Friday, 1 December 2017

This time of the year (1): Catch and see

It's cold, colder even than the date on the calendar and the early nightfall would make me prepared for. The time before the high Christmas rush of expectation but long after the last vestiges of the summer got swept with the rotting leaves, the time just before the first snow, the time of wet pavements and damp air seeping into your bones with a permanent drizzle. I'm slouching with my back to the wall, few metres from the door to the pub in which I was supposed to be fifteen minutes ago, the energy spelled out by the fast footsteps of my rushing here suddenly gone, the focus dissolved into a suffocating cloud of anxiety.

I take a deep breath, counting to ten seconds on the exhale and on the inhale. Two more, my heartbeat still fast, searching for the thrill in the fear that's now got merely clammy. I can't do it, can I? I'm not actually going to do it, am I? And even if I am, even if I do make those last few steps and walk into the warm interior filled with voices and a smell of coffee and booze, what is the chance that I won't be walking away after half an hour's empty wait? More deep breaths, glancing from the corner of my eye at the pub door just in case you are there, waiting, after all.

I dig a packet of cigarettes from my pocket, manage to pull one out, my fingers shaking; stick it between my lips, they feel dry and cardboard numb, can't find a lighter, mumble a ''fucking hell'', under my breath, but loud enough to attract a glance from a passer by, but that gives me a narrower focus I actually need and I start going through my pockets more methodically.

The lighter's flame appears suddenly, in all my funk I didn't notice anybody approach me but I am grateful for the kind gesture, leaning down a little to the light, instinctively protecting it from a gust by a cupped hand, and only when I take in and quickly exhale the first drag I notice that the hand holding the lighter is shaking and only when I raise my eyes to say thank you I see, and realise, and hear ''Hi, M,'' and the shock of it is not any lesser for the fact that this is what I came here for, and all the words I had in such oversupply before are stuck tight in my throat and all I can do is smile stupid and giddy until I catch your eyes and my smile disappears slowly, I drop my cigarette and reach out with my hand.

I have to write it in here, don't I? The private sign, so overused that it's turned cliche now, my palm on your cheek and my thumb tracing your mouth ajar, sliding in, probing, penetrating, a not-so-subtle hint of what might come later, your tongue soft and slippery and searching, your lips closing gently just as mine open over teeth nearly-clenched in a hint of a snarly smile.

I'm panting, all the anxious expectation and suspense and anticipation that preceded this spilling out, coating my skin with a glow that I can hardly believe isn't visible, coating my mind with a flickering forest of bluewhite flames, I'm letting it take me higher, and now, suddenly, I don't even know how or when, I'm not leaning with my back against the damp wall of a late November street but pinning you against it, my left hand in your hair, clutching, pulling your head slightly back and to the side, probably uncomfortably, I don't give a slightest fuck if so; my right hand around your left wrist, pushed onto the bricks fast and harsh until you ''ouch'' in pain, then pushed along the brick, grazed some more; my mouth on your neck vaguely in the region of your ear, ''Hello, boy,'' I whispershiss, then get my face even closer, smelling you, fucking hell how much I wanted this, all those years, all those years until I was sure neither of us needed or wanted it, until it was safe to arrange a meeting, as per widely publicised recommendations, public place, not too long, we'll have a coffee or a drink, chat and laugh, sentimental melancholy of things impossible and others that could have been, shared nostalgia for a long-gone virtual adventure never made flesh, and yet I am here, my breath damp on your skin, my tongue tracing your carotid, sliding all the way down to the clavicle, tasting you dizzy, my left knee pushed between your legs, my eses closed, forgetting to breathe then remembering again in a frantic gulp, then stepping back, looking at you from a foot away, ''Coffee? Whisky? Herbal infusion?'', I say, giggling, my right hand now on your chest, as if I had to keep touching you, as if it was physically impossible not to.

You nod a yes, I lick my upper lip, the air is damp and cold but feels like cinders sliding down my throat, ''Actually, I booked a room,'' I smile, a normal, playful smile now, a little challenging, eyes darting to yours, almost-but-not-quite-locking, shifting away, defusing; ''Actually, I booked a room too,'' you offer, also not quite looking at me at first, then we both do, laughter bubbling up, I'm shaking my head, ''Once a slut always a slut,'' you shrug a yes, as if it was an obviously shared understanding, comfortable now, we go to get that drink.

