Writings and ramblings

A Night in a Year: 48. Wait…

2013-04-01T11:08:32Z

Like a clap of thunder, the music stops. The DJ shouts “Fuck!” and the dance floor is restless rather than pumping, edgy and discordant rather than in harmony. There are calls of ‘what just happen!’ and the DJ still cursing about a technical glitch, and everyone waits. The lights are garish without the accompanying beats.

Jeroen’s hand squeezes her shoulder, Orhan fingers dig into her back, and a chill falls over her body.

There are times like this when she freezes, and she feels herself watching the scenario play out before her, rather than participating. Where she doesn’t see herself as in control, as teasing and stroking the men either side of her, but as the meat in the sandwich, as someone – or even something – who could be tossed between two uncaring men like a toy, whose arms and legs could be pulled off on a whim, and the sight of her limbless would be amusing rather than cause for sympathy.

She stills herself, eyes down, not meeting either Orhan or Jeroen’s. She doesn’t need their reassure, not right not. She needs for them to relax their hold on her, needs to break out from the cage of their arms. Her breathing becomes more rapid, her chest heaving. She rolls her shoulder under Jeroen’s hand, hoping, hoping she’ll get away without needing to fight… and his hand flexes, not quite away, but he asks, in a normal voice, now capable of being heard in room, “You ok?”

She looks up, meeting Orhan’s eyes first. He stares down, frowning, concerned. The pressure of his fingers ease, and instead he rubs her back. Jeroen likewise rubs her shoulder, rough enough to be friendly. She turns to both of them, smiling, feeling the air in the space between them, freer once more.

-
Next: 49. Nibble

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

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

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A Night in a Year: 47. Undulate

2013-04-01T11:01:55Z

A new song starts, a quicker, more rolling beat, and Orhan’s hands drift further down, now emphatically on her hips, fingers splaying, digging in. The line of politeness has now been crossed, and sex can be the only intent. She smiles, and in time with the music, turns in her centre spot, and slides her arms around Orhan’s neck, resting her wrists over each other. It brings his smiling face closer, so their noses are nearly touching. Her breasts meet his chest, her nipples pushing against the material, eager to rub against his muscles, and behind her, Jeroen closes the gap, and now nothing could pass between the three of them, not even air.

She’s never been good at just moving her hips, but she tries, gently gyrating them. The two men pressing against her mean she’s restricted, but it creates a tender friction. Orhan moves in counterpoint with her, and she can feel his jeans rubbing through her dress. Not on her clit, but on the pubic bone, which almost serves as a shield over her clit. She senses it, not quite ready, not quite there to be excited and teased. Close though; the stirring in her stomach is quickening as she continues to dance almost solely with her hips.

Then, from behind, Jeroen slips his hands upwards, and they sit under her breasts. She bites her lip, holding in a sigh. Orhan smirks, and winks at Jeroen over her shoulder, upwards to accommodate his height.

“You move very… nicely,” Jeroen says, his voice low, so much that she more feels his words than hears them. She is about to respond, when he glides the edge of his large thumbs along the underside of her breasts.

And swiftly, she wishes that she was naked, and her clit begins to hum.

-
Next: 48. Wait…

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

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

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A Night in a Year: 46. Sway

2013-04-01T10:51:48Z

Orhan lets go of her hands, moves them to her waist. His fingers rest at the place were her stomach ends and her hips begin; a place, she’s always thought, that marks where touching above is gentlemanly, and below is sexy. It’s the perfect place, she thinks, for him to linger for a while, between chivalrous and seductive.

The music changes, a slow beat, its rhythm lulling, almost soft. The kind that makes her step gently from one foot to the other, a slight shift in weight rather than taking her foot the ground. Jeroen in front of her falls in pace with her, while Orhan moves his knees; she feels his thighs bump softly against the back of her own.

The music starts to seep under her skin. Her pulse falls in with the beat, or so it seems, for it throbs right through her, from the base of her neck to her clit. The lights too flash in time, and the three of them, together, sway like they are connected by more than clutching hands and sensual desire. For a moment, she closes her eyes, and she enjoys the warmth of the two men, and the surrounding sound.
When she opens them, Jeroen tries to move closer, but she shakes her head, lolling it in time to the music.

