windows and Axel is a gay slag scrawled beneath the elevated road sign. But full of temptation. Well, that was up for debate. Depended if you thought getting whipped and flogged, made to feel powerless and small, was a temptation.
Clearly some people did.
Hastily I typed in Eden Street. Hit search. It came up with a college, a gym and a record store. No mention of any type of sex theatre. And certainly no listings of a nine o’clock showing featuring a tall, Barbie-like beauty flagellating herself to orgasm.
Frustrated, I stood, walked to the window and stared out at the grey London day. The sun barely showed itself this time of year, it was as if a sudden bout of shyness had struck it. Many times, like today, it was hard to even discern its position in the sky. Just a flickering glimpse of a pale orb when the wind blew a thinner patch of cloud over its light.
I gazed at the shiny, wet rooftops and wondered where Zara was now. What she was doing, who she was with.
Did she have a regular job? Perhaps in a call centre, or Starbucks, maybe even in a library. I smirked. Library, no way. She didn’t have one quality a librarian needed. She was loud and crass, she pushed boundaries, delighted in shocking, and I couldn’t imagine for a minute she would read anything that wasn’t about fucking.
Not to mention her clothes. What kind of librarian wore PVC that showed the gusset of her knickers?
My cock stirred. Damn it. I hadn’t wanted to find her so sexy in her slutty clothes and trashy damp panties. But it had appealed to me. I thought I liked nice girls, in pretty white bras and lacy underwear. Seemed I had another side to me that liked the dirty, come-fuck-me look. Girls who flaunted their wares, took what they wanted, and weren’t scared to ask for it.
Who’d have thought?
My mobile rang and, willing my cock to behave, I answered it.
It was my financial advisor wanting to discuss the tax forms.
This would be a long, heavy conversation. Brain ache a guaranteed outcome.
I’d toyed with the idea of being late to pick up Zara. Just to piss her off. But when it came down to it, I was early. So early that I had to sit around the corner for ten minutes so I didn’t appear too eager.
Because I wasn’t eager. Not at all. In fact, I was only keeping my word because that’s the sort of man I liked to think I was. Though if I’d had any choice in the matter I would have stayed at work drawing up the first draft of Mr Sherbourne’s construction. I’d just got into the flow, managed to rid my head of ridiculous sexual scenarios with Zara and in their place see the walls, the lines, the angles of the roof and the practicalities of the rooms. It had been a relief, those hours of forgetting, of not wanting, of not wondering what the hell she was going to do next to shock me, which ultimately seemed to be her goal.
Nine on the dot, I pulled up outside her place and beeped the horn. I wasn’t about to leave the Porsche. This neighbourhood wasn’t as ropey as Eden Street, but I was no risk-taker when it came to the car.
She made me wait for a whole five minutes before she sashayed towards me. She wore a tiny purple skirt that looked like it had been sprayed on and the paint was still wet. She’d teamed it with thigh-high black boots, silver buckles, and a faux-fur leopard-print jacket. Her hair was scraped back, harshly, and a long ponytail hung from the highest point of her head.
She dropped into the passenger seat, long, sexy legs filling the footwell, chilled air gushing in with her.
“Hi, honey, did you have a good day at the office?” she said with a grin then leaned across and pressed a kiss to my cheek. The tip of her nose was cool.
I swiped at the sticky red lipstick I knew would be printed there. “It was different,” I muttered, revving the engine. The meaty tones rumbling through my body gave me a sense of power. I was in control here, I was driving. “Where are we going?”
“I have to work.
Clearly some people did.
Hastily I typed in Eden Street. Hit search. It came up with a college, a gym and a record store. No mention of any type of sex theatre. And certainly no listings of a nine o’clock showing featuring a tall, Barbie-like beauty flagellating herself to orgasm.
Frustrated, I stood, walked to the window and stared out at the grey London day. The sun barely showed itself this time of year, it was as if a sudden bout of shyness had struck it. Many times, like today, it was hard to even discern its position in the sky. Just a flickering glimpse of a pale orb when the wind blew a thinner patch of cloud over its light.
I gazed at the shiny, wet rooftops and wondered where Zara was now. What she was doing, who she was with.
Did she have a regular job? Perhaps in a call centre, or Starbucks, maybe even in a library. I smirked. Library, no way. She didn’t have one quality a librarian needed. She was loud and crass, she pushed boundaries, delighted in shocking, and I couldn’t imagine for a minute she would read anything that wasn’t about fucking.
Not to mention her clothes. What kind of librarian wore PVC that showed the gusset of her knickers?
My cock stirred. Damn it. I hadn’t wanted to find her so sexy in her slutty clothes and trashy damp panties. But it had appealed to me. I thought I liked nice girls, in pretty white bras and lacy underwear. Seemed I had another side to me that liked the dirty, come-fuck-me look. Girls who flaunted their wares, took what they wanted, and weren’t scared to ask for it.
Who’d have thought?
My mobile rang and, willing my cock to behave, I answered it.
It was my financial advisor wanting to discuss the tax forms.
This would be a long, heavy conversation. Brain ache a guaranteed outcome.
I’d toyed with the idea of being late to pick up Zara. Just to piss her off. But when it came down to it, I was early. So early that I had to sit around the corner for ten minutes so I didn’t appear too eager.
Because I wasn’t eager. Not at all. In fact, I was only keeping my word because that’s the sort of man I liked to think I was. Though if I’d had any choice in the matter I would have stayed at work drawing up the first draft of Mr Sherbourne’s construction. I’d just got into the flow, managed to rid my head of ridiculous sexual scenarios with Zara and in their place see the walls, the lines, the angles of the roof and the practicalities of the rooms. It had been a relief, those hours of forgetting, of not wanting, of not wondering what the hell she was going to do next to shock me, which ultimately seemed to be her goal.
Nine on the dot, I pulled up outside her place and beeped the horn. I wasn’t about to leave the Porsche. This neighbourhood wasn’t as ropey as Eden Street, but I was no risk-taker when it came to the car.
She made me wait for a whole five minutes before she sashayed towards me. She wore a tiny purple skirt that looked like it had been sprayed on and the paint was still wet. She’d teamed it with thigh-high black boots, silver buckles, and a faux-fur leopard-print jacket. Her hair was scraped back, harshly, and a long ponytail hung from the highest point of her head.
She dropped into the passenger seat, long, sexy legs filling the footwell, chilled air gushing in with her.
“Hi, honey, did you have a good day at the office?” she said with a grin then leaned across and pressed a kiss to my cheek. The tip of her nose was cool.
I swiped at the sticky red lipstick I knew would be printed there. “It was different,” I muttered, revving the engine. The meaty tones rumbling through my body gave me a sense of power. I was in control here, I was driving. “Where are we going?”
“I have to work.
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