“So where are we going?” I glance out of the window as Alvin pulls the car into the slow-moving queue of traffic.
“I booked a table at Rodrigo’s. I know you like it there.”
I nod my approval of his choice. The supper club is one of the West End’s best-kept secrets, a haven for actors seeking somewhere to grab a drink after they’ve come off stage for the night, or for couples wanting privacy and the low-key attention offered by the venue’s famously discreet waiting staff. Ideal for the scenario forming in my mind, now that I’m able to devote all of my attention to our arrangement.
Settling back in my seat, I kick off my shoes. “I’ve had a hell of a day. Hardly been off my feet for a minute. You wouldn’t believe how good it feels to be out of these heels…”
I don’t need to glance over to see how Alvin has reacted to those words. The atmosphere in the car has changed, a subtle tension seeming to thicken the air around us. I bend to rub my nylon-covered toes, emphasizing my point. Alvin lets out a little groan.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” I order him. To an outsider, my tone might sound unnecessarily sharp. To Alvin, it’s catnip.
He turns right before we reach the lights, heading down a narrow side street that will lead us into the heart of SoHo. While he drives, I take the opportunity to hitch my skirt up higher, allowing him to see more of my legs, clad in the cheap, flesh-colored tights Alvin loves so much. Another man might have preferred me to wear seamed stockings, constricting suspenders and the kind of underwear that works its way into the cleft of your ass like dental floss. For Alvin, the more ordinary my clothing, the greater the thrill.
“You know, I think I may have laddered these,” I comment idly, making a show of inspecting a spot high up on the inside of my thigh.
“May I check them?” His voice is pathetic in its eagerness. “Once we’re inside the club, I mean.”
“Only if you’ve been very good.”
“Oh, I have, madam. I promise.”
Madam. I smile to myself. He’s never called me anything else. Sometimes, I struggle to remember whether he actually knows my name.
Rodrigo’s is on a quiet street just off SoHo Square. Some nights, Alvin has to drive around for ages looking for somewhere to park, but today we’re in luck. A four-by-four with black-tinted windows pulls out of a metered spot just ahead of us. Alvin guides the Bentley into the freed-up space. I wait on the pavement while he pushes coin after coin into the meter, then we descend the wrought iron staircase that leads to the club’s entrance together.
There’s no sign above the door, just a nameplate beside it with the single word, Rodrigo’s. A bouncer in an ankle-length black overcoat stands guard to turn away rowdy and unwanted customers. When Alvin gives the man his name and the details of his booking, he lets us in with a slight nod of acknowledgement.
Inside, a handsome, blond waiter in a smart white jacket leads us to a booth just big enough for two, with a small, circular table set before a deep banquette seat. There’s a piano installed in the far corner of the room, and the pianist is playing old show tunes. The color scheme here is burgundy and black with gold lamp fittings, creating an ambience that puts me in mind of a tart’s boudoir. You don’t need to appreciate all things camp to be a regular here, but it helps.
I choose my drink without needing to consult the menu. Rodrigo’s is famous for its dirty martinis, and when Alvin and I are here, we never have anything else.
While the waiter goes to place our order, I remove my jacket. The outline of my bra will be visible through my cream blouse, and that’s all it takes to ensure Alvin’s attention.
“How—how are your feet?” he asks. He knows he risks my wrath by daring to raise the subject, but being in the cozy, velvet-lined interior of the club has clearly made him reckless.
“Did I give you permission to inquire?”
“No, madam, but—”
“If you must know, they’re particularly hot and sticky tonight.”
If I looked beneath the table, I know I’d see a substantial bulge in Alvin’s neat twill trousers. It’s almost laughably easy to push his buttons, his fetish is so deeply ingrained. Red-painted toenails beneath light-tan tights, court shoes, sweaty feet and an occasional flash of plain white panties. The combination is hardwired into his brain, to the extent where it’s all but impossible for him to come without them. I don’t ask how these things first came to turn him on; I’m just pleased that catering to his needs requires so little effort on my part.
