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It’s the workout I notice first, at around 8.30am on a Monday. At least I think it’s a Monday. Hard to tell these days. I’m folding clothes by the bedroom window, which looks down on to the garden of the flats opposite. The sprawling overgrown shrubs don’t quite disguise the raised decking and sometimes on summer weekends it’s populated by a couple of tired-looking hipsters enjoying a beer in the sunshine, although it’s been quiet since lockdown began a month ago.
But there he is, a man I’ve not seen before, doing very serious-looking press-ups in non-serious workout gear. He’s already in good shape and clearly knows how to keep it that way. A nice change from all the couch potatoes in brand new lycra who’ve been wobbling down the street for the last few weeks, fooling no-one. I carry on with my chores and it’s only much later, at the end of another tedious day that manages to be simultaneously empty and exhausting, that I realise I found him attractive.
The week after, rising early for once, I see him again. Wednesday today. Sit-ups. I’m fairly inquisitive at the best of times and the whole situation having made a curtain-twitcher of everyone to some extent, I enjoy a good three-minute stare. Taut thighs. Strong neck muscles and the beginning of a spring tan. Again I note the professional technique of his movements – slow and controlled. A man who understands how to use his body… I give my head a shake. I have to admit that I’m bored. I’m in my twelfth year of marriage to a lovely but often absent workaholic. I have two children who are getting too old to seek maternal attention, unless they want feeding and watering. Lockdown has highlighted how much I distract myself with trips around town – lunches at the Dorchester, shopping at Fortnums or exhibitions at the Royal Academy with my friends; all pretty, rich, bored housewives, just like me. But for now London is closed. I sigh and slope off to do more laundry.
Two days later I’m in the bedroom brushing my hair and see a delivery van pull up outside the flats. The masked driver gets out and leaves a package just inside the gate. I see him glance up and wave before heading back to the van – Mr Workout’s saying thank you from the front door. As he saunters down to collect the box I get my first real look at his face. Confident, relaxed, masculine. All those ridiculous aftershave advert clichés rolled into one. Not handsome, no – but compelling. Fair enough, good for you, I’m thinking. And then, as he reads the label attached to the parcel, his face breaks into a smile and from across the street through a double-glazed window it knocks the breath out of me.
After a minute I recover enough to go and put the kettle on.
I spend the next four days as busy as possible, studiously avoiding the view. But thinking. All that news about furloughed workers. Maybe he needs money? Or food? So many people in difficulties these days… Oh for heaven’s sake, woman.
It’s a Thursday when I decide. Surveying the stockpile and realising that now the initial panic is over we will have plenty of supplies for a while. And isn’t it common knowledge that people are finding it hard to get flour? Breathing too quickly, I start chucking staples into a carrier bag. That bath I had that lasted all morning? Well, it’s pleasant to pamper oneself occasionally. Can’t let all that coconut body oil go to waste. It’s 3pm. The family are lazily staring at books or screens, the afternoon heat making everyone drowsy. I make a last trip to the bathroom mirror. Not bad. The April sun has tanned my skin to a light café au lait and my conker-brown eyes are bright – lockdown lifestyle seems to have improved my looks.
I’m considered attractive for 42, as far as I can judge from compliments. Women generally like my preppy, feminine style and men adore my petite, supple body, which good genes and regular workouts have kept in good shape; my breasts and bottom are still firm and my legs are as shapely as they were twenty years ago. My soft hazelnut hair is usually styled into a short pixie cut, to match my five foot frame, but as I’ve not seen the inside of a salon for weeks, it’s grown into a fashionable Waller-Bridge bob and curls softly above the nape of my neck. I add a little make-up to complement my coral sundress and leave before I can change my mind, hurrying out of the door with a yell of ‘daily walk!’.
Mindful that the neighbours are always in these days, I waste no time in quickly crossing the road. Through the gate. Up the steps. Ring the doorbell. Back off a few paces. It’s at this stage I realise I have no idea at all what I’m going to say when the door opens. The door opens. He’s wearing a salmon pink shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of faded denim jeans. Nothing polite about the face, close up – it has a decisiveness I should have expected from a man who works his body so hard. And nothing shy about the eyes, either, which meet mine directly.
