Smut in the City (Absolute Erotica)

Title Page

SMUT IN THE CITY

Tales Of Urban Passion

Edited by Victoria Blisse and Lucy Felthouse

Publisher Information

Smut in the City Published in 2012

By Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.
com

This book 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 book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © House of Erotica 2012

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

Introduction

By Victoria Blisse

Why Smut?

Smut is a word with negative connotations to some. It can be seen as something insulting, creepy and seedy. I’d like to change that perception to the light-hearted definition myself and many Brits hold for smut. Have you ever watched a Carry On film? Well that’s smutty. It’s sexy, humorous and fun. How about the old cheeky seaside postcards of the fifties and sixties? They’re smutty too and that’s exactly the feel we wanted to evoke in our Smut in the City stories.

What is Smut in the City?

Smut in the City is the hustle and bustle of the crowds and shopping ’til you drop. It’s the wink of a naughty secretary, the seduction of the mail boy. The seductive allure of the patisserie or chocolatier, having your wicked way with the shop keeper or getting a nice big portion at the chippy.

It’s the bump of hips on a packed Tube train, catching the eye of a stranger on the bus or ogling the arse of a passerby. The things you see as a New York cabbie or lovers kissing on the Eiffel Tower. . .

It could be sunbathing naked on a roof garden, seducing the tech guy as he fixes your office computer or window shopping in the Red Light District.

Wherever the sights and smells of urban passion take your fantasies that’s “Smut in the City.”

This anthology

The stories in this volume feature fun in a Manchester city centre fountain, a Las Vegas gangster and his girl, exhibitionism and operas, office workers, blind seduction, art and journey’s on the London Tube you’ll never forget. Then there’s sex in the Colosseum, a lesbian shower scene in Tokyo and hot fun in a Baltimore bakery.

Each story has been picked for its unique city feel. Each author conjures up images of urban living that will transport you to the heart of thriving conurbations that you know and love or have only ever dreamed about. So settle back and let our words take you on a trip around the world.

Her Secret Garden

By Viva Jones

“I want all these packing crates gone by the end of play today,” Ashley announced in her all-staff speech. The move to the new office had already taken the best part of three days, and she feared the place would still look like a war zone in six months’ time if she didn’t take control. “We’ve got plenty of space, so use it. I don’t want to see mess and paperwork everywhere.” All around her, sixteen members of staff, from the receptionist to the most senior producer, listened in silence. “And coffee mugs,” she added, spying a half-full one abandoned on someone’s desk. “I don’t want to find half-eaten food or half-drunk coffee cluttering up the place. There’s a kitchen over there, use it.” She took a deep breath, trying to find a way to inspire them. “Think of it like this: our gorgeous new office reflects us, it reflects our creativity, our hard work and our talent. So let’s treat it with the respect it deserves, and carry on making the most successful TV programmes on air these days. Okay everyone?”

The staff applauded politely and she withdrew to her office. As fond of them all as she was, there were times she wished she could just employ robots and have done with it. Ashley was a self-confessed neat freak. Her own workspace was minimalist, and she believed in a tidy desk. Anything that came in was dealt with promptly - that was how she’d always worked, and it was how she’d got to the top. She’d started as a production secretary some twenty years earlier and had worked her way up, before setting up her own company, which these days was responsible for some of the country’s most popular TV shows. Now, she’d just consolidated her achievements with the purchase of the top two floors of a Georgian terrace block in the heart of Soho, complete with its very own roof garden.

The roof garden, Ashley remembered, spotting a glimpse of sun through the grey clouds at her window - that was one issue she was yet to deal with. It would be her own private space, her haven for thought and reflection - not to mention for whenever she needed to escape the whines and problems of her apparently permanently insecure staff.

Her secretary had located three landscape gardeners whose worked she liked, so Ashley went through the folders, wondering which exactly was the look she was after. Urban Japanese cool, with edgy exotic plants climbing out of steel containers, or countryside rustic, and wild flowers reminiscent of a cottage in Dorset? Then there was Mediterranean classic, all terracotta pots and cheery colours. Which theme would calm her the most? Ashley scaled the spiral staircase that led from her private office up to the roof garden, and stood there, sipping mint tea. The view took her across Soho, up to Centre Point and the British Telecom Tower, and, on a clear day, as far as Canary Wharf in the distance. The space was big enough for a small table and two chairs, and she could already picture herself working on programme ideas over iced teas during summer afternoons.

She saw it suddenly - the terracotta pots, the shrubs and herbs, the colours and vibrancy of the Mediterranean. She didn’t need edge - she had enough of that all day as it was - and she’d never much enjoyed the English countryside, if her annual visits to her parents were anything to go by. But here she could recreate her occasional breaks in Italy and the French Riviera, with luscious lavender, a small olive tree, a scented herb garden and window boxes full of geraniums.

