Silk for St. Valentine's

This is an entry for the Valentine's Day Story Contest 2023.

It could have gone in Romance, for a romance it is.
It would also have fit in Exhibitionism and Voyeur.
On the whole, however, even though it includes some loving, playful bondage,
I think it properly belongs here, in Erotic Couplings.

Please enjoy.

+

Sipping my coffee, I watch her on the screen of my phone as she lets herself into my apartment. She has trouble getting the key — a new one — out of the lock. She stands with the door half-open as she fiddles with it, turning the key back and forth.

I don't have sound on my security system and can only watch her call my name over her shoulder.

I watch her leave the door for a moment, cross to the kitchen and drop her purse, a larger one than normal, on the counter before returning to the door. As she passes under one of the discreet cameras, I grin to myself, noticing that little wrinkle of frustration on her forehead, so amusing, so lovable.

So erotic, for I know what is to follow this night and she does not.

+

I lift my eyes from my phone, look around the coffee shop; nobody is near enough to see the images of her at last rescuing the key, of my door being closed just a little too hard. Maybe it's nervousness on her part?

I've just moved to a new apartment and she has never been here before. I wish now that I'd got the sound option, for the girl on my screen is calling again as she drops the key into her purse. I recognize my name on her lips, but cannot figure out what follows, a short sentence or two.

+

I'd left a large, low candle burning on the centre table before I'd left 15 minutes ago, carefully placing an envelope beside it. As I had intended, the flickering flame catches her eye. As she approaches it, I can see her pause again, raise her nose, sniff gently. I grin at that happy, surprised smile as the subtle scent fills her sinuses - jasmine, citrus and vanilla.

The envelope has her name written on it in my familiar handwriting. The flap is sealed at the very tip and I watch as she slides a polished thumbnail inside, pops it loose. Extracting the slip of paper from inside, she turns to read it in better light.

This is to me the moment of truth. Either this will play out very, very well or else I will watch her stomp out of the apartment with an aggrieved scowl on her face.

I relax as I see her smile grow brighter. Even from the security camera feed, it's easy for me to see the sparkle in her eyes. Good. The game plays out well.

Welcome to the unpredicted!
You will receive a series of instructions.
Follow them, beginning now.

#1 There is a drink waiting for you in the refrigerator.

I'd taken another guess with the that, had left a square tumbler in a space by itself on the centre shelf of the appliance. We both smile as she sniffs at the contents and recognizes her favorite cocktail, a Black Russian.

A second envelope lies the shelf next to it.

There's ice in the freezer. When you have helped yourself,
turn off all the lights, then go to the sofa.

Unfamiliar with my apartment, she looks around, obviously searching for switches and sofa. The only light is overhead in the kitchen, the switch easily found. Turning it off leaves but the candle for illumination, a soft, gentle light, but quite enough to walk by. There is another envelope waiting on the sofa. This will be the big test.

Undress. Leave your clothes on the sofa,
then go to the bathroom.

I watch her eyes move to her reflection in the window in front of her. My curtains are wide open, giving a clear view of the nighttime city lights outside floor-to-ceiling glass.

I think I know her well enough to guess what she is thinking. I feel a slight stiffening inside my jeans as I watch her take a deep breath, pondering who might be watching.

Just me, dear. Just me.

At least she doesn't crumple the note and throw it away in anger. I realize that I've been holding my breath and let it out slowly.

Her head falls momentarily to one shoulder. She turns, takes a sip of her drink before setting it down on a table. It seems to me that she has decided the light is dim enough, my apartment high enough, that nobody outside will see her.

I watch, again almost holding my breath, as slim fingers move to her throat, find the top button of her blouse and undo it.

The smile on her face is intriguing — uncertain perhaps, but amused — and that pleases me very much.

The second button is undone, then the third. I watch as she turns toward the window, her eyes following a few very large snowflakes drifting past in the light from the streets far below.

The remaining buttons are overcome and a slight shiver of her shoulders sends the thin material of the blouse sliding down her arms. Catching it, she folds it carefully before laying it on the sofa.

