An evening's performance

Little, warm bulbs line the floor downstage of the performers and parcans shine on their prize. Beneath them, Elijah ambles into view. Until now Neesha has been wooing the crowd alone. She, with her dark eyes and her naked honesty; her hot gaze flitting around the room. Whether or not she has been able to make out their faces is anyone's guess, the lights are bright. Her practiced expression is frank, faintly smug and unquestionably engaging.

In joining her, Elijah comes to rest behind her. She preens, oiled and precious; her body a jewel in the darkened room. He is broadly built and virtually hairless, thick arms and a chocolate chest. He is a fine specimen of a man, naked as she, unafraid, insolent.

Elijah touches her shoulders though he need not have alerted her to his presence. His footfalls are surprisingly light for a man of his stature but it's his heat that she recognises. He reaches up to caress her shoulders, large palms engulfing each opalescent crescent.

Their stage takes up half the space in the intimate venue. The small club's walls have been expertly adorned from architraves to skirting boards in rugs and thick, dark material, successfully deadening the room acoustically, and further enhancing intimacy. Lamps on the few cabaret tables emit muted pools of light accentuating the rich, deep hues of the walls.

Elijah looks out at the assembled crowd with eyes glassy with lust. His hands travel down her arms, reassuringly sensual. The glossy platform in which pair perform is brightly lit and it is the undisputed focus of all the room's eyes. Heavy, red curtains hang on either side of the stage, framing their foreplay.

Only he is close enough to detect the tremour in her and even he is unsure of it's origin, be it nerves or desire. He pushes his partner onto her knees, her head facing their audience. Music crescendos in an undertone to the little performance, a steady, mesmeric beat. Tension heats the club, makes the couple drip with promise.

Elijah's body is exposed. Appreciative onlookers may take in his thick thighs dusted with hair, pillars that frame his aching, erect, substantial cock. His wide, dark chest undulates with each intake of air. It is enough to make the women in the room experience a physical response. He is the maker of goosebumps, a sexually aroused man in his prime.

Elijah steps around Neesha. He drops to his hands and knees and meets the glossy floor with the full length of his body. He rolls as though dancing, his feet almost touching her thighs, proud cock protruding (steady, thick and inviting). Like a circus tamer preparing for an act, Neesha watches him hungrily.

She licks her lips, taking the weight of her coffee coloured breasts in each one of her palms. Their peaks rise to form large, dark and inviting points. She toys with herself, sliding her hands across her glistening torso. A captivated audience holds it's collective breath.Neesha's eyes roam Elijah's body and finally she deigns to move.

Taking his right shin in her hands Neesha guides his knee to bend. A woman watching sighs. Emboldened,Neesha splays both his legs and begins her journey, sliding atop his solid frame. Her glistening palms mark her progress marring the glossy perfection of the stage surface, her lips travel ravenously towards his.

She doesn't kiss him, instead her fingers trace his full mouth. She straddles him, her pussy meeting his cock, it's engorged head pinned between them, peeping out.Neesha's knees touch the floor on either side of his hips. Very slowly she folds her legs up to her chest, her feet coming to rest on the floor, propelling her supple body upright. Now there is air between the two but only for a moment. She squats. Elijah's cock bobs with anticipation.

Neesha lowers herself deliberately onto him. One woman gasps, another giggles; an enthusiastic male punter grunts. In reward, Neesha's hand reaches down to wrap itself around Elijah's thick cock.

He smiles up at her, showing his teeth. She meets his eyes and guides his meat, just to the entrance of her slick cunt, holding her breath. Tearing her eyes from his, she looks out into the assembled crowd. Slowly, deliberately, Neesha nibbles her lower lip, enjoying the moment as it stretches, the rustling of shirts as necks crane in the crowd; their ill-concealed state of suspense.

She tips her head and her body sinks onto his cock, one delicious inch at a time.

Her pussy takes a moment to adjust to the size of him.

Eyes half closed, she raises her hips giving the captivated crowd a glimpse of his cock meat, exiting her heat, glistening with her juices. She shifts and descends, lowering herself until their pelvic bones meet.

“ Uuuuhh” she says airily (for the benefit of the women in the room), allowing them to imagine being impaled, his impressive penis buried deep inside their slickness.

Her pause is costly. Elijah has endured her teasing and the caresses she bestows upon him only for the assembled voyeurs. He throbs within her, eager and aching to own her, to fulfill her unspoken wish. So, as she is poised to once more prolong the moment, he undermines her theatrical conceit. Elijah firmly grasps her by her small hips and deftly removes a measure of himself from her pussy. Tensing his buttocks he jerks upwards, ramming his cock once more into her slick sheath. Large hands hold her steady. He repeats the action, 2..3..4 times.Neesha gasps, her breasts bobbing with each thrust.

Its hard to make out individual faces in the crowd.Neesha warms herself with the knowledge that before them, some men in expensive trousers and dinner jackets will seek to hide their erections, folding their legs to cover protruding, silken steel, defeated somehow by the arousing scene.

