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The lights swirled around and around the club. Whit had never been here before and had decided to check it out on a whim after passing another lonely night in her apartment. It had been six weeks since her husband had left her. Six weeks her bed had been a barren cold landscape with nothing to warm it but her. It had been the first time since she could remember ever feeling so cold. Finally breaking under the silence and emptiness of their (her) apartment she had forced herself to dress in the outfit that got her into all this mess.
The tan slacks were nothing to get excited about, and they had been innocent in the break up. It was the black silk tie, white button up, and tailor made black suit jacket that were guilty. She laughed to herself as she sipped her drink that she had gotten from the bar. Look at her, blaming her clothes for breaking her marriage up. Now she had sunk to an all time low.
Allowing herself to ride the memory she knew she could not fight, Whit remembered how it all happened. How this damn outfit had turned her life upside down.
It was a misty morning when she stepped out of the apartment that she shared with her husband. It was late March and the winter seemed very reluctant to let go, especially late at night and in the early mornings. Her husband had driven off to his job in the next city over and he planned to stay at the office till tomorrow night. He had kissed her good-bye, as always, and she had handed him his overnight bag as he loaded his suitcase in the car.
After he had left she ran into the house and changed from her bedridden pajama’s to the new clothes she had bought. She had no idea what drove her to buy the dark black silk tie. Or what drew her to spend as much as she did on the tailored men’s suit jacket. The seamstress had looked at her questionably, but considering the price she had paid the seamstress made no remark and did an excellent job.
She had looked at herself in the mirror admiring the way her straight figure complimented the men’s clothes she was wearing. It occurred to her now, going over her memory, that she had never questioned her motives. Never once wondered why she was dressing in these clothes to walk down the avenue. Not just any avenue, but the avenue that was notoriously the “Gay District”. Where every day there were tons of people, men and women, of different ages and races walking and going from shop to shop and bar to bar. Some of them had that – how her husband poker oyna would say- “queer” look about them. They just screamed homosexual. But the other half looked just like anyone Whit had ever seen anywhere. And this was her destination when she drove her car out of the parking lot. She was all dressed up for the day to go to the “Gay District”. Why? She wasn’t gay! But boy did she look it.
When she found a parking spot she let her car idle for a moment. This might have been the only part in her memory that she remembered hesitating on what adventure she was about to embark. She finally took a deep breath and got out of the car. Since she had arrived at her destination she let her feet carry her wherever they pleased to go. Before she knew it she found herself in a leather shop. The window revealed nothing to her as it was blacked over with paint. As she stepped in she could smell the wonderful smell of leather. Isles of shelves revealed all sorts of contraptions and toys that she had never even known existed. Now that they were standing in front of her she couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away from them.
“Can I help you?”
The smooth quite voice jarred her out of her trance. She glanced over to the desk and her heart stopped. There standing before her was the most intriguing, and frankly gorgeous woman she had ever seen. The faux leather pants she wore looked painted on they were so tight. The red shirt she wore covered her chest, and barely her midsection. The sleeves were made to fall down her arms, revealing shoulders that were spattered with colored and black ink. Her arms were pale and long, her legs mirrored the length (and Whit only guessed color) that was above them. The tattoos spread down to each dainty pale wrist. Her smooth white hands only accented the stark black tattoos on each knuckle.
Whit managed to flash a look to this woman’s face. What she saw there didn’t help discourage the heat that had begun in her feet and worked its way up to her face.
She had high cheek bones and an oval shaped face. Her long black hair was pulled back in a red ribbon that matched her shirt. The piercings that riddled her face only made her more beautiful. Her hair was a curled ebony mess. Whitney mentally licked her lips.
The woman smiled, “Do you need help finding something?”
Whit cursed herself, “N… no thank you.” She barely made it half way into the store before she ducked out again without daring to purchase anything. canlı poker oyna Breathing hard and not knowing why, Whit stopped at the first “normal” looking place she could; what looked like a neighborhood café. It was called “Kitten’s Corner”. She wondered what it meant as she sat down and glanced at the menu. The items that were listed there were even more baffling in their hidden meaning. When the waitress drew up to her table she shakily ordered a coffee, one cream and two sugars. So much for a normal environment.
