There are some things that go hand in hand with, but are not necessarily really part of sex. Showers and sunken baths, nurses and schoolgirl uniforms, stockings, the back seats of cars and, of course, posing for a camera.
That's what this all about.
How, what started as an innocent few shots ended up as being a major part of my sex-life for a time.
I urge my readers, male and female, to try it. For those of you that have and are into it, I would love to hear about your experiences.
*
"Bollocks," I heard myself saying, as the A4 sized folder slipped from my under my arm hand and fell to the floor in the middle of the Starbucks in Greenwich. As I bent down, I quickly looked around, hoping no one had heard me, maybe I had said it under my breath, I rather ambitiously thought.
I heard a nice, male voice say.
"Hey, let me help."
I didn't look at the owner of the voice.
"No, no it's ok," I said panicking a bit as I knelt down and tried picking everything up as quickly as I could.
"It's ok, maidens in distress are my specialty", the voice went on.
I felt, more than saw that someone was kneeling beside me. I glanced to one side and saw a man on one knee, almost as if he was about to propose. He was reaching under the table, helping to pick up the papers, folders, envelopes and other stuff.
"Oh fuck," I said to myself when I saw that several photos had come loose from the pack they had been in. "Oh fuck, fuck, fuck and fuck again", I breathed as I watched him pick them up.
He couldn't possibly avoid seeing they were photos, he probably couldn't avoid seeing they were photos of a scantily clad woman and I didn't think he could avoid, either, seeing that she was wearing lacy topped, hold-up stockings and a black thong and bra; nothing else, apart from black, shiny, high heels and a sultry, but slightly embarrassed smile. I hoped like hell, though, that he did avoid seeing that I was that woman.
I looked at him and saw him staring at the woman in the photos, a wry, impish almost, grin on his face, the lechy bastard. He didn't say anything, but handed them to me.
"Yours, I believe."
"Yes thank you," I replied feeling flustered and embarrassed, as we remained crouched looking at each other.
"I'm so clumsy; I must have had a really blonde moment there."
"Unusual for a brunette", he said flashing me a warm smile.
I saw him looking at my mane of long, rather unkempt chestnut coloured hair that I paid a fortune to have look like a mess.
"Sexy though," my gay hairdresser always tells me, as he runs his hands seductively through it, making me somewhat regret his sexuality!
I suddenly realised the man couldn't avoid seeing that the jacket of my black, three button Donna Karan business suit was gaping. He also could not avoid noticing that the above the knee, tightish skirt had ridden up my legs. Moreover, to compound things, he could not avoid, even had he wanted to and why would he, looking down my jacket and up my skirt. That made me once more mutter under my breath. This time I tried both bollocks and fuck, fuck, fuck; that made me feel a little better, so I added another bollocks and two more fucks just for good measure. It didn't alter the fact, though, that unintentionally I was putting on a real display for him and then, I realised not just for him for I had a whole audience of the Starbuck customers and staff.
Still bent down, sort of sitting on the back of one foot with that knee almost touching the ground and with my other leg bent at ninety degrees or thereabouts, geometry was never my strong point, I glanced at this "helpful" stranger. He caught my eye and smiled.
"Hi" he said brightly as if meeting a woman bent over in Starbucks was the most natural thing in the world. It took me off guard.
"Oh hi," I said back, getting into the vernacular and almost putting my hand out to shake his.
Then it hit me, and with quite a jolt. It hit me that there were other things he and the audience most certainly could not have avoided seeing. It hit me that he would have seen my cleavage, for under the gaping jacket I was only wearing a bra; after all how often would I grovel on my knees in my best business suit?
It also hit me that he could not avoid noticing that I was wearing similar stockings to the girl in the photos, well apart from the lacy tops; for I didn't think he could quite see that far up my skirt. On top of all that, as I stopped flustering, a bit, it hit me that he, along with the rest of bloody Starbucks was also looking down my top and up my bottom.
"What a fucking shambles," I thought.
"We all do such things", he said a sparkle, or was it a twinkle, I never know the difference, in his eye as he got up and took my elbow helping me to stand. As I straightened up, he looked me up and down as I patted the expensive suit, pulling the jacket and smoothing the skirt back into place.
I stared at him as well. I have to admit that I was slightly impressed, not something that happens to me very often.
He was about six feet tall, I guessed, certainly some inches more than my five feet six plus high heels. Nicely slim, there was a pleasing, very relaxed way about him. He had short, grey-flecked hair, which was probably black a few years ago. It was neatly cut and looked modern, but thankfully wasn't a 'Phil Mitchell so was not overly trendy, just about right, I thought. He was wearing stylish, clean and not ripped or stained jeans, which thankfully had no crease, a dark tee shirt and a thin, somewhat rumpled jacket
'Mmmmm, quite a good package," I found myself thinking.
"Hey, let me buy you a coffee or something?" He asked in a nicely modulated voice with a touch of a 'Thames Estuary' accent.
"No, no thanks, I'd better be going", I mumbled.
"In a rush to get somewhere?"
"Well no. not really."
"So why not just sit down, relax and have a late or espresso, after all that is why you came in wasn't it?"
I realised that I had not got as far as ordering anything before making such an utter fool of myself.
"Er, I'd rather not, not in here," I stammered.
"Huh?" He said raising his eyebrows as our gazes met.
I smiled. "I think I've done enough damage here, I feel a little embarrassed." I said pulling my posh, power suit jacket more tightly round me, sitting up almost ramrod-like, straight and wishing I had worn a tee or blouse under it and wasn't flashing quite so much cleavage. I could feel and see come to that, your eyes drifting to my chest.
"Why?"
"Well you know."
"Oh that?"
"Yes that," I said looking around and realising that he was still holding my elbow.
"What all of us lucky guys you mean."
"Precisely, I'm not that used to flashing my bits to all and sundry."
"How about a drink then in the pub over the road?" He asked hesitantly, immediately making me think this was all a bit new for him. That made me feel more relaxed, for I hate being pulled by a real player.
