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Out of Her Class (Argus)


Out of Her Class by Argus

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    • Average 4.5 from 2 ratings

Sloan is a sophisticated girl, one of the youngest members of the New York Philharmonic, who auditioned as a lark when she visited from London. She's very prim, proper and studious. She's certainly not the kind of girl to be interested in a big, rough, heavily tattooed sailor!

Michael Ferguson is very interested in her, though, and not the kind of man to be deterred with polite hints. He's not just a crewman but the captain and owner of the fleet of ferries Sloan rides back and forth to work.

Sloan is forced to come to terms with the fact this rude, overbearing man is making wild, dark fantasies play out behind her eyes, and then... then he starts making them play out for real! Sloan has heard about wild, carnal sex, and even about kinky bondage, but never before imagined the breathtaking heat and pleasure they could instill in her – until now.

Product type: EBook    Published by: Fiction4All    Published: 5 / 2018

No. words: 34000

Style: Male Dom - M/F

Available Formats: MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle


Excerpt

Out of Her Class
Chapter One

There were few real stars in music. At least, not in her kind of music. A star was someone whose name was known to the general public, someone whose name could sell tickets or even recordings. There were always a few of those, but they were very few indeed.
Sloan was a violist with the New York Philharmonic. Getting into the 'phil' was a triumph in itself. It was one of the big five orchestras in the United States that every classical musician aimed for. There were over 1200 orchestras in the US but only the big five commanded the prestige, not to mention the salary, to be called the best.
But no one knew her name. Nor cared about her. She was one of many. And that was just the way she liked it. Sloan had never been an attention seeker. Quite the contrary, in fact. She'd been a shy, quiet girl while growing up in London, and spending as much time as she had practicing had not helped make her popular with other children.
She had a rare talent, though, one which saw her parents sending her for an audition at the Royal College of Music – which she'd passed with flying colors. She was good enough, in fact, to pass one of the periodic blind audition the New York Philharmonic gave only eight months ago.
To get into the orchestra, nobody cared or should care, what you looked like, how tall or short you were, how fat or thin, how lovely your hair or whether you were bald, what your color or ethnicity was, or your resume. All they cared about was your ability to play music to near perfection. So auditions were done behind a blind. Those listening had no idea whose music they were listening to. They only cared about the music itself.
Again, this suited Sloan perfectly. For even now in her twenties she lacked confidence in herself, if not her music. She continued to be quiet, shy, though very poised and dignified. She was not a social girl, cared little for society, fashion or current events.
She cared about music, and very little else.
All she desired of the world was for it to allow her to play her music, and otherwise leave her to her own devices. She wished to be treated politely and respectfully, which was how she treated others, and had no interest in being singled out for either praise or condemnation.
And certainly not for her looks, as attractive as many seemed to believe those were.
It was not her intent, when she came to New York, to get into the Phil. She'd actually just come playing tourist during the off-season, after a girlfriend had begged her to join her. She'd only found out about the audition by accident and then, on something of a lark, had gone for it.
Being hired had come as a tremendous surprise! The salary had come as even more of a shock. American orchestras paid considerably more – like double – what British orchestras did. So while she'd at first been pleased and thought to turn down the offer, she had wound up accepting it.
Who could turn down the Phil!?
She'd been in something of a whirlwind after that to get her visa and then find a place to stay. Even at the absurd salaries the Phil paid rents in New York were ridiculous. She'd eventually found a nice little apartment in New Jersey, which allowed her to take either a ferry or a bus through the Lincoln Tunnel to get to midtown Manhattan, where the Phil played and practiced.
Paying twenty thousand dollars a year for a one bedroom apartment was absurd, but it was less so than trying to find one in Manhattan larger than a broom closet.
And so it came to be that on a warm September morning she found herself on the deck of a ferry, enjoying the sights as it crossed the Hudson on her way to her morning practice at the Lincoln Center.
Warm days could be a trial for Sloan. She preferred to wear black most of the time – and certainly that was a requirement at the Phil, at least for actual performances. In cooler or wetter weather she wore black trench coats in keeping with her decided lack of interest in bringing attention on herself.
On warm, sunny days like this, a jacket was simply too out of place. Indeed, black clothing itself was out of place under the warm sun. Then too, she had no desire to seem out of place among her fellow musicians either. Which meant dressing somewhat informally for practices.
Thus she was wearing a pair of loose, light gray dress slacks, a white top and gray, linen blazer. That was about as informal as Sloan got, at least in public. None of it was tight, and the blazer – she wore jackets or blazers or sweater whenever possible – helped to obscure the generosity with which nature had treated her with regard to her chest.
