This time of the year (4): Feel me

Continued from here.

I slide my hand under your belly and find your cock, rigid and warm, slick with precum, grab harder, stroke, my other hand pressing, then lightly slapping your butt down, making it thrust into the vice-like grip, your panting faster, in wincing pleasure.

------

I stop, both the stroking and the slaps. You relax in what feels like a disappointed relief. I push you back down, stretch myself on the bed, gather your naked body in my arms, your breath warm and damp on my neck, my legs, still in boots and stockings hooked around yours, the soles' edges rubbing up and down your calves.

I bunch my skirt up and guide your right hand underneath.

''Feel me.''

You groan when your fingers meet the damp silk, I arch my back up a little, inviting the touch, you start stroking slowly along the wet fabric clinging to my slit, upwards, finding the hard, sensitive bud of my erect clit, making me catch my breath and moan, dig my fingers in your hair, push you where you belong.

''On your knees on the floor."

You slide down, head still on the edge of the bed between my spread knees. 

"Take my boots off.''

You give me a smile, broad and dizzy, on your knees by the bed, now leaning down, your hands stroking the leather, stopping at the buckles, hesitating at the zip pull.

''Go on then. You know you want to," I'm laughing again when your head drops lower, your lips touching the leather, your tongue taking what seems to be an experimental lick.

''Upwards. To the edge.''

We are playing the scenarios we have shared as fantasies so many times, pressing the buttons and pulling the levers we imagined working, for real now. 

And they work. Astonishingly. I still - still - still - still - find it amazing that they do. How, I am not sure. 

Either flesh just happened to serendipitously match with what we spent so much time imagining, or the fantasy triumphed over the reality even when confronted with it. Whatever it is, it's patently working.

Your tongue slides off the leather onto the nylon of the stocking, wetly tracing the top edge of the boot.

"Enough."

I adjust my position, shuffle my butt to the edge and hitch up the skirt again, pulling your head in.

''Lick, slut.''

Your face is buried between my wide-spread legs, my knees up, my hips raised by a pillow.

''Inner thighs.''

Your tongue and lips touch my skin above the stocking, wet, slithery, exquisite and electric, a trail of kisses and licks along the edge of the fabric, occasionally sliding under, just a little. I don't know who's teasing whom now, not that it matters. I want more and pull your head in position.

''Lick my knickers.''

I'm floating in a sea of pleasure and lust, your mouth making the already wet fabric soaked, your breath a warm steam, your tongue and lips perfect. 

Pliant, probing and caressing, somehow more thrilling because separated from my skin by the thin layer of drenched silk. My hands are -- loosely -- on your head, neither pushing nor pulling, just there, ready to adjust if needs be, one of them slides lower to your ear, fingers squeezing the fleshy lobe, nails digging, just a little bit, pulling.  You groan, whether in pain or lust, I don't know. My legs are spread wide open, one foot braced against the bed, the other placed, lightly, on your upper back.

The joy, a basic kind, all-of-the-body, washes over me in slow waves. I won't come like this of course, but I don't really want to. The earlier urgency is gone. This is a slow and perhaps the most selfish of all pleasures, when you, as a person, disappear, when we, as ''we'' and the thing that connects us, the thing that burned so hot only few minutes ago, disappear. 

Even the want is gone. All that remains is my pure sensation. 

My hand moves your head away, my foot shifts from your back. My other hand moves down, pulling the silk to the side. 

''Fingers.''

''Two. Curved up.''

My voice, low, a little syrupy, a little gritty, slotted in-between the panting breaths but slow and sure. A tool, but a tool that's been honed deep under my consciousness, purposeful more in the way of cat's claws' purposefulness than a Sabatier knife's. 

"Find the right spot.''

Your fingers moving, probing, searching. Subtle changes in sensation, varying degrees of pleasure that, despite your fingers being inserted few inches deep in my cunt, remains skin-shallow until you do find the right spot indeed and the pleasure goes deeper.

