Tuesday, 18 November 2008


It was a first for her, but she had been given a dare.

The sleek leather of her skirt cool against the cheeks of her bottom.

The prickle of the lace-topped hold-ups against her softest parts every time she walked.

Producing the strangest but most liberating of sensations.

Half-naked and yet wholly covered.

Discreet whilst flauntingly obvious.

Getting out of the taxi without giving the driver an eyeful was the first obstacle. There is a world of a difference between freedom and flashing...

Standing six inches away from the instigator, she wondered if he would realise. But, having left him in ignorance as to whether she would take the challenge, she determined not to enlighten him. How much more exciting for him to watch and wonder. To imagine...

Supremely conscious of the miniscule skirt and the possibility of imminent revelation, her wanton side wanted to throw caution to the wind and bestride the worktop regardless. But the cautious, conservative partypooper felt constricted and constrained to decorum, standing pencil straight and avoiding the seating.

Each movement reminded her of the negligence of her dressing ritual, the weak link in her ensemble that left her vulnerable and yet strangely empowered.

As he leaned against the counter beside her, she could almost smell the soft scent of her arousal and it was impossible to be unaware of the delicate moistening of excitement.

Proximity caused her mind to wander unbidden to the consequences of his surprised discovery. To picture possibilities of an empty room away from the crowd. Envisage scenarios of furtive fumblings with the background noise of the party in full swing. Anticipate exploratory hands running down the smooth leather covering her bottom, pulling her against him before plundering those soft white thighs; the confirmation of their mutual attraction hard against her hip; questing fingers taking advantage of the ease of access whilst two sets of ragged breathing echoed the memory of a previous pleasure given and received.

It lay there between them unresolved. That one drunken night where those same digits had been responsible for her first infidelity and an orgasm that shattered the foundations of her repressed acceptance of that other life.

The physical history of their ongoing flirtation, with its secure safety net of sober reflection and family responsibility, left the hint of unfinished business hanging in the air.

For now, the gauntlet remained where it had been flung down. From time to time, one would feint as if towards it but neither of them was quite willing to risk the consequences of its retrieval.


Kyra said...

There is something so incredibly arousing about the absence of that simple article of clothing. Every movement and action seems to bring such delightful focus to one's pussy and it seems everything around is (even more?) sexually charged.

Lovely writing.

nitebyrd said...

It's so delicious to go au naturale under some lovely article of clothing. Your words captured the essence of the feeling.

Grizzly said...

Damn....damn...damn....damn.... oh and damn....

Consider the gauntlet firmly grasped Mrs Cake!!

Anonymous said...

Sounds delightful.
I love it when she tells me she is commando.
Or when she becomes commando during the evening. Comes back to the table/bar and hands me her panties.

Osbasso said...

Does this have anything to do with last week's HNT???

Anonymous said...

I think we need an appropriate illustration for this story.

Fat Controller said...

Beautifully written. Smoudering, understated sexuality.

Anonymous said...

Deliciously dangerous. Something I must try some time!