‘It’s completely inappropriate.’ He jabbed a finger at the picture. ‘What do you think that is?’
‘Duh … a heart?’ I answered sarcastically.
‘Does it look like a heart to you?’
‘Yes!’
‘Come on. You know what a heart looks like.’ He held up a clenched fist to signify a knobbly object. ‘It’s all covered in veins and it’s got blood vessels sticking out of the top and it’s nothing like the same shape as that.’
Okay, he had a point. ‘It’s just a symbol, Oliver.’
‘Oh yes. But that does not symbolise a heart.’
Smartarse, I thought. ‘Then what is it, then?’
He gave a funny, secretive smile. ‘You don’t know?’
Smarty-smarty-smartarse. He knew everything, or thought he did. But that was one of things I liked about him: he regarded knowledge as a positive thing. Back where I grew up, book-learning was treated like a kind of Tourette’s syndrome – only with much less sympathy. Until I met Oliver, who’d been teaching my evening class on Home Computer for Business and Leisure, I’d never been out with anyone like him. ‘You going to tell me, Mr Clever-clogs?’
Now he had a wicked glint in his eye. ‘I could show you.’
I felt like I was taking a piece of bait, and swallowing a big sharp hook with it. ‘Go on then,’ I dared him.
‘Okay. Come on.’
We settled on a card showing a photo of red roses and left the shop.
He took me to Curzon’s, which is a big old-fashioned department store of the sort you don’t see much about any more: a family-owned business rather than part of a chain, and just a bit run-down. It’s the Land that Fashion Forgot. I don’t shop there myself; its clientele is mostly the dowdy middle-aged who remember it from their own childhood. Because this was a weekday morning there weren’t many customers in and we had the big open-plan floors almost to ourselves. We wandered through the jewellery sections and crockery and perfume. Oliver held my hand and said very little, just smiled slyly. I let him enjoy being mysterious.
Then he led me up the stairs to the fourth floor and into the lingerie department and I was amazed to find that those dull middle-aged women had a real good thing going with their underwear. The department was big – and the stock wasn’t all designed to fit anorexic waifs either. All the labels had French or Italian names on. There were basques and corsets and girdles and stockings and bras of every shape and size – bras to make you look big and bras to make you look small, naughty nighties and control garments and suspender belts. I’ve never seen so much lace all in one place.
‘See anything you like?’ Oliver asked. ‘My treat.’
‘You sure?’
‘Oh it will be,’ he promised, brushing his lips to my ear and biting gently at the lobe. I shivered.
I started to look through the racks of bras, falling instantly in love with the different colours of contrasting lace. A female shop assistant with a face like a wet weekend drifted over in our direction.
‘Can I help you at all?’
‘We’re fine,’ said Oliver cheerily. He had the right accent for that kind of place. She looked us over and then retreated to her counter again as a tweedy-looking lady went up to ask for help. I smiled to myself, stroking a longline slip of red satin slashed to the waist, and failing to imagine the tweedy woman wearing anything like this in a hundred years. I had a push-up bra in dark purple with lavender trim in one hand, and another in wild hues of blue and turquoise and pretty appliquéd flowers in the other, when Oliver came over with his own choice of garment.
‘I’d like to see you in this as well,’ he said softly.
It was a single-piece body made to look like a ruched Victorian corset, with definite hints of burlesque. The chestnut satin of the side panels was overlaid in peach lace and there were plentiful trimmings of black ribbons and suspender straps. I could imagine how I’d look in it and my mouth watered.
‘Are you sure, Ol? This stuff is pretty expensive.’
‘Valentine’s present. You had a look at the knickers yet?’ He drew me gently toward those racks and away from the assistant.
‘I bet you want me in itty-bitty thongs, don’t you?’ I giggled.
‘Nope. I don’t have a thing for string.’ He turned slightly so that his back was to the counter and anyone watching, and lowered his voice to a warm murmur. ‘What I like is those ones with the full panel of lace at the front, all sweet and pretty, and then you turn around and at the back they’re cut high so that your beautiful round bum cheeks peek out from beneath the lace band, almost bared.’ He was starting to sound a little throaty. ‘It’s like the curtain going up on the stage at the theatre. Oh god, Nikki, that just drives me crazy.’
