[intlink id=”248″ type=”post”]Find out more about Kay here[/intlink].
‘I have a confession to make.’
As my courier sat down opposite me at a small table in my local cafe, I waited for him to expand on this unexpected statement. What could this man, who I didn’t know beyond the fact that he was called Joe, and that he had driven his van to my home once a week for the past eight months, have to confess to me? After all, we only see each other for thirty seconds of chat every seven days, while I sign for my parcels of editing. That works out at an average of two minutes interaction a month. I was intrigued.
He dropped his deep brown eyes to his plate of chips, whether in mock-confession or with genuine embarrassment, I’m not sure. ‘Ever since you told me what you did for a living – you know, what you write about, what you edit and that, well, I can’t shift you from my head.’
When he looked up to see my reaction to his stumbled statement, despite his thirty or so years, Joe blushed like a teenager.
It would be untrue to say I’d never fantasised about him and what might happen if I was ever to see the inside of his big blue van. But then that’s my job, to fantasise; to create an erotic situation out of anything and anywhere. We are certainly not talking hearts and flowers here.
Joe’s short strawberry blonde hair had obviously been recently cut, and his green polo shirt was either on its second day of wear, or he’d got very hot in the van that morning. A vague, not unpleasant, odour of maleness mixed with deodorant, wafted across the table at me. I could just see the bottom of a tattoo poking out from the edge of his short sleeve. His arms were muscular, but not over worked, and had probably been built up via the heavy lifting of parcels and packages rather than working out in a gym.
Leaning forward, I fixed him with my professional stare, but still allowed a flicker of a smile to play at the corner of my eyes. ‘The idea of me sitting here innocently writing obesities in public? Or the fact that I spend most of my time thinking about sex? What’s the thing that gets you going exactly?’
He returned my steady look, but I could see amusement struggling to escape from the corner of his lips, which gave an involuntary twitch as he sat fiddling with his fork.
‘I asked you a question?’
Joe grinned, giving me a glimpse of surprisingly white teeth. ‘I guess it’s the innocence thing.’
‘Innocence? That’s not a word I’m usually associated with.’
‘I bet it’s not!’ he picked up a chip and slipped it into his mouth, ‘At least, not by people who know you. To the rest of the world, well, you look so, so…’
‘Ordinary?’ I smiled to let him know the word wasn’t offensive to me.
‘Well, yes, I mean, you’re attractive and all that, but you don’t look like a queen of porn.’
‘I don’t look a threat, so people tell me things. Their most intermit secrets. It’s a bit like being an actress really. I adopt different personas to get information and stories out of the unsuspecting public, and then I write about what they’ve told me.’
‘So you don’t make it all up then?’
‘Not always, no. Sometimes I invent short stories, but most of the time I record the weird and wonderful exploits of the unbelievably warped British public.’
I could tell he was mildly disappointed, so I leant forward, and gave him my flirtiest conspiratorial look, ‘Any stories you wish to share with me? You could star in my next book.’
Now he looked really embarrassed, ‘Not really. Nothing unusual enough for you I’m sure.’
‘Would you like there to be?’
And that’s where we left it. I’d already finished my coffee, so I decided to let Joe think about what I’d just said, and went home to do some writing.
He came to see me the next afternoon.
The day after that, Joe found me in a coffee shop. He sat down and told me a story.
“She’d obviously been expecting me, and had prepared carefully for my arrival. In fact, I’d told myself I wouldn’t be calling on her that week, for I had no parcel to deliver, but of course I went. She knew I would, and I did.
She opened the door to her terraced home with a knowing expression on her face, and I felt momentarily cross with myself for being so weak, so predictable. But that feeling didn’t last, as the woman I know only by her initials, led me into her home.
It wasn’t at all what I’d expected. No silk throws, no red leather furniture, no fluffy feathery cushions. It was just a house like any other. She seemed to understand my disappointment, or at least my confusion, and explained how the house was a short term rental for the duration of her writing project in the South West of England. She told me, quite firmly, that she wasn’t a tart, she was a writer.
With the mention of her writing I felt a frisson of lust shoot down me spine, and my eyes were drawn away from my companion, to the desk in the corner of the living room. It was cluttered with pens, pencils, and reams of paper. Next to a closed lap-top lay a pile of books, a few of them obviously tomes on erotica, but the one on the top was a dictionary. Somehow the very ordinariness of the dictionary extinguished my desire, it seemed wrong for someone like her to own any literature that wasn’t lurid in some way.
