Melinda and the Master Read online

  MELINDA AND THE MASTER

  by

  SUSANNA HUGHES

  Melinda and the Master first published in 1993 by Nexus. Published as an eBook in 2012 by Avid eBooks.

  9781780801476

  www.avid-erotic-ebooks.co.uk

  New authors are always welcome, or if you’re already a published author and have existing work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we would love to hear from you.

  This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.

  This eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The characters and situations in this eBook are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright Susanna Hughes. The right of Susanna Hughes to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter One

  Melinda was a very beautiful woman. Her husband knew it, her friends knew it, and what is more, she knew it. It would have been difficult not to, after all. She could not ignore the evidence of her own eyes. Now, for instance, as she finished drying her body after her bath and walked through into the bedroom, she caught sight of herself in the cheval mirror that stood in one corner of the room. She stopped and gazed at her reflection. Her flaxen blonde hair was cut short and combed back off her forehead, its natural waviness tucked behind her ears and bunched in curls at the nape of her neck. Her face was soft and feminine, her cheekbones round, her nose small and slightly retroussé, her mouth full with thick pouting lips. Under her neatly plucked blonde eyebrows, her eyes were large and green; they sparkled with life.

  Her body was slender. She was not particularly tall, but her legs appeared long and elegant, with strong thighs and shapely calves. Her hips were generous, rich curves of flesh, her buttocks plump and round, divided by a dark chasm that cut deeply between them until it met the slit of her sex. Her labia were fat and rubbery and prominent, exposed by the fact that Melinda's pubic hair was no more than a thin downy blonde fleece; soft and silky and almost totally transparent. Above the triangle of this fleece her belly was flat and her waist distinctly slender. Her breasts were not large, but were round and full and needed no support. They rose proudly from her chest, two perfect orbs topped by pink and almost disproportionately large nipples.

  Melinda liked looking at her body. It made her feel excited. Over the years it had often provoked her to masturbate. She masturbated frequently; she was good at it. If she dipped her finger now - down between those wrinkled, creased, exposed labia - she knew she would find herself wet with the first stirrings of her sexual pulse.

  But tonight, she told herself firmly, there was no time. Melinda had her clothes laid out on the bed. A full-length black strapless evening dress in a material woven with a silvery thread that glittered under the light. A black basque in satin and lace to hold her breasts and display a firm cleavage above the dress, and sheer dark stockings, their nylon also spun with an element that made them shine. Not that anyone would see much of them. Except for a glimpse at her ankle, the long skirt of the dress concealed her legs. But she would know. It was to be her little surprise for her husband.

  Melinda hooked the basque into place, its tight elasticated panels moulding her soft flesh, constricting her body. She loved the feeling of being held so tightly. She sat on the bed and took the stockings out of their cellophane packet. Pointing her toe, she pulled the fine nylon over her foot and up over her calves and thighs, transforming her creamy naked skin from white innocence into dark veiled mystery. When both stockings were in place, she stood up to pull them taut and clip them into the long, black satin suspenders of the basque. The front suspenders needed adjustment to hold the stockings more tightly. She moved the little metal hoop that doubled the elastic material until she was satisfied it would pull tightly enough, then clipped it back through the darker nylon on the welt of the stocking.

  She looked at herself in the mirror again. The basque and the stockings bisected her body, leaving bands of white nakedness across her shoulders and thighs, contrasting with the blackness of the lingerie.

  Her downy pubic hair was still exposed, framed by the bottom of the basque and the two suspenders at the front of her thighs. The blonde fleece looked innocent. It did not hide the top of the crease of her sex.

  As she looked in the mirror she felt a throb of sensation, like a mild electric shock. Almost before she realised what she was doing - before she could tell herself there was no time - she spread her hand over her navel and slid it forward, so her forefinger eased between her labia and onto the little knot of her clitoris. It was swollen and wet. It responded immediately to the intrusion of her finger, sending out a wave of pleasure as she stroked it with practised ease.

  She watched in the mirror, watched her finger moving; tiny almost imperceptible movements that made her whole body quiver. She watched as though it were someone else. Another person. It was easy to imagine. She rarely wore such exotic underwear. It felt so different. It made her feel so different. The way the basque squeezed her body excited her.

  'I look like a whore,' she said aloud. 'A very expensive whore.'

  The words thrilled her. She pushed at her clitoris and once again, before her mind had realised what she was doing, before it could talk her out of it, her other hand had found its way down over her arse and into the crease of her sex from the other side, plunging two fingers into the silky, welcoming flesh of her cunt. 'Like a whore...' she said again.

  She fell to her knees, no longer able to think of anything but the needs of her body. Her hands worked at her sex, probing, kneading, stroking. She closed her eyes. In her mind she was always blindfolded, a white band of silk tightly bound over her eyes, so tight she would have felt the silk pressing against her eyeballs. In her mind she was always held down. Hands held her wrists, her ankles. Hands pinched and kneaded her breasts. Hands and mouths and tongues and teeth. Biting, pinching, licking, penetrating. In her mind she never struggled. Though she knew she was being violated, she never tried to escape. She let them take her, let them carry her over to the bed and, one by one, take her. One in her mouth, one in her cunt. They held her flat and open, wide open.

