Tiers
Authors: Shelly Pratt
Tiers
Erotic Short Stories
©Copyright 2013 Shelly Pratt
Edited by Emily Dawson
Short erotic stories:
Sleeping The Tier
No More Tiers
Fallen Tiers
TIERS Erotic Short Stories
are edited in English-American.
This
compilation of novelettes is a work of fiction and any resemblance to places or people are entirely coincidental.
The content and characters are creations of the author’s imagination and are no way meant to represent anyone living or deceased.
The written material contained within this novel is subject to the Australian Copyright Act 1968. The Author writing under the pseudonyms of Stevie Harlow, exercises this right and does not hereby give permission for this work to be copied or reproduced in anyway shape or form for public or personal use. All other applicable international copyright laws are reserved including federal and state.
Quotations may be used for the purpose of book reviews; and marketing if permission is granted by the author prior to use.
WARNING
This novel contains adult content and should only be viewed by persons 18 years +
RESPECT
Respect the hard work of this author. If you have obtained a copy of this book without purchasing it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please delete the file and purchase a copy legally. This novel is for your enjoyment only and may not be resold or given to other persons. If you would like to share
TIERS Erotic Short Stories
with others then please purchase additional copies for each individual.
Dedication
This
book of erotic short stories is dedicated to my husband. Best friend, soul mate, the yin to my yang, my sounding board and confidante – the one who calls me ‘The Iron Fist’, and gets away with it too I might add. Thank you for making me feel like I never have to hide who I really am. I’m blessed to have you and I wouldn’t trade a single second we have together. You and me forever – in this life or the next.
Acknowledgements
T
hank you to a wonderful editor, Emily Dawson. Your encouragement, professionalism and editing prowess make me feel like I can really do this! All your positive feedback is appreciated and I value your opinion as a friend and colleague.
Table of Contents
Boredom. It’s the only way to describe my mood. I hate the word. It’s the one thing in life I have tried to avoid – and yet, here I am. Bored. No housework to do – nothing. The bloody housekeeper has been here since seven a.m. and I am seriously thinking about firing her. Although Harold would probably hit the roof as he has always thought she was more competent than me. Even his name sounds boring today. Harold. Old fashioned, stuffy and oh so proper!
My husband even looks like a Harold, although admittedly a very good looking one. He’s tall with blonde wavy hair, the kind that would look good on a ‘Gone With The Wind’ character or something. In a way he looks similar too – fit and athletic – although not the kind of man that in any way possesses bulky muscles. He is a classic. His British ancestry stipulates his breeding, and in turn shapes him to resemble those men who spend countless days at country clubs playing tennis or golf.
From the first day we met he was charming. His brilliant white teeth earned him that instant tick of approval, his smile alone saying ‘yes, I’m handsome and wealthy and would make you a perfect husband’. I fell – hook, line and sinker.
I blame my parents for my marriage to Harold. Well not really, but it is better than blaming myself. As a child, I had always mistakenly thought that it was money that bought people’s happiness – my parents included. We were wealthy and associated with those who came from similar breeding. The money seemed never ending, which allowed for all sorts of overseas holidays and expensive hobbies. Being an only child meant I was spoilt all the more. But Finishing School never wrote in black and white that growing up and becoming the lady of the house meant that all fun must cease and I was to become a respectable woman to be admired. I mean come on – I could probably fart and instead of laughing my husband would probably run for the hills. Sometimes at night when he’s asleep in the bed next to me and I’m reading, I sneakily let one rip, just to have a little giggle. Sounds childish, I know, but there you have it. This is how Katherine Sable gets her kicks.
Harold, as usual, is at work. He is always working, yet he forbids me from doing so. At thirty-one he’s climbing the corporate ladder of his best chum’s global finance company, but insists that a man of his standing should not allow his wife to work as it would give the general public the impression that he is unable to provide for his family. I thought his amount of wealth and success would allow us to travel and explore the world as a couple, but he was consumed enough to not even notice he still had a wife after two years of marriage.
