Proust & Annie at the Four Seasons

Proust & Annie at the Four Seasons.

I was reading Proust, but I was not entirely lost in the world of Mme Swann and her daughter. The line-10 train was heaving with people towards the end of the Beijing morning rush and although I had a place to lean, against the far-side doors, I still needed half my mind on my wallet and my close neighbours.

At Songjiazhuang it got worse, and I had reluctantly to put In the Shadow of Girls in Bloom back in my laptop-bag to give people space. A woman in front of me with her eyes fixed on her phone shuffled backwards, and as the train moved off I could feel her: shoulders swaying against my chest and her left buttock against my left thigh. I tensed up a little.

Sway forwards, sway back, sway away from me, sway into me. The crowd both prevented her from reaching any handhold and largely obviated any need for one; but I imagined anyway that she needed support and spread my feet a couple of inches wider apart, as though I might thereby catch her with one quadriceps if there were a sudden acceleration sliding her across me.

Surely I could feel both her cheeks now, against my thighs, with each rock of the carriage. Surely her upper body was hitting my chest a bit more centrally than before? Sway away from me, sway into me.

Through Fenzhongsi and Shilihe, I let my eyes wander to and fro about a gaze I tried to keep fixed generally forward. The woman was not looking away from her phone's screen. Had she any idea what I looked like? I couldn't say. She wore a plain white cotton blouse, decorously buttoned all the way up; charcoal trousers, snug around her bottom; and smart flat white shoes with ornamental brass buckles.

I wondered idly how old she was. Her hair, inches below my face, seemed not quite thick enough for the flush of youth, but it was a lustrous black and her skin looked smooth and toned. Her hair hung straight down, to just below her shoulders. Perhaps twenty-eight (two years older than I was), perhaps thirty? I allowed my eyes to wander again, then looked down. She had definitely shifted backwards. It was impossible, now, that she was not conscious of my cock and balls bumping up against the top of her crack in the gentle rhythm of the train; but whether that meant she wanted anything more than to daydream for a few minutes that morning, ah, well; no evidence at all, of course.

We let the oscillation of the train excite us. I pushed forwards -- the tiniest extra push -- every two seconds as she fell against me. Perhaps she could tell; perhaps she thought she was imagining it. I thought I could detect the smallest extra gyration of her arse against my legs, but that too was perhaps imagination. Imperceptibly to other passengers, I hoped, I slumped my shoulders and inhaled the smell of her hair.

That, she had to feel. The train drew in to Jinsong, and as its speed fell the swaying stopped but there was no question of our stopping. We ground together, in the same gentle rhythm, my crotch against her soft buttocks as I bent my knees a fraction, as though the train's motion had continued just for us. A lot of passengers got off, but nearly as many got on so we had no reason to seek more space. I lifted my head again and enjoyed the renewed swaying as the train pulled out of the station and we resumed play.

Suddenly there was a jerk as the driver decided to pick things up a bit. I had some leverage with the carriage wall at my back, and semi-instinctively I put my left hand out to catch the woman as she fell across me, thrusting my left leg forward too. 'Xiexie' she muttered -- nobody ever offers particularly effusive thanks for a rush-hour save, after all -- but she turned her head just enough for us to see each other.

Well, I don't look my best in a rush-hour metro with a laptop bag over one shoulder any more than anyone else does; I can't account for it. But I liked what I saw: a café-au-lait complexion with round brown eyes, lighter brown than most; and a pretty snub nose -- and she smiled, with her eyes.

I let my left hand lie on her waist, where I had caught her, and she swapped her phone to her other hand, reached back and gave my hand a squeeze, then pushed it back and round over her arse. Peering round at the other passengers I decided we were in no danger of discovery for now, and caressed that side of her bum while still pushing my tackle into her crack with the swaying of the train. The next stop was mine and I had to make up my mind. I dug my own phone out, found the profile page with my number and nudged it under her other arm, holding her by the arse to try to help her stay steady. My heart rate was up now, not only from the arousal but also from nerves. I wanted this woman. That smile, and this firm pair of cheeks.

The train slowed down, and I was just beginning to feel a fool -- she was obviously ignoring me, of course there was no reason for her to be interested in any more than ten minutes' frottage, why would I think she'd want to call -- when she swiped her phone screen suddenly, pulled my forearm against her waist as a rest to hold my phone steady, and snapped a picture of my screen.

