Saturday, July 5, 2008

Seasons of Blisse by Victoria Blisse

From "Gaze"

Why do girlfriends insist on dragging you out to noisy clubs when you've just been dumped? And then, why do they desert you to go and dance with fit young men when they get fed up of your "Oh, but I loved him sooo much" whining?

Of course, you have to ask that if I knew all this, why did I let Lindsay, Christine, and Sally drag me out in the first place? I have absolutely no bleedin' idea! I put it down to being in a weakened state. I spent the last weeks of winter sitting in a dark room, eating chocolate and watching every last episode of Friends. That could have brainwashed me into thinking that going out with my bosom buddies actually might cheer me up.

Also, the light was returning, the trees were in bud and the new year was moving into spring. I guess my sap was rising. I felt ready to shrug off the mourning period and come out into the sunshine once more. Maybe.

I'd half convinced myself that it'd be fun. I spent a few hours pampering myself in preparation for the big girlie night out. This involved me drinking a couple of large glasses of white wine and actually shaving my armpits and putting on make-up. I'd not done so in such a long time. Steve liked me make-up free and didn't mind a bit of excess body hair. That thought led to spending an extra fifteen minutes re-applying my mascara.

The first hour or so was fun. We all sat together and drank, giggled and remembered. We'd been quite the fearsome foursome in college. We hunted in packs and always got enough meat to go round. In fact every time we went out, we ended up snogging at least one bloke each.

I should have known they were on the prowl by their outfits. My three single friends know exactly how to attract the opposite sex—vivid colors, low cut tops, and high cut skirts. Their hair was long and flowing, ready to flick at the flutter of an eyelash.

Lindsay was the first to apologise and split off as we danced round our handbags together. She'd seen an old flame and was interested in checking out if the spark still ignited on her ring o' love.

Christine was next, her apology just as sincere. A dark-haired, dark-suited man wooed her on her way to collect more cocktails. At least he paid for a round of drinks before depleting our group to just two.

Sally left to "pay a visit" half an hour ago and has yet to return. No doubt that red head of hers has been turned by something young, firm and juicy. I guess that means I'm off home via the twenty-four-hour Tesco for wine and several blocks of chocolate.

I don't know what inspired me to look up at just that moment, making contact with those powerful green eyes. I'd not be surprised to learn a spell had been cast on me. It is difficult to see much in a club, where bodies sway and thrash to the music, accompanied by flashing lights and enwreathed in a veil of stale cigarette smoke. Those eyes, oh those eyes, have beamed through all of it. Maybe that's just the "sex on the beach" talking, though.

Those eyes are green, not like Jim Carrey in The Mask green, but more like that dark green you often see in velvet; that dark, middle of the rainforest green. And those "cool on a hot summer's day" eyes are fixed on me.

I mean, really fixed. Not just an accidental crossing of gaze, but a definite stare. My cheeks are burning like they've been baking in the sun and I know they're glowing like a neon light in a kebab shop.

I drop my eyes and take a breath. When I look back up, I expect him to have turned away; but no, he's still looking at me. I'm not weirded out by his attention, just a little uncomfortable. I wonder what he finds so fascinating about me. My hair is not quite brown, not quite blonde. My eyes are blue; not azure blue or stormy-skies blue, just middle of the road, kiddie-picture blue. My face is round, leaning towards chubby, and my features plain. I'm honestly and truthfully very average.

Steve was always saying so. He said I was the most averagely beautiful girl he ever met. I always thought he was being cute. Then he ran off with a stunningly gorgeous model and I realised I had been a stop-gap. Any port in a storm, you might say.

I wonder if Green Eyes will come over to me. I flick my line of sight rapidly to the sleek black hair, ruffled and not overly styled, back to the eyes - yup he's still staring. My gaze flicks down to the soft sensual lips, thin then suddenly plump, then thin again, and lower to the little dimple in his tapered, clean-shaven chin.

