I met Karen at our local coffee house one lunchtime. She had contacted me through a mutual friend to say she had a story for me that I might appreciate. So how could I refuse?
When I arrived, she was sitting at a booth in a corner at the back of the shop, as far away from everyone else as she could get. Empty cups and stained sugar bags littered the table.
“I needed some caffeine courage,” she admitted sheepishly before we made our introductions. It is often a problem. Even girls who know me well sometimes dry up when it comes to the crunch. Talking intimately to me makes them clam up when it is for my stories; but, give them a glass of wine and an Anne Summers party and you can’t stop them.
“Just talk,” I suggested, sliding into the booth and perching my handbag on the seat next to me,
“Pretend I’m not here.”
I rummaged for my notebook and sat patiently letting her start in her own time, sipping my coffee.
“Well, my boyfriend loves to watch porn on the net” she began. Subconsciously she was biting her lip, eyeing me scribbling on my pad.
“And I feel left out at times.”
The ice was broken, so all I had to do was listen. I lay my pen down; she relaxed.
***
All porn looks much the same old, same old to me after a while. To be honest, it’s boring; but, if it gets Nick, my man, in the mood to pay attention to me, who cares?
I went out with the girls one night and came back early. The place we went to was lousy and we weren’t enjoying it so we called it a night. I got back home after midnight and let myself in quietly to see if I could surprise Nick; and boy did I ever.
I crept upstairs and could see him lying on the bed through the half-open door. He was obviously watching porn on his laptop. I could see his hand inside his boxers by the light of the bedside lamp. He was massaging himself slowly. I could see the bulge of him under the fabric and the movements of his hand as he absentmindedly rolled himself between his fingers and thumb, as he usually does to get himself going. He was totally focused on what he was watching. I had never seen him so intent. Whatever it was, it had to be good. As he hadn’t heard me come in, I decided to watch him for a few more moments. Watching him from the dark of the hallway was turning me on. I have to admit I do have some voyeuristic tendencies but had never played them out before. I was enjoying myself no end. I know his sex so well. I could sense him in my mind. I could smell his warm aroma as I continued to watch him fondle himself. I found myself breathing harder and deeper, matching his rhythm. I know the heat of him so well against my skin; I ran the tip of my tongue over my lips and found myself caressing the space between my thighs and squeezed my hand between them. I was getting nicely warmed up myself.
I must have stood there in the dark watching for a good five minutes. Nick was bringing himself to the brink and then letting his orgasm slide away. He was obviously trying to keep himself on the boil for when I got back. I could see a dark stain of pre-cum on his boxers. If I waited any longer he may not be able to stop himself coming. I had this overwhelming urge for him. He was lying there all pent-up, constrained with his hard-on in his hand. I wanted to be the one to release all his constricted energy, to let it flood out. So, I decided the time was right. I pushed open the door and walked in on him.
He startled a
“Hi Babe,” or something and pretended to stretch and removed his hand from his boxers, supposedly, so he thought, without me noticing.
I asked him what he was doing, feigning ignorance and enjoying playing innocent. I purposely kept my eyes off his hard-on and took off my top and stepped out of my skirt and heels, standing in front of him in my thong and bra.
“Oh, just surfing,” he said. Yeah right, I thought. He took his eyes off the screen to look me up and down as I undressed, which pleased me. I looked at his crotch. He hadn’t gone soft from being disturbed, which pleased me more. I slipped over to him and spun the laptop around.
“You enjoying yourself?” I asked, patting his bulge, claiming it back for me, feeling him twitch under my hand.
“You got to watch this, K,” he said so I laid down on the bed with my knees on the pillow and my body lying snug against his. I could smell his arousal. He hugged me closer to him.
“This girl is great” he said
“You gotta watch.” He pressed play.
“Better than me?” I asked, teasing him. He smacked my bum. I pushed myself up to kneel next him, my thigh still in contact with his body. He put the laptop on the other side of him so we could both watch, giving me more access to his crotch.
Some hot redhead was giving this guy a blow job. I have to admit she was damn good. The video was quality, much better than anything he had watched before. I doodled lightly with my fingers along the inside of his thighs as we watched, brushing the hairs. His boxers were straining under his growing pressure. I decided he had waited long enough. This was as much for me as him. Well, to be honest, it was more for me.
I peeled down his boxers to let him out. The heat and aroma of him was beautifully strong. It was like walking into a sexual spice shop. He leant back against the bedhead but kept watching the screen, stroking my back and slipping his fingers inside the back of my thong. He does that when I go down on him. I love it, it makes me feel real sexy.
I have always found oral so much more intimate than full sex. I couldn’t wait to get him in my mouth and leant forward and slowly ran the tip of my tongue along his length. Then an idea struck me, instead of doing my normal thing I matched my “moves” to the girl on the screen. It didn’t take long for Nick to realise what was going on and he gave a long deep sigh as I pulled on him with my mouth. The girl was doing all sorts of things I had never thought of. Pulling, twisting, one hand, two hands, no hands; hell, it was an education!
I don’t want to say too much, but well, Nick isn’t so “big”. But, as we enjoy oral more than full sex, I am not too bothered. The great thing is, I can press my face tight up against his body and have all of his beautiful, hard, heat in my mouth before I gag. He has a great flat stomach with light hair and he is always clean but he still has a great musky smell at the end of the day; especially when he has been teasing himself. It’s all such a turn-on for me and as he was playing with me at the same time, we both got really hot, really quick.
I soon tasted little drops of cum oozing from his tip and I knew he was close, so I used my mouth on him without my hands as the girl was doing. I feel like a cheat using my hands too much whilst giving a blow job. It’s only a hand job then, with the tip of him in your mouth. I feel I am short-changing him. I love to get as much of him as I can in my mouth and work the whole length of him with my lips, mouth, tongue and throat. The girl on the video was doing the same and I matched my speed and movement to her. I was learning some neat moves. I had thought I was good at giving head until then. Nick’s head swelled, a sure sign he was going to cum. So I went right down on him burying him in my mouth and felt his piquant flood gushing up into my throat as he pushed his hips up to meet me. I had his full length inside my mouth and I swept my face from side to side across the hair and skin on his stomach. He shuddered once, twice and a final time. I didn’t let him off though. I kept him in my mouth savouring the taste and heat of him and the taut bulb of him against my tongue. He gave a final shudder so I released him, letting him slide out of my mouth.
I found it such a turn-on. I am sure he was imagining the redhead going down on him, and to be honest I was fantasising about the guy in the video. He was a touch larger than Nick and I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to have something bigger in my mouth.
Karen was smiling and sat back in the booth, her story over. She involuntarily used her finger and thumb to pinch moisture from the sides of her mouth as if she had only this moment finished on Nick. Her other hand, I noticed, was firmly between her thighs. She was smiling wistfully off into the distance. I let her daydream for a while, letting her come down from her story as Nick was probably still coming down in her mind’s eye.
***
“I hope he reciprocated”, I asked eventually.
“Oh God no, he was out for the count, poor guy,” we laughed.
“I had to bring myself off, so I watched the video again and bookmarked it. I got him a subscription to the site for his birthday and we often play the game of me dressing up the same way as the girl and using my mouth on him in the same way as she does. It’s exciting stuff. I am so much better at oral than I was. Nick appreciates it so much he has started to experiment with different moves on me. It’s a win, win!”
“It sounds like it” I said,
“Thanks for sharing.”
Paula loves jazz. She spends most of her spare time in various jazz clubs around the capital. She often calls me up late and badgers me to go with her to out-of-the way clubs because someone or other, from some place or other, is in the city playing a set. Although I’m not such a great fan, I enjoy the evenings. It’s something different, and gets me out of the house. The jazz fans who Paula mixes with take their music seriously. Whereas you may go out on a regular night with the girls and it’s all talk, talk, talk, you can get shushed at if you dare whisper at a jazz club. I can therefore indulge my passions of writing and people watching. It’s odd; when I write, I prefer to have complete silence, but when the jazz is in free flow, it sharpens my literary observation and the audience gives me an endless variety of characters to draw on. So as a writer, I get two benefits for the price of one entry ticket. When it comes down to it, I suppose I love jazz as well.
I once asked Paula why she loved jazz so much.
“Easy,” she said as if it was a dumb question,
“It’s been with me all my life. My parents loved jazz. My mum went to jazz clubs when she was pregnant with me, so I’ve always been surrounded by it. It relaxes and energises me at the same time; it resonates with my soul. If there was a lift up to heaven, the background music would be jazz.” It may have been a dumb question, but it was a great answer and his given me enough literary material to compose a number of stories.
It was one of those weird coincidences. I was in the office one day thinking why Paula hadn’t called in a while and the next minute Paula called me on my private line.
“Okay, who, when and where is it this time?” I wedged my phone into the crook of my neck reaching over for my mobile to set up a date on my calendar. It had been a hard week and I decided that some jazz in my soul was the best remedy.
“It’s not a who this time, it’s me” she replied cryptically.
“You’re the who? You’re the who, who’s going to do what?” My grammar was as fuddled as my brain.
“I took part.”
“You took part in a what? A jazz session?” I asked shaking my head to try to get it straight.
“Better than that,” she replied going all cryptic again. For Paula to say something was better than jazz meant it had to be Good, with a capital “G”. The penny dropped
“You mean you...”
“Yes,”
“Oh: and you want to...”
“Absolutely.”