“Take it slow, take it slow,” she says, exaggerating her lips so he can read them, so she doesn’t have to shout.

Jereon rolls his eyes, but with humour, and keeps that tiny distance that would take only a nudge from someone passing by to close. Though it is like they are in a bubble, enclosed and separated by a membrane of light and sound waves from the other dances, moving in time with them, but not able to touch.

-
Next: 47. Undulate

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

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

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A Night in a Year: 31. Next Stage

2013-01-31T16:00:58Z

The breeze stills, and a true, gentle quiet falls upon her. She stretches both her legs out, letting the back end of her heels clack on the pavement. A satisfying sound, one that brings her back down to earth, to normality.

As if on cue, people begin to appear on King’s Parade. Two bikes sail past, the riders wearing academic in gowns, bats heading towards the belfries of Gonville and Caius or Trinity. A group of students come laughing from out of Senate House passage, and an elderly couple – a man carrying a walk stick, a woman holding his arms – hunched over, moving carefully past her place on the wall. The man smiles and nods at her, the woman inclines her head with easy grace.

So old fashioned. So Cambridge.

When they are near the gates of the Old Schools and the Senate House, she stands, and walks in their direction. She goes through the rising bollards that split King’s Parade where it turns into Trinity Street, where the asphalt narrows and begins to weave past colleges and shops encased in sandstone. The University Press is a glass shell encasing highbrow academia. Beyond it, Michael House café and church stands almost shyly across from the block of Gonville and Caius.

She knows there is a bar further down, past chic clothing stores, one that sinks into the ground. Now it feels like people are drawn to it, all the moving figures in the street drawn to the place as well. A crowd, a mass to get a little lost in.

Perfect for the next stage of the night.

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Next: 32. Queue

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

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

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A Night in a Year: 30. Observed

2013-01-30T16:05:20Z

Swiftly, she leaves the square, strides up the side of the church where Auntie’s Tea Shop sits, the chairs now piled up on the outdoor tables and cordoned off like that will protect them. Reminders of the people that aren’t filling them, of the lack of anyone around but the eyes that are piercing her back.

She exhales, thinking it is just her, a sudden tension born from inside that is manifesting in imaginary beings. The release is fleeting; the sense of a persistent stare is still present.

At King’s Parade, she looks up. King’s College chapel looms over her in the dark. And despite her unknown observer, she stops, takes a deep breath.

The sky is that dark shade of blue that sits beyond twilight but just this side of night time. Against it, the spires of the chapel are branches studded with wood knots, or gnarled pieces of fruit. Beautiful, frightening, out of reach. She swallows, and moves across the parade, heading for the low wall that blocks the front lawns of the College from tourists and the town. The huge, billowy horse chestnut on the lawn in front of the chapel itself undulates in the breeze. It is a large, woolly beast that could smother, or protect.

Breathing now juddering, she falls back onto the wall, sitting hunched over, eyes furtive and darting around her. Each little rustled paper grabs her eye, each scurrying leaf seems a threat. But there is no one there, in any direction. The street, often so busy during the day, is bizarrely empty except for her.

She inhales. And now, with the chapel and the chestnut at her back, and the realisation that she is really, in fact, not being followed, or watched, she sits up straight, and relaxes her grip on her shawl.

-
Next: 31. Next Stage

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

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

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A Night in a Year: 29. Seeking

2013-01-29T16:04:55Z

She turns from the Guildhall, and moves with a casual, cat-walk step, a promenade around the square. She curves past the now-shut clothing stores in one corner, and is soon under the stained glass windows of Great Saint Mary’s.

Looking up at the church, she thinks of the tower. She’s never been up in it. She wonders if the stairs upwards would be tight, a press of bodies and unyielding stone. She imagines herself, and another, the solid bulk of a male form, in there, alone, and what they might do, tangled on a staircase.

The thought tantalises. But it is only brief, for when reality kicks in, she snorts. It would be fucking cold and probably drafty.

The images on the glass are obscured by a dull light from inside the church. She releases a long breath, and wonders at how easy her thoughts become profane, without pause or consideration. In a church? In anywhere that is considered special, important, holy?

