A Modern Day Pygmalion

We all know the story - the man who rescues the woman from the jaws of nothingness by giving her a new voice. That is Pygmalion and is currently on in London.
I'd love to go and see it so that I can lust over the Professor and his Eliza. Sadly one is very gay and one seems to be very heterosexual so it looks as though I might be out of luck.

But wouldn't it have been good if George Bernard Shaw had written about a different type of rescue? Wouldn't it be good if there was a story all about a woman being empowered in her sexuality by a dashing professor who knew just what was wanted to create purpose, excitement and passion in a woman with a redundant libido?

It's a brief story and only a starting point but I hope the reader enjoys the gist.
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Spunkmalion – The Making of a Fair Lady

Like her namesake, Lizzie Dolittle lived in Lisson Grove, only it was certainly more than “fit for a pig to live in”. Eliza lived in poverty. Lizzie didn’t. She lived in one of those delightful Georgian houses just off the main road and not far from the home of cricket. Sitting in her garden, she could hear the crowds or the quiet knock of ball on willow.

Like her namesake, she too sold flowers but not in the markets of New Covent Garden. Hers was a very upmarket little number on the Edgeware Road. The shop was merely an aside for the real work that she did which was to supply and prepare majestic bouquets for conference events at the big hotels in Park Lane. And yet, she would have hated to move into premises that did not enable her to have these links with the public. She was a gregarious and gentle woman and loved to make acquaintances of the repeat customer as well as enjoy general niceties with the passer-by.

Lizzie lived with her husband and her teenage children; a daughter of seventeen and a son of thirteen. It was stable. It was secure. It was probably the same as many other family situations across the capital; comfortable, calm, unconfrontational, staid, unchallenging, unchanged for many years.

Unlike her namesake, Lizzie was not looking for a new life. She was not actively seeking a passer-by to sweep her into a new life but it happened anyway. Retrospectively, she could determine that there were clearly things wrong with her allegedly happy, conformist way of life, because she had the sneaking suspicion that she was more of a free spirit than her lifestyle implied.

Lizzie, if we are being honest, was a little bit of a dreamer.

Lizzie fantasised.

Lizzie watched football on the television and suddenly found her nights consumed with thoughts of getting shagged by the likes of Eric Cantona in a French mansion on the Loire Valley. Lizzie watched a film and imagined being screwed somewhat severely by the likes of Richard Gere on the edge of a cliff with the wind blowing her skirt up to reveal her naked fanny to the awaiting leading man.

Lizzie even watched the news and imagined bouncing up and down on her favourite anchorman’s cock. She fell into frenzied thoughts of fucking the main men in every book she read, whether it was a chick-book or not.

She even had friends that she often thought about fucking and she would push a pillow between her legs to simulate the sensation that she so frequently imagined in these fascinating fantasies.

What she didn’t do was ever imagine wanting to have sex with all of these people. It was just an imagination. Quite frankly, Lizzie couldn’t give a toss whether she ever had sex again. Her libido was in the gutter, where her namesake had come from.

And then he walked into the shop. Her assistant, Jillian, was out at the back and in the middle of preparing an array of red flowers for the Kensington Swimming Club event. She was gathering together some accompanying greenery, and he walked in.

He said nothing at first, just wandered around the shop. He looked at her from time to time but carefully, disguising the fact that he had noticed this woman’s reaction to his presence.

What the fucking hell was happening to her? She couldn’t understand what the hell was going on other than the fact that she felt a sudden desire to find that pillow to stuff between her legs.

Poor Lizzie. She had no idea what was about to happen to her.

Poor Lizzie. Lucky Lizzie.

“I understand you are in the business of preparing decorations for conference events” he eventually said as he walked towards her.

She responded to say that she was indeed in that business and was there something that she could do to assist him.

“I’d like you to come around to my place and see what you can do to liven it up with your expertise”.

Lizzie reached for the diary underneath the counter and shyly responded.

“The 24^th is okay. Jillian could be with you at, say, 11.30?”

“I don’t want Jillian” he said veering his gaze towards the scarlet-filled back room. “I want you”.

For goodness sake, he was only asking her to do a professional job on his conference accommodation but she felt as though someone had been pinning their thumbs onto her clitoris for about an hour. And all of this in a instant! What a ridiculously exciting feeling, and suddenly she wanted the 24^th to be tomorrow.

“And the name?” she asked

“Mike Higgins. Professor Mike Higgins”.

They giggled.

...............................................................................................

The initial meeting at his place was positive. She came along and suggested various changes that he could make to the venue to accommodate her particular area of creative expertise. He smiled, looked on and seemingly noted every movement that she made, every mannerism, every betraying tell-tale sign.

As they talked, did she really notice him looking at her feet and the dark stiletto boots that she was wearing? Was his mind filling with lascivious thoughts or was it just her imagination?

