Writings and ramblings

“I’ve got it,” he says, pulling out his wallet. There is no evidence of the condoms – she assumes he has more than one, maybe not – concealed within, as he extracts a tenner and hands it to the man in the cart.

They wait, her wrapping her shawl closer, holding it together in the centre of her chest. He puts his arm around her. She leans to him, sees he has the streak of gentleman in him, dirty mouth, bold moves aside.

Their number is called. The yellow Styrofoam is warm with the weight of the chips. She cradles the box, and they shuffle away from the caravan, and are pleased to find a bench under the Guildhall unoccupied. They open the boxes, simultaneously. Neither of them asked for forks, but his is covered in brown sauce, hers only scattered with ketchup.

Before he starts, he looks at her. “What’s your name?”

She laughs, and he chuckles too. The timing of the question seems extraordinary. She tells him, and he nods, repeating it once, before fishing up a fingerful of chips and brown sauce.

She takes a bite of a chip, and finishes before asking, “Yours?”

“Dave.”

It feels almost mundane, knowing it now, after they’ve fucked so hard. Names seemed meaningless then. Yet they are not. Dave from David. She nods, trying not to look like she’s examining him to see traces of the grander name, the giant killer.

She eats. The chips are warm on her tongue, soft and squishy, not too oily. The ketchup gives it a boost of sweetness, the salt a tasty tang, and she finds herself engrossed in just enjoying them as they vanish from the yellow box.

He sniggers next to her. “You were hungry.”

“Oh, this is dessert,” she says, and he looks away. He’s actually blushing.

-
Next: 28. Departure

Image found on flickr, by stuart_spivack, used under the Creative Commons License.

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

The growing pleasure, the lovely churning that is focused between their legs, is about ready to explode, when suddenly, he stops. She whimpers, and looks at him, on the brink of begging for sweet mercy.

“That’s enough of that…”

He doesn’t withdraw, but keeps his cock inside her, and begins to gyrate his hips.

She is caught by surprise. His pubic bone… it feels so hard, so flat and smooth, on her clit, rolling over it. No longer punctuated or relieved by absences, his movements are continual, insistent. She can’t ignore it, can’t keep herself together, cannot stop the sharp sounds coming from her throat, only can let her mouth fall to his shoulder, breathe against the leather. Don’t beg, she tells herself, don’t ask him to stop this beautiful feeling.

It starts in her ankles. They lock tighter, pull him harder to her, and, for a moment, she tenses.
Then it all goes. Her calves shaking, her knees like jelly, her thighs shuddering, and her stomach and chest are flooded with a rush of pleasure, shooting straight from her clit. And he, unceasing in his undulating, makes a sound, almost too high for his voice, and her cunt opens up, drawing him into her as her orgasm refuses to let him go.

Like a tinkling bell disappearing in the distance, the rushes start to subside. She can’t – won’t – let go of him. Only when they have both breathed the last of the pleasure, the final tremours within each of them, does he carefully, almost cautiously, unhook one knee, and then the other, and let her find of footing.

He doesn’t look at her – more like he can’t see her – as his cock slides out, and he rolls the condom down. She pulls her dress down her thighs, and waits for him as he finds a suitable bin.

-
Next: 26. Market Square

Image found on flickr, by cdsessums, used under the Creative Commons License.

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

She rolls her hips up to meet him, his cock butting to the hem of her dress.

“Very,” she says.

He grins, and leans in to kiss her, and says on her lips. “I don’t believe you.”

She likes that. Very much.

He raises one of her thighs, forcing her knee to bend so it hooks around his hip. He skims her inner leg, finding the edge of her stockings. A single finger slips under the nylon, and he smiles as he tugs it back, and releases it again. It is not like flicking a bra strap, for it doesn’t snap back with the same decisiveness. That comes when he cranes his fingers over her thigh, under her dress, and pulls back the extension of the garter belt.

She slaps his chest, light and playful. He winks, and his fingers, tracing back down between her legs, find the crease where her leg meets her body, just below her labia.

“Oh. I see. Yes, you are… but let’s test a bit more.”

His thumb – she knows, for it’s thick and blunt – rides up past her wet lips, across the line of her pubic hair, and back down the other line. He shakes his head, even as she is driven mad, wanting him to touch her so badly.

“Nope. Not there.”

She bites her lower lip, coy. “I think you missed a spot.”

His thumb traces the crease, long, deliberately slow. Her jaw tenses, and she can’t help the whimper she let’s out.

He smiles. He was waiting for that, she sees, for in an instant his finger, lying long, is coursing between her lips and along her clit. She feels her wetness spread over him, and she sighs, tensing as he rubs her clit, back and forth, firm and sharp.

-
Next: 24. Thrust

Image found on flickr, by Dean McCoy, used under the Creative Commons License.

