Truth or Dare

The setting for this

very

short piece is Sydney - Australia, and whilst most readers will not of course have had an opportunity to visit this harbour-side city no doubt everyone will at least have seen photographs of the world-class Opera House. It is set at the end of a point of land that juts out into the edges of Sydney Harbour, and down at the western end of that spit is the area known as Circular Quay - providing jetties and terminals for all the multitude of harbour ferry services - whilst on eastern side are the relatively extensive Botanical Gardens.

Now anyone who says that the following events are just not possible in such a well visited place - and especially not in broad day-light - are, I'm sorry to tell them, just plain wrong!

The lovers have, until very recently, been conducting an increasingly intense 'love-affaire' purely by letters, emails and the occasional phone call. But - now read on…

*

This is the second of our meetings, and this time we have met in a motel not too far from the centre of Sydney and last night - and of course only after we had physically exhausted each other - we began playing a game of 'Truth or Dare'. At some stage you chose not to answer what I had thought a not too intrusive a question - maybe you did so just to see what sort of 'Dare' I might come up with for you! - and this morning you are to carry out what I asked of you.

You are wearing your Italian silk dress, and shoes - nothing else! Neither bra not panties was my stipulation - and you should walk hand-in-hand with me along the route I selected for us.

When you heard the details of what I had dared you to do, you agreed - albeit blushingly - so here we are!

The taxi is to drop us at Circular Quay, from where we will begin our walk; which will take us along and around the Concourse, the harbour-side of the Opera House, then back through the Botanical Gardens to Macquarie Street. Where I have said I will flag down a taxi for us to make the return trip to the motel.

Of course the harbour is notoriously breezy, and that is especially true of the area around Circular Quay itself, and as I have said you are to hold my hand at all times, that will leave you with just the one to deal with any particularly mischievously wayward winds.

As we draw near to the quay I feel your fingers tightening around mine, you glance sideways at me, smiling nervously - probably beginning to regret you have agreed to do this, yet also finding yourself getting strangely excited by the prospect. I lean towards you, kiss you, then whisper - 'Don't forget how very much I love you!' - and reassuringly, tighten my hold of your hand.

We leave the taxi, walk through the railway arch and out on to the ever busy area around the ferry terminals. Here you feel relatively 'safe' because the row of moored ferries and of course the terminals themselves block any stray breezes that might have started your walk in the most embarrassing way.

But once we head out on to the much more open space between the harbour's edge and the cafés and restaurants that line the other side of it - their tables and chairs always well-filled with travellers and tourists, you begin to feel yourself becoming much more vulnerable and I sense that your free hand is hovering, ready to suppress any sudden uplift in the suddenly far-too flimsy silk skirt that is your modesty's only protection.

And it was around there that I think you first become aware of your, until then well-hidden excitement - or at least your body's responses to it. You feel your pussy tingling as it responds to the increased flow of blood to that area, feel it moistening as it swells and its unfurling lips part in anticipation of whatever demands you might soon be making of it. Then, before we have taken too many more steps past the cafés' ever curious customers you feel the warm trickle of juices, feel them creeping slowly down the insides of your thighs.

Then, once we leave that row of eateries behind us and start to walk towards the start of the Concourse, you feel the first puff of breeze blowing up off the nearby water, feel your hem fluttering, rather like a small string of purely decorative bunting.

The ruffling wind tickles the backs of your knees, then rises just a little bit higher, lifting the back, then the side of the hem even as it whispers its way up between your legs, playfully coiling itself around your thighs, then skittering up to teasingly flutter against your pussy, before tugging the front of the skirt just a little too high for comfort - and then darting off to find something else to play with.

That mischievous sprite obviously managed to get well down inside you, I can see the look on your face has changed - and something has given a suddenly more roseate tinge to your complexion - that look of suppressed nervous anticipation has been replaced by one that looks more like steadily increasingly excited expectancy. Then when I feel your hand tighten around mine as a small family group appears from around a corner ahead of us I know you are hoping that something might happen in the next minute or two.

And the cheekily naughty wind does not disappoint you, reappearing - at least making his presence felt - just when the family is close enough to clearly distinguish between 'possible appearances' and the reality of what actually lies beneath your skirt. Again you feel him start by just lightly tickling your knees, then your thighs, but when you think he will do no more than he did last time, he expends himself in one sudden and almighty updraft; one part of which coils itself up between your pussy-lips and re-starts the flow of juices, even as the other physically grabs the front of your skirt and - long before your free hand can whip around to control it - has hoisted it well up past your waist.

