Monday, June 22, 2009

The Rule

We have a rule: No marks. We leave as we came; no scratches, no stripes, no spots.

Standing in the middle of Victoria station, commuters rushing singlemindedly all around us, the fragrant storm of Layla's brown hair swirls all over my face and she bites my ear. Lightly. Just enough to startle, and then some.

"Ouch!" I pull back and she looks at me mischievously. There's a dark sharpness about her eye makeup, her lipstick more intensely red than usual.

I offer her my arm and we head for the taxi rank outside, and my mobile buzzes with a text message. I ignore it, enjoying the pleasure of Layla's arm through mine, our bodies softly bumping into each other. She would never admit it, but I think she's not used to wearing heels, and the tight black knee-length skirt can't possibly help her balance. We walk slowly because she's dressed for pleasure, not for speed.

In the back of the cab, I look at my phone. The text is from her, its arrival delayed by my trip underground.

Looking out the window she pretends to ignore me, her palm gently resting on my thigh. I stroke the back of her hand with my fingertips while I read the text message she sent minutes before her train rolled into the station, moments before she rushed down the platform towards me:

"I want u 2 mark me. No rules. x"

I put the phone away and pull Layla's hand towards me, resting it on the throbbing bulge of my crotch. She still pretends to have her attention elsewhere, but I notice how she shifts in her seat, ever so subtly.

It's a cloudy spring day, perfect for staying indoors. Sitting next to her, I lean over and draw in her scent, thinking about how she must have spent the morning getting ready. Picking out her clothes, showering, putting on her makeup...

I feel a buzzing lust while I sit and admire the meticulousness of her grooming, the obvious care with which she has selected the outfit, and the tense knowledge that I am here to destroy the composure that goes along with it. She wants to be reduced to messy nakedness, screaming to be fucked harder...

Our time is limited. She has a dinner engagement at eight, for which she will have to be recomposed, elegant and charming. Only the warm glow of reverberating pleasure will accompany her when she leaves, a faint bruise blossoming on her buttock.

10 comments:

nellodee said...

Oh, but marks are so lovely and pretty!

No rules, indeed.

Carnalis said...

exquisite, as ever.

Nancy said...

does the rule go both ways then?

x

Anonymous said...

mmm.

souvenirs. such a lovely idea.

thank you for this, it made my afternoon a little steamier than the humidity would suggest.

Lady of Intrigue

Anonymous said...

Oh my. If only I could find a "you" here in the Great American Outback.

*sigh*

I need to be marked a little, myself.

A. Secret said...

But Mon, marks are half the fun. Pretty please?
XX

Aries said...

I love having those rules the no mark rules are so hard to stick to!

Isabella Snow said...

We walk slowly because she's dressed for pleasure, not for speed.

Why don't more men recognize these things? We need to go on a date, Mon; so tired of being hurried in heels and tight clothing.

Anonymous said...

i love getting marks...the best was one on my inner thigh while being licked....

Lana said...

i love your posts, it sounds like poetry when you write.