  That was her dream, her fantasy, her masturbation rite.

  Her orgasm cascaded through her body; she heard herself gasp with pleasure. The fantasy was so real that she was surprised, when she could open her eyes again, to discover she was alone.

  Slowly she got up off the floor. She went into the bathroom to wash her hands. They were soaking wet. Then she sat down at her dressing table to hurriedly put on her make-up. She wanted to have the dress on before her husband got back. She didn't want to spoil his surprise.

  'You know how important this is,' he said as she adjusted his black bow tie.

  They were both dressed, their overnight bag packed with a change of clothes for the morning.

  'Mark, you've told me a million times.'

  'If I get this contract, it'll change our lives. Literally. I mean Hammerton's company is the fifth biggest in t
he States—'

  'And he's going to spend five million setting up in Europe. I know. You've told me.'

  'You don't seem to realise—'

  'I do. I do. I'll be on my best behaviour. What do you think I'm going to do; get drunk and take all my clothes off?'

  His tension visibly lessened and he smiled. 'That might not be a bad idea.'

  He pulled her into an embrace, but she turned her head aside when he went to kiss her.

  'Can't get lipstick all over you. People might talk.'

  'Car should be here soon.'

  'What's he like anyway?'

  'Charming. But hard. Eats executives for breakfast if there have been mistakes. But he's very generous. His parties are supposed to be fabulous. The best of everything. No expense spared.'

  'Wonderful. I can't wait.' By all accounts their invitation to dine with Walter Hammerton was going to be quite an evening.

  At exactly seven o'clock the Rolls-Royce glided into their driveway. It was, Melinda was assured by her husband, who took an interest in such things, a long-wheelbased Silver Wraithe. Its chauffeur made no attempt to ring their doorbell, assuming, correctly, that they would see the car. Instead, as soon as the front door opened, he got out and went to the rear passenger door, opening it and saluting smartly as Melinda slid into the luxurious leather interior. Her husband locked the house, handed their case to the chauffeur and joined her.

  'I love the smell of leather,' Melinda said. The interior of the car, all leather seats and walnut veneer, was redolent with an aroma that suggested elegance and wealth.

  The car journey took no more than ten minutes. Walter Hammerton's staff had rung Mark's secretary. The nearest suitable landing place for a helicopter had been researched, permission obtained, flight plans filed. Everything arranged.

  The car glided effortlessly through the traffic, its engine noiseless, the ride soft and smooth. Mark poured himself a whisky from a crystal decanter that was neatly housed in a custom-made walnut bar.

  As they approached the helicopter its rotor blades were already turning. The chauffeur parked as close as he dared to the concrete helicopter pad, and rushed round to open the rear passenger door. A quick dash and they were both aboard and strapped into the Belljet Executive. As soon as their overnight case was aboard, the doors were secured and the helicopter lifted into the dusk, just as the sun was setting to the west.

  The aircraft headed north. Melinda soon adjusted to the noise and vibration, and concentrated on picking out landmarks as they flew over central London. Buckingham Palace, Park Lane and Hyde Park passed underneath them. The traffic below was horrendous, long snakes of stationary headlights heading down all the major routes. Unable to stop herself from grinning as they flew over the gridlocked cars, Melinda decided a helicopter was definitely the only way to travel. She could certainly get used to this, she thought.

  It was no more than ten minutes later when, after a course change to the west, the helicopter descended onto a brightly illuminated circular concrete pad, set in the four-hundred acre estate that had become Walter Hammerton's European headquarters.

  As soon as the helicopter had settled on its skids, a uniformed servant opened the doors and helped Melinda and Mark out. A Range Rover waited, its doors open.

  There was not enough light to see much of the estate, but the driveway up to the house was lined with cedars. The house itself, a vast Tudor mansion, was fully illuminated by powerful floodlights. It was an impressive sight, the complicated Tudor brickwork in a herringbone pattern, off-set by an ancient and still vigorous Virginia creeper, its leaves half-coloured by the dusky red that would one day overtake the whole growth.

  Walter Hammerton, like the good host, was standing by the front door in black tie and evening suit, his cummerbund a deep burgundy red.

  'Welcome. Welcome,' he said in a soft, lilting American accent, shaking Mark's hand firmly.

  'This is my wife Melinda,' Mark said by way of introduction.

  'Delighted,' Walter said.

  Melinda presented her hand. Walter took it in both of his and pressed it to his lips. His eyes, having followed the progress of hand to mouth, then looked up, under the brow of his bowed head and into Melinda's green eyes. As they met hers she felt an almost physical shock.

  'You are a beautiful woman, my dear. Your husband is a very lucky man.'

