Hot lesbian sex on flight bound for New Orleans.
She knew she should have worn a longer skirt. But Mr Christian's inspection was over and he was flapping his hands at the Stouts who were scattering before him, for all the world like a couple of bush elephants being chased by a demented wasp. Once the path was cleared he took Leila by the arm and steered her into the reception room, which Leila noticed was exquisitely adorned with the most expensive collection of posters of stunningly handsome male models.
'Mmmmm darling', fluttered Mr Christian, 'I just know that the old Bugger is going to love you.'
Leila blushed furiously and suppressed an unwanted but annoyingly delicious clenching of muscles down there.
'Now do come on, darrrrrling, let's not keep the old Bugger waiting.'
Leila was flounced, rather than led, through a vast and impressive kitchen beyond which a neatly cultivated garden opened out, leading to what appeared to be an unimposing wooden shed. Mr Christian gave her a playful shove in the small of her elegant spine in the direction of the wooden shed. The look of surprise on her exquisite face must have been evident.
'Oh absolutely darrrling, isn't it the strangest business? An international tycoon like the old Bugger actually choosing to make his office in an old garden shed (at this point Mr Christian's pert little nose wrinkled in disgust) but what am I to do?' He sighed and shrugged his shoulders in an exaggerated fashion. Then a slow smile spread across his face and he caught Leila's gaze with a mischievous glance. 'Actually, darrrrrling, I find it all rather adorable. Now go on with you, don't keep the old Bugger waiting.' And the hand gave her another playful shove.
Leila had never felt as self-conscious in her short virginal life as she walked the 25 metres or so to the open door of the wooden shed. As she approached she heard a deep male guttural growling from within, interrupted occasionally by squeaks of feminine apology. Holy Moses, that guttural male growl seemed to stimulate some primal response in her, somewhere at the apex of her impossibly attractive satin thighs. Hesitating for a moment she stepped onto the decking on which the shed was built and peeked timorously inside. Before her eyes could adjust to the dim light within a small, stout woman, elegantly dressed, flew out of the door and passed her, sobbing and clutching a sheaf of papers, some of which were spilling into a paper trail on the garden path. But the voice that followed the fleeing assistant was calm, controlled and undeniably complex.
Holy cow! Something about that voice was like a delicious knife plunging into her abdomen. It was dark, compelling, dangerous, dominant, edged with the street and adorned with the sophistication that only the finest education can achieve. For some reason her legs felt leaden. She forced herself to take a step into the shed and promptly stumbled, falling ungraciously onto all fours, her medical bag spilling open and gurgitating dressings, syringes, packets of pills. The embarrassment was excruciating and she scrambled to grab the items rolling on the threadbare carpet and stuff them quickly back into her bag. She became aware that her firm pert bottie was protruding provocatively into the air and for the second time that day found herself fervently wishing she had worn a longer skirt. She looked between her legs and saw a distant Mr Christian, hands once again placed firmly on his hips, watching the entertainment with a wolfish smile on his chipmunk face. She realised that he could probably see her knickers and scrambled to her knees. She was again blushing furiously as she grabbed her bag and looked up to find herself looking at the most beautiful man she had ever seen.
For some reason she had not been expecting someone so young.