Get Lady in Red to BedbyKingsWoman©
Copyright © 2013 Kings Woman
A seasonal stocking filler -- for Michael
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On that day I had decided to wear my red dress.
It hadn't snowed as yet. Frost was furring the grass and trees, the walkways sparkled in the cold bright winter sunshine. A warm red dress in a world white with frost: perfect.
As a rule, I avoided wearing red. I noticed how men seemed to frown if I was in red. They spoke to me in clipped sentences, bent over as if uncomfortable. Often they said they had to rush off for something urgent -- disappearing into any nearby toilets for unexpectedly long periods of time. Men do have a tendency to stand around me giggling and not making sense, clearly they don't think enough of my intellect to get their brains in gear for me, which is kinda disappointing. Anyway, when I wore red, if men did not frown and seem to prefer going to the toilet to discussing workload allocations with me, they seemed even more inclined to stand around giggling.
There were no meetings scheduled that day; we were all to be allowed to leave early. I figured I could indulge myself and be Lady in Red.
I buttoned myself into the warm dress. I took a pair of stockings I had just finished knitting myself and rolled them up the curves of my legs, over my rounded knees and up the muscular warmth of my thighs. I had embroidered an attractive spray of leaves and flowers up the sides of the black knitted stockings. It's not easy to knit stockings, increasing and decreasing the stitches so they fit snugly round your calf muscles. I was awfully proud of these ones -- especially of the embroidered red flowers with yellow centres, the green leaves. They showed up well against the black of the stockings on the curves of my legs. I smiled and admired my stockinged leg in the mirror as I slid the suspender snaps shut on the stocking tops.
Since it was not snowy, only frosty, I need not cover up the embroidery of the stockings on my calves with boots. I could wear shoes. My black shoes have a heel that is possibly higher than is entirely professional and maybe that thick strap around the ankle makes me look like I'm a naughty girl? I don't know, what do you think? I find a good test is to walk past a building site. When I do that in these shoes, the site foreman will look me up and down. His eyes will rest thoughtfully on my shoes for a moment. Then, without taking the time to wolf-whistle, he will rush off -- often into a nearby portaloo. Since he doesn't spare the time to whistle or shout rude things to me, I figure these shoes are not that sexy after all.
It was as I was leaving work that I bumped into you. Not literally! I just mean I met you -- in a temporarily deserted corridor. In those days you were rather careful to avoid physical contact with me. I used to feel a li'l bit sad if I saw you give a brief laughing hug, a pat on the back to one of the others. I had always liked you.
I remember when Jacques brought me in to introduce me. Everyone was sitting about at the end of the day and Jacques said: "This is Michael." He had mentioned to me that, having been working there a while, you knew the ropes and would be a good person for me to go to for any help or advice so I was hoping we would get along.
Your head lifted from the book you were reading. The light glinted off your glasses, I couldn't read the expression in your eyes. Your mouth went into a kind of hard line. My leg muscles, my thigh muscles went soft. My head went down to hide the blush that went up my cheeks. I felt the blush warming my thighs and my clit tingled.
"I see you're reading Henry Miller," I said, looking at the book covering your lap. "I like Lawrence Durrell. They were friends, weren't they?"
Your hand moved over the book title before Jacques' curious eyes could light on it. I remembered suddenly that Miller and Durrell used to write to each other boasting about whores they claimed to have fucked. In the strict moral environment of this workplace, this would not be approved reading. Both of us slid a quick glance at Jacques. The blush went higher up my face and I turned my face aside.
"Have you finished unpacking yet?"
Will I ever become used to that laconic assured tone of voice and not feel a shiver of pleasure to hear you? Nowadays you say: "Have you finished working yet?" Meaning: Let's go out. Or even better: "Have you finished undressing yet?"
Perhaps back then I heard a pre-echo of those future questions. I turned my flushed face back to you, sweeping a length of hair shyly aside, and saying hopefully: "Not yet, no."