A woman brushes her hand over one of her breasts as though smoothing away crumbs, her cheeks aflame, her lips parted. Beside her a couple progress from caressing one another's thighs to open-mouthed kissing. At the bar, a sole barman refills one patron's empty whiskey glass. He turns from his task to adjust the backing track as the action on stage continues, skilfully reducing the melody to their love play. Silence makes way for the wet sounds of sex; Neesha's uneven breath in the room, Elijah's grunts amid their consensual climb towards orgasm.

After a minute or more of quick thrusting, he halts his progress.Neesha climbs gracefully clear, extracting herself, Elijah rolls onto his forearms, pushing himself up onto his knees. His wide torso gleams with proof of his exertions, he places massive palms on impressive thighs and stands. From the wings he retrieves a chair and walks it out to centre stage.Neesha stands before him and swings her arms to rest around his neck, kissing him soundly. He holds her face tenderly in his hands, feasting on her lips, shifting his focus to her swan-like nape and devouring her salty, heady, scent and taste.

Elijah guides the languid woman to the round-backed, wooden chair with it's padded seat. She reclines; right arm supporting her weight, thighs parted to allow one half of their audience an exclusive view of her aroused sex. He kneels before her enjoying the view of her splayed, sopping peach and lowers his head. His elaborate movements enhance the theatricality of the moment and her legs begin to tremble. He laps at her pussy, soft full strokes.

“ Nnnnhu!” she says, from high in her throat.

He cups her buttocks, she grinds her pelvis into his face alive with desire, writhing in pleasure, her pretty head thrown back, tendrils of long, satin-soft, dark hair touching the ground behind her. The room begins to smell of her sex.

Without music to hide them, his breathing is amplified. Caught in the moment, her knees swing wildly. Elijah grasps hold, steadying her body. She raises her head as though in a daze; he chooses that precise moment to begin to finger fuck her.Neesha resumes her prone posture, head thrown back in delight.

A keen observer hoots enthusiastically. Elijah raises his head. He taps Neesha's thigh playfully and after a moment she responds, activating her rubbery legs, bounding to stand. Away from the touch of his tongue her pussy throbs. In the close space, she smells their lovemaking, her pheromones lacing the room.

In a practiced, provocative gesture she bends from the waist, leaning her lovely elbows on the wooden chair's seat and thrusting her arse out into the room, she adjusts her weight. Her peach peaks at the crowd, lustrous with longing. She peers over her shoulder playing the provocateur. An eager on-looker growls, his voice thick with desire.

Neesha curls her toes and turns on her heels, brushing past Elijah and giving their intimate audience a good view of her tight, perky derriere. Her breasts sway as she walks, her coffee skin luxuriant in the light. Coming to stand behind their prop she bends, thrusting out her hips behind her, curling her forearms around the chair's curved back. Obscured slightly by smooth lines of furniture design, her breasts undulate. Thick eyelashes trap light as it passes, shadowing her face. She looks down at the ground first, then flicks a look at her partner. Her hair descends to cascade in front of her face.

Elijah goes to her. He parts her cheeks, rubbing his heavy cock against her flanks. Her face is no longer visible but she shivers, adjusting her feet. Elijah deftly aims his massive meat at her tight sphincter and she looks up. Disbelief (feigned or actual?) shines in her dark eyes. He begins his entry and her slight body slowly adjusts to take his length, her mouth a perfect tight 'O' as he slides inside.

She's hot, tight and surprised.

As his cock entering her passage Elijah flexes his thighs and rolls on his heels. He offers Neesha his palm in an unspoken request and she licks it, leaving behind juicy threads of saliva.. He rubs the base of his cock with her spit, parting her, forcing Neesha to accept the pleasure/pain of his continued invasion. He pulls out; strokes. Her eyes flutter open. All the room's occupants observe as the sensual tapestry unfolds.Neesha's expression hides nothing. Elijah sets a rhythm and her sphincter closes around him.

He clenches his teeth, pushes inside her and withdraws. Neesha moans. She drops her head and lowers her hands to the cushion, better supporting her weight. Elijah slides two thick fingers into her pussy as he continues to fuck her, encouraging her to cum. He plies at her love muscles, sinking his digits inside her and butterflying on her g-spot. Her sweetness closes around him, filled by his cock, caressed by his digits.

“ GnnffHhh” she says, beholden to his touch.

It only take a few more sliding thrusts and the continued pressure inside her pussy; a flurry of fancy finger work in her slit. The room vibrates with the sound of their fucking, their shallow breath and the delightful thud of flesh on flesh.

Neesha cums shaking with exertion, head bent, the flesh on her arse rippling with the repeated, hard thrusts. She clenches and unclenches her fingers, grasping at the chair.

“ UuUUuuh” Her voice is jagged, hoarse.

