First kiss

'Great necklace', the guy says and stares at my tits. "What does it say?"

"It's my nickname", I say coldly.

"How do you pronounce that?", he gets closer.

The Boy sweeps in with our drinks, assesses the situation and drapes his arm around me protectively. I smile, I say my nickname to the guy, who scowls at The Boy and skulks off.

"I can't leave you for five minutes! You get a lot of attention", he laughs.

"I do. But then so do you", I say and I mean it. He gets looked at quite a bit because he is beautiful, no two ways about it. His hair is freshly washed, swept to one side, he's wearing his jeans inside his boots with a red and black lumberjack shirt. He looks like a cowboy gypsy. The girls, fresh faced and gorgeous, in their early twenties in cut off denim shorts, torn tights, long messy hair and heavy eye make up eye him up, and then move to assess me. I am in my full woman regalia. Skin-tight striped jersey dress, swept back platinum blonde hair, minimal make up with red lips and dark brows. I stand out from the rock chick crowd. I know they resent me and admire me at the same time. I don't care and they know that too.

As he holds me, his hand leisurely slides down and is now planted in my most erogenous zone. The small of my back. His palms barely skirt the curve of my buttocks and yet I arch in a Pavlov's dog reaction.

'Are you okay?', he checks suddenly, noticing my tenseness.

'Yes, I am. And I like when you do that. Do that a bit more. I want your hand there. It gives me pleasure', only when I say it I realise I literally narrated my thoughts out loud.

"You do?", he stares at me with his wolfish grey eyes. Can't read his expression because I am too startled by what I just said.

Fuck it. I hear my voice again, it's just my thoughts, pouring out with no consideration for propriety, playing the game, being cool or whatever the fuck I usually do when I make a play for someone.

"I love the way you hold me. I love feeling your hands on me and I love your body against mine. And I really want you. Even now, right now, I can imagine how you would feel between my legs",

There, I've fucking said it. I am sober, present and clear. And yet, I've said it.

For a split moment I think I overdid it and feel like a fucking shy teenager, grateful for the dimmed lights as my face is burning.

He simply turns me towards him, slowly takes me in his arms and holds me very tight. I hide my face in his chest, my mind racing.

Fuck fuck fuck! I feel like I am sixteen again.

Then his hand travels to my neck, I let my head fall into it comfortably, his lips lightly brush mine and we kiss. His tongue flicks over my lips, skirting my teeth. We stand there, glued to each other, for a moment I feel like a happy statue, immobile and fixed in a place where it feels right. Our tongues play lightly, with no rush, I tease his with mine gently, withdrawing it in little feline licks, brushing the edge of his mouth on the way out. He pulls me closer, his right hand in the small of my back, his left snaking up and around my neck, sliding into my hair. My hands wander to the favourite part of him. His back has a deep muscular ridge running down it, right to his buttocks. As I melt into him, I feel it. His cock. It's hard, pressed against my belly. It delights me so much that I gasp, right into his mouth and feel the unmistakable pang of desire between my legs, so intense it's almost painful. I know that with it comes the slithery wetness and I squeeze my thighs together, swaying my hips towards him again just to feel the hardness of his cock again. Then, I open my eyes. His lips still on mine, his eyes open too and he smiles. I know because his eyes are smiling and I sense his lips curving on mine.

'Wow', he says.

'I know', I say.

Tenderness

The Boy has beautiful eyes. That's a fact. Deep, wolfish grey, with flickers of green, like mine, framed by long eyelashes. He has a beautiful face too. Small nose, round lips showing small even teeth and gorgeous cheekbones. There is an ambiguous tinge of femininity in his look and there is something androgynously enticing about it, because he is playful, charming and wily. Just like me.

But today his face isn't right. It's ashen and shrunken, his eyelashes fall in soft fringes on his cheeks.

The hubub of A&E around us, nurses shouting out names, tannoy announcements and the drunken man stubbornly arguing with a vending machine only vaguely register in my mind. My focus is fully on him.

He's sitting down, I am crouched between his knees, holding my hands over his, smoothing them down,  trying to ease them into mine, straightening his fingers gently one by one on the fabric of his jeans.