My heart fell like a stone when you made no offer to help me. Jacques moved me on to introduce me to some of the others.
When I met you in the deserted corridor, I was still under the impression that you didn't like me. Once we got into a great discussion about semiotics and I thought we were going to be friends. But when we went out for meals as a group and I tried to sit next to you -- because I wanted to talk about Durrell and Miller, and semiotics -- you adroitly moved at the last minute and sat next to one of the other women. I was so disappointed. I do love semiotics.
As you walked towards me in the corridor, I could see your gaze moving up and down me in a way that reminded me oddly of building sites. Your mouth was going hard and the light glinting off your glasses. I felt flustered, as always around you. Then I felt cross. I mean, obviously I was not sexy in my red dress and shoes with the strap round the ankle and embroidered knitted black stockings. And clearly I was not intelligent enough for you to share with me any more reflections on the enormous importance of Ferdinand de Saussure splitting sign from signifier but gosh, you could've spared a friendly word to let me know which of Miller's novels a Durrell fan would be best advised to start off reading. I wouldn't have been so presumptuous as to borrow the book from you or anything -- unless you offered it. Or offer to cook you a meal in return. Or ... I know how these things get viewed as possibly leading to intimacies which you clearly didn't want to engage in with me. I wouldn't have expected you to give up your valuable time to some blue-stocking new colleague -- even if she was in black stockings, not blue ones.
Oh yes, my darling. Of course you knew they were stockings! Never mind that the fabric of a stocking pulls down differently on a lady's leg. You had been watching me knitting them, hearing the others ask what I was making. I had noticed that if I lifted my head from the five double-pointed needles with the stitches spiralling up them to make the stocking leg, your head frequently seemed to be moving quickly back to the book covering your lap. When the knitting was done and the fine-stitched black stockings lay ready to be embroidered, you drifted apparently carelessly over. I was showing a couple of the other women the flowered pattern I would be stitching on the stockings and the coloured embroidered silks, asking what colour they thought the flowers should be.
"Red," you said, and grinned.
"Like a little book?" I inquired.
"Keep the flag flying here," you quipped.
We both sniggered and then looked surreptitiously sideways but our colleagues were luckily not interested in our nonsensical word games.
"The blue is very pretty," one of them said gravely.
I embroidered the flowers in red.
As you came towards me in the corridor, you were looking at my legs in the black knitted stockings embroidered in the colour you had suggested. You were looking so grumpy and just as if you were going to rush past me without any greeting to some urgent business in the toilets. Outside, the sun was bright, the frost melted and although it would be cold, it would also be a lovely day to cycle into the village for lunch and a cosy talk about Roland Barthes and Lawrence Durrell and Henry Miller. And Anaïs Nin. But no. Since you found me boring and unattractive I would have to go back to my apartment alone to continue unpacking my boxes by myself. Instead of enjoying preparing a meal to share with a friend, I would be making something quick to eat while I distracted myself from my lonely frustration by surreptitiously cruising smut online. (God, Jesus, hope Jacques never finds out, that would be it! contract terminated quick sharp.)
As I came up to you in the corridor I was unable to prevent my head lifting to glare at you, my mouth pouted petulantly. My eyes must have clearly been saying it: What's wrong with me? Why won't you be my friend? Or perhaps I just looked like I was frowning.
Your head turned, you looked down at me. Your face came out of the light and I could see your eyes behind your glasses. Suddenly I could see that the pupils were dilated wide and dark. I could hear your breath: a light panting in the silent deserted corridor.
Suddenly I knew why you had avoided me. Not because you didn't like me. You liked me too much. In this workplace of strict morals, it was risky to make evident that you found the new colleague sexually attractive. She might only be interested in your thoughts on semiotics. Perhaps she did embroider her stockings in red out of socialist fervour, not because she had a passionate heart. One would hardly dare dream she might have the passionate heart only for another socialist. Semiotics is such a subjective science. You don't want to read the signs wrongly.