A tick in Elijah's jaw betrays his thinly held control. He slaps her arse as she quivers appreciatively impaled on his cock, cumming in waves, milking his member. Elijah withdraws. He gives himself a preemptive tug. Testing the strength of his steel? An unidentifiable woman in the audience emits a loud sigh. Elijah's lips widen in a wry smile. He seats himself in the chair, with Neesha leaning over him. She reaches down, past his shoulder to curl her fingers around his ample length. His cock twitches. She pumps until his organ gains in size, impossibly engorged.

Elijah watches her handiwork, her artful rapid movements jerk him towards release. He looks out at the gathered men and women. His eyes close and he ejaculates, gasping. Neesha holds onto his cock as his milky seed spills over her hand, wayward droplets landing on the glossy ground. She licks his neck, nipping his skin and he almost jumps. She hold him firmly; waiting for stillness.

Around them, thick, protruding silence...

Her fragile restraint

In a world of her own, Hyacinth carefully dusts around the pretty things each girl has left at their backstage work-station. Some girls keep their gear in Tupperware, others have left it loose. Mascaras, nipple tassels, lube, eyeshadow and deodorant bottles are all piled up lifelessly. She cleans their makeup mirrors and afterwards, it's an extra effort to remove caked make-up stains from the long, black bench top.

The small, narrow room smells of face powder, latex and cheap perfume. Hyacinth is tired now, midway through her shift, having cleaned the performance area and it's low hanging mirror balls and glass-topped stages. (She uses special hypo-allergenic spray for the poles and chairs.) Normally her brother would be helping. Today he is despicable; hungover, lazy, absent. She sighs.

Looking about her, Hyacinth knows the warmly lit little dressing room is something other than a wonderland. Often it's a place of smoke and hot, tired girls no older than herself trying to gather their wits (or further scatter them). She imagines the bustle and noise but it's early morning, no one will be about for another few hours.

Hydie bends over to empty a small bin into a larger plastic sack at her side. It rustles in the quiet, airless room. She props the door open, finding a lavish feather boa, hanging on a hook by the door. It's a fine garment, much longer than any boa she has seen, red, rich, real and scratchy. Hydie wraps it around her neck and winds it around her arms, admiring herself playfully in the mirror. She looks a dream, it hides her skirt and slacks and clusters around her neck in a cloud of feathers.

Hydie takes it off. She looks about the room for other dress ups, eyeing a thin, silk tie with an elastic collar and matching emerald green heels.

Who would see?

A Moment's Weakness

I look up into sorrowful, chocolate-brown pools. My lover the stonemason, who's hands have carved a thousand tombstones and who looks as though he holds night time inside the silence of his eyes. His hands are scarred too, rough and lovely. They pass over my skin, annotating the geography of my body, my curves, crevices and fleshy mistakes. I writhe beneath him, feverish with lust.

His cock thrusts in me, rigid, turgid. Dilated pupils shine from within a hard, closed face. Even whilst he pushes blissfully into my softness in age-old intimacy, I cannot reach him. My complex lover empties his hot breath onto my neck, making me squirm. I am impaled on a length of sweetness, wanting him to burst open. I haven't a hope. He inhales, spreading a contrasting coolness onto my nape. His thudding, impressive rod continues deliciously stretching me. I am meringue, cracking delicately under the weight of his demanding pace. Despite his impossible proximity, my mysterious fuck puppet fails to yield.

“I want you.” I whisper, hoping to slide under his cool resolve.

Moving On...

Derwisch left in the morning, just as the sun came up. It was a peculiar farewell, soft and silent. If Rose has any doubts as to whether their relationship would continue, they end as the door clicks closed. She begins to cry big, salty crocodile tears for a dream that isn't a worth pursing. She cries because she supposes a man like Derwisch will have no trouble finding another woman, to replace her.

What follows is a day spent wandering aimlessly in an unfamiliar city. Eventually, Rose stops at a pub. She orders a gin and tonic and a bowl of cashews. Rose eats cashews delicately, one by one. She pulls Roman's white business card from her pink handbag. What would it mean to contact him? What could she tell him?

Sipping on her second gin, Rose is aware someone watches. There is a man in an old-fashioned booth by the window.  His mouth is strong and full. On the table, an iPhone lies forgotten, adjacent to his beer. A dark tan hides inked artwork that snakes around his bicep. Close-cropped, short dark hair frames his face.

The man smiles, an open, genuine action that splinters the severity of his otherwise handsome face. Rose finds herself returning the gesture. She shrinks from grinning too broadly and turns away to sip her drink. The barman raises an eyebrow. Rose concentrates on pressing and trapping salt crystals at the bottom of her plastic cashew bowl. She licks them from her digit one by one, savouring the contrast. She traces the ink on Roman's stiff business card. Perhaps if she called him it would pass the time?

The stranger from the window brushes her wrist with his fingertips. Rose jumps, her thoughts stolen away.

“Hi.”

Rose forgets about the business card. His brown eyes sweep her face. Rose swallows, aware her throat is suddenly dry.

