Читать книгу Ladies Who Lust: An Erotica Collection - Various, Glenda Jackson - Страница 5

The rooftop bar overlooked Madison Avenue but inside it was done out like the library of a stately home. Bottle-green book-lined walls, beaten-up leather Chesterfield sofas and chairs, low-lit lamps and candles, and, to top it all, a roaring log fire. The best of both worlds, really. It may have been fake, but it was still a corner of good old England tucked above the glittering streets of New York.

And best of all my business here was all done. I was free to relax. Yes, it was a slight nuisance that my flight back to London was delayed for a couple of days by the worst snow the east coast had experienced in decades, but hey. Other people were paying for my time, let alone my air fare, so what was the rush? There was no one waiting at Heathrow waving a placard. The office were eager to fête my successful snaring of an interview with the new Brad Pitt on the block, but we’d already communicated most of the excitement over Skype.

And where better to be stranded than in the city that never sleeps?

I found a big armchair by the fire and crossed one leg over the other with a swish of stocking. My legs looked too long, and exposed, in the firelight. I still wasn’t used to wearing this working uniform. I felt like I was playing dress-up. They’d all warned me that women in New York were impeccably dressed and groomed, especially in the publicity business, and they were right. The jeans and biker jackets had been left behind in my flat in Long Acre and here I was, zipped into a grey Chanel suit and a flimsy pussy-bow blouse.

I was sitting too close to the fire, and my skin was prickling up with the heat. I ran my finger round the collar of my blouse to cool myself. The creamy lace of my camisole tickled the surface of my skin as I fanned myself, and was swallowed into my deep cleavage as I sighed. I took a long swallow of my white wine, glanced down and noticed that my skirt had ridden up too high, exposing an inch or so of flesh above the stocking top. I was about to tug at my skirt when I thought better of it. The sight of my own pale thigh had stirred me. Perhaps I shouldn’t have ordered a second glass. I liked seeing the firm white skin exposed there. It made my stomach sizzle.

I left the lace stocking top showing. One or two of the men by the bar had finally noticed me, and had turned to stare at my legs. No doubt imagining the promise of what lay just under my skirt – my silky knickers, and then the secret nestling between my thighs. I read somewhere that men like stockings because they make the legs look bare, vulnerable, yet make them a brazen gateway, or pathway, straight up to the cunt.

My smile grew wider. Perhaps I could do what I’d always fantasised about, especially so far from home. Pull a gorgeous stranger in Manhattan, shag him senseless in his loft apartment somewhere near here until the sun came up, then do all the things they do in movies like sit in shiny diners eating waffles, walk in Central Park, get windblown on the Staten Island ferry, eat some more from a hot-dog vendor, go dancing, back to his for more crazy fucking in front of a huge plate-glass window so millions of other penthouse people could see, then go home flying the flag for English girls. Hell, it had been over a year since I’d had sex, and thanks to this job I’d had a total makeover and felt pretty hot. I was more than up for it, especially with another couple of Sauvignons inside me.

I swung my foot gently, so that the sliver of flesh between skirt and stocking stretched and shrank with the movement. I refused to catch anyone’s eye just yet.

An ice blonde with cropped hair, teetering silver heels and a minuscule sequinned dress appeared in the doorway. She was all alone, and surveyed the half-empty room, presumably looking for her date. I thought her glance fell on me, but with the hall light behind her all I could see was a kind of devilish glitter in her eyes, and anyway I would have been a disappointment

She walked just like Charlize Theron in the J’Adore advert, where she’s sashaying through a Paris apartment pulling off her dress and her pearls. She swayed straight up to the bar and sat down confidently on a tall stool. As the barman leaned across to take her order the girl slowly crossed her legs Sharon Stone style and I noticed with a thump of shock that she wasn’t wearing any knickers. The quick flash of pink slit was unmistakeable. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

Her long fingers swizzled the cocktail the guy had given her, then she turned and her eyes locked on to me again. She tipped her head upwards in a kind of greeting. Or invitation.

There was a dampness across my upper lip now. I really was too hot. I stood up, feeling the leather seat of my chair sticking to my damp skin. I was desperate just to throw the jacket right off so that I could cool myself. I grasped the lapels, ready to do it. She was still watching me. I had a mad urge to strip, to really surprise her, and make the scattering of sombre men wake up at the sight of my bare breasts, invite them to touch me, do more to me if they chose.

But I closed the lapels again, breathing hard, trying to ignore the nipples stiffening against the jacket lining. Don’t be daft. Be discreet. I repeated this mantra. Don’t be daft, be discreet. It would be a good title for my next article. And it summed up the two halves of my personality. Up until now I had crashed through life dressed like a boy and was totally daft. But now I was doing the job I’d always craved, in a city I’d always dreamed about, and I had to be discreet. If I played my cards right at the magazine there was the possibility of a permanent relocation to New York.

