Isabella - Strangers in the Night

Author's Note: this story revisits a Floating World chapter, but features a different woman. It was written privately, but is now published publicly, with her permission.

* * * *

Isabella looked through the conference listings for the afternoon, hoping the speakers would be lively, interesting. The lunch put on by the organisers had been better than expected, tasty, some delicacies, and had left her feeling content, and if truth be told, rather sleepy. She'd seen the first session after lunch described, somewhere, as the death-watch, so she hoped this one wouldn't be.

She read a little of the blurb about the next speaker, Adam Cain, and thought his topic sounded interesting, if a little dry. Still, it was a subject she had some knowledge of, so she was hopeful.

She made her way to the auditorium and chose a table slightly off to one side, not near the front, nor down the back either. She nodded to the others sitting there, and made herself comfortable. With her long legs she found it best to sit at the side of the table so she could stretch her legs out towards the speaker. She pulled the drop of her full skirt over her right leg, so that it wouldn't fall in the aisle between the tables. The cloth pulled tight against her long thigh, drawing attention to her legs.

She settled back and looked around. There must have been over a hundred attendees, and she wondered what it would be like to speak to that many people. She couldn't do it, that was certain, and she already admired the confidence of someone who could.

She saw the conference chair step forward to the microphone to introduce the next speaker, Adam Cain; who in turn stepped forward and made his way to the podium, undoing a button on his suit as he did so.

He adjusted the microphone stalk quickly and without fuss, as if he'd already worked out how sensitive it was, and how loudly he needed to speak.

She saw his hands lightly take hold of the sides of the lectern, relaxed; almost as if he were welcoming the audience into his arms.

Isabella took the moment of silence to study his face, an elegant silver beard cropped very short in a sexy stubble, and short silvery hair. He was a handsome man. He brushed a hand up over the right side of his head, and she thought it might be an automatic thing, to show he was ready.

He looked slowly around the room and began to speak, softly at first to get everyone's attention. His accent was cultured Australian, and Isabella thought she detected touches of an English accent in it. It was a beautiful voice to listen to.

She realised his low voice was a trick, to make the audience lean forward to hear him better. She'd done so herself, leaning forward, her cheek resting on her hand, until she thought, a foot will make no difference, and she sat back, more comfortable. And yes, his voice was exactly at the same level. She smiled inwardly, pleased with herself for seeing through the artifice.

She found him fascinating. He exuded confidence, command, not only of his subject matter (his talk was interesting, and Isabella found herself nodding agreement with his commentary) but more so, his audience. She watched him speak, and saw how he favoured each section of his audience equally. She saw how he granted his attention to a slice of the audience at a time, first to the listeners over to his left, on the other side of the room to where she sat; then further back, to the "left back", as it where. Then the centre of the room, and so on.

Isabella thought, with a sudden thrill, what will he do when his attention comes around to us? She was generous, and included the tables around her in her revery as to the way Adam Cain would look upon her part of the audience. Would he find us more interesting than the rest?

She suddenly, unaccountably, focused on his hands, the way they held the lectern, relaxed, comfortable. In a sudden flash, she wondered what those hands would feel like on her waist. Jesus fuck, Isabella, where in God's name did that thought come from? Jesus wept. She blushed, and pulled a skein of hair over her cheek to hide herself.

And to her horror, Isabella saw that Adam Cain had seen her. He looked straight at her, and was that the tiniest smile in his eyes? And to confirm her terror, her shame, she saw his forefinger lift from the side of the lectern and point straight at her.

Surely not, his fingers held the lectern as before, and his eyes had moved on.

Isabella recovered herself with a number of deep breaths, and managed to absorb what he was saying. A few minutes later, though, his attention came around to her table again, but this time Isabella was ready, composed, impenetrable. She'd seen his trick, and thought it must be a public speaker's ploy, to pretend he was talking only to her in those few moments, before he moved on. She meant nothing, she was just someone in his audience.

She resented that. It became personal, his disdain for his audience, for her. She thought, you arrogant prick, doing that; and her hackles rose.

But the bastard still fascinated her, his command of his topic, his command of her. Why in God's name had she personalised this? He was just a public speaker, at a commercial conference, for goodness sake. It was just a transaction, to make a buck, and the guy was only using what was in his tool box.

