Guest Blogger: Charlie Hooson-Sykes
30 something academic admin type who moonlights in freelance writing, blogging and social media.
Published on several websites and occasionally in print, I love to write about subjects from food and drink, to health and fitness, feminism and sex, and even the odd technical foray as I’m a big geek at heart.
Website: GinFuelledBlueStocking.
Three hours spent sitting next to each other. No hands under the table, not daring really to make eye contact.
This was business. This was negotiation.
As we talked, made notes, drank and listened, we were careful. I may have leaned a little exaggeratedly over the table when reaching for a fresh glass. Your gaze may have lingered.
We walk a distance away. Enough space for them not to see.
And now it’s crowded, but we don’t care.
There’s just enough alcohol in our bloodstreams to push past inhibitions, but not enough to cloud our judgement. Too much.
I’m pushed back against the wall, behind the crowd of people waiting. The clatter of coins in the ticket machine over and over next to us. But we don’t see or hear it. Your eyes meet mine, your hand reaches for my throat, to hold – that feeling of the control as you tilt my face up.
You want to taste me.
I want to let you.
I want to breathe in the scent on your skin as you kiss me, feel your tongue inside my mouth, teasing, taking. Feel you lean into me, flick the button on my jacket with your free hand and slide under the silk top underneath. My fingers are digging into your back, pulling you closer.
Your hands slide round to my arse. I love it when you squeeze it, pull me tight enough that I can feel your cock press into me. Rock hard. Wanting me. I moan into your mouth and my teeth nip at your bottom lip. Teasing. I’m pushing for more.
Your position shifts, I open my eyes as someone mutters sorry and stumbles away. My lips feel hot, soft, wanting. You spot the train and step away.
“Until tomorrow boss lady.” you say as you mock salute and board the train.
Yes.
Maybe tomorrow.