'Can you hold your hands down darling? It will calm your breath', I ask, injecting as much calm as I possibly can into my voice.

He catches a sharp breath. The pain is back.

'Breathe into it darling. Just breathe into it. It will pass...'

He stretches his hands on his knees, but he hunches forward trying to stop the pain. I know that he hunching will exacerbate it so I get up, stand right between his knees and let him rest his head on my stomach to keep him straight.

I take his head into my hands and I stroke his soft hair gently, methodically running my fingers through the silky strands, trying to absorb his pain into me because every time he twitches and moves, it's like a tiny shard of glass sticking deeper into my heart.

He lifts his head and looks at me. His eyes are hazy, the translucent grey irises glowing with vulnerability.

'Shhhhhh', I say and let his head fall into me again.

I want to take him home. I want him in my bed, pain-free, resting at last. I imagine him there, sleeping peacefully in the light of my bedside lamp.

Tenderness. Doesn't come to me easily. Yet with him, I am awake, aware and full of love.

Reality check

I am gallivanting in my private members club with an old lover of mine, Mr PR, who is treating me to lunch with a view of fucking me later.

Mr PR is fantastic. He is smart, extremely funny, successful and and a dominating fucker. It's cats and dogs with sex thrown in when we get together. Plus he has a big cock which he loves almost as much as he loves himself. Which is a lot.

I swoon in and he's waiting for me already. I sashay purposefully while he's taking in the view. It's a game we play.

We lunch, he's getting pissed on expensive wine while I am sipping my favourite cranberry juice and watch him. He likes sparring with me in preparation for later. Every smart arse response, anything that he perceives as an intellectual defeat on his part will be repaid to me in full, with spanking interest, when we will be alone.

I continue the the game and I am ever so good at it. I am bold, head held high, in my tight dress and sky-high heels. I cross my legs, I curve my body on the chaise-longue I decided to perch on for dessert. I am in my full feline mode seduction mode. He is recently single and there is an additional layer to his usual banter. He tells me how much he missed me when I was off the market, all loved up with The Lover. I don't respond in kind. He likes me strong and unavailable because that makes the chase more exciting. And makes him feel like he really scored, because somehow he conquers me every time, even if the arrangement is painfully clear from the start.

We decide to leave with the tacit agreement of checking into a nearest hotel and proceeding to a fucking session. I am laughing at some insider gossip he tells me, (media darling!)and push the heavy oak door open.

Still laughing uproariously, I walk straight into The Boy.

"Hey... what are you doing here?", he says and takes me in his arms. Instinctively my body just gives in, I inhale his scent and then remember. Mr PR is right behind me. He's standing there in a wary pose, pointedly waiting. I babble nervously and introduce them to each other. The Boy sweeps his hair and says 'Hey man' while Mr PR extends his arm for firm handshake.

All of the sudden, my dress, the heels, the laugh, the whole fucking 'look at me' persona of mine seems ludicrous. When I see The Boy, I am not a sex kitten. I am usually dressed in shorts and Converse, fresh-faced from hurtling around on my bike or with the puppy in tow who's chewing on my laces while we chat leisurely. 

Worlds colliding doesn't even begin to describe this. And it's not just their worlds that are just smashing into each other. It's mine. It's the old me and the new me. 

My babbling awkwardness is odd. After all, The Boy and I are not an item. I haven't even kissed him properly, let alone fucked him. 

'Hey, we were just having a meeting', I keep on wittering while The Boy looks at me searchingly. We say goodbyes and leave.

"So... how do you know him?', he asks Mr PR as casually as we walk out.

'Oh, I've known him for ages, he used to work here'

Mr PR is quiet for a moment. 

"Oh well', he says smugly. "He might have a wet dream about you tonight but it's me who's fucking you this afternoon'

I have a feeling of deja vu. This has happened before. Exactly the same situation, the same conversation in exactly the same place, with The Boy, two months ago, although back then The Boy wasn't yet The Boy, he was just the friendly face in my private members club, and the man in a suit next to me was The Lover. 

