The launch party had wound down now. Thank God. He hated these damn things. Dull as fuck, full of preening sychophants and social climbers. Aside from the free booze, he could see very little point to these kinds of schmooze-fests, and frankly resented being forced to attend. But his publishers insisted on throwing the bloody things, and his literary agent always insisted he go. And be nice. And friendly. And sociable. And not leave after ten minutes. What a fucking cheek. Wasn’t it enough that he wrote the bloody books in the first place?
Wearily, he removed his glasses. Rubbing his eyes, he listened to the catering staff bustling around the room, collecting empty wine glasses and gathering discarded bottles of Vueve Clicquot. He was tired, and wanted to go home, but out of sheer stubborn petulance, he was determined to stay until the bitter end.
“Just please don’t do your usual trick of turning up with a scowl on your face, saying nothing for ten minutes and then storming off home again,” Alan had said earlier this afternoon. Bossy sodding agent, I’ll show you, he’d thought at the time, and this evening, contrary to form, he’d been positively delightful; the very epitome of the erudite and charming author; witty and winning, the sparkling social butterfly, so gracious and agreeable that he made himself sick.
He opened his eyes again and saw that the room was practically empty now, the staff having cleared away the detritus. There was only one other person there, an auburn haired beauty wearing a demure and classy little black number that hugged her ample bosom and accentuated her long legs. She was sitting about eight feet away from him, seated on a plush red sofa. He’d noticed her earlier in the evening. He’d noticed her several times tonight, in fact. She had vivid green eyes framed with an exotic flourish of eyeliner that made them looks like a cat’s. Bare legs, he’d observed. A lot of women might have worn sheer black tights or stockings with a dress like that, he’d mused at the time, before chuckling inwardly to himself. Richard fucking Blackwell, eat your heart out.
Those sleek bare legs were crossed now, and he noticed that the red soles of her black Louboutin stilettos almost perfectly matched the red of the sofa. Damn sexy shoes, those, he thought to himself. Something to add to the wank bank. He gave the woman a friendly smile and, reaching a hand down to put his glasses in the pocket of the navy jacket draped over the back of his chair, he made to leave. As his hand entered the silk lined opening, though, it immediately brushed against something foreign and unfamiliar. Material, yes, but not the crisp linen of his handkerchief. It was lace. What the fuck? Puzzled, he put his glasses back on, before reaching into the pocket once more and pulling out a pair of lacy red knickers. What the actual fuck?
For a moment, he raced through a mental roll-call of his most recent conquests, trying to recall from where he had collected this trophy and wondering how he hadn’t noticed the sexy little curio when he’d left the house earlier and pocketed his keys. He stared hard at the delicate trinket in his hand and came to the sudden, exciting realisation that someone must have furtively slipped these into his pocket tonight.
Easy enough to do, he supposed. It had been a full house tonight, and amid the bustle of people working the room, and the close-quarters conversations, it would be a relatively simple thing for some ardent admirer to glance by him in the throng and slip a sexy little present into his pocket.
He was snapped out of this thought by the sudden realisation that he was sitting here openly brandishing a pair of ladies underwear. What must that woman on the red sofa be thinking?! In a lightning flash of recognition, the jigsaw pieces fell into place. Tonight. Red. The woman on the sofa. These are hers!
He looked across at her, and saw that she was staring straight at him. With a questioning look, he raised his hand in her direction and gave the red lace a slight wave. He said nothing, but his raised eyebrows conveyed the question perfectly. Yours? With a flash of a smile and a bat of lashes, she uncrossed her legs, leaned back into the sofa and slowly opened her thighs. He watched her naked mound appear, the lightly-furred slit glistening wet and inviting. Yep. Hers.
He swallowed hard. Her feline gaze never leaving his own, she hitched her skirt higher until it was practically around her waist, affording him an even fuller view. Her labia were full and pouty, flushed pink and inviting. Her pubic hair was neatly trimmed, framing her cunt with short tendrils that matched the auburn waves on her hair. (Matching collar and cuffs. Nice.) His cock already hard and straining at his trousers, he watched in engrossed delight as she lowered a hand and began to strum gently at her pussy.
Christ on a fucking bike.
Eyes never straying from the deft fingers playing against her sex, he unzipped his tenting trousers and freed his rigid member. He saw her eyes lower and take in the sight appreciatively. Taking this as her cue, she began to rub herself harder, each caress causing the crimson petals of her sodden folds to open, the flesh undulating sensually as she worked her titliating magic. As she brought her other hand to cup one of her breasts and knead it rhythmically through the black material, he lowered his right hand to his aching dick. Smearing his length with the pre-come that was already dripping from the bulbous head, he gripped his shaft loosely in his fist and began to stroke.
In response, the woman began to work her clitoris, rubbing it in slow circles, pinching it between two digits, flicking at it with her middle finger. She was dripping wet. She must be soaking that red sofa by now, he thought absently, and the very thought made his balls tighten slightly and the tempo of his strokes quicken. His naughty friend moaned slightly and slid her middle finger deep inside her cunt, the palm of her hand pressed against her mound and grinding into her clit. With glorious abandon she writhed, her thighs tensing as she squirmed and wriggled back and forth, fucking her own hand. He matched her with his own swift strokes, firm and feverish now as he felt his orgasm nearing. With the dim regognition that he was still tightly gripping her panties in his other hand, he brought the red lace near to his similarly crimson cock and felt it lightly tickle his flesh.
Oh god. Oh my fucking god! I’m fucking coming, you hot little slut…
Molten liquid arousal surged from the head of his cock, splattering into the red lace, and spilling against his fingers. He gasped and threw his head back, his eyes squeezed shut as he convulsed and spasmed, almost tipping his chair backwards as he came and came in thick rivulets. Somewhere in the thrumming sound of his own pulse rushing in his ears, he heard the woman cry out suddenly. He snapped his eyes open just in time to see a clear jet of fluid squirt from her twitching red cunt.
The air in the room gradually stilled as they both recovered from their exertions. Their eyes were locked in a silent dialogue, yet they still hadn’t uttered a single word to each other.
Eventually, she rose from the sofa, readjusted the hem of her dress and patted down the creases in the material. The red soles of her shoes flashed as she began to walk languidly towards the exit. He watched her go, noticing the almost imperceptible tremble in her stride and the way her dress clung tightly to her pert bottom. No VPL for her.
Oh shit! Her knickers! He still had her knickers in his hand.
“Keep them,” she said, as though reading his mind, and disappeared into the night.