“Hey, Yourself”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure.”

His accent is local. He's built like a tree house, all muscle and tanned flesh. Rose quivers.

“Gin and tonic please.”

He clips his vowels and swallows them with a comic-seductive, New Zealand twang.

“What's your name?”

A big upturned palm extends towards her.

“Levi.”

Rose slots his hand into hers briefly, takes a long sip of her slightly bitter beverage.

“That's kind of cool.”

“You're one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life.”

Rose coughs.

“Thank you.” She manages, cheeks aflame.

Rose puts her drink down.

“You're not so bad yourself.” Seconds pass. She claims her fresh glass.

“Do you drink here regularly?”

“I have a studio around the corner. You're welcome to come and have a see?”

Rose's Delectable Diversion

Rose carries the unshakable conviction that her weekend is going to be a success. She skips Friday afternoon knock-off drinks with the office crowd in favour of starting her journey at 5pm. She heads out of the building, on a mission.

Everyone has moments of clarity: remembering for example, how trees are bigger than people (and make much more satisfying noises than people ever will); how clouds are always above us when it's light (it only pays to look up); that the best cure for malaise is a brisk walk, to clear the cobwebs.

This was not one of those moments.

This was a dried-biscuit-and-fireworks feeling in the pit of Rose's stomach. She flashes a grin at the doorman on her way out, surprising even Ralph with its wattage. He waves as she passes and goes back to his magazine. Sometimes it feels to Ralph like he lives and died by Rose's stunning smiles.

Rose catches a cab to the airport. She has an hour and a quarter before her flight. Briefly, she entertains the idea of a last minuting shopping spree to splurge on a sexy outfit. As quickly as she thinks of it, Rose dismisses the idea. It doesn't seem very smart to pretend to be someone she isn't. Rose purses her full lips and absently runs a hand through her hair. Her brown tresses fall past her shoulders, catching the sun through her fingers, turning her highlights to streaks of gold. Her eyes are hidden behind her sunglasses. The cab driver thinks Rose is staring with some fascination at the scenery, in actuality she's miles away, wondering what awaits her in Auckland.

Rose decided weeks ago that the first night was not the right time to meet up with him. After half a dozen hours in transit, late at night, she knows she will be feeling neither fresh, nor amazing. Rose wants their first meeting to be dazzling. A lover's first impression should never be dispassionate and she wants him to melt for her, this man she has only ever encountered by correspondence.

Rose sighs. As lasting impressions go, the first is always the most deadly. She has planned things so their meeting is tomorrow, at 3pm. It means she has the whole night ahead of her, one more long night to let her imagination run rampant. Behind her glasses, Rose closes her eyes.

At the airport Rose checks in and heads for the business lounge. She takes a salmon canapé and orders champagne. In the act of retrieving her novel from the depths of her pink handbag at her feet, Rose notices shoes parked on the carpet in front of her seat, shoes that connect to expensive trousers, encasing sturdy legs. She looks further up into azure blue eyes framed by dark brown hair. The overall effect is unsettling. She wonders if he has the slightest inkling as to how good- looking he is.

He grins, stepping back. Her stranger looks away, raking his hand through his hair in a time-honoured habit. No, thinks Rose, this man has no idea he is devastatingly handsome.

“Something I can help you with?”

“My English is not good.”

Rose bites back a sigh. His accent rolls and crests on the brittle English words. Italian? Spanish? His bedroom eyes explore her face. She can't resist the urge to thrust out her hand, by way of a greeting. Her new acquaintance takes it in his warm, much larger hand and persuades her to her feet. Once there, he towers over her, right before he leans down to kiss both of her cheeks, gently, by way of a greeting. Rose releases the sigh this time.

Saturday Morning

I go out dancing and come home with mischief.

I’m not really thinking straight, my thighs pressed together in anticipation.

“I just want to feel your fingers inside me”

I barely know him. He doesn’t smile at me, he looks at my lips.

It’s very distracting. I want to pass my tongue over my mouth to check them. I don’t. I wait for him to say something. The motion of the train makes us sway a little. We pass through a tunnel and my pulse jumps. All too soon our carriage snakes back out into daylight. My companion glances at me thoughtfully, a knowing glint in his green eyes.

“You expected something back there?”

Again he employs his unsettling technique of watching my mouth. I'm unsure what he thinks. He was eager, as I was, when we left the bar, holding hands and pelting like lunatics towards the train.

“I was just hoping...?”

I smile with the full force of my ruby-red lips, gripped by uncertainty. The music is no longer with us and the collection of fellow travelers has thinned considerably.

No longer holding hands, there is empty air between us and it does little to assuage my nerves. Heat from the dance floor cools on my skin. I blush, succumbing to a feeling of failure. It’s a surprise when he leans over and squeezes my knee.

“I want to be brave with you.”

Honest, placatory and perfectly timed, his voice is salve to my nerves. A lazy charm offsets the shock of his rough, good looks and melt-you-in-a-moment green eyes.

