by Ally Sky
I remember to give James the company business card and say goodbye, promising to come and visit again soon. I leave the gallery and catch the tube.
The ideas from my blog are really successful.
You and your Porsche. Just you wait. I’m loading my cannons.
Twenty minutes later, I get off at Marble Arch station and hit busy Oxford Street. Thousands of people, loaded with bags, are running around like armies of busy ants, as if they’re in a competition—mostly with themselves.
I go straight into Ann Summers. Luckily, the shop is empty. Hundreds of multi-colored designs of bras and panties are hanging from the hangers and I reverently touch the lace and the satin. They’re all so soft and nice to the touch. I’ve never spent money on expensive lingerie. I don’t even know where to begin.
Eventually I choose a black bra, go into the dressing room, and try it on. It’s a push-up bra made of lace, which lifts my breasts perfectly. I look in the mirror. The truth is it doesn’t look half-bad.
I take my phone out my bag, stand in front of the mirror, and try to get the best angle possible to take a photo. I’m not satisfied. Maybe I’ll need the shop assistant’s help after all.
“Excuse me!” I call out from the dressing room.
“Can I help you?” A young sales assistant peeks in, an earring dangling from her eyebrow. She looks suitable for the mission.
“Yes, the bra is perfect. I just want to surprise my boyfriend,” I lie with a smile and raise my phone. “Do you mind?”
She smiles and I turn around so my back is to her and my body is reflected in the mirror. “Perfect. Here take a look.” She turns the phone to me.
I’m photographed from the back, which is completely exposed right down to the waistline of my pants. My image is reflected in the mirror and exposes the black lace of the bra. My hands are in the back pockets of my jeans and my head is turned to the side, so that you can only see my profile.
“Perfect.” I smile at her and quickly get dressed.
While I’m here I may as well freshen up my wardrobe. The business of seduction demands lingerie that will get the job done. I pick out a few new sets, pay, and go back out into the busy street.
I buy a weak latte with no foam from my favorite branch of Pret a Manger and sit on a high bar stool in front of the big window facing the street. I take out my phone, open up to the last picture, and look at it, amused. I have no idea how my ideas will be received on the other side. And I don’t really care. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
13:27
As you seemed to be checking out my underwear,
I decided to renew my wardrobe
Do you like?
I attach the picture and press send. My demons are rubbing their hands together in satisfaction. They’re as psyched as I am…
As I take a sip of my coffee I stare out the window, trying to imagine him opening the message in his office. I hope he’s alone…
Shit! What if he’s not alone? What if he’s with Danny?
Well, it’s a bit late to think of that now, right?
My phone buzzes with an incoming message. I open it quickly.
13:29
Wow. Dying to see more
13:30
Great. Because I’m just getting started.
13:31
She who plays with fire shouldn’t be surprised if she gets burned
I stare at the message he’s just sent. What does he mean: ‘gets burned’? Am I playing with fire? Well, obviously I’m playing with something. So is he. So he’d better not warn me or threaten me. I’ve only just begun. If he can be naughty and unpredictable, so can I.
I look through the window. The sky is still grey, so a walk in the park isn’t an option. I take out my laptop and open the blog.
Friday
June 1st 2012
Incriminating Photos
As Ann suggested, I made my way to the store selling seductive lingerie. I held myself back, not going in for garters or anything else held up by only a couple of tiny threads. What can I do? After all, I’m a practical girl. A photo was sent and received with satisfaction.
As you’ll see soon, I’m not talking about slutty underwear. Sometimes the simplest things can get the job done perfectly.
I’m still awaiting your ideas, seductive and original, okay?
I promise to consider the successful ones. And once again, thanks to Ann.
Talula
I crop the picture I took this morning so there’s no evidence of my face, just an exposed body in a black lace bra. I attach it to my blog and post it just as tiny raindrops start falling, tapping on the window.
I wait until the rain slows down and then slip into the tube, hoping to make it home dry. I get off at Kensington only to find out the rain didn’t comply with my wishes and the tiny drops have become bigger ones.
I pop in to another store to look for one more surprise. I checked the weather forecast and know that by tomorrow the weather will have improved.
God, I really have become meticulous. But, I absolutely cannot leave any room for error, especially if I want to see the look of surprise on his face.
I enter the cigar store in Kensington, the smell of tobacco heady. The bell on the door rings as I enter. A nice young man smiles at me from behind the counter.
“May I help you?” He looks as though he’s in his early twenties.
“I’m looking for a present,” I smile self-consciously.
“What kind exactly?” he asks. I go to the counter where dozens of different kinds of cigars and lighters are displayed.
“Cigars. Good ones. A box of say…ten. And a Zippo lighter.”
“Something serious? For someone appreciative?”
“Not sure. But it’s for a guy with high standards.” I shrug. Not that I have any idea, but I assume Ben has smoked a cigar or two in his lifetime.
“We’re having a sale,” he smiles and takes out a wooden box with ten cigars. “Montecristo No. 2. One hundred and seventy-five pounds. It’s a great price.”
