(no subject)

[the_gene_genie]

He wastes no time in getting himself upstairs. He's only been dreaming of this kind of scenario for about three years now; he'd be lying if he tried to claim he weren't a bit nervous, but it's the good kind of nerves. He's definitely not going to let them stop him enjoying this.

Fifteen minutes, she said. That gives him time to have a quick wash and brush his teeth, and chuck a few glasses of Scotch down his throat. It crosses his mind that he might have time to give himself some relief before she gets here too, in the interests of making it last; he's in two minds though, and she'll be here any second. So he leaves it, and forces himself to go and sit on the sofa instead, and just wait.

He's never been the best at sitting still. She might think anticipation's the best part, but this is torture.

Comments

[the_gene_genie]

'Aye.'

He watches her all the way to the bathroom first, though. And then lets his head drop back on the sofa cushions, so he can take a deep breath and let it out slow.

Christ, this is going to be good.

He makes himself presentable, pours wine, smokes a cigarette. He'll wait as long as she likes. This is her show, and he's more than happy to put himself in her hands for it.

[lady_bols]

She hooks a finger in the bag's silk ribbon handle, and gives it a little twirl as she departs.

A little while later, he hears the shower come on. She takes her time, relaxing under the hot water, humming tunelessly as she dries off. She keeps it simple, a hint of perfume on her wrists and between her breasts. She pulls on her silk stockings, adjusting the top hem to lie smooth against her thighs. She wrapped the basque around her waist and clipped the busk shut. It took a bit of stretching to lace it up as tight as she wanted, without help, but she managed. She clipped the garters to the stockings, and then pulled out the four inch heels. Black and elegant, like the whole ensemble.

She did her lipstick last, blotting it carefully with a tissue, and then taking one last look in the mirror. That should do it, she thought, brushing her hair back over her ears. It's a strange mixture of 2008 and 1983, but she doesn't think he'll notice.

She calls out to him, her voice a playful singsong. "Ready or not, here I come."

[the_gene_genie]

Oh, he's ready. She got his motor running again with the way she came, and he's waiting now; hungry for it. He's got through a few fags, thrown back a couple of hefty Scotches. And then he heard the shower go off, so he poured wine, kicked off his boots and socks, and contemplated just getting into bed. But no, it's too much fun letting her undress him.

So he'd sat back down on the couch, shirt half-undone and belt unfastened. His hand rests lightly between his legs - not hiding his interest; even encouraging it along with the odd squeeze when he thinks of what she's doing in there. And when she calls out, he doesn't make her wait.

'Hope you're ready, luv.'

Christ, he's going to make her scream.