By now Imogen hazarded a guess that Michael was in the washroom splashing water on his face, loosening his tie a bit more, even taking it off maybe and putting it in his pant’s pocket, and next unfastening the top button of his shirt as he stared glassy-eyed into the mirror above the wash basin. “Yes, I know,” he’d say to his reflection. “It’s crazy to be so turned on and seduced by a woman in a pair of silk stockings and there’s no logical explanation for it. But boy I never saw a broad who could wear a pair of stockings with such panache and make them such a powerful sexual tool.”
She hoped Michael would go to the john right at the end of the row, because then he’d have the big surprise that all the guys remarked over. He’d see the picture on the wall done by the famous artist, Jake de la Mare, who took a great interest in painting the more intimate parts of a woman’s body. Yes, that Jake, the one that only six months after saying he wanted to fuck her all over her pretty legs had boldly gone to New York with his unique portfolio and been offered a first exhibition on the strength of it and was now doing illustrations for some big time magazines and PR companies. Jake had never tried to fuck her but he liked her and Jake was a decent guy. He’d never said he loved her per se, however, he’d been the first guy she’d connected with since Louis and she’d had good times with Jake. When she turned down the job as his model, Jake said he would leave the world an enduring memento and he’d painted the picture and left it on the john wall – so as he put it – the whole of the male population of Berlin could share the dream boat pair of legs and not have to fantasise so hard about her when they jerked off. She’d liked Jake, Jake had been nice to her and he’d talked about her legs like they were assets, which in a way they were, and he’d joked about her job at the club, which made her feel better for doing it.
Larry hated guys dirtying up his john and he boasted he had one of the cleanest johns in Berlin, but this time when he went in with his bucket and scrubbing brush he came straight back out again. ‘I’m not scrubbing it out, Imogen, ’cause it’s a rather fine piece of work. Come and look at it.’
‘I already did,’ she said. Imogen knew about the painting, because Jake had sneaked her into the john and he’d showed her the picture before asking if he could have a last feel of the silk stockings for old times sake. For some reason it never aggravated her that Jake wanted to see a show of the stockings, and putting her foot on the seat of the john, she’d done a private striptease in the cubicle for Jake, peeling the silk stocking down ever so slowly while he took out his dick and fiddled with it. Then, she hung one of her silk stockings around his neck and carefully tied it like she used to tie Louis’s tie when he went out to work, tapped it with her finger and kissed him on the cheek. Jake had laughed. ‘I got to confess, baby, I have wet dreams about your legs. I’d like to press my nose up to those silk stockings and eat my way into your pussy, ’cause you’d have to experience sex with the girl in the silk stockings to know what sure as shit ecstasy is.’
Was Michael Levenstein fiddling with his dick right now? Did he have his pants down around his ankles as he conjured his cock into life, fantasising about her and wondering how to engage the cold dame with the hard eyes into life? Well, it wouldn’t be easy. Imogen had built a mighty fine wall around herself and it would take a lot of constant chipping at the brickwork to get through. Perhaps if he made her upset her glass of wine, the wine would stain those fine stockings and she’d go to the powder room and remove them? It was unlikely she’d throw them in the trash because they seemed expensive, but, probably she’d place them in her purse and if she did and she left that purse lying on the counter – he was sure he could dream up some way to open it and steal them. My God, by imagining he could even stoop as low as to steal a pair of women’s hose, he’d have dropped to the sleaziest level possible and he’d be thinking like a pervert, but all men were perverts in one way or another, and especially if they were crazed by sexual obsession. Imogen would have easily given him a pair of the silk stockings though, because she liked him. When she went home that evening she might even open her chest of drawers, full of silk stockings, and think which of them would suit him and how best he would choose to use them.