‘Everything drives you crazy,’ I countered as he brushed up against me, gentle but very deliberate.
‘Everything about you, anyway.’ He took my hand – the one not laden with hangers full of frillies – and pressed it reverently to the front of his jeans. He had a semi on already – a hard curve of flesh that surged up against the fabric and against my fingers. He wanted me but bad, I had to admit, and that eagerness was arousing in the most primal way. I licked my lips. I wanted to rub him harder, but a department store wasn’t exactly the right place.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘So something like this …?’ I plucked a pair of knickers in stretchy cream lace down from the rack and checked the label to make sure that they were in my size. The gusset narrowed to a ribbon of lace that would fit snugly up the cleft of my bottom; I could already imagine the slight roughness against my most secret flesh. ‘And I need some to go with the tops, of course …’
‘Here,’ he said, handing me four pairs. ‘Now head that way. To the changing room.’
‘I’m not sure these are the right ones –’
‘Ssh! Quickly! While she’s busy!’
Trying to look nonchalant we wound our way between the racks to the back corner of the building where the changing rooms were. In a more modern store there would have been some sort of security, but this place was old-fashioned and understaffed. There was just an outer door and, inside, three cubicles. Oliver hurried me into the far cell and shut the door on us before catching me up in a teasing kiss, all tongue and promise. I wriggled my hips, grinding against him. Two can play at teasing. I was pleased to feel him gasp in response and grow harder.
‘You’re such a horny git,’ I complained happily.
‘Only because you’re so deliciously fuckable,’ he countered.
It was a fair cop: I was already well into the tickly, squirmy stage, and just the pressure of his hands and his crotch against me was making me burn. I giggled softly. ‘Does this have anything to do with Valentines?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes.’ Releasing me, he looked around the tiny room, barely longer or wider than the span of his arms, and grinned. ‘Better and better,’ he said to himself, the three mirrored walls obviously meeting his approval. Our reflections postured all around us, mirror reflecting mirror in an unending succession. There was a narrow wooden bench on one side too, and a couple of hooks on the back of the door; nothing else.
I took a moment to hang up the lingerie on the hooks.
‘Coat off,’ he whispered, laying his own on the bench and sitting on it. I looked down at him, pouting, then wriggled out of my coat in a mock-stripper style to reveal the less-than-sexy layers underneath: a fine grey jersey-cotton top and a red plaid skirt over thick black tights.
‘You going to watch me try on my presents?’ I asked, though I thought it obvious. But he shook his head. His eyes were intent on some secret, serious purpose.
‘Take your skirt off.’
I unzipped and obeyed, half-smiling but starting to catch his mood. I was embarrassed about my woolly tights, which were rather more practical than sensual
, but Oliver didn’t seem to be put off. He rolled them carefully down my legs, and helped me step out of my boots before tossing the tights aside. I stood before him bare-thighed, the mirrored iterations of my legs arrayed around him.
One lucky point in my favour: out of all the panties I own – from lacy wisps to striped shorts to polka-dotted cotton (and even the stretched grey overwashed ones that every girl has at the back of her drawer for emergency use) – I’d donned this morning a pair in the style he liked best: full cover at the front and even down over the crease of the thigh, but cut high over the cheeks behind. These were plain black and very soft and flimsy, and my cheeks seemed to glow in contrast to their sober hue. My ass is far from skinny, but it was only under Oliver’s admiring attentions that I’d come to really appreciate those full, peachy globes. I gave him a twirl to demonstrate my good taste in panties, and in the mirrors my reflections twirled too.
Quickly he caught me and pulled my bottom to his face, kissing first one cheek then the other, just below the delicately scalloped edge of the cloth. I gasped a little as his hand slipped up between my thighs, encouraging me to widen my stance and part them, for which he rewarded me by cupping the mound of my sex. His hot breath and reverent lips and his moist tongue-tip roamed over the curves of my bottom, his other hand stroking up under the line of my panties until I was flustered and breathing hard. His thumb stroked my pussy lips through the silky fabric, working magical changes on and inside me.