The day arrived when the event was taking place and Lizzie arrived early to fill the room with the sort of collective beauty that Mike had requested. He seemed genuinely delighted with what she had achieved and asked her to join him at the end of the day for a business meeting to discuss further commissions.

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And that was how it all began. A woman who had no intention of embarking on an affair. She had no desire. She thought she had no need and yet she was drawn to this man without reason without comprehending what it was all about.

Oh and she had seriously fucked him, about a week ago. She’d arrived at the event, full of baskets of flowers and garlands ready to drape from the roof. She had tried really hard to make sure the room looked as spectacular as it could be.

Mike walked in and was dazzled by the effect that she had created. He walked towards her, took her hand and they stared around the room together, and then he gently led her into his office and tore her clothes off with a frenzied urgency, sliding his ample cock straight into her cunt; no forethought, no words, just urgent, urgent sex, pounding, orgasmic sex, illicit, daring, delightful sex.

In her fantasy.

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It doesn’t matter how it started. It did. It doesn’t matter where or when. The only thing that Lizzie knew was that she was mesmerised by the sexual excitement that she was feeling despite her natural protestations that she was no longer a libidinous woman. In fact, apart from the fantasies, she wasn’t sure that she ever was!

And yet here she was, holding hands for real with her Professor Higgins, who whispered to her gently. “I’m going to turn you into My Fair Lady!”

She giggled again. “ And how are you going to do that?” she asked.

“I’m going to fuck you and you are going to love it!”

He then reached his arms around her and kissed her in such a way that she felt an inkling of moisture stretching onto her panties.

“What is this all about?” she said, looking at him with unbearable excitement as well as tinge of concern.

“I’m a Professor right?” he asked

“Yes, I had noticed – a professor of anthropology.”

“And more besides” announced Mike.

“The fictional Professor Higgins made his living from mending peoples’ tongues; changing and fine-tuning their accents, touring the country to discuss the linguistic eccentricities of the English language. I make my living from mending peoples’ libidos; changing and fine-tuning their sexuality, touring the country to discuss the functions of the female orgasm, making a significant difference to the wellbeing of women who feel as though they have dried up before they have even started.

Lizzie, I have decided you are going to be a protégé. I am going to reinvigorate your dilapidated libido. I am going to make your pussy come alive. Do you mind me using such words as ‘pussy’ and ‘cunt’?”

Lizzie looked at him in astonishment at his arrogance. Who the fuck did he think he was? What on earth made him think that she was even interested in changing? How much audacity did the man have to think that she needed rescuing from her imposed state of revisited virginity?

Okay, she had slipped into a little bit of passion and fantasy when she met him. Yes, here she was walking down a dimly-lit street on a balmy summer evening, holding hands with a man that was not her husband. Yes, she was excited. Yes, she was sexually stimulated but it didn’t mean that she was going to pursue anything or that she needed to be sexually rescued.

And then he kissed her again, and the dampness between her thighs increased.

She looked at him, deep into his dark eyes and he fixed her gaze on his as his hands as they wandered down her body, tucking themselves into the front of her trousers, desperately seeking the entrance to her vagina with the most subtle of touches.

Lizzie couldn’t believe how much she wanted him to go further, circling his fingers in her cunt. She wanted that now more than she had ever wanted it before. She had no idea what was happening to her body, her mind, her spirit but what she was sure about was that she wanted to experience it again, and soon.

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“Meet me in Richmond, by the bridge, 9pm. x” was the text.

They walked arm in arm, talking about all manner of topics, maintaining a distance from the sex subject.

And then they stopped.

They sat on the bench and she straddled his seat, aware of his rising cock. She felt her arse and knew immediately that she was wearing stockings. Did she want a fuck there and then?

They returned to her car, and he climbed in beside her.

“Relax, enjoy, feel, experience, you fucking gorgeous woman!” he said as he reached over towards her directly towards her cunt, gently yet forcefully pushing his fingers deep inside her towards the spot that he thought had not been properly tampered with for many a year.

She swathe into his embrace, into his mouth, devouring his taste, his kiss, his passion as he went further and deeper into her cunt.

“Relax, enjoy. You need this honey! You’re too good Eliza Dolittle to sit there and ignore the power of your pussy”.

“Lizzie” she eventually managed to force out between the passionate snogging. “Lizzie”

“My Eliza Fair Lady!” he said.

And that point she gasped in apoplexy and delight as she suddenly realised his hands were covered in the most incredible amount of watery substance pouring out of her body. It was as though he had flicked a switch and turned a tap on.

The gear stick was splattered with her cum and she looked in horror at the amount of moisture that had erupted from within her.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry!” she said

“Sorry!” responded Mike “Don’t be sorry – this is what you should be doing. This is what you will be doing every time we make love” he said with such assuredness that she knew it was going to happen.

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She lay down on the floor with her legs wide open.

“Touch yourself” he demanded.

“No, I want you to!” she pleaded. “I want that eruption again!”

