World Traveller

Before I get into my story, I need to say thank you to Marie for these prompts. As a total beginner, they give me the discipline to get writing and to be read.


My experience with law enforcement has unfortunately all been on the serious victim side so not really given my any material, but I hope this brush with another arm of the law is arresting enough.  
World traveller they call it in the high street. That casual look that fills me with envy at the airport. A selection of comfy, slung together textures and pale colours, slightly worn to show you’ve been here before.

I haven’t. Not alone. Not racing to get to you on the other side of the world because you’ve called and asked me to. But like everything else, I’m faking it, down to my cute little retro 60s hand luggage. My only luggage.

Lord, I want to be with you. It’s been weeks. Set up with Skype, we’ve skirted the line of international law with some of the things we’ve done on voip call, but nothing can replace the touch of another hand. Your touch.

Trying to look casual, I slip out of my boots and take the baggie of liquids from my inside pocket. Coat in another tray, I look at the blandly bored young man on the scanner and wonder just how many dildos and vibrators pass through his sight every day. To place the little retro case on the rollers is taking all my nerve. I assume an air of calm I definitely do not feel.

Stepping through the body scanner, the high-pitched whinge of the machine distracts me. I’ve prepared everything, and nothing about me should be bleeping right now.  Following instructions, I step back through and despite the inner fluster, I convince myself it is an anomaly. Deep breath, step forward and the scanner shrieks again. I can see my hand luggage piling up at the bottom of the rollers and I want to go retrieve it, but a strong hand guides me aside. Feet apart. Arms up. Hand scanner first, then pat down.

And I hate myself, but that was enough to start the descent. So desperate to see you, so focused on this sexy break we’d manufactured. The firm sweep of the back of a hand down the outside of my breast and I was tipped into my kinky place.

The escort took me to a paper room just feet from the busy queues, and then a second appeared with my jacket and case. Opened them up on the counter. Talking to me, my brain refused to register the words, as everything I had packed for you was laid out on a stark white camping table. Our favourite glass dildo, the plug I planned to prepare with as soon as I was checked in, the little velvet bag of clamps and the less dainty bottle of lube. Hot. Cold. Exposed. Excited.

A fraction of my brain stayed with them, but the rest of me was high and floating. I must have mumbled responses, or perhaps even delivered them with confidence, but that was somewhere else on the outside.

She was efficient. Business-like. Firm. The embodiment of my authoritarian crush. And through the haze, I opened the buttons on my carefully creased linen shirt, exposed the satin and lace creation I had chosen for you and hoped the flush across my breasts could be mistaken for embarrassment.

The room was thin and although brightly lit, shadows of the crowds outside added to the exposure. Her hands were warm, sweeping under my shirt, her chest brought to mine as she checked under the clasp and straps before tracing forward. Close enough to smell her shampoo. To imagine she was your handmaid.

I want to tell you her fingers sweeping my hot skin under the tight wiring of my new bra were humiliating. Embarrassing. That this exposure in near public was uncomfortable and frightening. That the final swirling sweep of palm over lace was some kind of final straw. But it wasn’t. It was the door fantasies as yet unexplored and a window in time back to lovers of a more feminine flavour.

The hand scanner again and once more the angry beeping. Just a Marks and Spencer’ bra she says, and bids me to fasten my shirt. I tuck myself away, my case is repacked and the roar of the busy airport returns in full force.

She sends me on my way and when I rush to the cool quiet of the ladies’ room to repair my blush, I am both bright eyed and distant to my own mirrored gaze.

World traveller. Experienced, but searching for more. Here, on my way to you, a flash of the old in her certain hands and the exposure of those thin paper walls I have travelled a few more miles and found a place I might need to explore some more. With you next time.

]]>

Therapy

I was feeling really good. Molly had recommended a piece of my writing in elust 93 and nothing new was going wrong at home. But my hands were really uncomfortable, as if I’d punched something. Quick trip to the doctors..tendinitis…so no typing. With a new blog this felt like a bit of a disaster, but I figured I was best to do as told. Really I know I should have written a post to explain, but with such a new blog I didn’t know what to say.

But my hands didn’t get better. They ached. Then the swelling began. There are lots of new ideas spilling round in my head about the complete helplessness of having your hands turn against you. Not just useless, but painful. 
It looks like arthritis. Checks are being done and for now the flare up is under control enough to type.
Tonight’s post is a gentle one to ease me back in. This couple have been with me for a long time, and when I need to get writing I turn to them. I turn to him when I need shelter. Turn to her when I want to celebrate the power of touch to put things back together. They are dancing…neither quite sure of the steps. Trying hard to keep this about their physical desires and needs and not about their rather battered hearts. But then I habitually write romance….so…

The glow from the streetlights couldn’t hide how pale and tired she was. He wanted to bring her in to his arms, but instead he stepped back to allow her into his home. She’d started talking, something about traffic, and had thrown her sports bag and yoga mat casually against the wall. She was all over the place tonight.

Silence fell as she perched on the end of his sofa. He wished this room looked less like the drawing room of an elderly maiden aunt, but before this, whatever this was, it had only been used when his mother or Shannon’s came to visit. He’d always thought it would turn into a cosy space to relax when they knocked through… and he was as off kilter as she was this evening. He took a deep breath and let it escape slowly, deliberately, blowing out till he felt his stomach muscles tighten and holding back on the reflex to breathe took effort.

Her eyes darted nervously from his chair to the window, his knees to the table, before settling on the tea tray. The ritual. He poured for her, and then for himself. Lemon and ginger this evening. He wanted her hydrated and calm before they went upstairs. When she became still and silent like this, it wasn’t the peace he wanted for her, it was a rigidity. Deliberately freezing as though that would render her invisible.

They didn’t speak as they sipped their drinks. He watched her, read her and didn’t need words to know this had been one shitty week. Did she even notice him, he wondered. Everything they did in these sessions was designed to keep the focus on her and for that, his routine began a clear hour before she was due to arrive. There was nothing domestic to distract, no post by the door, no smell of his evening meal. He was showered and dressed for her and he took that time to shed the day, to shed the outside and be ready for her.
No-one held her but him. He suspected very few even physically touched her in the course of her week. Not even Sam. Not with any deliberate intention to give her pleasure, anyway. It was a monogamous relationship of sorts, as no-one touched him either. Just her. And just here. Only with the pressure of her body against his. And he pretended that the awareness of that didn’t cut and sting.

He listened to each creaking tread as she followed him to the back bedroom, wishing he was leading her to bed. To lay her body over his as a living blanket, her scent mingling with his, her soft breasts and stomach cushions of warmth against his leanness. To wrap his arms around her and feel her sleep.

“I don’t think I can do this.” The words rushed out like vomit. He ignored them and pulled the blinds closed, shutting out the strange red night of the town. He started the slow tick of the metronome, set at the pace of his heartbeat, the rhythm of their time.


She dropped to her knees on the sports mat, the only furniture in the room. 
]]>