Encuentra tu próximo/a libro favorito/a

Conviértase en miembro hoy y lea gratis durante 30 días
The Omani - Book One

The Omani - Book One

Leer la vista previa

The Omani - Book One

335 página
4 horas
Jan 14, 2020


Clare Penne brings us book-one of two in yet another adventure into the erotic, perverse, and life-changing, with this tale of a most unusual – and irrevocable – relationship.

After meeting two fascinating women in a high-end bar, one man's life will be changed irreversibly.

But will he still be a man at journey’s end?

Female-led and LGBT fiction for the devotee of dominant and controlling women.

Transgendered or otherwise.
Jan 14, 2020

Sobre el autor

Relacionado con The Omani - Book One

Leer más de Clare Penne
Libros relacionados
Artículos relacionados

Vista previa del libro

The Omani - Book One - Clare Penne

The Omani - Book One

The Omani – Book One

A Work of Female-Led LGBT fiction


Clare Penne

Copyright © 2020. All rights reserved

This adaptation may not be reproduced without prior written permission from the publisher.

All rights reserved

© 2020

The right of Clare Penne to be identified as author and adapter of this work has been asserted in accordance with section 77 of the copyright, designs and patents act 1988. This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The Omani

(The Duchess and Her Girls)


Clare Penne

Chapter 1

The Coburg Bar ‘Pick-Up’

A quiet October Friday evening, the business guests having departed for their weekends, the Coburg Bar in the Connaught only half full in comparison to their normal customer numbers, a quiet murmuring of discreet conversation filling the room.

The Coburg Bar, synonymous with luxury, the wealthy, lifestyles that can only be imagined by the population at large, the guests tonight more casual than a full weekday, couples there for the weekend, the occasional businessman or woman staying over as part of a long international trip, folk enjoying a cocktail before dining at Hélène Darroze’s two Michelin star restaurant in the hotel or heading off to enjoy other worthy dining establishments in the Mayfair area and beyond.

The head barman, Mark Jenner, a Connaught’s long-timer was on duty, quietly and efficiently handling orders for regular drinks, the slick handling of his cocktail mixer for the numerous cocktails on the menu or even bespoke ones such as his prize winning ‘Ramos Gin Fizz,’ ‘Rum Flip’ or a favourite of his, the ‘Sazerac,’ a Cognac and Bourbon mix.

The room was set for the evening, the subtle lighting reflected in the mirror over the fireplace, the down-lighting in the actual bar adding drama, the countless bottles lining the four shelves, the candles on the tables giving personality to the room and an intimate atmosphere, the up-lighting into the ornately decorated white and beamed ceiling dimmed down, as were two small chandeliers, the room exuding opulence.

The bar was looking resplendent in its rich and dark olive-green painted paneling, the lightly patterned carpet, the round highly polished tables with their metal bands, each table accompanied by the comfortable winged-armchairs and then a fire burning away inside the impressive black mantelpiece and place, the mantelpiece bearing this most unusual mirror set in what looked like an Art Deco frame, a three dimensional effect to it.

In front of the bar, there were six barstools, dark brown leather padded tops to them, so comfortable to sit on and enjoy a drink if by oneself or to share with a friend, Mark and his staff there to engage one in idle and discreet conversation.

Three couples were sitting in the room, one pair probably in their late thirties, another an older twosome, probably there for a nightcap having had an earlier dinner, the final couple businessmen finishing off their long week with relaxing scotches in hand, one of their Glenfarclas Family Cask whiskies or a vintage Lagavulin drawn from a sherry cask.

The atmosphere, serene and calm, relaxing, that wind-down feeling that the week was over permeating the room, the chatter from the guests quiet and discreet, no place for boorish behaviour here.

For a louder, more raucous ambiance, head over to the Connaught Bar and enjoy a gin and tonic or a long beer or vodka cocktail over there, more the partying sort of place with its Ultra-stylish décor and mouth-watering cocktails that puts the Connaught Bar in Mayfair into a league of its own, the appeal of its inspired English Cubist and Irish 1920s art, with textured walls shimmering in platinum silver leaf overlaid with dusty pink, pistachio and lilac, a gem of a London bar.