Rarely does she consider her soul (and then only to question whether it exists or not), or the idea that there is more to the world than the material. The experience of the body, the heights of sensation to which it can climb and plummet, those moments of fusion to another person, suggest something greater beyond herself, beyond the limits of the skin.

Suggests does not equal reality.

A chilly wind blows across her back. She shivers, wraps the shawl tighter, and glances in the direction that it comes from. The empty market stalls are still empty, but rather than a mere absence, she feels a void, a nothingness.

For now, she senses there is something, or someone, in the darkness.

-
Next: 30. Observed

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A Night in a Year: 28. Departure

2013-01-28T16:05:42Z

She collects both when they are done, finds a nearby bin. She turns, to find that Dave is by her side, two fingers lifting a stray length of hair from her cheek, and she wonders, looking at his almost sincere expression, if she’ll have trouble shaking him.

When he speaks, mercifully, it isn’t edged with desperation. “You want to come back to mine?”
Her face must answer him as soon as he says the words, because he’s almost instantly nodding, understanding.

“No worries. It was fun.”

‘Fun’ always seemed such a reductive term for ‘fucked until we saw stars,’ but she doesn’t say anything like that. Just agrees, and hugs him in return.

He kisses her again. Now he tastes of warm potatoes, a lash of brown sauce.

“You going home?”

She looks up at the clock on the Guildhall. Still so early. It feels like a century since she left home. She shakes her head.

“Got the rest of the night ahead of me.”

“Bet you do…”

Dave winks, and as he goes back down the passage, back towards the bar they were in, he gives her a wave. She holds her hand up, but his back is turned already before he can possibly see it.

She goes back to the bench, alone but full of sex and chips. The food, and Dave near her, distracted her, but as she sits in the evening air, she lets her mind turn over the moments in the alley. Sex always happens so fast. Even slowly, the times when hours loll by, the easy rolling of body against body, individual events blur into each other, that remembering them is near impossible. Now she tries to recall each bite, grasp, thrust, all the moments of friction.

Futile, but it cements the memory.

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Next: 29. Seeking

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

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

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A Night in a Year: 27. Hot Chips

2013-01-27T16:03:38Z

“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.

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A Night in a Year: 26. Market Square

2013-01-26T16:02:57Z

When he returns, he takes her cheeks in both hands, and kisses her, slow and sensuous. It feels foreign after the barrage against her body, and leaves her a bit breathless. It’s the linger taste of his cigarette that brings her back to the reality of the alleyway.

“Don’t know about you, but I’m hungry,” he says.

She takes his hand, and just nods.

They spill out of the alleyway, hand in hand, leaving it and the bar behind them. With shaky legs, they head for the Market Square.

There is so much space compared to the narrow passage they were in before.

The stalls, during the day, would be filled with fruit and vegetable vendors, second hand books, India made clothes, hats and gloves, cheap and loud necklaces, finely wrought silver. Now though, she can stare right under the tented tarpaulin, see to the other side of the square to West Cornwall Pasties.
It is still early. Later in the night it will be filled with people seeking food at one of the two caravans selling hot food, making the most of drunk stomachs needing the kind of oiling nourishment a night of dancing and drinking left people with. Or they’ll be hunting taxis, for most vehicles weren’t allowed in the centre of town.

To their left, the Guildhall stands, casting a benevolent, civic gaze over the square. Beyond that, on the perpendicular line, is Great Saint Mary’s. No light on inside. The stain glass is dull in the early evening light.

“What do you want to eat?” she asks.

He licks his lips. “Chips. Definitely.”

She goes along with that. She too is hungry. Always, after sex, it’s like something inside has been crushed, and needs filling. Right now, food will suffice.

They totter, unsteady, towards the caravan closest to them.

-
Next: 27. Hot Chips

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

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

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A Night in a Year: 25. Grind

2013-01-25T16:01:20Z

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.

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A Night in a Year: 24. Thrust

2013-01-24T16:00:39Z

“Well, you weren’t lying.” He pauses in his rubs, and kisses her again, all tongue, and gives her clit a final flick as he with draws both tongue and finger.
“Lean back a bit more.”

She obeys, and he lifts her other thigh. Her knee, almost on instinct, latches to his other hip, and her ankles lock behind him. That brings him closer, his hands now firm on the under side of her thighs, and now, the head of his cock is lilting on the lips of her cunt.