The next time Adam looked in her direction, she quite deliberately lifted one side of her hair over to the other side of her head, drawing attention to her thick, heavy hair. Did his eyes darken? Surely, too far away to tell.

The remaining fifteen minutes of his talk continued in the same way, his scan of the audience, his momentary attention, then his moving on. Isabella accepted that it was all just technique, it wasn't personal, and she forgave him. But when she stood at the end of it, after a small scatter of applause for Adam, she was wet, a heavy arousal deep in her belly.

After his presentation, there was a small break for coffee and tea, and a slice of cake or a biscuit, or fruit. Isabella helped herself to a coffee, which tasted ordinary, and a small slice of cake, which was sweet.

She stood alone, by a wall, still befuddled by her arousal. She couldn't quite think straight. She rubbed the back of her neck to sooth herself. With some uncanny sense, she felt she was being watched. More than watched, more like being circled.

"I find the coffee at these places appalling."

She heard a familiar voice to her left, and without thinking, without realising who it was, she replied, "I find it okay, with extra sugar," and turned to him. "Oh," she said, "it's you."

What on earth was she thinking, saying that?

"Yes, it's me," Adam replied, with a generous smile. "I feel I should apologise, my talk, my attention. I think I caught you unguarded, unprepared."

He stood directly in front of her, and in her heels, Isabella was taller by an inch or so, but he didn't seem perturbed by her height. Many men would be, and Isabella often found reactions to a tall woman tedious.

"My singling you out. It's pure chance, a speaker's technique I learned years ago. It's not personal, merely a way of engaging my audience."

"But it seems very intimate," Isabella surprised herself, "when you look so directly at someone, who's a stranger."

"An intimate stranger," he repeated. "That's an intriguing idea. I suppose it is. Very intimate.

"But you know who I am, already. Adam Cain." He introduced himself, with his hand outstretched to shake hers.

"Isabella," she replied, "Isabella..." But she suddenly withheld her surname, not quite prepared to share that intimacy yet.

She saw him accept her anonymity, with a small nod.

"Isabella. It's good to meet you."

The way he said her name bristled goose bumps on her arms, and her sex heated in a quick wet arousal. She shook his hand in return, looking down at his long fingers held in hers. She reluctantly let him go. He had her name, and he'd lingered on hers as he'd said it.

"Your talk, I found it interesting, a different view. Did you..." and she went on to engage him, confident in herself for a change, because she had views on the topic, even opinions. They chatted for the remainder of the break, and she relaxed into his company, his undivided attention.

"Isabella," he turned back to her. "Would you have dinner with me? Tomorrow night, after the conference is done? I have to do the formal thing tonight, honorary guests and so on. But I think I'd rather have dinner with you. If you're still here, obviously. Tomorrow night."

Isabella had been flying out on a mid-morning flight, but instantly she thought, re-arrange flights.

"Yes, I would love that."

"In the bar at six, then, tomorrow night?"

"Yes. At six. How will I recognise you?" She laughed, and touched his arm with her long fingers, lightly.

"Oh, I think I'll remember your face."

Isabella blushed, but didn't turn away. He knew this much about her already, she couldn't hide it. Didn't want to.

"Tomorrow night, then," he said.

"Tomorrow evening, yes," she replied.

"Isabella," he said in a low voice that reached deep into her body and grabbed her cunt, "I said the night. Not just the evening."

He left her. Her hand shook as she placed the coffee cup down on the table, the saucer rattling, nearly dropped. She made her way quickly to the rest room, still shaking, so wet.

That night, she bowed out of the formal conference dinner because she didn't think she could trust herself. She knew, too, that Adam would be doing the post conference small talk, and she couldn't share him; so she'd rather not be there at all.

So she re-booked her flight, phoned home to say she'd been unaccountably delayed, some muck up with the flights so Sylvia, could you walk the dogs? Thanks, honey.

She ordered a light room service meal, and poured herself an Australian red from one of the small bottles in the mini-bar. She sat on the balcony in the dropping summer night and it was still warm, the meal tasty and her belly content, the second glass smooth on her tongue.