Two women strolled in.

Not that the bar was loud but their very presence was enough to quieten the conversation, the businessmen and both male partners of their wives or girlfriends turning to see these two beautifully presented arrivals and, it must be said, gorgeous looking females.

Perhaps even the women themselves broke their thought processes to look at these two, an appreciative criticism of the way in which they were turned out, their looks, their mannerisms, so elegant and smooth, both newcomers of model quality.

The woman leading the second one came up to the bar to lean against the stool, her long legs in quality carbon-black hose, her feet sporting a pair of Laboutin platform heels, the shoes with a little elevation to the sole in front and five inch stilettos, a soft and pale blue colour with a hint of light grey to them, the tone what some would call ‘Dix Blue’ if painting a room with a Farrow & Ball colour.

Was she wearing stockings? The tautness of the nylon suggested so.

To the casual observer, this was hard to determine, her legs long, the skirt part of her pale pink silk outfit just long enough to conceal her stocking tops if she was wearing them. However, they were short enough to entice any red-blooded alpha man or woman to look up her front and see what lingerie she was sporting.

Her outfit oozed class, as did her make-up and hair, her posture and demureness pouring off her, a woman of substance and obviously very skilled at her profession, a woman that had probably been privately educated and well used to venturing into bars and restaurants like the Connaught offered.

The men’s eyes, those of any female critic too, would have noted that the short skirt rose up into a matching pink tunic style jacket, large pink buttons to it along with a soft floppy collar and lapels, her arms also covered in the fabric and underneath the hint of a matching top.

This was pure haute couture.

Her hair was full and thick, a brown mousy colour but beautifully cut shaped and a fabulous sheen to it, so deeply conditioned, perhaps the personal mark of Nicky Clarke who operated from his premises right across the road from the Coburg.

She had a long tail down over her left shoulder, her hair sweeping back over her right eye from a diffused parting that ran obliquely from her crown to the left, a pair of diamond studs in her ear lobes, each one over one and a half carats.

Her make-up looked like it had been professionally applied, very subtle, the emphasis on her eyes, a smoky finish using browns and greys, and then her cheekbones set high on her face, her lips quite small and adorned in a Chanel Coco ‘Rouge Shine,’ a discreet pink colour softening her face.

Her fingers were long, as were her nails and those were varnished in the same pink colour as her lips, her wedding finger suggesting that she was engaged or married, a band of emerald cut diamonds on the inside, a four to five carat square cut diamond on the front of it that spoke of her wealth, its colour and clarity suggesting a D or E, Flawless or WS1 stone of some considerable note.

What was her profession?

An escort perhaps, her friend also in the trade or her companion for safety’s sake, her pimp?

No, she was too well presented and manicured for this, a degree of refinement to her that suggested that she should be taken seriously, very seriously. If she were ‘of the trade,’ her rate would be several thousands of pounds a night.

However, that would be too demeaning and a potential libel; it did appear that Mark Jenner knew her, a little conversation to welcome her back to the Coburg.

If she was professional then she had a heavyweight job, a leading advertising professional perhaps, a lawyer, a magazine editor, it was difficult to say.

Her friend was not quite as glamorous but very pretty, more feminine perhaps in the way she was clothed, her dress a little black Chanel number but beautifully stylish on her, black hose on with black pumps, a wide silver bangle on her right wrist, matching up with what seemed to be a similar necklace, diamond earrings similar to her friends and also a very similar wedding band, a beautiful engagement ring behind it, all of three carats in an emerald-cut diamond, set into a pavé mount on top of a split-shank band, that covered in small diamonds to add to a spectacular piece, one that could have come from Garrard’s or Mappin & Webb.

There was serious wealth being expressed here, not in a showy manner, but stunningly presented for the attentive observer, quality the name of the game, definitely not bling.