“The Mediterranean one,” Ashley told her secretary as they were getting ready to go home. “Get him in to do a quote.” Noting a cast-aside plastic sandwich container on a desk, she picked it up and dumped it in the kitchen bin, washing her hands twice afterwards. Why couldn’t people be more like her, she wondered irritably, as she faced another evening watching her own TV shows over a quiet supper, with nothing but a silicone toy for company.

Two days later Ashley looked up from her desk across the open-plan office, which, although nowhere near as tidy as she’d have liked, was looking pretty decent. Her staff had taken on board - for now, anyway - her dictates about left-over food and the joys of retaining clear desks. In a rare moment of calm, as most of them were in the studio below, she could enjoy the view, and her vision.

The walls were painted alternatively jasmine white and natural calico, colours she’d enjoyed spending days agonising over, checking out samples in different weather conditions (grey and rainy mostly) to ensure they retained a cleanliness and warmth. The desks were oak-finished and the chairs a pale lemon, although one klutz had already spilled his tea over one of them. The carpet was stone-coloured, and the staff were under strict instructions to wipe their feet before entering. And, right at that very moment, the space was pleasingly calm and elegant. If only it could always be like this, she caught herself thinking. A life with no staff and no mess, no broken hearts and hangovers. The thought made her smile. Her staff’s problems inevitably became Ashley’s problems, and as most of them were in their hormone-rampaging twenties, these were usually sexual and invariably alcohol-fuelled.

Ashley paused for a moment longer, pleased with her décor, and the sense of peace it brought. Then the main door opened and a man wearing khaki trousers, heavy boots, a slouchy jacket and an Indiana Jones-style fedora hat strode in. As she watched in dismay, a worried-looking receptionist appeared behind him. “It’s the landscape gardener. Sorry, he wouldn’t wait.”

Ashley greeted the stranger, who looked like he’d just wandered in from a distant allotment, and he raised his fedora to reveal dark hair that, despite being straight, was appealingly dishevelled. He was tall, with broad shoulders, strong dark eyes and a straight nose, and the grazing of stubble on his chin emphasised his ready, confident smile.

“The name’s Fox. About the roof terrace.”

“Yes, of course. Follow me.” Ashley cursed herself for not having worn trousers that day. As she’d had a breakfast meeting, she was wearing her current favourite suit: a shift dress in soft blue that caressed her body, finished off with a matching, loose-fitting jacket. Self-consciously she scaled the spiral staircase, knowing that his eyes were sure to be tracing her long legs. As she reached the top, she stepped out and made room for Fox. He looked around, impressed.

“They’re amazing, these buildings, aren’t they? All these secret places on the rooftops. Faces south-east, should be quite a sun-trap in the morning.”

“It was your Mediterranean style I was after. Big pots and tubs, lavender and herbs, that sort of thing.”

“Was it now? That side’ll be more shady. Ideal for camellias and hydrangeas. Clematis on the wall there, I could get you three different varieties for year-round colour. You’ll be watering it, will you?”

“How about a sprinkler system?”

He tutted. “You people. You want the magazine effect without any of the work, don’t you?”

“I want a space where I can relax. Is that asking so much?”

“Everything needs work, maintenance. Plants are like people. They need nurturing and caring to get the best out of them.”

“Please don’t tell me they’ll be as whiney as my staff.”

He smiled, and as he did, his whole face lit up. “The best thing about plants is they need no words. They respond to actions, that’s all.”

Ashley felt a ripple of desire across her body which unnerved her. She hadn’t fancied anyone in years, to the extent that she could no longer imagine losing herself in another person. She’d grown to enjoy her solitude, her riverside apartment and her collection of toys under the bed. Suddenly this man was awakening her from a long and sexless sleep, coaxing her like a seedling to flourish under a generous sun.

“Then give me a quote,” she said, stumbling over her words. “All-inclusive - the pots, the plants and the after-care. That’s all I want.”

“And you’re a woman who gets everything she wants, aren’t you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Let me see now. You worked your way up, humble beginnings and all that, but you were bright, and ambitious. Came to the big city and got a secretarial job. Took the opportunities that came your way, possibly stabbed a few backs in the process. And now you’ve got it all - your successful company and your luxury space, but what have you really got? No wedding ring on that finger I see.”

The criticism stung like a wasp. “And of course a woman isn’t fulfilled unless she’s married with children, isn’t that right? Silly me for being independent and successful and for making my own money.” She could feel her face flush with anger. “And I’ll have you know I never stabbed anyone in the back. I just worked damn hard and didn’t waste my life boozing and bonking. But why am I even telling you all this? I ask you in for a quote and instead I get a lecture about my lifestyle? Well, you know something Mr Fox? You can forget about getting any work out of me, there are plenty of gardeners out there who’ll do it without the sanctimony. Who the hell do you think you are?”