“When and where?” I grabbed my things, this was better than jazz. This was a story.
“Last week, my local hotel,”
“No silly, when and where do you want to meet? I say now,”
“Err, okay” I didn’t let her hesitation put me off. I was out of my chair, grabbing my coat, leaning forwards over the desk, the telephone cord at full stretch.
“I need to know everything,” I warned her.
“You’d better make it a long lunch then,” she sniggered.
We made plans and I hung up. The tube couldn’t go fast enough for me as I fought my way through the lunchtime crowds to Tower Bridge. I practically ran to her usual lunchtime haunt at St Katherine’s Docks. Paula leaned forward across the table, picking at her napkin as I sat down.
“I’m still so excited.” She trilled off her story at top speed; it was difficult to get her to slow down enough for me to pick up what she was saying.
“Calm down, girl,” I said. She took a deep breath.
“Okay.” She made a show of calming herself down by placing both hands firmly and slowly down on the table in front of her. She began again. I was all ears.
***
I went in to my local hotel last week. It had a jazz weekend on. You were working and I couldn’t find anyone else to go with, so I went by myself. On the Friday night, there was an open mike session in the hotel bar to get the weekend started. All the bands were there to do short gigs, to give people a flavour of what was to come.
You know me, I adore getting dressed up so I wore a black knee-length dress and shoes; made myself look respectable. I grabbed a seat by the bar. The bartender knows me as I go in often so he put out some bar snacks for me. The place was filling up quick. I was glad I had got there early. All the regulars were there and a few people I didn’t recognise, presumably from out of town. The management turned down the lights to enhance the atmosphere. You can’t have it too bright or it spoils the mood.
This couple came in. Thirties, maybe older. They looked respectable, professional looking. The woman sat on a sofa opposite the band and the man came to the bar to get drinks. He was handsome, grey hair at the temples, slim, polite. He asked if he could squeeze to the bar so I spun round on my bar seat to let him through. He got two drinks and went off to join his companion.
He came over a few more times in between bands and would apologise for disturbing me. The next time he came across, he was more talkative.
“Hi, sorry it’s me again. My wife tells me I have to introduce myself this time, as I have disturbed you so often. My name’s Jack.”
“Pleased to meet you Jack” I said. We shook hands and chatted as he waited to be served. I looked across at his wife. She raised her glass to me and I raised mine back. She smiled. It was a warm smile. A genuine one, not a mouth smile which says I’m only smiling because I have to, but a whole face smile; eyes and all.
“Ann and I couldn’t help but notice you’re by yourself.” Jack said.
“I come in for the jazz at weekends.” I explained, prattling on as the barman got their drinks together. They were in London for the festival and Jack asked if I knew of any other good places to listen to jazz whilst they were in the city. I gave him the names and addresses of the various clubs I usually go to.
“Look,” Jack said pausing as he turned to go back to Ann,
“If you’re by yourself and need some company, why don’t you come and join us?”
I usually wouldn’t, but I thought, what the hell. I was feeling lonely and it’s always awkward being a woman by yourself at a bar. You always look, well, desperate, or worse, available. I said I’d be glad to and took my drink over. He introduced me to Ann. She was dressed smartly in a black and white suit, pearls and patent black shoes. Elegant through and through.
“Great jazz outfit” I offered.
“Why, thank you honey.” She had an East Coast twang.
“You American?”
“Boston, but we’ve settled in London. Jack couldn’t leave the rain.”
She rolled her eyes and laughed. She had a great knack of making you feel at ease.
“You’re up here for the jazz” I said.
“Oh sure. Big fans.” She used her hands a lot to add expression. I was mesmerised by her. We talked as Jack excused himself for a while. He wanted to talk to the band who were packing away their instruments.
Ann and I hit it off straight away. We talked jazz and about the festival and where they had been and where they wanted to go; about Boston and New York, where they had an apartment as well as their house in England. She had met Jack when he had been over in New York on business and they had got married over there. Now they split their time between New York and London. She knew all the jazz clubs over there and was especially fond of the Cafe Carlyle on East 76th and Madison where Woody Allen plays.
“We’re regulars there; it’s only a short cab ride from our apartment over- looking Central Park.” I was fascinated by Ann, by her stories, her accent, and her hands. It was an occasion where you strike a chord with somebody immediately. You can’t say why, you can’t describe it, you get a connection. It happened with her.
“Wow, great life.” I found myself nodding as she spoke. I was jealous. I love New York. I’ve only been a few times and Ann’s description of their life there made me want to go again. Jack came back over. I moved from the stool to sit next to Ann. The sofa was, shall we say, intimate, and we were squashed up together, but I didn’t mind. She certainly didn’t move away to make room for me as I nestled in beside her.
As we listened to the next band, I became keenly aware of Ann. I was looking past her. Ivory skin, dark hair, pretty face. I could feel my thigh pressed up against hers. She shifted occasionally to stay comfortable, swinging her leg to the beat. I could feel the gentle rasp of her stockings against my knee. She shifted once and I caught sight of the telltale lump of a suspender through her tight dress. I’ve had a few experiences with women. Mostly drunken fooling around at University, nothing serious, but our proximity and the jazz got me to wandering what she was wearing under her dress. I started to get turned on as the jazz worked its magic on me. When the band finished, Jack went up to speak to them and buy them drinks.
“Jack loves talking to the bands” I said,
“Yeah he was a good player when he was younger, but he broke his lip trying a new mouthpiece after a long jazz session. He couldn’t keep the high notes bright anymore. So he gave up rather than play below his best.”
“Oh that’s a shame.” I had heard of the injury which can affect all brass players and can cripple a promising career.
“Yeah, he misses playing,” Ann took another mouthful of wine. We were both tipsy by this time. I had brought a bottle over with me and we had gone through it between us. She had ordered another.
“Still a good kisser though.” She smiled.
“Good lips; deep lungs,” she rested a hand on my knee as she said it.
“My kind of man.” I said innocently taking a swig of wine. We looked at each other and both burst out laughing. Her hand lingered on my knee a moment and she gave it a gentle squeeze. It sent an electric tingle all the way to my sex and I let my lower leg brush against hers. She looked around the bar. Everyone else was engrossed in their own conversations. No one was paying us any attention. She looked back at me, and gave me a slow wink. It was obvious we were attracted to each other. She put her hand back on my thigh and left it there. In the dark, we looked for all the world like two friends sitting together chatting and sharing a bottle of wine.
We talked more and I moved closer so our legs were more in contact. She pressed her thigh back against me. I had my elbow on the back of the sofa cradling my head in my hand and let my breast push against her upper arm. My nipples stiffened. I couldn’t believe what I was doing. Jack came back and I sat forward, feeling guilty. Ann didn’t take her hand off my thigh. If Jack noticed, he didn’t say anything. I began to wonder whether he knew his wife was making a pass at me. The music started up again. As everyone looked at the band. I took my elbow off the back of the sofa and slipped my hand down under Ann’s bum. She lifted herself up enough so I could get my hand under her. I felt her suspenders and the line of her knickers. I pushed my fingers as far under as I could to where the bulge of her pussy began. I caressed it gently with the tip of my finger. Ann shifted towards me. She was obviously as up for it as I was.
At the end of the set, Jack said he was going to speak to the band. Ann suddenly spoke up
“You know honey” she said,
“I’m feeling tired and it’s kinda crowded in here. Do you mind if I go back up to the room for a while?” He was all, yeah, sure you go for it, then she added,
“Paula do you want to come up? We can talk some more, it’s less noisy up there; but only if you want to.” I could see Jack was itching to go spend time with the band and I was itching to get my hands on his wife.
If I want to? I thought. Try and stop me. As calmly as I could, I managed to say,
“Yeah sure, why not?” I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice, but my heart was booming out of my chest. I managed to throw in,
“You know, I’ve been in here all these years and never seen the rooms.”
“That’s settled, then,” said Ann, taking my hand as she rose from the sofa.
The walk through the foyer to the lift was interminable. I followed behind Ann drawn along in the slipstream of her perfume. She had a great figure and the way she walked in her heels accentuated the sway of her hips. God, I wanted to have my hands on her.
We got to the lifts and stood in silence, waiting for one to arrive. The lights above the door counted down one by one. The doors pinged opened and a group spilled out past us, we pressed together face to face to let them pass our breasts interlocking. Ann held me gently to her with one hand. It was all I could do not to kiss her right there and then. The mirrors at the back of the lift reflected us as we walked in. Jazz played softly through the intercom. The two of us looked good together I thought. Ann preened herself in the mirror and turned to me. She moistened her lips with her tongue. Tingles shot through my pussy as she looked straight into my eyes. She had started to lean in to kiss me but as the doors slid shut, this guy just squeezed in. We moved apart. He stood in front of us and pressed the button for the floor above ours.
“Sorry Ladies” he said
“Are you going up?”
“Absolutely” Ann replied “All the way.”
There we were, standing inches away from each other and we couldn’t do anything. The lift started up and my stomach lurched not only with the movement of the lift but the thrill of the situation. Ann leant back on one leg, resting the heel of the other against the wall. I felt her cup my bum with her hand and squeeze it. She slid her fingers through the slit in the back of my dress and worked them into the warmth at the top my thighs. We were so horny but there was nothing we could do. I looked up at the floor indicator as Anne continued to rub her hands in between my legs as the floors ticked up. It was my own personal horny-o-meter, and I was ready to go through the roof.
