Beneath White Leather

She walked past the ensuite bathroom, past the bed, straight to the floor to ceiling window, and stood there looking out onto the street scene far below. Black hair, resting on white faux leather, more black below the coat hem, her slender stockinged legs. I watched her for a moment, wondering what was in her mind.

Without a word, not looking back, she slipped her glasses off. Set them on the standard issue hotel desk in oak veneer just to her side. Stayed looking out. The buildings opposite. The street below. Which made me wonder just how much she saw, without the lenses sharpening the scene.

Her hands moved to her waist, between her body and the window glass, just out of view. Moments later, the two untied ends of her coat belt fell loose, the knot undone. No buttons has been fastened, and the coat fell straight, no longer tight around her slender waist.

Her arms went up, her hands easing back the collar of the coat, right off her shoulders, baring them. No dress beneath. No blouse. No jumper. Only pure, white flesh. Her neck screened by the curtain of her hair, but her shoulders, upper spine, and shoulder blades completely bare. It seemed as if the coat was all that she had worn.

She stayed like that for just a moment. The coat not even mid-way down her back, her arms bent, preventing it from falling further down and baring all. Her slender body seemed so vulnerable, in contrast with the white faux leather of the coat, a butterfly emerging from its protective chrysalis, naked and unadorned.

Though not quite naked. As she brought her arms down to her sides again, the coat slid down. Drawn by gravity. Her naked back entirely revealed. The black satin of her suspender belt. The globes of glorious butt flesh, bare. No descending string between them. No thong. The vertical straps of her suspender belt. Her milk white upper thighs, the black double thickness nylon of her stocking tops, pulled into points by the taut straps.

For one more moment, the coat stayed still, an arc, caught at her wrists, skimming her butt, until she shrugged it off. It fell, a heap of white around her stockinged legs and heels. This then, was how Mark's wife had come to me. Naked beneath her coat. Fuck ready. Bare and exposed. Now facing out, five floors above the ground below, to gaze into the windows just across the street.

This was London. I had noticed Mark's address. Croydon. Eight miles south of here. By train and tube, at least an hour's commute. Changing from mainline at Charing Cross to tube. Then, once above ground, a walk to this hotel. In just a coat and stockings. Expecting to be fucked. My cock hardened at the thought.

I let her wait. Instead of going to her, I pulled down the covers of the bed, musing that the timid woman I had drawn into the hotel bathroom, so compliant as I raised her dress and fucked her there, was now so daring. They say things about the quiet ones, call them dark horses. She could be one of those. Outwardly shy, diffident and anxious, but sexually switched on and confident, just not declaring it to everyone she met.

She stood, not moving, while I undressed, setting my clothes on the hotel armchair. Only then did I walk to where she was standing, my cock at forty-five degrees to vertical, nudging her back as I stood behind her.

Opposite, a range of buildings faced us, some stone, some brick, all higher than our fifth floor bedroom, all with windows facing out. People just beyond those windows, working, maybe taking breaks and staring out, glancing idly at the windows facing them, ours included, floor to ceiling, white flesh from four-inch heels to brunette hair, a man behind her.

She seemed to lean back into me as I raised my hands to stroke her upper arms. Nestled into me, as I reached around to cup her breasts. Sensations that felt wonderful. Her back, grazing my cock head, gentle, exquisite. The firm fullness of her breasts, so beautifully proud that when I slipped my palms beneath them, there was still a need to stretch my thumbs to tease the nipple stubs, rubbery, thick and firm.

She did not resist. Instead she gave herself to me, sandwiching my cock between her spine and my lower belly. She froze for just a moment as I finger-thumbed her nipple stubs, squeezing them, then twisting softly, one way, then the other. We stayed like that, taking breaths in unison, while down below the traffic queued and moved, and queued again and moved again, in silence, the random vehicles the size of children's toys.

Opposite, the windows of the buildings looked back at both of us, my nakedness concealed behind her body, hers exposed, my fondling of her breasts just inches from unyielding glass, the black triangle of her pubic hair framed by suspender belt and straps and stocking tops. I pictured office workers pausing, no longer focused on their screens, casually curious about the couple in the hotel room across the street, engaged in the pleasures of a mid-afternoon affair.