Her gaze followed my own, and she picked up the thick, obviously well thumbed, paperback. ‘The dictionary. The dirtiest book ever written.’
Lowering her voice until it reached a slow husky sexy tone she said, ‘It contains every word I use. Every word. Every sentence I write comes from in here.’ Standing only inches away from me, her unblinking eyes, bored into mine, ‘I mix the words, change them, arrange them into whatever I want…whatever you want.’
The author was almost whispering now, and I was hanging on her every utterance. All I could think of was the very nearness of her, the fact that I was so close to her moist lips, her neat breasts and her soft bobbed red hair.
‘Say a word Joe. Any word from the dictionary.’
I regarded her blankly for a second, distracted from my longing for her body by a request which seemed quite out of keeping with our situation.
‘A word, Joe. Say the word you want to say right now.’
My brain clicked into gear as she flicked the dictionary in front of my eyes, as if it was some sort of naughty sex toy, and I said, ‘Kiss.’
I had expected her to kiss me straight away, but she didn’t. She nodded, as if to say I’d done the right thing, took a step away from me, and turned to the relevant page of the dictionary.
‘Kiss: to touch with the lips in an expression of greeting; to join lips with another in love or desire.’ Then, placing the book down on the short sofa behind her, she turned back to me, ‘I think we can manage that, don’t you?’
Then her lips met mine. Her kiss went way beyond the dull, rather bland, description she’d just read. This was a woman who knew how to kiss, how to have sex with just mouth to mouth contact, and when she pulled away I felt bereft, but she just looked calm and returned to flicking through her dictionary.
I said nothing. I realised then, as I beheld her cool composure, what I suppose I’d known all along, that this was just research for her. An interesting anecdote for her to share with me, and then immortalised in her next anthology. I should have minded, had some pride or something, but I didn’t, for she was already asking me for another word, and my brain was reeling with possibilities. I didn’t know which area of her anatomy to name first.
My eyes ran over her tight cream vest top, which just hinted at the patterned bra beneath, down to her short denim skirt, and on to her bare legs and feet. I wondered if she had any knickers on underneath. She was still looking up at me through her long eyelashes, the green of her pupils flashing as she awaited my next word.
‘Vest.’ Seldom had that word ever sounded so sexy, and I waited with held breath and sticky palms while she turned back to her book. I marvelled at the quiet control of this woman who, at a foot shorter than me, had quickly and skilfully established her power over me.
‘Vest: an undergarment covering the top half of the body; an American word for waistcoat.’
Much to my disappointment, she didn’t take the garment off as soon as she’d finished reading, but just stood in front of me, silent and waiting.
That was when I finally understood the full nature of the game she was playing. You may think I was slow in catching on, but my brain had been taken over by my dick, and it was hard work to concentrate on anything other than the fact that eventually I would be allowed to fuck this strange creature- at least, I hoped I would.
With a throaty murmur I said, ‘Remove.’
Her fingers, less agile than they had been in her haste to oblige, found the relevant word. ‘Remove: to take away and place elsewhere; to dismiss; to do away with.’
Once she’d finished reading she tore the vest from her torso in one movement. I stared at her, and croaked out the word, ‘Bra,’ literally licking my lips with anticipation.
‘Bra: under garment worn by women to support their breasts.’
I stepped forward, eager to hold her newly revealed tits. They were small, round and pert, with neat dark nipples that pointed invitingly at me. The writer however, moved away. I was confused for a second, as her body language clearly told me that she wanted me to touch her as badly as I wanted to oblige. Then I remembered, and said, ‘Touch.’
Her fingers danced to the correct page of the dictionary, and she read at speed. Keeping hold of the book, she dropped her arms to her sides and I immediately grasped her warm breasts. They fitted neatly into my palms, and she sighed with pleasure as I moulded and kneaded them, occasionally flicking my fingers over her nipples, making them stiff to the touch.
‘Suck.’ I watched as she lifted the dictionary and found the definition, as I continued to caress her chest.
‘Suck; to draw into the mouth through pursed lips.’
We both laughed as she recited the meaning, but only for a second, as I fixed my mouth over her right tit, and nipped her hard. She dropped the book in surprise, and her face glowed with a combination of embarrassment and arousal, showing me she was human after all.
As my lips concentrated on her tits, my dick pressed hard against the insides of my trousers, and I felt an urgent need to get rid of them.
Talking with my mouthful, I said, ‘Trousers.’
She read the definition quickly, fumbling over her words as she struggled to concentrate on reading whilst I licked her teats in long gentle strokes.