The doors opened. I turned towards her, edged past face to face and squeezed her bum as the closest thing to an embrace, and let the crowd expel me onto the platform. Others boarded, and when I turned round to look back into the carriage she was gone.

I had a fifteen-minute stroll to the office I needed to visit -- I was doing paralegal work for an international law firm at the time - and I spent it wondering whether this slim, sensual woman would call after one minute, no; five minutes, no; at all. Unusually for me, my eyes scarcely wandered to other women as I walked.

My business took two hours to transact. I could have gone home, but I had a good feeling about the area. I read in a coffee shop for a while and decided to have lunch in a café in a nearby building. I had just ordered a light bowl of pasta when my phone sang its incoming-text tone.

Hello, it said. This morning was fun. I had to stop off before work and buy new undies at a convenience store because I was so wet. Now my new ones are getting wet as I'm thinking of seeing you again. I finish work at 6.00 at the Lufthansa Centre, what about you? My name is Annie.

Lots of Chinese people pick a random English name to use when dealing with foreigners, presumably because their own names are hard to pronounce. 'Annie' is a nice normal choice compared to some. Actually she wrote her text in a mixture of Chinese and English but tilted enough towards English for me to get it all. Once I had finished daydreaming over just how lucky I might get that evening, I decided she could probably understand English well enough to cope with an entirely English reply, and that it would be good to make her wait for a while before I sent her one. I sipped my beer, considered how much fun it would be to splurge on a top hotel, and waited for my pasta; and eventually texted her back:

Hi Annie, this is Nigel. I can stay at the Four Seasons round the corner from the Lufthansa Centre tonight. See you in the lobby at 6.15. Don't change your underwear again before then.

Pwong, said the phone. Text sent.

The afternoon passed pretty quickly. After lunch I called the firm and span them some lies, got a taxi to the Four Seasons and took a room. One advantage of making up my mind to splash out was that I knew even the slightly-cheaper rooms would have big enough bathrooms to have some fun, and sure enough this one was a generous size. Oh, if things lined up right...there was room for three men to bend a girl each over the bath, the basin, and the toilet while another couple went at it under the rain shower, but I only wanted the opulence for Annie and me.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon shopping: two fresh shirts -- one for the evening and one for the next morning -- and smalls for myself, and, hmm, something for Annie. Tricky: anything too expensive and a woman might easily feel that she was being bought like a working girl. Nothing wrong with prostitutes; I'd happily debate in a neutral setting against anyone who talks them down, but I didn't want to embark on an argument about it with Annie. I was about to go to another shop for a posh-but-safely-boring box of chocolates, but then had an idea while I was still in the clothes shop.

After that, one brief visit to a pharmacy, and I was done. I took my purchases back to the hotel and left them in the room, showered and went back down to the bar to kill the last hour before properly meeting this intriguing and sexy woman.

I ordered a G&T, sat down in an armchair with Proust again and flicked through a few pages. "Each being is destroyed when we no longer see it; its next appearance is then a new creation, different from that which immediately preceded it, if not from all others. For the minimum of variety which can hold sway in such creations is of two." I pondered this. I had been wondering whether I would even recognise Annie, after seeing her face for a total of perhaps three seconds that morning, and getting anxious in case I got things off to a bad start by overlooking her as she walked straight towards me. Perhaps she was feeling the same. I sipped the cocktail and decided Marcel was right: there was no need to live up to anything from the morning; only to be a good companion and lover to Annie tonight.

At ten to I strolled downstairs to the lobby and found a chair where I was facing nearly door-wards, in clear view, and obviously alone; and sent a message. "I'm in the lobby in a chair opposite the front desk. I haven't looked forward to an evening this much for years."

I got lost among the Swanns again, and the next thing I knew from the real world was a pair of firm hands on my shoulders. I didn't turn round, but put one of my hands on one of hers, and leant back a little.

"Annie."

"Mm-hm. Nee-jell?"

In my head: sigh. Every time. But I smiled. "Nigel."

"Nigel. You didn't see me. I walked right past you," she said.