“I can do something about that for you, madam, if you’ll let me.”
“Very well.” I try to make it sound as though I’m allowing him to touch me under sufferance. In truth, I think Alvin’s missed his calling in life. The man was born to be a masseur.
I put my left foot in his lap, making sure it rests on the swell of his cock. His breath is a tormented hiss as I apply pressure with my heel. Sometimes he begs me to do the same thing with the spikes of my stilettos, grinding them into his erection. He swears that the pain would add extra sweetness to his pleasure.
Alvin takes my foot between his hands and uses his thumbs to knead the sole. The stresses of the day begin to melt away under his assured touch, and I lean back against the banquette, my eyelids fluttering shut.
“Your martini, madam.” It’s not Alvin’s voice but that of the waiter.
“Just set it down on the table,” I tell him, too relaxed to bother opening my eyes. There’s a soft clink as he does just that, then I expect to hear his footsteps walking away. When it doesn’t happen, I turn my head to see him standing in the booth, his gaze fixed on Alvin’s hands as they work on my foot.
“Did you want something?” I snap. Doesn’t he realize this is a private moment, not intended for anyone else’s eyes?
“No, I just—” he stammers.
“Could you fetch us some rice crackers?” Alvin asks. I don’t know whether he actually wants something to nibble on, or if he’s simply trying to defuse the situation. The waiter nods and scurries off towards the bar.
When he’s gone, Alvin says, “Don’t you think you were a little hard on him there, madam?”
“Not at all. He’s not being paid to stand round gawping at us.”
“Well, have you considered that some men like to watch?”
“Alvin, I don’t want your opinion, just a foot massage.”
He says nothing, but inside he’ll be enjoying the thrill of being treated with such contempt. Alvin loves to be reminded that he’s a worthless, inferior being, deserving of my disdain. It’s not what I think of him, but it’s what he needs to hear.
I take a sip of my martini, relishing the dryness of the gin and the salt tang of brine. Alvin lifts my foot to his lips. He takes my big toe in his mouth, sucking it through the thin nylon. The motion sets up an answering pull in my pussy. A pulse beats steadily there, and my juices dampen the crotch of my underwear.
“You know, I need to get more comfortable…” As I speak, I let my thighs loll as widely apart as my skirt allows. All Alvin has to do is lower his gaze and he’ll be able to see all the way up to the tan gusset of my tights, sheer enough to reveal the white panties beneath.
Alvin lets my toe drop from his lips. “Oh, that’s nice,” he mutters.
“Less talking, more licking,” I remind him.
He continues to massage my foot while he sucks each of my toes in turn. I can’t imagine the thin mesh smells too fragrant, but for Alvin that’s all part of the attraction. The first time he brought me here, I confessed I’d changed into fresh tights before meeting him, having ripped the old ones on the corner of my desk. The look of disappointment in his eyes is still vivid in my mind. I’ve never done that since.
As I thought, there’s a run in the pair I’m wearing, just above the knee. I pick at it, causing the fine mesh to ladder further. Aware of Alvin’s eyes on the movement of my hand, I can’t resist moving it slowly, all the way up to the mound of my pussy. My middle finger com
es to rest on the place where I’m hottest, wettest.
Alvin, his mouth still crammed full of my toes, makes a gulping sound. I’m sure he’s desperate to touch himself, too, but that’s not allowed. Only once he’s back in his flat will he be able to bring himself off. That’s the rule, and he’s never argued with it. I think he enjoys the feeling of frustration, of wanting everything he can’t have.
Made bold by the privacy the enclosed booth affords us, I pop open the top three buttons on my blouse, so the upper curves of my breasts come into view. Alvin responds to the sight by pushing a little more firmly on the sensitive place just beneath the ball of my foot, sending a fresh jolt of excitement through my body. Someone told me, a long time ago, there’s a place on the inside of your leg, a couple of inches up from your ankle, where if you apply pressure hard enough, you’ll come. I’ve never had any success in making that happen, but if anyone could find it, I reckon it’d be Alvin and his magic fingers.
