Author's Note: this story revisits a Floating World chapter, but features a different woman. It was written privately, but is now published publicly, with her permission.
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Isabella looked through the conference listings for the afternoon, hoping the speakers would be lively, interesting. The lunch put on by the organisers had been better than expected, tasty, some delicacies, and had left her feeling content, and if truth be told, rather sleepy. She'd seen the first session after lunch described, somewhere, as the death-watch, so she hoped this one wouldn't be.
She read a little of the blurb about the next speaker, Adam Cain, and thought his topic sounded interesting, if a little dry. Still, it was a subject she had some knowledge of, so she was hopeful.
She made her way to the auditorium and chose a table slightly off to one side, not near the front, nor down the back either. She nodded to the others sitting there, and made herself comfortable. With her long legs she found it best to sit at the side of the table so she could stretch her legs out towards the speaker. She pulled the drop of her full skirt over her right leg, so that it wouldn't fall in the aisle between the tables. The cloth pulled tight against her long thigh, drawing attention to her legs.
She settled back and looked around. There must have been over a hundred attendees, and she wondered what it would be like to speak to that many people. She couldn't do it, that was certain, and she already admired the confidence of someone who could.
She saw the conference chair step forward to the microphone to introduce the next speaker, Adam Cain; who in turn stepped forward and made his way to the podium, undoing a button on his suit as he did so.
He adjusted the microphone stalk quickly and without fuss, as if he'd already worked out how sensitive it was, and how loudly he needed to speak.
She saw his hands lightly take hold of the sides of the lectern, relaxed; almost as if he were welcoming the audience into his arms.
Isabella took the moment of silence to study his face, an elegant silver beard cropped very short in a sexy stubble, and short silvery hair. He was a handsome man. He brushed a hand up over the right side of his head, and she thought it might be an automatic thing, to show he was ready.
He looked slowly around the room and began to speak, softly at first to get everyone's attention. His accent was cultured Australian, and Isabella thought she detected touches of an English accent in it. It was a beautiful voice to listen to.
She realised his low voice was a trick, to make the audience lean forward to hear him better. She'd done so herself, leaning forward, her cheek resting on her hand, until she thought, a foot will make no difference, and she sat back, more comfortable. And yes, his voice was exactly at the same level. She smiled inwardly, pleased with herself for seeing through the artifice.
She found him fascinating. He exuded confidence, command, not only of his subject matter (his talk was interesting, and Isabella found herself nodding agreement with his commentary) but more so, his audience. She watched him speak, and saw how he favoured each section of his audience equally. She saw how he granted his attention to a slice of the audience at a time, first to the listeners over to his left, on the other side of the room to where she sat; then further back, to the "left back", as it where. Then the centre of the room, and so on.
Isabella thought, with a sudden thrill, what will he do when his attention comes around to us? She was generous, and included the tables around her in her revery as to the way Adam Cain would look upon her part of the audience. Would he find us more interesting than the rest?
She suddenly, unaccountably, focused on his hands, the way they held the lectern, relaxed, comfortable. In a sudden flash, she wondered what those hands would feel like on her waist. Jesus fuck, Isabella, where in God's name did that thought come from? Jesus wept. She blushed, and pulled a skein of hair over her cheek to hide herself.
And to her horror, Isabella saw that Adam Cain had seen her. He looked straight at her, and was that the tiniest smile in his eyes? And to confirm her terror, her shame, she saw his forefinger lift from the side of the lectern and point straight at her.
Surely not, his fingers held the lectern as before, and his eyes had moved on.
Isabella recovered herself with a number of deep breaths, and managed to absorb what he was saying. A few minutes later, though, his attention came around to her table again, but this time Isabella was ready, composed, impenetrable. She'd seen his trick, and thought it must be a public speaker's ploy, to pretend he was talking only to her in those few moments, before he moved on. She meant nothing, she was just someone in his audience.
She resented that. It became personal, his disdain for his audience, for her. She thought, you arrogant prick, doing that; and her hackles rose.
