An American Friday In London

I love Fridays. And I truly adore Fridays in London.

I've been here six months now, enough time to establish my routine.

Finish work between six and seven. Never, never have a drink with work colleagues. (Why would I? I see enough of them the rest of the week). Never, never make a date with friends. And even though we went dress-down ages ago, always wear one of my more flattering Armani suits.

About seven, head for a bar in the City. The City? Let me explain. There is London and there is the City of London. London is the whole deal, several million people, several miles across, public housing, mansions, soccer grounds, airports, the whole deal. The City of London, on the other hand, is the Square Mile in the middle, site of Roman Londinium, now the home to banks and finance houses, one of the three most important financial centers in the world. Everyone in the Square Mile works in something related to finance. They work hard. On Fridays they like to play hard, no-one more so than me. It's a long way from Springfield, Mass.

It's a little crazy. It feels like all the offices have emptied straight into all the bars. That first hour is mayhem, drinks going down quicker than the Titanic.

I'm a little calmer. I find myself a place at the bar, and nurse a gin and tonic. And I case the place. It probably looks to anyone else like I'm waiting for someone, a friend or a date. I'm not. I'm looking for something a lot more satisfying.

I don't go for beautiful women. There's a lot more fun to be had with the level or two below beautiful. Call them pretty; maybe quite pretty. Often lacking a little confidence about their appearance. A little too much make up, or not enough. Dress sense that's gone wrong somewhere. Certainly not pale gray Armani. But underneath it all, often as not, a real peach. And I love hidden surprises.

A lot of these women, it has to be said, are secretaries. Or as some Londoners call them, seccies. They earn a decent wage, but the job's hardly satisfying, and they make up for the drudgery at the weekend. Starting Friday. They usually go out in groups of three or more. Safety in numbers, but not with me around.

And me? I guess I'm pretty/quite pretty myself. Late twenties, tall, dark, slim, but with an ass that I sometimes truly feel like worshipping. Hey, why have neuroses, when all the evidence tells you that one part of your body is to die for?

Also, I'm not a dyke, however you want to use the word. There are times that the desire for a cock is overwhelming. But a lot of the time it's the softer charms of a young woman that appeals. Particularly since I've been in London, where the testosterone levels disappear of the scale and casual sex with a man is likely to involve three and half minutes frantic penetration followed by twelve hours snoring. Yes, I could do without English men. Plus none of them are seccies.

So I'm standing at the bar, and I think I've seen her. Definitely a quite pretty. Blonde straight hair, about shoulder length. Nice hair, but she's done nothing with it, always a good sign. Wearing a dark green suit that doesn't quite fit, which is also encouraging. Holding a pint of what the English call lager but the rest of the world knows as beer. A pint! Quite a spunky little thing then. With four or five mates. All of them seccies.

It's her turn to buy a round, and surprise surprise the only space is next to me. (I have a subtle technique which involves backwards leaning and sharp kicks to the ankle that makes sure this happens). And then she's standing next to me, a clutch of grubby fivers in her hand.

We talk at last. “You'll be waiting here for hours,” I offer. “None of the staff speak a word of English.” Here's the deal. If I were English, talking to her like this might set all sorts of alarms ringing. But I'm American, and the English believe that Americans have no sense of social decorum. Which is bullshit, but means that you can say, or do, almost anything and the English will just smile and think “she doesn't know better”.

My girl smiles. “I don't think there's an English barman in London,” she replies. “I don't know what's happened to them.”

“It is kind of odd,” I say, and wave a twenty pound note across the bar. Someone comes up to me immediately, despite the fact my girl has been waiting longer than me. Must be something to do with those fiver tips I've been giving. “What can I get you?” I ask her.

Like I say, if we were both American, or English, she'd know the game immediately. But she's probably thinking that this is what Americans do to complete strangers. “I'm alright, thank you,” she says. I put her accent down as being from Liverpool.

“Go on, I insist,” I say. “You're the first person I've spoken to all evening. And it's been a pretty good week.” In fact I've dropped shedloads but she doesn't have to know that.

“I'm with some friends,” she says.

“So? Let them share the spoils.” I buy a round. Lagers and evil spirit cocktails for the girls, a glass of Chablis for me. My credentials as a lonely but nice American lady are established. Time to move on to phase two of the operation.

