Night Witch - Midnight Martini

*

Upstairs, inside the bedroom suite, she slowly took off the vinyl gloves and put them in a chemically prepared small ziplock pack.

I went to the freezer and took out the large block of ice containing the Snow Queen vodka bottle, and placed it in a big stainless steel ice bucket. Did I feel all that safe? Oh yes.

Tekla started to undress, throwing shoes, socks and clothes, sports bra and panties, all onto the carpet. I watched her in total amazement; she was mind-bogglingly beautiful. Rather sad-looking eyes though, really... She was not young. She had a few tiny age-lines around those eyes.

How I prepared my cocktail onions was to soak them in a syrupy thing I would have made hours and hours earlier – black peppercorns, grated nutmeg, thyme, strands of dill, Champagne, wine vinegar, sugar, sea salt... I used ordinary pre-pickled onions, but nice deep, dark red-dyed ones. ...Took them out of their store bottle brine and stuck them into mine, which was warm from being boiled down a little. And then I would leave them soaking there in my concoction in a bottle in the fridge overnight at least.

There is a rumour going around among some of the very rich lounge lizard savants in Europe, that if you see certain Russian women wearing Slava Zaitsev pencil skirts with the designer's emblem embroidered across the rear, then you are looking at a trained Oligarch-society sex slave. Put it this way, it's very hard to get those skirts from his shop but they are available... But you won't get them for small money.

Tekla extracted what looked like what was bound to be, if worn by her, a tight sort of short skirt from one of the dressing table drawers and laid it out on the hotel suite bed. I took handfuls of ice cubes and placed them into two large martini scoops. I filled the glasses with ice cubes right to their tops. And then I got a small EDP bottle of 'Nikita' and sprayed the ice cubes liberally, and sprinkled many pinches of salt over the ice. In about thirty seconds the glasses began to frost. Just the top of the bottle of Snow Queen was exposed, and I unscrewed the cap. I threw the ice cubes out of the frosted glasses.

Wrapping a bar towel around the big block of deep-frozen ice and grasping it in both hands – skin exposed only to the towel - I was able to tip extremely cold vodka into the now frosty perfumed martini glasses. I placed my red cocktail onions - on the ends of ornate spikes - into the two drinks...

The dill always gave off this hint of being in an oil-painter's studio... We both drank a bit of the vodka martinis. Silently. And eventually put them down on the side table.

She slipped on those glossy, nail varnish red-soled stilettos. You know the ones. Yes you do. I don't need to say any more about them.

Nikita is actually a boy's name. And it tends to have the implication when applied to a female, of a tomboy or a strong, powerful, individual. Zaitsev's 'Nikita' fragrance on the other hand is very floral however, and not masculine at all, unless you care to regard the oriental aspects of it as masculine - which I don't particularly.

Tekla had very long, lean, and clearly strong upper arms, which presented a spectacular vision bookending a body-hugging, silk sleeveless vest, which she had put on over the tight skirt. But otherwise she was not masculine in any way whatsoever. Adding length to eyelashes and putting on glossy red lipstick did not specifically make a person female. Nor necessarily did an inclination to wiggle the hips. Nor short, darker, shorn-to-stubble hair all over the groin. The gash between the legs was of course more specific. It's ability to be penetrated more specific still. And the chemistry of the raw human oyster, its acquired adult taste, and the simple pleasure-seeking brain behind it were even more defined characteristics. Regardless of protestation by some, the pleasure-seeking brain of a true woman is simple to the extent that, once turned on to the ability to have and feel pleasure, there isn't a limit to what it will do to experience more and more and ever greater sensations of pleasure, or to try that which might even only potentially be pleasurable. ...Whereas excitement lends itself to masculine imperatives, pleasure perhaps belongs expressly to a feminine perspective I think.

It was too easy suggesting to Tekla that we would be going out to a special private dining salon that I knew of, that evening at or after midnight, at which there would be well-informed and libertine men and women in attendance, some of whom were certain to be cued by the insignia on her skirt alone, and who may well verbally express a desire to fuck her. Was she likely to be offended? I asked her. Of course another female human unshelled oyster was certainly an acquired adult taste. Not to the liking of every unschooled and/or inexperienced woman. But then I'd seen her file where she regularly met with another much older woman... And I was only being tendentious. And she well knew about the savant whispers regarding this label on this particular style of skirt.

Maybe. She said. But it was like asking a Ferrari whether it wanted to be driven fast.

...I turned on the suite's audio system CD player. French Kiss: La Selection Erotique d'Estele Desanges, track 7 – Chilled Good-Byes with Medaka. A rather long title... Personally I always prefered Al-Pha-X's version off the Alucidnation album... Nice music though. Both versions.

I turned her around and bent her over the hotel-room bed, so that her palms lay flat on top of the plain covers. Her arse spread wider and tightened her tight skirt more, but its stretchy fabric was as compliant and permissive as she was. The insignia across her tight-skirted bum read just like the chrome running-writing '451 Italia' would have on a red Ferrari: it created excitement in the male mind reading it. I ran the palm of my hand insinuatingly over the words written on the back of her designer skirt. Aldo Manutius, an Italian - a Venetian, in fact - invented running writing, as it happened. In Venice too, they also invented the masked party of course. Very inventive people, I gather... I had a black velvet mask for her, for later, at the private salon.

But for now, I would test the Russian design elements. I got her to kneel up on the bed and then I lifted her skirt till it was raised right up over her arse cheeks and over her hips, and the stretchy fabric furled closely together bunched up around her waist. The lasting recollection was not how I pulled aside her fresh new thong panties or got my hard erect penis out or any kind of particular further foreplay, not even the initial penetration – the abiding image I still recollect whenever I think about it was of holding the bunched up skirt with both hands, and the pumping, pumping, slowly-paced pumping, in and out of the very wet slippery vagina, and the slapping against her bottom of my groin with every 'in' stroke.

She was that typical kind of mewling compliant woman: 'sir, sir, please sir...' Every few seconds interspacing the rhythmic pumping. Everything about her spelled 'sex,' rather than danger. Or is that the same thing?

She's never very far away of course. Still.