Kinky(15)

He smells and tastes and feels so good, it’s an intoxication, a need that addles my brain and befuddles my senses. I rub my legs against his, letting my shoe drag up and down his ripped jeans, the leather making contact with patches of his skin.

He captures me in a kiss again, yanking aside the cups of my bra with one hand while the other moves lower, finding my skirt zipper and fiddling with it.

I shiver all over when his palm caresses my bare nipple, brushing it into a tight hard knot of need so that it’s ready for him to pinch, very gently, exquisitely, but no less cruelly. I gasp into his mouth and a shot of sweet pain makes me grind myself against him, finding a swelling beneath those jeans that I feel more than ready to tackle.

I move my hands down to cup his behind, noticing how tightly the muscles are bunched, poised and ready for action. This butt means business. And so do this tongue, these fingers and this rock-hard jean-clad cock.

One arm reaches behind me and undoes the zipper of my skirt. As we kiss and wrestle and grind and pant, the garment makes a slow rumpled journey down over my hips, sometimes helped on its way by a free hand, sometimes left to its own devices until it reaches the point, around mid-thigh, of self-propulsion. The lining swishes past my nylon tights with a whispery crackle until it settles around my ankles. The area it once covered is now firmly annexed by squeezing, rubbing hands. I lift one leg and clamp the knee against his hip, opening myself, issuing the invitation.

Now there is nothing on my mind but visceral want. Every other consciousness has faded. I have to join my body with this one at all costs.

Whoever invented tights didn’t have sex on the brain, unlike me. They stand between me and my goal in the most irritating way – there is no way of removing them without having to deal with my knee boots first. I hang on to Dimitri with one hand and try to unzip the boots with the other, keeling awkwardly to one side so that I can’t maintain our kiss.

Dimitri pats me on the bottom, forcing me to look back up. ‘You want to fuck?’ he whispers.

Does he need to ask?

‘Well, don’t you?’

‘I plan a kiss only. But a fuck, I don’t say no, of course. Just … this is your office, yes?’

I squint at the clock. ‘Yeah, but it’s early. And you took out the CCTV tape for this part of the building, so … um. But perhaps you’re right. Perhaps we shouldn’t.’

The inopportune pause for breath has acted like a bucket of cold water. Suddenly, I’m besieged with unwelcome thoughts in the ‘will you still love me tomorrow?’ vein. Perhaps I’m just imagining this bond that our shared evening of randomness and debauchery has forged. He’ll take what he wants and then leave.

‘Wait. You don’t want to?’

‘I … don’t know.’

‘You don’t know? Of course you do. Your body knows.’

‘My body wants to. My brain … the jury’s out.’

‘OK. Well, perhaps I don’t want to. Perhaps you don’t respect me afterwards.’

He folds his arms and lifts his nose with offended hauteur. ‘Perhaps you just use me for sex and send me away,’ he says.

‘I wouldn’t do that.’

‘No, me neither. Not to you. I have plans for you.’ He fixes me with his true blue eye. ‘So, sex. Yes?’

I nod. The cold water evaporates. The boots come off, then the tights and boy shorts, then I am sitting on a filing cabinet with my thighs splayed and my ankles wrapped around Dimitri’s waist.

‘Good. But there is a problem. I don’t have no condom.’

‘There are machines,’ I gasp. ‘In the toilets.’

‘I run out of my pounds. They take roubles?’

‘Oh God, haven’t you heard of bureaux de change?’ Frustrated beyond measure, I dig my heels into Dimitri’s hips and then push him away, pointing at my handbag on the desk. ‘Go get ’em. And be quick.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ He mock salutes and races to the gents’ with my handbag, looking so like the world’s least convincing transvestite that I can’t help giggling.

I look down at myself, naked apart from a ruined bra, sitting on a filing cabinet. The metal is cold against my backside, but I’m heating it up quickly enough. I reach around and unhook my bra. It seems pointless to keep it on, after all.

When he emerges from the toilets, condom packet in hand, I become conscious of the fact that he is still fully dressed whilst I am starkers. The inequality of the situation needs to be redressed, I feel. Or undressed.

He slings my handbag back on the desk with a pleasingly cowboy-like nonchalance and stands in front of me, hand on hip, condom brandished, crooked smile in full effect under that moustache.