And I realise I am no longer looking at Mr PR, I am looking at The Lover. The same suit, the same dark hair, the same air of cocky superiority, the same fucking 'you are my trophy' status-anxiety ridden attitude, perfectly in sync with my act. I am no longer me. I am a fucking platinum blonde accessory. I am the 'fuck you' to the other guy.

I thought I moved on but I haven't. Here I am with a fucking hologram of what I always went for in the past and the hologram of me that used to enjoy that shit. And like with holograms, none of it is real.

I turn around. Mr PR is looking at me with a smirk, buttoning up his jacket, ready and revved up.

"Shall we?'

I decide that I may have just arrived at the same station I left from but it's time to hop on a different train. 

"Sorry, I am actually really tired so I am going to have to call it a day'

"What the fuck?", he explodes. It's a fair question.

"No, I am not tired. You know, it just doesn't feel right. And it's me, not you..", I trail off as I realise I just walked into an elephant size cliche trap.

"Oh for fuck's sake...', he starts but something in my face is telling him it's not worth it.

"You are weird, you know', he sputters. Hell hath no fury like a man with a semi-erection scorned.

"What is it with you..?", he starts again and then I notice that face on him that all public schoolboys get when they don't get their way and default the ra-ra act hasn't worked. A desolate little boy on the train platform clutching a teddy bear and saying goodbye to the Nanny. He never finishes the sentence and walks off slightly unsteady on his feet, all that expensive Merlot, and the Amaretto he downed for dessert clearly taking its toll.

I walk back in.

The Boy is there, loitering behind the bar, bantering with the grizzly yet twinkly-eyed Spanish manager.

"You're back", he beams.

"Welcome back beautiful", grins the Spaniard.

'Yes I am. The meeting is over'

The Boy smiles 'Cranberry juice, no ice, right?'

'Yes please', I plonk myself on the bench and take my heels off. And suddenly I feel like me again.

Different angle

I meet Teacher for a lunch and walk. We are no longer lovers. The man who discovered and freed the natural slut in me, is now a friend.


I watch his hands (and beautiful hands they are, large with long thick, confident fingers) as he takes me through the minutiae of the workings of my camera. They are no longer fingers that left angry red marks on my bottom or pinched my nipples as I stood in front of him, dressed like a schoolgirl, with my shirt open, ready to be used. They push the camera buttons expertly, slide small latches and push little wheels, like they used to push me outside of my comfort zone, guiding me to the unexplored parts of me.

His focus and single-mindedness that I used to find unnerving and exhilarating in equal measure, are now are calming lotion for my impatient questioning.

His voice, once seeping darkest fantasies into my ear, now feels comforting as he kneels behind me, talking me through aperture settings and exposure.

I sit on the stairs in the beautiful Georgian building we are exploring together, taking picture of myself in the large Victorian mirror, my image distorted by the old looking-glass. 

When I look at the picture at home, I notice him behind me. He's kneeling, with his camera, taking picture of me. I am the Hitchcockian peroxide blonde, with big vulnerable eyes, he is a ghostly presence behind me, face obscured by the camera, ever watchful. I like him there. It feels safe. And in one epiphany moment I realise that I always felt safe with him the way I probably never felt with anyone else. And knowing that feels good.

Puppy love

There is a word that describes the way I feel about him. I struggle to find it.

I walk straight in and clock him. He is sitting on a bar stool, fully focussed on his laptop. The two pretty waitresses smile at me invitingly at me. I beam at them happily but I don't waste time.

I walk up straight to him and without saying much I fall straight into his arms. I relax fully, quietly, my face on his shoulder. He rocks me in his arms first then starts dancing with me, his hips gently pushing mine into the beat of the music. I sway with him, inhale his scent, melt into his body and then let go first. I look up and realise that I can't see him properly. My eyes are hazy and my head is spinning. We both take a step back, the magnetic pull between us easing comfortably, yet, for some reason we are left holding hands like a pair of kids.

We chat animatedly about the party I want him to organise for me, I am fully focused on him. I no longer care about who's looking, who I am due to impress. I am looking into his greyish blue eyes and that's what I care about right at this moment. Just being with him. I tell him why it matters that things go well. 

"Don't worry. You just relax. I'll take care of everything". And I believe him.

