Festival

Hungerford Bridge on a Friday evening. The sun beats down and I have Radiohead in my ears to hypnotise me against the minor irritancies of City life as I hurry my way to the train station at the end of a long week. Ambling tourists criss-cross my path to admire the view of the City of London, while I behind my shades admire their breasts, their legs, their tight buttocks in cut off shorts. Fellow office drones hurry alongside me, each picking the most efficient route through the throng, to make it their wife, their husband, their lover, their friends, or just a lonely glass of cold beer to start the weekend fun.

'Jim!'

I snap out of my reverie, confused momentarily, scanning around to see a familiar face, taking the speaker buds from my ears. There's a big-breasted 40-ish woman grinning at me. She's wearing the biggest, ugliest pair of polka-dotted sunglasses I've ever seen. My mind races to think who this woman is. Someone from the football team's wife?

'Fancy seeing you here!' she says, smiling once more.

The accent gives it away. Perfect English but a distinct Germanic accent. It's Ingrid, the wife of Wolfgang, our Austrian winger. They both work for a German merchant bank in the City, and I've met Ingrid a couple of times at football club socials. We had a pretty good chat both times, but being drunk on both occasions all I remember of her is that we shared an interest in classical music. And that she has stupendous breasts. Typical man.

'Hi Ingrid, great to see you. I love your sunglasses!' Liar, but a person could only wear something that hideous if they really loved it.

She fingers the glasses with pride. 'Chanel! E-Bay! A bargain.' She's smiling again. I said the right thing.

I take the beat in the conversation to take another look at her. She's tall, nearly as tall as I am, her hair is pulled back from her face into a ponytail, but leaving a stray flop of thick dark hair across her right eye. Her vertically striped summer dress is pulled in at the waist by a thin belt in a way that emphasises both the fullness of her chest and the delicious chunkiness of her hips. The outfit is finished off with what I hope are white stockings and a pair of red strappy shoes. I like the shoes. I like the stocking-clad legs more.

'So where are you hurrying off to?' she asks me.

I end my lascivious thoughts and look back at her face. 'Oh, meeting friends in Covent Garden. We're supposed to go and watch a film later, but to be honest I'm a bit whacked so I might just head home.'

Her face drops. 'Oh, that's a shame. I was about to ask you if you wanted to go a concert. My friend dropped out at the last minute and I have a spare ticket. It's Zimerman.' Her lips curl up at the corners as I see that she's wondering if I'll get the reference to the legendary Polish pianist. It's a hot ticket, one that I wouldn't turn down even if it wasn't in the hands of such a beautiful woman. It takes me about a second to decide to go to the concert, but I prolong the uncertainty a little just for fun.

I tease, 'What's he doing? If it's anything too Tuetonic I might not be able to digest it.'

'Chopin études first half and Lutoslawski for the second'.

'Chopin...how romantic. I hope Wolfgang wont be jealous.'

Bad move. She scowls. 'Wolfgang can go fuck himself. Do you want to come or not?' Wow, fiery. This could be interesting.

'Okay.'

We turn and head back across the bridge towards the Festival Hall. The sun lights up the beautiful white Portland stone of the façade and we chat about music as we make our way through the crowds, discussing recent concerts we've been to. As we stroll I steal glances at Ingrid from the corner of my eye and also notice the looks we get from passers-by. Looks of envy. I reckon we look a pretty good couple, me in my charcoal suit with pale green-striped shirt and emerald tie, and her in her well-fitting blue-striped summer dress. Successful, smart and attractive. Just that we're not a couple. Too bad. I feel a large amount of envy for Wolfgang, and curiosity as to what he did to piss off this beauty beside me.

In the Festival Hall there's the usual pre-concert crowd. Mostly middle-aged and above, well-heeled Londoners, a few foreigners showing off trophy wives, a smattering of Chinese students, harassed-looking parents with sulky teenagers in their worst best outfits. Their chatter echoes through the main bar, the sound increased by the clatter of heels on polished floors. I hate crowds.