I feel my breath catch; she has obviously chosen her lingerie with care, expecting to please me with it.

She has - pale lace and barely-there straps. It looks like a push-up bra and I smile, for she hardly needs such.

Watching, I wish it were my hands behind her back. The bra slides off her shoulders and is tossed carelessly to the sofa. Watching her fingers run over the lines on her shoulders and under her breasts, I remember doing the same, the same cautious, soothing strokes. I take a deeper breath as her hands flow over her skin to cup her breasts, lifting them up for a moment before lowering them again to hang naturally. Fascinated, I watch as her thumbs stray over her nipples for a moment. I so look forward to feeling them under my own hands.

Her skirt follows, her hands moving to one hip, one descending, clutching the zipper tab. The skirt falls away and she folds it carefully before placing it on the sofa. Again my breath is taken away, this time by a G-string matching the brassiere. A gift to me, I know, it barely covers her sex, leaving her firm, shapely buttocks bare to my admiring gaze. A second later it is around her feet, lifted by a toe, then dropped onto the pile of clothes.

I watch her standing, clad now only in beauty, looking out the window into the flurries. I have the sudden desire to see her stretch her shoulders in that characteristic feline way of hers. My heart gives a double beat when she does precisely that.

The security cameras clearly show the window's reflection; those enchanting breasts shifting as she reaches for the ceiling, moves her shoulders in circles.

I shift in my seat, adjust my trousers, feel my hardness against my stomach now.

Her bottom is mirrored in the window as she turns; the flickering candlelight shows a thumb-sized patch of curls above her sex. She takes another sip of her drink, re-examines the note.

Leave your watch and clothes on the sofa,
then go to the bathroom.

I take a sip of coffee, admire her trim legs on my screen as she walks, hips swaying gracefully. Her hand reaches for the doorknob; I shift cameras and watch her entering a tiled room filled with the light of two dozen candles.

I laugh to myself as she giggles silently, laughs out loud at the sight of the tray I'd left — her brand of soap, bath crystals, a new comb and brush and a small bottle of her favorite perfume. A tiny yellow bud rose stands beside it in a silver vase.

And, of course, a note:

Enjoy, relax. Take as long as you want.
You are very beautiful.

I feel more stiffening when her bending over the tub to reach the taps exposes her labia from behind. She straightens, pours bath salts into the tub, then ties her hair up in a loose knot, presumably to keep it out of the water. Kneeling gracefully, she swirls the water with her hand, then stands again, periodically testing the water temperature with a toe.

After turning off the water and setting her glass within reach, she puts one foot into the tub. Her breasts sway below her as she leans forward, steadies herself with a hand on the rim and lifts the other leg in. Her face relaxes as her body eases into the water; I watch her slide down further until her head is resting on the back of the tub, her eyes closed. After a while, her hand reaches out gently, feels for the glass. Finding it, she takes a small sip, carefully puts it back down.

I'd left a pile of soft towels beside the tub. When enough time has passed, she reaches for one and finds the envelope I'd placed on top.

She puts it aside, stands, reaches again for a towel. I watch as scented water trickles down that lovely body, dripping from elbows and a few errant wet strands of hair.

The towel covers her, exposes her, covers her again as she dries herself off. Her eyes linger on the envelope she has leaned against the mirror over the sink.

I watch her untie her hair, let it fall in a wave and pick up the hairbrush. I close my eyes for a moment and am filled with memories of that hair under my own hands, its scent in my nostrils. Again I wish I was there, my hands on arm and shoulder muscles moving so smoothly, her hair flowing like a ebon flood under her brush.

Finished, she turns back and forth in front of the mirror, examining herself. It is a spellbinding image on my screen and I whisper a small prayer of thanks for my fortune in having her in my life.

A last sip of her Black Russian before the glass is set down and the envelope opened.

To the bedroom.
I love you.

It's the first time I've said or written that. Her eyes open very wide and she stares at the note, then at herself in the mirror. I am delighted at her happy smile. Watching, alone in my own universe in a coffee shop booth, I try to remember where she is dabbing tiny drops of perfume; I resolve to find each one, kiss it softly. Then, the candles still burning, the room is empty.