A slow rush, spreading velvet from the dense point of gold at the centre of my pelvis, outwards, to my hips, the small of my back, upper thighs, breasts, down to my toes and along my arms to my fingertips. 

A deep breath, a moan. Rising. Maybe uncontrollably, certainly hard to control. 

Fuck. 

My eyes closing, my head thrown back. 

''That's it. Rub there.''

I let the sensation spread wider, pulse out, sink into me as I sink into it and become one with the pleasure. 

-- tbc, probably. 

But it could end here. Not a bad place, huh?

This time of the year (2): Strip for me

Previous part here.

Less obvious, less tense, less wired, less easy later.

The room is on the tenth floor and in the lift, we both look down, both a little awkward, then at each other, then away again.

''Turn round,'' I say, suddenly, something -- something different from the initial flare of lust that drove me in those first minutes -- emerging. 

''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 up to your shoulders, warm and dry, not yet seen, I can't wait. 

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, my flat palms steady on your hips. I want to pull your shirt off, see the pink 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 the 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 moving. I give you few seconds, 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.

All the anxiety, all the nervousness, all the awkward that fluttered around me before are gone. And not because I don't feel awkward or nervous. Not because I grew in confidence or relaxed into a role, into the role even. Nothing about me, nothing about the essential situation has changed, yet everything has changed. What's gone is not the nervousness but a possibility of it. There is no room for nervous awkwardness in a true now. And now the now is all that is.

Now, I keep looking, first at your cock. My looking is silent and focused, grown from desire but, as for now, has pushed desire into the background. 

Now, my looking is as shameless as your display; now, your obedience is as bold as my demand. 

I shift my gaze to your face, for the first time since I told you to strip, direct, into your eyes, a smile of mine again, your lips ajar, dry even at the distance. 

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


--- continued here.

Night falls

Another random(ish) but generous excerpt. 

------

I don't know him. I have no idea who he is. And yet he's here, and will be here for the next few days, and I can still taste him on my lips, and I want more, I want more of him, possibly more than I have ever wanted anything or anybody in my life. 

[Fuck. There I go...

Where?  

Where? Off my rocker, into the void, to deep submission. My velvety electric grey space. Just unreal how you can take me away like that. M, I love it. A part of me is giving in, like I'm turning myself over to you. Heady, dense daze.]


By the time I pull in by the house I can hardly see, staggering as I climb out of the car. The cold, briny air hits my lungs, the damp of the night condensing on my skin, the moon high and pale in the unusually clear sky, the jaggedy peaks tearing the purple darkness on the other side of the inlet.

I unlock the cottage door and, still leaving him in the car, walk in, check things, try to gather my thoughts, rake my mind to see if there are any left.

The fire has been set up in the grate and I light it at the same time as lighting a cigarette, clicking the coffee machine on, realising how ravenously hungry I am, but still, maybe too tired to eat so I peel off the seal and uncork the bottle I grabbed at the shop, pour myself a generous measure, down a large gulp in a way unbecoming what is a a decent enough malt, the fiery smokiness coating my mouth and throat, spreading the warmth from inside and onto my skin. 

I still don't feel like making food but now remember Callum's gift, pull the oily paper off, tear into the greasy flesh of the salmon, firm and perfectly flaking, not like the supermarket stuff, the flavours bursting on my lips, the salt and smoke and the fish itself, reminding me less of my own taste, but of his, the taste that still lingers in patches on of my lips and tongue and suddenly I am again aware of how aroused I am, my clit erect, my cunt contracting almost-painfully, my lips flushed, my nipples hard, my heartbeat rising.

I briefly contemplate the idea of dragging him out of the car to fuck, fast and simple, here and now, on the kitchen floor, the door barely closed behind us; but once I visualise it loses the appeal so I contract my kegels, drink some more of the whisky, tear off another messy piece of the fast-disappearing fish, and that's how he finds me when he comes in: standing barefoot on the tiles in stockings torn after hours of shoeless driving, in front of the kitchen counter, my hair a mess, my makeup smeared, gulping whisky, my fingers greasy, my mouth crammed full of smoked salmon, my thighs sticky with sweat and desire.

