Beginnings: Chapter 4 - Room For Change - Sex Stories

Beginnings: Chapter 4 - Room For Change

... realised the chances of me growing inside her heart were probably as likely as recapturing the imaginary butterflies I had just released into the rusty evening sky. Brighton’s ‘old town’ is an elaborate labyrinth of quaint alleys and weaving passageways, delicately scented by the subtle hint of herbs and freshly roasted coffee, where the romantic and the curious can spend hours believing that time has drifted to sleep and is held deeply within the soft confines of a Regency dream. Veronica had told me to meet her there the following morning at eleven o’clock, at a small but exclusive boutique called “ Amelie’s ”. It had the kind of discreet, understated frontage you could easily be forgiven for meandering carelessly past without necessarily noticing, seduced by the idyllic surroundings and the almost irresistible lure of the rustic, intimate coffee shop next door. The refreshed sun was rising strongly in an ice-blue, cloudless sky as I arrived at the boutique. I glanced down at my watch. It was one minute to eleven. I heard the shy tinkle of shop bells as I pushed the door open and entered the boutique. Amelie’s was the kind of place which catered for a certain kind of woman with a certain kind of financial status: in short, a woman like Veronica Hamilton. It was patronised almost exclusively by professional women who wanted to dress with powerful sophistication. I closed the door and walked down a couple of shallow steps, breathing in the alluring fragrance of exclusive ...

... women’s clothing and extortionate price labels. Everything about Amelie’s oozed class and exclusivity. From the rear of the shop I could hear a seductive click of heels on the hardwood floor growing louder. The wearer of the heels emerged from the rear of the shop. She was a mature woman who I estimated was probably in her mid forties, with long, strawberry blonde hair tied tight back in an efficient ponytail. She was immaculately presented in a navy blue pencil skirt and sober white blouse. The clicks had been produced by a pair of elegant navy blue shoes with slim, slightly intimidating heels. “Good morning, madam,” she said. Her voice exuded professionally courteous efficiency. “Can I help you with anything?” “Good morning,” I replied. “That’s very kind, but I’m actually supposed to be meeting somebody here.” Her lips, faint with the suggestion of red lipstick, broke into a polite smile. “Is it Miss Richardson?” she asked. I nodded. “I am very pleased to meet you. My name is Sophie, and I will be looking after you this morning. Miss Hamilton has already arrived and is waiting for you in the back. Would you follow me, please?” Sophie went to the boutique door, flipped over the rather antiquated-looking sign which hung on it, so that it now read ‘Closed’. She then began to lead me purposefully through the shop towards the rear, her authoritative heels again generating a percussive, empty wooden echo. I could not help but feel more than faintly confused about why I was there, but ...