“You were saying?"

“Oh I was, wasn’t I?" I hear my voice, a little too bright.

“Don’t think about it."

My good humour comes back in a cowardly rush.

“I have a plan."

His face is very close to mine. Unfamiliar smoldering green pools return my questioning look.

“Do you still want me to touch you? ...Here?"

He slides a warm hand along the length of my thigh. All of sudden we are back on an even keel.

“I want to wait.”

The words come out in a rush. It’s a lie. My skin tingles. He slides his fingers under my skirt. I’m so wet my lace knickers are molded to folds in my flesh.

“Mmm”

“Think you can?”

Mischief glows in his eyes. He stops pawing me. The train pulls into our station and cool morning air greets us. From the platform we begin to weave our way back to my flat.

Later, my visitor piles an assortment of toast-toppings onto the bedside table. In the bedroom, large windows look out over rooftops. Thin white curtains shield the view, white walls awash with relentless morning sun. My rumpled bed sheets are a perfect accent to an idyllic picture of high summer.

I flop down on the bed and stretch my arms. He kicks off his shoes and unbuckles his jeans, standing before me in boxers. My eyes linger over his torso's sinewy plains. I wriggle out of my halter-neck shirt and bra. I know he’s watching. My nipples rise to peaks. I wonder what he thinks as I shimmy my little, light skirt down past my ankles and he tugs it free. I’m left wearing only a scrap of light blue lace. He grins a lopsided, stubbly grin and the lust in his eyes warms us both.

He falls onto me in a rush, brushing his lips across mine, smelling my face, kissing my eyelashes, making me giggle before sinking his hand into my hair to brace me for a kiss, a tender, sensory onslaught not at all what I was expecting. I can’t seem to think any more, distracted by his tongue. As the messy meshing of tongues continues, my breast meets his palm. My breathing accelerates. He tastes of warm honey, All-Spice and Star Wars. I get lost in the mixture of his bruising kisses and our stolen, getting-to-know-you moments.

Sliding my hand inside his boxers, I wrap my palm around his unfamiliar, hard cock and pause to watch his face. Green eyes reveal a world of desire. I clasp him and begin my caress. His lids close. I press my body closer, push my breasts to his torso, my thighs against his. I lick his lip. It’s the start of another kiss and my mouth accepts his practiced tongue. I guide the material of his shorts down his legs in relief, flicking them to the floor.

He pushes me away and gets up. Through heavy lashes I watch as he takes a selection from our assembled treats. My white sheets won‘t stay white for much longer. I don't care. I pull him back down. My adventurous new lover scoops up peach pieces, spilling juice on us and coating his fingers. He drops slippery, orange-colour fragments onto my stomach and follows them with the heat of his tongue. He slurps. I raise his fingers to my mouth, sucking them. This elicits a throaty growl. It curls my toes.

“What’s your name?”

My voice is husky.

“Robert, Robbie.”

“Robbie, you’re a God.”

His tongue tickles as he cleans away fruit and juice from my skin.

“A mere mortal, My Lady.” He counters, grinning.

Moments later his lips meet the flesh of my stomach in a kiss.

“Suck my fingers again?”

“Tell me what else you like?”

“Mmm. Do that for me.”

I comply, keeping eye contact. I roll his index finger around in my mouth. I let the digit slide out of my rubbery lips and suck on it to bring it back. Robbie lifts himself up on his haunches, green eyes transfixed. He fumbles, picking up a can of whipping cream. Cold, frothy liquid squirts out. I laugh, only to swallow my giggles as he takes a budded nipple, together with cream, into his mouth. My hands reach into his hair, over his shoulders and down his toned body, groping. I'm searching for the warmth of his rigid cock.

Once I find it, he jerks. I like that and I grasp with a firm hand. He growls in the back of his throat. Our abandoned metal can of cream shocks me with it's coldness, pressed against my side. Robbie trails kisses down my stomach, towards my throbbing slit. I get goosebumps from the combination. He looks back at me, his hands resting either side of my hips.

“What’s my name?”

The tempting sight of his head between my thighs clouds my vision. I know what’s coming next. I’m beside myself with need for his touch, I imagine the heat of his tongue.

“Robbie.” It comes out in a rush of breath.

I try to steady myself, swimming in sensation. He blows cold air on my clit, I almost die. He chuckles and asks me again.

“What’s my name?”

He descends, lavishing his tongue along the breadth of my pussy, pausing to lap at the hard nub of my clit. It's an overload of attention, too much, too soon. I squeal.

“Robbie!” It’s unsteady but I manage to get the words out.

Robbie stops. He takes a moment, releasing fresh whipping cream onto my thigh. My insides do flip-flops at the touch of his tongue. His kisses slide along my skin deliciously, returning to my pussy with sugary cream on his lips and tongue.

“Oh.”

“You like that?”

"MmmM.”

