Silk

Not for the first time that evening, he opens the brown envelope and draws out the photograph that she’s mailed to him. He lets his eyes flow across the curves of her body, sheathed in clinging scarlet silk.

The accompanying note tells him that the gown was purchased for a ball she’s due to attend the following weekend. She’ll be on her husband’s arm, at least as far as the end of the reception line. He strokes a fingertip across the glossy surface, wondering if her husband will truly see the woman beside him, even when she’s dressed to devastate.

He studies her, and as he does so, he imagines himself amongst the party-goers, anonymous in black tuxedo and bow tie. He imagines the other men watching her, unable to drag their gazes away from her. He knows what they’ll be thinking. They’ll be wondering what it would be like to slip their hand inside the long slit on her dress and onto the warmth of her thigh. They’ll be wondering what it would be like to be alone with her, to take hold of the gown’s zip and draw it slowly downwards until the dress slides down her body and pools at her feet.

He holds the photograph at arm’s length. She’s naked under the silk, and he’s certain she’ll be dressed the same come the night of the ball. She’ll want to achieve that same seamless blending of silk and skin. He can picture the men watching her rear whenever she glides by, trying to discern whether – if they were fortunate enough to be allowed to undress her – they would see her utterly naked except for her stockings when her gown reached the floor.

And what would he be thinking if he were there? He’d be wondering what she was thinking when their eyes locked across the room, whether she was impatiently waiting for the opportunity to slip away somewhere private, so that he could undress her, so that she could release his hard cock from his trousers and guide it inside the soft, wet folds of her greedy-to-be-pleasured cunt.

He pictures himself escorting her to the hotel lift, knowing with absolute certainty that before the doors slide open on her floor, he will have kissed her and slipped his hand through that alluring slit to stroke her thigh – and maybe higher. He also knows that he will have guided her hand to his loins, so that she can experience how hard she’s made him.

He closes his eyes, experiencing the thrill of locking the door to her suite, knowing that a few floors below them, her husband and the rest of the partygoers were still drinking and carousing, completely unaware that he was undressing her, making her naked, making her wet, making her come with his lips and his tongue and his fingers, and then sliding his thick cock inside her.

He draws a sheet of rich cream paper towards him, undoes the cap of his Mont Blanc Starwalker fountain pen, thinks for a few seconds with the rhodium-plated nib paused above the paper, and then he begins to write.

 
Will the thought of making me hard bring a smile to your lips? Smile then, because I’m as hard as steel right now, thinking of you at your ball, striding past all those hungry eyes. You’re too astute not to see them. Will their hunger make you moist, or will they merely make you conceited?

How’s that smile of yours? Wanton? Desirous? Lustful? Carnal? I find myself hoping that it is all of those things, and more.

What if I were to come to your precious ball? How would you feel if you saw me across the room, talking to another woman, perhaps to one of your friends? Would you feel a ripple of jealousy? Would you quickly find an excuse to interrupt, to somehow lead me away from the throng towards the lift upstairs?

What if we were inside the lift, the vibration of distant machinery raising us towards the stars? Would you be content to see my erection pressing against the front of my trousers, or would you be too eager to feel it in your hand? Would you grasp me through the material, measure my thickness, my firmness? How long would you be able to resist unzipping me? And then what would you do? Simply slip your hand inside my trousers and grip me through my shorts? Or would you be too greedy, too frantic to settle for that? Would you want to feel my naked cock against your palm, to wrap your fingers around my bare, aroused flesh?

And once you’d led me to your room and locked the door … what then? You told me once that you wanted me to take you firmly over a bed or a chair … to thrust into you while I held you about your waist, holding you where I wanted you, fucking you hard. Would you want that? To slowly undress yourself while I watched, and then lean over the end of the bed, your palms against the counterpane and your buttocks offered towards me? Would you cup and caress your own breasts while you waited for me to enter you, while you waited to feel my cock pressing against the cheeks of your arse, thrusting slowly against your taut skin? Would you reach down between your parted thighs and finger yourself slowly, strumming your clitoris as your teeth bit down into your lip? Would you hold the lips of your sex open for me as you looked back over your shoulders into my eyes, as you quietly asked me to fuck you long and hard? Would you tell me what you were feeling, what you wanted to feel? Would you guide my hands onto your breasts so that I could hold you, cup you, squeeze you, pinching your hard nipples between my fingers and thumbs? Would you press my hand against your mound, show my fingers the way to your clitoris so that I could pleasure you as I fucked you? Would you show me how you like to be stroked and caressed, how to make you come so that your body trembles uncontrollably, so that you can’t contain your cries of pleasure? Would you press your own fingers against the underside of my shaft as I climaxed inside you, so that you could feel every pulse, every throb? And after I’d withdrawn … would you press your fingers inside yourself so that you could feel my warm seed, so that you could rub it over your clitoris and the lips of your sex, bringing yourself to another orgasm as I watched, panting?

 
He scans his words and, satisfied, signs his name. He addresses a matching envelope to her workplace and slips the folded letter inside. As he moistens the envelope’s seal with his tongue, his eyes settle upon the engraved ball ticket that sits upon his desk…