Part 1.
Isobelle you're making me crazy. Isobelle I see you on the train. I can't not look at you. You're hair catches the sun, there is a innocence in your demeanour that I want to own. To break.
Isabelle I'll bet you didn't know heights could make your pulse race? Do you know what it feels like to be touched by satin and leather? To hold a piece of material between your lips? I want to be your bug-bear,. I want to be so close you can feel the warmth of my breath on your neck, so close you can't imagine anything but allowing me to help you find your release.
I bet you don't even notice me? I'm tall, I work out. You always get on the train, half smiling, miles away. I know you're name. I've heard you answer your phone. You make me crazy with lust and I'm invisible. Do you know how sexy that is?
I crave the opportunity to make your skin tingle, to find your hidden heat. When you turn away from me and your hair sways, I can smell your shampoo. I imagine finger-fucking you, naked. Your expression clotted with lust, begging me remember to enter you once I have released the delicious pleasure of your mounting orgasm. Why don't you notice me? I thought I gave the impression I ravished you with my eyes?
...
At home, alone, Isobelle touches her intimate creases and greases them with her longing. She slides her slippery fingers around her wetness and presses her lush breasts on the cold glass in the shower. It gives her body-tremours and her nipples rise to peaks. Under the warm buzz of the shower she lets her hands wander between her legs, gently bringing herself to orgasm imagining bringing to life the suggestion she can see in the eyes of her tall, dark-haired train commuter. He makes her tremble. He makes her ache for the hardness of a lover's hands on her sweet, tight curves.
Isobelle excels herself, working her fingers into the warm flesh. Such consistent attention fuels her desire to thrust into herself. Unthinking she presses her thighs together and adds pressure. What would he want from her? Total and silent surrender? To bind her to his need? To nip her flesh? Cast her to the floor and take her blindly? Isobelle explodes in orgasm, feeling the tremours rack her slight frame.
...
“Ezra”
Isobelle coyly purses her lips, repeats his name. They lapse into a silence punctuated by the movement of the train. Ezra is about to alight.
“I'll take you to dinner. I'd like that.”
He doesn't take her number and after he's gone, Isobelle grieves for the heat of his gaze.
Later, Isobelle expresses herself in her lounge. She daydreams of his possessive stare and his taut, lean, torso as she kneels on the floor, wracked by longing. She splashes scented oil on her breasts and rubs each nipple dry. Her hips undulate with erotic slowness. She can feel her juices maddeningly begin to collect at the juncture between her legs. Each pink nipple stands proudly to attention, thighs trembling.
