Riders On The Storm It is a reflex response, unthinkingly made. He extended his hand, a folded piece of paper held lightly between two fingers proffering it and without a moment’s hesitation I have taken it for my own. As He walks away I clutch the paper uncertain as to what I should do. I turn it between my fingers nervously. It reminds me of those notes we used to pass back and forth as we sat at adjacent desks in science lessons. Then they were filled with gossip, snide remarks, jokes and other titbits designed to break through Mr Potts’ endless droning about Kelvin’s Law of Ohms and other stuff that was completely irrelevant to my future life; a future life that up until today had progressed quite happily without him. When we were at school I’d had a bit of a crush on him, but in those hormonally ravaged teenage years I’d had a crush on pretty much every eligible boy in my social circle. Like most it had never amounted to much more than images playing across the inside of my eyelids as I spread my thighs and panted my way to self-induced pleasure in the privacy of my bedroom. Ten years had passed since I’d soaked my fingers whilst moaning softly into my pillow. During which He had fled our small town for the bright lights of the big city and I’d settled down into a moderately well paid, if uninteresting, job and a series of moderately satisfying, if emotionally, uninvolving relationships. A decade in which there had barely been a day when I hadn’t imagined his lips touching my cheek, his hand running across my breast, and his cock entering my heated, welcoming core. Maybe it was a bit more than a crush, an infatuation, a fantasy that filled my dreaming hours and left my life a pale shadow. Then, earlier today, as I struggled to find a seat in a crowded café; laden down with shopping bags, a low fat latte and full fat chocolate brownie; I’d spotted him sitting at a corner table with only a coffee and newspaper for company. Time seemed to have been kind to him; his face had filled out, his deep brown eyes were framed with crinkles and his skin had lost that fresh resonance of youth, but otherwise he seemed remarkably unchanged. Still dressed as if he’d fallen out of bed 10 minutes ago and found only one set of clothes scattered across the floor, still wearing that perplexed frown I knew so well from our school days, still holding his tongue between his teeth as his eyes studied the paper. Then as the next thought reared inside my head it was all I could do not to laugh out loud: “Thank God he’s lost the mullet”. For those of you unfamiliar with the vagaries of 80’s and 90’s styling, the mullet was a particularly unattractive haircut that first reared its ugly head as the barnet of choice for Limahl, Howard Jones and other assorted electro pop pioneers. It managed to maintain popularity right through to the moment when Chris Waddle missed England’s crucial penalty against Germany at the Italia 90 World Cup. Whereupon, every right thinking Englishman had the offending rats tails surgically removed from the napes of their necks and men’s hair fashion once again became visually acceptable. To this day I dread to think what might have happened if Waddle had slotted the ball into the bottom right hand corner rather than blasting it uselessly over the top. Perhaps that miss is also why the mullet has remained the haircut of choice for young Germans who have blindly persisted with Tunalı escort it well past its sell date. “Is this seat taken? Would it be okay to join you?” The words tumble from my mouth in a rough approximation of the sentences above. My eyes are scanning his fingers for a wedding band or even the tell tale indentation left by one recently discarded. I’m squeezing my thighs together either in nervous anticipation of his reply or to stop the steady trickle of liquid from my soaked and puffy pussy. My heart is hammering beneath my breast, my head so light and dizzy I feel as if I could faint at any moment. It seems to take an eternity for him to look up but when he does his eyes are twinkling and his mouth fixed wide into that predatory grin that I remember so well; a grin that used to chill my marrow and set my teeth on edge; a grin that always meant trouble. He’s out of his chair in an instant, looming over me whilst I stand helpless before him, encumbered with tray, coffee, cake and my various purchases. “I’m so glad you could make it. It’s been too long and we have so much catching up to do.” He steps into me, places the perfunctory kiss onto my cheek, a kiss that seems to linger. More accurately his lips seem to linger and I’m sure he’s smelling me, absorbing my uncertainty, my bemusement and my nervousness. Then, ever so slowly I’m certain I feel his tongue slide diagonally down across my cheek towards the pulsing vein of my neck, sampling the flavour of me; sampling my tension, my excitement. Then he’s sat back in his chair, his mouth moving, speaking words that my ears, filled with the rushing of blood to my head are unable to hear. I know I’m shaking without looking down at my hands, even without the clearly audible clatter of cup and saucer, or the mess of coffee across my tray. I know I am shaking because I am once again in his presence. Suddenly the movement of his mouth and the noises emanating from them connect. “I’ve told you to sit down … now sit.” My arse thumps into the chair and there I am once again before him, doing as he says and playing his games. I wasn’t completely honest earlier about our relationship at school, there might have been a little bit more to it than simply passing notes in science and flicking at my engorged clit of a night time with his face filling my mind. I was his minion, his sidekick, his shadow, the Laurel to his Hardy. Wherever he was you would be sure to find me trailing along behind him patiently waiting for his attention, eager to please and ready to jump at his command. I spent three years as his lapdog; hoping for him to see me as the young woman I was sure I had become, desperate for him to relieve me of the dreadful burden of my virginity … and then he did and we hadn’t spoken since. Now here we are 10 years on and it’s as if nothing has changed. I find my voice and try to take some control of the situation. “I don’t remember arranging to meet.” “Don’t you?” A grin plays around the corner of his mouth. “You’re laughing at me.” “Maybe; just a little. I saw you walk in, recognised you instantly and … well I never could resist teasing you.” He pauses waiting for me to fill the silence and when I don’t adds: “It’s great to see you.” Then it is normal; two old friends who’ve bumped into each other, finding out what they’ve done, checking on family and mutual acquaintances, working ulus escort bayan out whose dead and who deserves to be. Phone numbers and addresses are swapped and gradually the