I am not sure how long he's been there when I see him standing in the door, leaning against the frame, his bag on the floor by his feet, watching me, squinting a little, a shadow of a strange smile somewhere in the corners of his mouth, a look that's both glazed and hungry in his eyes. 

I think this is when it truly hits me, finally, the reality of what's happening, of what I am doing, here in one of the most remote places in the country with a man I know nothing about, about to pull more walls down. 

I am slowly letting out the animal that lives in my mind, not really thinking about the one in his, and I am scared again, not quite sure if scared of him or of myself; and that fear makes my body ripple with desire, shakes me so much that I turn away, pick up a cigarette from among the debris on the worktop, light it, grab another glass, pour him a drink but not pass it on, lean back against the counter, looking at him.

“How are you, J?”

“I'm hard, M,” he replies, after a pause, his eyes down to the floor, his voice quiet, almost hesitant.

I can't help but let my pleasure and relief show in a smile, drag on a cigarette to mask that, then reply without acknowledging what he said, “Your bedroom is on the right, it's en suite. Don't get dressed after you clean up, just come back to the living room.”

By the time he's done I have had a quick shower too, changed into black jeans and a white shirt, the denim of the trousers rubbing against my swollen labia to remind me of my arousal, as if I needed to be reminded at all. 

I am sitting on the leather sofa in the living room by the fire, the logs burning well, my legs stretched out on the rug, the first drag of a spliff I have just rolled and lit dry and rasping in my lungs, then mixing with alcohol and lust, spreading throughout my body in golden, red crested shimmers. He walks into the room, naked but for the towel around his hips, makes the few steps from the door towards me, stands there without a word. I can hear his breathing, then a muffled gasp when he sees what's there on the low coffee table.

“Get rid of that towel, J, and come down here,” I say, and he does as told, dropping to his knees by my feet, completely naked now, sitting on his heels, eyes down, as I straighten up, lean over, take the black leather collar off the table.

“Do you want this? Do you want to wear it for me?”

He nods, almost imperceptibly.

“Say it, boy.”


------

Read the whole tale here:

 

This time of the year (3): Still, for me

Continued from here.

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

-----

You obey, as I expect you to. In the low light your body spreads pale gold against the hotel bed's white, your arms loosely around your head, not quite protective, your face sideways and down, averted from the side I am now approaching; still. For me.

I wonder if you can hear me breathe, if my breathing crossed the line from just loud to panting. I take the few steps that separate my chair from the bed, sit down on the edge, around your thigh level, lean down. Just a little. Not necessary, but I want to. 

My left hand in the small of your back. The scratch marks fading pink now, but still visible, and, when I touch them with the fingers of my right hand, warmer than the surrounding skin.

Fuck.

''Fuck," I say. Stroking, featherlight, then pressing. 

You take a deep breath, then exhale, but don't move and don't say anything. Everything feels slow motion but fluid, like an underwater trance. I don't remember ever being as focused as I am now, but I am not thinking of any plan or a task or an objective: things happen as if through me. 

I press harder, then release, retracing the marks with my fingertips, then lean lower, touching your skin with my lips. 

The lips open, my breath damp, my lips moistened too, feeling the texture of the graze, the minute changes in temperature indicating where my nails went a little deeper, a little shallower. Tongue, along the graze, repeated sideways flicks, feeling the tiny area of less than a square inch, tasting. Teeth, closing over a fold of skin crested with the scratch, for the tongue to explore more thoroughly. Released, for a long lick, sliding freely into a moan; muffled; my consciousness expanding beyond my mouth, desire spreading all over my skin.

I shuffle higher on the bed and stroke the nape of your neck, my hand moving into your hair, playing with it, pushing your head into the pillow, my face next to you, a laugh that somehow manages not to be a giggle, a whispered 'Good boy' before I bite your earlobe, starting slow and gentle, closing harder before I straighten up, switch hands, the left one in your hair now, holding your head in place, my knees firm on the bed. The right hand takes a lazy swing, landing with a splat on your ass. 