But the bastard still fascinated her, his command of his topic, his command of her. Why in God's name had she personalised this? He was just a public speaker, at a commercial conference, for goodness sake. It was just a transaction, to make a buck, and the guy was only using what was in his tool box.
The next time Adam looked in her direction, she quite deliberately lifted one side of her hair over to the other side of her head, drawing attention to her thick, heavy hair. Did his eyes darken? Surely, too far away to tell.
The remaining fifteen minutes of his talk continued in the same way, his scan of the audience, his momentary attention, then his moving on. Isabella accepted that it was all just technique, it wasn't personal, and she forgave him. But when she stood at the end of it, after a small scatter of applause for Adam, she was wet, a heavy arousal deep in her belly.
After his presentation, there was a small break for coffee and tea, and a slice of cake or a biscuit, or fruit. Isabella helped herself to a coffee, which tasted ordinary, and a small slice of cake, which was sweet.
She stood alone, by a wall, still befuddled by her arousal. She couldn't quite think straight. She rubbed the back of her neck to sooth herself. With some uncanny sense, she felt she was being watched. More than watched, more like being circled.
"I find the coffee at these places appalling."
She heard a familiar voice to her left, and without thinking, without realising who it was, she replied, "I find it okay, with extra sugar," and turned to him. "Oh," she said, "it's you."
What on earth was she thinking, saying that?
"Yes, it's me," Adam replied, with a generous smile. "I feel I should apologise, my talk, my attention. I think I caught you unguarded, unprepared."
He stood directly in front of her, and in her heels, Isabella was taller by an inch or so, but he didn't seem perturbed by her height. Many men would be, and Isabella often found reactions to a tall woman tedious.
"My singling you out. It's pure chance, a speaker's technique I learned years ago. It's not personal, merely a way of engaging my audience."
"But it seems very intimate," Isabella surprised herself, "when you look so directly at someone, who's a stranger."
"An intimate stranger," he repeated. "That's an intriguing idea. I suppose it is. Very intimate.
"But you know who I am, already. Adam Cain." He introduced himself, with his hand outstretched to shake hers.
"Isabella," she replied, "Isabella..." But she suddenly withheld her surname, not quite prepared to share that intimacy yet.
She saw him accept her anonymity, with a small nod.
"Isabella. It's good to meet you."
The way he said her name bristled goose bumps on her arms, and her sex heated in a quick wet arousal. She shook his hand in return, looking down at his long fingers held in hers. She reluctantly let him go. He had her name, and he'd lingered on hers as he'd said it.
"Your talk, I found it interesting, a different view. Did you..." and she went on to engage him, confident in herself for a change, because she had views on the topic, even opinions. They chatted for the remainder of the break, and she relaxed into his company, his undivided attention.
"Isabella," he turned back to her. "Would you have dinner with me? Tomorrow night, after the conference is done? I have to do the formal thing tonight, honorary guests and so on. But I think I'd rather have dinner with you. If you're still here, obviously. Tomorrow night."
Isabella had been flying out on a mid-morning flight, but instantly she thought, re-arrange flights.
"Yes, I would love that."
"In the bar at six, then, tomorrow night?"
"Yes. At six. How will I recognise you?" She laughed, and touched his arm with her long fingers, lightly.
"Oh, I think I'll remember your face."
Isabella blushed, but didn't turn away. He knew this much about her already, she couldn't hide it. Didn't want to.
"Tomorrow night, then," he said.
"Tomorrow evening, yes," she replied.
"Isabella," he said in a low voice that reached deep into her body and grabbed her cunt, "I said the night. Not just the evening."
He left her. Her hand shook as she placed the coffee cup down on the table, the saucer rattling, nearly dropped. She made her way quickly to the rest room, still shaking, so wet.
That night, she bowed out of the formal conference dinner because she didn't think she could trust herself. She knew, too, that Adam would be doing the post conference small talk, and she couldn't share him; so she'd rather not be there at all.
So she re-booked her flight, phoned home to say she'd been unaccountably delayed, some muck up with the flights so Sylvia, could you walk the dogs? Thanks, honey.