I sensed no apprehension, no unease, from her, as I slid one hand from breast down ribcage, over flat belly flesh, and to her groin. Not even when I went inside her slit, two fingers entering together, the pads pressing on her clitoral stub, taking possession. That some, at least, of those in windows opposite, could see her surrendering her cunt so readily, seemed not to phase her. No concern.

Floor to ceiling glazing also functions as a solid wall. I turned her. Eased her back against the glass. Ignored the emerald irises that met my gaze. Looking my own eyes, I took in then, the body that had been hidden by her dress when I had fucked her in that other hotel bathroom.

Good breasts. Generous for her petite frame. Stubs thick as fingertips. Conical, not cherries, but rather ice cream cones, pink-brown areolas, palm width. Offering themselves to me, wanting to be fondled, kneaded even, or just held by those amazing nipples, pulled and stretched.

The edges of her areolas faded gradually from taut skin, the colour of my cock-head, to the pure, milk white of the fullness of her breasts, the areolas swollen, as if the flesh was pressing out against them, stretching the pink-brown skin smooth as Venetian glass, only the conical teats textured where the milk ducts waited for the chance to play their primary role.

Below those breasts, the concave slenderness of her waist, her navel, and further down below, the copse of hair that hid her cunt from view. Thick and untamed. No neat, trimmed triangle. No landing strip. A forest there.

Eyes met eyes again, the green of hers as bewitching and enchanting as they had been before. A wordless exchange, reading one another thoughts, her face still and calm and unquestioning and accepting.

She raised her arms. Locked them around my neck. Raised one leg, reaching with her foot the back of mine, her heel against my thigh. An invitation. Accepted. I cupped her butt. Took her weight. She raised the other leg.

A second time around, I lifted her, high enough to enter. A second time around, her cunt was wet. Nicely tight, but slick and smooth around my head. I looked down there, between her breasts, between our bodies. My cock was lost in the forest of her pubic hair. The head surrounded by thick curls. Yet instinctive navigation had drawn it to the hidden opening there. All I had to do was lower her, and then my cock slid deep into that forest, as deep as deep can go.

Arms locked, legs locked, she held me tightly, her back and butt now pressed against the massive pane of glass behind her. Something for the people opposite to admire. To distract them from the boredom of whatever they were paid to do. To let them know that day-time trysts occur, and people fuck, from lust, from sheer desire, not love nor rationality, but just because they can.

And just because I could, I took my hands away from where I had been holding her sweet butt, and stretched my arms above my shoulders, wide, and pressed my hands against the glass. She clung to me, her arms, my cock, the pressure of our bodies on the glass, all that was supporting her.

As if to prove, if I could do it, she could too, she let go of my neck, lowering her arms. She held my butt instead, as if to use the leverage to pull herself that fraction more against me. Now it was just my cock supporting her, that and the friction of bare butt and back flesh pressed against the window pane.

Our eyes met once again. Green stared into brown, emotionless, conveying only that for that moment, she was mine. Never, had any other woman given of herself so utterly, allowed herself to be so completely reliant on the solid strength within her, on its uncompromising rigidity, or been so trusting of the potency of male desire.

I pressed against her, just my groin. Her cunt was locked against me. Her ankles locked behind me served no purpose, took no weight. That was taken by my cock alone. Her nipple stubs grazed my rib-cage as we held the pose. Somewhere inside her, level with her navel, my cock head groaned. With pleasure.

Yet, deep inside her as I was, unless I gripped her butt again, she was unfuckable. To move would compromise the dangerous instability of the moment. Cock and cunt were locked by the downward pressure of her weight, bearable only because her body, hour-glass as it was, was so compact and so relatively light. I could not withdraw to thrust back deep. I could not move. But she could. Not with her whole body, but with the muscles of her cunt, that she used to squeeze around my shaft in measured pulses as she looked directly in my eyes.

Another pang of guilt washed over me. This was Mark's wife. Apparently, or so it had first seemed, naïve and unconscious of how cute she really was, her over-sized glasses giving the look of someone nerdish, unaware. Yet guileless as she had been that night, she had become a siren, who could tease and fuck.

I wondered if Mark enjoyed her cunt as much I was doing now. If she gave herself to him as she was doing now to me. If he knew that I had fucked her. That we were meeting. Or if she kept it from him. If he was a willing or unwitting cuckold. Did he make love to her unknowing that she also fucked at least one other man, or did it turn him on to know his wife enjoyed this other cock. Was mine just one of many?

