From the airport to the hotel, the taxi ride is like every other time, except it isn’t. There was a new tension when we kissed through our grins at the arrivals lounge. It’s been too long. I’ve missed you. Desperately.
So here we are, hand in hand, watching through the windows as the world passes by. But I see you looking.
My dress is shorter than I’d usually dare, and I know you’ve noticed the seams of my stockings, following their promise higher. You aren’t subtle, and I like that. I want you to want me.
We’re given room twelve at the hotel, just like that first time, all those fucks ago. I lead the way while you pick up the key. I give my ass that little extra sway, the one that makes you say, ‘I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave.’
The door has barely clicked behind us before our hands and lips set into action. I need you like never before.
You swing me around and press me against the wall, even as we dump our overnight bags. I bang my head and giggle through the brief pain. You push up against me, our breasts and hips as close as we can get them.
When you begin to push your knee between my legs, I pull away. It isn’t time. I need to do this right.
I give a huge grin and push you back onto the bed,“Wait.”
You lean back, propped on your hands behind you, watching.
I cross to the cabinet and pick up my bag and rummage inside. A click of my lighter later and curls of ylang-ylang scented smoke drift lazily about me. The incense is heady and almost cloying, but it sets my senses alight.
Next, I draw out a bottle and two flutes. I turn to face you, and with a smile, I cross the room and set the flutes on the bedside cabinet next to you.
“It’s too much already, isn’t it, my love?”
That’s why you reach for my hand, only for me to snatch it away and lean in for a brief kiss. Brief, yes, but shameless too. I need to let you know what I want and what I offer in return.
I fill the flutes and lift one by the stem, and sip. And then I kiss you again, the ylang-ylang and the taste of champagne working their magic. I watch as your eyes dilate slightly.
I straighten up and pull back, grab my phone — flick, flick, slide, tap. Music joins the incense in the air, and I have what I need.
The luck of the shuffle gives me Yellow Flicker Beat by Lorde to work with. And oh, can I ever work with that one.
I hum the intro, along with Ella.
‘I’m a princess cut from marble, smoother than a storm…’
My hips take the rhythm first — my shoulders and on down to my wrists. Gently swaying. Singing too. I want to give you a show. You lean back again, getting into it, watching with a passionate hunger as my body starts to move sinuously.
‘I’m going in…Ooh’ the chorus is my cue. I close my eyes and let go. My hair is tossed about as I writhe, the hook jolting me, eel-like. I give myself to the music. I give myself to you. My hands run down my sides, over my hips, back up to my tits, pressing and clutching, presenting.
For verse two, I spin and give you my ass, shaking my moneymaker for your approval. Want me, baby? I think.
When the second chorus arrives, I spin back to you once more. And as I do, I reach to the hem of my dress and throw it over my head and away. Dancing with wild abandon, in my bra, panties, and stockings.
You look at me with that look my wife never wears. My wife is straight. I’m not. And so I have you, my young dyke love. The woman who wants me.
As Gunship’s Black Blood, Red Kiss kicks in, it’s clear you’ve seen enough. You stand abruptly, pulling at and throwing aside your shirt. I feel a pang as I see your heavy tits straining at your bra.
You slam me against the wall again, your kisses fierce, the taste of champagne still on your tongue.
I grasp at your jeans, unbuttoning furiously. Then I’m sliding my slim fingers into your panties. You’re flooded. I feel a twinge deep in my own pussy.
You’re biting my nape, and it’s driving me wild. And then the words I’ve longed to hear.
“You’re so getting fucked…”
I was losing my virginity again…