A central switch suddenly dimmed the lighting even more, and some low, jazzy music came on. The barman seemed to be in charge of the ambience, if it was he who had dimmed the lighting. He was deep in conversation with the girl. Perhaps he was her date. Or perhaps she’d asked him to change the mood.

I was hot, I was thirsty again, and for some reason I must have been nervous, because my heart was pounding. I walked up to the bar. The barman was serving a group of older women at the far end, and the ice blonde was still there on her chair, still alone. She glanced at me. Up close her eyes had the depth and facets of a pale-blue diamond. Her glance travelled on down the front of my blouse, button by button. Then she glanced away, twisting the stem of her glass. One foot swung idly, dangling its spiked stiletto.

I drummed my fingers on the chrome, trying to attract the attention of the barman. But the cougars weren’t going to let him go. One of them had her bejewelled hand on his wrist as if to trap him, and was slipping a piece of paper into his hand.

The icy blonde looked at me again. Her pale, frosted lips parted.

‘Allow me.’

She hitched herself up onto the shiny bar, swung her legs over and dropped down on the other side. She started tossing the cocktail shakers around like a juggler, throwing ice, spouting colourful liquids, shaking them round her head and behind her back, and this was all for me. No one else was watching. It was just her and me, and then she was slamming two elegant glasses down on the bar.

‘Daiquiri Delilah.’ Her voice was husky, crackling with too many cigarettes, which made it quite manly. But the soft white breasts squeezed between her slender arms as she pushed the drink over to me were pure woman.

‘Delilah?’

‘My name.’

She was back up on the bar, and this time as she swung herself back over to my side I could see the full glory of her fully waxed pussy, the white sex lips gleaming like juicy scallops stripped of their shell, barely concealed in the slight shadow of her dress.

‘And what’s yours?’

There was the rough edge of a foreign accent in her voice. Nordic, I guessed. She chinked her glass against mine, and now our knees were touching as we sat face to face. Not a difficult question, but then again this was the one chance in my life to be totally anonymous. The freedom of it was hitting me, filling me with a dark excitement. I could tell her whatever I liked. Be whoever I liked. Let her befriend me, show me the city, show me her friends.

‘I’m Clara.’ OK, so I’d run out of original ideas. After all, I’m never going to see her again. I shrugged my jacket off and flung it onto the back of my stool. ‘Thanks for the drink.’

The alcohol started to take hold, heating up my veins. I was going to loosen up, and enjoy myself. I bent my elbow to rest it on the bar. I drew my hand slowly inside the loose collar of my blouse and caressed my warm skin.

‘You alone here in the States?’ she asked, watching the way my hand was moving.

‘Yeah. On business. And now I’m snowed in and can’t get home.’

She nodded thoughtfully. ‘You got somewhere to stay?’

If I had told her I was staying right here, at the Library Hotel, she wouldn’t have to come to my rescue and there wouldn’t be any adventure.

I shook my head and a shy blush rose perfectly naturally to my cheeks. At the same time my fiddling fingertips brushed lower, onto my warm breast swelling under the flimsy camisole. She couldn’t have missed it. This lightest of touches sent a bolt of excitement sizzling through me. I hadn’t realised how horny the intimate, closed atmosphere of the bar – and the growing intensity between the two of us – had made me. Still looking at Delilah I spread my fingers over my breast under the camisole and when I felt my nipple perk up eagerly against the palm of my hand I slowly started to rub it.

Delilah’s eyes flashed directly at what my hand was doing. She shifted on her chair and smiled. Her mouth was wide, her teeth a perfect white row. She started to mirror the action, except that her hand moved over the surface of her sparkly dress, tracing the small swell of her own breast.

‘Why don’t we get disgracefully drunk together and then later if you like I can show you the real New York,’ she murmured, running her tongue over her lower lip in such an outrageously clichéd yet thoroughly sexy gesture that my pussy squeezed with longing and I could hear my breath rasping in my ears. ‘I wouldn’t want you to be all alone tonight.’

‘Yes,’ I answered thickly, pinching my nipple until it was hot.

‘Yes to what?’ she asked, dragging the cocktail shaker across and filling our glasses.

I glanced over my shoulder. The barman was still talking to the cougars, polishing the same wineglass over and over as if he had been hypnotised. The only other customers seemed to be a couple of businessmen drinking whisky in the corner.

‘Yes please. To everything.’

She leaned a little closer, uncrossed her legs, and her white hand shot out and flipped undone the buttons on my blouse.

