An Emerging Pt. 01

Chapter2

Her reverie was broken by the knock at the door, and the call of "Room service". She grabbed at the bathrobe, not yet ready to be seen, and held it to herself. Collecting the ice bucket from the waiter, she closed the door and let the towel drop. Carrying it to one of the bedside tables, Rachael felt her inflamed nipples brush the cold metal. The sensation stimulated them yet further, and the condensation made the dress cling even tighter.

Rachael couldn't resist another check in the mirror. The heels, adding to her normal 5'7" made her appear as tall as an Amazon, and the effect on her legs was everything she'd hoped. Slender ankles led to shapely calves, and the slender thighs naturally drew the eye to their junction. Her waist appeared implausibly slim, the broad belt having reduced it even beyond it's usual slenderness. Above it, she thought, her breasts appeared ripe, ready for handling. Twisting, she examined her rear; the slim globes of her buttocks were outlined by the thin fabric stretched tight over them. Better, the cut of the dress meant that it clung down over the majority of their lower curves, before flaring to the narrow hem of the skirt, and reaching to mid thigh.

Sitting back at the dressing table, she worked to apply her makeup. For a few moments, she sat frozen. The image she wished to create was very far removed from her usual retrained visage; although she'd bought a kit of more overt cosmetics, she was for a moment at a loss.

"I can't do this," she thought. "This isn't me." Hesitancy rapidly gave way to trepidation, verging on disbelief that she could succeed. She felt control slipping away; and she called on all her reserves of self control.

She stood and again walked to the mirror. She was seized by an urge to see her groin, framed by the tops of the stockings. It was another of the images that had filled her head after seeing Alistair's magazines. She took the hem in both hands and drew it up slowly to her waist.

The welts of the stockings cut her thighs perhaps an inch below the junction of her legs. Above them, her neatly trimmed pubic bush formed a downy triangle, through the lowest part of which her swollen labia could be seen clearly. At its apex, her clitoral hood stood erect, ready for whatever the evening might bring. It was, Rachael felt, a luscious sight. She'd never considered herself to have even the slightest lesbian curiosity, but if she were shown this spectacle by another woman, she wouldn't be able to resist stroking it, or who knew what else. She visualised herself sitting with her legs parted while a hand fondled her, gently opening her outer lips, then her inner, before exploring her slick interior.

Rachael shook her head, trying to shed the image. It was too powerful for that, though. In her mind's eye, she saw herself easing herself backwards, spreading her legs to facilitate access. She was entered by a finger, then another, then another, while a thumb pressed firmly on her clitoris. Her head was thrown back as she surrendered herself to the sensations, her eyes closed. The hand withdrew and she raised her head languidly, in time to see herself penetrated. She was, she realised, close to orgasm from the imaginary image alone.

Was this possible? The lubricious image in the mirror; the hussy enjoying being explored by that imaginary hand, the exhibitionist aroused by the prospect of being seen naked but for stockings, they were all no less her than was the Ice Queen. The slut who was going downstairs to choose a man to come back and fuck her was just as real as the steady wife and mother. The concept threatened her whole world, her self-image shaken to its core. Could they all be at least a part of her? She had to know.

She returned to the dressing table. Somehow, now, she had no doubts as to what to do. Heavy mascara, and dark eye shadow made her eyes look huge, their green extraordinarily prominent against the dark surroundings. Her cheekbones were outlined with blusher, and finally, her lips painted with dark, near purple lipstick. As she applied a second, and a third coat of lip-gloss, giving them a sheen, she was again visited by a vision -- she saw them stretched around the stem of a thick cock, leaving marks as she drew upward on it.

That shook her almost as much as the earlier thought. Rachael had always hated performing oral sex on Alistair; she could barely bring herself to lick or kiss his penis. She'd never been able to bring herself to take the head in her mouth. And now here she was, envisaging performing just that act on a complete stranger, and being hugely aroused by the thought. She began to wonder what other "forbidden territory" she might enter tonight. Would whoever she selected want her to swallow his semen, perhaps?