Flustered, I try a benevolent smile. “I’m escort bostancı dropping a few bags round to neighbours as we’ve got extra supplies this week – would this be any use?”
“Thank you. That’s very kind.” He doesn’t break eye contact for a second. His voice is like melting butter. Oh god.
“I’ll just…leave it here.” Feeling like a PTA busybody, I drop the bag awkwardly at my feet and flash another embarrassed smile. Well, that’s the errand done. I turn hastily to go and have just reached the second step down when he speaks again.
“I’m Chris, by the way.”
I turn around. Is my face as red as I think it is?
“And you are…?”
“Callie! I’m Callie. From 53. Across the road. We own the black and white cat, you might have seen him? He comes and sniffs around your garden sometimes!” Oh god, woman. Shut. Up.
He lets me finish waffling and I can see a mildly amused look on his face. When he pauses and wets his lips, considering something, I get a flash of recognition – he vaguely resembles a young Bruce Willis, from his Moonlighting days. One of my first crushes…
He gestures towards the furniture on the decking.
“The chairs are about 8 feet apart, I think. I really didn’t expect such generosity – can I offer you a cup of tea?”
There’s only one answer.
“Yes. Thank you.”
The tea comes in spotlessly clean blue mugs. He tells me that he is borrowing the flat from a colleague, having been in London on a work secondment when lockdown began. We talk about working from home and living in other people’s houses. I learn that he enjoys football and has family in Surrey. And that it’s Kris, not Chris, which is unexpected but fitting, somehow. He’s effortlessly charming, funny without being forward, clever and interesting. He doesn’t invade my space for a second. I had expected to be stammering with nerves but for the first time in weeks I’m feeling relaxed and happy. I have almost finished my tea when there is a natural pause in the conversation and he fills the silence by leaning back in his seat and sweeping his gaze deliberately, steadily over my entire body.
By the end of his assessment I’m flushed and my lips are parted. Noting that he has unsettled me (and presumably that was his aim) he switches on a friendly smile.
“I usually take a break about this time on a Thursday. How about tea here again next week?”
The following Thursday we find out more about each other – likes and dislikes; marriages; children; work. Kris is divorced, with two children at university. Chatting casually about my husband and kids, it never for a second enters my mind that one of them might glance across the street and see me – or at least part of me, as the shrubs screen us partly from the road. I’m already past caring if they do. Although I’ve barely known Kris for longer than an hour, I feel a connection I’ve not felt with anyone for years. The naughtiness of breaking lockdown is another thrill – for five weeks I’ve seen no-one outside my immediate family. Our conversation simmers over hot tea, but it seems Kris isn’t going to let things come to the boil. He’s clearly pleased to be in my company but there are no appraising glances my way this time, despite the coral dress which I pulled out of the wardrobe again.
I’m starting to feel a little disappointed but at the end of our tea break (I can hardly call it a date) Kris tells me he hopes we can make it a regular meeting.
“I look forward to seeing you, Callie. It helps the week go by faster.”
Naturally I feel the same way and we agree to keep it in the diary. But when I get home I’m tense and moody with frustration. I want him. I can’t deny it.
The following Thursday is sweltering. I choose a skirt that usually gets compliments – a linen number the colour of caramel that splits at mid-calf but reveals significantly more when I’m seated – and a sleeveless navy silk top. I’m delighted to see tea waiting on the table when I arrive, and arrange myself in what I hope is an attractive pose, swinging out a tanned thigh and letting a blush-pink suede slingback dangle from my heel.
“You look beautiful.” I turn to see Kris admiring me quite openly. Still maintaining his distance, he takes the seat opposite. For the next twenty-five minutes there isn’t a hint of physical contact, but the combination of idly flirtatious comments and promise-laden silences leaves me feeling caressed all over. By the time I leave, already impatient for our next meeting, there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s as interested as I am – but where can this lead?
Over the weekend I’m alternately joyful and grumpy. At odd hours of the day my body stirs into arousal at the thought of him, but with so little time alone in the house I can barely satisfy my longings. By Tuesday I’m feigning headaches so I can excuse myself for ‘an early night’; a few stolen moments to gently touch myself. My orgasms come incredibly quickly, ümraniye escort flooding my body with relief, but there’s an emptiness to my solitary pleasure. I want his touch. His tongue. His cock. Oh god, I want him.