‘So. No one’s looking. Show me what you’re doing to yourself, darling.’

My blouse had fallen softly open. She could see my hand, still lightly caressing my breast.

I sat up straighter, and ran my tongue across my dry mouth. ‘Like this?’

‘Oh yes, just like that. Now let me see you stroke the other one.’

I had some more to drink then lifted my hand, cold from the cocktail glass, to my other breast, and pushed them together. She hitched her stool closer to me so that her legs were on either side of mine, trapping me there, and she lifted my camisole right up so that my breasts, and my kneading hands, were exposed.

The music stopped briefly. The few beats of silence seemed endless. We both froze. Then it started again, a more rhythmic sound, heavy on the bass, and Delilah’s tongue poked between her white teeth as her very long, white fingers took my hands away from my breasts and pushed them down to rest on her thighs.

I felt tipsy, and hot, and helpless.

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Touch me, Clara. You’re so gorgeous, and I’m creaming myself here. I want you to touch me.’

My hands slid up her thighs, under the little dress, and rested on the crease at the top. I didn’t know what to do next, but my God, she’d started something. There was a devil hopping about inside me. And the fact that there were other people here, who could turn and see what was happening at any moment and see two women mesmerised by each other, about to do incredible things to each other, that just excited me more.

She didn’t rush me. She let me rest my hands there on her thighs, my fingers spreading open, treading on her, testing the feel of her skin, the give of her flesh, while she pulled my blouse right off me and ripped the camisole easily to one side. There was unveiled lust in her eyes now. My breasts bounced out. Both nipples were dark-red points, sore with the rubbing against my camisole and intoxicated with the soreness.

Her hands came up and slowly they came towards me, and when they touched my breasts it was so electrifying I nearly leaped out of my skin with shocked pleasure, pushing my body into her hands, arching my back to offer her my breasts. I tried to inch my bar stool closer with my feet hooked round the bars, but my knickers were stuck to the seat, my sticky pussy rubbing through the silk against the leather. I rubbed myself harder and there was the shock again, hotter this time, urging for more. My tight skirt rode further and further up until the stocking tops and then my knickers were plainly visible.

She pretended not to notice. Instead she squeezed my breasts and pinched my nipples harder, and then suddenly she leaned forward, balanced herself with her hands on either side of me, and took one nipple between her white teeth.

I thought I was going to go mad. She bit the nipple really hard, making me squeal with the pain, but it was gloriously wicked and I started to push against her face as she bit me then started to suck me, and the movement still had me rubbing against the leather of the seat, getting wetter. This way I could raise myself slightly off the stool so that my pubes were only just making contact. This was private pleasure. This was something I had done before. After all, you can do it whenever you want, yes? On a plane, on a bus, in a cab, in a restaurant, in the office, wherever there are people close enough to see if only they looked.

And usually no one can tell what I’m doing, which is half the fun, but when she pulled away, her lips wet with sucking, my nipple elongated and sore, the ice woman Delilah could perfectly well see my spread legs and the slow sliding of my fanny.

Her voice petered into a little gasp as she grabbed the seat of her own stool, and started to copy me, pushing her bottom hard back across the seat, and forwards again. The tiny muscles in my pussy were really convulsing now.

I held onto her thighs as she slid herself back and forth, and inched my fingers into her crack. Dampness started seeping through my knickers as the silk wrinkled away from my pussy. She bit her lip hard as she rubbed herself faster. I felt the cool leather meeting my sex lips and I nearly squealed out loud as they spread open, my little clit peeping out and retracting as it, too, made contact with the hard seat. Delilah could tell what was happening. I wanted her to see my knickers in the shadow of my skirt, and she was gyrating her hips under my hands, grinning at me, both of us in a private circle of excitement.

‘Clara,’ she hissed, her face suddenly close to mine. ‘I need fucking!’

I didn’t quite know what she meant. Did she mean me, or did she want to get one of the men in the bar? I wasn’t having that.

‘You’re not going anywhere, lady.’

I pushed my fingers into her pussy and parted her, feeling the velvety smoothness of her sex lips as I opened them, ran my fingers up and down the crack and felt its soft wetness, the frills of her lips limp with desire. I’d never done this before. Ever. Not even close, yet now my forefinger was poking at this woman’s cunt, and her cunt was sucking it in as if it was a little cock, and I wanted to do it. The stronger the pull from her cunt, the more I gasped, rubbing myself more frantically across the stool as droplets of desire stained the seat.