Most nights I spend alone, except for the occasional evening where I am required to join in his company’s work functions when they have clients in town; I make good eye candy. I’m two years younger than Harold but could pass for early twenties. It’s the European weather that affords my peaches and cream complexion. Tonight I have to accompany him to an end of year work function in London city. If it weren’t for that social gathering this evening I might even consider painting a room in the house and watching it dry. Of course that’s a little melodramatic, but you get the drift.
Have I no friends you wonder? Naturally I do, but they’re his friends, not mine. My real friends from college days are not encouraged to visit. Uncouth springs to mind. I get it, I really do – but there is no way I am becoming chums with the wives of Harold’s business partners. One, they are older enough in years to start to resent me for my youthfulness, and two, they gossip like nobody’s business. I could just imagine how embarrassed Harold would be if it got back to him that I was bored with our life. He would never live it down around the office.
Despite my boredom, I really wouldn’t want to publicly embarrass or shame him in that manner. I did love him after all, but I just want…more. I want to run through life with reckless abandon and hell to all of its consequences. I want to drink too much and smoke dirty cigars and play strip poker with random strangers. I want to do absolutely anything and everything to break away from my stuffy life and, if I am honest, I would kind of be willing to leave my marriage in order to do it.
I’m no quitter though, so tonight I will dress up and play the part of the ever devoted wife. I have a feeling, though, that I am like a little birdie in cage. I will sit patiently on the little wooden perch waiting, biding my time. I will watch with a keen eye until my opportunity comes, and when no one expects it I am going to fly right out of the cage door and not look back.
More often than not, these stuffy little functions all end up the same. Harold will completely ignore me expecting me to instigate idle chitchat to the wives club, while he drinks far too much high
-end scotch. I’ll then get the shits that he’s not paying me any attention and seek out the company driver to take me back to our estate.
Don’t get me wrong, everyone else (and by this I mean all the males) notice the effort I put into looking my best for the evening. My dress is demure, but a little sexy with the low cut back. My long chocolate mass of hair falls in silky waves down my back. My makeup is flawless – natural with smoky eyes, just the right amount of kohl to accentuate my green irises without looking cheap. If I wanted, I could have any man in the room. As I am thinking this, I realize that for a change I have absolutely no desire to go home. Instead, I desire something else.
Now I don’t know if it’s the wine talking (which it probably is), but for some reason I feel like being coquettish. Why? Because I’m in the mood for fun, and a little too drunk to care that my husband is somewhere in the near vicinity.
That is when I see him. He’s new for sure – I would have noticed him before, believe me. I’d have noticed that kind specimen if I had come across it previously. He’s a few years younger than myself … maybe twenty five? He’s not like some of the other men. For starters he’s drinking red wine, not scotch or any other hard liquor. He’s a lot shorter than Harold, more my height, but he looks like he carries a lot of hard muscle under his tux. Not beefcake, but he works out for sure. His hair is impeccably cut, yet he sports a five o’clock shadow. As he sips his wine, his eyes twinkle over the rim as he takes me in from across the room.
While the idle banter continues around the room, the chink of glasses can be heard as waiters refresh the drinks and serve canapés. This guy is contemplating.
I take a sip of champagne from the flute I am holding, but almost spit it back out as I notice he is making a beeline for me. Fuck! He’s even better looking up close. And those goddamn dimples! Shit, I think I just died!
‘Hello, I’m Jake Shore,’ he introduced.
‘
Kate Sable.’ Quick, I can’t breathe – someone get a doctor!
‘
Nice to meet you Kate.’ My nickname rolled off his tongue effortlessly. It sounded like a purr – not like when Harold ever used it. His endearment of using Kate for short was like a toddler chomping through a battery and swallowing the acid. His eyes roamed over my waist before coming back up to meet my gaze. I blushed immediately. How could one person’s look be so suggestive?