I change cameras, find her hand pausing, almost timidly, over the doorknob, before seizing it and turning.

There are fewer candles here, but enough. The room is impeccably clean, dominated by a large, four-poster bed against one wall, the opposite wall another bank of tall, unscreened windows. She discovers the envelope propped against the pillows.

Turn down the bed.

Removing the duvet reveals pale silk sheets, a collection of black garments and three envelopes, each numbered. A mischievous smile on her face, she examines the almost weightless lingerie. Midnight fabric drifting through her fingers, she opens the note with the large '1' on it.

Get dressed now.
You are mine tonight.

Black silk trails through her fingers, then she carefully pulls the stocking over one foot, draws it up along firm calf, past dimpled knee, over a perfect, sleek thigh before she brushes it into place with her palms. I find the contrast of the black hem against her bare skin exceptionally erotic.

The second stocking follows and I grin as I watch her turn her feet back and forth, examining them.

I have good cameras. I watch her nipples harden slightly, pray for the scene to go on forever, damn each minute's delay.

She pulls the first of a pair of black opera gloves gently over the fingertips of one hand and, careful not to snag it on her nails, eases her hand deep into it, deeper. The second follows; the gloves reach past her elbows as they too are smoothed into place with her hands.

Yes, she is feeding my fantasies.

I am, of course, feeding hers.

A collar of black lace, three fingers wide, is next. The mesh is open, not-quite-stiff and the thing fastens about her slim neck with a pair of small black buckles at her nape. Opposite, over her throat, hangs a symbolic tether ring of stygian metal, the same size as a big man's ring.

She opens the second envelope, holds it to the light of a candle.

Under the bed.

I lick my lips as she kneels, her breasts swaying gently under her.

She lifts the bed skirt with one hand. Her mouth opens as she recognizes the logo on the shoe box. She had one time, very seriously, explained to me her deep admiration, almost lust, for this brand. I feel like a parent at a toddler's Christmas as, eyes very wide, she removes the lid, discovers black high-heeled shoes, runs a fingertip over red soles, stiletto heels. I've checked her size and they fit perfectly as she slides her feet into them, buckles the straps.

I find her smile extraordinary as she stands in them for the first time, again examining her reflection, this time in the tall, dark windows.

I see the happiness in her face, the acceptance of somebody else doing the planning for her, the wary but heady rush of unpredictability.

She reaches for the last envelope:

Kneel now.
Wait for me.

+

We'd worked together since forever ago, different offices on different floors, but definitely elevator buddies. I'd eyed her when she was looking away, admired her delicate beauty, tasteful dress, impeccable grooming; I'd noticed the odd glance from her in return. Her smile had taken my breath away when, alone between 16th and 15th floors, I'd worked up the courage to ask her out.

She wore a peasant skirt and a colourful blouse to our first date, a late picnic in a secluded grove in the sprawling gardens surrounding a local hospital. It went well, I thought. I found her happily intelligent, as cheery as she was pretty, open and talkative, full of hopes and plans for the future. I scarcely noticed as time drifted past, afternoon merging seamlessly into evening. When the stars came out, she knew the constellations, laughed at a falling star. I hadn't touched her all day, but found her hand warm when she reached out as we made our way through the darkness to my car.

Her lips were memorably soft as she said thank you and goodnight outside her apartment building. The memory of that kiss stayed with me much of the night.

It still does.

Our next date was dinner at a tiny French bistro. She wore a very simple, very elegant black dress; it set off her figure very well, I thought. Once the waiter had seated her, she ordered a kir  - a respectably feminine drink, a puddle of blackberry liqueur under white wine. She seemed slightly subdued however, less voluble. I lightheartedly addressed her as 'Princess' and was startled when she visibly sagged at the word.

"No," she said, seeing my expression. "No, you didn't say anything wrong. I'm..."

She looked at her drink, pushed it aside suddenly, then reached across the table, seized my scotch and, fingers clutching it tightly, took a large swallow.

"Sorry," she whispered, "but I really needed that. May I have another, please?"

