Red Silk Ch. 01-02

Part 1 – jazz music

I have arranged to meet you in a pub in Islington but I've forgotten about London travel, how the connections don't all work out, how one double parked car can cause chaos and now I'm late, terrified you won't be there. I can't explain about this because you refused to give me your number even though you have mine. You can't have noticed that I'm late and I'm not surprised that you haven't used it to check on my progress. Still, I foolishly recheck my phone for messages, anything.

I don't know who to look for or what to expect and I know the real you could never match the image in my head. You, on the other hand, know what I look like because I finally cracked and sent you a photo of me – one I immediately wished I hadn't. I kept looking at this photo afterwards, wondering what you thought, aware that it gave you all the power.

"You're gorgeous." you wrote but I couldn't tell if you meant it. "Why wouldn't I mean it?" you said, surprised at my question.

It's always the last part of a journey that I hate and as I walk out of Highbury Station I grip my A to Z frightened you won't wait and I almost run to Upper Street certain I won't be able to find the place or that you won't be there. I don't know who to look for. What if you've gone?

I feel uncomfortable and foolish in my red silk dress and as I enter the pub the heat hits me and I worry about the silk sticking to me in the humidity.

I settle in a booth with my glass of red wine and take in the people around me – thirty somethings, amber lighting, bevelled etched mirrors behind the bar and jazz music which I don't usually like. Tonight, however, I find I do; this new experience somehow needs a new soundtrack – and if it doesn't work out I can tell myself it was a shitty place. There's a tall, narrow hipped guy sitting alone diagonally from me. He checks me out and then spends a long time sending a text message. He has shoulder length curly hair, a black shirt – very expensive looking. Calvin Klein, I say to myself, pretending like I know. Practicing my self assured mode. In case you do arrive.

Now it's an hour since we were supposed to meet- four cigarettes in the ashtray, one in my hand. I look up from my book – and there you are. I want to say,

"You're late!" but you're smiling, beautiful – not what I expected. You're wearing something very feminine but my brain isn't able to make out shapes and colours all I know is that I expected something butcher, I don't know, more deconstructed.

"I came from work." You say dropping a large canvas bag on the bench next to you. That would explain the unexpected outfit, I think. You didn't bother to change. You're smiling. I like your mouth a lot – full lips but too narrow like you're drawing on a cigarette. I glance at the ashtray,

"Hope you don't mind the fags." I say. My voice sounds plummy, stupid. I smile foolishly waiting for you to light up as well but you just say,

"I knew you smoked, remember? "

I fetch us a drink self-conscious as I walk away but you get your mobile out and send a message as soon as I leave and because you aren't looking at me I take the opportunity to examine you in case you decide to leave. The guy in the booth stands as I return to our table and gives me the tiniest of smiles as he leaves.

"Pretty." I say nodding in the direction of the swinging door.

"Gay." You say, taking your drink, your long polished nails relax around the wine glass, steady, elegant.

We order food but I don't feel like eating although I can't seem to stop talking. You ask a lot of questions. You look at my hands, my neck, and the ashtray and people in the pub but hardly ever at my face. You're sitting with one leg under you leaning on you elbow smiling.

I hold my fork in the air a lot; trail it past my lips then put it down again. I'm feeling a different kind of hunger and when I drop my napkin and lean down to pick it up I see your painted toes in jewelled flip flops and I imagine pressing my tongue between them, breathing in your scent from under your skirt. My face must be a little pink when I emerge because now you're looking at me, full on. Green blue eyes, eyebrow raised and I have to look away. It hurts – it's too deep. I can smell myself; surely you can smell how much I want you? We talk about writing some more. I sound pretentious, like I'm making it up as I go along and I know just know that I'm not fooling you. For me, this isn't about conversation. It stopped being that too long ago.

"Back in a minute." I say.

In the loo, I take a long glug of water from my bag and sit on the toilet for ages composing myself.

I wish I had worn knickers for I am so wet it terrifies me and I know that it will show through the silk when I stand up. I grate my fingers across my vulva astonished at the desire I feel. What must you think? I decide I'm going to play it cool before I make a total arse of myself. Slow down with the wine. Get a grip otherwise it will be over. I try a couple of deep breaths to try and calm down but all this does is swirl my arousal around my belly and the snapshot of my face in the mirror when I reapply my lipstick is of someone I don't recognise – of someone with no control and I head back to you like a crack addict.

And there you are, leaning against the wall of the corridor.

"Oh, hi!" I say, glancing past you nervously, "There's no queue. You should have gone in."

I move towards you, suddenly a little uncomfortable at the narrow space between us.

"You were a long time."

Your voice is steady, matter of fact and I find myself shaking a little, guilty as if you knew what I had been doing. And then you push away from the wall so my way is blocked. I daren't move and I wait lips trembling for you to say something. You seem in no hurry to speak and I'm aware of your eyes taking a slow sweep of me, head to toe.

"You're still wearing your shoes." you say, composed, head to one side.

I want to say that I was about to take them off when we sat back down but before I can find a way of doing this without sounding like a total idiot your hands are on my shoulders and I find myself swivelled round and pressed against the flock paper my lower lip pulling for a moment against the rough surface, my breasts squashed flat as you push your body up against mine. I let out a little moan and try to turn my head to look at you and I have to tilt it back so I can breathe. I can smell your perfume as I squint at a photograph of some cricketers bearing a trophy and steady myself by placing my hands flat against the wall knowing I'm not allowed to move, waiting for you to touch me.

A soft finger traces the shape of my ear followed by warm breath as you ask me,

"...but you've been a 'good' girl, haven't you?"