As expected, I'm invited over. The other girls wonder what the hell's happening when my girl says “This is…Sorry I don't know your name.”

“Hi I'm Sam.” Realization sinks in. American! Lost, lonely, trying to buy a bit of friendship. I guess they're not wrong.

My girl is Kathy. I don't even bother listening to the other names. Not surprisingly none of them, Kathy probably included, are pleased at having their evening gatecrashed. So I start off with a few jokes about Americans, to show I'm not the po-faced “God is an American” type. Then subtly establish the fact that I work for a leading investment bank. Finally show I'm now one of the gang by making a kind dig at the girl I've already established is the butt of all their jokes. I'm in, it's taken twenty minutes and all of a sudden their evening has taken an interesting turn. Fuck them.

I turn to Kathy. She has lovely green eyes. I've done well this time, I think. Clearly, indisputably not a dyke, but then they so rarely are. All the more of a challenge, all the more satisfying when I win. We start a long conversation about all the things that interest her. I'm a good listener, and I guess it's pretty flattering for her after the way I've so effortlessly established myself with her group. It's certainly meant to be flattering.

I buy us all a bottle of champagne. (The English are never too slow accepting American generosity. Just think two world wars). Maybe some of them are wondering if I'm pulling Kathy, so every now and then I join in with the rest of the group. After all, I want them out of there, without anyone whispering any concerns to my girl.

Sure enough, about nine-thirty, the party begins to break up. I've guarded against this possibility by buying Kath and me another drink. So one by one they take their leave, and whether or not she wanted it Kath is alone with me.

In fact she's doing fine. She's reached that perfect peak of intoxication, where she's feeling lively, relaxed and happy. My task is to keep her there. I don't get off on seducing unconscious women.

Kathy's blouse is a little tight around the bust. She isn't particularly well-endowed, but like her suit the blouse is just the wrong size. I get the occasional glimpse of a white lace bra, and above it the curve of a tanned breast. Seccies love to maintain a tan, and Kathy's no exception. I want her very badly now, and I get a little anxious.

The natural thing, soon, is for her to go home. Anything other than that is, well, pretty dykey, and I don't for one minute believe I've got her lusting for me yet. If I just say “come home with me,” she'll work out the whole evening and run away even quicker than they did at Yorktown.

A bit of luck comes my way. She likes the outdoors, and when I mention I've been to Yellowstone she says how she's always wanted to go there. (Ever since watching Yogi Bear, apparently. There's a first). Happily for me, I have some albums of photos at my apartment. She can come see them, without it seeming suspicious.

She looks at her watch. “I ought to be getting the last train.” So she is tempted! I feel a little thrill moisten my panties.

“You can crash in my spare room. Or I'll get you a cab.” Time for a little emotional blackmail. “I've had a lot of fun tonight Kathy, more than I've had since I arrived in this lonely bloody city. I'd be kind of disappointed if it all petered out now. Hey, I've even got a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator waiting for the first ever visitor to my apartment.”

Kathy gives me a quick, funny look. Is she considering the possibility she's being chatted up? Is she wondering if this smart, sexy yank fancies her? Is she getting a thrill just like I did?

“It's always a shame to let champagne go to waste,” she says. My breath almost catches as I hear her say it. I can feel my nipples harden as I know I'm going to have her alone in my apartment. Still a long way to go, Sam, but hell it's going to be a buzz trying.

We get a cab. I'd like to get to know Kathy better, but the driver insists on telling us why Britain would be a lot better without “the coloreds”. My place can't come too soon.

My apartment is dedicated to Friday nights. That is, it's planned with the intention of impressing drunk strangers. Lots of space, minimal furniture. Best of all, a balcony over the River Thames. I can see Kathy's never been anywhere like this. In fact she says as much. We stand next to each other, sipping champagne, watching the lights dance on the water. It is, transparently, a romantic moment. But I'm not ready quite yet.

“I can't believe you don't have a boyfriend, Kathy,” I offer.

She shrugs. “It isn't easy, in London. You know that.”

“Yeah, but you're so beautiful,” I say. “You have gorgeous blonde hair, fabulous eyes. What is it with Englishmen?”

She smiles, a little sadly. I want her very badly now. I lean a little left, and our shoulders touch. It's the sort of thing that happens when two people are drunk, but I'm pleased to find she doesn't pull away.