Sloan had had a love-hate relationship with her breasts since they'd sprouted. They drew attention to her, often unwanted attention, and thus she had always worked to conceal them as best she could. As they'd grown bigger that had become more difficult. Though it had been easier in the generally cooler weather of the UK than here in the United States.
But while she hated the attention they drew, she had to admit that in the privacy of her own room, before her own mirror, she found their appearance, and indeed, the shape of her own body, to be... pleasing. She took a quiet, reserved sense of pride in her looks, and in how toned and fit her body was.
She might not want to draw unwanted attention to her appearance, but she nevertheless ensured her dark brown hair was nicely styled, cut, cleaned and brushed, and usually held neatly behind her neck in a long tail which fell halfway down her spine.
She had a slender, egg-shaped face, with bright green eyes, a slim, aristocratic nose, high cheekbones and full lips to go with porcelain skin. She was attractive and knew it. She appreciated it, and even liked, to a degree, that others did too – so long as they were discrete about their appreciation.
And that was a problem in America. So many people were so... rude! She would not like to be thought of as a snob, but honestly, it was as if a lot of Americans simply had no manners at all! Especially men! The adolescent boys at school had been more polite in their attention!
As she stood at the rail and watched Manhattan approach, a man came up beside her, also looking outward, but then his eyes turned to scan her, and, her bad luck, a gust of wind blew her open jacket apart a bit. She could almost sense his attention quickening.
She ignored him, of course. She looked down at her watch, then up and over to the right, giving him only a very quick glance.
Scary!
He was about her height, but she was tall for a woman. He was much broader in the shoulder, of course, had thick, black curly hair brushed straight back, a neatly trimmed beard, heavy eyebrows, and very dark eyes! The kind of eyes that looked at you before killing you! He was wearing only a thin, tight, dirty t-shirt and jeans, and his bare arms were covered with tattoos.
And he was looking at her! Ack!
She looked around, hoping to see a policeman. This man looked like a homicidal killer! She pushed herself away from the rail and went for a stroll, showing nothing, as calm as you please, and thankfully, he did not follow.
She followed the rail to the front of the boat, the bow, then continued along, however, and she sucked in a breath of air as she saw him ahead of her, having crossed to the other side of the boat. She resolved she would simply ignore him and continue along.
She was so intent on ignoring him, however, that she failed to notice a bag another passenger had left on the deck as they looked over the rail, and tripped badly. In fact, since she was instantly focused on ensuring her viola case didn't hit the deck – as opposed to her body – she almost fell flat on her face. That would have been embarrassing, to say the least
A powerful hand shot out and grasped her right arm just above the elbow, stopping her just above the deck, and then hauled her back to her feet.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Sloan licked her lips, her pulse having suddenly shot up as she had realized she was falling.
“Uhm, yes, thank you very much,” she said. “I was... daydreaming, I suppose.”
“We all do that on a trip we've taken so often,” he said. “And you take it every morning.”
She looked at him in surprise. He wasn't smiling but simply looking at her with those dark eyes.
“I uh...”
“I'm a crew member. I've seen you before,” he said.
She had never noticed him.
“Oh.”
Well, if he was a crewman he probably wasn't a homicidal killer, she thought with some relief. And sailors did tend to get tattoos, didn't they? So she supposed that wasn't quite so strange. And he had been nice enough to stop her from falling on her face.
And... there was something very strangely attractive about him. His eyes were so deep beneath those shaggy brows, and his chest so thick! He was a very, very … masculine man! Not the kind of man she was used to being around, much less conversing with.
The men she habitually dealt with were educated, sensitive, fashionably dressed and most polite and discrete. He was none of these things. He was a... a rough sort of man, she concluded. A crewman on a ferry boat? Well, that's as one would expect.
“You're a musician,” he said, nodding at her violin case.
“Yes.”
“What do you play?”
“Well... mostly classical music,” she said.
“Yeah? There a lot of money in that?”
“Uhm, it pays reasonably well, yes.”
“I play myself,” he said.
She looked at him in surprise.
“Yeah. My old man was Irish and he loved playing the fiddle and taught me how.”
“Oh, really. That's nice.”
Anyone who referred to the violin as the fiddle was clearly producing an entirely different strain of music than what Sloan was used to.
“You're English, huh.”
“Yes, I'm afraid so,” she said with a disarming smile.
“No need to be afraid. I love the accent. It's very sexy. I'd like to go to England one day.”
He was hardly the first here to say her accent was sexy, but she blushed slightly anyway. His interest was so obviously sexual and very... very... obvious. He did not seem the type for subtle seduction.
The idea, of course, was absurd, and she sought a way to politely and discretely let him down. The distance between them, culturally speaking, was enormous. There was, though, something very indefinably 'sexy' about him, too. She didn't really understand it. He was actually a bit scary, more than a bit daunting, and she felt wary around him. Who knew what he was capable of!?
Some men, when you turned them down, got very insulting, very rude and obscene. Some even got violent, she understood, though none had with her.