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

Who grabs who, she cannot tell. Only that they are tripping and sliding to get to the narrow alley, to sidle down it so their limbs don’t fall over the edge and into the main passage. They might be heard, but they might avoid being seen. She isn’t sure how she feels about being seen, and when he smashes against her, her mouth meeting his – hungry, thick – she stops caring about anything but that she’s about to fuck.

They wrap to each other. She lets her back fall against the wall. There is only a slight impact as his arms brace her. One hand is across her arse, holding it like he’s squeezing fruit. Their mouths are all lips and teeth, biting, almost snarling. Then he dips, and is at her neck.

His teeth are smoothly savage, his stubble rough, brushing her freshly cleaned skin. She grits her teeth, takes on the harsh rub of it, let’s it corrode her.

She clutches the leather jacket at his shoulders, bunches the material in her hands. Her throat is increasing exposure as he nips and bites and rubs, the sensation shooting straight between her legs, exciting her clit. She keeps her legs pressed together; the sticky wetness will run down if she does not.

Them, swiftly, his face is in her cleavage. His hands leave her back, so she is fully against the brick, the light rough edge now pressing against her shoulders. She doesn’t mind, for his fingers coax back the lines of her dress, and he cups her tit as her nipple is revealed. His mouth descends, and the rapid, ferocious sucks he plants there make her cry out, one hand flying to her mouth. He’s so fast, so quick at this, he’s making her come undone.

The loss of control is delicious.

-
Next: 22. Preparation

Image found on flickr, by Rob Young, used under the Creative Commons License.

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

He makes a long ‘oooh’ sound, and she echoes it, her nipple wanting to rub on his palm. The boldness of his approach, him not needing to hide or feign or duck and weave, is a shock after the games of hands and eyes outside. A delicious shock, and her back arches to his touch, his fingers leaving her breast for her ribs, for her side. For him to touch her bare skin… she tries to keep her knees together, to not let him go further until she wants him to. She will keep some of her resolve with him.

How quick could they make it…?

She decides not enough, and reluctantly, she says, “I have someone waiting for me.”

He scoffs, and stares at her, locking eyes to convince her otherwise, but her gaze back must be enough. He let’s go, and she grits her teeth not to release any sign she’s disappointed.

“Go then.”

He’s not pissy about it, though reluctant. She nods, and leaves him there.

She moves across the bar, and finds the table she was at empty but for the drinks. Her shawl has stayed. Her drink is still there, half full, and his is drained.

She frowns, annoyed at leaving an opportunity behind her, to return to empty space. Did he see her? Maybe his friends are here? She looks around, inspecting each table, but he is not here.

She picks up her shawl, drapes it on her shoulders, and heads for the door. Outside, she checks left and right. A smoker? But he is no where to be seen. She runs her tongue under the edge of her teeth, to take off the edge that she’s been feeling, that he built up, that the man in the bathroom added to.

Damn him.

-
Next: 20. Smoke

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Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

She looks over her shoulder once on the way to the bathroom. He is staring after her, eyes narrowed. She can’t tell if the irritation is genuine or put on. She smiles, indulgent, and continues on.

The bathroom has something like an entrance way, one door into a shared space, before offering the options of Mens and Ladies. The lighting is a soft blue.

She is not alone in the shared space. A man is waiting there, about her age. He leans against the wall, and his eyes flick to her as soon as she enters. They are bright, almost shimmering, and she stares.

He wears a leather jacket and a white t-shirt that glows blue under the lights. He is in jeans, well-fitted, frayed at the hems, and black boots. Even less so than her new friend outside, this bar doesn’t look like something he’d go to. His curls are shaggy about his head, and she would have said that his stubble was kept at a deliberate length, rather than due to lazy shaving habits.

He is another kind of ‘interesting.’

The end of his mouth quirks up, and her tongue follows it, slipping out of her mouth in a corner, tracing her upper lip. But she sees the first motion towards her, and she pushes the door to the Ladies and enters. Only the bravest man would follow her there.

She washes her hands, pats them dry with the paper towels there. Then she checks her lipstick, reapplying it, thinking of her lips on her new friend’s cheek, of leaving her mark there. Or on his neck. She brushes at her hair with her fingers. She pulls her dress back down, having ridden up her thighs as she sat there.

She will not wipe away the growing wetness between her legs.

-
Next: 18. Grasping

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Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

When she opens her eyes again, he’s looking pleased, almost annoyingly so. Well, two can play at that, she thinks, forcing a smile which she thinks must look a little mad, full of teeth, but he only chuckles.

How though, she thinks, to move her other arm without jerky movements, without disrupting the spell they are weaving with his touch, her skin, and her breath.

It comes when he flicks his fingertips up, and starts using the edge of his nail on her. The movement is quick, and sends a jolt through her, enough to make her shiver all over, and her other arm drops from the table. He whistles low. He thinks he has the upper hand.

She leans just an inch forward, and her hand easily finds his knee.

There is no reaction on his face at first, no acknowledgement of her grasp. She cups it, finds it like all knees and joints: bony, awkward, dips and furrows you think you know but are still strange when you start to examine them. Especially under the material of his trousers. Like if she would pull it back, she would fine white, exposed bone.