Her voice dropped to almost a whisper as the waiter departed.

"I just hate  being called a 'princess'. No, it's not your fault. You were being sweet, but..."

She waved her hand up and down herself in a broad gesture. Her voice had an intensity to it I'd not expected.

"Just because I'm petite doesn't mean that I'm fragile! OK, I'm only five feet tall, but I'm not made of glass. Men look at me, treat me like I'm going to shatter or something."

Her mood changed as the waiter arrived with two new whiskies.

"Sorry," she said. "Personal sore point. I shouldn't take it out on you. At least you aren't doing the second date dance."

"'Second date'...?'"

She brightened up, grinned ruefully as she sipped her Scotch.

"It's our second date. You're entitled, almost expected, to make a pass, right? It's all straight out of the Rules."

For some reason, she suddenly seemed to be enormously honest, completely open, a degree of unprecedented, almost dangerous candour I'd never before been granted by her or any other woman.

"And maybe I'd say yes or maybe I'd say no, but I won't break! It's the game,  the scripted dance I'm so annoyed at -- so obvious, all the careful, scripted steps, all so damned predictable!"

The last word hung in the air like an eldritch curse as her voice trailed off. She stared at me, awaiting... what? It was hard to read her. It didn't look like she was entirely sure, either.

She finished her drink. Despite that odd, crystalline confession, her mood improved and she seemed to be having fun. Her lips were still entrancing when I took her home. Her waist and bottom felt delightful under my hands, but no, she didn't have to fend off a serious pass. I couldn't tell if she was happy or upset about that.

I found out on our third date. Tiny, but perfectly formed, delightfully female and delightingly assertive, she was responsive, limber, cooperative, imaginative - and definitely not made of glass. We experimented, learned, experimented more, slept very little. She accepted a ride home the next morning with no faux  shyness.

It had been she who invited me for a fourth date and, one thing or another, we'd been a couple for several months. She seemed to like being one-half of 'us'. We shared interests, friends, time and honesty, but there always seemed to be a bit missing for her, some tiny part of her soul I could never find.

Then inspiration on my part sent a couriered package to her, one long-stemmed red rose, with an envelope containing a key to my new apartment and a card blank but for a time and the date - 14 February.

+

Kneel.

Wait.

Seeing her carefully lower herself to her knees, I am out of the coffee shop and home in under two minutes, shirt buttons flying as the elevator doors open on my floor, shoes and socks and trousers in a hasty trail the length of my apartment hallway.

Her eyes rise to meet mine as I enter the room; she starts to get to her feet.

"Stay."

The one soft word is enough. She remains as she was, hands resting on her silk-covered thighs, examining me, wondering at the black domino mask I had pulled on just before entering the room.

Her eyes follow my sex as I circle her, my eyes roaming over delicate, delicious nakedness so perfectly displayed. I softly trail a fingertip over her neck, shoulder and cheek as I move; her breathing seems to falter and she takes a sudden gulp of air. Her pale nipples are hard in the soft light; she is clearly excited.

I kneel behind her, her feet and bum between my legs, stiletto heel-tips touching my thighs on either side of my sac. She shivers a little as I brush dark hair off her neck, run my hands up and down her back. Her shoulders are high now, proud in bearing, but it's clear that she is still uncertain.

I shift closer, lean forward to rest my chest against her back. She takes a deep breath as my hands sweep down her flanks, clasp her bottom, squeeze softly. She starts to rise again; this time, my hands around her bare waist, I pull her back.

She shivers again as my hands explore silken legs, sweep up her waist, over her breasts, cup them, cover them. They fill my hands perfectly. Hard nipples press against my palms, are caught between my fingers and she gives a soft hiss as they are stretched slightly, released, caught again.

And again.

Her eyes follow me then when I rise and stand in front of her, my sex harder still now, dark and swollen. It sways a hand-breadth in front of her face.

Candlelight reflected on her eyeballs, I can see her swallow when I tell her to put her hands behind her head. Silent, wondering, she obeys, elbows out to her sides, breasts lifted up and forward. Captivated, I watch as they rise and fall with her breathing.