To A Woman With Another Life

Meet me.

A large town, a convenient city. We can check ourselves into a double room in some nondescript, corporately-favoured hotel. Somewhere reputable and unassuming. Functional. The ideal location in which two people embarked upon a surreptitious assignation can blend into the background.

Wear a dress, or a blouse and a long flowing skirt. High-heeled shoes, or maybe knee-high boots. Choose lingerie that leaves you feeling at your most desirable, sensual, wanton. Please don’t omit the sheer stockings. You see, I have this image of you in my mind, flowing into the lobby, turning heads everywhere with your poise, your beauty, your quintessential femininity. I’m not trying to control; I know that this is about reality, a reality that can impose constraints. But this was a fantasy first, and I want to preserve every detail, every nuance that made those delicious longings so enticing for us both.

Let’s have drinks in the bar, something strong to still our jangling nerves. I want to look at you across a narrow table, across the rim of my whisky tumbler. I want to really look at you, for you to do same with me. I want us to savour the anticipation, to absorb the electricity hanging in the air. Would you like another drink? We’ve been snared in this delicious web of lust and desire. Please don’t falter now. Not when we’re so close.

Hopefully, they’ll have given us a room away from the elevators, the stairwells, the thoroughfares. I don’t want us to be distracted by anything, not for a second. When we close that door behind us, I want us to lock the real world outside. This is our time. No one else is invited.

Should we leave the curtains as they are, wide open? I want to be able to see you clearly, every last inch of you. I want to drink in the beauty of your flesh. Perhaps it would be better to draw them though, to leave the illumination to the bedside lamps? Would you mind switching them on while I pull these shades? There. Now we really are alone. For the next few hours, our world will be this room.

There’ll be a bottle of champagne in the room, chilled Veuve Cliquot. Do you want a glass now, or would you prefer to wait?

Maybe we’ll stand awkwardly together in the centre of the room, eyes locked together, waiting, anticipating, desiring. Perhaps I’ll reach out, brush your long hair back from the side of your face with my fingers. Will the touch of my fingertips against your cheek electrify, or repulse? I hope that it’s the former. I hope that it makes you step forward, lift your face towards mine, press your full, soft lips to my own. First kiss. My mouth will instantly turn paper dry as our lips merge and meld. A long, slow, soft kiss, passionate yet patient, both of us savouring that first point of contact, relishing the rush of adrenalin, of desire through our bodies. Would you resist if I drew you closer, so that your body was pressed against mine? So that I can feel your full breasts yielding against my chest? So that you can feel my growing hardness against your taut belly?

I want to undress you first. I want to slowly unzip your dress, or unbutton your blouse and your skirt, and slip them from you. I want to let your garments slide down your body with a delicious hiss, have them pool about your feet, leaving you standing before me in your lingerie. Wasn’t that one of your fantasies? To stand before me in just your panties and your stockings, with me fully clothed, watching you, talking to you in deliciously explicit detail?

Is that what you really want, for our very first time?

Then you shall have your desire.

Let me sit down in one of these chairs, so that I can watch you raptly.

“Take off your bra. I want to see your breasts.”

You reach behind yourself, unclip the hook-and-eye fastening of your brassiere, ease both straps from your shoulders and slip them down your arms. Your bra falls softly to the floor. Fantasy fulfilled. Here you are, wearing naught but your panties and your stockings. And here I am, fully dressed, gazing at you intently, impatiently. Insatiably.

All that’s missing is the deliciously explicit conversation.

“You’re very, very beautiful. Gazing at you when you look like that makes me desire you even more. I want to come to you now, to gently cup your breasts in my hands. I want to feel the way your flesh moulds itself to my grasp, to marvel at how hard your nipples feel against the centres of my palms. Would you like me to do that?”

“But I want to do more than just that. Much more. I want to bow my head to your bosom, to press my lips against your breasts, your nipples. I want to trace the contours of your soft flesh with the tip of my tongue. I want to circle those hard peaks of desire until your flesh gleams. I want to suckle on you, draw your nipples into my mouth one by one, flicker my tongue across them, enflame and tantalise that delicious link they enjoy with your clitoris.”

“Do you want that too?”

“And what then? Would you like me to pick you up into my arms, to lay you gently across that big bed behind you? Would you like me to hook my fingers into the waistband of your panties and slowly draw them down your long, slender legs? Would you like to be stretched out before me, naked save for your stockings, with me, still fully dressed, gazing down at your beauty? Would you like me to rain soft kisses down upon your flesh? Your face? Your neck? Your shoulders? Your arms? Your breasts? Your nipples? Would you like me to kiss your feet, to suckle on your toes one by one? To trail my kisses along your calves, the insides of your thighs, working my way ever upward?”

“Would you like to feel my hands against your legs, my fingers teasing and caressing your soft skin as I gently but irresistibly ease your thighs wide apart? How will it feel to have me gaze upon your sex? How will it be to have my lips press against your mound, your loins, the insides of your thighs, endlessly circling the centre of your pleasure? Will your body shift, try to guide my mouth to where you want it to be, need it to be? Will you beg me to kiss you? Lick you? Taste you? Will you stiffen when you feel my warm breath against your sex? Will you gasp when you feel my lips against your labia? Will you cry out in pleasure when my tongue rakes along your moist cleft, when it flickers against your clitoris, when I suckle upon the thrumming nub of your desire? Will you scream when I make you come for the first time? The second? The third?”

“And then I’ll want you to lie there, reeling from the power of your orgasms, revelling in their afterglow, while I stand before you and strip. I want you to look at me naked, to look at my cock: hard because of you; hard for you. I want you to know that you can touch me later, kiss me later, suck me to your heart’s desire later, but that you can have me inside you right now. Tell me with your eyes that you want me. Tell me with your eyes that you want to feel my cock nuzzling at the lips of your sex, easing its way inside you, stroking the velvet walls of your cunt, filling you with one long, slow thrust until my laden balls rest against the cheeks of your arse, until the tip of my cockhead has nowhere left to go. Tell me with your eyes that you want me to fuck you, slowly, softly at first, then harder, faster, the pace and strength of my thrusts answering your body, your cries and gasps of pleasure. Tell me with your eyes that you want to wrap your legs behind me, bind me to you, lock me inside you, so that when I come, I come into you, desperately, savagely, with you looking into my eyes as the hot, pulsing jets of my pleasure splash against your womb. Tell me with your eyes that you want us to lie there, still locked together as our breathing steadies, as our beating hearts slow, the two of us relishing what’s passed, anticipating what’s still to come.”

And once I’m finished talking - perhaps even sooner if I’m unable to resist your allure for so long - I’ll begin. We’ll begin.

So tell me.

Do you want to meet me?