She begins her own tracing exercise, her own exploration. It doesn’t take much to make him shut his eyes, inhale through his nose. His control is good, very good, but he doesn’t open them again, and starts a slow nod as she circles his knees like a crown. The hard, bulbous head of it a perfect place to trace, and not leave.

When his lips part, very slightly, that’s when she leaves it, and splays her hand, fingers grasping all in, up his thigh. The slender, tender flesh beneath the material is so different to the bone of his knees, and she squeezes, her fingers pressing his inner thigh, and at last, he sighs, and it’s audible.

-
Next: 16. Retreat

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Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

“No,” he continues. “Not plastic. Why are you in here though? How many interesting people could really be here?”

“You are.”

He pushes his drink forward, leans in himself, hunching. It closes him in, draws her to him, creates a small circle for just the two of them. She too enters it, shifting her arms and shoulders closer. His eyes drift downwards to her chest, and don’t move when he says -

“Yes, I am. And so are you.”

She has never been able to raise an eyebrow, but she hopes her grin and the shift of her forehead will mimic that expression enough.

“Then we are both lucky.”

He takes his glass up, and his lips move on the rim of glass, slippery and folding. She swallows as she watches him gulp it down, eye both his mouth and the jerking of his Adam’s apple. She wants to reach out and stroke his exposed throat with her nail.

He puts the drink down, and looks casual again. “That assuming my friends don’t actually appear,” he says.

He’s trying to shift away, his part in the dance. But his hands has landed closer to her. She trails her fingers down her bare arm. “Are they… understanding friends?”

“Well… sometimes. Of course, I could always tell them that I arrived, and they weren’t there, and I got bored of waiting, and so left…”

She senses his fingers curling, and moving forward again.

Her other hand has been on her lap, and now she places it on the table, lightly, near her elbow. “That would be one way of doing it. But maybe before that—”

“What?”

“Your name?”

“Oh, who needs names?”

And she feels a light, electric brush over her knuckle. Her eyes shoot down to the table to find his index finger tracing it in a circle.

-
Next: 14. Tracing Finger

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Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

He raises his eyebrows, and regards the chair by tilting his head back, as if to say ‘oh yes? What do you expect me to do now?’ To that, she just shrugs, nonchalant, and looks away to the bar itself, taking great interest in reading the labels of the liquors and liqueurs. Tia Maria, Midori, Jim Beam, Baileys…

She feels him move towards her before she slowly swivels her eyes to see him, drink in hand, the other hand in his pocket, sauntering, trying to seem like he’s only coming for his own sake. It has nothing to do with the way her dress clings to her, how her legs are crossed, the way the stockings give her already-defined calf more contour and shadow. She contemplates leaning forward, but decides that would be excessive, and not allow for the maintenance of mystery. As soon as she speaks, a crack will form in the glamour she has cast. Remain back, distant, and it will keep for a bit longer.

He stands before her, and indicates to the chair with his drink.

“This taken?”

He knows it isn’t – she’s made that clear. This is a formality, a prolonging of the flirtation before they enter into the next phase. She likes that. It shows a willingness to extend the period of desire, to draw the anticipation. To enjoy the the dance at the precipice, before taking the step over.
She gestures with her hand, and he regards her for a moment, mimicking her casual air, and he finally sits, fingers pressing to the base of his glass just around the stem.

She says, “You looked bored.”

He snorts, and his fingertips brush up the stem. His nail beds are long, deep, and the nails themselves smooth and rounded.

They would feel perfect on her clit.

-
Next: 12. Banter

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Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

There are enough men present in the bar. More women, but enough men to watch, and assess. Her eyes cast from group to group. The most appealing, for their edges towards urbane, are the men in suits, but they are preoccupied with themselves and a conversation that appears to be about work. She alights on the students, but the groups are large, and laugh too loudly. The administrators are mostly women, and the two men among their company look like she’d take half the night to convince, and that would be a waste. Some of the men glance in her direction, but their attention, mostly shifts back to their own crowd. One of the students’ gaze remains for a long while, but her cutting smile makes him spin around to his friends, put in his place.

She remembers being that age. She is glad that she no longer is.

She sighs, sips at her vanishing drink, when she glances back at the bar, and sees a new figure, leaning there.

He is suited, wearing a long coat, and has dashes of gray just above his ears, shooting back along his hair like lightning bolts. His face is elongated, his nose aquiline, cheeks gaunt but they make him look hungry and ravenous rather than desperate. The single splash of colour is his thick, blood-red tie. The suit is tailor to his long, lean body. His hip rests languorously against the bar, one leg crossed in front of the other, and his expression is half curious, half bored with the room. He appears alone. His drink, a cocktail, darker in colour than hers, sits before his elbow, which rests on the bar, long hand lolling over the edge.

This is not the kind of bar he’d go into of his own choice.
-
Next: 10. Examination

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Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.