Carry On DatingbyKingsWoman©
Carry On Dating,
Or -- A Tale of Two Stocking Shockers
© Kingswoman 2016
Apologies for not saying 'cunt' much in this story. I snuck in a 'cunt' or two for my fans who are particularly fond of Middle English terminology (words like 'cunt'). As the Proverbes of Hendyng puts it:
Ȝeue þi cunte to cunnig and craue affetir wedding.
(Give your cunt wisely and make [your] demands after the wedding.)
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Click Here to listen: .mp3 format or .ogg format. (27 min/mp3)
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It all seems so easy when you're just writing a naughty story which you and your fans know is going to end in a good blowjob. Recently I started looking around for some Real Life dates, and it was much harder work than I'd thought it would be.
You wouldn't think it would be that hard to pick up a guy. Even in the exclusive expensive cocktail bar I go to - in fact, even at five in the afternoon - I get cruised by guys who are bemused when I say: "Sorry, 42 is too young, baby, come back in ten years." Once I got cruised by that older man, whom I wrote about in my story Green Lady in Pursuit of Happiness. He was clearly a real player so I was tempted - but he was married and somehow, that made me feel he wasn't going to take me seriously.
I went to cafés, exhibitions and political meetings, where I found myself talking very seriously with fellow political women or flirting hilariously and to no purpose with safely married men, mere boys in their forties and guys who thought they were old enough to be safe from me. (I mean guys of about 80 or 90; they are not really safe from me but I let them imagine they are.) It was all good fun, however I was keen to actually give someone a blowjob after writing so lovingly about doing so.
I tried getting to know a couple of my fans and putting a thread up on the Literotica personals chat board. I met a couple of men in this way, who lived too far away for more than a pleasant exchange of emails. I wanted a real old-fashioned face-to-face date, not a chat or PM or to go on kik. (Still not sure what that is, it sounds like a BDSM version of chat: kicking people!)
Eventually, I went on a dating website. I didn't expect much at first. I felt more optimistic when I saw many men had ticked as a turn-on 'erotica, flirting, intelligence, long hair'. Although they don't usually like intelligence enough to go for someone whose favourite book is The Iliad. I put as my strapline "You're either a liar or the most fascinating woman I've ever met." The guy I met in the bar said it to me. It worked well in scaring off the kind of men I wouldn't want to date anyway.
I know that I am a good-looking, smart, funny woman with a soft, warm and generous ... uh, heart. I have very long hair and I am highly intelligent and a dreadful flirt, so I didn't worry about the low level of interest I was getting. I decided to go for a date with anyone who asked me out, unless he lived a long way away or was too young. If I really didn't think the person would suit me, I suggested he meet me for coffee, rather than a drink or romantic dinner. We could have a good mutual grumble at least about how hard it is to get out dating, and who knew where it might lead?
The first date to contact me liked walking and hiking. I said things like: 'I have an old sporting injury to my knee - be gentle with me, not too much rough stuff' (wink). It's true about the sporting injury, although I didn't want to admit straight up that I got it playing rugby. If I do that, I get tempted to say: "Oh yes, I was a hooker," and other unsuitable things. (I did hook a couple of times, so I actually know what goes on in a scrum - no, no, don't ask, terrible things! Although of course we women don't indulge in what the guys call 'bag-snatching'.)
OK, so we were going on a walk, I would be wearing my hiking boots. This was also my first actual real date in years! I didn't want to wear jeans and a thick jumper which would completely smother my cleavage. I found a pretty spring dress that looked cute with the hiking boots, some flowery spring lingerie and I also decided I would wear grey woollen stockings. My spring dress is just long enough that he would never know ... unless naughty things happened. I suspected this date was not a go-er, but if he were and naughty things happened, I would be glad I had worn stockings.
On the train going over, I went to the toilet to adjust my stockings and make sure they were not slipping too far down. Disaster! the popper popped off one suspender. Imagine me, sitting in a grubby train toilet with graffiti all over the pull-down nappy changing table (saying 'cunt' in a way not usually found in Middle English literature), with one grey woollen stocking hanging by a single suspender.