Adam had deep blue eyes that penetrated hers, and when she lowered her tank top to her wandering fingers, she imagined her body long into the night, not just the evening. And when her own long fingers wandered down to the base of her belly, nudging her panties aside, his long fingers were there beside hers.

In the morning Isabella realised she had the luxury of a whole day to herself, before she met Adam at six. She decided to start it with decadence. She'd allowed herself to sleep in, then taken a long luxurious shower, during which she skimmed a razor over her legs to make them silky smooth, and she tidied up her pubic hair. Not that she expected anyone but herself to see the neat triangular patch, but why not imagine?

She wondered what Adam Cain would prefer, by way of pussy. He was of the generation that had grown up with natural women in the magazines of the eighties, so she indulged herself with the idea that he'd like a patch of fur like hers, a wide delta at the base of her belly. Not that she expected him ever to see it, because that would mean revealing herself after only twenty-four hours, and that wasn't going to happen.

Oh, really, Isabella? You think that, given the haste in which you re-booked your ticket? She tried to ignore the devil sitting on her left shoulder. You want your stranger lust fuck fantasy, hard and quick, the devil whispered.

Brunch, Isabella. The angel on her right shoulder countered the fundamental wickedness of the situation, and together they justified everything with a visit to the superb city gallery later that morning, followed by a short cruise on a boat on the lake, followed by a delightful late lunch under parasols, down by the water's edge.

But then her devil played a trump card. Isabella always had a weakness for lingerie, lacy and figure hugging, and her devil steered her upstairs in a beautiful emporium to a very gorgeous skinny girl with too much make up and possibly too much enthusiasm for a personalised fitting, where Isabella's blushes fought the fabulous deep burgundy underwear the girl encouraged her to try on.

"Your figure, so lush and bold! Do wear it, Madame, you must. The colour, it's superb. Against your skin, the softness of skin and the delicacy of lace, the colour!" Isabella was sure the girl would take her home on her fingertips.

She didn't tell the girl she'd deliberately chosen the colour because it was identical to the deep red, blood red colour of her clitoris after she came. But that's not something one tells a shop assistant. But it was something to feel filthy about, the idea of dinner with Adam Cain with the colour of her cunt about her waist and belly, cupping her voluptuous breasts.

You'll be wearing your own cunt, Isabella, said her devil, who made her do it.

The angel countered with a demure black figure hugging lace skirt and matching top she'd brought from home, with her daughter's approval. "Mom, you've got a proper woman's figure which fits nicely into that dress, and it flatters your boobs. No cleavage, which you always like."

"Sylvia," she rang her, "which earrings go best with my black lace dress?"

"The silver twists, Mom. Put your hair up, that sexy tangled look."

"I'm not seeing anyone, Sylv."

"Sure, Mom. Stop blushing. I can hear it."

"Oh, all right. He's a part time writer. And a project manager. I'm not quite sure what he does most."

"We don't need a bridge, Mom."

"Oh Sylv. Stop teasing your poor mother."

"You'll look wicked. You always do. Gotta go, Mom, Lucy's here."

"Love you, darling."

"Love you more!"

Isabella contemplated her daughter, who didn't judge her on anything.

Around five, she took all her clothes off and scrutinised herself in the floor length mirror opposite the bed. The idea of the mirror in itself was filthy and arousing - what was it about up-market hotels that made everything seem to be related to illicit sexual activity? Extra-marital fucking, to put it in its simplest terms.

She sat on the edge of the bed and spread her legs. Her pussy displayed (gazing at herself in the mirror she was suddenly taken with an exhibitionist urge to shout her cunt loud to the world), her cunt displayed (the stronger word now throbbing in her mind) smooth outer lips with inner labia like tiny butterflies, and the little hard nub of her clit emerged from its hood, as it always did. She studied herself, the neatly trimmed curls of her patch, the darker colours of her puss compared to the snowy whiteness of her inner thighs. That's a part of me that doesn't see the sun, she thought.

She stood up and ran her hands over her full breasts, down into her hourglass waist, and out over her hips. That's a solid cradle to trap a man within, she thought, and she remembered Adam Cain's broad shoulders and slim hips, resisting the thickening of middle age. A man like that, she was sure, would be content to lie trapped within those hips. Not that it was going to happen, even if their assignation was only an hour away.