“You ladies here for the jazz?” the man asked, not turning around, making small talk,
“Yeah for the music” said Ann,
“And to have a good time,” she flicked her finger between my legs. I startled and feigned a cough.
I could have stayed in the lift all night but it stopped at our floor and we got out. The man stepped aside to let us out.
“You enjoy yourselves” he said.
“Oh we will.” We ran out laughing.
The lift doors closed and Ann put one hand behind my neck and pulled me to her and kissed me. My heart leapt. I tasted her lipstick and the wine. She had a firm, smooth tongue and luscious lips. My pulse raced. We arrived at the room and she pulled me in after her. Muted sounds of Miles Davis filtered up from the bar, filling the room as light spilled in from outside casting long shadows across the room. I’ve always thought the sound of good trumpet jazz is like a girl whispering yes. Great jazz, like great sex, is pure improvisation. You can’t rehearse it. Ann pushed me up against the wall and kissed me urgently, seeking out my tongue with hers.
“You were driving me crazy down in the bar,” she said
“I couldn’t wait to get you up here.”
Our breasts pushed up against each other as we kissed, reaching behind each other to undo the zips of our dresses. We let them slip to the floor and stood there in our underwear. Ann looked absolutely stunning in a white basque and suspenders. The pearls at her neck were gorgeous. I kissed the pearls around her neck and the tiny ones in her ear lobes, tasting the bitterness of her perfume. Her hands were all over my body. I felt my bra pushed up as she took a breast in each palm, gently rolling my nipples between her fingers. I unhooked my bra, sighing as she took a breast in her mouth, sucking it in as far as she could, her other hand pulling me toward her by the small of my back. I laced my fingers into her hair and pulled her onto it, leaning my head back. It had been so long since I had had a woman on my breasts. No man can suck breasts like a woman. They suck too hard, or too soft, never right. Ann got it right on the button. I buried my face in the back of her neck as she sucked my nipples. Waves of her perfume and hair spray wreathed through my senses. I could feel her warmth along the entire length of my body; she pushed me back to the bed.
Ann slipped my knickers down crawling on all fours on to the bed beside me. She kissed me from my neck down over my breasts to my tummy. Her fingers running lightly over my body as I lay there, surrendered to her touch and to the music. She flicked her tongue around my belly button and as I thought she was going to go for my pussy she went as far as my pubes and then came back up to my breasts. She was teasing me with her tongue and her fingers. Her hand slid down the outside of my thigh as she brought her mouth to mine. I was trembling as she let her fingers come up the inside of my thigh and I spread my legs in anticipation, willing the fingertips on to me, but again they slid away at the last moment. They barely brushed the wisps of my hair as she moved them up to my breasts, leaving my pussy untouched and aching for it. She did it again and again; I cried out as she avoided my pussy each time. It was such a beautiful agony. The sensitivity of my pussy grew the more she ignored it. The more she teased the more I wanted her, the more I wanted her the more she held off. I put my hands to her head and pushed her down to my groin,
“Please, please lick me.” I begged her.
Ann traced the length of my body with her tongue as she moved in between my legs. She missed my pussy going down, diverting her attention to the insides of my thighs. I covered my face in my hands. If she didn’t lick me soon I was going to go crazy. She lay flat between my legs and worked her tongue up the insides of my thighs in circles. I could smell her perfume getting stronger as she moved up to my pussy and then she paused. My God I thought, this is it; she’s going to lick me now. Barely perceptible at first, I felt the merest tickle of my hair as her tongue brushed against the lips of my pussy. I cried out. The relief of finally feeling her tongue on me was indescribable. My lips were swollen in anticipation and opened up to her. The tip of her tongue swiped so gently across me, hardly touching me. The lack of stimulation made my pussy all the more sensitive. The less she touched me, the more I felt it. She moved her attention to my clit, the intensity of the sweep and swirl of her tongue around it was heaven. I surrendered to the music as I gave in to her. She must have heard the tempo of the music change as I could feel her stroking around my clit to the rise and fall of the trumpet. My pelvis moved of its own accord. The pressure in the pit of my tummy was reaching fever pitch. I felt my pussy tighten to the sound of the music as it ascended higher and higher, reaching for the highest note of the piece. Right then, I got to the brink, a split second before you climax when you know you are going to come and nothing, nothing can stop you. A flood of release began to sweep over me. And in a crash of notes and gut trembling spasm, I came. No more tension. My body was in total free-fall. My body plummeted helter-skelter along with the music. I was crying, I was screaming, I was gripping Ann’s head between my legs, rigid with the strength of my orgasm. She carried on licking me. She knew if she stopped, she would ruin it: starve me of the aching, wonderful release. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t speak and I came again. Having surrendered myself to the music and let it carry me away, my body relaxed. It was over and I could breathe again.
“Geez honey, you nearly ripped my head off” she said as she crawled up the bed to my mouth and kissed me. I’d never tasted so good on a man as I tasted on her.
We lay there in the dark, wrapped in the sound of the jazz. We could have been in New York or Paris, it didn’t matter. Real after-midnight jazz. The best session I had ever had.
***
Paula’s eyes were wet. I had never seen her so emotional.
“Great story, Paula,” I found myself nodding. No words can convey what I feel at such moments. Often, all I can do is say thank you for sharing.
I decided on one final question.
“What would you prefer, good conversation, good jazz or good sex?” I know she loves to talk and she adores jazz and, boy, she obviously enjoys good sex. She thought for a while and replied
“You know” she said stretching
“Pastorius summed it up when he said: I’m not here to raise consciousness, I’m here to wet some panties.”
You can’t say better than that.
In a small alleyway not far from where I work is a lingerie shop. It is run by a mother and her daughter. The window display is always creatively arranged, showing off the latest in. It has to be one of my favourite shops. I cannot walk past it without at least a glance at the displays and judging by the number of times men have collided into me on the pavement outside neither can they. If I were an ambulance chasing lawyer, I would want a pitch opposite their window; and it’s not only for the eye-catching Aubade promo photos which are classics of black-and-white lingerie photography.
As soon as you enter the shop, you feel sexy. The tinkle of the bell and the bare floorboards, as well as the decor, are perfect shabby chic and there is a hint in the air of laundry; crisp white cotton and lace. It gets you right in the mood for some red hot credit card action.
The mother is often away on buying trips and so I have made good friends with the daughter, Susie. She is a petite young graduate who had aspired to science but found her true calling in selling skimpy clothing to straight-laced female London professionals, like me. She remembers regulars by their size and will call you up if she is getting an item in to suit your particular tastes. She also runs a discreet advisory service for terminally embarrassed males who need that urgent little gift for a forgotten birthday whether it’s matrimonial or secretarial. Discretion is assured.
On my last buying trip, Susie and I were chatting away at the till as she rang up a frightening number of items I had deemed as must-haves. She folded each item as if it were precious, in pink tissue paper and tucked it carefully into a large carrier. She asked matter-of-factly what I did in my spare time,
“I write,”
“Oh, how exciting” she said as she punched the total into the card machine,
“Have you had anything published?”
“No not yet, but I have hopes.”
“What do you write?” I think she expected me to say medical text books or Ancient Egyptian any dry subject but I sucked in my breath and said
“Actually, we are in the same line.” She looked at me, the lights on the machine winked expectantly,
“How do you mean?”
“I write stories about peoples’ erotic encounters,”
“Oh, wow.” Silence; then the beautiful chatter of the machine printing and the elegant curl of paper unfurling, signifying your purchase has been accepted. The items you wanted are yours to take away.
We chatted for a while about my writing. The bell tinkled behind me as another customer came in. Susie looked over my shoulder, crinkling her nose
“Madame Gossard double-G” she giggled and handed me my carrier.
“Enjoy” she chirped and then added as an afterthought,
“I may have something for you in a few days. I’ll call you on your mobile.” She headed off to see to Madame Gossard double-G, with a perfect smile in place.
As I left the shop I heard Susie behind me,
“Something for every day or a special occasion?”
A few days later and I had completely forgotten my chat with Susie. I was at the newsstand, struggling with my umbrella, on my way to the tube station. My phone rang out from the depths of my handbag. I trawled it out,
“Hi, it’s Susie,”
“Oh Hi,”
“Are you free?”
“Ah, Yeah,”
“I have something for you.” My mind went blank, I couldn’t remember ordering anything,
“Did I leave something at the shop?”
“No...”
“...It’s not lingerie.” She lowered her voice, I heard customers in the shop, the bell tinkled.
“I can’t talk on the phone,” I had to press my ear to the phone to hear her. My umbrella wobbled furiously overhead as I struggled to hold it and clamp my hand over my ear to shut out the traffic.
“Oh, okay. I’m not too far away. I’ll pop over.” I was intrigued. If I hadn’t been in heels, I would have run.
Last-minute shoppers were being ushered out into the rain and shop doors were being locked behind them as I made my way down the alley. The puddles reflected back the bright lights of the shops. It was one of those city backdrops which could have put you anywhere from Paris to Vienna, New York to Venice. I entered the shop to the tune of the bell. Susie appeared from the back. Making sure no one saw her, she flipped the sign on the door to ‘closed’ and double-locked it.
“Coffee?”
“Why not?” I had never been summoned to my Lingerista before, if there was such a word, and if there wasn’t, perhaps there should be. I determined to coin it. I took off my coat and draped it over the table by the till.
