me, and then you
stretched out your hand and magically, miraculously (but everything
about that moment, that day seemed magical and miraculous) you
hailed a cab that instantly stopped.
I climbed
inside and you sat beside me.
You gave the
name of the street you were living in. So typical of you, Freddie,
to live in Soho amongst the elegant restaurants and the sprawl of
seedy London life. Soho was exactly the place that I would have
imagined you living in. We could have walked so close was it, but
your need was too urgent, your desire to have me.
The streets
crammed with tourists, we crawled up past Piccadilly, inching our
way to Shaftesbury Avenue, your hand entwined in mine, gripping
tight.
The taxi
pulled up, you paid, and then led me up a narrow staircase. You
didn't say anything, but smiled. You must have known you could do
anything that you wanted to me.
Opening the
door, you led me into your apartment. What nostalgia I still retain
for the place: the brightly coloured walls, the sleek sofa, the
untidy desk by the window with the old Remington typewriter and a
scraggy pile of thick books, a book lined wall of paperbacks in the
six languages you had various degrees of fluency in, the thick
velvet curtains you jokingly described as bordello red.
Part of you
wanted to take me there and then, to rip my clothes from me, part
my legs and ride me with your wild animal urgency, but you
controlled your libido. It wasn't nerves, not like an Englishmen
shying away a little at the last moment, clumsily offering a
libation, steeling himself for the moment; no it wasn't nerves that
made you ask me if I would like a glass of wine. You wanted to
savour your anticipation, your expectation.
"I don't like
to rush things, Helena. I don't want this to be just physical. Our
minds too must be engaged. I want to bring you pleasure, that kind
of pleasure that builds up slowly. We must savour our lovemaking,"
you said passing to me a glass of fine Bardolini, sitting beside me
on the sofa.
I noticed the
hefty bulge of your crotch. Maybe you were right to hesitate, to
savour, but I wanted to take you too then, to reach my hands inside
your trousers, take out your manhood and suck on your delicious
meat.
We sipped on
our wine, your soft hand delicately roaming over my body, feeling
my aching breasts, through the thick wool sweater I wore, the
pinpoints of my nipples poking through. You purposefully rubbed
your fingers over them as you stared into my eyes, no longer
smiling now, but gazing at me with all the intensity of your
lust.
I could hardly
bare it. I wanted you to take me, but still you resisted. You knew
the more the itch of my desire grew the more momentous would be its
release.
Your hand
rested on my lap, the knee length suede skirt I wore. You clenched
my thigh hard as your mouth reached over to the slope of my neck,
your tongue running over the skin, as I grasped the firmness of
your shoulder and nestled my cheek against the crown of your
head.
Suddenly, you
got up to your feet and offered me your hand. Pulling me up from
the sofa, you lead me to the desk by the window. You gathered the
sturdy tomes in your hand and dumped them on the nearby armchair
and then carefully placed your old typewriter on your desk chair,
which you dragged to the centre of the room.
I was so
excited, Freddie, I thought I would orgasm at your merest touch,
explode in my lust. You picked me up and lifted me onto the desk
and then carefully pulled my sweater over me, my breasts scrunching
up as you tugged the wool over my head.
Being an
English woman, even if I was three storeys up I was a little uneasy
about being watched by somebody; I noticed that there were some
offices opposite and a few diners in an exclusive restaurant who
might be able to see me. You smiled at me as I half drew the
blinds, so the sunshine could still pour in, striped across my
aroused body. You stood there staring at my fulsome breasts, my
nipples extended in their excitement
stretched out your hand and magically, miraculously (but everything
about that moment, that day seemed magical and miraculous) you
hailed a cab that instantly stopped.
I climbed
inside and you sat beside me.
You gave the
name of the street you were living in. So typical of you, Freddie,
to live in Soho amongst the elegant restaurants and the sprawl of
seedy London life. Soho was exactly the place that I would have
imagined you living in. We could have walked so close was it, but
your need was too urgent, your desire to have me.
The streets
crammed with tourists, we crawled up past Piccadilly, inching our
way to Shaftesbury Avenue, your hand entwined in mine, gripping
tight.
The taxi
pulled up, you paid, and then led me up a narrow staircase. You
didn't say anything, but smiled. You must have known you could do
anything that you wanted to me.
Opening the
door, you led me into your apartment. What nostalgia I still retain
for the place: the brightly coloured walls, the sleek sofa, the
untidy desk by the window with the old Remington typewriter and a
scraggy pile of thick books, a book lined wall of paperbacks in the
six languages you had various degrees of fluency in, the thick
velvet curtains you jokingly described as bordello red.
Part of you
wanted to take me there and then, to rip my clothes from me, part
my legs and ride me with your wild animal urgency, but you
controlled your libido. It wasn't nerves, not like an Englishmen
shying away a little at the last moment, clumsily offering a
libation, steeling himself for the moment; no it wasn't nerves that
made you ask me if I would like a glass of wine. You wanted to
savour your anticipation, your expectation.
"I don't like
to rush things, Helena. I don't want this to be just physical. Our
minds too must be engaged. I want to bring you pleasure, that kind
of pleasure that builds up slowly. We must savour our lovemaking,"
you said passing to me a glass of fine Bardolini, sitting beside me
on the sofa.
I noticed the
hefty bulge of your crotch. Maybe you were right to hesitate, to
savour, but I wanted to take you too then, to reach my hands inside
your trousers, take out your manhood and suck on your delicious
meat.
We sipped on
our wine, your soft hand delicately roaming over my body, feeling
my aching breasts, through the thick wool sweater I wore, the
pinpoints of my nipples poking through. You purposefully rubbed
your fingers over them as you stared into my eyes, no longer
smiling now, but gazing at me with all the intensity of your
lust.
I could hardly
bare it. I wanted you to take me, but still you resisted. You knew
the more the itch of my desire grew the more momentous would be its
release.
Your hand
rested on my lap, the knee length suede skirt I wore. You clenched
my thigh hard as your mouth reached over to the slope of my neck,
your tongue running over the skin, as I grasped the firmness of
your shoulder and nestled my cheek against the crown of your
head.
Suddenly, you
got up to your feet and offered me your hand. Pulling me up from
the sofa, you lead me to the desk by the window. You gathered the
sturdy tomes in your hand and dumped them on the nearby armchair
and then carefully placed your old typewriter on your desk chair,
which you dragged to the centre of the room.
I was so
excited, Freddie, I thought I would orgasm at your merest touch,
explode in my lust. You picked me up and lifted me onto the desk
and then carefully pulled my sweater over me, my breasts scrunching
up as you tugged the wool over my head.
Being an
English woman, even if I was three storeys up I was a little uneasy
about being watched by somebody; I noticed that there were some
offices opposite and a few diners in an exclusive restaurant who
might be able to see me. You smiled at me as I half drew the
blinds, so the sunshine could still pour in, striped across my
aroused body. You stood there staring at my fulsome breasts, my
nipples extended in their excitement
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