He buries his nose in my softness and licks with wise, artful strokes. I've a belly is full of fireworks and fairy floss. Sparks of raw hunger storm my blood. I look down, his green eyes hold mine with a curious mixture of lust and bewilderment. God knows what he sees in my answer but his expression gentles. He closes his eyes, turning his attention to the task at hand.

I’m melting into the bed, warm hands on my arse the only thing holding me steady. I shudder under the exquisite, unrelenting pattern of heat on my slit. He worries my clit, coating it with saliva. For a moment he plunges his tongue where I most want his cock to follow.

“Ohhhh.”

Lazy with lust, I whimper. I try to encourage him to shift his hips and release me.

“Robbie..."

I pry at his hands. In a moment of self consciousness he wipes pussy-juice from his mouth onto my inner thigh. It makes me smile, He doesn't know me well. I like it dirty. Moments later chocolate sauce pours luxuriantly over my throat and it's possible I am wrong. Evidently my new lover likes it dirty, too.

He dives and snuffles deliciously, descending towards my collarbone, smearing sweet topping on more of my skin as he licks. It's tantalizing and very, very messy. He tucks me under his weight but I want to straddle him. I struggle, clambering up until I'm on top, coated in chocolate and feeling like a vampire's prize.

I choose honey. I smear it onto my hand first, asking him to lick it. His mouth on my palm sends arrows of hunger pangs to my cunt. I grind my hips onto his thickness and remove my hand to taste his lips. I point the squeeze-bottle at his cock. It makes a popping sound as the honey oozes free, coating his helmet. It’s a delight to add my saliva to the sticky, velvet meat. I take the top of his swollen head in my mouth. I lick around the shaft, feeling his fingers shaking on my shoulders. My lips glide up and down his pole. I take a few strokes and stop, unable to resist temptation a single moment longer.

My handprints mar the white, Egyptian cotton at either side of his toned body. I crawl the length of my new lover, eager for cock. His eyes hold me captive, an unreadable expression in those dark green depths. I know it must feel good as he plunges home, hot and tight. It's one hell of a pay off. I tip my hips forward, rocking on my toes for that extra few millimeters of depth.

“Ohhhh...”

I search his unfamiliar features, surprised by how vulnerable he looks. I roll my hips once more, running an appreciative hand over the stubble on his jaw and the short, dark hair on his cheeks. I’m flooded with sensation; from stormy appreciation in his eyes to the prickly feel of his short hair in my hands. He turns his head and sucks on my finger, mimicking me. I rise and take less of him, then sink down to take more. I'm impaled on the sexiest man I’ve ever fucked. He watches me with a strange intensity, it's searingly erotic and frightening. I close my eyes.

“I want you to watch me.”

His voice is hoarse.

I snap them open again. He tips us and I fall away underneath him. My hair tickles my face, splayed on the pillow. We kiss, a faint sweet taste still lingers. I open my legs to welcome his probing cock as it slips into my pussy, thinking he will take me with unforgiving, brutal thrusts. He hesitates. Robbie drops his head, kissing my throat. I'm encased in his arms, hearing nothing but his shallow, ragged breath in my ears.

Tenderness subsides and finally I get what I want. He strokes over and over, pushing his meat into me until I’m so wet I explode, meeting his mouth in a frantic kiss. My pussy clenches and unclenches on his cock. He stuffs digits into my mouth, I suck on them eagerly and in return he slides a wet thumb into the entrance of my arse. I squirm as a fresh onslaught of shuddering pleasure wracks my body. His cock swells. I clutch his tight arse and push him further into me. Warm seed marks his climax.

I wait a few moments and my body stops quaking. As we come back to earth, Robbie looks into my eyes, joining our lips in an exhausted kiss. He flops down beside me. The bright room dips and fades. I succumb to the desire to close my eyes. Soon, sweat will dry on my skin once more, but for now, I’m flushed and sated, pleased with my conquest.

“Damn” Robbie croaks, bunching the plump pillow and turning onto his side.

Sleepily I meet his gaze. I fight the urge to reach out and stroke sexy forearms with shaking fingers. Green eyes appraise me. I’m unsure what he sees.

“You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you” I grin, unabashed. “So are you.”

He wraps me in his arms and we sleep.

Hours later, Robbie and I share breakfast. In just his jeans, he fills my small kitchen with smoldering green glances and leashed sensuality. He finishes the last of his coffee and stands.

“I should go.”

I brace myself. It’s not like me to give a shit when a man leaves my bed. This feels different. I nod, unable to say anything. We don’t really know each other.

I watch him loping down the footpath, away from our magical morning. I hold onto the old wooden door for support, taking a long, last look at his low-slung jeans and that delectable arse.

He stops.

“What’s your name?”

“You should call me and find out.” My confidence blossoms. “Or just come round sometime.”

I kick the door closed.