Lust can mute all other thoughts. It can still the conscience of a saint. I am no saint. I found it all too easy to dismiss those thoughts. Those green eyes looking into mine were too insatiable. Her body and the spasms of her cunt, far too exquisite, to allow such qualms of conscience to hold sway.

I put one hand beneath her. The other hand behind her back. I walked her from the window to the bed. I lowered her, still deep in her. For one long and glorious hour or more, we fucked.

**********

That was the start of it. Mark's wife was a complete enigma, a mystery, a riddle, but she was exquisite when it came to fucking her sweet cunt. We barely spoke, no lunch dates, no drinks together, no talk as foreplay, no after-sex sweet nothings, no banter, no tete-a-tetes, not one 'I love you', none of that.

Texts to make arrangements. Which day, what time, which hotel. The when and where. The why and what were known. To fuck. And if we stayed in bed and snuggled close when we had come, it was for wordless closeness, not to talk.

She sucked cock beautifully. Gorged herself on it. Licked, lapped, devoured, took every inch of it, the head deep in her throat, her nose and lips pressed to my groin. She loved receiving just as much. I had to part the dense curls of her pubic hair to safely lick her there, finding hidden labia protruding so invitingly, the nub of her clitoris baring itself, out of its sheath, expectant, primed for pleasure. Opening her, the inner surfaces were pink and wet and tasted sweet as honey on my tongue. Spoiled only by a hair, between my teeth.

The next time that we met, I came prepared. She came, as she always did, in just her coat. Stood at the window, a different hotel, a different view, different others opposite. White suspender belt this time. White stockings, made in diamond string. Only the mane of head hair, and her pubic forest, resplendent black. Instead of joining her that time, I spoke, and told her that I wanted her to lie down on the bed.

Obedient, she complied. She let me move her as I wanted her to be. Not centred on the sheets, but towards the foot end of the bed, her butt still on the mattress near the edge, her legs wide, and bent, her stockinged feet now dangling towards the floor.

No objection, no question even, when I brought a towel from the ensuite bathroom, opened it, and told her to raise her buttocks so that I could slip it underneath. By then, she would have known. No protestation. Not a word.

I keep my head hair close cut and shave my face. Electric trimmer for the first. A wet shave razor for my cheeks and neck and chin. I had brought both. I used the trimmer first. The same setting that I used each morning for my skull.

She saw, and heard the low hum of the razor, as I knelt down on one knee and brought it to the thick copse between her slender stockinged legs. White thighs. No flesh has ever had such purity. The skin criss-crossed by the diamond pattern of her fishnets. Not close-knit mesh, but street-whore wide. Only full-grown fish would find those diamonds too close to swim between. Sprats would escape.

Inch wide bands of stocking top were tight around those thighs, pulled out of shape by white, silk suspender straps, but still so tight that even with her slender legs, the flesh was squeezed in tighter.

Not just a triangle of dark hair. It grew, if not as thickly, a good inch down each inner thigh, and upwards towards her navel in a diamond of its own. Wild curls. Untamed. As if they had been there forever, since pre-teen puberty, untouched, primal. She could have auditioned as a jungle Jane, grown up with Tarzan, swinging on lianas, groomed by gorillas in the mist in tropical humidity. A silverback would have thrust its way into that growth.

I thought of Mike. Of them at home. In bed. Their fucking. His cock entering her through that forest. I wondered if he ever tongued her there as well. If he had complained. What he would think when she returned that evening. Shorn.

She lay there, uncomplaining. No apprehension. No unease. Her green eyes taking in the neat, charged trimmer in my hand. Then all she did was let her head rest back against the sheet, and yield.

Her delicious breasts rose and fell, stubs firm, surrounded by those coffee-coloured areoles. Milk coffee, not expresso. Exquisite mountains, Alpine, not English hills. Her rib-cage rising with them as she breathed, the ridges well defined, her belly, now so concave you could pool wine there and lap it with your tongue.