He most definitely was not from the UK. His accent sounded American – Boston perhaps? His look was more modern than the style traditionally favored by the British. We struck up a conversation and I found him witty, charming and most of all, sexy as all hell. I felt like I was back in high school and talking to the school jock on prom night. I could not drag my gaze away from those dimples when he smiled.
He might have told me he was here on business, brokering a deal between an American subsidiary of Went & Worth’s company here in London. To be honest, I didn’t really give a fuck. What I really wanted to do was shag the guy. Yes, there I said it! Those muddy brown eyes of his kept screaming at me, ‘Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!’ If I was half a tart I probably would have snuck off to the public restrooms and had my way with him, but seems I was a proper lady I kept my position in the function room.
Normally I would have been long gone. I think Harold realized this too and came looking for me while I was making goo-goo eyes at Jake who-ever-he-was.
‘
Darling, you’re still here?’ The puzzled look combined with a baffled smile made me want to smack him senseless.
‘
Yes, is there a problem?’
‘
Not really, but the driver has left to take some of the other wives home and won’t be back for another hour,’ he said as he took in his showy Rolex while managing to shoot Jake a disapproving stare.
‘
I can give you a lift if you need one.’ Oh. My. God. Did Mr. hot stuff just offer to give me a ride home? I’m in! I am so in!
‘
That’s really not necessary Shore.’
‘
You know each other?’ I looked pointedly from Harold to Jake.
‘
I know most members of staff darling. Jake visits from time to time from our Boston office.’
‘
Of course, I should have realized.’
‘
It’s really no problem, Harold. I don’t mind to drop Kate home. I was leaving now anyway – early start with the Compton file in the morning.’ I held my breath. Right then I could see Harold debating which he wanted least – to leave the party early to drive me home, or to allow me to get a lift home with Hot Stuff. In the end his selfish needs won out.
‘Katherine would appreciate the lift, thank you Jake. Darling, don’t wait up – we’ll probably head to the Sector Club once we are done here.’
‘
Of course,’ I murmured. He kissed me briefly on the cheek before nodding at Jake and taking his leave.
‘
So … Just you and me, huh?’
‘
I guess so. You didn’t have to give me a lift though …’
‘
I wanted to.’ His eyes bore into mine, telling me a story without saying a word. He offered his elbow to me and I took it. As we made our way through the foyer of the building I had a growing sense of excitement. This was unchartered territory for me. It had been quite a while since I had been alone with any man other than Harold. My stomach started to do flip flops and my heart started to race. As we approached the front exit of the building we detoured via the cloak room to retrieve our coats. While the interior of the building was a comfortable twenty five degrees, winter outside was having a grand old time leaving frost about the streets.
Jake offered the stub for his car to the valet and it was retrieved by an elderly fellow.
When he returned with
a silver Audi R8 Spyder, I tried not to look duly impressed. While the old geezer was still exiting the driver’s side, Jake moved to open the passenger door for me.
‘
Madame,’ he winked.
‘
Why thank you, kind sir.’ The southern accent I affected went down like a lead balloon, but he got a smile out of it all the same. As gracefully as I could with six glasses of champers under my belt, I slid into the leather seats and buckled up. Jake took over in the driver’s seat and shut the door, but did not move to start the engine just yet. I could feel his eyes on me. Searching my profile and drinking me in. I could smell his cologne lingering amongst the leather and wondered what it would be like to have him fuck me in this car. Pretty damn uncomfortable!
‘Do you want to stop by my hotel for a drink, before I drop you home?’ I turned to look at him. Now I know it must sound stupid, particularly when I did not even really know who the hell Jake Shore was, but I felt so comfortable with him, and alive. For the first time since I had said ‘I do’ I actually felt desired – wanted. There was no way I was about to let that feeling depart in a hurry.
‘Sure,’ I purred, hoping I didn’t sound as drunk as I still felt. He grinned boyishly in response and gunned the car’s engine. As we roared off down the street I felt like a teen about to get their cherry popped for the first time.