Not a hard one; quickly followed with another, then another, a series of playful swats with a relaxed palm and fingers. So the twelfth comes as a shock: my swing is wider, the impact much heavier, almost all of it from the palm. Unexpected. You flinch visibly, yelp, tense up. 

I laugh and this laughter surprises even me; it feels like it doesn't belong to this particular story; yet I can't help it, and don't really want to help it either. It is what it is. I am what I am, so be it. 

I add another heavy smack, followed by a few faster, lighter, sharper ones, off the fingers mostly, my hand smarting now, leaving visible pink imprints on your butt. You tense and relax into each smack, reflected in changes in your breathing, now heavier, partially muffled by the pillow.

''Getting pretty red now, slutboy,'' I stop and place both my hands on your ass, lightly, feeling the heat, wanting to dig my nails in and drag them down the inflamed skin, stopping myself, for now, listening to your body, sliding my hands lower, between your legs, pushing them apart, gently, more of an indication of how I want you to move than a forceful pressure.

"Bend your knees, lift your ass up, keep your head down, try to keep relaxed or the next bit will really hurt,'' I say. I'm panting a little. 

You obey. I stand up and look at you for a while.

Such a classic pose. I had a plan. A sequence of steps. Items I thought I'd use. Things I knew you'd like me to do, maybe even beg me to do if I did it right. Ideas, even. Huh.

But just now the ideas don't matter and what you might like matters even less. 

I take a bigger breath and reach to my belt, undo it. You can probably hear the slight clang of the buckle against the metal button of the denim skirt. I pull it out, the leather worn and familiar in my fingers. Fold it in half and stretch using both hands. 

There is a sound, half way between a light thwack and a click. I do it for effect, I do it so you can hear the sound that not-quite-precisely foretells that other sound that I am already anticipating.

I wrap the buckle end around my right hand and get near to you, run the edge of the other end along your back, all the way from the nape of your neck down to your reddened ass, let it slide lower between your legs, leave it there for a split second longer, then slowly drag it back up in a meandering line as if tracing yet invisible patterns on your skin. 

Now I lift it free off your body and take a swing.

The first one is light, as is the second, but I'm getting impatient now, impatient with lust and with my own need, one that refuses to be analysed or even understood, one that, in this moment, simply is, demanding satisfaction, filling my airways, making my skin hot, my cunt wet and my pupils dilate.  

I want; want so much that it's not even clearly the I that's wanting, the want and the I have become identical.

Want to hit you harder. 
Want to see the welts come up. 
Want to feel you squirm. 
Want to hear you moan.

I stand with my feet further apart, and swing again, the leather splatting hard across your right buttock.

Fuck.

Faster and harder. 

Maybe I should have tied you up after all. But you are holding up to the impact and the pain; holding up to the desire that covers my skin fluid and viscous.

I use the time between strikes to breathe. Deeper, louder, more elaborate. The streams of exhaled and inhaled air a caress on my lips, the lips dry, flushed swollen, now ajar. 

Your ass is covered in marks, a nearly uniform dark pink background to a chaotic hash of raised welts, some of them skirted with narrower, darker, graze-like lines made by the edge of the belt. I strike lower, on the more sensitive skin of your upper thighs and this makes you yelp, flinch, nearly flail, yet you stay in position. I make the belt shorter and smack your butt again, sharp and forceful stings, the slightly curved end imprinting red crescents on your inflamed skin.

You are panting now, loud, hissing breaths, your muscles flexing and hips moving as if to adjust, balancing the avoidance and the seeking of pain, the obedience and the desire to escape.

I laugh again. The laughter contains the sheer, exuberant joy of the physical act, the joy I can't understand and for now, don't want to understand, letting it be whatever it is, letting myself be whatever I am. The joy that's rising higher, spreading wider, penetrating deeper with my not-quite-conscious awareness of your essential role in it. The joy that's made possible by your holding up to my desire to hurt you and to mark you. The joy that's made flesh in your giving in to the want that's me. 