Less than a minute. That was all the time it took. Smoothing the trimmer up and around, each side, and over the lower inches of the flatness of her stomach. The shorn hair formed an uneven ball between her inner thighs, safe from the bedsheets on the whiteness of the towel there. I thought of documentaries of Australia, sheep shearing in the outback, also done in seconds. Pussy shearing, here, in England, was more fun.

Lips had been revealed. They protruded from her cunt like elongated shells of fleshy softness. Blinking into daylight. Shyly exposed. I had licked between those lips, but had not seen their true dimensions, three inch long folds of pinkness, performing the same role as Doric columns at a doorway, declaring this to be the entrance to her womb.

The hair ball went into the bathroom bin. A moist face rag wet her around her groin. A travel can oozed out white shaving foam. My fingers smoothed it over her. My facial razor, fresh blade replaced before I had left home.

My first time shaving cunt instead of cheeks and chin. I thought about the strategy to use, before I started. My face, I shaved by instinct. Her groin was different. Though the main principles were just the same. Stretch the skin with one hand, then shave against the growth to get the perfect finish, smooth as silk.

Not quite so easy, when you do it. That inch or so of growth on inner thighs required the razor to be drawn upwards, towards the protruding labia of her denuded cunt. An awkward angle, but one that I performed. Her lower belly easy to shave smooth. The blade drawn away from her cunt now. Starting at the outward edges, gradually working in.

The immediate proximity to those nether lips required more concentration. The flesh needs to be taut. I held one lip, the pink fold of labial flesh between finger and thumb, slippery from foam, so firmly, pulling it over her entrance, across the other side, to stretch the skin, then ran the razor several times to smooth the stubble from the trimmer, to leave only pure white skin, right to her cunt's rim. The same, again, the other side.

Start something, and you finish everything. I raised one leg, angling it outwards, shaving the top of the inner thigh, beneath her cunt, the tender flesh between it and her anus. The same the other side, her legs so light to move exactly as I needed to, so willing too.

More use of face rag, rinsing, removing debris. Then towelling her dry.

My final time, emerging from the bathroom, she had moved back up the bed. Still on her back. Those mounds of breasts still rising and falling rhythmically. Her legs still wide. Perhaps at one time her parents had brought her to a Saturday gymnastics club. She could seriously part those legs. So far that her cunt was even open too, inner pink flesh winking from between the parted lips.

She screamed, when finally she came, tongued to orgasmic bliss, hands on my head to hold me there, not that she needed to. I could have licked between those lips for ever. The taste of her like nectar. No threat of hair to catch like dental floss. Just soft sweetness, and a nub to tease and tongue and torture til that moment when she cried for me to stop, when intensity of touch became too much to bear.

I fucked her too, of course. Her legs tucked beneath my shoulders, the fishnet threads grazing my skin, white feet pointing skywards, her thighs pressed against those wide areoled breasts. Fuck any smooth and hairless cunt and the closeness is divine. Fuck one that you have shaved yourself, when the woman is in fact the chattel of another man, and she is yours, and fucking her is claiming her, your cock a stake demarcating rights and entitlements in perpetuity, your semen spewed in her, the ink with which the document of ownership is signed.

Back in the office, there was no still sign of jealousy, or even of unease. Mark was a delight to work with. Perhaps he fucked her all the more, now that her cunt was shaven smooth. Positive, hard-working, reliable, consultative, and out-performing all the others of my floor. A model of a salesperson. The kind of employee a company would wish to have in every team.

**********

The next few weeks were quite incredible. The coat became a trademark. White leather, never buttoned, only held together by the belt, with bare white flesh beneath. Naked beneath it, every time we met. That set the norm, the paradigm, a benchmark below which she would never go.

She was inventive, playful even, though teasingly serious each time. Always the same coat, but the suspender belt she wore beneath it, and the stockings, never twice the same. Black, white, blue, red, cream, purple, even a sultry grey. Nothing else. Not ever. Not just in hotel rooms at windows either. Marilyn turned out to be inventive in finding places we could play.

There was the time she texted I should meet her on the platform underground, the northbound Bakerloo. The text stated the time, and platform, northbound, and I waited, looking for the coat amongst the stream of people when the train arrived. No faux leather, white or black or hue. The train pulled out, another storming in, a southbound, screeching to a halt, dispensing its passengers onto the platform opposite, and then accelerating back into the tunnel as they dispersed to escalators heading to the surface exits, and away.