**

Less obvious, less tense, less wired, less easy later. The room is on the tenth floor and in the lift, we both look at the floor a little awkwardly, then at each other, then away.

''Turn round,'' I say, suddenly, something -- something different from the initial desperate lust that drove me in those first minutes -- emerging, and my current self allowing it to rise and step forward.

''Turn round and face the wall. Place your hands flat on the wall at shoulder height,'' I repeat, elaborating.

''Yes, Ma'am,'' you reply, your voice suddenly slower, thicker, almost slurred in a way that the couple of drinks we've shared doesn't get close to justifying.

My hand moves to the lift's control panel, finger presses the ''stop'' button, the lift halts between the floors. I step closer to you, stand directly behind, slide my hands under your shirt, feel your skin all the way down to your shoulders, warm and dry, not yet seen, I can't wait, but for now I merely dig my nails in and drag them down, two paralel tracks shivering down your back. I can feel you tense up, brace yourself, stifle a groan, then relax with my flat palms on your hips. I want to pull your shirt off, see the marks before they fade, taste them. My mouth is dry, air thick and sharp in my throat. I'm not sure if I remember ever wanting anything as much as I want this, now, all of it, so much that I don't even know where to start.

I unblock the lift, you remain in position until we get to our floor, only moving when I indicate it's OK for you to do so, the logistic realities intervene in the meantime by means of keys and doors and room layouts until I'm sitting down in the chair, my legs stretched out and crossed at my ankles, and you are standing in front of me, a few feet distant.

''Strip for me.''

You look at me, ours eyes meet and I smile a little, just one side of my mouth, your eyes dark and steady.

Your jacket drops on the chair to your left, your hands move to undo the buttons of your shirt, slowly but without hesitation, neither coy nor embarrassed. I move my eyes down, to your fingers. You are taking your time, leaving your buttons undone one by one, a lighter strip of skin in the opening of the shirt, a glimpse of a smooth chest and a shadow of a fine trail of hair leading down. You lean down briefly, your eyes still on me, take off your shoes and socks, move them to the side, straighten up. Your gaze still on me, I can feel it somewhere around my forehead, top of my head, looking at me looking at you.

This is not a show, there is no teasing in the way you slide the shirt off your shoulders, fold it and place it on the coffee table, your movements, slow, deliberate and precise in what feels more like a ritual than a seductive gradual exposure. You undo your belt, pull out and roll it. A hand extends to the coffee table, the belt gets placed on top of the shirt, but you are still facing me, watching me watching you. It's hypnotic, and I am not sure who the subject and who the hypnotist is here.

Your fingers undo the button of your jeans and pull down the zip, your hands move smoothly to your hip bones and pull the trousers down, to your knees and lower, until you can step out of them, pick them up and roll loosely before placing on the coffee table next to the shirt and belt. You are standing straight now, your hands loose at your sides. I can see the lines left by summer shorts, half way across your thighs and above the waistband of your boxers, your skin paler between the areas that retain the heat of the southern sun even at this time of the year. I can see the outline of your cock pressing against the checked red fabric, and I let another skewed smile creep on my face.

You have stopped now. I give you few seconds. I am tempted to say something about the lengths a woman would go to if she's denied an online dick picture, quickly stifle an emerging giggle, let the invisible wire connecting us stay taut, the air thicken with anticipation.

"I said 'strip'."

I can hear a louder inhale, a slight hiss of air going in through your nose, then "Yes, Ma'am."

Your hands moving again, fingers hooking behind the waistband, pulling the boxers down, your feet lifting, stepping out of them, until you are standing in front of me completely naked, cock hard, grown fully erect between my repeated command and your compliance, your chest and midsection rising and falling in deep breaths that feel like you are trying to purposefully calm yourself down.

I keep looking, first at your cock; my silent and focused looking, grown from desire but at the same time pushing desire into the background, as shameless as your display, your obedience as bold as my demand. Then at your face, for the first since I told you to strip, directly into your eyes, that smile of mine again, your lips ajar.

"On the bed. On your front. Still for me. No talking."


--- continued here













2 comments:

  1. Oh I love this--!

    The anticipation and the awkwardness are real and relatable, the "first meet" imperfect and searingly hot. Beautiful.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Oh, yes. Fucking hell. Very hot, dripping with desire and unfettered lust. Can't wait for part 2.

    ReplyDelete