The belt, now longer again, comes down in a big, flat whack across your buttocks. Your loud moan, an inarticulate groan at first, morphs into a clear ohhhhh, followed by my name. I inhale this moan and I respond with my own.

Fuck.

My knees almost buckle in a breathless wave of bodily lust. 

Want to touch you again. 

I unwind and drop the belt and step closer, my palms on your ass, the heat of red skin and the raised marks under my fingers.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Rubbing, stroking, mapping the remade surface of your body, fingertips and then, after a second's hesitation, my lips. Barely touching. Then my cheek, hot against the heat of the marks I've made. 

I slide my hand under your belly and find your cock, rigid and warm, slick with precum, grab harder, stroke, my other hand pressing, then lightly slapping your butt down, making it thrust into the vice-like grip, your panting faster, in wincing pleasure.


----Continued here.

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 prepare me for. The time before the high Christmas rush of expectation but long after the last vestiges of the summer get swept away 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 inside 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 to eight on the inhale. Two more, my heartbeat still fast. 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 take those last few steps and walk into the warm interior filled with tangled 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. Searching for the lost thrill in the fear that's now got merely clammy.

I dig a packet of cigarettes from my pocket, manage to pull one out, my fingers shaking; stick it between my lips that 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; that gives me a narrower focus I actually need; I start going through my pockets more methodically.

The lighter's flame appears suddenly. In all my funk I didn't notice anybody's approach but I am grateful for the kind gesture. I lean down to the light, instinctively protecting it from a gust with a cupped hand. Only when I suck in then quickly exhale the first drag, I notice that the hand holding the lighter is shaking. Only when I raise my eyes to say "thank you" I see, and realise, just before I hear. 

''Hi, M.'' 

The shock of it is not any lesser for the fact that this is what I came here for. All the words I had in such oversupply are stuck tight in my throat; 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 describe it here, don't I? The private gesture, so overused that it's turned cliche now; my palm on your cheek, 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 of before 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; 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, in fact it's better this way; 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; get my face even closer; smelling you; fucking hell; how much I wanted this, all those years, all those years until I was sure; sure that 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 eyes 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.

--- continued here.

VS110

I have written quite a few first-meeting scenes. This one is one of my two favourites. And it was the first one in an important story. 

***

It's not even half past eight in the morning and although I've had a good night at the hotel, I'm still a bit woozy from the eight hour drive yesterday and the early start today.

The landing is announced. Suddenly my tiredness is gone, my back straightens, my heartbeat picks up, my breathing deepens. The sounds of a working airport, the colours, the shapes, the people milling around, all the external stimuli melt into the background, not disappearing but weaving themselves into an out-of-focus shimmering whole. My focus turns to my body.

I can feel the shoes I am wearing, uncomfortable platform sandals with four inch heels. I can feel the load concentrated in  the balls of my feet, a bit painful, the arch freer than normal, all that making me stand taller and straighter but more precarious.

The denim of my skirt, thick but soft, brushing my knees, closer fitting on my thighs and hips. The stocking tops, tight against my skin, the nylon stretched over my legs, seams under my toes. Silk of my knickers on my buttocks and pubis, soft and slick, its cool caress on my labia. The corset laced from just below the small of my back to just below my shoulder blades; not very tight but tight enough to smooth the curve of my flaring hips, to make me aware of how my breasts raise and fall as the air moves in and out of my lungs, to make my heartbeat resonate under my constrained ribs.  My nipples, erect, brushing against the cotton lining, harder than usual, darker too, the flush spreading beyond the areolas, the arousal more general than sexual but with the sexual bubbling under the surface, only the skin away. The satin lining of my jacket on my bare arms, the crinkle of leather against leather as I play with my car keys in my pocket. The pulse in the wrists, behind my knees, in my clit, my temples, under my collar bones.

I breathe in deeply, flex my fingers, lick my lips.

