* After reading Fifty Shades of Grey, my partner expressed her disappointment at how it, her first erotic novel, was so tame. I offered to write her something a little better. She enjoyed it and I hope you do too. Comments are very welcome.
*
Lucy was a naughty little girl. Deep down she knew this; her fevered dreams of domination, of consensual abuse proved as much and, despite her naive efforts to repress her lust she knew she couldn't deny this aspect of her person and that it was only a matter of time before she had to submit to those growing urges; to unlock and give scandalous assent to her subversive fantasies. And so it came to be, one summer morning that brought heat to repressed longing, that Little Lucy would forever, but quite willingly, lose her sweet innocence.
She had been born and lived eighteen years in the small and quaint village of 'Boring' where the silence was broken only by the bell of the postman's bike, the clatter of empty milk bottles and, on a day like this, the distant 'clok' of a cricket ball on a bat accompanied by mild applause, an audible metaphor for English restraint and etiquette. It was calm, it was tranquil, but behind the pleasantries and the smiles and the first-name terms of all the residents was there happiness? Or contentment? Not for Little Lucy. And not for Richard.
He had not been born there but had settled, seeking a calming of the nerves, a sense of place. But just like the girl he was about to meet, his own mind and dream narratives would never allow him to be content until they were satisfied.
And yet, for all their similarities, there were contrasts between this girl and this lonely man. She had lived her full eighteen years in that bubble of naivety and, although a young woman, was inexperienced in the ways of that world beyond the borders she had never crossed. She still dressed in a youthfully innocent fashion, seemingly unaware of the effects her fulsome figure may have if regarded by those from outside that secluded community, their minds more open to physical possibilities. He had travelled extensively, had lived and worked in more urban places that would make Caligula blush. Indeed, it had been the daily confrontation with unadultered depravity that had driven him to that sleepy village. Although, if you had asked him, he would say otherwise, he knew, deep down, that he couldn't deny his own urges and temptations; his mind had been opened to a world considered sinful, he could never regain the innocence he had lost.
That scandalous morning, as the tempting heat of the summer sun streamed through both their bedroom windows, they had woken, washed and dressed, unaware of the footsteps of destiny guiding them to the crossroads. He, despite the heat, in his customary black three-piece suit and red tie; she in a blue dress not unlike Lewis Carroll's Alice: long, over-the-knee white socks with black bows at their tops; the delicate white lace of her petticoats affording a glimpse of her smooth, white thighs. He applied gel to his dark hair and combed it into his preferred style; ordered and tidy. She brushed her long hair so that the dark strands cascaded over her shoulders, a black bowed hair band on her crown.
His ablutions over, Richard slipped on polished black shoes and left his house for a Sunday walk. Lucy, however, still needed to apply her black eyeliner, her blood red lipstick and pull on her black, high-heeled shoes. And so it was that he was present at the fateful, secluded spot before her.
A picture of innocence, a symbol of temptation, she was ready. Despite the sun, she decided that her grandmother's house needed brightening, it needed flowers, and she knew just the spot to the find the best and most colourful.
Near the village there was a forest in which was a meadow; secret and undisturbed, and, basket under crooked arm, Lucy left the house and strolled through the village to meet the dirt track which would lead her to her destiny. It was close enough to walk to but long enough away for her to be totally alone... or so she thought.
The sun beat down on her, tanning her bare arms, and she was glad she'd had the forethought to bring a bottle of water in her basket. She paused on the dry dirt track and took a greedy glug of water as the weak breeze stirred the pine trees about her. A little trickle of water ran from her overflowing mouth and made a lazy trail down, over her chin, her neck, and into the fulsome cleavage at her chest. As the cool fluid caressed her breast she felt an electric thrill tingle her nipples encased in the cotton of her dress. Her mind went instantly to that forbidden place and her thighs warmed with moist desire. She considered, for the briefest of moments, acting on the sensation but, despite her secret longing, Little Lucy wanted so much to be a good girl like all the others that she, as usual, repressed the urge and, after a deep breath and an exhale like an exorcism, continued her stroll towards her destination.
After twenty minutes of walking though the forest, she emerged into a sunlit meadow of blue flowers. It was a welcome relief from the stifling humidity of the trees and sweat had begun to flow from her, leaving a dull sheen on her bare skin. She'd had to stop several times to drink from her bottle and it now lay three-quarters empty in the basket. She didn't like the forest very much; there was a formless intimidation in its shadowed confines, a sense of a hidden gaze, and the open space of the meadow before her was a release from that feeling which was simultaneously fearful and exciting. She stepped between the flowers and began to select the best for her basket.
She was humming as she worked and it was this sweet yet mournful tune which stirred Richard from where he lay asleep beneath a tree at the edge of the glade. Opening his eyes, she spied amongst the fragrant flowers a vision of beauty so perfectly attuned to his particular fancy that he thought initially that he must still be dreaming. For here, about thirty feet in front of him, was a girl shining with innocent sweat, dressed in blue and perfect white, bending for flowers, and each time she did so he could espy, through the sheer lace of her petticoats, the white cotton of panties which surely contained a bud of such loveliness that his tongue tingled as before a feast of delicacies.
He could not move, he dared not, lest he shatter this vision of fragile beauty and forever be lost from that which he had waited his whole life to find.
In the end it was her who brought about his transition from voyeur to participant. Her senses primed by her lonesome walk through the forest she felt the downy hairs on her arms prickle and, glancing up, discerned his dark shadow amongst the shade. At first she was uncomfortable with the sudden knowledge of company, not least because the desire of before had not abated, but, having grown up in a village where everyone was on first-name terms and a stranger was to be welcomed rather than feared, she approached that dark spot under the trees.
As she stepped into the edge of the shade, she stopped and regarded him for the first time. Was this not the new man in the village? A recent addition to the company of inhibitors but one who kept himself to himself? Lucy had to admit that her regard of him stirred that desperate longing between her thighs. He was dressed in such solemn black, such ordered formality that, before he even spoke, she was struck by an excited fearfulness.
"Good morning," he said, and his voice was of a rich culture and warmness that she felt immediately and irrevocably infatuated.
"Hi," she smiled back, unaware of how she was nervously pressing the toe of her right shoe into the soft grass, or of how this accentuated his desire for this fragile little thing he had discovered.
"And what is your name?" he asked.
"Lucy," she replied with a coquettish smile and his own infatuation was complete.
"I'm Richard," he told her, and she smiled that nervous beatific smile once more.
There was a silence that passed self-consciously as they regarded each other, their unspoken desire electricity in the air. A bird sang far off on a branch as Richard struggled to think of something to say to maintain this relationship before it slipped through his fingers. As for Lucy, she also feared an ending and she could feel that all the water she had drunk earlier was having inevitable consequences.
"Collecting flowers, eh?" he asked and she knew she had to stay.
"Oh yes, this is the best spot for them. I didn't know anyone else knew about this spot." And she stepped closer, into the shade where he sat with hungry eyes.
"Well, I like to get away from it all sometimes, the village isn't always peaceful enough for me," he told her as he regarded her long legs with their white socks.
"I'm just the same... but aren't you hot?" she asked.
"I was just thinking the same thing," he smiled and shrugged off his black jacket. She giggled, and he felt a painful stirring in his trousers.
"However," he continued, "I think it's important for people to dress appropriately."
"Surely your suit isn't appropriate for this heat?"