Finally, inevitably, the weather turns. Thursday is dank and drizzly and I’m worried that this will somehow signal the end of the delightful afternoons. I’m not unhappy with my pilates-toned figure in white t-shirt and jeans but I’d rather be in one of my cute little summer outfits. I approach the gate tentatively and spy a note pinned to the door, which is slightly ajar: ‘Please come up – social distancing measures in place’.
I take a deep breath, hit the snooze button on my female intuition alarm and head up the stairs. In for a penny… He hears my tread and calls “Tea’s ready!”
I relax a bit and then completely forget my apprehensions as I walk through the hallway and into a beautiful, brand-new kitchen-diner, fitted out in cream with grey granite worktops. There are good paintings on the wall and a huge vase of yellow lilies on the kitchen table. At the end of the room is a lovely seating area by a wide bay window. Kris is seated on one of two long sofas, covered in an expensive-looking dull orange fabric, that face each other over a dark wooden coffee table.
He looks up and smiles. “6 feet and 2 inches apart. I measured it before you arrived.”
I laugh and take a seat opposite him, then start gushing about the gorgeous apartment. We talk for a while, trying on the new environment, and I can feel a hint of tension in the erotically-charged atmosphere. There’s a bedroom in this place and we both know it. Our conversation is easy, as always, but there’s another level of communication between us. Darting glances, caught breath. At one point he runs his finger slowly up and down the side of his tea cup and I moisten my lips, feeling my thighs tense.
After ten minutes I’m wet. Oh god. I start to shift around on the plush sofa. Does he know? Can he smell the scent between my legs from this distance? Just as I’m thinking this, Kris drains his cup suddenly and a worried look crosses his face.
“What is it?”
“There’s a problem.”
This sounds serious.
He raises his eyes and says in a genuinely puzzled tone of voice, “I don’t know how I’m going to fuck you without breaking social distancing rules.”
An instant of shock – and then we both collapse in huge fits of laughter. After recovering, we stare at each other for a good thirty seconds before I break the silence.
“I’m sure we can think of something.”
And what happens next, reader? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I remain un-ravished. Un-kissed, un-stroked and utterly un-seduced.
Kris is insistent, having made his frank announcement, that we wait until next week. His reasoning is that we’ve already wasted too much time in tea and conversation.
“I know you can’t be gone from home for too long – it will look suspicious. And I want to make the most of every second we can get. If we wait it will be worth it. I promise.”
“You’re teasing me.”
“No. Next week I’ll show you what teasing is. But now it’s time for you to go.”
Am I imagining it, or does his confident smile hold the tiniest hint of malice? I’m partly furious, partly relieved. But most of all I’m incredibly frustrated. Watching him like a hawk I warily place my mug on the table and stand up to leave. I’m unsteady for a few paces and as I reach the door he speaks again.
“Callie. Don’t even think about masturbating. Okay?”
Slowly I nod, unable to speak. Barely able to breathe.
My legs are still a little wobbly as I descend the stairs and I take a slow walk around the block to gather myself before returning home. Kris having ably demonstrated his control over the situation I realise that next week anything could happen. I stepped willingly over the threshold (literally and figuratively) and the only two options open to me are to keep going or to stay away. And I know – we both know – I want him too much to stop now.
I wonder if he already has everything planned? The next few days pass by in a blur as I play out different scenarios in my head. The first fantasy: seduction. I arrive to hear the sound of soft music in the apartment. There’s wine, and the exquisite bliss of our first tender kisses that grow more passionate as we undress each other slowly. Kris explores my body with his fingers and tongue until I’m quivering, then gently opens up my wet pussy with the tip of his hard cock and pushes inch by inch inside me until I’m moaning with pleasure.
The second: endgame. We sit facing each other on those wide squashy sofas. The taboo of distancing still in our minds we take turns to strip, watching as our bodies are gradually revealed. I start out self-conscious but by the time I’m down to my pale blue lace bra his erection is clearly visible and I’m flushed with excitement. Gorgeously kartal escort bayan athletic in tight underwear, Kris advances towards me. His movements make me tremble but when he finally scoops me up in his strong arms I’m more than ready. He carries me to the bedroom and pulls aside my damp knickers, forcing his cock into me hard and fast…
The third: submission. There’s tea on the table when I enter the room. Kris is naked on the sofa, smiling and displaying a full erection. He requests that I take a seat and enjoy my tea. Quaking, pink-faced and breathless, I try to control myself, sitting upright and sipping like an Edwardian lady as he touches himself in front of me, running his fingers slowly up and down the hard shaft of his penis.