When I leave, I say 'Let's catch up, me and you because I adore you, you know?' Before I start feeling remotely self-conscious, he grabs me, pulls me closer and kisses me gently on the lips.

I walk away and then realise that I am a little bit in love with him. I haven't fucked him. We haven't even had a date. And none of it matters. No, bollocks. I am in love with him, like I have never been before. I realise I have nothing to prove. I am no longer the sex kitten, not the cool cat, not the sulky princess, the feisty sub that likes a good fight, not even the standard issue charmer that I like to morph into to prove a point. I am just me. And that is something I will have to think about a bit more.

The Discreet Charm of Perversity

I was walking along the Millenium bridge today enjoying the sights.

Tate in front of me, The Eye on the left and Shard on the right.

And the teenage beauty right in front of me, tootling along with her Dad and two sulky brothers.

I am not into girls but I am fascinated by them.

She was 14, 15 at the most. Tall, beautiful face, with full lips, twisted in a petulant pout, big blue eyes and that unmistakable plumpness in her face, not quite yet out of the puppy fat phase.

It wasn't her face that got my attention. It was her legs and bottom. She was wearing a tightest, skimpiest pair of shorts, the ones that barely cover the cheeks, cut into the crevice of her arse and most certainly feel a bit tight in the crotch. 

I slowed down and followed, taking in the view. She had that slightly out of proportion shape with the legs being too long for her body, her breasts, not yet fully mature with a cotton bra promising a soft fullness in a year or two. She walked with that foalish awkwardness which made her bum cheeks move with the fabric of the shorts skirting around that gorgeous peachiness of her arse.

And forgive me but I just imagined her being fucked. I imagined a hard cock, sliding between these thighs, teasing the crevice between her buttocks, glistening with readiness. I imagined that cock sliding into her tight cunt, the gasps, the surprise, these plump petulant lips being bitten with her white teeth at the delight of first penetration. I imagined her being taken from behind, man's hands, large hands, holding her just around that tiny waist and slamming his hard cock into her, in and out of her cunt, drenched in her fresh juice. The stifled little noises she would make. The same hands, fondling her pert little tits, pulling her closer, penetrating her deeper.

I stopped to hold that image in my head, watching her walk away, that tight little bottom, with the gorgeous creases under the cheeks slowly sashaying away.

I am a pervert like that.

Colours

I am lost in thought, having my coffee and writing.

Then I feel his hands snake around me, he brushes my breasts lightly and wraps his long arms around my midriff. I lean back to feel him closer, his head resting on my shoulder. 

'Hello you", he smiles and sits with his long legs across the bench next to me.

I look at his bright greyish blue eyes, the same colour like mine, still feeling his arms around me and smile. Because quite simply he has that effect on me. It's not lust, wanting to fuck, the frenetic need that has driven me in the past. 

It's just his face, the warmth, the ease, the touch, the scent that make me want to be close to him. 

There is something quite beautiful about him, something I cant quite put my finger on, something that eludes me.

"I really want to show you this. What do you think?", he plonks a ream of printed paper versions of the design we discussed a couple of days ago in red and cream.

"Looks great", I say. "The colour isn't right though. Maroon and taupe - that's what you need here. Taupe is like brownish grey, and maroon is less aggressive than red. It's less shouty, more subtle"

His face lights up.

"You are right. Where were you yesterday when I was choosing the paper? Taupe? Write it down for me. You know my spelling is terrible"

Involuntary reaction. I reach out and stroke his hair. I feel like pulling him towards me and kissing him. But I don't. 

"I need to dash. Already late", I say instead and write down the 'maroon' and 'taupe' while he's watching me intently.

I get up, he hugs me and rocks me in his arms. I feel his body neatly folding into mine, and yes, I can feel his cock pressed against my belly. And that sends a shiver down me, as people are milling around us. In that split second, I want rip his clothes off, have him push me onto the table, lift my skirt and fuck me. I want his head on my neck, his breath burning my cheek, my legs wrapped around him helping his cock penetrate me to the core. Right in front of everyone. That moment passes and I free myself from his arms and then I walk away. Who am I kidding? I do want to fuck him. But not yet.