“And you shall” he said calmly. “Touch yourself!”

She looked at him expectantly, and he held her hand, and he dragged it towards her cunt and he fed her fingers in and he whispered into her ear to go in deep and feel for her g-spot and he heard her sigh and he felt her relax and he whipped her fingers away, right at the point that she splattered her cunt juices all over his naked chest, through the erection of pink folds of skin that had increased so dramatically at her own fingering.

“Fucking hell!”

She stared at him in astonishment.

“How kind of you to let me cum!” They giggled.

And then he stood above her, knelt down and stuck his cock deep into her juicy cunt and fucked her like she had never been fucked before; deeply, passionately, expertly to the point that her pussy could not stop cascading in multiple orgasms.

At the point of climax, he whipped his cock out and dashed his spunk all over her awaiting face.

She’d never had spunk splashed all over her in that way, and she suddenly realised there was no turning back from this point. She wanted every sexual experience that Mike, and indeed others, was going to offer her.

She realised that her fantasies were merely a prelude of suppression to what she ought to be experiencing. And she was never going to return to being a woman devoid of recognising the needs and desires of her own rather deliciously gregarious cunt.

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Eliza Dolittle lost her life and gained another. Eliza Dolittle lost her way and found another. Eliza Dolittle lost her accent and gained another.

Lizzie Dolittle lost her life and gained another. Lizzie Dolittle lost her way but found another. Lizzie Dolittle lost her accent and gained another; the accent of sex, the accent of stimulation, the act of desire, of lust, of valuing her libido, of wanting sex more than anything else in life, of wanting passion, of being passionate.

And in all of this she lost nothing!

And in all of this she also learned that she was nobody’s Fair Lady. But she did rather like being Mike’s creative protégé.

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“Eliza, where the devil have you put your dildo?!”

“You have no idea how frightfully interesting it is to take a human being and change her into a quite different being by creating a new speech for her. It’s filling up the deepest gulf............” Pygmalion

My “speech” is sex. My voice is Zenpuss and whilst the change was not enforced, it happened nonetheless and there is no return.

No return. You hear?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pygmalion_(mythology)

Embellishment or is it?

READ PART TWO FIRST

Stupefied by arousal, she stood there, staring at the door, clutching yet another piece of paper, wondering if she had imagined that encounter too. But the hurried scribble of an address some mere three miles away showed her that this was no fantasy.
She turned away from the door, slumping into the wall and closed her eyes.

She needed a wank.

The memory of his hardened cock as she sensed its wetness was too much to bear. She clutched herself hard to hold on to the feeling that she was now experiencing, her palm stretched over her pussy and between her thighs, pushing, holding, experiencing. Would it disperse? Could she just ignore this incredibly urgent need to fuck herself?
But was fucking herself enough?
It would have to be.

She returned to her papers and shoved them emphatically into her bag. She gathered her cardigan from the chair and made her way towards the exit.
As she did so, the door opened and he glared at her; no trace of a smile, just an indomitable gaze that she understood.
Without warning, he undid his zip and pulled out his cock, firmly gripping it, rapidly rubbing it until its length was exaggerated with this action. She stared intently as she saw the translucent thread of juice escape, as though making way for the eruption of spunk that was impending. He continued to jerk at himself, clearly energised by the unbelievable situation he had initiated.

She stood before him, out of reach, whilst she watched his sizable cock waggle around irrationally in his grasp. His face was responding to his arousal. Still he stared but a glimmer of a smile was returning to his face.
She lifted her skirt to grab the sides of her panties, and slipped them to the floor. Stepping out of them, she tossed them in his direction, towards the hand that was not consumed with energetic fucking.
Expertly caught, he hoisted them to his face and smothered his nose within the black silk, deeply inhaling her essence, rubbing harder on his reddened cock, madly wanting to fuck her.

She climbed onto the table, resting her arse where her papers had previously been. She opened her legs and gathered her skirt towards her waist, revealing her fanny to him as his eyes darted towards this newly invited territory. She thrust her fingers inside herself and vigorously rubbed, mirroring his urgency. She curved her fingers towards her g-spot, feeling the arousal but knowing that she would have to withdraw in case she wet herself.

He moved towards her, still wanking, pushing her thigh further away from its partner.
He looked intently at the cunt in front of him, and with his free hand, he pulled hers from its hole. Immediately, he sidled his own fingers inside her, replacing her own that now flopped redundantly on the table. Expertly, he curved his long fingers up towards her cervix, tapping forcefully and perpetually on her engorged spot.
She was incapable of controlling herself. Instinctive functions took over. She arched her back, hands behind her as she allowed him to fuck her hard with his fingers, all the time continuing to rub his dick in simultaneous rhythm.

Suddenly, she bit a silent scream and looked down in astonishment to see cascades of water bursting forth, spraying everything in front of her, splashing his clothes, soaking his hand that was still firmly clutching his fucking big cock, saturating his hand that was plugging her gushes.
This was fucking unbelievable.
She’d never cum like this before and she was utterly shocked at the flow from her fanny.