Around her right pinkie, she had a very unusual and striking ring, an iron band with a large sapphire cabochon hanging off it; that was mounted in a plain platinum bezel, the chain also in platinum.  Her right wrist bore what looked like a Hermès watch, the familiar ‘H’ clearly showing, the strap black crocodile or alligator.

A string of pearls adorned her neck, a second string of deep red garnets beneath that adding depth to the pearls, the redness playing off her nails and lipstick.

Her hair was equally as well coiffured, redder in colour and even thicker than her friend at the bar, the woman having chosen to sit down at one of the spare tables, a little way from the bar and nearer the fireplace. It wasn’t as long, coming down to her shoulders, turned in underneath and showing a highly professional cut and finish. Perhaps they had both been to the salon across the road.

Her make-up was just as well presented as that of her colleague a lighter finish that showed some cute freckles on her cheeks, those replicated on her arms, her lipstick and fingernails a slightly darker red in colour, the cosmetics Chanel as well, the nails so beautifully manicured and painted up.

Her clutch bag was on the bar table and she sat there waiting for her friend to come across to her, intently watching the other guests in the bar, taking everything in as if making mental notes.

What was the relationship between them?

That was hard to ascertain, friends, relatives, perhaps business partners or associates, definitely not a customer-driven meeting, their eyes meeting, smiles and sign language between them.

The girl at the bar seemed to be a little on edge, glances towards her friend and then down to her watch, the impulsive flick of her fingers through her hair, all those wiles that women can use, leaning rather than sitting on the stool.

I’ll have one of your ‘Dark and Stormys,’ Mark, please and also a Hemingway Daiquiri for Maddy over there, please.

Yes, Ma’am, coming up. Constantino Ribalaigua of the Floridita Bar in Havana created this and it’s liquid heaven. Hemingway wrote, ‘My mojito in La Bodeguita, my daiquiri in El Floridita,’ you know.

A sweet smile at Mark, perhaps to offset her impulsiveness, I know. You have told me before, Mark that the Stormy originated in Bermuda to become their island drink.

Mark expertly poured and mixed the dark run, fresh lime and ginger beer of the ‘Stormy’ and then the white rum, maraschino liqueur, fresh lime, pink grapefruit juice and sugar for the Daiquiri, his hands moving so quickly, everything at his immediate fingertips, his measures from the bottle so precise that he didn’t have to use those silver cups that many barmen do.

Once poured, Mark served the girl, who continued to sit at the bar, and then went over to the girl by the fireplace, an appreciative thank-you from her, her voice quite trill but very refined, plummy one might say, the sign perhaps that she was from a good family or well educated.

They ‘chin-chinned’ each other from the distance between them and respectively took sips of their chosen nectar.

The girl at the bar was definitely a little impatient, yet another glance at the watch on her wrist, a pearl-banded Chanel one and then a quick natter with Mark, something on the lines of "Have you been to Bermuda then, Mark, a conversation that couldn’t be really heard as she spoke quite sotto voce, her voice soft and a margin lower in tone to her companion.

The fact that they continued to sit apart was most odd, the occasional look and smile at each other, the girl at the bar, her glances being that more furtive as if she was covering something up.

The answer was provided fifteen minutes later, when a distinguished man walked in, a dead ringer for Omar Sharif when he was a young man, this gentleman in his forties, his hair black but showing signs of changing to being what they term as ‘salt and pepper.’

His eyes were dark, his face chiseled, a man of about six foot one, fit, broad shouldered, large hands, and beautifully attired.

He was wearing a blue blazer, possibly of Gieves and Hawkes origin, a pale blue twill shirt, darker blue tie from Ferragamo, black laced shoes that looked like they were from Duckers in Oxford, tailored grey slacks, a Breitling watch on his right wrist, no ring on his wedding finger.

He could have been of Arabic origin, though he wasn’t that dark in skin colour, his eyes and hair colour suggesting that. If he was an Arab, he was out of his normal wear; no thawb or keffiyeh was on show here.

He stood at the entrance of the bar, looked around, a glance at the young woman sitting by the fireplace and then at the girl still leaning against the bar stool, she having turned her head to see who had come in.