I have all sorts of plans for what should happen next, but for once I'm spontaneous. I lean towards her, and kiss her, very briefly, almost chastely, on her lips.

“I'm sorry,” I say, not regretting it in the least, “I shouldn't have. Maybe it's the champagne. But standing here, Kathy, I'm ready to scream out to the world 'Englishmen you are all fucking assholes'.”

She smiles. I move in again, and she doesn't move away. Our lips touch, and then they're pressed together. Gently. I don't use my tongue, or force the matter at all. I can feel she's tense, and nervous as hell.

We continue to kiss, delicately, as her mind adjusts to being with another woman, and her body tells her how good it could feel. I stroke her beautiful blonde hair, my other hand slipping around her waist to embrace her. Our breasts brush against each other, an electric sensation for both of us. I gradually pull her more tightly, until she must almost feel the burning between my thighs. Slowly, oh so slowly, I tease my tongue along her lips, inviting her to invite me in. Then I encounter her tongue, and suddenly we are frenching madly, passionately, all restraint gone in our kissing. She is holding onto my back, clinging on as if worried where her passion for another woman might sweep her.

We kiss for a long long time. I want her to feel an urgent fire between her legs. To be desperate for anything.

I pull away. She still looks desperately nervous, but her face is flushed with our passion. “I know I said you have beautiful hair and eyes, Kathy. I forgot to mention your beautiful body. Will you come inside and show it me?” I hold her hand.

She nods. I lead her into the main room. I sit on the sofa, Kathy standing in front of me. Looking quite vulnerable, which is delicious. “Show me your body, Kathy. Strip for me. Please?” I may be imploring, but all evening I've been working on a relationship where she can't say no. She looks a little frightened, but then her hands lift her blouse out of her skirt waistband, and she is fumbling clumsily with the buttons. When it is undone completely I see a moment's hesitation, and then the blouse is dropped to the floor. Like I said, a spunky girl.

Her skin is a lovely soft brown tan, but I can see over the edges of her bra that when she catches the rays she likes to keep the bikini top on. I like that. Partly it's the contrast between the tan and the milkiness of the breasts, but maybe it's also a sign of how modest the girl is. I guess not many people have had the privilege of what I'm about to see.

“Show me your breasts, Kathy.” She doesn't even hesitate. A little smile crosses her lips, and I suspect she's beginning to enjoy the way we're doing this. She reaches behind, and with the practised ease that men never seem to develop in a lifetime's trying, her bra is undone. She even teases a little, holding the cups across her chest before allowing the bra to drop to the floor.

Her breasts are lovely. Creamy, almost blue, with chewy brown nipples poking proudly towards me. But they can wait.

“Just lift your skirt up, Kathy. Round your waist.” She can't know that, for me, there's a way this has to be done. If she'd been wearing a trouser suit, for example, it's unlikely I'd even have spoken to her. She gives me another funny look, which I interpret as “my first experience as a lesbian and I've picked a pervert!” But she does what I ask, reaching down and lifting until her skirt is bunched around her waist.

She's wearing tan pantyhose. I'd clocked this earlier in the evening, and it was another part of my breathless attraction to her. It's the one fetish of mine I'm at a loss to explain - pantyhose is neither sexy nor alluring. Maybe that's it, the revelation of something so humdrum and workaday.

Her knickers are plain, green. Thank God no flowers or I'd have had her in a cab in no time.

I reach forward. This could be a dangerous moment, but she's calm. She wants it. She wants another woman to touch her sex for the first time. (I briefly wonder if she is a dyke, but discount it. I'd have picked up the signals for sure. And I probably wouldn't have gone near her). I brush my fingers against the crotch of her pantyhose. She jumps at the intimate contact. She's soaking.

“Turn around, honey. Show me your ass.” She starts to turn one way, then the other. I think she realizes she makes a pretty undignified sight. Topless, skirt around waist in her pantyhose and knickers.

I have to catch my breath as she faces away from me. What an ass! I've maybe found a rival to my own. Even clad in pantyhose and knickers it's a beautiful sight. Most important, a crease where her butt meets her legs. Then it curves out in a neat, definite swell. I remember how she'd looked in that ill-fitting suit, and praise my own observational skills. It might even be fun to brake a golden rule and take her to Armani tomorrow, to get some clothes that show that ass off properly. Maybe, if she goes all the way. The right way.