Green Eyes is hot. Now I am unnerved. He's been staring at me for what? Two, maybe three minutes and he hasn't made a move. Is he shy? Those eyes don't seem shy; they're fixed right on me for a start. That doesn't shout "shy" to me. Why isn't he coming over then? Is he staring in horror? Have I got something between my teeth or around my face?

I slip my hand up my chest to my chin, then subtly rub at my cheek and face. Nope, nothing obvious there. Is he smiling at me? I see it in those evergreen eyes first, before it travels to his lips. A smile, a sexy smile. And unless I'm much mistaken, a suggestive smile.

I feel a corner of my mouth lifting in a sly, knowing smirk. I look into those deep eyes and gather all the courage I have. I know this is the cocktails working, but I lift a finger in front of me (right in the middle of our joined gaze) and beckon him over, still smiling.

My heart hammers, louder than the thumping disco music, or so it seems. I lick my lips nervously, my gaze dropping from his, unable to maintain the stare through my nerves.

Will he come over?

I take a few calming breaths then look up. He is there, just lowering tight and tasty buttocks down onto the green baize seat at the other side of the tiny, round table. I panic now. What do I do? God, it's a long time since I was last single. I've forgotten how to do this. I gaze intently at the glass in front of me, the sad remains of my last cocktail lolling at the bottom.

I feel the now familiar weight of his stare and glance up. He smiles at me and I smile back, focused in on those harmonious eyes.

"Hello." I barely whisper, the words getting caught around the rock-like lump in my throat. I just hope the guy can lip read or I'm sunk.

"Hi." I see the lips move, but I barely hear him. His eyes are still locked on me. He leans across the table and I feel the heat of his gaze on my neck, then his breath tickling my ear and finally I hear, in soft, husky tones, "I hope you don't think me rude for staring at you. I just couldn't believe such a beautiful woman was sitting alone."

I giggle coyly, dipping my head to my shoulder, then lean over to whisper in his ear,

"Oh, I didn't mind. I just wondered what exactly you were looking at."

This close, I can smell the subtle freshness of his aftershave, see the strong set of his jaw, the slight hint of dark hair in the "v" of his partially unbuttoned black shirt.

"Your sparkling eyes, so sad even when you laugh. You're tapering neck, the soft creamy flesh there and down into the cut of your low top, wondering how soft it would feel under my fingers, beneath my lips."

I gasp, the sheer tone of his low voice tingling through me. I bite my lip nervously as his hand brushes the side of my thigh, then let out the slightest moan when it settles on my lap, just above my knee. I all but orgasm from surprise as his lips brush softly along the skin just below my ear.

"I was looking at your lips. So plump and inviting, becoming wetter and pinker as the night wears on. I love them now, all the lipstick removed. They look so sweet, so tempting, so ripe."

A slight squeeze to my thigh and he's whispering again,

"And focusing on your lips got me so hard, I hope you don't mind me telling you this, so aroused that I began to think about your other, hopefully wet and juicy lips."

There is no doubt that my lips are juicy now. His lithe fingers stroking my knee coupled with the sexy voice in my ear have definitely seen to that. But I doubt the honesty of his words. Is he just looking for an easy lay tonight?

Actually, do I care? I mean, I've just come out of a massive relationship and I'm not exactly ready to get entangled in another one. I am incredibly horny though, and sex with no strings sounds better and better the more I think about it.

How long has this silence sat between us? I can hear the hiss and puff of his breath against my ear. His hand has not moved from its place upon my thigh.

"I'm speechless." I reply, leaning closer to his ear, "I have to confess, I don't think you're telling the truth…"

A remembered hand print is all that's left on my thigh as his hand moves to the table and covers my own. Grasped firmly, it is pulled below and over, to cup his hard-very hard-cock straining against the soft fabric of his trousers.

"Well." I pull my hand away, uncomfortable with clutching a man's private parts in public. "So you didn't lie about that then." I cough and splutter, my face flushing with embarrassed heat.

"I want you." His lips are back against my ear. "That is the honest truth. Beyond that I cannot think. I cannot think of anything but your body and how thrilling it would be to feel your naked flesh rubbing against mine."

