coquetterie

I can tell you the last time I purchased perfume. Actually, I didn’t purchase it. I selected it. I received it as a gift. Christmas 2003, the luscious scent of Burberry’s Brit engulfed me. I received the perfume, shower gel and body lotion. I used every last drop.

Shall we fast forward five years? In the interim, since the Brit ran out, I haven’t bought any perfume. Yes, I’ve indulged my passion for shower gels, lotions, potions and unguents. Right now, I smell of exotic coconut. I’ve written about how it [coconut] reminds me of summer.

What I don’t think that I have written about is how scents play such an important role. We all want to smell delicious. More importantly, we want to smell delicious as we devour and are devoured by our partners. We want to invoke scentual memories and create new ones. Indeed, after being with me smelling this sweetly, this summery, I want my lover to think of me the next time the scent of coconut assails him. Then, I want all those memories of our last time together to rush into his brain, turn him on and make him crave me.

There are times when, like yesterday, when I prefer to end my day with a long hot shower. I take my time and use up nearly all of the hot water. I emerge from the shower to thick clouds of steam and the scent of exotic coconut. Indeed, the bathroom is so sticky and sweet, when opening the door and allowing the cool blast of air in, I shiver, even though I’m wrapped in towels and a thick, terry bathrobe.

I dry off and towel my hair to remove excess moisture. I pull on a pair of be-ribboned, lacy pink and black boy-shorts style knickers and an old, worn pink t-shirt. I push the excess pillows off the bed as I sprawl on my stomach at the same I reach for my book, half-unfinished, resting at the far corner. Laying on my stomach, knees bent and feet in the air with ankles crossed, I pull a pillow beneath me. I use it to prop myself up so that I can read the book.

Engrossed in the book, my mind wanders into the realms of fantasy. I think of what it would be like to be in your bed, waiting for you to arrive home from somewhere or something. Waiting for you, knowing that perhaps we might be slightly more than lovers by this point. So engrossed in the book, I wouldn’t hear the key turn in the lock, hear you call my name when you noticed my purse or your foot steps as you moved through the flat looking for me.

Imagine the happy surprise at finding me, stretched out across the bed. Imagine how I would look, cheeky panties riding up. The long, smooth lengths of my legs bent at the knees, ankles crossed. My body a flat line until reaching my upper torso propped upon the pillows. My face scrubbed clean of make-up. Only a side view visible in the mirror adjacent to the bed and my long dark hair trailing in a long line down my back, over the soft pink cotton of my t-shirt.

I often think that you would stand there, framed in the doorway for moments which would turn into minutes, drinking me in. Your mind calculating and cataloging the ways in which you might wish to defile me. You know, as soon as you apply pressure to the bed, I’ll be aware of your presence. What do to? How to go about it?

You smile as you see the white cords snaking from my ears to my iPhone. You laugh softly to yourself, now realizing why I didn’t hear your entry. You wonder what might be playing and what I am reading that has me so engrossed. A new tune pops up and I reach out and flick my finger, sending it to the next song.

Carefully, you watch. When I decide to straighten my legs, you move into action. You stalk to the bed; you slide onto it and straddle me in one quick movement. I shriek with surprise and sputter your name as I pull the ear buds from my ears by the white cords.

Embarrassed at how oblivious I was, I try to turn, making and effort to mark my spot in the book. In a soothing tone, you tell me to relax and to enjoy. You encourage me to continue reading. Bending forward, you place your nose against my neck and I hear, and feel, you inhale deeply. Your hands work at my shoulders starting to kneed the muscles, forcing them to relax.

Your hands move across my shoulders and up along my neck. Your work the muscles, forcing me to slowly loosen up, relaxing under your touch. Your finger tips slide into my still-damp locks and you work away at my scalp. My lips curve into a slightly pouty moue of displeasure as you pause to push up your sleeves.

Then your fingers return. They move over the relaxed tissues of my shoulders, down to my upper back and somewhat tenderized shoulder blades. You continue to work lower and lower, until I feel your finger tips brushing over the hint of skin where my t-shirt meets my knickers. At this point, I can feel your cock rubbing against me through the layers of your clothes. And, you have been peppering my neck and cheek with soft kisses. Words meant to tease have ignited the passion between us.

I’ve give up the pretense of reading. I’ve put my book down. A smile curves my lips as I hear you tell me how fucking edible I smell for the fourth, or is it fifth time now? Looking over into the mirror, I keep my gaze focused there until you meet mine, I reply, “Then why don’t you eat me?”

Now playing The Airborne Toxic Event: Sometime Around Midnight: The Airborne Toxic Event [5:04]

Technorati Tags: life, fantasy, perfume, exotic coconut, scentual pleasures, reading

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Only Robinson Crusoe had everything done by Friday. Attribution unknown.