I can't hold it anymore (The Department Part 3)

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

I surrender (the Department Part 2)

Less than a week later, Lulu finds herself on another assignment, training more men, in updated technologies, for the agency. More associates under her supervision means more work in the short term. Better agents are a bonus, she sees the value in the necessary evil of on-going training. It makes her sigh. To begin, she drags her feet, going about the process of unlocking an innocuous brown door, awfully similar to the other brown doors on level 3 of an unremarkable, cheap hotel in a good downtown neighbourhood. She greets Graham with barely a nod, relieved he has come early. The room and it's décor would undoubtedly be oppressive on one's own.

In the corner of the room, an assassin rifle sits atop a tripod. It moves occasionally on it's digital mount, responding to altering coordinates but Graham's attentions are on the room's other large toy. He introduces himself quickly, his attention focused on the telescope. She sets up her laptop, a small amount of tracking equipment and using an app., links to the weapon's coordinates.

“You like you're work?” Lulu begins, by way of conversation.

She takes over the table with her tools, looking at Grahan out of the corner of her eye. He is a lean man with peculiar, angular features.

“It's not interesting enough.” Graham grumbles.

Lulu fails to acknowledge he has response. His pessimism stumps her. Stillness envelopes the room. Time passes slowly, they pour over the equipment and Graham takes notes on an i-pad. After a time, he lights a cigarette, leaving the table to blow smoke carefully out of their rented window. Afterwards, he makes them coffee

It's a relief when the digital fingers of the mantelpiece clock creep towards shift change and Graham can' t help musing that a such a good looking could make for such poor company. He drops his coffee mug into the small sink with a clunk and fetches his coat. It's a false cue, an odd moment and even the men can't explain how these things occur. As though attuned to one another, Al enters the room at precisely the moment the other man is ready to make his exit. Graham rolls his eyes for the benefit of his partner. He heads out into the corridor wordlessly, relief evident in his stride.

Al lets the brown door close with a click. If he's surprised that Lulu's the 'Super' he doesn't let it show. She looks up, assessing him, perhaps remembering having seen him in the foyer. Al's face is distinctive on account of his moustache. It has appealing 70's qualities. He nods at her and fingers his facial achievement. Lulu's full mouth curls into an involuntary smile. Captivated, Al is oblivious to the treat he is witnessing.

Schooled in stony reactions, Lulu's composure is inexplicably, momentarily, melted. Butterflies quake in her belly, shivers shake in her limbs. Lulu imagines the 'tache tickling her lips. The flight of imagination passes. She recovers. Ever the gracious host, she introduces herself to the room's newcomer. As she stands to shake his hand, the expensive material of her skirt shimmies down her ripe, rounded thighs, righting itself. Al fights the urge to ogle, managing to keep his eyes level with her face. She is all business.

“Alphonse?”

“Al.”

“Is it German?”

“Yes. 'Ready for battle'.” He stops. “At least that's what it means.” Al self-depreciates without thinking. He feels the world spinning and tipping, experiencing a heady sensation at the realisation everything else about him is irrelevant, in the face of attention from this crazy-beautiful, full-figured woman.

“How appropriate.”

Lulu means only to pass off the compliment as a allusion to his chosen profession. Her assertion comes out, instead, as an invitation. Lulu laughs, caught off guard by her own candure. Al admires her with an eyebrow raised. He isn't to know she is practised in the habit of withholding merriment. The woman before him is radiant in her mirth, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes dancing. He watches with approval. Al raises his lips beneath his moustache in a smirk. It's a habitual mannerism of his.

Lulu feels the room heat up and wishes she had thought to wear a more loose fitting skirt. She shifts. Al slides an appreciative eye up her leg, to the fullness of her hips. Suddenly Lulu's breasts are uncomfortably taut against the material of her blouse. Lulu fights the urge to take deep breaths, acutely aware that she'd rather be dead than thought of as the type of woman in possession of a heaving bosom. Her face flushes with the effort of reigning in her reactions.

Al can't take his eyes from her. She's like cookies and cream, all curves and playful glances. His cock aches in his pants. He has been alone with Lulu less than 15 minutes. Already he is ready to abandon the afternoon of study in favour of any chance at rendering his man-meat sunk into her honeyed flesh. Al coughs. Rank and file of associates reasserts itself, fighting to override the turn of events. In the stillness of her narrowed gaze, Al fingers a button midway down his cotton shirt.

“You will learn valuable new skills from this assignment. Think of it more of a training exercise.”

“It's a glorified stake out. An insult.” His tone derisive.

“Yes, if you wish. It's a minor job, you will learn much from my new methods”

Al sighs. He resents the up-dating of his techniques, eradication of skills honed by years in the service. Technology no substitute for intuition and intellect, Al wouldn't dream of owning an i-pad. He is almost religious in his devotion to hard-won skill, over quick-fix gadgets.

“Where would you be if your dinky system powered down? Ff there is a brown out, for example? A power surge? Instinct alone, unlike technology, can save you.” Al eyes the equipment with suspicion.

Lulu reads scepticism in his expression. As a man in his early forties, his handsome features are pronounced, a sensual turn to his lips, smile lines etched into crinkles at the sides of his eyes. He looks like a man who used to be happy. At the moment, his grey-green eyes are a chilly, boring right through her.