My petulant pouted mouth softened and bunched for your kiss. My eyes surely began smiling for I saw yours smile. In the (temporarily) deserted corridor, with the world outside still sunlit and cold, we fell into a passionate hot kiss. Not the kind of graceful cool kiss of the movies. Our mouths mashed together, I felt the hardness of teeth then your tongue came curling at my lips. I was clutching at your jacket to pull you in close to me, opening my mouth to your thrusting tongue. Your hand on the back of my head was pushing my head harder in to your kiss, your long fingers gripping on my hair and certainly disarranging it from its tidy swept-up style.
I was sucking on your tongue, eating your kiss. I was desperate when you pulled it back, pulled away from the kiss. I clutched whimpering at your jacket.
You -- more experienced, level-headed -- came out of the kiss and took my arm, pulled me back towards one of the doors. You knew the place much better and you knew there was a small rarely-used storeroom there: windowless. It was a stationery closet in the days before stationery became mobile in the form of electronic devices. Now it had been fitted with a desk and a couple of chairs for meetings, although as the door had no lock it was not entirely private.
As we entered the room, I stuttered: "H-h-have you got a c-c-condom?"
You stopped and stared at me with a grin, as of pleasure let loose off the leash. I was blushing, unable to believe how gauche I had been, to reveal how desperate I was to be fucked. But I was fucking desperate. You licked your lips as you realised I was willing to put out without us even going on a first date.
"No," you said -- as if it was even a bit remiss of you not to always have a pack of Trojans in your pocket, just in case some desperate woman threw herself in your way at work. At work, for Chrissake! what a fucking nympho. But I had wanted you ever since I laid eyes on you and I couldn't pretend otherwise, whatever you thought of me afterwards. "Don't worry," you said. "I'll take care of it."
Mmmm! If I had not already been as soft as putty in your hands, I would've melted when -- in a laconic assured tone and lightly panting -- you said that.
"Do you mind lying on the floor?" you asked. I started scrambling back to the other side of the table pulling the buttons down the front of my red dress undone. "See, this is part of the negotiation," you said to me as you followed. "Negotiation of consent is very important."
What?! What the Fuck?! Never mind fucking negotiations! Fucking fuck me, fuck me!
"Is this OK with you?" you said.
"Um ... yes, yes, just ... I ... yes!" I said, chucking myself down on the floor and throwing my dress and my stockinged legs open.
You knelt down between my legs, raking me with your eyes. Your eyes were intent and staring up and down, over the curves of my breasts and belly and hips. I moaned with relief as at last your fingers came to rest on the creamy top of one thigh coming out of my black embroidered stocking.
"Fucking Hell," you murmured. "You have such a fuckable body, as well as mind."
Jesus, imagine how glad I was to hear you say that. I lay looking up at you, the crotch of my panties already soaking with anticipation, trembling at the touch of your long fingers on the tops of my thighs.
I wanted to ask if I could suck your cock. Oh how I used to dream of it, I would go back to my apartment after the meetings, kneel by my bed and frick my clit, exploding with pleasure to imagine your dick in my mouth. Back then, lying on the floor with my body exposed to your gaze, knowing we couldn't lock the door, someone could walk in on us at any moment, I was too shy, too worked up, and you had said you would take care of things. Since you had no condom and couldn't plunge yourself to satisfaction in my creaming cunt, I was hopeful that you might let me suck you off.
You put your fingers to my panties and eased them off my arse, pulled them down my stockinged legs, over the black shoes with the ankle strap. You stooped your head to my pussy, hunger for my sex evident in all the hardening lines of your face.