Fuck. I've got to give this guy points for effort. I've never been this horny from so little contact. As I compose myself to reply, he carries on. "I'm leaving now. I have a taxi ordered. Would you like to share it with me?"

A gentlemanly offer on the surface, but only a step away from asking me to sleep with him. Why should I refuse? The girls have left me alone, I need to get back home and who knows? I might just take the chance and follow my hormones for once. A fuck for fucking's sake seems like a good idea right now.

"Yeah, okay." I reply, "Thank you."

He stands up and offers me his hand. I take it, honestly not knowing how steady I will be on my feet. Cocktails are easily taken whilst perched upon my stabilising big bottom, but standing up could prove difficult.

He slips my arm through his as I stand up and chivalrously walks slowly towards the door.

"Do you have a coat?" he asks. I shake my head. He slips my hand out from the crook of his arm and wraps it around my shoulder instead. "It'll be cold out." he says matter of factly, and before I can complain he is walking forward and pushing me with him.

He's right. There is a chill spring wind blowing as he pushes open the club door. I step out onto the damp tarmac of the road and he follows close behind. The street lights are reflected in shallow puddles, making the ground glow like the yolk of a fresh farm egg. At the pavement edge is a shiny black taxi, Green Eyes taps on the window, establishes it is meant for him, and opens the door for me to step in.

The beauty of the back seat of a Hackney cab is its spaciousness. There is plenty of room to fit three, maybe even four, tipsy ladies, making a cab home a cheap option for a gaggle of girls on a budget. However, sitting with Green Eyes I feel like we're in a child's push car, we're squashed so close together. The more I fidget, the tighter he holds me to him "to keep me warm." It is very cold out there; spring is only just starting to emerge. But boy, is it hot inside this taxi!

I find myself snuggling in towards his body, enjoying his solid warmth. His hand slips round my waist and cradles me. I feel peculiarly safe in the arms of this stranger. His hand moves higher and cups my breast. I nuzzle into his chest and feel his hand grow yet bolder, the long fingers grasping the globular flesh, strumming over my nipple.

I let out a little gasp and rub my hand up and down his front, dipping as low as his belly button and sweeping up to the centre of his chest. His hand sweeps down to my hip and slips under the cotton of my tight-fitting top. If the driver glances at us he will see the hand under the stretched material, but I don't care. I feel his fingers prying at the bottom of my bra and then he eases it up and over my breast, making it possible for his fingers to feel my flesh. It spurs me on. My hand dips lower and brushes over his crotch where I can feel he is still hard. Looking down, I see a definite pyramid at the front of his trousers.

"Yesss," the sibilant hiss echoes in my ear as I grip my hand around the fabric and the cock within its confines. I move my hand up and down a few times and feel his hand grasping and releasing my tit to the same pulse.

I find the zip down the centre of his trousers and tug at it. The hand at my breast drops and slithers over my stomach before slipping under the waist band of my skirt. I am highly aware of the driver and the fact he can hear, and possibly see, everything that's going on. I slip my hands inside and find my fingers gliding over hard flesh. The surprising lack of an extra cloth barrier is sexy. It also seems a bit kinky, as if this guy was hoping to get some action tonight.

"What number was it, pal?" the driver's voice chirps in and my fingers tighten, reflexively covering up his exposed member.

"Seventeen," he replies, pulling his hand out of my skirt. I remove my hand and he zips himself back up.

"Tell me now. Are you coming in with me? If you come in, we're going to fuck." His words are stark and almost offensive, but his voice and tone are compelling. "If you don't want that, then tell the cabby you want to go on home. It's up to you."

I hate decisions. I almost wish he'd not given me this one, but part of me is grateful he did. It shows me that he is gentleman enough to take rejection at this late stage. I've just been massaging his cock, but he's given me a metaphorical "get out of jail free" card all the same.

"I'll come with you," I breathlessly reply. Fuck it. I've had enough of being sensible, and Lord knows I'm horny. My heart thumps, beats and bats against my chest as he takes my hand in his and helps me out of the taxi.

"Have fun." The taxi driver chortles just before he puts his foot down and heads out of sight.