Isabella's devil helped her slip into the clit red lingerie and made her comfortable within the colour of her cunt. The underwear was gorgeous, with velvet panels on the outside of her hips and under the curve of her breasts, and intricate lace over her mons and belly, and in the cups of the bra. You look sexy as fuck, said her devil.

Her angel countered with the demure look of her black lace dress to cover the sin of her colours. Her devil sniggered, seeing how closely the dress clung to her curves. You look sexier than fuck, observed the devil.

Isabella, being practical, and able at times to ignore her distractions, selected a dark green shawl for her shoulders, in case the evening got cool. She piled up her hair as Sylvia had suggested, with two clips, that sexy tangled look. She hoped there wasn't too much grey.

She remembered Adam's warning about the night, and her nipples tightened. It's the cool air, she tried to convince herself. Her devil sat on her shoulder and laughed. Of course it is, honey, you keep thinking that.

She grabbed her small, impractical clutch, which contained the bare minimum - the entry tag for her door, her credit card in case they went Dutch, but she thought that unlikely, her lippy (a daughter approved colour, sexy but discreet) and a small pack of tissues. Nothing more - what could a girl need, in a swish hotel? Nothing much.

* * * *

She looked at her phone, 5:55, then turned it off. With a deep breath and a combined sense of fear and excitement, she made her way to the elevator, hoping against hope that Adam would be in the bar before she got there. On the way down, she leaned her forehead against the cool metal of the elevator's wall, and wondered what on earth she was doing. Never in her life had she gone so willingly to a stranger. Never in her life had she been more willing to be fucked, even though she knew that wasn't going to happen.

Down in the lobby she looked around, then made her way to the bar. In three inch heels, her height and her curves, Isabella knew she stood out. She knew too, the colour of her underwear, and the devil was riding her shoulder. She'd never been so aware of her cunt as she walked. She might as well have been naked, her lips shining, glistening, the same red as the soles of her Loubotin heels; only heels, and two silver twists hanging from her ears. She thought of O, with the chain heavy from her lips, swaying lightly against her inner thighs.

Even so, she jumped when a hand touched her back, and a familiar voice said, Isabella, you're delicious. You look good enough to eat.

"Isabella, it's so good to see you, I've been looking forward to it, all day." His hand caressed her back. "I thought we'd go straight to the restaurant. You don't mind?"

She realised later that Adam must have been waiting in the lobby, to avoid her having an embarrassing wait on her own in an up-market hotel bar. People might have thought her a high class hooker, two thousand dollars a night.

"Adam, hello. No, not at all, that would be lovely."

He nodded to the maître d', who escorted them to a table overlooking the river, with floor to ceiling windows revealing the spectacular view. With a flourish, the maître d' placed a napkin on Isabella's lap.

"Madame, may I take your shawl?"

"No, thank you. I'll keep it with me. I feel the cold, sometimes."

More so goosebumps, from Adam's storm cloud eyes looking steadily at her.

"Isabella. You look very beautiful. That black lace suits you, and your hair..."

will fall between your fingers when you undo the clip

"Oh, my hair. I never know what to do with it." My hair, which falls to the line of my nipples when I let it fall, when the clips are removed from my hair, when I'm naked.

"It seems to look after itself," said Adam. "It's very sexy." Isabella managed to accept the compliment with only the slightest prickle on her skin, and Adam had the grace to look away, to catch a waiter's attention. "Now, shall we choose a wine, or would you prefer a cocktail, perhaps, before we order?"

"What would you recommend?"

"Let's do James Bond. Vodka Martini -- "

"Shaken, not stirred." She laughed, the familiar line play acting, but she sensed with Adam, this night probably wasn't a game. She remembered his quiet warning from the day before, and her own shaking hands. A shot of hard alcohol would fortify her.

The waiter came over and efficiently took their drinks order.

The cocktails arrived. They clinked the glasses together with the bright ting of crystal.

"Cheers," he said, "to a beautiful evening, with a beautiful lady." He looked straight at her as he said it, and Isabella thought, is this a test? Or was it she who'd imagined the night being said?

She dared not say the word, but was even braver. "To us."