'Let's go upstairs, I've got my Member's Card with me, we can get away from the masses and have a quick G and T before kick-off.'

She takes off her sunglasses and puts them away in her handbag. 'Whatever you say.' She says it with an ironic glint in her eye that I like.

We ascend to the sixth floor in the lift. It's the first time I've been able to get close enough to her to smell her perfume. I breathe in deeply. Citrus, but with a depth of something else, something like coffee. Quite masculine. Heady stuff. An awkward silence in the intimacy of the lift, during which I revel in the blueness of Ingrid's finally unmasked eyes, an intimacy broken by the doors opening onto the Members' Bar.

'What would you like to drink?'

'I thought you already told me I was having a gin and tonic.' She's raising her eyebrow at me, teasing me.

'So I did', I smile, 'Grab a table and I'll be with you in a sec.'

I turn to the bar as if to order the drink but turn back after a second so that I can admire her full backside as she stalks off to find a free table. The bar's fairly busy, but a lot more relaxed than downstairs. The bartender is looking at me sullenly as I order our drinks, and a couple more for half-time. A Polish girl, rather plain, but with perky breasts under the statutory RFH logo-ed t-shirt. On another night I might have asked her if she wanted to skip work and come to the concert with me, but not on this one.

Taking our drinks I find Ingrid sitting in a sofa beside a low table. A prime spot. Through the broad glass windows there's a panorama of Westminster with boats cruising along the Thames beneath the busy skyline. But my eyes aren't attracted by the view outside, they're drawn to the way that Ingrid's skirt has ridden across her thighs, the material stretched tight just above her pressed together knees. Already my mind is calculating just how far up her legs I might be able to see when I sit down myself. I put the drinks down and as I sit down also take the opportunity to glance at her wonderful breasts. I think briefly about how they would feel cupped in my hands fucking her from behind, and feel the stirring of an erection in my boxers. I need to settle down a little, this could end up being embarrassing.

'Thanks for the drink, but we'll have to be quick. The concert starts in twenty minutes.'

'No problem. I ordered the same again for the interval -- to save us queueing.'

'Oh, you think of everything don't you?'

'I think about a lot of things.'

I notice that she has parted her knees slightly, allowing me to see slightly up the inside of her thigh, but not quite high enough to decide whether she's wearing stockings or tights.

'Are you enjoying the view?' She's smiling ironically at me again.

I look out of the window. 'I've seen it so many times I barely notice it any more. Especially when there are more attractive prospects in the room.'

'I don't know what you mean?'

I look at her steadily, more boldly than before. 'I think you do.'

She smiles, slugs back the remains of her drink, and gets up. 'Come on, let's get to our seats.'

The seats we have are in the choir, behind the piano, but virtually on the stage. Practically the whole of the rest of the auditorium is visible to us, as well as the pianist himself. Zimerman is a revelation, bringing out the drama and romanticism of Chopin's music to the full. I find myself lost in the music, closing my eyes for the last piece in C Minor, the rolling, restless music filling my chest with tension, before finding release in the last ringing chord. It is only as I hear the audience applause that I open my eyes and realise that my right hand has been gripping Ingrid's thigh for who knows how long, while my left has scrunched the concert programme into a tight roll. I know I should take my hand away, but enjoy the feeling of the sheer fabric of her dress sliding along her smooth skin for just a few seconds more before I release her, apologising for getting carried away as I do so.

'Oh, I don't mind at all', she says, 'There are few people who get quite so intensely wrapped up in the music.'

'Chopin does that to me', I say, a little embarrassed by my emotion. 'I'm so glad to have bumped into you, it's almost providential that I met you on the bridge.'

'Providential!' She's grinning, her eyes twinkling, 'You're so melodramatic.'

'Is that a bad thing?...I think I need a drink, I'm not sure Lutoslawki's going to be able to live up to that.'