  She looked into his eyes. They were hypnotic; the lightest blue she had ever seen. They looked straight back at her, unwavering and unblinking. The little tableau lasted too long, Melinda's hand held in his. The world had stopped.

  The noise of the helicopter rising over the house broke the mood.

  'One more set of guests to pick up,' Walter said, dropping Melinda's hand and looking at her husband.

  He led them through into a large reception room. A Tudor fireplace was ablaze with massive logs, cut, no doubt, from trees on the estate. Ten or twelve people stood drinking cocktails, the women all wearing expensive designer gowns in silk, satin and lace.

  Walter introduced Melinda and Mark to the nearest set of guests then drifted away. A waiter paraded through the room with a silver tray of champagne. While Mark talked to another couple, Melinda watched her host. He had made an indelible impression on her. He was a tall man and powerfully built. Though he was sixty and his hair completely white, he exuded a sense of power and energy. Every movement he made - his walk, a gesture of the hand to illustrate a point, lifting a glass of champagne - was made with an elegance and economy of movement. Melinda found it difficult to take her eyes off him. The look they had shared at the front door seemed to have bored into her. She could feel it.

  The pre-dinner small talk continued. Melinda found herself next to a young and attractive brunette; her long hair pleated to hang down between her shoulder blades, her dress no more than a long tube of vivid-yellow silky material that clung to the ripe contours of her body.

  'Have you been here before?' Melinda asked.

  'Yes. Are you on the A-list or the X-list?' the brunette replied.

  'Sorry, what does that mean?'

  'You're on the A-list then.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'If you don't know there are two lists you're only on the A-list. I'm surprised. You're definitely Walter's type.'

  'What's the X-list?'

  'I'd bet it won't be long before you find out.'

  'Very mysterious.'

  'Walter has two sorts of parties. One sort like tonight. Respectable. Dull. Business. All that. That's the A-list.'

  'And?' Melinda's curiosity was rampant.

  'There's parties that are...' She searched for a word. 'Different.'

  'Different?'

  'You have to be on the X-list.'

  'And how do you get on the X-list?'

  'Walter asks you.'

  'Are you on it?'

  'Yes. I'm glad to say.'

  'Sounds fascinating.'

  'It is. Very.'

  The noise of the helicopter rose to a crescendo then died away. A few minutes later the final three guests were greeted by Walter. Another round of champagne and canapés was distributed by the tail-coated waiters. Then a butler announced, like a character from a West End play, that dinner was served.

  Walter led the way into the panelled dining room.

  At one end of the room another log fireplace burnt in a huge brick inglenook. Along the centre of the room, a massive oak dining table was laid with white linen, Georgian silver, and white porcelain plates. Each plate setting was set for five courses, a crystal glass in different sizes for each course. On the side plate of each lady's place lay a corsage of orchids. A solid silver flower pin was part of the gift.

  The table was lit by candles mounted in Georgian solid-silver candelabras. The room sparkled with flame from tallow, wick and wood.

  The meal matched the surroundings. As did the wine. Mark had been right. No expense was spared. Caviar, lobsters and grouse were served with Montrachet and Chateau Petrus. As the meal
progressed the volume of noise increased, the food and wine loosening inhibitions in the presence of the 'Master', as Walter Hammerton was known to his friends on Wall Street and recently to the august pages of the Financial Times.

  Melinda chatted happily to the man she had been seated next to, a balding unprepossessing accountant. But her eyes were on Walter. She watched as he talked to the large-bosomed lady on his right. She watched as his eyes turned to look directly at her, like two powerful spotlights suddenly brought to bear, and felt the same sensation she had at the front door, as though the whole world had stopped. He looked long and hard. He did not smile. His expression was questioning. She did not know what the question was, but she knew her answer would be yes. She would never be able to refuse those eyes.

  A legion of waiters cleared away the glasses and plates after each course. After the cheese, Melinda excused herself from the table to find the loo. Outside the dining room she asked one of the waiters the way. He pointed down a long hallway and told her to take the stairs at the end. She would find the ladies' cloakroom at the bottom of the stairs on the left.

  As she walked along the corridor, she thought about what the brunette had told her and wondered what on earth she had been talking about. She thought about Walter too. If Mark's firm was engaged to do all the legal work for his corporation they would no doubt be invited to this palatial house again. Perhaps they would get onto the X-list, whatever that meant. Perhaps the X-list comprised people who were on the payroll, so to speak.

  Melinda picked up the long skirt of the dress as she walked down the wide, richly carpeted staircase. A large lion, its claws holding some animal prey, had been carved into the newel post.

  At the bottom of the staircase, Melinda looked in vain for a door. Instead there was only a long, narrow corridor. Puzzled, she set off down the dimly lit passage expecting there to be a door on the left at any moment. In fact, there was no door on the left in the oak panelling that lined the walls. She was about to turn back when she noticed there were three identical doors on the right side, just before the corridor came to an abrupt end.