Lover’s fantasies, Imogen thought sadly, as she snapped back into the present. They were as easy to slip into as slipping on a shoe, but dangerous just for that reason. She wondered if sex came back to you like riding a bicycle or if a woman’s insides dried up like a poorly oiled machine from lack of use. What was it they said? “Use it or lose it!” Either that or it would be better for the period of abstinence, and when a man began to fuck her, she’d be so much fire she’d scorch him to a crisp. Her mind waded into deeper and progressively more dangerous waters. Michael had sexy lips and those type of lips made a man good at kissing, they were fine cunt kissing lips. Firstly, he’d kiss her on her lips and then on her nipples and a little bit later on when she was more relaxed and warm, he’d perhaps kiss her on her secret places; between her ample but firm butt cheeks and in her cunt.
Chapter Two
Imogen was thinking of all these things when Michael came out of the john and with a curious shiver she realised he must indeed have been in the one at the end, because he was very flushed and perspiring a little while his eyes gleamed with a feverish light.
Michael returned to his stool at the other end of the bar and then thinking for a moment he dragged it closer to hers until he was almost within touching distance. Of course, it was essential he got closer so he could look at the silk stockings, which were gleaming enticingly in the dim light of the bar and which Imogen had now boldly crossed.
It wasn’t unusual to see a woman in stockings – but there was something about the way she wore them. It was as if she was made to wear a pair of hose in the way some girls are made to wear gloves or pearls. There was no doubt the silk stockings and the woman were a uniquely erotic combination and no other woman on the planet could carry off such a stunning partnership.
Imogen watched Michael for several minutes and before she realised what she was doing, she speared him with her cheeky gaze and raising her glass she invited a toast. It was something she never did and there was a steely determination in her glance, not unlike a whore’s invitation, but in a way she was a whore. She was, as Louis had so quaintly put it, the silk stocking whore – a cocktease in Cervin.
Michael smiled at her. She hazarded a guess he was doing what most men did, he was wondering if she had a boyfriend or if she was a high class whore waiting for a punter since she seemed expectant and her gaze kept continually darting to the door. The truth of the matter was, though, Imogen couldn’t get rid of the irrational fear which seemed to be mounting up inside her day by day, the fear Louis would walk right back in and blackmail her.
After awhile Imogen fished an olive out of her drink and popping it between her lips she dried her finger on her thigh. She didn’t mean to do it, but the action of the finger drew Michael’s attention to the silk stockings. She rubbed her finger up and down suggestively and then she drew several small circles on her thigh before hitching her skirt skilfully up her legs. She didn’t want to tempt him but she couldn’t help it, she liked him. She liked his wide-eyed innocent look and his slim sexy physique and narrow hips. He was American, she’d guessed that immediately because he talked with a bit of a twang like Jake, but Jake had a broad Brooklyn accent and Michael’s accent was soft and husky as if he’d just had sex and rolled out of bed. Even that voice was enough to get her going for some reason. It sent shivers all the way up her spine.
Michael travelled the world in his high powered job as top sales executive in his sister-in-law’s cosmetic firm. He was a rebel like his father and he’d been groomed to walk in Abel Levenstein’s shoes, but when he left law school Michael found, although he had a certain genius just like his father for law, he didn’t want to be a facsimile of a legal Levenstein.
Being a famous Levenstein wasn’t easy and when he dropped the bombshell, Abel didn’t talk to him for si
x months, but the family were close and a compromise was reached. He now employed his skills to good use in Marta’s employ. He enjoyed selling useful products and he could put his legal skills to good use. Furthermore, he loved the job because he was constantly meeting and able to appraise stunning women, women of incredible and outstanding beauty. He’d been to many exotic countries and he’d shared a bed with a fair quantity of fascinating girls. Girls he had to admit, who were exceedingly enchanting and sexually provocative and sometimes had eclectic and surprising sexual repertoires but whose beautiful flawless looks became in a while just a little bit repetitive. In all those bars, in all those hotels, he’d never seen a dame as exciting as Imogen, the woman in the silk stockings.