“Would you like to touch me here, Alvin?” I rake my fingernail over my clit. Even dulled by the layers of cotton and nylon, the friction is good.
He doesn’t say anything but gives an almost imperceptible nod.
“How about if you had the chance to pull my tights down first? And my panties?”
I’ve never allowed him to take such a liberty. In all the time we’ve been meeting for these monthly liaisons, he’s never seen me less than fully dressed.
“I bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you? Being able to touch my wet, bare pussy…”
Alvin’s eyes almost roll backwards in his head. The poor bastard looks like he’s about to come in his pants.
“Your—er—crackers.” The waiter’s voice is hesitant, as though he’s afraid to make his presence felt and break the moment. I wonder if he’s just arrived with our order or whether he’s been standing there a while, listening to me tease Alvin.
“Put the dish down,” I order him.
He doesn’t retreat once he’s done it. Really, I should tell him to go away. He’s already intruded on our scene once. But I don’t. There’s a part of me that likes the idea of this guy, with a nice, firm ass in his snug-fitting uniform trousers, staying to watch.
My eyes meet the waiter’s. Unlike Alvin, he doesn’t immediately look away, and there’s a clear challenge in his gaze. The contrast between middle-aged, patient, obedient Alvin and this insolent young man intrigues me.
Alvin has paused in his worship of my foot. I snap my attention back to him. “Did I tell you to stop?”
In response, he sucks harder on my toes. His devotion to me isn’t in doubt. Alvin always does whatever I want, prepared to put my desires before his. That knowledge makes me powerful. It’s my turn-on, just as the scent of my feet and the color of my toenails is Alvin’s.
Again I stroke my pussy through the wet cotton of my underwear. Now two pairs of eyes are fixed on the fast back and forth motion. When I glance at the waiter, he’s rubbing a hand over the front of his trousers, where the fabric is tight over his bulging cock. The pianist plays on, but the music, and the chatter of the other customers, seems to be coming from another room.
Alvin’s thumb presses against the sole of my foot, a little harder than before. It’s as though an electric current is shooting up my leg, connecting to the web of nerves that extend out from my clit. The circuit completed, I throw my head back, fighting not to cry out and alert everyone else in the place to what’s happening as I come. And all the while, Alvin keeps kissing and licking my toes, and the waiter strokes himself, face frozen in a mask of longing.
When it’s over, I’m almost too stunned to speak. Little aftershocks of pleasure shake my body, and it takes a couple of big gulps from my glass to restore my equilibrium. Alvin is grinning, strands of his hair falling into his eyes. His expression seems to say, You wanted to put on a show, and that’s what we did.
Aloud, he says, “I think we both need another drink after that. Waiter, two more martinis, please.”
The waiter bends close as he retrieves my empty glass, whispering, “You were amazing.”
“Thank you. So were you,” I reply, and I pull his face to mine so we can share a long, tongue-twining kiss.
That’s the other thing I love about Rodrigo’s. For the last three months they’ve been employing my darling husband, Michael, on their waiting staff. It’s why I’ve been longing for Alvin to bring me back here, so we could play out a scene before Michael’s eager eyes. And when Michael gets home at the end of his shift, I’ll be sure to show him just how grateful I am that, once a month, he lets me spend a night with Alvin.
ENTER ME
by Tabitha Rayne
Even before the crash I’d never been a fan of not hearing clearly. I tried wearing headphones to listen to music, but it made me feel claustrophobic, isolated. I get the same thing with sunglasses. I can’t bear them; they make me feel like I’m in a world of my own where no one can reach me, like I’m suspended somewhere other than reality.
So that’s why, since the crash, you will never see me wearing sunglasses or even a hat. Anything that cuts me off from feeling in the thick of the here and now has me panicking.
The crash left me suddenly and utterly deaf. It was the strangest sensation coming round. I felt like I was deep underwater, unable to make contact. The sound of my own voice was muffled and thick, so alien and far away I screamed. I knew I was screaming because my throat was raw and nurses in blue-cotton pajamas were smoothing their hands over me and petting me, their brows furrowed with concern.
