Angel with Dirty Knickers
Carol Anne
We meet at last at a train station; it is difficult to tell which, one of the old grand ones, maybe Marylebone.
You are of course beautiful; breathtaking in black, leggings that seem to continue stretched on your powerful thighs forever. Your hair is long and all caught up in a tight bun that makes you seem slightly severe, a little like a cross schoolmistress. Your perfume is musky, and I just want to follow around in your cloud.
I can barely speak, and for the first time since I was 11 or 12 feel very very shy.
You tell me we are going shopping, and immediately I am excited. But still bashful.
You take my hand, and lead me underground to the tube station. We get out at Oxford street, and I am like a child as you walk me past shop windows glittering with prizes, past La Senza and Knickerbox, where satins and silks softly wave at me past pronuptia, where the gowns and garters tease me, into Soho, where the tone changes, and we start to fit in, and at the same time attract attention.
You hardly say a word, pulling as I try to linger at the windows, and stare at the beautiful women all around.
We clatter down some basement steps, into a very seedy looking tattoo parlour.
In no time I am stripped to the waist, but you are not paying attention to me, issuing instructions to a woman with cropped bleached hair, who descends upon me, and with no ceremony pierces my nipple, washes and cleans my breast roughly, and you tell me to get dressed.
I have to discard my bra, as even though I am small, it presses upon the ring, which stings.
I tell you it hurts and you ignore me.
We start to walk the way we came, and still in silence, in sunshine, in pain, I begin to cry.
You scold me, like a child, and tell me you will simply let go of my hand, and lose me here in this big dirty city.
I could not bear this, and try to stop crying.
We walk for what seems to be hours and at last you take me into the shelter of a department store.
Will we head for lingerie? I hold my breath as we mount the escalators, and we emerge into a world of shoes and boots.
I do not have a choice, again, you all but ignore me, issue brisk instructions, I am measured, and without my trying them on, a pair of boots that seem as long as I am are wrapped and paid for. I am allowed to carry the bag.
We stop next for lunch, and we drink wine, or I drink wine, probably a bottle and you drink mineral water.
It is not dark or even late when we descend into the tube again, but when we reach the station, I am falling asleep.
I do not remember getting on the train, but you whisper softly to wake me when it is time to get off in a strange and unfamiliar place. It is the first sign of tenderness you have shown me.
We walk for a little way, and I am weary, carrying my bag, turning down suburban streets, into a huge door, and into a clean white space.
I am still tired, and you tell me that I should rest.
I sleep in your bed, which seems huge and cold, while you do something downstairs.
When I wake it is dark, and could be any time. You are naked and perfect your hair down over your round and hypnotically perfect breasts.
Without being asked, I start to undress, I have fallen asleep fully clothed, and pull off my jumper to reveal my t shirt, and my t shirt to reveal my own breasts, the left one is an angry purple, and the sight of it reminds me, and the pain starts again.
You hand me a long white gown, which is sheer and almost invisible. Despite this I slip it on over my clothes, and only then tug at my long skirt which falls to the ground.
I know you can see my white cotton knickers, and my ivory white hold ups.
I know I am very very wet and wonder if it is visible how excited I am.
"I want to make love to you, in here, please"
You do not need my permission, but as I lay on the bed, you motion for me to stand up, and you lead me round to the long white leather boots, which I know to put on.
I struggle to put my foot past the ankle, and when I do I feel wetness, warmth. I know you have been busy, and when my foot finds its place I feel your warm piss fill up the barest space between my skin and the leather. The other is fuller, and it spills over the sides. I try to catch it, to taste it, but watch as it soaks into your carpet.
I lay back on the bed, and you lie down next to me, first caressing my right nipple, then my ringed left, through the sheer rough slip, and when a spot of blood sparkles on me, you lick it off me, sit upright over me, and smile.
I remember you sitting on my chest, and the warmth as you soaked me again, I remember you gently tugging at my cotton knickers with your teeth, and nibbling at me as you fumble to stuff them in my mouth. I remember my own taste, and yours, I remember a time that seemed to last forever, while you were riding me, singing, and feeling you inside me, in my behind and in my very hot hole, whose warmth seemed to fill me.
I remember the dark rich chocolately odour as your tiny anus balanced over my nose, your clit teasing my darting tongue, while you busied yourself, and I remember another explosion of your hot piss, followed by mine, I remember waking, while you slept, slipping to the bathroom for water, and catching my reflection, lipstick all over my bosom, a little shit around my lips, my slip soaked through, and a smell that I fell asleep with again.