As soon as she’d finished speaking, I added, ‘Off.’
Again she read fast, her fingers on their way to locating the relevant word before I’d finished uttering it.
Pulling away from her chest, I noted her almost indeterminable sigh of loss with satisfaction. As I slid my trousers off, I enjoyed the expression on my companions face as she eyed the bulge in my underwear.
‘Underwear,’ I whispered the word into her ear, and she turned to the page, sharing the given information. The second she reached the end of her description I pulled my pants down. Assuming, as we had already covered the word ‘off,’ that I wouldn’t have to wait to hear the definition a second time, and as she didn’t argue, she either agreed with me, or no longer cared. I could see her appraising my stiff cock, a glint of hunger in her narrowed eyes, and so I said, ‘Penis.’
This time she didn’t bother to looking the book, but huskily recited a definition she obviously knew by half. As she spoke, she knelt down, and I could feel her hot breath ripple against my erect flesh whilst she uttered the words over me. Then, at last, she engulfed my length between her red lips; manoeuvring me around her mouth, deliciously sucking, kissing and teasing my cock.
As she worked I ran my fingers through her hair and closed my eyes. Swaying slightly beneath her expert ministrations, I felt myself tightening as the surge towards orgasm built in my chest, and headed south. Any second now I’d come…any second…and then she stopped.
I could have howled, perhaps I did, but she just looked at me, waiting.
‘Orgasm,’ I spoke urgently, hoping like hell she’d read fast, or I’d come all over her and her book of words.
Again she didn’t need the dictionary, and quoted the definition directly to my crotch. It seemed to take her forever (with hindsight, I suspect she was going slowly on purpose), but at last, with a cheeky smile, she retook me, and with a series of sharp deep throated pumps, I exploded into her mouth.
The writer stood, swallowing hard as my seed ran down her throat. A few drops escaped, and trickled over her chin. She scooped them up with her fingers, and added them to her mouthful.
‘That was incredible.’ My voice and words sounded a bit lame as I spoke, but it had been incredible, more than incredible.
‘Thank you,’ she smiled sweetly, waving her dictionary, ‘another word or two?’
I said, ‘Skirt’ and ‘Down’ in swift succession. She looked them both up, and then obliged me by removing her skirt, showing me that my theory about no knickers had been correct. I allowed myself a few moments to admire her petite naked frame before I whispered, ‘Feel.’
‘Feel: a physical or emotional sensation.’
I slid my hands over her smooth flesh, kissed her, stroked her and nuzzled her. Sitting her down on the edge of the sofa, I was shocked at just how wet she was between her legs. Her juices tasted sweet as I lapped at her clit’s hood, uncovering it for further attention. I circled my tongue around it while she shifted under me, her climax growing rapidly. As she moaned with pleasure, I realised that the balance of power had shifted away from her and towards me, and it gave me an idea.
She blinked at me, but reached for her book of words and hastily found the page. ‘Beg: to ask humbly, formally or earnestly; to urge.’
Then I nodded at her, and she begged. I can’t believe how powerful it made me feel as she lay there, this controlled, experienced woman who’d seen and heard so much, was pleading with me to lick her clit, to stuff her full of my cock, to make her come, make her scream. Eventually I could wait no longer and relented by flicking my tongue over her nub, and thrusting my already re-stiffen dick into her slick opening, feeling her come around me in a gush of groans and sighs.
Keeping myself impaled inside her, I wrapped her legs around my waist, picked up the dictionary, and carried both it and her towards the living room’s pale blue wall. Pushing her backwards, I rested her light body against the cold paint work, supporting her weight against my chest, brandishing the dictionary between us, and said, ‘Fuck,’ with a confidence that surprised me.
I turned the pages slowly, making her do the waiting this time, as I scanned each page from E to F individually. Her eyes blazed and her mouth gasped as I pinned her in position, thrusting my hips closer to her, sending shocks of longing through both our bodies.
Finally I found the word, and with deliberately slow enunciation read the definition, ‘Fuck: slang; an obscenity; to have sexual intercourse with someone.’
I abandoned the book to the floor, and burrowed into her harder, slamming her body against the wall in my urgency to come.
The second I’d done, I lifted her down, throwing her bodily onto the sofa. With a force I never knew I possessed, I dragged her willing legs open and attacked her pussy with my mouth. Then, slipping two fingers into her snatch, and another up between her arse cheeks, I, purely for the sake of research, finger fucked this amazing woman until she was yelling that she could take no more; leaving us both spent, panting hard, more than satisfied, and me with an incredible story to tell…”