I'm not quite sure he'll be here. I'm not sure I'll recognise him. I'm not sure he'll recognise me, although he certainly has more chance than I do.

People are coming out now, and I'm grateful for the tinted glasses I put on earlier to protect my pale eyes against the unseasonably bright sun of the late autumn.

And then I see him, and I'm sure - almost sure - completely sure - that it's him.

I stay in place, looking at him through my dark glasses, my attention shifted again, the background still fuzzy but my focus entirely outwards now, my eyes fixed on the tall, slim guy with short dark hair, looking younger than what I know his years to be; walking out of the gate, slowing, almost stopping to scan the field.

He seems cool enough and yet there is a jaggedy edge there, not just for obvious reasons, a highly-strung core under a composed exterior, energy with a desperate twist. Can I really read this from seeing somebody walk twenty steps across an airport hall? I shrug. Probably not. I'm imagining it, projecting the him-in-my-head onto the real man getting closer to me this very minute.

It doesn't really matter, though, or it will stop mattering very soon, here and almost-now.

I still can't quite believe it, the imaginary lover from the imaginary playground, unimaginably here, in flesh and blood; now walking towards me across the concourse, now standing in front of me, a slight smile in the corners of his mouth.

Here. Now.

I smile too, but remain silent. The words are gone, not lost but receded to the back of my mind. I can feel electric shimmers crawling over my skin. My hands, now out of my pockets, dry and warm, supple, tingling, ready. My lips, flushed swollen.

“M?” he says, eventually, after what seemed hours but was a second, maybe two.

I nod but stay silent, reach out to his face with my hand. My fingers somewhere between his jawline and his cheekbone, my thumb on his lips, running slowly back and forth between them until they part under my touch.

He breathes deeply, something between a sigh and a moan.

My fingers slide down his neck. I'm smiling, looking straight into his eyes though he doesn't know it because I still have my sunglasses on, my hand pressing down, my head moving in a slight nod as the pressure increases; he's looking down at the floor, at my red-painted toes.

“Here. Now,” I say.

He hesitates for a moment, the moment gets longer and I think I've blown it. I think he'll look up, step away, we'll talk, I'll ask him about the flight, he'll answer, we'll get coffee, discuss immigration checks, customs, in-flight entertainment; the background will get into focus, the blade will lose its edge.

I leave my right hand on his shoulder for another second and step closer. So close that we are almost touching each other; reach with my left hand to his right wrist, to the thick black string tied loosely around it, my fingertips brushing his skin, resting briefly there. I tug lightly, twisting it twice until it digs into his skin.

And then, led by an impulse alien even to myself, I take a step back, then another one; remove my right hand from his shoulder and with just a small swing, I slap his face, fast and hard, hard enough to make his head reel, as much from the impact as from the suddenness of it.

“Now. Here,” I repeat, a movement of my head indicating what I expect.

And then he does the imaginable but unbelievable and drops to his knees, bends down and kisses my feet; here, now, his lips dry and hot on my toes, left first then the right one, then the thin nylon covering the instep between the straps; his breath now damp and warm on my skin.

There are people around us, mostly obliviously busy on their way but some slowing down or even stopping to glance then shift their gaze away, a group of teenagers is giggling, but all sounds and movements are flat and muted, coming from afar, and all I am really aware of is his kneeling at my feet in the middle of the arrival hall, bang between the WH Smith newsagent and the information desk, at almost 9am in the morning; the finger marks blooming pink on his cheek; here, now.

He straightens up, his eyes still down, still on his knees, and I lean down, touch his shoulder again.

“Get up, J,” I say.

The normal reasserts itself, the background sounds and objects and people emerge from the opalescent blend and come back into focus; I takes my glasses off and look at him directly. He looks back, fixing my gaze, his eyes dark, his pupils dilated, and the intensity of that stare is such that I bursts out laughing, because there is nothing else to do; not hysterical and not delirious but not far off either of those.

“Let's go. It's a long drive.”

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