Sing Little Bird

Music thumps loudly and the room smells of beer, sweat, and matches. A flash bartender in a half-buttoned shirt lights a drink on fire, a crowd of middle-aged women at the bar cheering him on. A flutter of irritation breezes through your mind. Show off. Like you'd give them a second glance if you weren't desperate for their tips. You're squeezed in at a little table, sweat staining the neck of your shirt, three empty glasses in front of you. You've been stood up again. It's your own fault, really. Shooting above your league. They're bound to have second thoughts. 'Trixie1994' probably took one look at you and scarpered. You raise your glass to your mouth but find it empty. Probably for the best. One more of those and you'll be rolling home. You briefly consider staying, getting something non-alcoholic, but the thought of having to ask that peacocking bartender for a sparkling water is galling.

No, best to admit defeat, go home, and spend the rest of the evening wallowing in self-pity. You have just managed to extricate yourself from the table when you notice a woman standing on the other side of the room, picked out by the light bouncing off a mirror like a spotlight. She's beautiful, maybe twenty-five, and she seems to radiate with some ethereal aura that keeps the crowd at bay. A mad desire to go and introduce yourself crosses your mind - but then you remember Trixie1994, and what a great success that turned out to be, and you think better of it. No, she's destined for one of the many smart young men littered about the place, wearing blazers and converse and drinking bloody cosmopolitans or whatever it is they drink these days.

And yet, you notice, you're still staring. There is something about that girl, the way she's standing still among the swaying crowd, her long red hair catching the light like the spark that lights the forest fire. She's elegantly dressed, too smart for this place, a black dress hugging her figure and showing off her long, slim legs. She's not talking to anyone, not dancing, and you can't see a drink in her hand. Maybe she's waiting for someone. Maybe she's been stood up, too - no, not her. She's too special for that. Maybe her boyfriend's gone to get another round in... You're startled out of your thoughts by the feeling of a hand on your shoulder. It's a deliberate tap, rather than part of the symphony of accidental touches you've subjected yourself to by coming in here, and you turn to find a dark-haired woman looking at you.

"Excuse me," she says, leaning in to make herself heard over the music. "I can't help notice that you're staring at my girlfriend." Damn, you think, feeling suddenly as though you're back in school and being told off by a teacher. And also, Maybe that's why she looked so out of place.

"Oh," you stammer. "Yes. I, er..." You're not sure what to make of this. With a man, you might have expected to get beaten up. But this girl is about half your weight, and not dressed for fighting. But she grins, deviously, and pats your arm.

"It's alright," she says, and you catch a hint of floral perfume. "I'm not complaining. I know she's quite something to look at."

"Ah," you say, now looking between her and the redhead. "Yes. Yes, she is." She's watching you watching her, and there's a current running underneath the awkwardness, an expectation, or an understanding. Then she leans close again, and says, "Did you know I can read minds?" You stare at her, a little bemused.

"You don't seem the type," you say. "Aren't mystics supposed to wear beads and feathers? And long shawls?"

"Are you saying you don't believe me?" There's a glint of mischief in her eyes, and and that current you felt before seems to spark.

"I'm not sure I believe in mind-reading at all."

"How about I read your mind?" she says. "Then you can see for yourself that I'm the real thing."

"Alright." The word is out before you've really thought it through, and the next moment she's placed her hands on either side of your face and is closing her eyes.

"Let's see," she says, her voice low and theatrical. "Oh, it's a mess in here, isn't it? So many things to look at. Now what's this, I wonder. I can see a pale shape, stark against the darkness. It's getting clearer... it's a human shape, a female shape." Her fingers press into your temples, cool and dry, and you're suddenly embarrassed at how sweaty you are.

"The shape's moving, quivering, and there's a rhythm to it... She's naked, this shape. And there's a hint of colour, too, an edge of fire and flame... Oh dear, oh dear oh dear, you've got quite the dirty mind, haven't you? Because I do believe I recognise that shape. Unless I'm much mistaken, mister, you're thinking of my darling Emma." She opens her eyes, and grins at you. You're not sure what to say. She's playing a game, that much is clear, but you haven't quite worked out what she's aiming for.