Susie came back out with a couple of big mugs of coffee. She sat on the big sofa and kicked off her shoes,
“Oh God, that’s good,”
“Busy day?”
“Wicked.”
“You know” said Susie
“This is my favourite time.” She looked around. I followed her gaze to the garments hanging on the racks around the store.
“There are no customers and it’s just me and the stock. I call them my soldiers for love. All waiting to join the front line of the battle against ordinary underwear.” She laughed.
“I look at each item and think at what moment will they be revealed. Will it be the first time? The last time? The only time? Wife or lover? Anniversary or wedding?”
I looked around the store again. I had never thought of it in that way. Each garment would have a tale to tell after it had been bought and worn. What would they say?
“It’s as if there are these ghosts of an erotic future woven into the fabric. I swear sometimes I walk through when the lights are out and I can hear echoes of times to come, couples laughing, crying, panting. I’m in the business of selling special moments. Ensuring the woman looks her best for them. You don’t want your man to unwrap you when you’re wearing your “most comfortables”. You want him to see you in underwear which will set you off or at least take his mind off the bits you don’t want him to focus on. It’s a sleight of hand, an illusion to make each woman perfect. In times to come, he won’t remember your wobbly bits but he will remember you were wearing something sexy. Always leave ‘em wanting more, I say
“Amen to that” I raised my mug in salute.
“I remember ladies by size and favourite make. There’s a Miss Aubade 34A, size 12 thong, a Mrs Victoria’s Secrets 38DD size 14 brief, but for several of the men I have to remember twice as many sizes and styles. I have had one where there were so many permutations and combinations I had to jot them down in a notebook. I don’t know where he got the time or the energy. I always have to be discreet when they come in. You never know who else is in the shop; and then it’s Hello, what do you want today? Is it something for every day or special occasions? If they blush, it’s generally for the girlfriend, if they are more comfortable, it’s for the wife. Men,” she huffed,
“You can read them like a book. Well,” she corrected herself,
“I thought you could.”
“Aha, so we come to the reason for your intriguing summons” I put down my coffee.
“Absolutely.”
“Name?”
“Mark”
“Good looking?”
“Not bad”
“Aficionado of your “soldiers for love”?”
“My best pupil” she grinned.
“Do tell.” I picked up my mug of coffee again and settled in for what I was sure was going to be a sure-fire, red hot, erotic revelation.
***
Susie started her story over her mug of coffee, inhaling the steam her eyes closed, taking in the smell of the coffee and letting out her memories.
The first time Mark came into the shop, he was your typical shy, thirty- something. You can tell a newbie a mile away. They are always embarrassed, refuse help initially and say they are “just looking”. Which is much worse; who goes into a lingerie shop “just to look”. What are you? some kind of pervert?
I let him browse by himself for a moment but it was obvious he hadn’t got a clue. So I approached him,
“Do you need any help?”
“Ah yeah. I’m not very good at this.” An immediate acceptance of help was a good sign.
“Is it for a special occasion?”
“Ah, yeah.”
“A wedding?” he had no ring on, he shook his head.
“Birthday? Other?”
“Um, other” he decided. He was avoiding eye contact, which isn’t unusual. I looked him over. Smartly, well-groomed. A city professional I decided, so I steered him towards the more expensive ranges. I picked out some of the better lines,
“These are popular with our ladies” I started,
“Special,” he coughed
“Pardon?”
“I’d like something special, not popular,”
“Okay” I nodded, a risk-taker then. Normally a man asks for something special and the woman says “oh lovely darling” and brings it back the next day for “something popular”.
I took him to the more exclusive labels and suggested a few items, taking them off the racks and handing them to him to look at. He kept his hands firmly in his raincoat pockets. Why is it men don’t touch the items in the shop but can’t wait to get their hands on it in the bedroom? Men are odd.
“Any particular colour? Is it to go with any particular outfit?
“Ah, no”
“So best stick with more neutral colours then, white or black”
“Black...yes black”
I labelled him as conservative.
“Size?”
“Pardon me?”
“The lady’s size.” I repeated. He flushed. I can’t think of many men who remember their mistress’ size, let alone their wife’s. I generally make a note for them on our database so when they come in again, they get it right.
“You can come back tomorrow after checking.” He coughed again,
“I can’t...check.” The words caught in his throat and he flushed again.
I was being as discreet as I could but he wasn’t giving me much to work with.
“I...err...I mean we haven’t umm” he offered.
“Oh,” was all I could offer.
He was obviously confident she was going to say yes. Mind you, the line I was pushing would make me think twice before refusing. We’re talking a decent cash investment here.
“Okay,” I tried to kick-start the conversation again.
“Well, if the lady doesn’t like it I am sure she can always return it.”
He nodded, and paused again pretending to look around the shop. I didn’t move and he sort of shuffled on the spot.
“Size?” I said again
“I need to have some idea, even a guess” He looked blankly at me and flushed again. Oh for heaven’s sake, I thought and stood in front of him, arms by my side.
“My size, bigger or smaller?”
“Sorry?” it was the first time he had made eye contact with me. I noticed he had these piercing ice blue eyes. I felt embarrassed and wondered if I hadn’t been too terse with him.
“My size, bigger or smaller?” I managed to soften my voice.
“Which er, I mean, um”
“Well, let’s start with up top shall we,” without thinking I placed my hands either side of my breasts in demonstration.
“Same” he blurted out and looked away, and coughed.
“Same er all over.”
“Okay then.”
“Thong, G or brief.” The look of horror on his face was priceless and I couldn’t help but giggle a bit. More out of embarrassment for him than at him. He cracked a smile which surprised me. Doesn’t take himself too seriously then; nice white teeth, strong jaw. He was handsome in his own way. The eyes, mouth and nose didn’t look great by themselves but taken together; well yeah I thought I could see myself falling for him: especially if he spent this kind of money on me as a special treat.
“What would you err...”
“Recommend?” He nodded.
“Let’s go with thong shall we.” I much prefer thongs myself especially for lingerie, although it does depend on the style of the set. I find thongs are, well, more sexy. He nodded.
“Anything else?” he shook his head.
I took him to the till, rang up the prices and ticked the item off my stock list. I wrapped the items carefully in tissue paper and popped them in a bag. Again a look of horror.
“I have a plain bag if you don’t want to give the game away.” He nodded again.
We always keep plain brown bags for men who get embarrassed by taking lingerie back to their offices or on the tube. It’s all part of the service. Discretion assured.
He handed me his card and I swiped it through the till.
“I’ve put my business card in the bag, in case the lady herself wants to pop in,”
“Okay thanks”,
“Pin?” He punched in his number.
“Okay, here you go, bag, receipt, and your card” I handed the bag over to him. He had nice hands.
“Thanks for your help.” It was his first coherent sentence.
“No problem” I smiled at him and he smiled back.
I remember thinking, if I had played it right “she” might come in. If I had pitched it perfect he might come back. Once a man has dipped a toe in the water, you generally see him back. They get drawn into it. They begin to look forward to the ritual of shopping for something sexy that their girl will enjoy wearing for them. So I secretly hoped he would be back soon. I was intrigued by him. Buying lingerie for her for their first time was a bold move. A risk-taker, I decided, rather than cocky. Cocky didn’t fit him at all.
Mark became a regular. I looked forward to each next visit. He grew in confidence in choosing items. If he was stuck, he asked for help. It was easy, his lady had similar taste to mine and if we were stuck, I would tell him what I would go for and he ran with it. I never had any items returned so she must have liked them all. The lucky lady was getting an extremely good collection of my best merchandise. I found Mark easy to be with. I wondered what she was like. Probably an equally high flyer in the City and wondered whether she had been into the shop and I had served her and not realised. The lines Mark chose were pricey but we did sell a lot of them and the sizes were pretty common. If I were her, I would definitely have at least visited the shop where my lover was buying me all this gorgeous stuff.
A month ago, Mark came into the shop at lunchtime. He looked distracted. I tried to cheer him up as we looked for a new outfit together,
“So did she like the last set?” I was talking and browsing along the rails at the same time.
“Yes, yes perfect.”
“Do you have anything in the same line but, well, more colourful?” I had noticed he, or perhaps she, was getting a bit more adventurous.
“Okay, what about her skin tone.” Men generally go for red. It probably explains why it’s the most returned colour. He looked at me oddly,
“It makes a difference.”
“Really?”
“Well, yes. What looks good on a coloured girl looks different on someone pale like me. Haven’t I taught you anything?” I ribbed him, flashing a smile I hoped would make him laugh,
“Oh,” he was nodding his head and looking along the rails. He missed my smile. I felt disappointed; and when I noted my disappointment, it melted into confusion.
“Porcelain,” he said. I blinked.
“Porcelain,” he repeated it. I could have understood “pale” but “porcelain”?
“What are you, a poet?”
His short laugh made me feel better but I was still confused. He flicked through panties and bras. He was getting more adventurous. For the first time, I noticed his aftershave. A deep daywear mixture of citrus and spices. It picked at the inside of my nose. I shifted uneasily. I make it a rule not to get involved with male customers. Not that they don’t try, more than you would think, considering they are coming to get underwear for their wives and girlfriends. They come here to buy items for their lovers and if I get in the way then I can’t concentrate on asking the right questions. I need to focus to ensure their lady gets the best of what I have to offer. He sensed I was off,
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah sure.”