Being a woman of infinite-resource-and-sagacity, I shrewdly figured I could still squeeze the popper into the suspender and it would hold up, phew.
The walk was beautiful and we were lucky with the weather as it rained lightly only once. We went down through a wood where the bluebells were just starting to emerge, along the riverside, then climbed up to a ruined chapel, where we snacked off my emergency supply of chocolate. (When I was a Ranger Guide, my favourite bit of the long hikes we had to do to get our Duke of Edinburgh award was eating the emergency supplies of chocolate. These days I actually enjoy the walking bits, however I still take chocolate with me - just in case.)
My date didn't score well in spite of the natural beauties of the walk. Remember that I had warned him I have a dodgy knee, and although I coped, this certainly wasn't a gentle walk. At one point we had to scramble over a rockfall of boulders! I like to get a guy's rocks off, but I don't get off on enormous rocks when they are actual stone rocks - unless they are allotrope of carbon arranged in that specific type of cubic lattice known as a diamond.
There were also a lot of steep hillsides. My companion (who would courteously let me go first) must have got a good eyeful of thigh and stocking top on several occasions. However he behaved with exemplary self-control, to my disappointment. Even when I saw some mistletoe growing on a tree, and laughingly pointed out that he was walking right underneath it, he only gave me a very chaste touch of the lips for a kiss - and he blushed.
We finished up with an excellent lunch at a pub on the riverside, and a pint each of Cornish beer (Doombar). When the landlady apologised saying that the beef was fatty and tended to be served pink, we were both very pleased to hear it - as that is how roast beef should be. (I would say good English beef, but we were on the Welsh side of the river.)
I had a super day out. I wrote afterwards to thank my date for a lovely walk (not for lunch as he made me pay for my share in spite of getting to see my legs to full advantage). I wasn't sorry not to hear back from him, even though we liked meat the same way. I mean, I could say the same of any of my gay men friends and I don't go round dating them more than once.
Meanwhile, a gennelman of a certain age had sent me a message via the dating website, saying I have a lovely smile. I replied to say he did too, and - even though I was sure it wouldn't lead to anything, I suggested we meet up for an afternoon pint in a local Real Ale bar. I figured we would have a good laugh and a flirt, and a good pint of beer - what more could you ask for?
I'd better give his reasons for standing me up in his own words, or you might accuse me of being a liar, and not the most fascinating woman the gennelman never got to meet: your [sic] young, beautiful and I assume a very interesting person to know. I'm usually a confident person but in this case it doesn't seem like that.
Well, being too beautiful and interesting is certainly an unusual and flattering reason for someone to stand you up. I replied saying it was OK, and that in fact men often say after about five minutes in my company that they feel strangely out of their depth, so not to worry. Then we got into a bit of chat-banter and I pretended I was devastated. I said Don't worry about me, I will be OK on Friday, just there in my favourite cocktail bar crying into my Floral Martini. In fact, I will probably ask for a Margarita and tell them not to bother to put the salt round the rim, I will cry so many tears into it. By then, my gennelman friend was laughing so hard he said he would meet up after all. Unfortunately something happened at work that put me into a bad temper, and I was feeling messed about by him, so I put him off saying I would catch up with him in a couple of weeks.
Another sweet older guy messaged me, and I suggested we meet up for a cup of tea. After my experience with the previous gennelman, I was a bit circumspect and didn't flirt as much. He may have thought I was very demure; I'm afraid this often happens as I trot about in my tweed skirts and pearls, then people are surprised when they find out what my sense of humour is actually like.
I was finding it difficult to spot suitable men on the dating website. There were surprisingly few who were interested in rugby. Since I was looking particularly at men in Wales, this does seem like an anomaly. I can only assume that the men who are rugby fans in Wales are carried off by female rugby fans from the bars after Six Nations matches. (We do get women here who come down into the city hunting for a man for the weekend then throw him out on Monday morning; we call them the Valleys Commandos.) Anyway, I started checking out guys who lived a little further away.