As Whit’s coffee arrived that woman sidled into the cafe. “Oh dear lord” Whit thought, “please don’t let her see me.” Unfortunately, as for all tales such as these, the tall pale woman from the leather shop DID see Whitney and smiled as she made her way towards her table. Whitney tried very desperately to shrink herself into a tiny insignificant person, and to tear her gaze from those beautiful eyes.
“Mind if I join you?” That same smooth voice. It seemed to match that smooth pale complexion, and it made Whitney feel the same way the ebony curled hair looked: a big hot mess.
“Uh.. sure. Of course.” Whitney tried desperately to not sound like a dork. She tried to sound c-o-n-f-i-d-e-n-t. Why had she come here? Why had she bought these clothes? Soon all thoughts were blotted out; except for thoughts of her. Of the way her skin would feel under Whit’s hand. Of how her lips would feel trailing down that delicate throat.
Whitney numbly handed the woman her menu that the waitress had left, and attempted to smile at her. She was sure it looked like a gruesome representation of a smile compared to this beauty’s. Finally, Whitney was able to study her as the woman studied the menu. She was even lovelier up close. Almost blinding in her unending and almost flawless beauty. She wasn’t like any super model Whitney had ever seen. She had curves and a comfortable “plumpness” about her. Not fat, not skinny, but somewhere in between that made Whitney feel like her straight figure was something to be laughed at.
Whitney focused, the woman was staring at her with a quirky smile that set Whit on fire. She looked as if she had said something that Whitney had missed.
“I’m sorry, I missed what you said,” Whitney said.
“I said,” the woman leaned across the small table, her cleavage hanging savagely out of the red top she was wearing. Whitney leaned forward; it had become quite loud in the café. The woman’s mouth was internet casino only inches from Whitney’s hair. “I said, I bet you sound sexy as fuck when you cum.”
Whitney froze, no one had ever said anything like that to her before. The reaction her body had was startling. Her hands became damp, her mouth dry, and the warmth between her legs was like a furnace. The woman had drawn back and was studying the menu again, as if she hadn’t just said something that made the ache in Whitney’s pussy deepen into a maddening desire.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Whitney said hesitantly. She tried even harder to ignore the pulsing deep within her.
The women must have given up on the menu because she put it down and smiled that insane quirky smile at Whitney and replied, “Nor did I catch yours”. There were promises in that sly remark. Burning passionate promises and yearnings that Whitney’s brain started to fumble with and fantasize about.
Whitney produced a small piece of scrap paper from her purse and a pen. If that was the game this woman wanted to play, Whitney would at least try to play, even if she knew she couldn’t win. She wrote her name in her scrawling hand writing, folded the paper, and slid it towards the woman. The woman looked down, developed a ghost of smile on her face, and motioned for the pen that Whitney had taken from her purse. When she passed the pen to the woman, their fingers brushed. An electric shock burst its way up Whitney’s hand and went straight to her pussy. A small gasp escaped from Whitney’s lips. For the first time, Whitney saw something in the woman’s eyes other than that oozing beautiful mask, she saw burning red hot desire.
Without taking her gaze from Whitney, the woman wrote something on the piece of paper and slid it back to Whit’s shaking damp hands. Somehow, Whitney managed to tear her gaze from the intense one of her table mate and glazed down in her lap at the paper in her hand.
The paper said, “My name is Eleanor, and I want to fuck you until you scream it.” Whitney could no longer ignore the pulsing that was deep within her. She risked a glance up. Eleanor had stood up and was reaching her hand towards her in a “follow me” gesture.
This is the part in my memory where I wish I could have said that I told her I was married. Or that I had made a mistake and rushed out of the Kitten Corner Café. Maybe I would have been embarrassed, but I would have gotten over it. But did I really regret my decision? No, she set me on fire, and I burned willingly. I took that slender, ink covered hand, and felt more electric signals being sent to the very core of my desire. I don’t think I ever paid for my coffee.
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