Saturday, February 10, 2007


(For Isabella, who likes a well-cut suit)

This was a fine evening to get into trouble; in fact, she was looking at me over the rim of a luminously red drink.

A meticulously stylish dresser, Trouble has unusual poise. I've never asked, but I imagine she has a bit of dance training - the kind that takes years and involves standing en pointe while being shouted at. She was wearing a discreetly sexy outfit, a caramel-coloured jacket and skirt. Buttoned up, the jacket had a rather stiff-looking pseudo-Chinese high collar, but she had loosened it to uncover a scoop-necked red blouse that stopped just short of showing cleavage. The sexiness of the look had more to do with the fit and tailoring, particularly the way the skirt hugged her behind.

I was amused that she liked my off-the-rack suit. Trouble likes her men immaculately turned out, and she takes pleasure in fabrics, textures, and details.

"The fit suits your build," she smiled, eyes wandering down to my crotch.

After this our conversation quickly and unavoidably degenerated into an exchange of flirtatious double-entendres, wayward glances and suggestive strokings of fingers, knees and lips.

Trouble made her intentions even clearer when she pushed an olive, gently but firmly into my mouth, her flawlessly laquered fingernail trailing along my top lip before she pulled away, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle out of the hem of her skirt.

And I was hard. Very, and obviously, the fabric on the front of my trousers miserably failing to conceal anything but the minor details of my erect shape.

Her eyes lingered on the naughty bump. "I'd love to see..." she whispered.

The thought crossed my mind to just flash her - unzip, a couple of strokes, cover up. Twenty seconds of pure delight, but the art deco bar was an impossible space for discreet hanky-panky. Mirrors everywhere, no dark corners.

I glanced around. "You serious?"

Trouble nodded.

I spread my legs slightly, leaning back in the comfortable chair. Her eyes fixed on my crotch again. For a moment I thought she was about to lean forward across the low glass table and close her fingers around the bulge.

Instead, Trouble handed me her slick black mobile phone. "There are ways of showing," she glanced at the door, in the direction of the toilets.

"What exactly?" I asked, teasing.


"Oh? And what do I get in return?"

"Depends on what I see when you return that thing."


ella said...

mmmmmmm naughty (i love my phone.. i've done that too)

i'm with isabella, in that i love a suit, especially combined with a very crisp white cotton shirt and the smell of warm, freshly washed cock as his zip comes down....
But, there is something very horny about a man's denim crotch.

Actually, i came back to say, as my friday was, unbelievably, even worse than my thursday, could i have another story too....? xxxxx

MonMouth said...

Ella, darling, just email me your particular fetish and I'll see if I can oblige.

Sorry to hear about the lousy Friday. Here's hoping that the weekend proves better.

Isabella Snow said...

For me?!?

Well, that is just incredibly flattering! Thank you, sir! I do love a suit, tis true.

Also love the crisp cotton shirt ella mentioned. Particularly when a man gets that look in his eye and starts to roll the sleeves up.

Oh. My. God.

Wet just thinking about it.

Pandora said...

ooooo.. and exactly what did she get to see? and what did you get! this was seductively sexy.

Scarlet said...

Oh this was good.... this was very good.... I love taking naughty pictures with mobile phones, and men in suits.... Yes this was very good indeed

EmmaK said...

Such a hot post...and I love the way you left the ending hanging, deliciously unfulfilled. Lovely stuff, have linked you.

Anonymous said...

This post sounds very much like a previous one....the one you used as an example post in an article in a womans' magazine.....suppose there's nothing like a bit of recycling.......;)

MonMouth said...

Dear anonymous pedant, you are correct. And I'm deeply flattered that you noticed. I've been caught red-fingered, recycling past material.

Don't think of it as recycling; think of it as me reclaiming my style from the editors who decided to turn my prose into a boy-slut version of Bridget Jones. They ripped off Helen Fielding, and put my name to it.

Next magazine I write for, I will be requiring final approval of the proofs. Or I'll demand that if they feel the urge to rewrite me, please rip off Alan Hollinghurst instead.

Queenie said...

Ok, sorry to be pedantic. I found your blog as a result of that article and read your post directly after the article was printed. What a shame you weren't pleased with the way things turned out. On the other hand, it may well have gained you a few more readers....plebs like me, for instance.
I dislike leaving anonymous comments, so have taken a short while to set up my user account.

MonMouth said...

Queenie, that is so sweet! In no way does my disapproval of the NW house style reflect my opinion of its readers. In fact I'm very happy to get some of them clicking over to my sordid corner of the interweb and getting a dose of some proper filth.

vanilla ice cream said...

i want to see your

Delaila said...

Mon, I just wanted to say that you drive me crazy. I've discovered this blog only recently. And it totally made my week-end.

And this post. Oh my God... Kisses...

MonMouth said...

Glad to have put some moisture in your pants, Delaila. Say, you wouldn't be a hairdresser by any chance? I urgently need a trim.

Delaila said...

May I enquire, trim where exactly? Although, I am not a professional, I would love to do my best to assist ;)