“Fine.” Lulu concedes. She turns her back on his grey-green disdain, making her way to the kitchen.

Once she's gone, Al relaxes his hunched shoulders. He straightens his shirt. He can barely believe the goddess he saw a week ago passing namelessly through his company foyer is here as his superior. He pulls on his woollen tie, it hangs more loosely round his neck. Al touches his moustache, then rubs his hands. A blood vessel in his cheek twitches. He controls his urge to pace. He looks around for the first time, standing in shadow, alongside the window, peering down at the world below.

“What do you see?” She re enters soundlessly. It annoys him.

“I think this room is exposed. The sun is likely to shine through this window very soon.”

Al indicates the well-polished glass panes that take up almost a whole wall.

“I think that if I was a passer-by and for some, inexplicable reason I were to look up, this telescope” He taps it. “And that gun - ” He indicates the formidable weapon with a wave of his hand. “Would be visible, caught in light strong enough to obscure the tint and lay bare these objects. I think if this was my hide out, I wouldn't have booked it. And if I had, I wouldn't be staying.”

Al can't explain why he feels so extraordinarily defensive. He steps back into the centre of the room. Lulu clears her throat.

“We have thought of this.” Her tone is even.

She crosses the room and adjusts the Venetians until they are almost closed. With a flick of cord she drops a pretty, sheer, layer of material in front of the Venetian bands.

“Believe it or not, two layers are enough to obscure the light you speak of. Nothing will be exposed.”

Lulu's firm tone is laced with double entrendre.

“Is that so? Miss...”

“Ravenhead”

“Lulu Ravenhead.” Al rolls the name around on his tongue. “Your daddy was a poet.”

“Don't patronise me.”

“Sorry.” And he was.

Al chooses to change the rapidly developing hostility in the room, simply by sitting. He does so in the closest available chair, at the instant the notion comes to him. Immediately the mood in their room changes. Lulu hadn't clocked the amount of tension between them until it begins to dissipate. Al smooths his hand over his moustache and looks up at the most beautiful working supervisor he had ever laid eyes on.

“Hyperbole aside, it's a nice name.” He grins. It's disarming.

“You don't want to work with me, do you?”

“It's not you, Lulu, it's the ground-work you're making me re-cover.”

“You mean the revision the department is making you do.”

“Sure.”

“Where would you rather be?”

A pause. Lulu blushes. It's unlike her to ask for personal details. Al's light eyes flick over her in assessment. She sips her water, trying to marshal her thoughts. She is never this flustered and her obvious weakness irritates her nobler instincts.

“What I meant was, what kind of hobbies do you in enjoy?”

Al stares at her. Lulu sighs.

“What kind of leisure activities does a man, such as yourself, get up to in his time off?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Me.”

“You? Or the department?”

Lulu sits. Like everything she does, the movement is graceful. Her electronic equipment creates a fine, comforting, ocean of space between them.

“Me.” She adds quietly. “Just me.”

Al regards her with naked disbelief.

“If we can't work together, then let's work out why not.”

“I told you.”

“You're a reasonable man Al. A woman like me, trying to re-train a man like you? Guess what will happen to you if my efforts prove unsuccessful?”

“I've been working in the department for 13 years.”

“I know, I've read your file.”

“What don't you know?”

Lulu glances out the window. It's well into the afternoon and the light is beginning to change. Impressed by Al's ability to assess how the planes of sunlight would alter the anonymity of their hideout, she notes his prediction would be in evidence, had she not earlier closed their blinds. She quakes a little on the inside. The sensation puzzles her. Perhaps she has been indoors too long? Lulu reasons away the niggling realisation that perhaps it is Al sending her senses reeling.

“A lot of things” Her honest reply hangs in the air like a person shouting a conversation, long after the loud music has ended.

So many minutes had passed since he first posed the question, her answer makes him stare. Al doesn't say anything. Instead he turns away, retreating in much the same way she had done, making his way to the kitchenette. Lulu watches him go. A part of her acknowledges that she should get back to work. They have three days to master these new systems. Another, more mischievous part of her reaches up and undoes a button on her silk blouse. Her fingers shake as she passes the ivory jewel through a buttonhole. She pats her full lips to steady herself and stands.

In the kitchen, Al takes a moment to steel himself. When he re enters the room, the picture she paints throws him completely off kilter. Lulu's entire focus is on him. Al grins beneath his moustache. On a more self-assured man the gesture would not be so endearing. His heart pounds. Her brown eyes sparkle and she crosses the room.

“I think we shouldn't work today.” Her voice is husky.

She reaches up to undo his woollen tie and remove it altogether, a strange expression in her eyes.

“Oh really?” His voice cracks revealing his surprise.

Lulu slides off his tie and twines the material suggestively in her hands. She leans in to whisper.

“I don't think either of us could concentrate. Do you?”