"And?" she asks, letting her hands fall away from your temples. "Was I right? Were you thinking about fucking my Emma?" You swallow, a nervous laugh espaces your mouth. Truthfully, you hadn't got that far. You'd seen yourself buy her a drink, but nothing more. Now, however, with this image planted firmly in your brain, it's hard to think of anything else.

"I'm not sure what magic school you went to," you say, "but perhaps you should go back for seconds. I wasn't thinking that at all." You expect her to blush, or apologise, or laugh it off as a joke, but she seems unfazed.

"Oh, didn't I say? I can see the future, too. I'm sorry, I must have got those mixed up."

"The future?" you say. "That's a good trick. But again, I think you're a bit out of practice. I don't think my future includes anything like that."

"Want to bet?" she says, and her voice is breathy, playful. She takes your hand without asking, and turns the the palm up.

"It's a subtle art, palmistry, but there's so much detail in the human hand. Take yours, for example. Unlucky in love, no family to speak of, and no great fortune, either. But this line," she says, running a finger along the centre of your palm. "Your life line. So many little details for a practiced eye to pick up. Take this little notch, for example. That's a big event. And it's coming nearer, fast. And if I close my eyes..." She closes her eyes, finger pressed tight to your palm, "I can see fragments... I see luminous numbers, the meter of a taxi... I see a dark leather jacket... Goodness, is that yours? Surely not. But the image is so vivid..." She opens her eyes again, and shakes her head dramatically. "It's gone. Vanished. This music's playing havoc with my psychic vibrations." She pats your hand, then lets it fall. "Tell you what, though. Vibrations or not, I know what will happen in the near future. You're going to put that hideous jacket on, come home with me, and you're going to fuck my girlfriend silly." She winks, and before you have time to answer, begins pushing her way towards the door. "Come on!" she calls back. "Chop chop. The future waits for no man." And with that, she disappears into the crowd.

You stand there, staring at the point at which she vanished. Surely this can't be happening. It's some sort of joke, it's got to be. You turn to look at the redhead, but she too has vanished. Is the drink playing tricks on your mind? But you're not that drunk yet. Either way, a little air will do you good. You take your jacket from the stool, a little worse for wear after you've sat on it for an hour, and push your way outside. But as you reach the street, a taxi is waiting, the mystic and the red-haired girl waiting inside.

"What are you dawdling for?" the mystic says, leaning over her girlfriend to meet your eyes. "It's not as though you had any better plans for the evening." You gape stupidly at her for a moment - then you duck down and fold yourself inside.

It's quiet, the thumping music muffled by two layers of glass, the rumbling of the engine gently drowning out the sound of voices on the street. You're squeezed beside the elegant redhead, the girl you've just been told you're about to sleep with. She's even prettier up close, delicate features and big brown eyes. You're a little embarrassed to be this close to her, what with the things you've been thinking about her, but she smiles kindly, her cheeks dimpling as she does.

"I'm Anne," says the mystic, reaching across to shake your hand. "This is Emma." Anne rests her hand on Emma's thigh, squeezing it gently through the sheer stockings. "I'm sure you'll enjoy her immensely."

"I'm sure I will," you say, as the cab pulls away from the kerb and begins winding its way through traffic.

"There are a few rules, though," Anne continues, looking at you sternly. "I'm sure you understand. First: no kissing. Only I'm allowed to do that. Second: she doesn't talk. Not tonight. Third: you're allowed to do anything you like, but you have to check with me first. Deal?"

"Deal," you say. There's a fluttering in your stomach, again that current of anticipation. It's unreal, this situation, but in a good way. And unless they're planning to knock you out and harvest your organs, you don't see how you're any worse off with them than you would have been on your own, at home, watching porn and drinking to forget.

The taxi lurches as it turns the corner and Emma is pressed closer to you, her warm weight making your skin prickle. She smells clean, like a spring day, and as her hair brushes your cheek you can feel your cock twinge in answer.

"Can I touch her?" you ask. You're addressing Anne, who's clearly the one in control, and she smiles at you.

"You may," she says, "but keep it civil. No skin-on-skin contact until we're inside."

