Kinky

‘Well, don’t you?’

‘I plan a kiss only. But a fuck, I don’t say no, of course. Just … this is your office, yes?’

I squint at the clock. ‘Yeah, but it’s early. And you took out the CCTV tape for this part of the building, so … um. But perhaps you’re right. Perhaps we shouldn’t.’

The inopportune pause for breath has acted like a bucket of cold water. Suddenly, I’m besieged with unwelcome thoughts in the ‘will you still love me tomorrow?’ vein. Perhaps I’m just imagining this bond that our shared evening of randomness and debauchery has forged. He’ll take what he wants and then leave.

‘Wait. You don’t want to?’

‘I … don’t know.’

‘You don’t know? Of course you do. Your body knows.’

‘My body wants to. My brain … the jury’s out.’

‘OK. Well, perhaps I don’t want to. Perhaps you don’t respect me afterwards.’

He folds his arms and lifts his nose with offended hauteur. ‘Perhaps you just use me for sex and send me away,’ he says.

‘I wouldn’t do that.’

‘No, me neither. Not to you. I have plans for you.’ He fixes me with his true blue eye. ‘So, sex. Yes?’

I nod. The cold water evaporates. The boots come off, then the tights and boy shor

ts, then I am sitting on a filing cabinet with my thighs splayed and my ankles wrapped around Dimitri’s waist.

‘Good. But there is a problem. I don’t have no condom.’

‘There are machines,’ I gasp. ‘In the toilets.’

‘I run out of my pounds. They take roubles?’

‘Oh God, haven’t you heard of bureaux de change?’ Frustrated beyond measure, I dig my heels into Dimitri’s hips and then push him away, pointing at my handbag on the desk. ‘Go get ’em. And be quick.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ He mock salutes and races to the gents’ with my handbag, looking so like the world’s least convincing transvestite that I can’t help giggling.

I look down at myself, naked apart from a ruined bra, sitting on a filing cabinet. The metal is cold against my backside, but I’m heating it up quickly enough. I reach around and unhook my bra. It seems pointless to keep it on, after all.

When he emerges from the toilets, condom packet in hand, I become conscious of the fact that he is still fully dressed whilst I am starkers. The inequality of the situation needs to be redressed, I feel. Or undressed.

He slings my handbag back on the desk with a pleasingly cowboy-like nonchalance and stands in front of me, hand on hip, condom brandished, crooked smile in full effect under that moustache.

‘So,’ he says.

‘So, you’re wearing too many clothes. And I’m getting cold up here.’

‘Cold? Oh, that’s not good.’ He shimmies back up to me, clasping his hands together in the small of my back, leaning his forehead against mine. ‘I don’t like cold.’

Behind me, I can feel his hands waggling about, tackling the condom wrapper. It’s not going to do much good unless those jeans come down, though, so I reach towards his belt buckle. Except there’s a problem here – he has more than one. He is wearing about five skinny leather belts of different designs, all interlinked and looped around each other. I sigh, lips brushing his.

‘Why so many belts?’

‘I don’t want to pack them.’

‘Oh right.’ One down, the other four are quick enough to unbuckle. They fall aside like a gateway of tooled leather, allowing me to concentrate on unbuttoning his fly. Here it comes. The exertion causes me to pant slightly, my hot breath mingling with his. I prepare myself to push down the jeans then the underpants – but there are no underpants. An unexpected cock emerges from the disintegrating denim, causing me to squeal inelegantly.

‘You bad, bad man!’ I exclaim with a delighted laugh. ‘No pants!’