I had been looking wistfully at one man's picture a few times in the lists as he is a type I just happen to find sexy. I was working one Saturday morning in a city near him, so I plucked up courage and messaged to say some equivalent of 'I think you're sexy and am in the area, how about meeting up?'
As soon as I'd sent the message, I decided I'd totally messed it up. I saw he was online but had not even read my message. I cursed myself for putting a list of such highbrow books as my favourite reading. He clearly had looked at my profile, hated me and wasn't even going to read my message. I had to remind myself that I am fed up of people assuming I am a bimbette and treating me as such, and so I need to put a list of the things I actually like to read. I don't mind being with people who have never heard of Akbar S. Ahmed or Elizabeth David's bread book, as long as they respect me for having really read Millennium and Charisma among Pathans and actually baked things (see my birthday cake story for details).
Trying to pick up dates, I felt tongue-tied and as if I had two left feet. It's much easier chatting online, when I can read back what I'm typing - go away for a couple of hours, then think of another witty response and write it. But there's something so sexy about the messiness of trying to set up a real life date. I knew I might even blush when sitting face to face and flirting with a real man in the flesh - although probably not, as I have been practising my skills on young builders for a few years and they are usually the ones who blush.
Of course my new found piece of hotness got back to me after my flattering message, and said he would be delighted to meet. He even engaged in flirtatious banter, which was promising.
Although he also asked about one of the pictures I had put up. As well as photos of my physog, I had put up my profile picture from Literotica and Soundcloud. He asked me why I had a picture up of a Magnum ice lolly! I just said: "Oh, hahaha, that's quite a story." Which I like to think it is, as it has a red H for Hotness. One of my gennelmen friends said I must not reveal I post smutty audio stories until the fourth date. He said by then dates will realise I am a Nice Woman, not a slag. They will be thrilled and excited that I am a Nice Woman with a naughty side.
Meanwhile, I went along to meet the more elderly gennelman whom I had lined up, and we had tea and cakes in one of those proper tea-shops. I introduced him to Iron Goddess of Mercy (no, not my dominatrix outfit, it's an Oolong tea).
On about the third mention of his ex, I was merciful myself and allowed my date to talk about her. I kinda feel when people are so keen to talk about their ex on the very first date that perhaps they are not over it all? That date of mine under-the-mistletoe-and-over-hill-and-dale also grumbled about his ex and I did talk about mine too to keep the conversation going, but I didn't want to do so any more. My ex was generous to me in the end, and I am still fond of him so I put the past behind me; you can't cross the same river twice, as Heraclitus so wisely puts it.
I have no objection to people treating a date as an unpaid therapy session, but they should not expect another date if they do so. You know what Mrs Alltits would say they need: a good wank. There's nothing like a good wank for making you feel better about the world, except for fantastic sex with someone hot and up for it followed by lots of cuddles.
I did achieve my main aim of the date with my older admirer, which was to take another and much more attractive photo of him for the dating website. His former one was a gloomy cadaverous shot which would only have appealed to someone living in a gingerbread house and wanting to feed him up, or someone like me who is prepared to completely overlook badly taken selfies in case the person is just not a very good photographer. It is important on these sites to have a photo with a smile and I hope he gets more friendly dates and other women can have the pleasure of tea and cakes with him.
He tried to pay for the tea, which I think is a gennelmanly courtesy. And he also courteously let me pay for my half when I insisted. In "date-speak" what that means is:
"I really like you and would like to meet again."
"You're cute but I'm not going to let you shag me."
Him being OK about it meant he would not hassle me and make a nuisance of himself by pestering me to go back and drink more Oolong and Lapsang Souchong.
Oh, the restricted code of dating linguistics!
Undaunted by the popper disaster on my first date, I decided I would wear stockings along to my third and hottest date, even though I had to go to work before going on to my assignation. However, the popper disaster had left me without the dubious support of my flimsy old suspender belt.