Without warning again, he withdrew his fingers from her cunt, turned in profile to her and continued to ram his hand up and down his cock. With a muted groan, he raised both hands above his head, freeing his dick to spurt its spunk straight across the room in a silvery, slithery stream.
It was the horniest thing she had ever seen and she simply gazed in astonishment at what she had just witnessed.

He slumped down, resting his hands on the chair, curving, head down to take a breath, sighing with overwhelming satisfaction.

Together they paused, collecting their thoughts, allowing their independent orgasms to work their way through body and mind.

Nothing was said.

Eventually, he lifted his head, composed himself and stuffed his flaccid cock back inside his pants, wiping away the remnants of her cum and rezipped his trousers.
He pulled the chair to sit between her still outstretched thighs, and gazed intently at her wet pubes and the darkness of an as yet unseen fuck hole. Placing one hand on her right thigh, he looked up at her and smiled.

“There’s more” he said, eyeing her face and then her fanny. She leant down and kissed him as he brushed her labia aside and poked a solitary finger inside her, feeling her folds of skin engulf it. He moved his mouth from one set of lips to another, and swinged his tongue into action, replacing his sticky fingers in motions that sent waves through her torso. He clipped his tongue on her hood and circled it constantly whilst revisiting her cunt with his fingers.

She was going to cum again, but surely she couldn’t have any more juices left. The carpet beneath her was already speckled with her watery cum; a watery cum that she had never experienced before.

He stood up, and latched onto her mouth whilst delving further inside her to bring her to climax. He moved aside as he felt the engorgement springing to life, and with perfect timing she shot her stuff towards the wall; great, forthcoming gushes splashing everywhere.

Again she looked on in astonishment as he removed his fingers and placed them in his mouth, licking them free of her cum.
His eyes twinkled and his smile grew.

He returned her panties to her, placing them around her ankles and drawing them up her body.
He liked dressing her. He liked the intimacy of putting them back and folding them over her dampened cunt, smoothing them over her arse, clutching it one more time.

They were both standing, holding hands and simply staring.

“I think it is time for bed” he whispered, and with that she grabbed her bag and finally made her way towards the door.

Embellishment Moving Forward

Embellishment Part Two

She calmly walked away, though the stirrings within her were reminiscent of her most adventurous escapades into Fantasyland.
As she traipsed her way along through the dull and dismal streets, her mind was racing ahead of her, thinking about what had just happened and wondering about what she should now do.

She looked down at the card that had been so delightfully placed in her hand.
For crying out loud, what in God’s name did it say? Was it a number one or a number seven? If the writing was so ambiguous, did he really want her to call, or was he just teasing her, tempting her, willing her to do something off the wall, out of the ordinary?

Did he genuinely want to fuck her?

When she woke that morning, nothing could have been further from her mind.
She could not deny that she had felt an instant attraction to this stranger. She could not deny that the short, subsequent visit to his office in the summer had not tempted her further, and she now vividly recalled the holiday musings when she had slipped into a gloriously embellished story of lust and passion and seriously long sessions of love-making.
But that was her fantasy, not his!

Had he too fantasised about her? Had he too thought about running his hands over her pert breasts, carefully sliding his fingers across the buttons of her blouse, surreptitiously undoing them one by one, whilst he stared at her with the fullness of his sensual gaze? Had he too thought about a walk along a dimly lit street where his hand would wander down her back, grabbing onto her arse, thrusting himself against her, so that she too could feel the extent of his desire? Had he too thought about moving his hand to the front of her skirt, tracing her inner thigh from her knee to the line of her panties, stroking his fingers over the indentations of her unshaven pussy?
Had he imagined her willingness to slide his fingers into her panties and into her cunt, where he would instantly feel the juiciness of her desire? Had he imagined her almost desperate need to hold his balls in her hand as she smothered him with urgent kisses?

He can’t have done, and neither had she since that fortnight in the summer warmth. Yet here she was, reliving every detail and wondering whether that magnetic, electrical force that had been so intriguing and acute when their fingers had collided had been so intense because they had both subconsciously been expecting it. They had both been fantasising and the memories of those beautiful imaginations had flooded back at the mere whisper of that touch.

She returned her gaze to the scribbled number in her hand. She was doing it again; embellishing reality. There was no story here. There was nothing to be pursued. She’d misheard him. She’d been talking about her deadline and all he had done was wish her luck. But then again, surely she was more discerning than that. Surely she wasn’t daft enough to mistake the word “luck” for “fuck”! The thought of such an error was school boy humour; ridiculous.
And even if she had misheard, how could she then try and explain the urgency of the tug on her elbow, and the sincerity in that stare that so clearly suggested the necessity of intimacy?