“I didn’t upset you?”
“No, no of course not.”
I carried on searching the rails, handing him garments for him to look at. He examined each one attentively. I kept thinking of those blue eyes being on me. I began to feel jealous of the lingerie. I wanted to be wearing it when he was looking at it. I wanted to have his eyes on me, those hands on me. I wanted to smell of his aftershave after we had made love and smell of his sex, our sex. I wanted to have a rash on my neck where his stubble had scratched me and little bruises on my bum where his fingers had dug into me when he had come inside me.
“I think this is perfect” his pronouncement brought me back to earth. He looked at me. I flushed.
“Is everything okay?” he was looking at me. His eyes narrowed with concern had turned into piercing blue shards of ice. He was looking into me, not at me. I hated that he might not like what he saw. I turned away so he might not see further into me than he should.
“No, fine. Good choice” It was. It was the most expensive set in the shop. For the first ever time, I didn’t want to send the items out. I wanted to yell “No they’re not for sale. You can’t have them.” I hated this girl I had never seen, whoever she was. This girl who would wear these for him; would stain them with her perfume and leave them misshapen with her shape as they fell undone by his hands. I tried not to think of them lying on the floor as he walked over them, taking her to their bed. Kissing her not me, stroking her not me. All the while leaving these poor things lying abandoned and unnoticed, like me.
I was getting so upset I walked to the door and though it was still too early to do so I put the closed sign up. The garments weighed heavy on my heart as I walked to the till. The fabric scratched my hands as I searched for the tags. My eyes were glistening.
“Closing early?” He asked searching in his wallet for his card.
“Yeah” was all I managed, putting on a brave face,
“Gotta celebrate, best set in the shop, break open the champagne,” I laughed it off.
“You look sad to see them go,”
“No, oh no. Good home. I’m sure she’ll love them.”
“I hope so,” was all he said.
The tags were taking an age to undo. My fingers wouldn’t work. I fumbled at the knots. They refused to come undone.
“Here let me” he took the bra from my hands and deftly took off the tag,
“Oh ...thanks, want a job?” I managed a weak smile.
“Oh God” I thought to myself. I wish he wouldn’t look at me. I didn’t want him to, I wanted him to tell me not to be silly, to get a grip, shout at me, scream at me, anything but be nice to me.
My breathing was shallow and rapid and I kept getting short sharp snatches of his aftershave. My tummy was water and my knees were trembling. I wanted to get the sale done, get him out and go to the back of the shop and cry my eyes out. I had never so wanted a man in my life and here I was trying to get rid of him.
Somehow, heaven knows how I eventually managed to get the tag off the thong and punch the price in, swipe his card and pack the items into a plain brown bag. I stifled a sniff and pushed the bag over the counter at him. Now, take it and go, I thought. He still stood there.
“Can I have a shop bag?”
“Sorry?”
“A proper shop bag, one of the nice ones”
“Oh sorry...I... men prefer plain bags.” I rolled my eyes mockingly. I got a shop bag out and re packed the items.
“Here you are”
“Thanks”
“No problem” I stood at the till. Rooted to the spot. I wanted him to leave so that I could be alone.
“Thanks” he said again. I tried a smile but it came out lopsided.
“I’ll be off then,” he stood across the till from me. I folded my arms, which was about as much of a dismissal as I could muster. I wanted to run into his arms and kiss him but I fought myself back. He turned away as I went to speak, and seeing me stutter, he turned back. I forgot what it was I wanted to say.
“Sorry what?”
“Nothing,” I said
“Oh sorry I thought you said something,”
“I...I’m sorry...I have to lock up... early lunch... celebrate” I did a silly face and a little shimmy dance on the spot in mock celebration.
“Oh yeah right...celebrate” he turned again and walked towards the door a few steps.
“One last thing, Susie.” he turned back.
“This is for you.” He handed the carrier back to me across the counter.
“I’m sorry, what?” my mouth formed the words but nothing came out. I coughed.
“I’m sorry, what?” I managed to get out.
“This... these... they’re for you.”
“And, the others.” He added. I was speechless.
“They’re all for you. It’s all been for you.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t get it.”
“Susie, I’m crazy about you. Can’t you tell? Everything I’ve bought, your size, your colour, your choice. It’s all been for you. It always has been.”
My hand shot to my mouth. My knees turned to water. I swept past the till, past the outstretched carrier and into his arms. I bathed myself in his aftershave, buried my cheek against his stubble. My breasts forced themselves against his chest. I held him. My tears stained with mascara seeped into his collar.
“It’s always been about you.”
The words came again but his time soft in my ear. I pressed my lips to his, forced them apart and pushed my tongue into the sweet cavern of his mouth. He tasted so good. His hands were around my waist pulling me to him. The carrier dropped to the floor. It was all I could to breathe.
I stood there on tiptoe in his arms. I pulled him back into the changing area at the back of the shop. We stripped each other naked as we walked, a sexual beast with four legs joined at the lips. A line of clothes stretched from the shop floor to the changing rooms. I hit the light switch with my elbow as we went. The lights dimmed. My blouse came off as he took off his jacket and tie. My bra went as his shirt came off. We clung to each other to feel the flesh of our bodies against each other for the first time. His trousers and my skirt came down at the same time, both of us hopping together as shoes came off. He was in his boxers and I had my briefs on. We stood there, a heartbeat away from being totally naked together for the first time. I pushed him back onto an upholstered chair, and stood before him, like a stage magician, for the final reveal.
I peeled down my briefs and straddled him with a sigh against his cheek. His cock pushed its way toward me. His chest was hard and taught, his chest hair tickling my nipples. I kissed him. He pushed his boxers down as I lifted myself up, poised above his shaft. He held his cock in one hand and then ever so slowly I eased myself down onto it. It felt so gorgeously thick. He filled me completely as I softly impaled myself on it. Claiming it. Taking it inside me with no intention of ever giving it back. I felt the hair of his legs under my thighs as he grabbed my bum, pulling me deeper onto him. I wrapped my arms around his neck kissing his blue eyes as they closed; his beautiful face upturned to mine. I rode him slowly and then faster. I varied my rhythm. I varied the motion. First, up and down, then side to side, made circles and used my stomach muscles to massage his cock inside me. His breathing was erratic. I was seeing the effect of my lovemaking on his face. Each movement, each pulse, had a different effect. I pushed a hand down between us working myself and the top of his cock. I circled it with my hand, as I rocked my pelvis back and forth along his shaft. I felt his balls tightening as I gripped him tighter, prolonging his orgasm as he came. His face pushed against my neck.
“Oh Susie.” He whispered my name for the first time into the well of my ear. I had his cock inside me and my name on his lips. I had everything I wanted. His come dribbled out of me making my fingers slippery. I put them to my mouth to taste us and then put my hand down to bring myself off on him. I rubbed my clit urgently and moved up and down on his cock. Every delicious corrugation of it sent a thrill through me until the glorious moment of final release when I came in a flood of rippling emotion. It cascaded out of me, a waterfall of pleasure, tumbling down from the tip of my head through my pussy. We kissed: a long and languorous kiss submerged in the warm afterglow. All the pain, all the hurt, all the jealousy had gone. It was make up sex and revenge sex all in one.
***
Susie had finished her story. We sat quietly in the shop for a long while, not saying anything. It might have been the noise of the late night shoppers outside but for a moment it sounded as if the lingerie in the shop was cheering.
“We’ve been together ever since. He still buys me lingerie but he picks it out for me. He has great taste. We make love in here occasionally when we get the chance amongst the stock. It’s our private place, a place we can escape to from the outside world. I love lingerie more now that I have someone to wear it for. He is putting money into the business and we might be able to start a chain. It would be fantastic. But everyone is going to be trained to love lingerie as much as I do.”
“And, all the lingerie he bought?” I asked
“Oh, yes, well surprise, surprise...it fits.”
Emily had gone to College in America to study music, majoring in the cello. First reports from her were great, she loved the campus, the city and the people. We kept in touch via Facebook; but I was worried. She hardly ever mentioned her cello. A mutual friend summed it up,
“There was a time when you could never get her to shut up about the bloody thing,” she said one day
“Now you can’t get her to talk about it at all.”
Things were worse than I feared. Emily called me one day, her voice hoarse from panic and crying. She had flunked her first year, and the College was seriously considering letting her go. She was at her wits’ end. But, the thing about Em’ is, she is not a quitter; and despite her situation, she soldiered on. Miraculously, in the first term of her retake year, things started to get better. Her grades improved and she was selected to play for the College orchestra. No one had any idea what the reason was. No one wanted to ask. We were simply glad at the turnaround.
Not so long ago, Emily called me. She was in London for few weeks and asked me to pop round to see her. I was only too happy to oblige. It gave me the chance to find out what had happened. Of course, I had my suspicions, and wanted to see if I was right.
I arrived at her house later in the evening and as soon as the taxi rattled away, I could hear the unmistakable strains of Emily’s cello. It was achingly beautiful. I hadn’t a clue what the piece was but it pulled at your heartstrings.
My knock on the door stopped the music mid-flow. Emily answered, full of life, as if there had never been a problem.
“It was such a shame to make you stop” I said as we embraced,
“That music was something else.”
“You liked it?” She looked pleased.
“A friend of mine wrote it.” It’s what Em’ didn’t say that spoke volumes. The thing about listening to people for a living is you can hear when they are itching to tell you a secret. This one was written in letters of sexual fire six feet high.
