It was very dark by the time she opened the door of the black cab and stepped onto the rain-slicked street. London in October is sometimes warm and dry, but this year it was cool and wet. She paid the driver and stopped to appraise the unimposing, white-walled Georgian house sat amongst a terrace of near-identical dwellings; it wasn't exactly what she'd been expecting. She pulled out the black and silver invitation and checked the address. It was definitely the place.
She climbed the wide stone steps and knocked hard on the shiny black door. Almost immediately, a broad-shouldered, smartly dressed man opened it and stood silhouetted against the warm glow of light and conversation emanating out into the street from inside. He saw the invitation and nodded, bowing his head to write something on the clipboard he was holding, before stepping aside and gesturing her inside. He looked her up and down like a robot; no hint of emotion playing across his face. This was unusual for Lyla because, although she was not super-model pretty, she always got men's attention. She had a mouth that was slightly too large for her face, but it was framed with full, red lips. Her hair was dark and long. She nearly always wore it twisted up, but tonight she hoped it would be pulled out and allowed to fall down the sloping curve of her bare back. Her eyes were green; striking, and her breasts were large and pale; their creamy fullness over-flowing from the top of her satin blouse. It was red, like her lipstick, and she wore it tucked in to a hip-hugging pencil skirt.
The invitation said nothing about dress code beyond 'smart- ladies must wear heels, gentlemen must wear shirts'. She had responded by dressing like a slightly over-sexed secretary. She was even wearing underwear; albeit only stockings and a suspender belt. Her 5-inch, red suede heels clicked the wooden floor as she crossed the threshold. As the doorman took her coat, anticipation created a warm, tingling between her legs; the night was young, and so was she.
There were well-dressed people everywhere; evening gowns, shiny shoes, glittering jewellery and, of course, more heels; most of them obscenely high. An innocent stranger brought in off the street may not have even noticed the subtext, but it was there. Lyla saw it; the subtle bump of suspenders underneath skirts, the peeking crests of lace lingerie, the odd studded dog collar and several explicit props idly left beside flutes of champagne and scotch's 'on the rocks'. Lyla was impressed by the class and formality of the occasion; she wanted to be fucked, of course, but she wanted to be seduced and titillated first; delaying the inevitable was part of the fun. Like a cat with a mouse, she wanted to play with her prey before she devoured it.
The party was just kicking off, and talk was generally banal; Lyla could not spot anyone quite as self-assured and mischievous as a play mate ought to be. Still, there were plenty of attractive guests, both men and women, and she hoped the alcohol and sexual tension would simmer along nicely as the evening progressed.
By nine thirty, Lyla was growing a little impatient. The woman she was talking to was pretty but not particularly interesting; she was wittering on about her job while Lyla played with her wine glass, searching for some distraction that would allow her to politely slip away. The woman's saving grace was the fact that her blouse was black and slightly transparent, she was braless and every time she turned slightly towards the light, Lyla could see her bare nipples poking expectantly through the sheer material.
Lyla started to play a game to amuse herself; she moved in front of the woman and tried to coax her into better light; she placed a gentle hand on the woman's arm as she talked and deftly steered her until she had a clear view of both erect nipples and the dark circles of their areolas. As the woman talked about how much she enjoyed working for a modern, up-and-coming company, Lyla reached out slowly and softly undid the top button of the woman's blouse. That shut her up!
The woman must have been staring at her, but Lyla was focused on her chest; she ignored the woman's silence and calmly scooped one small, pert breast into her hand, releasing it from the woman's blouse. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she lowered her sensuous mouth to the hard nipple and licked it unhurriedly. The woman gave a sharp intake of breath and the nipple in Lyla's mouth got even firmer, pressing up against her teeth like a teat to be suckled. Lyla drew back, observing the woman; her head was thrown back slightly and the long stretch of her neck was bare and arousing. A blonde man sidled up to them and hesitantly exposed the other breast. The woman didn't move; encouraged, he began fondling her soft flesh and twisting the nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
Lyla drifted away, not wanting to draw too much attention to herself; people had started to watch the pair and the woman was making small moaning noises and tickling the nape of the man's neck. By the time she left the room, a small crowd had gathered and other guests were starting to imitate the scene before them.
Lyla went upstairs, passing empty rooms, and found an unoccupied balcony. She lit a cigarette and, leaning against the cold stone of the house, she dragged heavily and concentrated on the delicious tingling in her clitoris. She wasn't a lesbian by any stretch of the imagination, but sex is sex; Lyla could see the sexuality of women and she enjoyed exploring it; sucking so brazenly on a stranger's breast in a room full of people was a turn on. Full stop. She lifted her skirt up slightly and pushed her free hand up the length of her thigh. She could feel the faint warmth and moisture of her pussy, aching as it was to be touched. Hesitating ever so slightly, she pulled her hand away and sighed at her impatience.
" Think you may have started something downstairs..."