She walked back to the office and threw herself dramatically into the aforementioned deadline piece of work, hardly pausing to breathe let alone consider the quandary that she had in front of her.
She slipped away from the office in the later hours of the evening, arriving home too late to take any forceful action in the pursuit of this situation.

She’d sleep on it.

Only of course, sleep was far from her mind as she unclipped her bra and removed her pants. She delved under the pillow for her nightshirt but as she did so, she paused. Sitting on her bed, she straddled her legs and looked down at the mass of hair between her thighs. She raised her hand from where it was resting and stroked the silky threads of pubic hair in a downward direction, finding the indent that invited wandering hands towards her clitoris. She held her forefinger forcefully against the button and with some strength, rolled her finger from left to right over her hood.
Her other hand emerged from the pillow and clasped a sizeable handful of tit, and she longingly circled the circumference of her nipple, gently gliding towards its peak.
Aroused and stimulated, anticipating more, she lay down on the bed, widened the angle of her legs and allowed her fingers to run from the hood that she had been rubbing to thrust her labia apart. She was unsurprised to feel the moisture that was sticking itself to her fingers as they manoeuvred around inside.
She delved further in, and curved her finger right around, as though she was searching for her hood again, only from within.
A sudden surge of sensitivity shocked her, and she quickly pulled her fingers away, waiting for her body to resettle. Then she turned on her tummy, stuffed the pillow between her legs and humped away till her clit was successfully stimulated and she felt that beautiful tingle submerge her into her very favourite fulfilled state.

She lay there for a minute or two, naturally seeing him holding her elbow as her cum took over, and once her orgasm had subsided, she flopped onto the pillow and slumped into post cum divinity.

As ever, after a short while, her need for the toilet levitated her from her naughtiness and through her swollen pussy, she relieved herself, wondering why she always needed to pee so soon after having an orgasm – such was her naivety, such was her best sexual experiences being of the mind rather than the physical.

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A month passed. She needed to talk to him about the joint piece of work that their companies were working on but it wasn’t vital. Before Christmas, she decided a friendly seasonal greetings was called for, and she tentatively fingered the keys of her phone, recalling the private office number that he had given her.

Yet again, there was genuine delight in his tone as he expressed the surprise of hearing from her. They talked for some twenty minutes in the most pleasant of tones. He listened to her stories of deadlines and politics. He told her of his Christmas shopping process and she laughed at the similarity to her own frenzied last minute rush. The ease and flow of the conversation reiterated every thought that she had conjured up in her frequent fantasies about this man. There was something instinctive about their interaction; still relative strangers yet some indescribable bond, something unsaid, something that even without the eye contact, even without the accidental brushings was most apparent.

More holiday time, more erotic fantasies, more waiting.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

“For goodness sake, phone me tonight, I need to fuck you!”

How fucking stupid had she been, on every level. If she had misheard, then why had he looked at her in that way? He’d clearly meant what he had said, and she had chosen to be coy, to be bashful in spite of the fact that she had wanted this man more than she could describe.
Why the hell hadn’t she phoned him? What had stopped her, prevented her other than her utter disbelief that this gorgeous man could possibly be attracted to her?
What would she have lost by phoning him when he actually wanted her to do so? Even if he had changed his mind, she didn’t know him. Her life would not have been damaged by the inevitable rejection.

And now, she was here, about to meet him once more, knowing that she had missed an opportunity, thinking that by now he was sure to have found someone else to fuck.

To simply ignore the fact that he had been honest enough to convey his desire was unforgivable, and now, she wanted him so badly, and second chances such as these just don’t happen. The man had his pride, damn it.

She came out of the shower and slid the towel over her damp body. She walked towards the mirror and glanced down at her nakedness. Her hands followed the natural contours of her curves and she levelled herself, hands on hips, unable to avert her stare from the bushy cunt in front of her. A slight moisture, distinct from the remnants of shower water, was stirring within her but there was no time to meander in that direction.
She wrapped the bra around her waist and connected the eye holes together. Twisting her bra around, she pulled the black silk over her tits, and moulded them into their home for the day. She then slid her thumb down her cleavage and smiled.
A black vest followed and the lacy crème top was buttoned above. The trousers were replaced in the cupboard and the long, black skirt was removed. She placed the skirt alongside her as she moved towards the new packet of barely black stockings.
Carefully she unwrapped these delicate garments, and slipped them over her toes, gradually allowing them to engulf her calves and knee and thighs.
The elasticity clung to her left leg and she repeated the sensuous act on her right one, finally lifting the skirt from its resting place and stepping into it.
Clad in black boots and a long crème cardigan, she set off for the meeting.

There was no sign of him. The meeting needed to start. She’d carefully placed herself at the back of the room, deliberately ensuring that she sat far away from the place where the hands had collided.

The meeting began.

The door opened and in walked her colleague, the one who had told her that he “had history”.

The disappointment was insurmountable.