“Okay, tell me his name,”
“God, is it obvious?”
“Uh huh.” She bit her lip.
“Do you still collect those stories?” she asked.
“Uh huh.”
She looked at me, then looked to the door of the front room where I guessed her cello was. The look of indecision on her face was intriguing. There was a time when nothing could have stopped her playing. There had been a change in her. She took me past the door to the back kitchen where we could sit and chat. She told me her story.
***
I was so looking forward to going to the US. It was so far away, so romantic. The College had a great reputation. The problem was when I got there, I hated my professor. He was dry and boring, dusty, like an old book. Technically he was superb but there was no passion, and because of that, I lost mine.
My playing got worse and worse. The worse it got, the less I wanted to play. It was a vicious circle. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get my passion back. The professor was literally drying the soul out of me. It was all technique, technique, technique. I ended up flunking my first year and barely scraped a retake.
In the first term of the following year, the professor had to go away but he organised a stand-in, Ben. He played for a well-known orchestra and had been one of the professor’s best pupils. I was sure he was going to be as dusty and dry as the prof. The day we first met, the class sat around in a semicircle as we usually do and this young guy walked in. Tall, slim, elegant hands, long quick fingers and this mess of curly brown hair. He was as far from the professor as you could get. I was confused when he played; he was so in love with his cello. How could the dusty old prof turn out a pupil so different to himself?
Ben asked us each to play something for him. I had no idea what to play so I sawed my way through some half-remembered piece or other. After I finished, he didn’t say anything. He threw me a look and passed right on over to the next student. Great, I thought. Like master, like pupil. He so obviously hated me. The rest of the lesson was a blur to be honest. I was in a sulk, and could have given up right there and then and gone home. I didn’t care anymore.
After the class, Ben pulled me aside.
“You’ve fallen out of love with the cello.”
He came straight out with it. No one else had said it, up to then, but it was true. I burst out crying. He asked me why so I told him.
“You don’t get it do you. The professor was looking forward to teaching you.” He could see I didn’t believe him as soon as he said it.
“It’s the truth.” He looked me hard in the eyes.
“He said you could be good if your technique improved and he could tell in a year if you had it in you.” I didn’t say anything.
“Well, I guess we know then.” It was all he said before he left. It was my lowest point.
I went home and cried my eyes out but found something within me from somewhere. I was damned if I was going to give up. The next few lessons went better but still not great. Ben was the same as the professor. He was this technique monster. They were definitely out of the same mould. I kicked myself for having thought he could be anything else. He walked around behind me during my recital tapping me smartly with his bow, indicating points of tension. There was more relaxation in me when he wasn’t there. When he was, I got this big knot of tension in my stomach. I could not let it go.
At one point I snapped,
“God, will you stop having a go.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re always on my back,”
“I’m trying to help,”
“You’re not helping, you’re making it worse,”
“The hell I am, it’s you, you won’t relax”
“I am relaxed.” The argument was getting more heated, neither of us wanted to back down.
“You’re not relaxed, you’re tense, tense, tense,”
“I’m not,”
“You are too. I could pluck you like a string you’re so tense.”
It was embarrassing. We were arguing right in front of the other students. When the end of the lesson came, I let the other students pack up ahead of me, in order to apologise, but not in front of the class.
“Sorry Ben. I didn’t mean to be rude.” He didn’t say anything,
“Can we try again? Please? If I don’t pass this year, I’m through, it’s over.”
It was the first time I had admitted it to myself.
“Playing the cello is the only thing I’ve ever done. What else is there for me to do?”
The hot flush of tears started in my cheeks. He was standing there, silent, as if he didn’t care.
“Look,” he said eventually,
“Perhaps we can work something out with extra lessons.”
It was a relief, at last I had something to pin my hopes on.
The extra lessons were difficult to work into my schedule, sometimes we met twice a day. Things were better, but something was still missing. I had all of this emotion inside me but didn’t have the key to let it out. It was incredibly frustrating. I cried myself to sleep some nights with my cello propped up against the bed. It was the last thing I saw when I went to sleep and the first thing I saw when I woke up.
Then one day, the lesson had to be held at his house. When Ben came to the door to greet me, he was barefoot, wearing jogging pants and nothing else. He had obviously got out of the shower only moments before and stood there towelling his hair dry holding the door open. I hadn’t noticed before but he had a great body. Definitely not the pasty white body of a musician. He was slim and toned with skin the colour of burnished walnut. He was more of a surfer. I could feel the heat rising in my face.
“You’re early,” he said.
“Well, you said you wanted me keener.” I tried to cover up my blushing and carried my cello into the hall.
It was a fabulous detached house wrapped around in its own garden, New England style decor, and beautiful red mahogany floorboards. There was a rich smell of wax and polish. It must be like living inside a cello I thought and felt at home straight away. Ben took me through to his music studio. It was a huge downstairs room which ran the whole length of one side of the house. Large French windows let in the fragrance and light from the garden. It was a beautiful room for playing music in and right in the centre of it was a chair for me.
“So,” he said
“Get yourself set up.” He padded off to get dressed. When he came back, he was still barefoot in his joggers but had thrown a shirt over his shoulders, leaving the buttons undone. He had this shaft of dark hair running down his tummy and the sharp lines of his hip bones arrowed down at his crotch. I couldn’t help but sneak a quick look as I rubbed resin into my bow, working it back and forth with my hand. The movement started to get me aroused, and I did the best I could to put his crotch out of my mind.
“Okay, here you go,” he indicated the chair and backed off a few paces. He put his hands on hips hooking his shirt open. His crotch caught my eye again as I settled down in the chair. I coughed nervously and plucked the strings of my cello tightening the pegs fractionally to make the notes sound sharper. The room lent itself to brighter, happier notes.
The cello scooped my dress up between my knees as I prepared to play, the wood pressing against my thighs. My mind had been so focused on the lesson I hadn’t given it a moment’s thought on the way over, but playing the cello in a dress isn’t the most elegant thing for a girl to do. It was too late, I had to deal with it.
“What shall I play?”
“Anything” he said.
“Get loose first off.”
I gripped the cello between my legs and pulled a few notes from it. No reaction from Ben. I shifted on my seat and played a few more notes. He still didn’t say anything, he kept his eyes on his reflection in the polished floorboards, tracing his own outline with his foot. I ran a few scales and snatches of a few songs. He still didn’t look at me. After a few minutes, he sat down cross-legged on the floor, his elbows on his knees cradling his head in his hands. My eyes kept drifting to his crotch as I played. The heat which had risen in my face was now rising in me lower down. The moisture between my legs started to grow. I couldn’t get comfortable and stopped playing.
“You’re too tight” he said. He looked up at me, his legs crossed at the ankles, hugging his knees. I hadn’t noticed before how the brown of his eyes matched his hair. A bead of moisture tickled in my crotch.
“I can hear the tension in you.” Without uncrossing his legs, he stood straight up like a ballet dancer. It was an unexpected movement of pure elegance, my heart jumped.
“Why did you start playing the cello?” The question surprised me.
“Because I loved the sound.”
“And your teacher?” I felt uneasy.
“Good looking?” I flushed.
“I thought so,”
“It wasn’t like that at all.” I was sure it wasn’t. But he had caught me off guard.
“All students have a crush on their teachers.” It blurted out of me catching me by surprise.
“So you had a crush on your previous teacher. You played well because you were pleasing him. Then you come here and you have this old guy. You don’t fancy him so your playing suffers, you don’t care if you don’t please him.”
“No. No, that’s not right.” I defended myself.
“You know, the professor said your audition was the best he had ever heard.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No, I’m not; but he said your technique sucks.”
“Well, that sounds more like him.” It was a petulant answer that the bite of my lip was too late to catch. Ben huffed.
“He told me your lack of technique was the only thing holding you back.”
“But, he hates me and technique is so, so boring,” I stammered.
“He doesn’t hate you at all.” He said it as if he was talking to a child.
“A good teacher knows what we need, more than we do. You were too good too early and your previous teacher didn’t want to kill your passion with technique. He didn’t want to be the one to risk turning a good musician into a mediocre one. What he didn’t see, but which the professor does, is he stopped a good musician becoming a great one.”
I was stunned. I had thought all this time the drills and mechanical strictures were put there to shackle me, when all along, they had been there to free up my playing. It was true my fingers felt stronger, more energetic. My wrist didn’t cramp up, my body was more balanced.
“But, all this technique and I still can’t play right.”
“Because you haven’t yet allowed your better technique to release your passion.”
The familiar frustration was back, but the heat in my knickers hadn’t gone away. If anything the confrontation was intensifying it.
“Well, how do I do that?”
“I’m screwed if I know,” was all he said.
“You’re this big tight ball of tension and no matter how much I tell you to relax, you won’t”
“I am relaxed.” We were back to square one again after all this time. We stared mutely at each other, neither of us wanting to be the first to speak.
“Okay, look, play again.” He shook his head as he said it.
I sighed, settled myself in my chair, closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. Okay, relax. Thoughts raced through my mind. Was it true? Had I only ever wanted to please my teacher and loved him in some sexless, romantic way? Did I hate the professor because he was old and didn’t give me the praise my previous teacher did? All of a sudden, it hit me. Ben was right; but what could I do? I did the only thing I could do. I thought of Ben. Admittedly, he was good looking and he was making me feel hot. I fixed the image of Ben in my mind and began to undress him as I played.