Even with my non-traditional work schedule, I love the weekends. I love to sleep late, if I can force it on myself. I love to linger at a coffee shop. I love going out with friends and window shopping, having lunch/dinner/drinks and more.

Even though I truly enjoy the aforementioned activities, I work quite a bit on the weekends. You see, my contacts reach out to me after the long, hectic work week for a bit of respite and pleasure. And, I do my best to accommodate them.

Some of my clients, however, have special needs. Quite a few of them have cuckold-related fantasies and fetishes. Being single, it makes it difficult to accommodate them. Especially those with whom I have a strong connection.

That’s where you enter the picture. I want you to invite me over. Let’s say it’s Saturday night. The day spent toiling away at mundane tasks like laundry, errands, cleaning. You ache for something different and fun. You ache for me and my distinct brand of charm.

Thanks to modern amenities, such as caller id, when the phone rings, I know you wait on the other end of the line. Your first words to me, ignoring my greeting, make me chuckle. “What are you doing?”

With a giggle, I respond, “Talking to you and prepping for work.” You invite me over with the lure of dinner and a dvd. How can I turn down such a charming offer?

We finalize the details. I warn you that I’m not dressed for seduction, rather warmth for the journey to your place. We end the call and I go about preparing. I toss my laptop into a bag along with the power cord. I add in my notebook, the usb cord for my phone. I load the client dossier onto my phone, plug in my headphones. Frothing over the top of the bag is a top that hides tomorrow’s lingerie.

Now that pesky chore is done, I can focus on the more important item: me. I wriggle out of my comfortable clothes and even more comfortable underwear and slip into casual yet sexy lingerie. I pull on the lacy, red, boy shorts you love with the matching bra, offering underwire support for my lush breasts that are half-heartedly covered by the sheer, red demi-bra cups.

I pull on a red, figure-hugging fleece top. The upturned collar frames my face, emphasizing my pallor, my eyes and my hair which has been secured into pigtails that trail over my shoulders like curled lengths of chocolate. I quickly apply a hint of blush on my cheeks, coat my lashes with mascara then slick on a lip gloss.

I find my favorite jeans. I tug them on quickly fastening them with a tug of the zipper and a flick of the button. I stretch to reach for my socks and the top rises, showing off a bit of skin above the low-rise denim. I push my feet into my well-worn Nikes and dash about, shutting off lights and electronics. Finally, I forward the phone to my cell phone.

I tug the zipper on the fleece down so it displays the lush décolletage. I shrug into a warmer coat and button it up after a warm, cashmere scarf is wrapped protectively around my neck and tucked into the fleece. I pull on my gloves then gather up my purse, bag and keys.

I pop into my neighborhood coffee shop and order a peppermint hot chocolate to use for warmth. The journey is uneventful. As I round the last corner to your building, my phone rings in my ear a staccato beat reminiscent of the tones in the American Beauty soundtrack. Looking at the display, I smile. As predictable as a digital clock, one of my more amusing cuckold clients calls.

I greet him then take a long sip of the much cooler hot chocolate as I climb the stairs to your flat. I share the details of what I’m about to do with my client and laugh as he whimpers. He hears the knock at the door and I laugh as he pleads with me.

As the door opens, I say, “Peter, behave yourself. My lover and I are going to enjoy ourselves tonight and you are going to have to listen. Otherwise, I will be tempted to punish you for being a very naughty boy.” With that, I unplug the headphones, put the call on speaker phone and wrap my arms around you, kissing you thoroughly.

His whimpers pour out of the phone as you moan into my mouth. At the same time, your hands work quickly to divest me of my bags and jacket, chuckling as you see the framed décolletage once you remove my scarf. As you put my things away, you tell me to make myself at home.

I kick off my shoes and push them under the coffee table and then curl up on your sofa, settling in the corner with the phone resting on the sofa back.You pull my legs apart and sit down with one behind your back and the other extended over your lap. you turn slightly, pull me close to you and kiss me again.

Your hands cradle my cheeks as your tongue and lips plunder mine. A sob emanates from the phone as you murmur how good I taste and how warm I feel in your arms. You twist slightly and move. I do not even notice that you now have me pinned between the arm of the sofa and your body as your mouth bites along my neck, sending shivers along my spine. My gasps turn to moans as we continue to stroke, touch and kiss each other, listening to the sobs.

Gasping for breath, for a moment, I push you away. “Peter, are you wearing your shirt?” A sobbed reply indicates that he is. The t-shirt reads, in the Coca-Cola font, Cuckold. As you can guess, dinner and a dvd will follow pleasure and sobbing.

Now playing Goldfrapp: Happiness: Seventh Tree [4:16]

Technorati Tags: robinson crusoe, cuckoldry, aural voyeurism, work, clients, lover

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