The mother's face expresses both resentment and disgust at what she sees - the father's eyes merely goggle - while the two, late teen-age daughters giggle and dig each other, then turn to watch you with what are clearly envious eyes - probably wondering when they will have the courage to do what you are.

But though that group provides a little momentary excitement it is what happens after we have listened to the 'thump, thump' of a couple of joggers coming up from behind us, that gives you your first real thrill of the journey.

They were perhaps no more than a dozen or so long paces behind us when that uncontrollable breeze decided it was time to play games with you again. That time giving you no warning at all. Merely puffing up somewhat faster than the joggers were, then simply lifting the entire back of your skirt, and holding its billowing fabric high, more than long enough for them to see just how beautifully tautly rounded your bottom-cheeks actually are.

The regularity of the 'thump, thump' was suddenly lost, there was a muffled screech of rubber on concrete as shoes failed to stop as quickly as their power sources wanted them to, then curses as limbs tangled with those of the colliding body, and when we turned we saw the two young men - still staring open-mouthedly upwards at you - trying to disentangle themselves as they lay sprawling.

I chuckle and you give one of your erotically deep-throated chuckles as we leave them behind us - leave them to wonder if what they feel sure they have seen is not actually just some sex-charged day-dream.

But the excitement of that experience has definitely increased the flow of lubrication from somewhere deep inside you, and the warm flow that was previously slowly creeping down the insides of your thighs gathers momentum as the volume seeping out from your pussy increases in response to your rising level of sexual arousal. The trickles cooling as they slip lower, providing you with strangely pleasant tickling sensations as they work their way down towards your knees.

We walk on, along the side of the Opera House and then around on to the open area that fronts the harbour, where of course you are already prepared for the sudden wind shift and do your best to hold much of your skirt down against your leg as we walk across in front of the people who are enjoying the magnificence of the view from there.

All that time I have been doing exactly as I said I would, simply walking beside you and continuing to firmly hold one hand - but when we reach the much less used, a much more narrow space, on the eastern side of the building, I release it. Then, just when you least expect it, I stop you - and even as I kiss you, you feel me reach up beneath your skirt, feel me sliding my fingers up along the wetly frictionless skin between your thighs, sliding up to finally slip between those moistly pouting pussy lips.

You gasp at the suddenness of my boldness - of my intrusion - excited rather than offended, wanting those fingers to plunge deeper, not to slip out again.

I continue kissing you, hotly, deeply, passionately. You respond, if anything, even more enthusiastically. So we cling there; our lips and mouths almost glued together, my fingers swirling around inside the hot wetness of your pussy - each of us hoping that nobody will just then intrude on us - but then not really caring if they do.

But we are both sensible, and make that erotically charged embrace, a relatively short one; continuing our way down the side of the building and out into the much more heavily populated forecourt - where again you take whatever skirt-flying precautions you are able to.

Then it is on to the Botanical Gardens, where we can from time to time drift off the sealed pathway, and wend our way between the trees that provide us the cover for us to stop; kiss again - and for my hand to more freely slip up between your legs, to not only cup and fondle you, but even to teasingly stimulate the by then quite firmly swollen ridge of your clitoris.

But even those far too brief, but increasingly frequent stoppages, are merely the prelude to what I have always actually had in mind for us. But I am a patient man, and knowing just how much more powerfully you climax after a long, erotically-charged overture, I wait until I can tell by the staringly glazed look in your eyes, that internally at least, you are literally panting for some way to release all the pressure that by then is seethingly boiling inside you.

So then I lead you back towards those parts of the gardens that are frequented by none but the maintenance men, where that polished capped wall hides behind the protection of the screen of bushes - the place you have until now only read of in one of the 'Extracts' I sent you long ago.

And there we emulate what the over-excited lovers in that story did - I hoist you up to sit on the wall, then lick and suck you, eventually finding that secretive g-spot, then fucking you - vigorously- until we both are almost too weak-kneed to make our way across to Macquarie Street. There to catch a cab back to our motel, where we will - far more languidly leisurely - repeat what we did so energetically thoroughly during our never to be forgotten session of 'Truth or Dare'.

* * * * *

Readers who are interested to know what is in the 'Extract' referred to can read it for themselves - it is part of the 'LUCY' novel, Chapter 7, titled 'River Gardens'.

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