‘Oliver,’ I whispered frantically. If he kept this up I was going to forget all dignity.
‘You’re wet,’ he said, licking the soft skin of my ass. ‘Your panties are all wet.’
‘Oh God.’ I swear I hadn’t been until he started on me. Not until the card shop, anyway. Now he knew all about the shameless seep of my pussy.
‘D’you want me to show you the Valentine heart?’
‘Is it …?’ I knew something was going to happen. I could hear the hunger in his voice.
‘Get down over my knee,’ he said softly.
Oh. I’d never done anything that kinky. I’d certainly never done it in a public place like this. I blushed pink from head to toe and turned to look at him. He sat on that low bench with his thighs spread, his eyes dark and eager, his mouth set in a tense little smile. Is two months enough to know a man? Enough to put yourself face down in his lap in a department store?
Bending forward, he put his mouth to the silky cloth over my clit and kissed it. ‘Trust me,’ he said as he looked up.
I took a deep breath and lowered myself over his lap. His thighs were strong, but not soft enough to be comfortable – and he immediately lowered one, tipping the top half of my body slightly toward the carpet. Making my bottom my highest point. My sex, used to being hidden away below, felt terrifyingly vulnerable. I opened my mouth in a little noise of unease but he forestalled any words of mine.
‘That’s right. Relax. Knees together a bit. Beautiful. God, you’re beautiful.’ His palm cupped the swell of one cheek, soothing me. With the other he pulled at my knickers, drawing the gusset up tighter between my thighs. ‘What a beautiful fucking ass you’ve got.’
His vocabulary always suffered when he got really turned on, and he was hard for it now; I could feel him through his jeans. When I looked in the mirror facing me I could see his rapt expression. I could see my flushed face and my raised bum and his hands; one on the small of my back and one appearing and disappearing as he caressed my bum-cheeks. ‘Oliver – Oh!’ I gasped as he tickled my clit.
‘Now look over your shoulder.’
Squirming, I managed to look into the mirror behind me.
‘Can you see it?’
I saw it: the Valentine heart. I watched as Oliver traced its outline with his hand: the two globes of my upthrust ass, wide above and tapering down toward my thighs, to the narrow placket of my pussy that was today sharply outlined in black. My clit was positioned right at the tip of the heart.
‘See it?’ His hand made the outline once more, finishing at my clit, teasing its fat little bump through the damp cloth.
‘Yes!’ I sagged back into a more relaxed position, half-closing my eyes.
‘This is what that symbol really means,’ he murmured, drawing the shape over and over with his caresses. ‘This says … I want you. Be mine.’
‘Oh yes …’
‘I’m yours, now and for ever.’
His fingertips teased the veiled clench of my darker hole, then swept round to my sex, inexorable. Where he touched me, I lit on fire.
‘I love you.’ He bent to bring his lips near my ear. ‘I love you,’ he repeated, his voice deep.
I wasn’t capable of coherent response to those growled words. And the next tracing of the shape stopped me thinking at all, as he slid his fingers under the panty-gusset and into the well of my pussy.
‘And this: this is where the arrow shaft enters, Nikki.’
His fingers took possession of my hole, spreading me wide, forcing me to choke down indiscreet moans. I didn’t need to look any more, or picture in my head the shape he was making. I could feel exactly what was going on: one finger, then two, slipping inside me. His blunt and wicked fingers, tools of an even wickeder mind. I could feel how wet I was. I could hear how wet I was – his hand making little kissing noises in my juices as he worked me. And when he stroked that wet down over my clit I started quivering. My legs spasmed, visible witnesses to the electric shocks he was sending right through my body.
‘Cupid’s bolt. Plunged in deep. Every shot on target. Straight to the heart.’