She continued to open the meeting, explaining that the agenda needed to be adhered to as there was plenty to discuss. Her colleague was grabbing a coffee and was walking towards the empty seat next to hers, when he opened the door and darted in front of her to edge his way towards the vacant chair.
Vacant chair was a good description.
All rationality had vacated this particular chair as she shifted some papers to allow him some space. He sat down, acknowledging her gaze and she proceeded as she was directed to do.

There was no accidental brushing of fingers, or hands. There was no need, for as he placed himself on his seat, he edged a little closer; close enough for their parallel knees to sidle together. He dropped his hand to his side and carefully laid it in her lap, and squeezed her knee with a telling sign that all was well, all would be fine.

He stared intently at her. He allowed others to see his admiration. She engaged in this obvious flirtation, though such an overt action was not required.

The meeting ended and they were nearly alone, at the back of the room, unable to talk, unable to move, willing people to leave the room.
He tugged on her skirt and pulled it towards her seat, revealing the black stockings that had clearly been warn in anticipation.
He dramatically pressed his hand on the rim and thrust his thumb below, sharply and sensitively stroking her upper thigh.

Alone at last, he rose and moved towards the door, his hand firmly gripping hers insisting that she follow his pace.
The thick door was shut and he leant against it, still not speaking, still not looking at her until he was sure that he could in the way that he wanted to.

He pulled her towards him and he firmly clasped her buttocks, feeling around her hips, moving his hand over and over her arse, pulling her closer. He moved his hand around towards his cock, lifting it in its aroused state to the centre of his trouser, behind the rigidly closed zip, so that she could feel the full benefit of its hardness as he asked her to push her clit towards him.

They kissed as he found the entrance to her body, riding his hand up her shirt towards the silky bra, snapping its sides away from the dark nipples beneath. He pulled at her vest until he had sight of her voluptuous tits and he moved his tongue expertly towards their erection.

He grabbed her hand and guided it into his pocket so that she could feel his cock through the thinnest of material. The moistness of his helmet was seeping through and her own wetness increased at the mere thought that he too was as wet and lubricated as she.

“I told you I wanted to fuck you. I need to fuck you. Can’t you feel this? Can’t you feel what is happening here?”

He kissed her passionately, forcefully, energetically and suddenly stopped.
He held her by the shoulders and stared into her awaiting eyes.

“Phone me. No, don’t phone me. Just come”

And with that, he scribbled on yet another white card and placed it in her hand, grabbed the door handle and left.

Embellished Meetings: A Scene Setter

Embellished Meetings: Scene setting.

She dashed out of the car and crossed the busy street; late again. How was it that she always mistimed the journey even though she knew she could not get there in twenty minutes flat, despite her determination to speed to the best of her car’s capability, forgetting of course, that it is not possible in this implausibly stationary city?

The tardiness was not going to deter her enlivened spirits. The day was bright. The sun was incredibly powerful and the summer holidays were but a few small hours away.
This was the last meeting that she would have before she could pack her bags and disappear in a week’s time, and she was thoroughly looking forward to a fortnight of sunshine (told you it was embellished!).

She ran along the street, crossing the road towards the river and skipped into the building as she watched the water rippling its way downstream, aiming to escape to the open seas, just as she was about to do.
The usual tedious crowd were not going to diminish her joie de vivre either. She was determined that this would be a focused and swift meeting and thankfully, as chair, she had the ability to control the conversations and keep things as orderly as possible.

With a natural and unrestrained smile on her face, she breezed into the meeting room, exclaiming profuse apologies for the ten minute delay and cheerfully placed her belongings on the table.
The smile remained, fixated and bordering on inane and she maintained this for fear of giving herself away. Her eyes twinkled and fleeted across the boardroom, pretending to flow around the entire room, yet firmly maintaining the newcomer in her sphere of vision.
Continuing to settle herself in, she arranged the glass of water and composed herself, trying again to ensure that her body language was not revealing the fascination she felt for this stranger that stood out so spectacularly amongst the usual suspects.

Introductions were done and she still didn’t manage to catch his name, so mesmerised was she by this weird, unfamiliar and indescribable fluttering in her stomach.
The inane grin remained and she professionally and logically pursued the purpose of the moment; to conduct the meeting quickly, carefully and take her leave as soon as was convenient and politic to do so.
But of course, the cronies wanted to talk. They wanted to strategise and meander around, justifying the enormous time and expense of sitting all day discussing and debating rather than getting any real actions to take place. They wanted to summarise and reflect, which is all very well if there is anything of any worth to reflect upon.

And the newcomer simply sat; his eyes focussed downwards as though he was disinterested in this office politics, as though he was indifferent to the entire proceedings.