‘Omar’ approached her. He held out his hand in greeting.

Kirstie, isn’t it? Rahim.

Yes, good to meet you, at last.

Want another drink? What are you on?

One of Mark’s Dark and Stormys please, they are delicious.

I know he’s one of the best in London.

He turned to Mark, My usual Blackwood and Tonic, Mark, another Dark and Stormy for the young lady here.

His English was good, suggesting that he had been public school educated, however there was a light lilt to it, suggesting that his origin was overseas, again the Middle East coming to mind, the son of some one very wealthy, perhaps with connections to one of the royal families from any country out there such as Pietrina, Bahrain, Saudi Arabia through to the Emirates.

Was this business or pleasure, the opening gambit overheard in the quietness of the room suggesting that they had never met before?

Was a date from an internet site being witnessed?

Or was it an arranged blind date by a mutual friend?

Or perhaps everyone was witnessing high-end prostitution, the pick-up under way, drinks then fucking for a lot of money, thousands to be spent by him if she was going to stay the night with him?

Only the woman, this Maddy, sitting by the fireplace knew; however Mark appeared to be comfortable with them both, obviously knowing both of them, even if it was a first time recontrement.

‘Kirstie’ positioned herself more onto the stool now, rapt on what ‘Rahim’ had to say, their conversation muted and very much between them, Mark the only person who possibly could overhear what they were saying.

The woman by the fire resigned to a long wait, her eyes watching and listening to everything that was going on, not only with her friend and new bf, or whoever he was, but the bar at large, soaking up the genial atmosphere that the Coburg offered its guests.

A glance to Mark and he mixed her another of those Hemingway Daiquiris.

Her thoughts – may be to be transported to Cuba and shake the square hand of her literary idol, whom she fashioned her writing after, the embellishment of his story with the power of his observation, the very essence of life around him captured in his carefully crafted words so effortlessly laid down on paper.

That is speculation though.

The tranquil environment now present in the Coburg Bar continued on, one couple getting up to leave, the quiet conversations carrying on, Rahim and Kirstie ignored, except for Maddy who just sat there, as if she was contemplating life at large.

What was her role in all of this? Was she some employee of Kirstie’s, there to witness events or perhaps a deal and produce the paperwork, or was she there to protect her friend if this was indeed a first date?

That really was hard to ascertain.

‘Rahim’ ordered a second gin and tonic, ‘Kirstie’ declining the offer for a third cocktail, a giggle that she needed to keep herself moderately sober, and then their conversation resumed its low-key murmuring.

‘Maddy’ watched on, a slow sip of the remaining liqueur in her glass, no doubt pondering whether she should go to the bar or ask one of the waiters for another glass.

Finally, ‘Rahim’ rose from his stool, ‘Kirstie’ following, the slip on of one of her shoes as she dismounted from her perch, the picking up of her clutch bag from the bar in front of her, ‘Rahim’ signing the bill for Mark.

‘Kirstie’ turned to ‘Maddy,’ a lovely smile on her face and a small wink of acknowledgement that all would be alright, that Maddy wasn’t to fret. This man was what she wanted.

Maddy, I suggest you have dinner and then retire to the room. I’m going to have dinner with Rahim here and will be back at some point. You know what to do, don’t you.

Maddy nodded back to her friend. She was more than aware of what Kirstie wanted her to do and would ask her when she eventually did return to their suite.

With this, they left the bar, Kirstie slightly ahead of Rahim, affording him a view of her delicious rump so nicely presented in that soft, pleated pink skirt of her outfit and how sorely it must have been for him not to feel her bottom.

Her posture, her small strides, her legs so beautifully long and set in their expensive hose. What man couldn’t fall for this woman and what a couple they would make as they made their way out of the hotel, destination unknown but probably some Michelin starred restaurant or exclusive club that Rahim knew of.

She would be safe.