Bugger -- I'd missed her after all. But she was smiling too, thank heaven. "Sorry." I put the book down as though I didn't care if I ever saw it again, squeezed her hand and got up still holding it. We looked at each other silently for several seconds, feeling the attraction and lust build that had sparked into life on the metro with scarcely a sight of each other's faces. I liked the way Annie's hair caught over her ears rather than hiding them completely, and I liked the fact that there seemed to be no make-up other than a bit of mascara, and I loved the swell of her chest in her blouse. "I'm so happy to see you," I said. "Come up and show me whether you changed your panties again."

"I show you I not change," Annie pulled my hand quickly in between us as we stood together, breathed in tightly and pushed our hands down the front of her trousers, "but probably I should." Both our hands reached down and pressed against the gusset of her underwear: it was not dry. I pushed hard once, took my hand out and said "Good", and put my other arm round her waist to walk her round the corner to the lift vestibule. Once there, we stood and looked at each other again. She had a beautiful sparkle in her eyes and a naturally wide smile, and I loved the cut of her fringe that fell asymmetrically down to her right temple. I brought my fingers to my mouth and licked them. Sweet but sharp.

"Oh, fuck, you taste delicious, Annie," I said. "I can't wait to taste more of you. Do you like tasting yourself?"

She didn't answer until the lift came. The doors opened. "Watch me," she said as we walked in. Another couple entered with us; we stood at the back. Annie showed me her index and middle finger, slid them down the back of her trousers this time, and let me see them flexing beneath her clothes. Then she withdrew them, grabbed my hand and licked around all the fingertips, hers and mine, that had rubbed up against her wet panties and her arse-crack.

The other couple were heading higher than us. We walked down to my room hand in hand, and inside. "Wah, it's a nice room!" said Annie.

"Can you stay tonight?"

"Yes. I buy some more panties for tomorrow."

"That's good. I think maybe those," I stared at her crotch, "are going to get dirty. Come here. You're so cute," I said, actually meaning it. I sat on the bed and held out one hand to her, and she came and turned as she sat on my lap, facing away from me.

I rocked a bit. "Just like this morning, it feels so nice to slide my cock against you."

"Me too. I feel you hard. So hard. I want feel your real, your," she twisted round to look at me; "you call it 'cock'?"

"Yes."

"I only know 'penis'."

"That's OK. I don't mind if you want to feel my real penis or my real cock, as long as you are going to touch it, and lick it, and spread your legs open for it."

She got off, undid my belt and pulled my trousers and boxers down to the floor. "Nigel. Tell me more words." And she bent forward, sank her mouth over my cockhead, and looked up at me expectantly.

I leant back on my elbows so we could keep eye contact while she sucked me. "Okay. We tasted the juice from your vagina that was on your panties, and in the lift you rubbed your fingers against your anus and tasted them. You know those words?"

Annie nodded, and sucked, and slurped.

"Your vagina is also your pussy. Or your cunt. You're going to open your cunt for my cock later. And your anus is your arse, or your arsehole. Or," I was fairly sure we were going at least some steps down this path, "your shithole. You know 'piss' and 'shit'?"

More nodding and sucking.

"I'm glad you know those words. I like those words."

Suck.

"Did you like the taste of your shithole, just now?"

Nod.

"I want to taste it too. And I'm going to put my cock in your shithole tonight. I'm going to fuck your dirty arse. Will you suck me again when I take it out?'

Nod. I was liking this very much; I didn't want to programme the entire evening though. Maybe just one more question.

"Would you like to taste my dirty shithole too, Annie?"

She held eye contact with me, brought her head up so that only the tip of my cock was between her lips, and nodded a big nod that slid her mouth halfway down my long shaft. One finger traced a path down over my sack to my hole, and pushed.

"Good. But not now." I sat up again, took her face in my hands and lifted her slowly off me, brought my lips to hers and kissed her. She pulled me in and we ran our tongues together, sliding, pushing and flicking. I pushed my hands up underneath the back of her blouse, unclipped her bra clasp and brought my hands round to cup her tits. Firm and smooth, with large nipples, fitting perfectly in my palms, they felt amazing. I broke the kiss and pushed her bra and blouse upwards; she raised her arms and we undressed her top half. Annie leant back just a little in a 'like what you see?' pose; and I did like it. No silicone there: full handfuls of gorgeous breast, and just looking at her straight, dark-brown, already-hard nipples was keeping my cock pulsing and stiff. She looked into my eyes and we knew we had to get naked. I threw off my shirt, tore off my socks and shook my legs out of my crumpled trousers while she stood up and stepped gracefully out of hers. Her fingers went to the band of her newly-purchased panties to draw them down her legs too, but I took her wrists gently, stopped her and grabbed the front of the waistband myself. They were, indeed, a convenience-store item, plain eggshell blue but with a lacy frill around all the edges, and patched darker with moisture where they disappeared downwards. Standing up, I pulled; Annie fell against me and we kissed, harder; she stroked my cock again and I pressed my fingers between her legs.