"Of course." Of course. Like you'd say anything else when you're this close to perfection. You place your hand on Emma's knee and let it rest there, feeling the warmth of her radiate through you. She's got slender legs, beautiful legs, and you fancy you can see freckles through the sheer stockings. Experimentally you let your hand rub a circle, and you're gratified to hear the little intake of breath as it slides the smallest way up beneath Emma's skirt. There's a rustle of fabric as Anne leans in to whisper in Emma's ear. Emma exhales sharply through her nose, her cheeks dimpling in a smile. You want to ask What, what did she say? but the chances of getting an answer seem slim. So you move your hand up Emma's leg instead, squeezing, your thumb brushing along the inside of her thigh. You mark the quickening of her breath, see the skin on her arm pucker into goosebumps. You slide your hand down her leg again, then lift it to rub her shoulder, taking care to touch only the part covered by her dress. As you move your hand up to her collarbone she lets out a little moan, the sound of it vibrating through her body. You study her face, the long, straight nose, the pointed chin, the alabaster skin peppered with freckles. She lifts her face towards you, those big brown eyes seeming to look straight into your soul.

"You're lovely," you say, resisting the urge to lean in and kiss her. She smiles - really, those dimples are too cute to be allowed. You trace the outline of her collarbone through her dress, then down a bit, feeling the swell of her breasts. Emma breathes in, sharply.

"She's so responsive," you say to Anne, who's been watching you carefully all this time, no doubt making sure you stick to the rules. Anne smiles, benevolently.

"Like a little bird," Anne says. "Fragile and quivering if you touch her right. Oh, you're going to have so much fun with her tonight. And I'm going to have a lot of fun watching her come undone."

Emma sits rigid, hands by her sides. Probably another rule. She's not allowed to initiate. As you run a finger in between her breasts you can hear Anne's words as she leans in close again, her lips so close to Emma's ear they're almost touching.

"Are you getting wet, my love?" Emma presses her lips close together and nods vigorously. Anne laughs, a rich, warm sound, and presses a kiss to the soft skin under Emma's ear. Then she turns to you.

"Would you like to know a secret?" Without waiting for a reply she takes your hand in hers and guides it gently down, holding it still an inch or so from the small of Emma's back. "Touch her here, and watch her closely. Her eyelids flutter delightfully when you do." She lets go, and for a moment your hand hovers in mid-air. Then your fingers make contact with Emma's secret spot and her cheeks flush and her eyelids flutter like feathers in the wind. She pushes back against your hand, just a little, like a cat rubbing itself against its master. She nearly purrs as your fingers play across her back. Then the taxi lurches into a side street and stops, the rumbling engine suddenly louder.

"Looks like we're here, darlings," Anne says, and the spell of the moment is broken. You sit blinking in the sudden absence of the current you hadn't realised had been coursing through you all this time, snapping out of it only when the driver's voice rings out through the calm.

"Allow me," you say, digging into your back pocket for your wallet. Anne doesn't quibble, but gives your shoulder a quick pat before opening the door and pulling Emma out with her. Moments later you're standing in the cold, jacket in one hand, wallet in the other. Anne and Emma stand a few feet away, huddled close together.

"Alright, my love?" you hear Anne say, as you look around to get your bearings. It's a quiet street of handsome terraced houses, leafy trees obscuring the streetlights. "No second thoughts? I can tell him to get lost." But Emma shakes her head, smiling her sweet smile.

"I'm fine, honestly," she says, and her voice is like honey, soft and sweet. "I'm ready." Anne nods, and kisses her cheek.

"Good girl. Right!" she says, and the last word is louder, meant for you more than Emma. "We're up here, Number Three. Try not to look too suspicious - Mrs Downstairs likes to keep an eye out." She fishes a bunch of keys out of her purse and ushers you in, flicking a switch to turn on a light on the landing. You follow her up the stairs into a small, cosy flat. Big faceted windows, hardwood floors, sliding doors opening onto the bedroom. The bed is made up, dark sheets pristine, and a little table beside it is stocked with water, condoms and lube.

"Do you do this often?" you ask, nodding to the supplies standing ready.

"No," says Anne, pulling the curtains closed. "But I like to be prepared." She crosses the room with confident steps, heels clicking on the floorboards. "Now, I imagine you'd like to freshen up. Bathroom's through there. Take your time. We don't want to rush things." With that she turns away, and you understand yourself to be dismissed.