Fox just laughed. “You’ll have your quote by five this afternoon. I’ll see myself out.” He began the descent down the spiral stairway.

“I just fired you,” Ashley shouted after him.

“Not possible, as I don’t actually work here. Five o’clock, that’s a promise.”

She stood there, winded. Her chest throbbed with indignity, but elsewhere around her body, her thong was moistening with pleasure. She was feeling aroused by a man for the first time in she-couldn’t-remember-how-long. She had a meeting in ten minutes, so sank to her knees, hoisted up her skirt and thrust her fingers down the flimsy piece of material, deftly stroking her clit while her mind searched for a decent fantasy to cling on to. It landed on Fox’s cock, which she imagined to be large and extremely hard, and she was on her knees sucking it, surrounded by olive trees, hydrangeas and climbing clematis. She came suddenly and urgently within seconds and, having straightened her skirt and wiped her fingers on a tissue, Ashley descended the spiral staircase for her meeting.

As promised, Fox’s quote arrived at five o’clock, and it was comprehensive and professional, without the split infinitives and misplaced apostrophes that she was always compelled to correct. Would she give him another chance?

Of course she would, she realised in that second; her desires were stronger than she was. She couldn’t imagine letting someone like Fox out of her life so easily. She called him.

“I’ve decided to forgive you for your earlier impertinence,” she said.

“Good,” he replied simply. “I’ll start on Monday.”

Monday seemed an eternity away. “Can’t we discuss it over the weekend?” she asked. “Exactly which types of pot and which plant, and where they might go?”

“I have three kids and a dog. I don’t do weekends.”

Ashley felt flattened. Of course he was married. And he was probably one of those men who was relentlessly faithful to his wife, which naturally made him all the more desirable. “I understand. Monday it is.”

The weekend stretched like a rambling rose, climbing languidly up a brick wall, and Ashley found herself browsing through gardening magazines and websites, suddenly passionate about potting and planting, topiary and pruning. She pored over Fox’s company website, looking for clues about his private life, but it was deceptively vague, referring only to his having given up a financial career in the City to take up horticultural studies, and the business he’d run for the last ten years.

Monday brought a fine spring morning, and Ashley wore a floral silk skirt, a plain white t-shirt and a lacy cardigan, with her favourite high heels. As Fox strode in through the office, she took a deep breath - not only at the sight of him, but at the trail of mud he left on her carpet. It would clean, she told herself. She’d get someone on to it.

“How are you this fine morning?” he asked with that smile that could wilt the sturdiest of roses.

“Good, thank you, and you?” she asked with uncharacteristic nervousness as she led him up the stairs.

“I’ll be needing to shift pots, plants and earth today,” he told her once they’d reached the roof. “Don’t worry,” he added quickly, as if reading her mind. “I’ll lay down protective covering, there won’t be any mess.” She was grateful for his sensitivity, until he added with a grin, “I can tell how precious your carpet is to you. You probably spent ages agonising over the exact shade, didn’t you?”

Ashley flushed because of course she had, but wasn’t about to admit it. All morning, as she tried to concentrate on her producers’ monthly budget reports, Ashley watched Fox coming and going, carrying pots, plants and large bags of earth through the office to the roof. With every trip he seemed to shed a layer - first the jacket and hat went, then the loose checked shirt. On his next trip the t-shirt had been pulled out from the waist of his khaki trousers, revealing tanned, muscular arms and a tantalising glimpse of hair on his taut stomach.

By lunch time she couldn’t stand it any longer and climbed up the staircase to find him sitting on an upturned pot, eating a sandwich. He moved aside and indicated that she joined him, and as she sat down, fearing the worst for her skirt, she got a whiff of masculinity that made her instantly aroused. It wasn’t a smell that said I’m stinky and need a shower, but one that said, I’m masculine and earthy and physical, and I work hard. It was a smell Ashley could have inhaled all day if he’d only let her.

“I don’t know how you do it, stuck in that office all day,” he started.

“I run a company. It’s what I do.”

“I did it for a while myself. Couldn’t stand it. No fresh air, no exercise.”

“The fresh air is what I want the garden for. The exercise - well, I do yoga most mornings. I might even be inspired to do some up here, when the weather allows.”

She thought she saw a flicker of interest on his face. “There’s a water supply over there,” he said instead, indicating a small tap. “The pressure’s good. You’ll get your sprinkler system. Want some?” He offered her his sandwich, and despite herself, Ashley leaned forward and took a small bite.

“You don’t eat much, do you? You starve yourself so you can look nice in your designer clothes. Well you know what? Most men don’t give a damn about how a woman looks in her designer clothes. All they care about is how she looks out of them, and bony women are a right turn-off.”