What a long week. Work has been stressful, busy, intense. As usual, you found yourself wishing for more hours in the day, especially since you have been chatting to this new guy into the small hours of every single night. You met briefly, for coffee, the week before, but despite the immediate physical attraction, prior commitments prevented a second meeting.
The nocturnal blend of sexually charged banter and intelligent conversations has obliterated any doubts as to whether the attraction extends beyond the physical realm. All through the week, you kept finding yourself wondering what it would be like to meet in more intimate surroundings, the mere thought invariably leaving you flushed, yearning, moist.
Late in the afternoon, you receive a message that the birthday party you were to attend tonight had been cancelled and immediately, as if by reflex, send him a text, asking to let you know whether he was free to meet this evening. While the day draws to its hectic close, your hand, almost like it has a life of its own, keeps checking your phone for messages, only to have it mock you with its colourfully barren display.
Finally you are able to leave the office. It is nearly 9pm as you make your way to the tube, feeling exhausted, despondent, disappointed. Like a conveyor belt of revellers, the car is busy dispersing people throughout town on their way to a night out, dressed to impress and smiling at the prospect of the next few hours. You find their excitement stifling and quite annoying. Your mind wanders, trying to imagine how the evening might have turned out. Instead you force yourself to think of the hot shower and bottle of Italian red waiting to offer you a modicum of comfort and consolation.
Ascending from the tube, your sensible heels click on the pavement as the cold night air assaults you, jolting you from your reverie and firmly urging you to walk faster. As you pick up the pace, thoughts turning back to the warm water about to wash away the week and drive out the chill slowly invading your bones, the sound of an incoming text stops you in your tracks. Suddenly your heart is racing as you reach inside your bag for the phone, fingers fumbling to unlock it and open the message.
The text simply reads, “I want you”.
A huge, uncontrollable grin spreads across your face and you start to practically run home while attempting to respond. “I will be there in an hour” is all you manage, balancing your overwhelming desire to see him with as strong a need to be at your best.
Booking a cab to pick you up in forty-five minutes is accomplished just before you burst into your flat, a trail of discarded clothes marking the route from the front door to the bathroom. You have no time to luxuriate in the wet caress of the shower. It is only a means to an end now, a fact which brings purpose and economy to your movements. Your fingers work the tropical flowers scented shampoo into your hair with the urgency and determination of a factory drone, and you meticulously but swiftly lather every inch of your soft skin as if attempting to replace it with similarly fragrant soap.
The huge, soft towel thirstily drinks the moisture as your wrap your tingling skin in it.
Fortunately, your hair looks its best whilst wet, so instead of using various heat emitting torture devices to temper it, a thorough application of your favourite moisturiser follows. The two days old Hollywood feels smoothly delectable as your fingers massage the cream onto your pussy, which, you are not at all surprised to find, is literally dripping in anticipation.
After spending another ten minutes expertly enhancing your natural beauty with subtle strokes of makeup, you put on your sexiest lingerie set, a tiny, black g-string and matching lacy demi bra. A pair of black, open toed five inch stilettos completes the look, allowing you to examine yourself in the mirror, delighting in the firm, feminine curves and the overwhelming sensuality oozing from every pore, follicle and orifice, almost like it had a life of its own. Finally, a long, thick coat serves for protection and camouflage and you are ready to embark on your journey of sexual awakening.
This time the cold embraces you like a long lost friend, you relish in its freshness and the promise it brings. As you open the cab door and climb in, you automatically note the lustful look in the eyes of the driver as he examines you in his rear-view mirror, his sly smile betraying years of experience transporting passengers intent on the night of debauchery ahead of them. This, however, does not stop him from navigating the busy streets of London, while you lose yourself in thoughts of what is to come, some primeval voice deep inside you telling you to expect a completely new experience, as reason and past disappointments battle to silence it to no avail.
After what seems like a blink of an eye, the driver snaps you out of your trance by announcing that you have arrived at your destination. You hand him a note and mumble for him to keep the change as you step outside, failing to notice his lecherous grin and completely oblivious to the freezing temperature.
The Victorian street is deserted, but you only need to take a few steps to the white front door. As the cab pulls away, the distance to the building suddenly seems astronomical as doubts and fears battle for ascendancy. You take a deep breath, willing the icy air to clear your mind. It is almost exactly an hour since you sent the text as you climb the five steps leading to the front door. The second you press the intercom, the door buzzes open and you step into the brightly lit hallway. The noise of a key turning and a lock unbolting draws your attention to another door in front of you and you take a few steps towards it as it swings open.