Wow. This stuff is pretty expensive. Do I really intend on spending so much money on a box of cigars?
Damn it, I want to liven things up a bit, so I don’t care how much it’s going to cost me.
“Excellent,” I say. “And a lighter?”
He pulls out a black wooden box containing a dark black, Zippo lighter in a red velvet cover.
“Can you engrave here?” I ask as I take the lighter out of the packaging.
‘Yes.” He smiles as he takes the lighter from me and hands me a small piece of paper and a pen. I scribble a few words on the white paper.
“Are you open tomorrow?” I give him back his pen.
“Yes.”
“And will you be here?” I ask again, shyly. If I want my plan to work, I need to get over my embarrassment and recruit anyone I can to help.
“Yes.” He smiles politely again, trying to understand where I’m going with these questions.
“Do you feel like earning some money on the side?” I blush.
“What do you have in mind?” he asks curiously.
“I want to make a special delivery tomorrow.” I check his response nervously.
“I’m always happy to earn a few more pennies,” he says, and my plan goes into action.
I wake up on Saturday morning, after an almost sleepless night, wondering if my restless tossing and turning was because my head was full of illicit schemes and ideas for my blog, or because something else was happening and I was about to get a taste of it real soon. In any case, I’m happy and looking forward to my day. It’s exciting, all this plotting and scheming and then seeing plans come to fruition. I only hope the guy from the shop won’t back out. It’s all in his hands now.
I go into the kitchen and find John there, dressed in his football shirt, making himself a cup of coffee.
“Good morning, Giggs.” I giggle.
“Someone’s in a good mood.” He grins at me warmly. “Coffee?�
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“Sure.”
“What are you thinking about?” He hands me a cup of coffee.
“That I’m dying for a cigarette.” I’m being evasive. There’s no point in telling him what I’m really thinking about.
“Let’s go outside.” He leads me out to the patio. We each sit in our favorite spots and light up a cigarette.
“How’s your new job?” He inhales deeply and exhales a trail of white smoke in the cold air.
“Amazing.” I smile. Really amazing. I get to visit the coolest galleries in the city, meet new people, and still have plenty of time left to write, paint, and devise naughty plots and seductions.
“You’re really elated this morning,” John smiles widely. I know he likes seeing me like this, smiling and happy. And I like being like this. It certainly beats the other option—curling up on the floor and crying.
“Yes.” I inhale deeply on my cigarette. “Lots of new things are happening in my life. I’m trying to absorb it all.” There’s no way whatsoever I’m going to let him in on what’s going on. “So, football in the park?” I ask with interest.
“Yes, if your brother ever gets out of bed,” he laughs.
“It’s not his fault. Sleeping late runs in the family.”
“Are you coming with us today?” He issues the invitation I was hoping for and stubs out his cigarette.
“Yes, I think it’s a great day to write in the park.”
And to see Ben’s face.
“Great. I’m going to try to get your brother out of bed, or I’m going without him,” he says, getting up from the sofa.
“Okay,” I smile at him. He goes inside and I lie back and let my imagination run wild.
We enter the park through the gate. I’m tense with excitement and gripping the strap of my backpack. John finally managed to rouse Danny and, after a quick cup of coffee, we’re out in the hot, June sun. I’m trying hard to hide all my mixed feelings. The last time I saw Ben his lips were stuck to mine and his hand was traveling down my cleavage and inside my bra. And now I’m going to see him again.
We walk along the pathway. Luckily the men play close to the park’s entrance, so I had no problem explaining to the guy from the cigar shop where to find us.
We get closer to the group of men on the grass. I glance at them. I have no problem spotting the tall man with the broad shoulders and the short hair, standing in a white T-shirt and athletic shorts. My man.
As we get closer to the group, I feel a pair of green eyes staring at me inscrutably. I smile at him helplessly, knowing what I’ve planned.
“What’s going on?” Danny shakes hands with some of the guys.
“Adam’s not coming,” Ben informs us.
“Thank God. At least there’s a chance we won’t see blood today,” Danny breathes a sigh of relief. “So we’re eleven?”
“Yes.” They all exchange looks. “I don’t mind sitting out for a bit. I didn’t sleep last night,” Ben answers and my heart skips a beat.
Sit out? And why didn’t he sleep last night?
I look for a shady tree to sit under, leaving the guys to their football game. I take out my laptop, open it, and pretend that I’m busy and don’t care whether he comes to sit next to me.
I notice his approach from the corner of my eye but I don’t look at him. He sits down next to me on the grass. His long legs, with his worn-out sneakers, are stretched out before him, and his aftershave mingles with the fresh grass.
“Hi,” he says softly, still staring at the loud group on the grass.
“Hi.” I keep my eyes on the screen. His gaze causes me enough trouble.
“What are you writing?” He sounds intrigued.
“I’m writing about irritating men who insist on sitting next to me on the grass and distracting me.” I glance at him mischievously. I don’t know about him, but I’m enjoying this game we’re playing. For now.
His smile, surrounded by stubble, raises one side of his perfect mouth. I imagine him kissing me and the stubble tickling my lips.