conversation starts to run out of easy topics and the coffee dregs have turned cold. I glance at my watch, it’s nearly 3.00. “I should be going, things to do, places to go, people to see.” I crack a smile; try to keep it light hearted as I gather my stuff. “Why don’t you give me a call and we could get together again sometime.” I need to go, am eager to beat a retreat, I’ve sat down with the demon who has invaded my every moment for the last 10 years and he hasn’t eaten me whole. I look into his face to mouth an “au revoir” and am trapped by the smile across his face. My heart stops mid-beat, something’s coming and I’m not going to like it. “A call won’t be necessary. I’ve booked us a table for 8.00 at ‘Le Petit Blanc’. Please make sure you’re punctual, you were 15 minutes late for coffee and you know how much I hate to be kept waiting.” His eyes drift down to study his manicure and I stand to go. “Oh and do try to wear something appropriate this evening.” I almost fall over my feet in my haste to exit the café. I know what you are thinking but it can’t be that way. I know I should turn my back and whistle a jaunty tune as I skip gleefully down the yellow brick road to a future free of him. I know he’s a malicious, manipulative and controlling bastard but he’s MY malicious, manipulative and controlling bastard. This is how it was all those years ago at school and how it has been every night in my dreams ever since. Please don’t judge me too harshly; I would change if I could but this is what my heart demands and all my head can do is follow blindly along. In truth, the only thought in my head as I left the café was how could I possibly get ready for him in only five hours. I have 43 possible outfits scattered across the floor of my bedroom. Some are plainly unsuitable but there are at least a dozen that he might find acceptable. I’ve pulled all my underwear from its drawer and have identified four lingerie sets but can’t decide on whether to wear an underwired or padded bra. Every pair of shoes I own is lined up along one wall but I really can’t choose a pair until I’ve selected my outfit. Nail polish, eye shadow and lipstick in various hues lie scattered across my bed alongside a selection of bags, belts and jewellery but currently I’m engrossed in spraying the five perfumes I own onto tissue paper in order to try and decide which one he might like best. I glance at my watch… “Shit, only two hours left.” I make it with a few minutes to spare and pause before a shop window a couple of doors away from the restaurant to collect myself and inspect my reflection. My hair is poker straight stretching down to caress my naked shoulders, beneath which my pale skin slides down to the slight swell of my breasts held firmly in place beneath my black boob-tube dress; a dress that hugs my upper body, displaying my small breasts and well defined waist before flicking outwards over my hips and arse to end mid-thigh; a dress that has allowed me to dispense with the necessity of wearing a bra leaving me free to choose my tiniest back lace thong. A triangle of fabric that just captures my labia and pubic mound, preserving my modesty but presenting it enticingly framed in a lattice Escort yenimahalle of lace flowers. The evening is warm enough for me to have left the house bare legged and I have accentuated them with a pair of 4″ open toe black satin heels with a diamante ankle strap that display my perfectly manicured toenails. I chose silver glitter nail polish and repeated the refrain with my finger nails, eye shadow and a hint of glitter that shimmers on my cheeks; naked shoulders, arms and chest. One last look at my reflection and I turn and walk the 20 yards down the street to meet my destiny. “That perfume is rather cloying. A bit old maidy if you don’t mind me saying.” And so it begins. He chooses our table and wine, orders our food and decides I can have a coffee but not a dessert. He is arrogant, conceited and vicious and with every passing moment my need for him grows more intense. I’m on tenterhooks throughout; heart pounding inside my chest, mouth devoid of saliva, nipples like stalks poking eagerly through my dress, my stomach a knot of tension and my pussy awash with aromatic juices. Until finally that moment arrives when I find myself sat alone, his figure receding towards the toilets, a folded square of white paper grasped firmly in my sweating hand that my fingers are struggling to open. A folded square of paper that asks a simple question. “Yes or No?” Instantly I am transported back; to that party; to being sweet sixteen and never kissed; to the barn; to the heaving sweaty coupling among the hay bales; to my nails scratching down his back, digging into his skin, lacerating his cheek, seeking to gouge out his eyeballs whilst he pushed them away from his face to lie helpless above my head; back to the blood pouring from his lip when I had my revenge for an unsolicited kiss; to the blood seeping down my thighs from my broken hymen and the blood coagulating round my arse from where he’d pushed himself roughly into my virginally tight arse; back to my body covered in bites, my breasts bruised from the slaps of his hand, my pubic bone bruised from where he’d rammed his stiff cock deep inside the tender flower of my body; back to his eye closing from where I’d caught him with my closed fist; back to when my arms, legs, torso and head struggled and fought until beaten, battered and bruised they collapsed into the warm, suffocating hay and left him to use me as he wished. Back to the night when he took my virginity. “Yes or No?” It is a simple question requiring no explanation and no consideration. I reach under my chair for my bag; my nervous fingers feeling thick and useless as I pry open the zip and hunt for something to write with. The only thing I can find is an eyeliner pencil which quivers in my shaking hand as deliberately I print my reply in solid black capitals. I sit there for a moment, my single word staring accusingly at me, before carefully refolding the piece of paper and placing it on the table before his seat. Calmness settles over me; I have been twitchy nervousness incarnate all evening but now that the die has been cast and my fate decided I place my hands in my lap, lower my eyes, bow my head and placidly await the inevitable. It is a short walk from the restaurant to his town house. He allows me to loop my arm through his and we pass across the deserted, amber lit streets in silence accompanied only by the sound of my heels striking the paving stones. His house is equipped with a motion sensor which activates a light above the door and there we pause facing each other. This is it; my final chance to turn and flee, beyond this moment we play by different rules. He turns the key in the lock, swings the door open and I step over the threshold.