace of the whorish cunt, he realised – the same cunt that was still, amazingly tight, given its less than pristine condition; and he was at least average in both thickness and in length – the less time had his thoughts to devote themselves to what the future held in store for him.

Four times now, she had brought him slowly to the edge of climax and then slowed her pace just enough to fetch him back from the precipice; each time sensing the tightening of his body that prefaced an explosion and taking steps to… soothe… the detonator. Men to her had been made transparent through usage and required no words of warning from them to know when their all-important eruption was set to take place. And especially not with this one.

He had told her that she was the best he had ever had. Not the most beautiful, mind; but certainly the best. Candour in regard of her looks that convinced her he was serious when it came to her qualities in other areas.

Not for the first time this night, she gazed down into those handsome features and wondered – given the word on the street – how long they would remain in such a condition.

Wondering also at just how stupid, inebriated, or both, he had to have been to get entangled with…

She gave a mental shrug and warned herself to stick to her long-held code-of-conduct and “not get involved”.

A difficult feat for her to manage in his case; despite telling herself over and over that he was just another – and rarer by the day – meal ticket.

One she could, under different circumstances, have felt feelings for, but…

Again, she closed off an avenue of thought she knew from the past to be unrewarding for her and decided instead not to revisit the inevitable cul-de-sac into which thinking of such a kind inevitably led her.

Far better to concentrate upon the none too onerous job in hand of riding the body and cock of a handsome man and allowing fate’s fickle hand to do its work.

And without dignifying it with her own thoughts of regret and remorse.

Knowing they had at least until morning and that his powers of recovery – even at his relatively advanced age – remained considerable, she decided finally to allow him his orgasm.

And not only because she was becoming fatigued.

Despite her calling, the magic of a man’s orgasm and the power it endowed to the woman delivering it had yet to lose its… uniqueness… for her; no matter how short-lived her feminine triumph; and each time a man erupted at her urgings she felt a sense of empowerment for which she would have assassinated guiltless Presidents were she promised the feeling would last.

And assuming, of course, that she could locate an innocent leader of the kind.

Still staring into his eyes and again realising she would miss him, she again began to ride his ramrod with increasing pace as his eyes fixated themselves upon the stupendous breasts that swayed in rhythm to her manipulation of him.

Leaning forward, she thrust her hands into the pillow either side of his head and lowered her head to his; the hairs on his cheat tickling her bottle-hard nipples and taking her closer towards her own crisis; the intensity with which her eyes bore into his reflecting the sense of triumph she always felt when conquering or about to conquer this particular…


Again she sensed the tell-tale signs of his loss of control; but this time, instead of slowing down she began to buck upon his cock with greater speed and intensity as he fought the orgasm she was now forcing upon him. Delaying and delaying until further delay was impossible, exactly in the way she had taught him, that his release might be both more powerful and of greater duration before he spilled his manhood into the waiting receptacle of her well-used pussy. His erupting inside her in such a way of no matter since a botched abortion had turned future childbirth from yet one more avenue to cul-de-sac.

“Yes, yes, yes…” he screamed before her equally urgent lips mashed down onto his and silenced his vocal entreaties.

Her biting of his lower lip was all it took to send him over the edge; his departure over it taking her with him as both became a galvanic coupling of hyper-sensitised flesh and he pumped the contents of his balls into her pussy – and with exactly the force and need she had striven in the past hour or so to extract from him.

It was only a minute or so later, both side by side on the mattress as they recovered enough for further acceptable sexual hostilities, that both their thoughts returned to what the morrow would bring.

Both with their own take upon what was to come.

She with a sense of loss and the sure knowledge the night they were experiencing together would be their last.

He with a sense of impending doom and the equally certain knowledge that he could not escape what his stupidity had set in train for him…

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