She controlled the meeting, ignoring the mutterings of her inner wishes, and attempted to conclude the discussions once more. Another meeting was suggested, another meeting at the earliest opportunity. Next week, just before she was due to go on holiday.
Damn her bloody sense of duty. She’d have to attend. She had the most important contacts and the vital information.
Reluctantly, she agreed and a venue was discussed, stating for all to know that she was interrupting her holiday for the greater good.
Finally, the stranger raised his head and nonchalantly stated that his office in the city was available on the suggested date, and looking directly at her with glistening eyes and a solid stare, informed her that some people worked without the need for immediate vacations.
He then raised a smile that seeped into her and she wondered why. Smiling back, she acknowledged the virtue of the vocational and agreed that his office should be the place to conclude this meeting.

Collecting her belongings together, she relieved herself from her plastic seat and made her way towards the door. Brushing passed her as she said her goodbyes; he simply walked by, grinned and said, “Well chaired!”
And he was gone.

Of course you know all about him don’t you, said one of the cronies. A woman like you should tread very carefully there.
What on earth was that supposed to mean?
She walked towards the car slightly unsettled by the newcomer, his stare, his eyes and the comments from this colleague.
How could she know his “history”? She’d never set eyes on him before, and quite frankly, she wasn’t interested in knowing anything about his life. All she was interested in was why she was feeling so entranced by what had just happened. What indeed had happened? It was hardly a momentous meeting. He’d barely raised his head out of his papers and when he did, he had spoken so softly in such a non-committal way that she wasn’t really convinced that he was remotely interested in this area of work.

She drove away, winding the windows of the car right down so that she could be smothered by the freshness of the summer breeze, and the other thoughts in her mind could swiftly float out in the opposite direction.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………..

The city was hot. When the city is like this, there is no escape from it. The buildings monopolise and crouch over you, robbing you of air, whereas in the winter months they create a passage way for violent, biting winds to sever the hairs from your neck.
People were milling around all over the city, darting into the anonymous offices, dashing to the perplexingly omnipresent corporate coffee houses that had bred in every orifice during the last few years.

She found the office with ease and walked into what could only be described as a perfect haven in this madness of the mundane. Care had been taken to consider the people who used this building; their needs, their enjoyment, their belonging. A sense of positivity, of warmth, of thought oozed out from every plant and every artefact. Someone cared. Someone had created this oasis and their very essence was embodied in the fabric of the building and its furnishings. Their very self was evident in the manoeuvrings of the clients and employees alike. Somebody cared.

She’d found out the newcomer’s name once she had arrived back at her office to say goodbye before she ventured off to her holiday destination. One of her colleagues had visited the City Dweller in these enlightened environs but she hadn’t asked about him. There was no need, no desire.
She’d dismissed the fluttering stomach and the irrational fascination as pre holiday excitement. That was all it was.

Until he smiled at her once more.

There was genuine warmth in his greeting, and she was shocked at how much that meant to her. You’re one of us, he said, still smiling, as she recognised the familiar accent of her childhood.
I thought I had taken the burr out. I thought it had died from twenty years away.
Not to one who lives there, lived there he said, again, smiling with every distinct feature on his face. Dialect and intonation are your giveaways.

The meeting surpassed expectations both in time and resourcefulness. Conclusions were swift. Agreements made and it was soon time to depart, and really set about that fortnight’s holiday.
Enjoy the break, he said. He too was taking some leave but later in the month. We all need down-time and a place to simply be.

……………………………………………………………………………………………….

Some would say that her indulgent imagination was her nemesis. Some would argue that she drifted all too readily into a fantasy world that was far removed from reality and that her fondness for the fabricated was senseless. But she liked living there. She always had done.
Her childhood was written into the stones that formed her imaginary castles, her adolescence was reinforced with great escapes to the unknown territory of dark lovers in far off places, her classroom thoughts drifted into expanding real situations into absurd and exciting possibilities that were never, ever going to happen. Throughout her adult she had slipped into her wild imaginings whenever she felt the need. It was these thoughts that excited her more than reality. It was these indulgences that made her want to touch herself. It was these unreal happenings that made her cum.

She’d had many positive relationships with many pleasant blokes but the really horny, downright sexual, the totally liberating and sensual pleasures, well these had mainly come from the unreal.
She’d had sex in a terraced swimming pool with a hefty, blond, blue eyed lover, who didn’t give a damn if anyone was watching them. He had to fuck her there and then, and the invited guests simply smiled. She’d transferred herself into a known film or book, playing out the sexually explicit parts, and if they weren’t there, she’d make them up, embellishing the story, just as she was doing now.
For on that holiday, she had a few joyous cums thinking about the stranger and his suggestive smile.

But it was fantasy. It really was, and she left her thoughts behind as she packed her suitcase and returned to the City.

He fucked her rather well though.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………

Months passed, nearly three months in fact, and the stranger did not enter her head. She passed the office a few times, and smiled at the memory of her fantasising during the summer months. But the howling wind as it rushed through the gulley’s, void of warmth, brought her back to reality.

And talking of back to reality, she returned on a wet November day, with Christmas looming ever nearer, to the offices by the river for another meeting with the cronies that had gathered there on that hot summer’s day.
He’d missed the previous meeting and she had no expectation of him being there, and as she approached the room she felt at ease, indifferent to his presence.
She walked in, early for once, and set about convening the meeting. A few last minute arrivals and they would start in due course.