Michael was also not a hustler and he didn’t behave like a lot of guys who hopped in out of bed with every broad who approached them. No. He liked to experience some kind of enchantment and be attracted to a woman in more than the base physical way before he went to bed with her. What’s more, he’d never gone for orthodox beauty. He enjoyed having his interest piqued by something exceptional. This time, shockingly, it was the enchantment of Imogen’s incredible sex tools in the silk stockings.
Michael was astute, he’d been trained as a lawyer after all, and in a few seconds he’d sized Imogen up. He liked her thick natural blonde hair, which Imogen had piled stylishly high on top of her head and which was fastened with two tortoiseshell combs, and he liked the way the hair which was swept away from her cheeks, accentuated her lustrous blue eyes.
At that precise moment Hermann Meier, who was fresh out of a club with his latest mistress, came into the bar shaking raindrops off his coat and then, taking his hat off and shaking that too, he left the woman sitting at a table and noticing Imogen came over to her. ‘Looking good as always,’ he said gruffly. ‘Boy, you were so hot tonight you were sizzling.’
Imogen laughed. Meier had power in the Berlin entertainments industry. He scouted clubs such as her one, and recruited women for his special photographic sessions. He was well known for his daring photography, which some said verged on the pornographic, but being daring got his models noticed. Some had become stars and even ended up in the movie industry in Hollywood, a fact which Hermann had made plain to Imogen. Sure, he could make her a star too. She didn’t need to think about it twice though and she’d turned him down. A public profile didn’t suit her and the fear welled up like a volcano, but Meier never gave up, he knew something special when he saw it. Meier, who was also obsessed by her legs, was staring at her stockings and looking her up and down.
‘Thought I’d find you here, why the shit do you still come into this sleazy joint?’ Imogen shrugged, she had a very good reason. How could she tell Meier, indeed, how could she tell anyone, about the fear which constantly licked at her heels and nibbled away at the fringes of her tattered nerves? The fear that, one evening, that shadow would come closer and she would go home and find another plain brown envelope pushed under her door. It was bad enough having to go home at all, to face the cold apartment which was really little more than a single room and where the wind whistled between the cracks. She hated it, with its smell of cabbage and the constant thump of Frieda the whore as she pounded the floor above her. Her only escape was thinking of Anni, Anni wrapped up in her snug little room at Helga Streiber’s.
‘You realise I could still make you that huge star, cookie? Just think about it, a fraction of the work and 50 times more dough. I’m determined I can wear you down and you’ll see sense.’
Imogen’s attention snapped back to the present. ‘Don’t I know it, Hermann and you know the answer to that.’ She was distracted: she still had her eye on Michael, who was watching her quizzically
Imogen felt warm drenching feelings of sexual arousal start as Michael stared at the silk stockings. She hoped Michael was dreaming of placing his finger on the cool silk and rubbing it between his fingertips, because for once she thought she’d like that rather a lot.
‘What’s the matter with you? You look goddamned distracted. You got a boyfriend?’
‘Hermann, when would I have the time for a boyfriend? Besides, you know I don’t date.’
‘Sure, sure I do. Cold fish ain’t you?’ He stroked her cheek and Imogen smiled, she was fizzing from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair and her heart was beating like an African tribal drum. She wanted to tantalise Michael, she thought as she darted a glance at his bowed head. For the first time in ages she wanted to feel his finger coming up her exquisitely shaped thigh and she wanted to feel herself contracting her strong thigh muscles around his hand as he sunk his fingers inside her and they built up some skin on skin friction. Then she fantasised over how she’d drive him crazy in bed, dressed only in the silk stockings and how the abrasive friction provided by her stockings against his legs and cock – as he pumped in and out of her warm woman’s glove – would make him roar like a lion.
Hermann put his hand on her thigh. For some reason when he put his hand there she never felt it was offensive. Naturally, he wanted to stroke her legs in her expensive silk stockings, all guys did. In fact, the legs and the stockings created a scene of such erotic perfection the need to do it was overpowering.
