She knew she shouldn't, but she did.
She showered and moisturised and dressed.
She dried and brushed and applied.
She gazed into the hazel eyes staring back, no questions, no qualms.
Her stockings waiting, carefully placed over the chair until she smoothed and gently lifted the delicate final attire,
gently stretching them;
gently opening them;
gently slipping inside them;
perfectly fitting them;
encasing her legs with the 'barely black' sheen.
Hazel eyes still looked back at her every time she glanced in the mirror, balancing into her high heels; she knew he preferred those to her boots.
Glancing at the clock, she knew he'd been travelling over an hour already with almost another two to go,just for her.Just for two hours with her.
She knew she should feel elated.
She knew she should feel special.
She knew she did not.
All she knew was the craving to be kissed;
to be held;
to be undressed;
to be next to him, underneath him, on top of him;
to be explored by him;
to be spanked by him;
to be well and truly fucked by him.
That was it.
That was all she knew.
She could not wait, she needed it now. Then, she could walk away...easily; ridiculously easily considering how much contact he had with her, how much he had rearranged to be with her.
Until...well, until she finally had that coffee?
Until she finally met the silent, yet eloquent one?
Until then?
Until then?
Until....she hoped so; he consumed her already and the headiness of anticipation was as distractive as it was destructive.
Lube and sex toys zipped away, she drove. For an hour she drove, her craving was that strong.
Through the grit, the snow, the rain...then the snow again.
Finally, parked up outside the huge elegant building she waited as hailstones hit her car with contempt...sighing, just a small sigh she pushed the eloquent one out of her mind. His words, 'We find human touch wherever that may be,' receding now.
Her phone rang, she smiled...went along with his humour. Noted the floor, the suite, the name...
Stepping out into the sharp cold, she knew how vulnerable she could be; stockings in the snow.
No icy temperatures could lower her warmth, her desire, her passion, her craving...
Gliding shut, the lift took her to the top floor, the very top. Again, she knew how she felt, or perhaps more noticeably, how she did not.
Opening the door into audacious, vast, elegance he greeted her with his so familiar voice, his so familiar words.
'Hello, my Passion, let me pour you a glass, it's your favourite; I want you in your stockings.'