He walked into the room and grabbed a coffee from the machine. She approached him, asking for a document that had appealed to her, wondering if she could have a copy. He suggested that she should call in to his work and grab it from a colleague, maybe after this very meeting. He informed her that he would have to leave the meeting early as he had another appointment that could not be missed.
And as they took their drinks to the table, they sat down next to one another and got on with the task in hand.
Matter of fact; no fantasy, no musings and thoughts of kinky encounters, and that was fine.

The meeting was running smoothly. Discussions were to the point and she sat back, composed and assured that it did not need her interference or manipulation.
She picked up her pen to take note of a particularly important reference, and in the slightest of seconds, the merest movement, a miniscule moment of intimate touch had taken place.
She stared fixatedly at the paper in front of her, unable to move her hand away from the very spot where their little fingers had accidentally meshed for that incredibly short instance. She felt the redness rushing through her face and she was rigid with numbness, unable to look forward, unwilling to move her head towards the culprit yet simultaneously completely aware that he too was mirroring her thoughts and motions. Although their fingers had long since parted, the scolding sensitivity of the contact was still there, not painful yet paralysing, and a stillness had transcended.

The motley crew jabbered away but for that split second, there was nobody in the room other than these two people, this man and this woman who had just felt one another’s skin for the first time.
Still silent, still sensitised, still motionless, she was suddenly increasingly aware of the proximity – to his legs, his hands, his breath.
Without looking down, she felt his presence. Without any more touches, she felt his awareness of her thoughts and she didn’t know what to do.
She wasn’t panicked, she was just immensely aware that something had happened in the mere mishap of those colliding fingers.

On auto-manoeuvre, she gradually replaced her pen and slid her hand onto her thigh, trying to compose the irrationality of her imagination. Without looking, she knew he was mirroring her actions and then, with a determined force, he reached over and smothered her hand with his, crunching in into a fist, enveloping this cluster with his palm and squeezing it knowingly.
He moved away from this clutch and gracefully swept his hand across her thigh to resettle in his own lap, and still they stared at the papers in front of them.

In a daze, she continued about her task. She was chairing a meeting for goodness sake, and she emerged from this shock to ask a significant question that gave the impression her concentration had not been deterred.
He moved his hands and collected his papers together, writing a simple note as he rose from his chair.
“I have to go”, he whispered as he left his seat, leaving the small scrap of paper in front of her.

She smiled and thanked him for coming and returned to the meeting, unable to look at the note, unable to do anything other than work through the remainder of the agenda.
Again, on auto pilot she concluded the meeting, and imitated his last motion, collecting her papers together and taking her leave.

“Come to the office, straight away”.

That was what the note said. And there was absolutely no question as to whether this was feasible or indeed as to whether she would.
The magnetism of that miniscule moment had already paved the way for an immediate encounter, whatever shape it took.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………….

“Glad you could make it over……. I want you to meet someone”.
Meet someone, she thought. Was that why I dropped everything to wander over here?

“And I have that paper you were interested in. I hope you will find it useful”.

A bizarre meeting ensued with almost complete detachment from the previous encounter when a surge of energy had surrounded and engulfed them. Could he really have been oblivious to what had happened? Had she actually imagined his hand stretched out across her fist?

Professional business ensued, and with the third party present, they continued in a classic work mode that had hardly been present an hour or so ago.
On completion of the suddenly arranged meeting, he suggested a walk to the nearest coffee bar, and in a bewildered sense of dumbfoundedness, she obliged.
More small talk occurred, but with a greater sense of meaning. They wittered on, talking like people who have just met do; finding commonalities, asking knowing but not pervasive questions of one another.
He paid for the coffee and got up from his seat. There was determination in its conclusiveness. He needed to get back to work.
She still had the unasked question protruding from her mouth, but he was not giving cause for her to spit it out.
She was going to disappear not knowing whether her stupid imagination had spilled into a real setting. Perhaps she really had imagined everything.

At the exit, she turned away to walk back to her office. The rain was intermittently splattering them as they talked some more for a few minutes before the rain finally put paid to the encounter.
Bizarrely, her unease at the inconclusiveness of this meeting had disappeared, and she was happy to turn away.

In doing so, he gently caught her elbow and brought her closer to him, near enough to kiss her on the cheek but a mile or so away from doing just that.

With his other hand, he reached into his pocket, and gave her his card. She moved away and glanced at the small note in front of her. Quickly, he retracted it, taking a pen from his inner pocket and scrawling another number on the back of the card.

“ My home number….. safer than the office ones……. Phone me……….tonight”.

She looked up at him, as he replaced his hand on her inviting elbow. Again, he pulled her slightly towards him.

“For goodness sake, phone me, tonight. I need to fuck you!”