She turned her attention to her hair -- not too much of a problem, her bob had been recently coloured, and with a little tousling didn't look inappropriate. Completing that Rachael opened her case containing the jewellery she'd bought. The large hoop earrings were a bit of a cliché, but they fitted the image. She lowered the strings of black beads over her head.

"Nice", she thought, especially the way they fell across her cleavage. She giggled as one momentarily snagged on a nipple -- if that didn't bring attention to them, nothing would. As she slipped the costume rings onto her fingers and the bangles onto her wrists, she again created an image of how she hoped to be seen later, with her nakedness emphasised by the jewellery. She pictured the beads between her naked, jiggling breasts, of her be-ringed fingers looking tiny, wrapped around a thick member.

"Almost complete," she thought. "Another check in the big mirror, then off we go."

The butterflies were back with a vengeance, but now accompanied with a near desperate lust. As she stood, she caught sight of something, on the dressing table was the jewellery she'd worn - and often wore - for work. Overcome by an impulse, she reached for the short necklace she'd removed earlier, fastening it around her neck. Alone, it always appeared tasteful, muted, even. Worn in combination with the other items, it merely added to the air of excess. That wasn't why Rachael had done it, though. She pictured herself sitting in future meetings, this around her neck and remembering being taken while wearing it...

She quickly tidied the room, placing one or two essential items into the drawer of the bedside table. Another giggle -- surely a dozen condoms would be sufficient - another couple of items into the bathroom. The lights adjusted, and the temperature of the champagne tested. She drained the last of the white wine.

The last look in the mirror was reassuring. This was the new Rachael -- the Rachael she hoped was there, buried not too deeply below the surface. The gloss of her lips made them look full and inviting; the slenderness of her neck and shoulders being emphasised by the short necklace and the beads. Similarly, the bangles and rings highlighted her delicate hands and forearms. Her hands slid down over her breasts, feeling their fullness, and then around to feel the weight and firmness of her buttocks. She imagined the sensation of being held this way by a lover.

She was ready. She sprayed herself with a heavy, musky perfume, bought for the occasion, although imagined she could smell her own thick odour signalling availability.

The perfume and her room key went into a small clutch bag, along with a phone, pen, lipstick and lip gloss. She hesitated, crossed to the bedside table, and added a single condom, just in case she didn't make it back here.

Finally, she stepped out into a deserted corridor. Slightly disappointed not to have an audience immediately, she used the chance to practice her walk in the vertiginous shoes. It was easier than expected; in fact, it was impossible not to walk with an exaggerated swing of the hips. As Rachael walked, she watched herself in the windows, reflective in the darkness, smiling. The gait would draw all eyes to her pelvis or rear. She strutted to the end of the corridor, and turned.

The staircase led down into the lobby. It was brightly lit, and although not crowded, there were a number of people about. Rachael was hit by a moment of concern that someone in the right place, glancing up, would have a clear view of her naked vulva under the short skirt. She decided she really oughtn't to care.

Entering the bar, she glanced around. No sign of the watchers who'd spotted her on the way in. One or two likely prospects, but only one took note of her as she crossed to the bar proper. A choice, She could either perch on a bar stool or take a drink back to a table. The former, she chose; that latter implied she might be waiting for someone whereas the stool gave a chance to accidentally allow her skirt to ride up, when the chance offered itself. She ordered another white wine from the barmaid and settled on the stool.

The voice was unexpected. It was, as she'd half expected, the man from the corner table who'd watched her walk in.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

She looked him over. Her first thought was, "Not the most promising material." He was of average height, a little on the slender side. His hair was thinning.

Could she see herself in bed with this one? Probably not. But, there was as yet no one else around, and in her current state, there was an excitement in knowing that she'd accepted the first available candidate. She noted the time. To her surprise, it wasn't yet eight.