She closed her eyes. Her eyeballs rolled under her purplish lids, her eyelashes so long on her white cheeks. Somehow I’d had that effect on her, and I was in charge now. I took one of her hands, still holding my breast, and thrust it under my skirt. Her fingers were cool, and long, and I pulled them right into me, hooked my knickers aside, pushed her fingers inside so she could feel the strip of sticky hair and the cunt pulsing with desire beneath.

My mouth was against hers and, as her fingers mirrored what mine were doing, parting my sex and pushing inside, I kissed her, loving the soft give of her mouth, the grating of her teeth, my tongue pushing between those teeth to get at her, her tongue coming out at me, filling my mouth, making me want to suck on it.

My finger was up inside her now, pushing hard, feeling her body closing tight, and her fingers were parting me, stirring up delicious tremors of excitement. We kissed frantically, our mouths hard on each other, our hands pushing and pulling at each other, my leg curling up around hers, our bar stools right up close, rocking with our motion, and I realised that any minute we were going to fall right off onto the wooden floor, puncture the moment, lose it, lose everything.

‘What shall we do? I’ve got to do this!’ I hissed into her mouth. ‘Where can we go?’

She pulled away, glanced over my shoulder at whoever was still in the bar.

‘We stay right here. No one here. No one cares.’ She smiled, her eyes half closed. She was like a Siamese cat. ‘Free to do whatever we want. So show me what you’re going to do to me, honey.’

So still kissing her, still keeping her impaled on my fingers, I dragged my Delilah off her stool and guided her sideways to the nearest Chesterfield sofa and as we tottered across the floor I was deliciously aware of my knickers reduced to a wet twist stuck unevenly up my crack, dark and soaking with my juices.

We tumbled onto the sofa, and oh God now she was on top of me, her light weight pinning me down, knocking the breath out of me, and our slim female legs and arms twined around each other. We had left our leather stools behind us, wet with our excitement, and our pussies were grinding up against each other, my thighs hooked around her hips, her pussy pushing and shoving, mine bucking against hers, her fingers peeling my knickers off, opening my throbbing cunt, our fingers finding their ways back in, our mouths kissing, sucking, pushing, so sweet.

As my cunt welcomed her fingers right inside me I flung my head back for a moment and glimpsed the room around us. We weren’t alone. We knew that already, but now the barman and his cougars and some other people seemed to be jostling in the corner of my eye, I couldn’t tell how close, watching us, I thought, but not crowding us, but that just made my cunt clench with more filthiness. My sore nipples brushed against my new lover’s prickly sequinned dress, my breasts squashed up against her, her skirt round her waist, her bottom up in the air, held up by my fingers.

The fire spat and crackled near my cheeks. Feet stepped across the wooden floors, thudded across the rugs. Voices whispered and laughed. A siren called far down in the city. And Delilah’s finger brushed over my clitoris, making me jerk up at her.

Delilah’s cheeks were suffused with a hectic flush as I slammed my fingers into her again and she started to come, pulled back as if sucked by a tide and then throwing herself over me, her mouth grabbing mine, her fingers fucking me like crazy.

I watched her bucking back and forth across me, her mouth open now and her eyes blue and unblinking, fixed on mine. Her face was eerily calm, but there were high, keening cries coming from her as I pumped at her, and I was so aroused by watching what I’d done to her, the wild pleasure that was overwhelming her, that my own pleasure began to ebb slightly, and she knew it because she started to lick at me again, my mouth, pushing it open, panting her breath into me, pushing her finger into me, pushing up past my clitoris, pulling it out again, leaving spirals of hot desire, circling her finger just there, teasing me, then at last pushing in and remorselessly staying there.

‘Gotta keep up!’ she gasped as we rocked each other.

And so the wildness coiled through me, jagged and sharp. I heard myself crying out like she had done, my hands scrabbling to keep a hold of her as she screamed again, and at last I came, gripping her fucking fingers and shuddering with total abandon.

We slumped on top of each other as our climaxes faded. I was spread out under her, helpless as a colt, a trickle of pussy juice sliding down my inner thigh.

At last she slid off me, light as a feather, and stood up. I lay on the sofa, the fire crackling beside me, staring up at her long, white legs walking away from me, the shadow under her tight dress, that warm wet place where I had just been.

She stepped over to the bar and murmured to someone. I sat up shakily, yanking my skirt back over my legs, failing to find my lost knickers.

‘Maybe I should go,’ I stammered. She seemed to be ignoring me now. I scrabbled for my shoes. I thought I’d better make my exit, before I was thrown out.

She put her hand out to stop me as I passed.

‘We could have another drink. We could go out on the town,’ she suggested, handing me another daiquiri. ‘Or we could just go straight down to your room?’

‘How do you know I’m staying here?’

‘I own the place.’ She smiled, and chinked my glass. ‘So I know everything about you.’