You know I have because your hands are smoothing across my back and I know you can feel through the silk that I am completely naked under my dress. I desperately arch my back into you the heat between my legs causing me to grit my teeth as I hiss,

"I have been good, feel."

One coo,l dry hand continues the exploration while the other braces against my shoulder. I am so aroused I can smell myself, the heat rolling upwards to my breasts in anticipation as your nails skim my waist and make painfully slow progress upwards. Your keep up a continuous commentary as I close my eyes so I can concentrate on breathing.

" Smooth, soft...you soft, good girl...I could see the men looking at you...but you...you're mine, aren't you? You're my hot little girl. "

My response a pathetic whimper.

Your hand slips into the front of my dress, across my belly and your little finger circles my navel making me pull away from the wall as I try and press closer into you. I stretch up onto my toes moaning as your hand slides downwards towards my mound and I shift again trying to rub myself against your fingers which grip rather than stroke, teasing rather than caressing me and I turn my head again, my eyes pressed shut as my temple grates against the hard surface, your tongue swirling against my earlobe causing me to shake with desire and need to be fucked. You chuckle at my trembling and my forehead slides down the wall as I try to fuck myself on your hand.

I can feel you pull away slightly so you can enjoy the spectacle although your hips continue to hump my buttocks.

"Spread your legs." You say, low and predatory, "and stay up on your toes."

The door into the corridor is kicked open and you have already pulled away from me, the silk from my dress a moment ago bunched up between us falling to cover my bare skin. Heart pounding, I pretend to read the caption under the picture till the woman has disappeared into the loo.

I turn slowly to face you, a piece at a time, exhaling with each quarter turn. We lock eyes as I grip the sides of my dress and scoot the skirt upwards so I can offer myself to you.

"You are a good, good girl." And your smirk sends a bolt straight to my already sopping cunt. I wait for the next instruction but you've turned away from me and disappeared into the bar making no attempt to pull the door behind you so that I am forced to tug my skirt down and somehow find the composure to follow.

The woman emerges from the loo taking in my shaking figure as she strolls past me.

Back at the table, I slip out of my shoes and rest my varnished red toes on the bench beside you so you can be pleased with me. You make no comment and as we eat dessert I imagine smearing the trifle across your neck, pressing it into your mouth with my tongue. Little beads of perspiration have formed on my nose and suddenly I can eat because I've decided that what happened - it's all I'm going to get – you are going to leave me hanging. All I want to talk about is what you just did to me, but it's as if it didn't happen and I find myself consumed with doubt. It crosses my mind that this is indeed just a game to you - an exercise in what you can make another human being do – and I'm inexplicably willing, aroused and apprehensive, frightened of being abandoned any minute.

I say something about getting a train and you offer to walk with me to the tube station...

read on – part 2 - trees

Part 2 - trees

It's dark outside. I feel my lip tremble, shit I don't want this to be over. We walk past a row of town houses and plane trees and I hear myself saying,

"Do you remember that time you said you'd take me to the pub and..." but I don't get to finish the sentence because you've pulled me to you and your tongue is lapping at my lower lip, rough like a cat's - little sideways strokes.

My arms are across my chest and I'm terrified, disbelieving, and hungry but all I can do is part my lips, hoping you'll kiss me properly. You pull away, grab my hands, ease them round your waist and whisper,

" ...and fuck you." then you kiss me, there's no softness but suckling with a hint of teeth and I still can't kiss you back - the heat from your body making my motionless palms throb. I force my eyes open and I can see that you're gazing at me. If we were guys I'd be grinding my cock into yours, I would have come in my pants by now but all I can do is pant and wait for the spell to break. Then you push me backwards up against one of the trees.

"Fuck..." is all I can force out.

And now I know I have to do something so this won't be over before it's started or before I crumple into a heap and beg. You're chewing your bottom lip, waiting for me to give up control - the expert.

I measure the distance between us, I hold out one hand and it looks foolish, childlike. When I look away in despair it's all it takes. Your hands are on my shoulders and your mouth envelops mine, drawing on my tongue, your hips grinding into my belly. I loosen the tie on my dress and you sense what I'm doing and slide one hand down the front gasping despite yourself when you feel how wet I am.

"Besotted! I knew it!" The other hand pins my shoulders still while you slither two fingers up and down the slope of my over-sensitive nub. I want to touch you so badly but I'm too busy tilting to meet your fingers and grinding my nails into my palms.

"It hurts...God...it hurts. " My eye lids are rolling open and shut and I glimpse a flicker of concern.

"Do you want me to stop?" I grab you wrist,

"Fuck no...please don't stop! " I have to tilt my head up just a little to kiss you and for some reason; the fact that you're slightly taller than me kills me.

"This is what you wanted?" You hiss into my ear.

Fuck I'm so close yet somehow miles away from coming. Too worried about being seen and in case you'll stop.

"It's what I wanted. I want you...God..."

I take your hand again trying to get you to penetrate me with your fingers, to lose it too, but you're still in charge, dipping your fingers into the lava just to tease me and then whipping your hand away.

"What?" and I'm pissed off now. "Don't stop...I want...don't stop...and don't do that!" I say as you lick the tip of your index finger, flashing the pink inside of your lip for a moment as you pull it away. "You want me to beg!" I glance at our bags on the floor

"I think you've done that already." you chuckle picking up your stuff. "Tube... or more fucking?"

I try not to jump to your side, try to rediscover the part of me that makes jokes rather than pleads. "You've turned me into a freakin lesbian!"

"So 'fucking' it is."

I fasten my dress and follow you wanting to hold you as you glide beside me in case you vanish in a puff of smoke. I light a cigarette, my mouth dry and shitty my cunt aching for more and you don't say another word until we get to your place.

To Be Continued – part 3 soon...