He raised his hand -- and she noted the nicotine stains on his fingers. "I may be about to behave like a tart," she thought; "but not with a smoker." Smiling to herself, she apologised:

"It's very nice of you to offer, but no thanks. I'm waiting for someone"

It was his turn to look at her. She could sense his disbelief; it struck her that he thought she was a prostitute, a hooker, trawling the bar for business. He left and she returned to her musings. This was not helping her predicament, she realised. She'd been aware of her vagina lubricating ever since arriving. Her state of heat was now such that she could feel her inner lips loosening. In her mind's eye they were gaping in anticipation of being penetrated. Whether or not that was the case, they were forming no barrier to her oozing fluids, and she could feel the wetness spreading underneath her. Rachael knew that when she moved her state of arousal would be visible, as her skirt plastered itself to her wet cheeks.

Her reverie was interrupted by loud male voices from the doors to the dining room. Four men entered, obviously in boisterous spirits. She looked them over with interest. All tall, and healthy looking. Short haired, reasonably well dressed and, she guessed, in their early twenties. She recognised the watchers from earlier. One stood out. Leaner than the others, he seemed to be holding back slightly from the verbal horseplay.

She made eye contact. Suddenly Rachael was determined; this was her lover for the night. The thought renewed her lust. She smiled in return, and raised her drink to her lips.

He held her gaze and smiled back. Rachael leant back onto the bar on her elbows, presenting her breasts; God, she wanted this. Her breath tightened in her chest. To her disappointment she realised that her pose gave him no line of sight up her skirt.

His friends were leaving. One called to him to follow. He broke his gaze and turned.

Rachael could not believe her eyes. The prospect of not fulfilling her fantasy loomed large and she found herself thinking of whatever else she could do. The room service waiter had not been unattractive. Perhaps her option was to return to the room, order something and present herself to him, or maybe there was a nightclub in a nearby town? The one thing she could not now contemplate was returning home without sex.

Perhaps the girl serving at the bar could tell her of what was in the area? Rachael assessed her; blonde, pretty and very, very young. If she was more than nineteen, Rachael would have been amazed. "Magda", according to her name badge. She didn't look likely to be able to direct Rachael to a den of iniquity. Rachael turned back to the bar, and drained her drink. She steeled herself to leave her chair, thinking that if she moved quickly, her wetness would not be so obvious. As she began to lift herself he reappeared in the doorway to the lobby

She felt her knees weaken. He walked straight towards her and stood casually at the bar. He addressed the barman, ordering a bottled lager, and as he was served said in a strong voice, "Perhaps the lady would like something, too?"

She didn't trust herself to speak, knowing her voice would break. She declined the offer with a slight shake of the head, with the thought running through her head, "I'm no lady -- and I'm going to prove that to you..."

He paid and turned to her.

"Hi, I'm..."

Still unable to speak, Rachael held up her finger to his lips. He stopped. Not only could she not find her voice, but suddenly, she wanted her first lover to be nameless.

She reached into her clutch bag and fished out her pen. She could see him glance inside. Could he see the silver packet of the condom? She reached out for a napkin, and wrote on it: "Room 182 -- 15 minutes".

Rachael could see her writing was shaky. She handed it to him; he glanced at it and raised his eyebrows. In response she smiled, and this time raised her finger to her own lips. He nodded before taking his beer to an empty table.

Her feelings were a tumult. Raw lust clashed with a rising feeling of power. She felt powerful and sexy; she could do what she wanted, take pleasure from it, and no one could stop her. Now she wasn't concerned about her clinging dress. As far as she was concerned, she would have felt able to peel it off there and stride out of the bar naked, enjoying the male eyes lusting after her and the envy of the females.

She slid from the stool. The strut that she'd developed earlier was back with a vengeance. As Rachael crossed to the lobby she knew he, and at least half a dozen others, were watching her. The sway of her hips must have told them that this was a woman in heat.