Just as I think I will be denied any part in the action, he beckons me with a curling finger. I know what he is expecting. Fully clothed, fully submissive, I kneel before him, lick my lips slowly and take the head of his cock in my mouth, breathing in the musky scent of his aroused body. I begin gently, adjusting to take it as fully as I can, swallowing softly so he can feel enveloped in the warm wetness of my mouth. God, he’s big. I suck and suck and suck. I know he can sense my slight discomfort now and hear my muffled sounds as he begins to thrust towards my throat. His hands grasp my hair, inching my head further down. I feel him growing bigger and my jaw starts to ache. I use my hands to stroke his shaft, pulling back to tongue his tip even harder and faster. Kris gives a long moan and I know he’s close. My hands are moving faster now and there’s sticky saliva dripping everywhere. Suddenly I feel a stab of pain as he pulls my hair too tight. Yes. I hold very still as he comes and thank god it hits at the right spot so I can quickly swallow once, twice; feeling the sourness grate against my throat.
My fourth fantasy is in fact a dream. By Sunday, feeling tired from constant craving and no release (yes, reader – I am obeying his wishes) I fall asleep early. Kris appears in my bathroom at home, strolling in casually as I’m showering, covered in soapy suds. Fully clothed, he steps into the cubicle, getting drenched with hot water. Our bodies entwine feverishly. I can feel the rough texture of his jeans and shirt against my naked, slippery skin as we kiss, his tongue sucking mine into his mouth, and it’s unbelievably real and exciting. He bends me over and I put my hands on the glass wall for balance. With the water still raining down on my back I feel him expertly exploring my pussy and I know he will give me the orgasm I so desperately need…
After the weekend I try to calm myself down, aware that the more creatively I spin my desires the further away I’ll be from reality when we next meet, but it’s difficult to stay focused. Real life is pretty empty and I seem to drift in and out of time. Thoughts of Kris – his voice, his smile, his hypnotic eyes – give me something to anchor myself to.
And then it’s Thursday again. I choose my clothes carefully. The same split skirt that gives teasing glimpses of my tanned, toned legs. Yes, that will work nicely. I discard a few tops before putting on a primrose yellow cardigan in a soft jersey fabric. It’s a little tight, so I decide to wear nothing but a bra underneath. I put on a pair of low-heeled tan sandals and freshen up my hair and make up, then look critically at my reflection.
I’m on the respectable side of sexy, true – but I don’t want to give too much away. Our tea breaks have taught me Kris likes a little elegance (his manners are fastidious and leave mine in the shade) and I so desperately want to please him… My whole body suddenly surges with desire and I have to catch myself and focus on my breathing. He’s going to fuck me. In a matter of minutes I’ll be in the apartment across the road from my family home and completely at his mercy.
At this point my common sense briefly takes over. I’m risking assault; pain; rape. From somewhere deep inside me comes a sibilant whisper: “you want it”. My consciousness melts into a darker fantasy – I’m in the flat, with Kris on top of me. He has my arms pinned down. It’s impossible to fight him and his weight is pressing down on my body. I try desperately to keep my legs together but he pinches my thigh hard and the sudden pain paralyses me. I go limp as he forces his bulky penis inside me, far too fast and deep. He growls delightedly into the base of my throat as I muffle a cry of fear. I’m tense, waiting for more, but now he is locked firmly inside my body, he stops moving and wraps his arms around me, snuggling into me like a lover. For a moment I feel horribly nauseated but it passes. I say nothing; close my eyes. I can’t tell how much time has passed before I realise my breathing is slowing down and I’m unclenching my jaw. Sensing my tension release, Kris gently pulls up my top and starts licking and sucking at my exposed breasts. The exquisite pleasure overwhelms me. I can’t stop my automatic response as my nipples harden in his mouth and my cunt starts to throb rhythmically. He smiles down at me.
“Good girl, Callie. Very good.”
He pulls out, hurting me again, and a threatening look replaces the smile.
“Turn around. On your knees.”
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