“Let’s see how long this takes…”

She starts in inhale, to prepare herself, but suddenly, he thrusts, and he fills her with his cock.
“Oh God!” she cries. The change was so sudden, it’s as if she is now made of his cock, so much of it is in her, like it is in her stomach, chest, all of her.

“Oh yes…” he whispers. “Oh yes you’re slick.”

Her toes would curl if not trapped by her heels. His cock stretches her, or she accommodates him, expanding to allow him inside her.

“Wow…”

“I know,” he says, and with practiced eased, holding her up and against the wall, begins to buck.
His cock rubs on the ridges inside her, the head of him and the length finding all the places that make her body tingle. He’s so large there is no way he could not. The angle is perfect. She clings to him, keeping herself from tumbling from him, but soon she trusts that he won’t let go, that it’s his cock itself keeping her to the wall. His balls bounce under her, hitting the curves of her arse, growing stickier the more she secretes.

And with each thrust, he hits her clit, and that is enough that she can’t not moan.

-
Next: 25. Grind

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

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

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A Night in a Year: 23. Hips

2013-01-23T16:03:05Z

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.

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A Night in a Year: 22. Preparation

2013-01-22T16:00:29Z

She breathes in, deep, as if longing for air, and takes hold of her self enough to ease a knee between his legs, and press gently upwards. His mouth doesn’t stop, but his eyebrows raise, and his closed eyes open, peering up at her. She rocks her knee back and forth. She feels his balls roll, like two compresses sponges full of liquid.

He releases her nipple. “You really want my cock, don’t you?”

She chuckles, fingers flexing on his shoulders. “And you really want me.”

A final, sharp suck on her; she has to suppress a yelp.

“Fuck yeah.”

She swings her hand bag around, opens it, seeking out the condoms, but he shakes his head.

“Have my own. Need my own.”

“Do you now?”

He leans back from her, a momentary release from the wall, and using both hands, he undoes the first button on his jeans. Each one is undone like a presentation, revealing a little bit more of him. Pale skin, dark tangles of pubic hair, and the finally, the last one goes, out falls a very erect, very large cock.

“Got anything that will fit this?”

Instead of gasping, or looking impressed or pleased, she spreads her legs wider. “Apart from my cunt you mean?”

He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a wallet. “Cheeky girl.”

He is quick with the condom. The packet indeed says ‘large’, and it slides snugly down his length. In the faint, murky gold light of the alley, the latex coating has a dull glow. It is like a wrapped present, wanting to be torn open.

His hands free once more, they cross her shoulders, her arse, place her softly to the wall again, and he says in her ear:

“So… are you wet enough yet?”

-
Next: 23. Hips

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A Night in a Year: 21. Wall

2013-01-21T16:05:19Z

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.

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Next: 22. Preparation

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

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

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A Night in a Year: 20. Smoke

2013-01-20T16:02:06Z

Sighing, she starts to leave, wondering where to next. She’s not far up the lane when she hears movement behind her, and a voice calling out.

“Guess your friend left you.”

She looks over her shoulder. Curly hair, fingers at his mouth, holding a cigarette and a lighter.
She goes with a reasonably honest response. “Some men are such teases.”

He puts the cigarette between his lips, and lights it. He inhales, and lets the smoke trail out.

“I’m not.”

She cocks her head, pretending to not believe him, provoking, just a little.

“Show me then.”

He grins around the cigarette. “Where?”

She glances around, and just over her shoulder is a narrow alley. Enough for two people to fit, if grabbing at each other. She looks back at him, indicates with her head.

He nods. “Let me finish this.”

She will. As he draws smoke into his mouth, she walks back to him. He exhales, curious, other hand in his pocket. She stands next to him, her tits angled at his arm, and she reaches down, and cups her hand over his crotch. It takes a moment to find his cock and balls through the denim, but the softness of one and stiffness of the other soon sit in her palm. She caresses, massages, enjoys thinking about the tissue, the sponge-like quality, how the denim might be rubbing against it, the kind of dry friction, for she suspects he is not wearing underwear.