I have felt vague dissatisfaction for years with the suspenders you can get on the high street, which seem to be designed for one-off wear on your wedding night. (Let's hope the marriages hold up longer than the suspenders.) A kind guy I met online who also likes to wear lacy lingerie had turned me on to a good site with great alternatives. (He turned me on in other ways too, but he lived too far away more's the pity.) I hadn't had time to get a sturdy six-strap replacement and I thought it would be too much to wear my blackberry basque on a first date. However, I do own a fetching peach bra and panty set, decorated in black embroidery, which has black suspenders you can hook into ingenious loops sewn discreetly on the panties. I have had trouble with these before, but I thought that wearing them with holdups I would not have any problems.
I caught the bus early in the morning down to the train station, and - like the Captain of a submarine on which a mutiny is brewing - was already aware of trouble down below. As I walked along from the bus-stop, matters were becoming critical.
Maybe I'm not 'curvaceous' enough, but I find holdup stockings never actually hold up on my muscular thighs, and I always have to wear suspenders as well. Anyway, these misnamed 'holdups' were sliding down instead of holding up. The 'pulldowns' were pulling on the suspender straps attached to my black-embroidered peach panties. By the time I was on the stairs going up to the train, the panties had slid over my arse cheeks and were halfway down my thighs round where the stocking tops ought to have been, but weren't any more. My cunt was enjoying the benefit of the fresh morning breeze blowing along the platform. (I live near the coast so this was probably healthy sea air, which is some consolation for my embarrassing predicament.)
I managed to pick up a smoked salmon and cream cheese breakfast roll, looking intently into the eyes of the guys behind the stall to make sure they didn't glance down at my legs at all. I staggered onto the train where I was able to adjust my netherwear in the toilet.
I just about got through work, as I was sitting down. Afterwards, however, with a brisk walk ahead of me to meet up with my hot date, I decided enough was enough.
Luckily I had put on my top boots, because I knew I'd have to walk a fair bit. I unhooked the suspenders from the peach panties, put them away in my handbag and rolled my stockings down into the boots round my fatted calves. It was a shame as the stockings had that nice shimmer which shows off your legs, but since I was in boots I wasn't showing off my legs to their full glory anyway. (Someone did once comment to me as I walked out of a bar after explaining he was too young: "Nice legs," to which I replied: "Yes, my tits are not bad either.")
As for my date ... it was chaotic, it was funny, it was sunny. There were swans on the harbour waters. We drank too much, said too much, and spent hours wandering around, chatting and chatting.
It was great. Towards the end (I shan't tell how it happened that he noticed this), he said my legs were very cold. I was a bit drunk by then, so I laughed and told him about the stocking disaster, and he said: "I like stockings."
This was so promising that I went on a second date with him. In fact, although I was worried it would be 'too much', I wore my blackberry basque and matching knickers on the second date.
My basque is extremely difficult to put on by yourself as it has to be hooked up with a lot of small hooks and eyes at the back, so you can tell how much I wanted to pull this hot guy. To do the basque up, I had to do up five of the hooks at the front first, then twist the basque round the curve of my tummy and put my arms in the ruched shoulder straps, wriggling my boobs in. Reaching behind me in a manner which pushes my breasts right out and strains the basque, making things even more difficult, I then had to hook up the basque at the back. Twice I hooked into the wrong eyelet, and had to undo the basque and start again, with my tits sticking out, straining against the blackberry cups of the basque, and my very long hair all over the place.
My date accused me of undoing a couple of buttons on my dress at a key moment, to reveal the splendours of the blackberry basque, matching knickers and lace-topped black stockings I was wearing underneath. Honestly, the buttons just are loose in the holes! (I may have been wriggling at the time.)
I will admit, though, that I wore a red dress made of some clinging material even though I knew it was showing the outline of the suspender straps under it. I was worried it would all be too much. However I was reassured by the very warm friendliness of a total stranger who sat opposite me on the train. Also, when I got off the train and offered my ticket to the guard at the barrier, he said: "Thank you very much! Very nice," without looking at or collecting my ticket.