Oh sweet Jesus Christ, holy fuck, fucking Heaven. I was wet before you touched me, writhing just to feel your fingers parting my pussy lips. As your tongue curled in my pussy, caressing my clit, I began moaning and heaving up to you. I was fretting vaguely about how wet I was. I am always fearing that the amount of juice which drips out of my cunt is a turn-off but from the noises you were making evidently not. Then a finger came probing at my vulva and I guess I really didn't care any more about anything except that finger and your tongue and fuck me! fuck me! two fingers pushing in my clenching slippery cunt muscles. Jesus Christ, fuck me! you fucking cunt-tease! Refusing to sit by me all those times in the meetings. Jesus, those two fingers were up deep in me, your other hand had gone to assist your tongue in rubbing my clitoris, you were sucking my cunt cream up and rubbing and licking and I was only just in control enough to muffle with one red-clad arm my cries of satisfaction and pleasure.
Having cum clenching round your two fingers, I lay flushed and staring up at you, my long hair now completely disarranged -- flung all over the floor. I was panting and laughing and you were grinning at me. Your mouth was wet with my juice. Your two fingers were still deep in my cunt.
Then I was fretting again. What about you? I felt bad that I was so pleasured and you got ... well, looking at the satisfaction on your face and the manner in which you pulled your fingers from my cunt and sucked on them, I could hardly say you got nothing out of it yourself. I started asking you anxiously what I could do for you? Did you have any condoms back at your apartment?
"Boy, do you ever fret!" you said lazily. "Don't worry. I'll take care of it."
The assured tone of your voice was as sexy as ever but I did feel disappointed to think you were just going to jerk yourself off -- perhaps back at your apartment later on your own. If I offered to come round and give you a hand would you think I was coming on too strong?
But wait! You were unzipping your jeans. Evidently you intended to finish things off here in my company. Perhaps if I asked very nicely you might even let me suck your cock.
Jesus, I started creaming up all over again to see the thick meaty hard rod you eased out of your jeans for me. From the tender way you handled yourself, I gathered that you were close to cumming and that made me feel even more excited. I began to sit up but you had taken hold of my stockinged legs. Then you laughed and let one leg down again. You took your penis in one hand and, holding open my stocking top, you pushed your length down inside my stocking along my muscled thigh. We both started laughing. It wasn't the sensation, just an idea that was irresistably sexy -- a little game, signifying nothing.
You pulled your penis out of my knitted stocking. Holding my legs together, you put your dick to the crack created by my creamy thighs pressed together. Well, I was glad now that I am a generous juicy girl. My pussy cream had spread all over my crotch, making a slick wet crevice for your cock to press into. I felt you slide between my thighs, your cock brushed over my clit. I was still buzzing from the orgasm I had had around your fingers and tongue, I started to grunt with pleasure again as your cock pressed in and out the crack of my juice-slicked thighs. Oh my Lord! and now I could see the glistening smooth cherry of your cock popping out at me between my legs. I had to bite my lip to stop myself screaming with the fun of it, my eyes were popping with laughter and exhilaration. Your dick thrust to and fro between my thighs, across my clitoris.
"I'm cumming!" you grunted, your face clenching up hard. "I'm cumming!"
"Cum on me!" I begged. "Fucking cum on me, you fucking bastard!"
At these words, you gave a groan and thrust your hips hard at my buttocks, gripping my hips together around your cock. Silky strings of white cum spurted over my belly, up to spray on my brassière.
You grabbed and thrust a couple more times, squeezing my hips, squeezing out a last few spurting strands. Pulling back out of my thighs, letting my legs go, you pulled my dress back over my cum-streaked stomach before lying down on top of me. We began to kiss again, pressing close in a warm fug smelling of spunk and cunt juice. Thank Christ that owing to the cold weather, we could wrap up our sticky sex-smelling bodies in big winter coats and hurry home to reluctantly wash. Hopefully we would not be caught on the way out by any idiot wishing to discuss workload allocations.
After a while, you said: "Have you finished unpacking?"
My heart beat hot and fast to be reassured that there would be more of this fun to come. "No," I replied.
"I'll lend you a hand," you offered.
'I'll lend you a hand,' I thought, but shyly I offered in my turn: "I'll cook you dinner."
You smiled, caressing aside from my face a length of dishevelled hair. "No, come back to mine afterwards," you said. "I'll cook you dinner."