That was over two months ago.
I still wake up with that feeling of panic. Sometimes, though, I let myself lie in the morning stillness, trying to be as quiet as possible with shallow breaths so I know, for a little while at least, that I am choosing the silence. It is mine.
I don’t know how long George and I will last. He must be sick of the bruises I inflict when he’s trying to catch my attention by tapping my back. The shock! I have not been able to master the art of not being panic stricken by an unexpected touch. It’s exhausting, straining to hear all day long when all there is is stifling black nothing. So disorientating. I saw a program once about a room that was so well soundproofed that there was no echo at all. When the lights were out, people could only last a few minutes before demanding to be released from the black hole. George said he thought he’d love that. He’d do anything for a bit of peace and quiet; he reckoned he’d last a good eight hours. I knew what they were feeling, though. I imagined it so keenly at the time, and now it is confirmed to me. If I close my eyes, I’m there, in that room of absolute nothing. Alone.
We’ve taken to notes or texting. Being unable to hear my own voice means I can’t risk the words coming out. George says I sound fine. I don’t believe him.
George left a note this morning.
Let’s make love. Tonight.
I hold it between my thumb and forefinger. You wouldn’t think not hearing would rob you of other senses, but it does. I can feel the paper, yes, but I can’t hear the feel of the paper. Try it now, go on, rub your fingertips over the pages of a book, or a newspaper. Listen to how it feels. Now try to imagine not hearing that. See? You’re surrounded. Your world is full of senses interacting and, well, making sense of everything. I begin to fold the note up, slowly creasing it into a plane. The paper is rough and crisp, and I drag my nail along the folds, making them sharp and perfect. Something about the points and lines makes a shiver run up to my solar plexus. I open the note back up and trace the words.
Let’s make love. Tonight.
I try to savor the text without worrying how it should sound. I lift the note to my mouth and run my tongue over the letters, hoping to taste words. The shiver has become a flutter and travels gently down my abdomen and settles at my crotch. I let the sharp edges tickle my lips and the tiny hairs at the corner of my mouth. It makes me twitch and salivate. The prickle and swoosh of my breasts alerts me to my stiffening nipples, and I look down to the ris
e in my shirt.
It’s been so long since I’ve felt arousal, I’m taken by surprise, guilt almost. I make a decision. We will make love tonight.
My lack of hearing seems to have brought with it an inability to make any sort of decision, even down to the simplest of tasks like choosing whether to wear socks or not. George says it’s because my confidence has been rocked to the core. I think I agree. It’s the only explanation. This decision though, this is something I need to keep and take control of. It feels precious yet strong. Like I’m on the brink of something big.
I drift the note over my nipple through my shirt. It tickles, and I yearn for more. I undo my top buttons and pull the shirt to the side, exposing my breast. I run the edge of the paper over my nipple and breathe in hard. My chest and tits rise to the exquisite feeling of being turned on. My skin is flushed and my cheeks are hot. I look around the kitchen quickly, my breath hitching just in case someone has come in without me noticing. When I’m satisfied all is clear, I go through to the bedroom and stand at the mirror at the foot of the bed.
I like what I see. I like my exposed breast hanging out of my shirt. I like the flushed pink glow over my face and chest. I like the way my fingers hold the paper which hovers over my achingly tight nipple. I like the feeling of dampness and warmth spreading though my knickers. I sit down on the end of the bed and spread my thighs. I hesitate a little, a brief moment of panic again that someone might be watching. But who?
The thought actually has me even more excited, and I open my legs further to reveal the dark stain of arousal spreading through my underwear. Pulling my panties to the side, I am amazed at the dark ruby color of my pussy lips. I don’t think I’ve ever done this to myself before—looked in a mirror. It’s like I’m not looking at me. I’m just looking at a very horny woman, and it is turning me on.
Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 1 Page 12