When she entered her room, she hesitated. What to do first? She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. The fifteen minutes she'd given him would most likely up at around eight-thirty. It was now eighteen minutes past. Open the champagne, she thought. She was flustered. She wanted to make the best possible impression when he arrived, to dispel any doubts he might have by her appearing so wanton and desirable. There'd be no second thoughts for either of them. As she wrestled with the cork she sat on the end of the bed to gather her thoughts, successfully extricating it and yet avoiding the cascade of overflowing foam -- that would be just too symbolic for comfort, she thought -- and she formed a plan of action.

Filling one glass, taking a draught to steady her nerves, Rachael returned the bottle to the ice bucket. She unclipped the belt, removed her beads and bangles, and drew the dress over her head. She carried it into the bathroom, glancing at the clock as she did. Eight twenty-one.

In the bathroom she moistened a facecloth and wiped the areas where she was most aroused. She looked around for her perfume. It was outside, in her clutch bag. Retrieving it, she anointed herself before misting it around the room. She sat at the dressing room to freshen her makeup. Excited, Rachael thought to do more. She reached in the wardrobe for her everyday handbag, recovering her normal lipstick - a pale coral-pink, just slightly stronger in colour than the natural tone of her inner lips. She sat at the dressing table, her legs spread, and applied it. This worked, she thought; it gave both a glossy sheen while making her arousal yet more blatant. Another glance at the clock: eight twenty-four. She drained the champagne.

Rachael considered her options. She could present herself just as she was; as she'd imagined herself all evening, naked but for jewellery, stockings and heels, or she could put the dress back on, or perhaps just the belt - that had appeal. Or, in the bathroom, she'd earlier secreted a black silk slip. She rejected the dress option and somehow, the idea of more gradually ending up in just the stockings felt more seductive. Reaching for the belt, she again clasped it around her waist.

The effect was good. To be wearing clothing that did nothing whatsoever to conceal her erogenous zones felt truly licentious; and the look as she glanced at herself was pure harlot. But it did nothing to support the process of a gradual revealing, and that had been part of Rachael's imaginings for many weeks. As she unfastened it - eight twenty-six - she moved to the bathroom... and stopped.

Somewhere in the room her mobile phone was ringing insistently. Hurriedly she found it, in her handbag, raised it and was about to answer. Again, she stopped. It was their home number. Why was she being called? Ninety-nine percent probably, someone was just calling to chat. But, there was the tiniest chance it was an emergency.

Rachael knew that she couldn't get caught up in a conversation. It'd take too long, and it'd bring her down to earth with a crash. She wasn't going to risk her evening - eight twenty-seven - for anything less than a major crisis with her child. For anything less, she found herself resenting her unknowing husband for endangering her pleasure. She marvelled at her own reaction. There was no guilt, just arousal now. For all she cared, he could be in the room watching as she was taken; it would make no difference to her behaviour.

One option -- text, ask if there's a problem, and claim to be unable to talk. She did. And, as she awaited the reply, she stepped into the slip, sliding it up over her body. Lifting her breasts into its cups, straightening its seams, she attempted to steady her breathing. She donned the beads and bangles.

At eight twenty-nine, the phone trilled; at the same moment she heard a tentative knock at the door; hadn't she left it ajar? She opened the phone to see the text message:

A stab of guilt was swiftly banished by the sound of soft footfalls outside. She regarded the phone with a mixture of relief and irritation, and turned it off with a decisive prod of her finger. She smoothed the slip over her hips; it was short, barely covering her buttocks at the rear. Rachael took a deep breath and prepared herself to step through the bathroom door. A very last chance to halt this. Did she want to?

No. She had never felt so certain of anything in her life. She felt alive, desirable, more in touch with her deeper, darker needs than ever in her life. Her life as the "Ice Queen" seemed a million miles away, the life of a completely different person. A life in which she felt none of this intoxicating energy that she was filled with now. Like a drowning person she felt her life flash past her. Time and time again she was conscious that she'd taken the safe option, shying away from the risk. That was no longer an option. She knew that there was a risk to her home life. Even if tonight remained secret, she might well finish tonight addicted. Rachael decided that the risk was worth running, and stepped through the door.