“Well you could... get a job on a bigger boat,” she said. “One that was going to Europe, I mean.”
“Yeah. Well, if all the women over there are as hot as you it'd be worth it,” he said.
She flushed again, uncomfortable.
“Could I see your fiddle?” he asked.
Sloan did not want to show him her viola, but refusing would be... rude. Especially since he'd stopped her face from a close interaction with the deck.
“It's... rather old and uhm, delicate,” she said, reluctantly lifting the case.
“Over here. You can set it on the vent.”
The vent, or whatever it was, was about waist high, metal and projected up out of the deck. Sloan set her case on it and then opened it.
“Oh! Be careful!” she exclaimed as he took the viola out and examined it.
“She's a big one,” he said.
“Yes, it's a viola, not a violin.”
“Yeah? What's the difference?”
“Uhm, there are several. The viola produces more of a mid-range sound, rather lower than the violin, they uh, fiddle you're probably used to.”
“She's a beauty,” he said appreciatively. “Just like you, huh?” he said, raising his eyes to her and grinning.
He took the bow out and brought the viola up under his chin, then played a few experimental notes.
“Yeah, she's got a deep voice,” he said. “Very soft and sexy.”
Sloan flushed again, for he was looking at her as he said it.
He held it out at arm's length briefly, examining it.
“Nice. Kinda glows,” he said. “Nice curves.”
His eyes flicked to her and Sloan felt her face heat further.
“They say the violin was shaped to look like a woman,” he said.
He drew it up to his chin and played a few more notes.
“Very mellow sounding,” he said.
“Yes, the viola serves to emphasize and draw out the sound of the violin in an orchestra, to form a bridge between the higher notes of the violin and the other strings. It helps harmonize the string section.”
“You play in an orchestra, huh?”
“Well, yes.”
“The New York Philharmonic?”
“Uhm, yes.”
“Thought so. Classy chick like you.”
Sloan smiled uncomfortably again.
“It sounds kind of furry, but in a nice way.”
“The strings are thicker than what you're used to.”
He gave her back the viola and she put it quickly away, placing the bow in next to it and strapping it down.
“Yeah, I've always been into music,” he said. “See?”
Sloan snapped the lid closed and turned around just in time to see him pulling his t-shirt up and over his head. She blinked in surprise, then flushed anew at his extraordinary chest. Not only was it immense it was half covered in tattoos!
He had what looked like an eagle covering the right side of his chest, the head cocked back and the snout pushing up against the right side of his neck. He also had a large treble clef on the left side of his abdomen and belly. In fact, he had to push his jeans lower so she could see the entirety of it.
Sloan noted the clef in passing, her eyes somewhat overwhelmed with so much muscular male flesh so close to them. She wasn't a virgin, but she had certainly never seen anything like this up close! Tattooed or otherwise!
“Uhm uhm... yes... well...” she gulped.
“I got this one when I was in the navy over in Thailand,” he said.
He put his finger on the dragon.
“This one I got in Hawaii.”
“I well, they're very... colorful,” she said.
“You probably don't have any tattoos.”
She looked at him in surprise.
“Not that chicks don't get tattoos these days,” he said. “But you look too classy for that.”
“You uhm, don't approve of tattoos on women?”
“Nope. Especially gorgeous ones like you. That's like painting graffiti on the side of a Porsche or a Ferrari. Why would you want to spoil the lines and finish of something that's already perfect?”
Another rough looking man came by.
“Hey, Mike. That cylinder working now?”
“Yeah, it's good to go,” the man said, pulling his shirt on.
“Gotta go, babe,” he said.
Sloan felt a sense of relief, but felt strangely deflated as he went, as if he'd taken some of the light and energy with him and things were now duller and quieter. The man had fairly crackled with energy, she realized.
Well, an interesting experience, she mused. And an interesting man! Not the type to come to see the orchestra, of course, and not the type she would really associate with. What would they talk about anyway? What would they do together? Well, aside from what she was certain was his primary interest!
And what would that be like, she thought as she watched the boat dock. Not like any other physical experience she'd ever had! The man was probably like a wild animal in bed. She did not anticipate a lot of gentle, tender touching and kisses from a man like that!
Of course, her experiences with sex, such as they were, had not exactly been overwhelming in terms of their excitement or pleasure. She was sure the men had tried but... well, it was probably her. She was simply not a very sexual person. Her primary focus during sex was to ensure she didn't do anything to embarrass herself or make her partner laugh at her inexperience or poor skills.
She doubted this man would even notice. It would be like... like being ridden by a bull! Or a stallion!


Reviews

another good read from Mr Argus,some very good sex scenes with a touch of s&m thrown in 5 out of 5 (homebody1)

Author Information

Argus is a man with long experience and credits in the publishing world. He has had almost two hundred novels published in the United Kingdom and The United States, by such publishers as Beeline, Star, Nexus, Chimera, Silver Moon, and Olympia. He has also been published in dozens of magazines.

 

Publisher Information

Publishers of non-adult and adult fiction. Authors, experienced and new are welcome. We have a number of different sites for various genres, including specialist sites for Romance (www.a1romancestories.com, our non-adult and erotica site at www.fiction4all.com and a number of adult sites based around our main site at www.a1adultebooks.com


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