That flirtatious act of touching out to feel her was evidently far too early in the evening and certainly not the action of a gentleman in such a refined environment as the Coburg. Indeed, they weren’t even hand-in-hand or arm-in-arm.

That would likely come later when Kirstie started to give herself to this hunk of an alpha man.

Maddy rose shortly afterwards, settled her bill and also left, her destiny the Espelette Brasserie of the Connaught Hotel, that across the building and facing out towards Mount Street.

Dinner would be alone, a glass of red wine, the Daily Telegraph and comforted by their Scottish Salmon Steak served with a Tarragon beurre blanc accompanied by a green salad, the setting relaxing and casual in this conservatory that wound itself around the building, the mesmerizing new water sculpture, ‘Silence’ designed by Tadao Ando spot-lit and flowing away outside in Carlos Place, a good distraction for her if she so wanted.

It was going to be a long night.

She knew that.

Chapter 2

The Long Night

I sat there in the brasserie thinking about Kirstie, where they would have gone and what they would be eating. Would this Rahim be trying to hold her hand by now, their conversation already engaging, things clicking, the leading in towards returning to his bedroom, the one that we had set up?

This was all part of the play that we had going on between us, Kirstie needing a ‘proper’ man from time to time, even men by the pair, having had two take her simultaneously, that session lasting well into the early hours of the morning. Yes, it was a man that was alpha in personality and very well endowed that got her going, a man with breeding, education, refinement and well presented, a real gentleman as such – and yes money went with it as she was used to being spoilt and demanded the best in life.

Hence the Connaught Hotel being used as our base when we were in London, the hotel reflecting that level of luxury, discretion and refinement.

Race didn’t matter, just the above also in terms of discretion. Gentlemen very much her preference, hunks of alpha men but they had to be interesting, engaging and mannered.

She had been with Brits and European men, as well as black men, mainly American, appreciating any man who then offered her a long girth with amazing girth, the sort of penis that could really push her cunt open and fuck her all the way up to the cervix or feel good in her anus or down the back of her throat.

However, he did have to know how to use it; after all, sex is all in the brain and therefore the whole package of how he presented himself and then teed her up, his touch and oral skills were important to her, a man that was successful in the sack as he was in life at large.

There’s not many of them around.

I couldn’t do that when it came to the cock size. It was that simple and from when we first knew each other sexually, she had wanted more. This was our solution, a long one in getting to the point of me sitting in the Connaught brasserie waiting for her to return.

It wasn’t by any means the first time that we had done this, anything but.

It was, I think, number twelve for Rahim as a candidate for Kirstie, not even counting the two men dumped before they had left the meeting place, not suitable for what she was looking for.

After all, the internet, the telephone, or the dating club have their limitations and it is only when one meets the prospective beau that true assessment can be made; the trigger of that personal chemistry, the body language, the meeting of the minds, the flow of those sexual pheromones beginning, the subconscious mingling of magnetic attraction taking the man and woman towards the eventual bed.

This was as important for Kirstie as the feeling of that hard penis entering her, rubbing up against her ‘G-spot,’ widening her vaginal walls, creating more pre-cum in her love area and setting her nerves on end, slowly building her mind to that splitting orgasm that she so enjoyed – and then to be kept up there by him.

Not that it was always a man. Kirstie had been out with a few women, mainly submissives but she had got a big thrill when the tables had been turned and she ended up as the submissive to an experienced and well versed domme – not one’s average mental map of what a domme is but rather on the end of a dildo and all the rest by one female banking Chief Executive and also that of a Duchess, again reflecting her high standards, this one with whom a special relationship had started to develop.

It was with the women that I now felt it most, the emotional turmoil that she was making or being made love by another woman and that it wasn’t me who was there to offer my service to her.

The men I had become accustomed to, even though the feeling was strange, just as it was now

Has llegado al final de esta vista previa. ¡Regístrate para leer más!
Página 1 de 1


Lo que piensa la gente sobre The Omani - Book One

0 valoraciones / 0 Reseñas
¿Qué te pareció?
Calificación: 0 de 5 estrellas

Reseñas de lectores