1. Keep on Running (circa 1976)


    Date: 7/6/2016, Categories: Straight Sex, Author: marlowe, Source: LushStories

    If you were looking for a woman with style and sophistication, the place to visit was the Bridge Hotel wine-bar between the hours of 6 p.m. and 8 p.m. Positioned high above the embankment of the river Tyne the wine-bar attracted a diverse range of corporate, stylish and beautiful people eager to unwind, flirt and get up to mischief, or just go straight for the desirable option of committing adultery. This particular time frame was their playground and they played life to the full. A gaggle of smartly dressed men and women who looked like accountants held court in the corner of the room, flashing smiles that spoke of money, one of them reading the business page of a broadsheet newspaper, words like fiscal market indexes, bond yields and world trading and banking spilling naturally from his lips. But their forced smiles betrayed their real purpose in life. When they were away from their corporate domain they could do whatever they wanted. If the truth were known most of them just wanted a fuck and get back to making money. It was just after seven when he walked through the door. After pulling up a stool at the end of the bar and lighting a cigarette he casually sipped his drink, watching the accountants trying to impress each other with meaningless predictions, mathematical statistics and endless corporate nonsense. A fleeting glance around the room, the boredom of accountancy fading into insignificance, the acquaintance of perfection momentarily caught in his peripheral ...
    vision, a beautiful and stylish woman sitting on a stool at the opposite end of the bar smoking a long black cigarette and sipping a cocktail, deep in conversation with a smartly dressed handsome man, the fast talking, over-confident Don Juan working his charm, trying his best to get into her knickers. A captivating smile and dark penetrating eyes, raven hair falling in loose curls over her shoulders, shapely breasts and dancer’s legs, a long split up the side of her skirt betraying just a trace of bare flesh at the junction where stocking tops meet suspenders. Her smiles were forced and unconvincing, the uneasiness in her response to his familiarity negative and uncomfortable, the flirtatious and calculated smiles in his direction hinting that Don Juan’s time was slowly running out. The cocksure Casanova was heading for the door when a waitress delivered a bottle of wine to her table, compliments of the man at the end of the bar, the gesture acknowledged with a friendly smile, the acquaintance providing the opportunity for introductions. Stephanie Monroe was probably in her early-forties although she looked and acted much younger. She spoke with a refined English voice, although a slight accent hinted at a seductive French nuance. They spent most of the evening talking and laughing through the deafening sound of the jukebox, mostly trivia, occasionally sharing tales of life’s adventures and inevitable disappointments. Testing the waters of matrimonial status was always a ...
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