“Pull them down, Kathy,” I murmur. “Show me your beautiful ass.”

She slips her hands inside the elasticated band, and slides the knickers and pantyhose down. When she gets to just above the knees I stop her. It's another thing of mine, to have it like that. Half undone.

I am almost transfixed by the ass just in front of me. Creamy pale, like her tits, with that wonderful dark vertical line cutting down the middle. Hidden treasures.

“Show me properly,” I say. “Show me your ass properly.” This is, for her, almost certainly another moment of realization. Not only is she not going to go from snogging, to having her tits sucked, to having me bring her off with my fingers. Not only that, but she is definitely being taken down some strange paths. How many men has she let near her ass, I wonder.

I want this new realization of what she is becoming to be a thrill for her, a dark buzz that affects her in a quite novel way. I could live with her hating every minute of it, because my own lust is way too far gone, but I'd prefer to have her down in the depths with me.

Her fingers hold her cheeks. I notice that she's wearing some nice nail varnish. She bends forward slightly and then she pulls her butt open for me, young seccie Kathy invites a woman she's just met to stare at her asshole.

It's a beauty, a little dark target hiding between her snowy cheeks.

Now what I'm thinking is maybe a little disgusting. Maybe I'm a little disgusting. But as I feast my eyes on Kathy's butt I like to think about her day. I can be pretty certain she got up about seven. That's some seventeen hours ago. Sixteen and a half since her last shower. Since then she's commuted into the City, walked around a fair bit, stood in a hot, sweaty bar, and, last but not least, she has, let's be brutally honest, been to the bathroom a few times.

And she knows that. She knows that, of all her body, her asshole is the least appropriate place for anyone (let alone a woman she's only known a few hours) to inspect. She has no idea what I might be able to see. Nothing out of the usual, as it happens. Kathy's a clean girl, I'm pleased to see. And the only smell is something which, if you put it in a bottle and tried to flog it, you might call “It's Been A Long Day”. I'm not into dirt, you see, I'm into intimacy - shocking, disgusting extreme intimacy with young women I don't know. I get off on the vulnerability of Kathy offering me the dirtiest secret she has.

I reach out to her hip, and draw her back to me. There's no resistance. I suspect that her shame has given way to the effortless pleasure of perversion.

I press my tongue against the firm, muscley ring of her anus. I have been drinking champagne, but my tastebuds tingle as they encounter the traces of Kathy's day. Again, there's no specific flavor, just a sensation of human activity. Kathy moans as I lick her bottom. My little first-timer is enjoying my anal love!

I reach between her thighs. Whatever misgivings her head might be having her pussy is flooding with the pleasure in her behind. I touch her clit, and again she jumps.

I am delicate, running my fingers along the slick grooves beside her clit. I reach my other hand down, roughly tug up my skirt, and slide my hand inside my wet knickers.

Kathy has built up a rocking motion now, pressing her butt harder and harder against my face. She positively wants it now, wants my tongue up her ass.

There is a mirror to our left. (Like I say, the apartment is designed for Friday nights). I can see us both clearly.

I am sat there, my expensive skirt crumpled around my thighs as my hand works my pussy furiously. But it is Kathy that provides the truly erotic sight. Five hours ago she was enjoying a quiet drink with some friends. Now she is bent almost double, skirt around waist and knickers and pantyhose half pulled down, her aching white tits being punished as she mauls them with both her hands. Her face is almost red with the pleasure of the things being done to her asshole, and her eyes are closed as she gives in to these wonderful sensations.

She starts to grunt as she gives in to her orgasm. That is my cue, and I feel my knees shake with my pleasure. Kathy's face is almost purple as she reaches the peak of her climax. Her eyes open and in the mirror she sees my face pressed between her butt cheeks, then she sees my eyes, and we stare at each other in our moment of complete surrender. Her expression is pure, simple lust.

She stands up, but it is not, quite, over yet. I turn her around, and gently force her hips down so she kneels between my open legs. I kiss her, and I wonder how she will react to the tongue she has just seen up her ass being pressed against her lips. She opens her mouth and kisses me hungrily, eager to encounter my tongue with her own.