Annie cried out and tensed, but in pleasure not in discomfort. I felt the moisture there, more than before, and felt her push back on my fingertips. The softness of her cuntlips and the sticky juice seemed to send further pulses of blood down to my groin, and I felt myself grow even thicker and harder. She stroked me, and I rubbed her lips and fingered just inside her, until my whole hand was covered in her mess and her new panties were almost dripping. I pulled my hand up, flicking her clit on the way, and she looked at me, and tugged once more on my rod, with an expression that meant Fuck Me.

Turning around so that she was between the bed and me, I pushed her back with one hand while holding her wet panties with the other, and she fell back on the bed. I jerked the gusset to the side, slid my cockhead once up and down along her labia, and thrust in. Annie's muscles gripped my shaft tightly as it opened her up: it was a glorious fusion of slippery and firm. "Annie," I said breathily, "so good! Your pussy is so good."

"Your cock," she looked at me as though I was a teacher checking her vocabulary and I smiled; "your cock is so big. Feels nice, don't stop!"

I couldn't. Reaching forward, I squeezed Annie's tits gently and sucked on her big nipples, then leant all the way over her so we could French-kiss. She pushed her tongue inside, nibbled on my lips, and reached round to hold my arse as I screwed into her. Our breathing quickened, and I wanted to get dirtier. I leant all my weight on one side and brought my other hand down to her pussy, slid my index and middle fingers up and down along the fleshy lips either side of my thrusts, covering them in her honey, and walked them back up her belly and over her breast to her mouth.

"So sexy. I taste them," Annie said, in between breaths, and licked along both my fingers as though they were sugared. I looked at her and reminded her, "I've hardly had any of that yet. Give me some, Annie." She looked at me and held my gaze as she did the same, soaking her fingers and giving them to me to suck into my mouth. I cleaned them pretty well, enjoying that sharpness, and kissed her to share the taste again. "I love it," she said, "my juice."

I kept thrusting. "Your juice from where?"

"My...pussy...my...cunt."

"Yeah. Your cunt-juice. You love your cunt-juice."

"I love my cunt-juice. Oh...Nigel. So good."

I kissed Annie again. "I want to taste more. Turn over, Annie." I also wanted to fuck her without that wet strip of panty cotton alongside my cock. I pulled out, yanked her panties down her legs and off in one sweep, helped her roll over onto her knees, and touched my glans to her pussy opening -- just to hear her beg.

"Put it in! Put it in! Oh, fuck my cunt! Put your cock in me." Annie was really loving dirty-talking in English, and I thought she would like a bit more. I slid back inside her wet vagina, used her sticky, slippery labia to coat my fingers again, and pushed the tip of my middle finger into her anus. It was just perfect: dark brown skin extended from her pussy all the way up and for an inch around it, and the tight ridges themselves were a pretty dark pink. Four or five hairs, no more, decorated it. "Annie," I said, pistoning my cock in her pussy deep but slow, "I want to taste more of you. I want to taste this hole. What's this hole?"

"Nnng. More."

She reached back, held on to my finger and tried to push it in further, but she had no leverage. I kept up the slow fucking, and kept just that fingertip inside her

"Uh-uh. Tell me what it's called. What's this beautiful hole?"

"Ahhhh! Anus...my...can't remem -- ah! ah! My shithole! My shithole!"

"Your clean shithole?"

"My dirty shithole! Please...put in more!"

I gave in, and pushed my cunt-slimed finger into Annie's arse as far as I could. With both her holes filled to stretching, Annie seemed to lose some of her grip on lucidity. "Fuck! Cao! Cao! Ahh!" She pushed her arse back, and my cock and finger went deeper. "Yes! Nigel, yes!" I sped up my cock-thrusts and corkscrewed my finger in her rectum, and she moaned. "Aaaoooo, wo yao dao wo yao dao! Shufu si le! Coming!"