“Mmm… that’s nice… very nice…”

He just stands and lets her touch. He exhales smoke away from her, looks in her eyes, flicks ash away, doesn’t touch her at all. Just lets her do this. Only when she gives it a quick tug does he growl, and his cigarette, almost at the butt, is tossed away.

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Next: 21. Wall

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

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A Night in a Year: 19. Desertion

2013-01-19T16:05:12Z

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.

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Next: 20. Smoke

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A Night in a Year: 18. Grasping

2013-01-18T16:00:34Z

She leaves the bathroom, and the man with the shaggy hair is standing inches from her, eyes still bright, his mouth now parted, determined, and fixed on her. Possibilities widen under his thick curly hair.

“Can I help you?” She lets the words roll out, beckoning for a reaction.

He steps forward, eyes unchanging and she backs up, urges herself away from the Ladies door and into a corner. She’s not afraid, but compelled, intrigued by what he’s doing.

He leans against the wall, hand next to but still some distance from the side of her head. “Think you can give me an eye like that and expect to walk away?”

She gives him a sideways look. “Careful. Next you’ll be telling the cops ‘she had it coming.’ ”

He shakes his head. “It isn’t much fun if they’re not keen.” He serious about that too.

That relaxes her, enough to not be thinking about just how sharp her heels are.

“And you think I’m keen?”

“I think you’re up for just about” – and with his free hand, and takes hold one of her breasts – “anything…”

As he cups it, not squeezing, she is made aware of how her nipples are straining, that they are hard, and would show through her dress if the material were thinner. How long have they been pointed, ready, wanting? That thought doesn’t matter as his fingers fall onto the skin of her cleavage. He marks the shape of her, the roundness, still not gripping her, now just teasing with the promise of pressure. He isn’t so good at hiding his response; she can hear his breathing, practically see the slow releases of air from his lips, but it makes it that much hotter when he presses himself to her, knee between hers, and at last, grasps her whole tit in his hand.

-
Next: 19. Desertion

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A Night in a Year: 17. Bright Eyes

2013-01-17T16:01:09Z

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

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

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A Night in a Year: 16. Retreat

2013-01-16T16:01:20Z

Even under the material, she can feel the sinews of his muscles, a distinction between the top and the underside of his thigh. Soft, yes, but there is also tautness, leanness. The kind of thighs she’ll want to feel naked, to grasp and spread apart when in bed, to sink her teeth into and feel some resistance.

That’s assuming they’ll make it to a bed. She hasn’t quite planned for that. Her own is out of bounds on nights like this.

His fingers have stopped moving on her, and in response, she pauses too. He seems to realise, and he starts tracing again, but he moves further up her inner arm. He finds the dip in her elbow, and floats back down to her wrist. He does it again, the same sweeping motion. For the first time since meeting him, she notices her cunt, and is very aware of her wetness.

She sinks her nails into the furrow of his inner thigh, and moves them too, not quite as sweeping as he. She could go so much closer to his cock and balls, but she will not let herself be so overt. There is little fun in that.

More fun, in fact, if she does this…

She leans closer. “You’ll have to excuse me for a couple of minutes.”

“Oh?”

“Bathroom.”

He sniggers. “We could go togeth—”

She pulls her hand back from him, and her arm, and she finds her handbag. “No. No we won’t.” She stands. He hasn’t move from his hunched over position, as if she could slide her arm right back next to his.

“But I will be back.” She doesn’t say it earnestly or reassuringly, but as if ‘of course she would, what else would she do, you silly man?’ “Mind my shawl.”

-
Next: 17. Bright Eyes

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

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A Night in a Year: 15. Wandering Hand

2013-01-15T16:06:00Z

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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A Night in a Year: 14. Tracing Finger

2013-01-14T16:00:50Z

She flicks her gaze up again, and presses her teeth to her lower lip. His face is insouciance itself, and far too innocent to be up to nothing but wicked purposes. Oh she will be just fine in his hands. Under his hand right now, which is still circling her knuckle.

He traces down her finger, and finds himself stopped by the table from reaching her nail. Carefully, she unfurls her curled fingers, and lets them lie on the table. He is able to raise his eyebrow, and he gives a single, approving nod, and follows the now open line down two more knuckles, and to the cuticles of her nail.