Slowly at first, allowing the technique to develop the sound, I imagined caressing his neck. My fingers entwined in those big curls of his as my left hand caressed the strings on the fingerboard.
“Good, nice” Ben was saying. His feet padded out a rhythm on the floorboards as he walked, the peppery smell of his shower gel following him. In my mind, I edged the collar of his shirt away from the warmth of his neck and kissed his ears. The music swelled between us as I pulled more notes from the instrument between my legs.
“Yeah, that’s good” Ben was speaking softly.
In my mind, my fingers caressed the small of his back and slipped back and forth under the waistband of his boxers as I drew notes from the strings with my bow. I did my best to relax more but there was a block somewhere and the music started to falter. His hands pressed down gently on my shoulders.
“You’re still tense in your left shoulder” he said. In my mind, the linen shirt fell from his back and my arm slipped around his neck, pulling his taut body to me as I cupped his hard crotch with my hand.
“Here it is.”
There was relief in his voice. I opened my eyes, he was standing by my left shoulder.
“Look at your thumb,” he said
I craned my neck back. My thumbnail was a tell-tale white, showing that I was gripping too hard. Shit, I thought. How long had I been doing that? As I released the pressure, it flushed pink and the tension ebbed out of my shoulder and neck.
“Now play” he said. The notes grew richer, darker in tone. For the first time in over a year, I felt the unconstrained vibration between my thighs. My instrument was talking to me again.
“Hello” it said,
“I’ve missed you.”
My fantasy Ben came back to me. He was standing behind me, half-naked kissing my nape. I rubbed my neck against the scroll of my cello imagining it as Ben.
I continued to play, the music deepening and opening up inside me. The real Ben stood behind me. Gently, he pressed the palm of his hand on to the small of my back, making a slight adjustment in my posture. The last of the tension vanished sending the sound of the notes flowing through me and out of the cello. I was lost in a torrent of music. I couldn’t have stopped it if I had wanted to. A whole year of frustrated effort and longing rushed headlong out of me.
“That’s it” Ben was saying.
“Keep going.”
I felt the passion of the music through the technique. Completely enveloped by the sound and vibration of the music, my inner thighs were trembling. I found it difficult to hold the cello still between my legs and wanted to wrap them around it as if it were my lover, to feel its vibration deep inside me.
Ben was sitting in front of me, cross-legged on the floor, transfixed. My skirt had ridden up uncovering my thighs but I didn’t care. He stood up. My pulse quickened. My fingers were flowing over the fingerboard freely, finding notes and nuances I had forgotten they knew.
The fantasy took over. I wanted Ben for real. The cello lay discarded as I rushed to him, flinging my arms around his neck and pressing my lips to his. My hands ran over his body. We stopped to stare at each other. He looked down from my face to my cleavage, letting his hands fall to my blouse. He ripped it open, buttons scattering across the floor. I unhooked my bra, grabbed his hands and put them to my breasts, yearning for the coolness of his fingers. I eased down his joggers to let loose his long thin cock, stroking its silky heat as it throbbed in front of me. The musky sack of his balls felt hot and heavy in my hands. I stepped out of my skirt and knickers as we sank to the floor. The tip of his cock rubbed against my pussy as I straddled him, and pushed gently into me as I lowered myself down onto it. A man had never felt so good inside me.
I rode him with my hands on his chest, the head of his cock rubbing against my G spot. He was in so deep. I rode him as he stroked my stomach and the top of my pubes. And, in one ecstatic, headlong rush, I came, gulping in huge ragged gasps of air, screaming as my muscles tightened around his cock. Sobs of ecstasy caught in my throat as I tried to catch my breath, hoarse with the effort of panting. My sex let go wave after wave of tension. I was totally spent and fell forward to kiss him. It was his turn. I whispered in his ear,
“How do you want me?”
“On the chair” he said.
Ben sat on the chair, guiding me by my hips onto his lap the hair on his legs tickling the underside of my thighs. He brushed his lips across my nipples. Tingles shot up and down my spine as he let his hands roam free across my back, his fingers swirling in the dimples above my bum. Warm gusts from his mouth swept across my breasts. My chest flushed red as I arched my back to bring a nipple up to meet his lips. He took the breast in his hand and put it to his mouth. He pulled gasps from me as the urgency between my thighs began to build again. I bent my head forward, hungrily seeking his lips with mine, my hair cascading down over his face. Our tongues entwined. The slightest touch of his fingers on my skin elicited quivers of pleasure from between my legs. He pulled my hair gently backwards and ran his tongue up either side of my throat. Easing my hands down between us, I grasped his cock. It stood there eagerly, framed by curls of brown hair, his warm musk rising. He slipped his hand under my bum to gently massage the moist and swollen lips of my pussy. They were ready for him. I held his cock in one hand, the hard gristle of it pulsing in time with his heart. I smeared the pre-cum oozing out of its tip with my thumb and licked the salty slickness off it. I kissed him. His tongue sought out his own taste on my lips. I moaned deep in my throat.
“I want you,” he whispered in my ear as he guided his cock forward under me. I rose up slightly and eased myself back down as he slid into me, one delicious inch at a time. My whole body was alive with the thrill of him. My head fell backwards, as I continued to move slowly up and down on his shaft. His rhythm changed so I matched him, this time pushing my hips back and forth against him. He began to groan and pant with excitement, my nipples grew erect brushing against the taught frame of his chest. Our hips continued to grind against each other, his groans getting louder and with a final short jab of his hips, he shot his load up inside me. I ground down on his cock with my pussy, searching for the very root of it. The feeling of his hot jets inside me made me tingle with pleasure. We clung to each other, our bodies moist with sweat, his rigid cock twitching gently in its final throws of orgasm. Neither of us moved; neither of us spoke; we remained joined, allowing our breathing to gradually settle.
I opened my eyes. The room was still the same, but I had changed and for a moment, I revelled in the pure silence. How long we stayed there, I don’t know but, eventually, he shrank out of me. We went upstairs to his bathroom and showered each other down, exploring each other’s bodies all over again.
We are still seeing each other and Ben still gives me lessons. When the professor came back, he had the shock of his life. My playing had vastly improved. For the first time I realised how much he cared about me. He had done more for me than all of my previous teachers. He had needed to hold me back to move me forward. But my real teacher was Ben. He was the one who brought it all out of me.
***
“And he composed the piece you were playing before?”
“Yes”
“What’s it called?”
“Emily.”
“Of course...Thanks for sharing.”
There are a great many visual pleasures for women. A man’s smile, his bum; but like some men are drawn to women in nurses’ outfits, French maids or for reasons known only unto one particular sub set of humanity, Nun’s habits; some women find themselves irresistibly drawn to men in uniform.
I have to admit, I am not averse to a man in crisp livery either. There is something about a well dressed man; it takes me back to the days when my father was in the airforce and he would come home from the base in his blues. All the men looked so dashing, a hark back to a bygone era of romance and chivalry perhaps and so it’s understandable why women go weak at the knees when confronted by a man in full dress.
Ros is a member of our social set. Average build, average height, cute freckles and always wears her hair in a loose ponytail. She is not particularly outgoing yet not particularly quiet. Your typical girl next door. The one who might end up sitting next to you at a girls’ night out at any weekend party in a thousand pubs or a thousand clubs up and down the country. Whilst you might expect her to have the usual female fantasies and longings she is definitely not the girl you expect to get so drunk one night she blurts out her latest bedroom escapade to you whilst the other girls are concentrating on a stag night across the room.
So that is how one particular night I was rewarded for my ignorance of the goings on across the bar of young, attractive set of young men in very skimpy very tight fitting boxers with the following story. I hope you appreciate the sacrifice I made to get it.
***
I have to admit I have a thing for a man in uniform. I don’t care what kind of uniform it is: policeman, fireman, sailor; anything, they make a man look real hot.
I confided this to my boyfriend recently when I had had too much to drink and thought nothing more of it. One day I came back from work. It was dark when I let myself in. The heating had come on and the place was warm. Much warmer than usual. I thought it must have left it on all day. Steve wasn’t back yet which was unusual. He’s normally back by the time I get in with dinner on the go and a glass of wine on the side for me. I went in to the hall to take off my coat and was getting the dinner ready when there was a knock at our back door. I looked out of the kitchen window and by the security light from the garage I could see the silhouette of a policeman in our garden. I thought there must have been a break-in somewhere so I opened the door. I got the shock of my life, it was Steve all dressed up as a policeman. His uniform looked extremely authentic,
“Excuse me Madam,” he said
“We’ve had a report of someone acting suspiciously in the area,”
Of course I had to play along, he was trying so hard to keep a straight face. I immediately realised he had thoughts of a strictly unlawful nature on his mind and wanted some role play. I started to get turned on.
I let him in to the kitchen.
“So, officer” I said leaning back against the units,
“Someone been naughty?”
“Well, we’ve had a report” he said whipping out a note book,
“Of someone in the area, matching your description, dealing drugs.”
“Oh dear, we can’t have that.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to search you.”
He put down his notebook and took out a pair off realistic looking handcuffs. I held my wrists out and he snapped them on and ratcheted them tight. The cold hard metal around my wrists and the constraint of being ‘cuffed was a turn on. I felt helpless. I obviously had to do what he said otherwise I risked being arrested. I began to tingle all over.