'I'm just going to the loo', she looks at me, she seems a little flushed, 'I'll see you in the bar.'

I make my way up to the bar and pick up our drinks. No tables being available I stand against the railing by the window, gazing at the sun setting over London. Nelson on his column is silhouetted against the reddening sky, surprisingly close. Life feels good. Ingrid seems to take a very long time to return from the bathroom. Now, I feel a hand on my waist, slipping something into my jacket pocket. From her perfume I know that it's Ingrid. I can feel her breasts brushing against my back as she leans into my ear.

'That's a little present for you', she breathes in my ear, 'But don't look at it yet. I'll tell you when.'

She takes her drink from my hand and moves around to come beside me, sharing the view. She's leaning against the rail and I can look down the top of her dress if I drift my eyes that way. I drift my eyes that way and forget to drift them back.

'You know the Chopin was so good, I'm not sure I'm in the mood for the second half,' she says, eyeing me sideways.

I look up. Caught! 'Oh really? Well, I guess we could just have a drink here.'

'Don't you still feel like you need an emotional release?'

People are drifting back to the auditorium, hurried along by the bell.

'I guess....' I put my hand in my pocket. I feel a small, silky bundle, like a handkerchief but more complicated. And it feels warm, slightly damp. Confusion in my mind, I put a questioning look to Ingrid.

'Those are my knickers Jim. When I went to the bathroom I had to bring myself off. The combination of the music and your hand on my thigh had already got me halfway to an orgasm. I fingered myself through my knickers and thought of your fingers being on my clit. I hope you don't mind?'

Mind?! My cock springing to hardness in seconds as I listen to her.

'I might have to take myself in hand if you keep talking like that.'

'Oh, I rather hoped you'd let me do that. The concert's started now, if we go to the bathroom we should have some peace and quiet.'

'Your place or mine?' I quip.

'Oh, yours.'

I lead the way to the Gent's. We go in and I turn to face her.

'No, I'm not going to fuck you, or even kiss you. Face the mirror'.

I face the mirror, watching her in the reflection. She comes close to me once more, again pressing her breasts against my back. I can feel her fingers unzipping my fly, searching inside my boxers for my hard cock and freeing it through the material. I sigh as I feel her peeling back my foreskin, causing my bell-end to swell even more. She removes her hand briefly to dip into my pocket and pick up her knickers. I watch in the mirror as she inspects them, smells them, then wraps them around my cock.

'How does that feel?' she whispers into my ear.

All I can do is let out a groan of lust. She's stroking my cock up and down now, slowly. Her thumb and forefinger have formed a circle that she uses to rub the length of my shaft, squeezing me expertly. I can feel her full breasts in my back, and I look through half-closed eyes at her face smiling at me in the mirror, her blue eyes flashing at me as she starts to increase the pace of her strokes. My balls tighten as I feel the excitement of orgasm begin to twitter in my stomach. Her left hand comes around to delve into my trousers and squeeze my balls, digging her nails there, rooting underneath to cup my balls as her fist pumps my cock.

'Are you going to come for me darling?' she whispers, and then kisses the back of my neck.

'Yesss', I breathe, feeling the spunk rising in my balls.

Closing my eyes I can feel nothing but the wonderful caress of her long fingers sliding up and down my shaft. Then as I feel my cock start to twitch I open up my eyes to see her looking intensely at my face in the mirror and I feel my hot spunk spurting out of my cock, Spurting all over the sink, up to the base of the mirror. Long, thick wads of come landing all over the ceramics and the last strokes drippling into Ingrid's used silk panties. I let out a huge sigh and shudder, my hips and cock twitching in the aftermath of orgasm, collapsing back against Ingrid, luxuriating in her arms wrapped around me still.

She carefully wipes my cock with her knickers, folds them up and deposits them back in my jacket pocket before zipping me up.

'Now, let's go and get that drink', she says, grinning. 'And this time I'll choose.'