I could feel the tidal change in me, that surge of reckless need that would drive everything else from my head. If he kept this up I was going to come: on his hand, in a public changing room. My eyes were open but everything in front of them was a blur, nothing real but the touch of his fingers and the aching hunger between my legs.
‘Oliver,’ I gasped, clawing at the carpet. ‘I’m going to…’
‘What? Right here?’
‘Yes!’
He pulled his hand out and I nearly screamed. His words came in a rush: ‘Oh fuck, Nikki. I’ve got to – I’ve just got to have –’ Without ceremony he hauled me to my feet and pushed me face-on to the wall mirror. I saw his face over my shoulder, drained of everything but intent, as he yanked my sodden panties down from the curve of my bum and jerked furiously at his belt and zip. I felt his hot hard cock slap against my ass-cheek and then stab blindly at the cleft and then, guided by his desperate hand, find its target. All of a sudden, without my having time to think or protest or draw breath, his cock was plunging inside me, more than making up for the loss of his hand. As always it felt frighteningly big those first few moments; the stabs of pain seemed to send up flares inside my head, lighting the darkness. I tilted my bum up, giving him deeper access, pressing on the glass to push back against him. His hands grabbed at my cheeks and my hips, digging in hard as he started to fuck me.
‘Oh God,’ he groaned: ‘Nikki …’
I could see him. I could see him as he impaled me from behind, and there was an unfamiliar intimacy in that. I could see the flickers of triumph and delight and helpless awestruck need chasing each other in his eyes. He could see my face too, flushed and shocked, my mouth open in tribute to his onslaught, my splayed hands smearing the glass. It wasn’t pretty or romantic, that reflection. I hadn’t had time to try on any of those lovely bits of lingerie; I was still in my grey top and my breasts were bouncing against the fabric with each jolt of his thrusting cock, while his jeans were sliding down his thighs. And what’s romantic about a ferocious, dirty fuck from behind in a cramped cubicle, Oliver gasping hard and slow, my own panting breaths coming fast and wild? What’s romantic, for that matter, about his big dick ramming into my wet hole, filling me over and over again with his meat?
Should I have regretted all
the pretty romantic stuff? The flowers and the hearts? I was too busy loving this. Loving getting fucked fast and desperate by this man who couldn’t keep his hands or his cock off me.
Then came a furious tattoo of knocks on the door. Oliver paused mid-thrust and we looked at each other in the mirror, wide-eyed, our chests heaving.
‘Excuse me?’ a woman’s voice demanded, cold with suspicion. ‘Are you all right in there?’
‘Yes,’ I croaked as Oliver, grinning, pushed my top and my lycra bra up to bare my breasts, tugging on my nipples. Cruel man. Cruel, dirty, wonderful man. ‘I’m good, yes,’ I babbled as he tucked his other hand round in front of me and gave my clit the touch it craved. ‘Yes, oh yes,’ I insisted as he began to thrust again. As my body welcomed the renewed assaults of his cock my need ballooned up, almost without warning. It was like a genie released from a bottle: I didn’t care any more. I was going to climax. I screamed ‘Yes!’ over and over again, my face mashed to the glass, as I came and then he followed – shooting over and over again, deep and strong, into the very heart of me.
There was no further interrogation through the door. I doubt we’d have heard it anyway over our own noises.
When we were spent he clenched me in a bear-hug from behind and kissed the sweat from my temple, whispering, ‘Be mine, Valentine.’ He gallantly led the way from the changing room too, once we’d shuffled back into our clothes, and he carried both our coats.
Out on the shop floor a scattering of people stood staring. Mrs Wet Weekend now looked like a thunderstorm. Mrs Tweed still lingered, looking shocked, pink spots burning on her cheeks. A couple of junior shop assistants had also been called in for backup but were visibly trying to keep straight faces. Oliver favoured them all with a big easy grin. There was no disguising what we’d been up to: we were holding hands, both flushed and tousled and glowing with pleasure.
The senior shop assistant cleared her throat.
‘Lovely,’ I said with a huge smile, cutting her off, and brandished the hangers full of lingerie. ‘I’ll take them all.’
Sex, Love & Valentines Page 11