He’s sitting at a table in the bar when I walk in. I’ve been waiting for this moment for what feels like forever. He’s cooly sipping his pint, but his eyes have the same evil glint as mine do. Of course, we’re meeting as friends. But we both know that we’ll be leaving as lovers. We just haven’t told each other yet.
“Evening.” he says.
“Evening. That mine?” I gesture at the pint on the table.
“Well, I’m not meeting anyone else.”
“Makes a change,” I say, teasing.
He smiles. We have an ongoing joke that he’s a slut.
But so am I.
I sit, feeling my suspenders dig into me, my silk knickers getting damp. Stockings aren’t my usual choice, so I still notice when I wear them, but I like the way my lingerie looks – and feels – on me. I’m in control when I get dressed up. The entire seduction process arouses me, from start to finish. I’ve been wet since I started getting ready for him, planning what I was going to do, choosing the silk lingerie, the ideal subtle outfit to hide it. After all, I don’t want to accidentally flash my stocking tops. I don’t want him to see what he’s getting until I’m good and ready. I don’t want him to be sure. Not yet. He’ll realise eventually, when he sees what I’m wearing underneath my clothes. But he’s going to have to work for that.
I sit opposite him, legs stretched out, not brushing against him but close enough for him to feel my presence. We chat, small talk at first but soon progressing to our usual joking, teasing and eventually flirting.
At every point that things look like they could go further, one or other of us makes an excuse to break off conversation; another round, a trip to the loo or visit to the fag machine. We’re both enjoying the power game, unsure as to who’ll crack first. It’s like playing chicken, but rather than seeing who’ll veer away first, we’ll seeing who’ll take that final step over the mark.
And we’re both playing to win.
I enjoy looking at him; following the contours of his face with my eyes, trying to identify exactly what it is that attracts me to him. The eyes, still glinting with promise – whether one he intends to keep or not? The bone structure; traditional, strong, classically appealing? The lips? Not full, but not thin; I can tell to look at them that they’ll feel good against mine. As I said. I’m a slut. I can just tell.
Maybe it’s his body. It’s certainly toned enough, and I know from hugging him goodnight that it fits well into mine.
But no, as he makes some dry comment and lust shoots through me, I know it’s got more to do with his mind than the way he looks. The packaging is just an added bonus.
I smile, make some crack of my own back, and there’s another eye meet. I hold his gaze for longer than strictly proper, lick my lips, just slightly, nothing porn star about it, then carefully push my tight skirt up under the table to just above my stockings. I checked earlier in the mirror. I know there’s a slight time-lag when I stand up, when my stocking tops show. I also know it looks accidental.
“Sure.” He seems glad that the moment is broken. I stand up to go to the bar, struggling not to look back to see if he saw my flash – and if he did, what his response was.
When I return, I sit almost imperceptibly closer, near enough for me to feel the heat of his body against my leg but still not quite touching. I can hear my heart in my head, feel it in my clit with every pulse but still, we talk. I notice him shift in his chair as I make some particularly provocative comment, and hope it’s because I’m making him ‘uncomfortable’.
He stands to go to the loo and I see his jeans are bulging. I feel proud. Until I realise the bastard is playing me at my own game. My cunt is flooding and I’m mentally picturing his cock. Is he cut or uncut? How big is he? What does it taste like? He’s returning the flash. And it’s working.
He doesn’t look back either.
I can feel my arousal rising. My pelvis is warm, tingles going from clit to chest, nipples stiffening beneath my T-shirt, clearly visible. Which will show him he’s winning when he gets back. But, I realise, will help me reassert control. Because men are easy like that. Rather than batting away the thoughts of his cock, I dwell on them, imagining taking him into my mouth, feeling his cock stiffen further, tasting his salty pre-cum and breathing in his scent as I slide my lips, millimetre by millimetre down his shaft, not moving at any point until I hear him groan.
It has the desired effect.
I’m lost in my headfuck when he returns and I catch him shoot a glance at my nipples.
One – love to me.
He leans over. I think he’s caved as his hand slides towards my neck. He touches me. Softly. Raising the fine hairs on the back of my neck. I can’t suppress my shudder. Then “Ow!”
I see him holding a fine grey hair between his fingers.
“Thought you’d want this pulled out.”
His eyes are dancing now. I know he felt my response. I need to score some points back. And quickly.
I start chatting; non-flirtatious – something to do with work. As I talk, I gradually lean forward, by process of animated hand gestures. I know he can see down my top. I chose it because it gapes at the front. I love cowl necks. I remember the feeling of his hand on my neck, controlling the delicious shiver at the memory but ensuring that my nipples stay stiff. And then, the gamble. I make sure I’m drinking quickly so I constantly have a mouthful of beer. At the next joke he makes, I laugh harder than normal, beer spurting from my mouth. Only a small amount, but still not a good look. But it does mean that beer is drizzling down my neck, heading towards my breasts – which he – and no-one else in the bar can see.
He shifts again, as I feel the drop trail down my collarbone, between my breasts, one trickle sliding towards my nipple.
He’s still talking but then he stumbles across his words; something he never normally does.
I want the game to move on.
I put my hand on my collarbone, leaning back, and wipe my breast clean of beer. He can’t see me stroking my breast close up. But he can clearly see the outline of my hand under my top. I rub myself clean then bring my hand to my mouth and lick my finger clean; again, more perfunctory than porn star, but I take rather longer about it than I otherwise would, glancing down, ‘Princess Di style’ as I do. After all, I’m not flirting. I’m simply sucking beer from my fingers.
“Shame to waste it.”
He doesn’t reply. I look up.
“Bitch.” His tone is light, but he’s slipped. He’s given a response.
He realises he’s losing. The clock is ticking. The pub is only open for another thirty minutes. And I need him to invite me back.
“Did I tell you about Ella?”
Oooh, he’s playing dirty. The “see if I can make her jealous” ruse. I get a flicker of indignation but push it back.
“No. Go on.”
“Met her at a party last week. One of those instant lust things. God, could she suck cock. Might have to see her again.”
He’s playing really dirty. He knows I consider blow jobs ‘my territory’. My gut instinct is to brag about my own abilities, but no. I hold back.
“Men and blow jobs. You’re so easy. And you all think you know how to give head.” I laugh.
The ball is in his court.
“Some of us do.” he says.
“And I’m going to have you coming in my face by the end of tonight.”
I do like to win.