The bathroom is small but tidy, toiletries neatly put away and a clean towel hung on the peg by the sink. You pee, wash, then look at yourself in the mirror. It's a strange face looking back at you, as though the evening has already altered you. You prod at your cheeks, wipe a hand over your five o'clock shadow. For some unknown reason the universe has decided to give you a treat. In recompense for earlier disappointment, perhaps. Or maybe this is an advance and you'll pay for it later. You wonder briefly how much tonight could be worth - a girl like that, offered up to you like a present? You wouldn't be surprised if you came back home to find your house burnt down.

Back in the main room Anne has set out drinks on the kitchen table: two tumblers of scotch, and a tall glass of something clear.

"Emma likes to remain sober," Anne says, as she sees you looking. "But I'm sure a little buzz won't hurt you." She points you to a chair, and you sit. Emma is sitting across from you, face serene, fairy-like in the soft yellow light.

"Why me?" The words come tumbling out of your mouth without you deciding to say them. Anne looks at you, one eyebrow raised, appraising.

"We liked the look of you," she says. "Handsome enough, lonely enough." She considers for a moment, then adds, "And you looked like you'd appreciate the offer." You laugh, a bark in the silence.

"You're honest. I appreciate that." You take a sip of your drink. "And this is excellent scotch."

The drink seems to burn through the last of your reservations, and the image Anne's words had evoked in your mind back in the bar float back to the surface. Not long now and you'll be standing over the pretty pale girl sitting before you, making her quiver with whatever Anne has planned for you both.

"Emma, my love?" Anne asks, as you steadily sip your whisky. "Would you stand up, please? I'm sure our guest would appreciate a better look." Emma gets up, chair legs scraping, and goes to stand in the middle of the room.

"Give us a little spin, there's a good girl," says Anne. Emma revolves slowly on the spot, heels tapping gently, hair glowing in the soft light. She's so lithe, so thin, you reckon you can wrap your hands around her waist with room to spare.

"Now take off that dress, my dear. Here, let me help." And Emma walks over to her, holding her hair off her back to let Anne unzip her. Then she moves back into the centre of the room and slowly, carefully, pulls down her dress.

She is wearing a black bra and panties, triangular insets of lace at the sides. The stockings have elasticated tops that press into the flesh of her thighs, making little dips in the smooth expanse of white. You were right, in the taxi - she is freckled all over.

"Wow," you breathe, and you hear Anne laughing behind you.

"I told you she was pretty," she says. "My little bird. Really something special." Emma seems to glow with delight, and the love she feels for her girlfriend strikes you hard, making your heart leap with gladness that these two have found each other, and that they're confident enough with that to let a stranger join them in whatever they intend to share.

You've finished your drink now, and Anne's finished hers, and the current sparks as if to say it's time for the next thing.

"Why don't you go sit on the bed, my love." Anne's voice is gentle, and Emma, still wearing her high heels, obliges happily. Then Anne puts an arm around your shoulders and moves her lips close to your ear.

"In a moment," she says, "I want you to walk to the bed, and kneel before her. Think you can do that?" You nod, eyes fixed on Emma, who is looking back at you with those big brown eyes that seem to see straight into your soul. "Good. I want you to spread her legs, and kiss the inside of her thighs - but no further. You're to kiss each one three times, and then move away. Got that?"

"Loud and clear," you say. Anne pats your shoulders. "Wait until I'm sitting behind her. Then you can start." And she pulls away, stepping out of her shoes before kneeling on the bed behind Emma, hands on Emma's shoulders. You take a deep breath - then take three long strides to the bed. Emma's skin glows, her mouth slightly open. You kneel before her, ready to worship her as she deserves to be worshipped. You place your hands on her knees, then gently push them apart. You place the first kiss on the top of her left stocking. The second lands a little higher, and for the first time your lips make contact with her skin. It's so soft, so smooth, and your lips seem to burn with the feel of it. You take a deep, shuddering breath, then kiss her right stocking, and her right thigh. That's two each. Now for the last ones, the most important ones. You move your head further forward still, the tantalising sweetness of her so close you can almost taste it. You place the fifth kiss so high on the inside of her thigh the top of your head brushes her panties, and you can hear Emma gasp. The last kiss goes in the same place on her left thigh. Then you sit up, look Emma straight into the eyes, and press her legs closed again. She is breathing heavily, pupils blown wide, and you can feel a tug somewhere behind your navel. This is the loveliest girl you have ever seen, and your mere touch seems enough to bring her this ecstasy.