It was cold when I left the nightclub. I’d barely made it down the steps towards the waiting line of taxis and I was already regretting my big girl decision to come out without a coat. Who wears an obscenely short dress and heels in January? Oh wait…I do…that’s who…For fucks sake.
Teetering on shaky legs that may have had one too many, I managed to make my way with some degree of dignity in the direction of the awaiting vehicles when I felt a hand touch my elbow.
I knew it was him. I’d seen him once or twice inside and although he didn’t approach me to make small talk about the weather or ask how my week had been, I knew he’d seen me too. I’d caught his gaze on both occasions and, even from across a crowded room with music so loud it boarded on being abusive, there had been a beat between us. There always was.
If I’m honest, I hadn’t expected him to find me outside. I’d not seen him for at least an hour and I figured I’d missed any opportunity to see him again that evening. Turns out he’d been waiting for me to leave.
As much as I hated to admit it, I enjoyed this little game we played. The tease and the chase. It was the perfect tautology. It was exactly what it was.
“You’re walking home,” he told me in no uncertain terms. I didn’t bother to argue. I’d tried in the past, but he had always managed to sway my decision and I somehow always ended up in an alleyway, somewhere between the nightclub and my house, with my skirt hitched up.
“You cold?” he asked, with the doors of the nightclub a few paces behind us, weaving me around the gathering group of taxi-waiters.
“Freezing!” I replied, wrapping my arms around my shoulders in a vain attempt at garnering some warmth.
He put his arm around me and I felt instantly warmer.
I tried to concentrate on balancing in four inch heels after one too many vodkas, I was doing pretty well, at least well enough for him not to have noticed I was struggling. If he did, he didn’t say anything. He had other things on his mind; like finding the closest footpath between the rows and rows of terraced houses that would lead us behind to the silent, pitch black alleyways and the back gates of gardens.
It’s a strange feeling to be willing prey, perfectly aware of your fate, and at the same time, perfectly accepting of it. I relish that feeling. I thrive on it. I like being hunted, even if this particular hunter knows I’m easy game. There was something about him. About the way he looked at me, the way he handled me, the way he took control and not for one second let me think that I had any power in this little exchange, whatsoever.
There’d be no seduction. There rarely was. To be honest, I didn’t need seducing. I was completely under his spell from the minute his hand touched my arm. Fuck…from the minute his eyes caught mine in that orgy of party goers.
No conversation. He didn’t even bother to try and lull me into any false sense of security anymore. We were way beyond that at this point and as he turned me sharply around an unsuspecting corner, I felt myself get a little dizzier at the thought of what was about to come. A little wetter. A little more unsteady on my feet.
Away from the glare of the street lights, as the blackness started to envelope us both, I knew I had but a few short minutes if I was going to change my mind. If I’m being completely honest, I contemplated it for a second or so, I often did. But before my mind had a chance to formulate any rational reason as to why I shouldn’t be there I felt the cold hard frontage of a brick wall hit my back, and his mouth was on mine.
And I was lost.
I couldn’t escape now if I wanted to; stuck, almost literally, between a rock and a ‘hard’ place, as he pressed his body against mine and the chill from the damp wall behind me met the heat from his warmth at my front.
Hands skim my waist and continue down to the hem of my skirt, lifting it easily and exposing me to the cold air, a sensation that both tortures and teases me at the same time. His lips move to my neck and his breath against my skin, as his fingers slip beneath the fabric of my black satin underwear, pulling it to one side, is more than enough to elicit a quiet moan, inviting more.
Not enough for him. He wants to hear me.
He teases and toys with silken lips, daring me to beg for his fingers inside me, his mouth barely brushing the sensitive flesh just below my ear.
Of course I concede. Willing prey, remember?
My hands move quickly to the top of his jeans and I let my fingertips slip inside the taught denim, tracing the line from his hips to the centre, pulling him in closer as I go and finally finding the cool metal of a belt buckle that is quickly undone and pulled apart.
He continues his torturous tease with a smile on his lips; I can feel it against my neck as I undo the buttons and yank down just enough to free his throbbing cock, waiting impatiently to be stroked.
And at that precise second he decides to reciprocate, as my hand grasps the base of his thickness he pushes easily inside me with two fingers, exhaling loudly as his mouth clamps down on my neck.
It’s not frantic, it’s not slow, it’s rhythmic.
No sound, but that of our synchronised, heavy breathing.
My hips mirror the movements of his hand and all too soon, it’s not enough. I need more. I need him.
I lift one, high heeled foot, and wrap my leg around his hip; an invitation that isn’t ignored as his hand leaves me and grabs my thigh and I feel the cool imprint of wet fingers against my skin.
He’s inside me in one, hard, precise movement, knocking the breath out of me and beginning the animalistic onslaught that has the wall grazing the small of my back, leaving bruises and scratches that I know will be there for days. A souvenir of just another of our liaisons.
Every time is just as carnal as the last. Just as hungry. Just as driven by the desire to fuck the living hell out of me.
He cums loudly, heavily, inside me, with his last few thrusts, slowed down by the need to feel every euphoric ripple fully.
It’s almost amusing, how he gingerly replaces my underwear to its correct position, my pussy soaked from myself, and now him, with a wry smile on his face as he looks me in the eyes for the first time since we were in the club and then gently tugs my skirt back down.
He steps back, admires the sight that is me, fucked and dishevelled, still leaning against the brick wall, and holds out his hand for me to take.