Never had she thought that part of her body could elicit any kind of reaction, except the pain from when she’s nicked one of them cutting her nails. But the light press, the even rhythm of his finger pad, engenders such a lulling that her head begins to swim.

She exhales, and her elbow drops, her other arm resting, almost useless, to one side. His neck cranes up, his teeth showing. His face holds that delicate teasing expression one wears when they have made someone sigh and lose just a fraction of control. Her eye lids want to close, but she doesn’t want to lose sight of him. Particularly when his finger moves away from her cuticle, back up her finger, over her knuckle and the back of her hand, and gently urges her hand to roll over, and he finds the inside of her wrist.

Two fingers now as he marks what must be the lines there, for his moving horizontal across it. Two fingers that bend on the edge of it, curling, and she has to close her eyes to image them inside her. Only brief, for she’ll shudder too much, and that won’t do at all.

-
Next: 15. Wandering Hand

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A Night in a Year: 13. Closer

2013-01-13T16:01:07Z

“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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A Night in a Year: 12. Banter

2013-01-12T16:01:06Z

“I’m friends with flakey people who think that I don’t mind waiting alone for half an hour in the human equivalent of a tropical fish tank.” He eyes the neon light skirting the ceiling. “Bit plastic for me.”

“There’s no water,” she says. “Not really much of a tank without it.”

He holds up his glass. “But plenty to drink, thank Christ.” He swings it back, taking a long gulp. His irritation could get tedious, but she needs to wait a bit longer before dismissing him.

She rolls one shoulder forward, only a little, and says over the bare skin of it, “Perhaps you need new friends.”

He smirks. “Perhaps. And you? You waiting for someone?”

“Someone… interesting.”

“Ah, well. Has he arrived yet?”

She likes how he’s intuited that she’s not waiting for a female friend.

“I don’t know. I could wait for him all night. Or maybe he’s already here…” She lets her voice trail off as her fingers dance around the stem of her cup. She trips them up and down, and she sees that he’s look, and presses harder, like she’s playing with the slenderest of cocks.

The tip of his tongue slips between his lips, briefly, and he rolls back below his teeth, breaking into a light leer.

“I see.” He tilts his head back, eyes a little hooded as he examines her. She doesn’t move, enjoying his gaze, keep her eyes on his when they are not traversing her.

“And what would make a person ‘interesting?’ ”

She shrugs her exposed shoulder. “Depends if he thinks I’m plastic or not.”

A quick chuckle. “Oh, no one would ever call you plastic.” He settles back again, elbow on the table, leaning so his fingers are on his chin, his tongue sliding out again.

What kind of a tongue? she wonders.

-
Next: 13. Closer

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A Night in a Year: 11. Approach

2013-01-11T16:03:19Z

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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A Night in a Year: 10. Examination

2013-01-10T16:01:21Z

So, if this wouldn’t be his usual place, why then?

She rest her chin on her fist. Meeting someone, most likely. A friend? Male or female? Someone more intimate? It’s a night most

He doesn’t look at his watch. Or he hasn’t yet. He’s still casually looking about, a little… perplexed, but not wanting to show it. Even a little irritated.

Well, if he’s been stood up…

Her eyes traverse his body. The suit drapes from him, designer for him. He is not living in dire straits, maybe could afford to buy a round of drinks for everyone present right now. She checks his shoes. Black and chisel-toed. Sharp like the rest of him.

He is not, she thinks, so sharp you could slice your fingers on him. Simply that the lines of him are so defined that there can be no room for fuzziness, for additions to his appearance. What depths there are to him lie in the pockets his coat and jacket, in the bemused scanning he is giving the room. He doesn’t look dangerous, but likely up for some slightly wicked fun.

Slightly wicked will suit her just fine.

Then, swiftly, his eyes catch hers. Like a hook for a fishing line, lashed out across the room. She blinks, and is stunned into stillness.

He knows she’s been watching.

She smooths her hair back, and holds her drink up, winking at him over the rim. And he cocks his head, forming a sardonic, lips-only grin.

She waits for him to break the gaze first. He doesn’t look away, and soon she finds herself in contest with his eyes, who will break first.

That bores her though. She kicks the stool opposite her, so it juts out from the table. Opens the space up to him, to accept or decline.

-
Next: 11. Approach

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