“Now then Madam, I’ll have to search the immediate area where you were last seen” he made a show of opening a few cupboards and drawers.
“Have you been anywhere else since arriving home?”
“Um, the bedroom?” I said hopefully. I realised why the place was so damn hot. Steve must have been back early and had turned the heating up ready for sex play. There is nothing worse for hot sex than a cold house.
I was escorted upstairs. I was of course made to go up the stairs first and I have to say the officer did a thoroughly good job of giving my bum a steadying hand,
“To make sure I didn’t fall over and hurt myself during the search procedure.”
Once in the bedroom he pulled the curtains closed,
“For reasons of privacy,” and said he had to wait as a WPC would be along to search me in a moment. I was nervous. I wasn’t sure whether Steve was joking or whether he had got something kinky planned. Threesomes are not my scene, not unless it’s strictly mental imagery of course. I’ve had plenty of hot scenarios going through my mind like any girl trying to “get there” when things aren’t happening; but in actual reality, no thanks. He pretended to talk into his radio again.
“Okay control” he said
“I’m afraid the WPC has been delayed, madam. I have been authorised to give you a quick pat down search to make sure you have nothing dangerous on you.”
“Okay.” I lifted my arms above my head but then decided I was being too keen for the purposes of the role play so I changed my mind, as girls are allowed to do
“I’m not sure you can do this.” I tried to sound confident; but noticed a shaky edge to my voice.
“It’s not allowed. I’ve got my rights,” I added, feeling more confident.
“In order to ensure nothing improper happens madam, I’ve been authorised to video the search for evidential purposes.”
Steve had obviously thought of everything. He went over to the cupboard and got out our video camera out, it was already set up on a tripod ready to go. He set it up facing the bed, it had all been planned out. There was no way to get out of this. I had to surrender. The problem is of course I am a total control freak. I hate not being able to command a situation.
He set the camera running. We have occasionally recorded sex sessions but I was always wary. I’ve heard of too many stories of videos finding their way onto the net via disgruntled ex-boyfriends; but what the hell, I thought, let’s see where it goes, I could always delete it. Not being in control was, in a strange way, turning out to be liberating and things were starting to heat up in my panties.
“Come on madam, face the camera please, this is a matter of national urgency,”
I stood facing the camera with my back to him. I was getting pretty damn urgent myself. He started to give me a thorough pat down. He looked through my hair, around my collar, running his hands under my arms and around my waist, down my back, down the outsides of my legs and he asked me to lift my feet up to see the underside of my shoes.
He walked around the front of me,
“People often hide drugs in their mouths, madam. Can you open your mouth for me” I did so, he made a show of looking in.
“Nothing,” he said
“I could have told you that” I said and managed to sound just the right side of petulant.
“Sorry madam I’m only doing my job. I’m going to have to do a second frisk search.”
Hmm, I thought, this sounds better. He went behind me again and this time rubbed his hands over my breasts. He came around the front and opened a few buttons of my blouse and peeked inside my bra. He dug a hand in each cup rubbing his hands over my breasts looking me in the eyes. He was obviously enjoying telling me what to do. I could see his uniform was being put under duress from the inside.
“Are you sure this is allowed officer?” I protested.
“Please don’t interfere Madam,”
“I think you’re the one doing the interfering.”
He went round behind me again and I felt him kneel down beside me and run his hands up the insides of my thighs all the way to my panties. He was play rough and the feeling of his hands up my skirt was making me squirm. I had to move my legs apart to assist the search otherwise I would be resisting. I didn’t want to resist. If my panties aren’t moist by now I thought they never will be.
He unbuttoned my blouse fully and I heard the zip at the back of my dress being pulled down. He ordered me to step out of it so I was standing there in my blouse, bra, panties and heels.
“Bend over miss” His voice was so commanding. He turned me sideways to the camera and forced my head down over the bed with my hands out in front of me.
“I’m going to have to examine you internally.” Now that was more like it, the search was finally going places.
He pulled down my panties and put his fingers in my pussy. It was a real turn on to be ordered to do things. I couldn’t say no. I had to do everything I was told; and, it was all being caught on camera. The video winked its red eye at me mutely. Everything was being caught on camera.
I felt him put his face to me and lick me from behind probing inside the entrance to my pussy with his tongue.
I was beyond caring what the officer did to me next, I wanted his cock inside me and I wanted it there and then.
“I’m going to have to use a longer instrument” he said.
I heard his zip and trousers go down. He unhooked his belt and rubbed the leather over my bum and flicked me gently with it. I could feel my bum smarting at the sting of the leather. I love a little hanky spanky, the slap and tingle of it makes my pussy twice as hot. He tossed the belt on to the bed beside me and I could smell the leather. His cock pushed up against me and then pushed into me. It felt huge, he must have been as horny as I was. I love having sex half clothed, it feels so much more promiscuous than being fully naked. With the camera running, it felt much naughtier.
He pumped me hard from behind, holding on to my hips for purchase whilst I grabbed the sheets, my mouth open in a great big continuous “O”. I caught sight of us in the bedroom mirror, getting a glimpse of what I would be seeing on the video later. It was a real turn-on to see me being fucked by a man in uniform. In my mind it wasn’t Steve in the mirror. I could only see the side of him from his shoulders down, the muscles of this thighs working rhythmically as he thrust into me. It was a man, any man; this random guy, taking me there, helpless. My sense of control was completely taken away from me.
Steve was leaning right over me with my face was flat on the bed. I couldn’t stop him from doing anything he wanted to me. He grabbed my breasts kneading them hard. As he took me, my face was buried in the bedclothes. I felt him work a hand between us and felt him sticking his thumb in my arse. We’ve tried some anal before. To be honest, it didn’t do much for me before but then it was extremely naughty and him forcing his thumb inside me as he fucked me was all part of the feeling of subjugation. I could feel my ring giving in as he pressed in harder. The feeling of being entered from back and front was extremely erotic and from out of nowhere I found myself bucking myself up against him. I wanted something bigger and deeper and tried to tell him but couldn’t interfere with the due process of the law. I had to accept what was happening and couldn’t interfere although I was being interfered with. The feeling of helplessness was overwhelming.
“Now Madam,” he said,
“I think we need to make sure you aren’t hiding anything anywhere else.”
He forced me up on to the bed to go on all fours and stood up astride me on the bed. I felt him push his dick up against my arse. I was so up for it by then.
“Oh officer “ I said,
“Are you sure?”
“Believe me Miss, it’s necessary.”
He pushed himself into me. He must have had some lube ready because he slid in easily. I felt my arse stretching open as he pushed himself in holding his cock straight with one hand, feeding it in hard inch by delicious hard inch. Once he was fully in, he produced a vibrator from under the bedclothes and slipped it into my pussy and set it pulsing. He must have had his balls resting on the butt end of the vibrator as it stuck out of me, because he was going wild. He was pumping hard and deep in long slow controlled strokes to start but he soon lost all semblance of control. The smell of anal is totally different to normal sex, it’s more of a sweet savoury than salty and the sound and smell of us fucking was intoxicating. He would slap my bum occasionally with a thwack for not complying with his orders to push back harder. I pushed back as hard as I could whilst he grabbed handfuls of the flesh of my hips and bum. At one point he slipped his leather belt under my waist and buckled it up around me and used it to hold on to whilst he gave my arse a good deep rodgering. I had never had him in so deep before or so rough. I could feel the roughness of my ring gripping his shaft right down to the root with each thrust. If he hadn’t have lubed me up so good I wouldn’t have been able to sit for a week.
I had never been filled twice at the same time. The feeling was so intense. With the vibe in my pussy pulsing and him pumping down into my arse I couldn’t help but work my hands between my legs to massage my clit pushing it down against the vibrator. I had my face turned to the side taking the weight of us on my upper chest and shoulder whist he pulled me back by his belt under my hips onto his cock, thrusting forward. It was the most amazing ride of my life.
The feeling of being so full with his balls bumping into the place between my arse and pussy sent me over the edge and I came hard. I grabbed hold of the vibrator and was pumping myself with it as he fucked my arse harder and deeper. I had never come during anal before and it felt deliciously naughty. I felt him tense and grunt as he came shooting his spunk deep up my arse. We were both groaning with the effort of coming. What the neighbours must have thought of all of these animal noises coming from our bedroom, God only knows.
We collapsed onto to the bed him still inside me and the vibe still pulsing. It was a hell of a session.
We watched the video back later after we had had a good shower. It made me hot as hell and we had sex again whilst watching it. I can’t believe how hot it made me seeing a man in uniform taking me hard from behind.
Since then, Steve has surprised me at home in a variety of uniforms. We’ve been on fire, had manoeuvres in the rear garden a few times, I’ve been piloted, examined by doctors, arrested more than once and I’ve lost count of the number of seamen. Each session is dutifully recorded and stored away. If Steve goes out with his mates I often stay in and watch our sessions and when he comes back I’m raring to go. I’ve also surprised him a few times. He’s come back to nurses, teachers, his own WPC - the one who was late for my search and was very angry she had missed out and took it out on him.
It’s added a whole new dimension to our bedroom antics. But, I am in control of the video. I certainly don’t want to find these on the net one day.
***
Talking of videos, despite my focused attention on Ros and her escapades the wonders of modern technology meant my girlfriends and their mobile phones ensured I had multiple replays from multiple angles of the tightest buns we had seen in many a long night.
Hooray for the 3G generation.