An idea came to me after reading a particular thread, so I sat down and pushed this piece out. It's a new area for me, so any purists, please, if there's any areas you see for improvement do let me know ... in a constructive way!
I was also unsure in which category to place it - is BDSM a better place for this type of scene?
I hope you enjoy it. Forgive any errors, I didn't want to mess with it too much - as is a particular quirk of mine. When I mess with things I miss continuity issues and the like.
Anyway, again, I hope you enjoy it.
GA - at work! - 23 Jan 2012
At last it was Friday evening. She parked the Porsche -- a nearly useless status symbol in the Capital's crawl, but it put the alpha-males' noses out of joint; showed them who was boss -- in the marked bay and hurried through the subterranean level to the lift. Sweet anticipation fluttered deep in the pit of her stomach, a tickle of expectation that sluiced desire into her already sodden underwear as the elevator transported her upwards, towards her London pied-a-terre. In the flat, the penthouse apartment naturally, she ignored the view of the city skyline silhouetted against a rosy twilight. The Thames, a silvery serpentine thread when viewed from the eyrie, wound in from the west, while the sepulchral tower housing Big Ben stood like a sentinel outside her usual place of business; but she didn't notice, there was other business on her mind.
He
was coming to visit.
The smart suit, work attire of skirt and jacket -- sober colours of the establishment --joined the white blouse in a heap on the bedroom floor. Her knickers, as he'd specified, pristine and virginal when she'd first slid them on that morning but which were now sodden, stayed on. It was how he desired it, she couldn't disappoint him; if she disappointed him he'd
have a little talk
with her. And she knew what would happen next; she knew what it meant to
have a little talk with Daddy.
A low moan came from her at the thought. Somehow she resisted the near overwhelming urge to touch herself. She wanted to touch herself, though. That nasty, insistent itch down there, in that place between her legs ...
But he would catch her doing it, would catch her in-flagrante with her pussy hot and bubbling and hungry as she jammed her fingers or a dildo into her body. Not that he'd be disappointed, he loved her as a slut, but that wasn't the scene he expected.
Chewing her lipstick from her bottom lip with frustration and burning desire she managed to suppress the urge. Instead she moved quickly, almost urgently through the luxury of the décor and into the acreage of the kitchen. She poured the rioja and took an indelicate swig. With the fragile-stemmed fishbowl goblet in hand she then walked on bare feet to the bedroom. After a sip at the wine the past hectic week slid from her mind. No more decisions; budgets; minions clamouring for her attention; the damned press and their constant intrusions into her life.
They didn't know the half of it. If they did ...
With the week forgotten she unpinned the elaborate hairstyle of her workaday life and brushed her long dark hair with sweeping strokes. She then tied the thick mass into a simple pony tail with an elasticated, coral- pink band. The subtle make-up came off next. Clean-faced, she took another hefty swallow of rioja before dressing in the simple pleated kilt he liked so much.
A present for you,
he'd said.
You'll look so pretty in it.
She wanted to look pretty for him.
The kilt barely reached mid-thigh, it showed a lot of leg, an indecent expanse of skin; but he liked her legs and so she wore it to please him. A white blouse so tight across the front that bra and flesh gaped between the buttons and a pair of high-heeled patent shoes completed the ensemble. There was nothing to do now but wait.
Minutes dragged slowly past. She finished the wine and poured another glass. When the clock showed the time at seven-thirty she reached for a packet of cigarettes and lit one. The thing was half-smoked when she heard the thrilling rasp of his key in the lock. After crushing the cigarette into an ashtray she hid the evidence under the chair.
"You've been smoking," he said immediately. He stared at her accusingly, his blue eyes glinting with suppressed anger. She stared back at him, wide-eyed and innocent as she wriggled against the chair cushion. His eyes flicked to her legs as the already brief kilt ruched higher along her thighs. With his nose twitching, as though he were a predatory beast scenting prey, he sniffed the air. "I can smell it," he scolded. "Smoking." His eyes softened as he tut-tutted, shaking his head and looking at her with reproach. "You know you shouldn't smoke," he said. "It's nasty. Dirty. Only dirty girls smoke." He placed his brief case down between his feet.
He had important papers in the case. He was an important man; he always told her he was an important man with important business. He looked important, impeccably dressed and immaculately groomed, with close-cropped, iron-grey hair -- Distinguished and competent, although in reality he was a middle-ranking policeman, a former bodyguard of hers, close protection; not the urbane political figure he played out now. After crossing his arms and fixing her with a stern look, he added: "And dirty girls smoke to impress boys." His level, accusing gaze was upon her. "Is that why you've been smoking? To impress boys?"
"No," she mumbled, looking into her lap as she picked a stray strand of cotton at the hem of the kilt.
"No?" he questioned curtly. "Are you sure? Are you certain you're not one of those nasty ...