‘Shit, there’s no other woman on the planet who can make a pair of silk stockings look like you do, you take a man to jerk off heaven. You know, babe, I’ve puzzled and puzzled over it. I mean a lot of dames look good in hose, and, hell, I’ve seen a million dames in silk stockings, but you, God it’s weird and I still can’t figure out that weird alchemical magic you got going. Those goddamn stockings cling to your legs as if it’s all one thing and made to go together, you know like strawberries and cream or, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Now, babe, if you got that kind of magic, why don’t you milk it, why don’t you make a million from it? That’s what I can’t understand!’
‘I told you, I got my reasons.’
Hermann nodded. ‘You got balls of steel, you know that. Whatever it is that drives you, honey, I’d sure like to know what it is? I’ll be seeing you, babe.’
‘Sure, Hermann.’
‘And, I’m gonna break you down, babe.’
‘I doubt that.’
Hermann left and Michael, seeing his opportunity, pulled his stool even closer to the irresistible silk force, while Imogen studied him cautiously out of the corner of her eye.
He had a gentle smooth face and his long, brushed back hair folded carelessly around the collar of his shirt. She felt a wave of lust, a hot shafting pulse of desire.
‘Hi,’ Michael said, without looking at her. ‘You seem to have been waiting here a long time. Can I buy you another drink?’
The warm jolt fizzed through her like electricity; she liked to be engaged in the thought of love.
‘I’m not a whore, you know!’ There was more than a hint of sarcasm added as a final drop of poison to her words. ‘I’m a respectable girl, in case you wondered. If you want a whore you can go to some other place, Berlin’s full of them.’
Her voice possessed a mellifluous quality embellished with a husky undertone; she had a thick German accent but spoke fluid English, her mother having insisted on it. Her mother had wanted Imogen to have every advantage. She’d had a nice apartment and sent Imogen to a good school.
Michael’s fingers moved tirelessly, stroking his fine wool pants as, occasionally, he glanced at her legs. Yes, he had that strange affliction most men had, she thought with amusement, he was determined to pursue his quest of touching the silk stockings and he was wondering how close he could get.
She twisted around a little on the bar stool and flexing her foot she rested it back on the footrest. She was deliberately teasing him. Beneath the silk she wore a small silver bracelet around her slim little ankle. She knew it looked tacky and gave her the appearance of a whore, but Jake had given it to her and she liked to be a little bit wicked after all. She wanted to see how hard men would stare at the silk stockings as they imagined peeling
down the silk to look at her bare legs.
‘You seem to be waiting for someone?’ Michael commented.
‘What if I am? It’s nothing to do with you, is it? Can’t a girl sit quietly and listen to some music and have a nice drink without being continually bothered.’
‘Yes, they can,’ Michael replied. ‘But not if they’re a girl in a pair of silk stockings.’ He evidently thought this was funny because he was smiling. ‘You have to see it from a guy’s point of view. A beautiful woman sitting alone is bound to arouse speculation.’
‘Maybe I’ve been stood up.’
‘Maybe, you have.’
She ran her finger through a pile of sugar on the counter before touching it to her lips. ‘Or, possibly I’m lying to you and I really am a whore after all, and I’m waiting for a punter. You don’t know a fuck about me!’ Running her tongue over her full painted lips she hitched herself further onto the stool and as she did so, she crossed and uncrossed her legs with the delicious hissing crackle of static electricity. It would be possible for a pair of sexy legs to issue an electrical spark.
Her gaze roamed over him and something stirred which was very exciting
Beneath the nicely tailored pair of pants which fit like a glove and said money, money, money, his cock was thick and ropey and she could see it rising up, straining for attention.
‘I used to act tough like you,’ he said expectantly, while he sipped his scotch and waited for a verbal counter attack from her – a wild spray of her angry words like rogue bullets. ‘But, it wasted too much energy. It’s better to channel that energy into something useful, like solving the reason why you’re so shit angry at the world in the first place.’
Seduce: A Cariad Romance Three Book Bundle (Cariad Collections) Page 15