“Well, we’re an uneven number.” He invents a lame excuse that I totally don’t buy, as I watch him staring at the game indifferently.
“And you just volunteered to sit this game out.” It’s obvious to both of us what his intentions are.
“Yes.” He’s still not looking at me.
“Okay.” I lower my eyes to the computer screen, still smiling.
“So what are you really writing about?”
“I’m going over some old material,” I answer.
“Come on, let me read something.” Finally, he turns to look at me.
“What?” My eyes open wide in surprise.
“Let me read something. You’re constantly with that laptop. Show me what you’re doing there,” he persists.
“And what will Danny think about that?” I screw up my face.
“What will Danny think about me reading something on your laptop?” He stares at me amused.
Do I really want to let him read something I’ve written?
In a second, Danny’s going to see us sitting here, staring at each other. He’d be a complete idiot not to figure out what’s going on here. And Danny is no idiot.
I look back at the screen.
“You’re not going to let me read anything?” He tilts his head to the side.
“You won’t like it anyway,” I answer.
“You know that’s not true.” He’s starting to play his game again.
I open one of my Word files.
“If you insist.”
My hands shake as I pass him the laptop. I lean back and watch him as he reads the piece I’ve chosen.
My demons dance in the closet, closed behind the door and peeking through the keyhole. Occasionally I rest my hand on the lock, believing that if I don’t give them a glimpse into my life, they’ll stay locked in there forever. My fairies float about the room, flapping their transparent wings and their torn dresses, flying around in circles, free.
My demons dance in the closet, making background noises of muffled chaos, so far, yet so close. It’s only a matter of time before they manage to slip out through the keyhole and scare the fairies away, forcing them under the bed. Then they’ll take their place and burn down the room, turning my life into a bonfire that will rise as high as the ceiling.
I am afraid of the moment my fairies will run and hide and my demons will celebrate. I’m paralyzed by the thought. But my demons are restless. Sounds of battle grow louder and my fairies quicken their flight, their wings creating cold gusts of wind in the room. My bed gets chilly and I cover myself with a blanket, hiding from my demons, from myself. Getting ready for the war, the fire, and the blood. Wounded joints, a torn soul, and petrified weeping under the covers. What kind of battle will it be? Will it destroy or resurrect my soul? How will I emerge this time? Stronger, or maybe this time… I will die.
I sit on the grass, scrutinizing his every move. His chiseled jaw is clenched and his eyes are glued to the screen. Without missing a beat, I let him read my darkest thoughts. He didn’t even have to ask. A rare peek at my soul’s Holiest of Holies. And now here I am, sitting right next to him, checking his response. However, not a muscle moves in his face. His expression is frozen and I don’t know what to think.
And then, he turns his head in my direction. His green eyes are agitated, but I can’t guess his thoughts.
“Not so good, huh?” I mumble self-consciously. This stuff isn’t for everyone.
“Surprising,” he says quietly, not taking his eyes off me. He returns the laptop and I take it from him, lowering my eyes.
“Surprising good or surprising ‘not great, you should start dreaming of another career’?” I ask and steal a quick glance at him. He’s watching the football game, his hair gleaming under the warm sun. I’m dying to touch him like I did the night he kissed me.
“Surprisingly shattering,” he almost whispers, and Danny crashes down on the grass next to us before I get a cha
nce to ask him what he means.
“Exchange,” he pants and gestures at Ben to replace him. Ben gets up and joins the boisterous group without looking back, leaving me to wonder.
Danny lies on the grass, trying to catch his breath. His shirt is soaked with sweat and his chest rises and falls rapidly.
“Is someone out of shape?” I tease him and poke his side with my finger.
“I told you, I don’t have time to work out,” he pants laboriously. I’m still trying to get used to the idea of Danny not working out. Nowadays he’s either too busy or too tired, so lifting weights has now been replaced with watching TV on the sofa, cuddled up next to John.
“I see you and Ben are getting along,” he mumbles, his eyes closed. I’m panic-stricken, but try to hide it.
“Yeah, he’s nice.” I try to sound cool as I reply to his innocent words.
“Nice?” He scrunches up his face, opens his eyes, and looks at me.
“Yes, nice.”
This conversation must end—quickly—before I say something I shouldn’t, and before he notices my flushed cheeks.
“Well, I’m glad you’re getting along.” He shrugs and closes his eyes again. Thank God. I got out of that unscathed. I return to my laptop. The part I gave Ben to read is still on the screen and I can’t help but fear it was too revealing, shocking, and deterring. However, there’s no point in worrying about it now, since I can’t do a thing about it. I close the file and start typing something new.
The cheerful group collapses next to me on the grass for a beer break. I peek at my phone. It’s one p.m. My surprise should be showing up at the gate any minute now, and a chill of anticipation goes through me.
Will he be embarrassed? I’m sure he will. I wonder if he’ll like it. The inscription doesn’t give away any revealing details. Only he and I will understand.
Cold beer bottles exchange hands, just as I notice the young store assistant walking toward us on the pathway. He recognizes the group at once, as I had expected him to, and approaches us with quick steps.