Isla went out. Sometimes, she just needed to. To go somewhere different, and be somewhere new. To dress up, and be beautiful, and become someone else, someone more interesting than the person she usually was. Someone edgy. Someone sexy. Someone who got laid whenever she wanted.
She went out, to a bar, and waited until a man looked at her. It was an upmarket bar, filled with upmarket people, and the particular man who looked was older and wearing a suit. The suit looked expensive, although Isla had never really known how to tell. She knew you were supposed to be able to tell, though, and hoped that one day she would, but for now she just assumed, because of the bar she was in. He was sitting on a stool, at the end of the bar, sipping something neat from a glass. Probably whisky, she decided, fairly arbitrarily, because that seemed like what someone here would drink. He looked at her, and smiled a little, and he had a friendly, slightly uncertain smile. She liked his smile, and she liked that he was trying it on with her, too. She watched him for a moment, half-hoping he’d raise his glass at her to say hello, because that would feel sophisticated and stylish, but he didn’t. He just looked at her, smiling a little more now he’d realized she was looking back.
She thought for a moment, staring at him, and then decided that she would go over. She left her own drink on the bar, half-finished, and walked towards him. He watched her approach, turning to follow her as she moved across the room. As she reached him, he opened his mouth, as if to speak, but before he could, Isla raised her hand and pressed her fingers against his lips.
She put her hand on his mouth, gently, and left it there.
He seemed surprised.
“Wait,” she said, and he nodded. He didn’t turn his head, or shift his face away from her hand.
She looked at him for a moment, still deciding. She looked at his face, at his eyes, at his clean nails and neat hair and the way he had actually tied his tie in one of the fancier, thicker knots. She didn’t know how tie knots worked either, but it had always seemed like bigger and more symmetrical knots were better, and he had one of those. She looked, and thought, and decided that she liked him.
She liked him enough, anyway.
She decided it just like that. Because she was being a better her. An edgier, sexier her.
She took his hand, and pulled it up beneath her dress. Right there, in the middle of the crowded bar. It was a short dress, and she was standing facing him, facing the wall, so what she was doing shouldn’t be obvious to anyone else. And even if it was, even if someone else noticed, she didn’t especially care. This was the edgy sexy her, and the edgy sexy her didn’t care if people watched her get fingered.
She took his hand, and put it under her dress, and pressed it against herself, against her pussy. She looked into his eyes, and held his hand against herself long enough that he felt her properly, felt her shape, and her wetness.
She saw it in his eyes when he understood. She was naked underneath the dress. His fingertips were touching her bare pussy.
She waited. She smiled. She felt his fingertips move, felt them press against her, warm and a little uncertain. She shifted one foot sideways, pushing herself against his fingers slightly more. His touch became a little more intense, and she felt a tiny shiver of pleasure tickle its way up inside her. She felt that shiver, and took a slow soft breath, and half-closed her eyes. And he watched her. He watched her face, as she felt pleasure. It was strangely intimate, she thought, in the middle of a busy, crowded bar. Her feeling, and him watching, and still nothing had been said between them.
She held him there, pressing herself onto his fingers, feeling her lips spreading wet against him. She kept hold of his wrist, keeping his fingers where they were, and he let her. He didn’t seem to know what else to do.
She stood there for a moment, feeling him, and then she leaned forward, so her mouth was touching his ear.
“Ask me to come home with you,” she said softly.
He looked at her for a moment, thinking.
“Ask me,” she said, and shifted again, moving herself against his hand, so his fingertips slid, and pulled, and spread her open slightly. “Ask.”
“Would you like come home with me?” he said.
She smiled. She took the glass out of his hand, and drank, finishing it. It was whisky, she was fairly sure. She swallowed, tasting a stinging burny smokiness, and then put the glass down and said, “Let’s go.”
He followed her out of the bar.
He had an apartment. It was high up in a new building, an apartment that went with his suit. She liked it, she decided. She wandered in, and wandered around, and looked at the view, and liked it.
She sat in a chair which was probably expensive, beside a window with an expensive view, and he gave her whiskey from a bottle that probably cost more than her weekly rent. So she assumed, anyway. She took the whiskey because she didn’t care what she drank, and because it mattered more he was offering it, from his special favourite bottle, rather than what it actually was.
It didn’t matter to her what the drink was, but all the same, when she said she wanted it neat, with no ice, he seemed to fall for her a little.
And she liked that too.
She sprawled on his couch. She lay back, all dramatically, flopping around, shifting her legs and fiddling with her shoes and sipping from her glass, as they talked. She lay back, while he looked at her legs and tried not to look up her dress.
He tried not to look, and she watched him, curious, wondering whether he would manage. He already knew how she felt. He already knew she was bare, and shaved, and wet. He knew a lot about her, probably everything that mattered for a casual anonymous hookup between strangers. He knew everything he needed to know, and he knew absolutely nothing more, and she liked that a lot.
She liked all of it.
She sipped, and watched him trying not to notice her dress moving. She listened as he talked. He was talking a lot, but talking the right amount, not talking nervously. He seemed comfortable talking, and comfortable with silences too, so she didn’t really bother talking back. She hardly said a word. She smiled more than she spoke, and she listened. He didn’t seem to mind, though. He seemed to be able to cope. He talked, and she smiled, and she liked that he could cope with her silences. He was becoming more interesting, the longer she was around him.
After a while, because it was the brave and edgy and sexy thing to do, she slid over, and kissed him. She kissed him once, with her mouth open, tasting his. Then she undid his trousers, and said into his ear, “I want to suck your cock.”
He looked at her. Again, he didn’t seem to know what to do, and in the end he didn’t do anything. He just sat there, so she smiled, and bent over, and put him in her mouth. She sucked him as he was, bare and hard and tasting of man. She licked him slowly, and pressed him against her face. She licked him all over. She wanted him to watch her make love to his cock with her mouth, and he watched, and she did, for a while, until she was bored.
Then she leaned over, and got her bag, and looked inside it for a condom. Her dress slid up as she leaned, and he looked at her again. He looked at her legs, and tried to look up her dress. She liked that he still bothered, even with his cock out, with it still warm and wet from her mouth.
She leaned back over to him, and sucked him again, for a moment, then put the condom on him. She looked into his eyes, as she rolled it down onto him, but she still didn’t speak. Then she stood up, and knelt over him, and pushed her dress out the way. She held his cock in one hand, and then sat down on him, and slid it deep inside herself. She was wet. She was wet enough to do that. He slid inside her, all the way inside her. She was excited enough by this that she was wet enough to fuck, but he hadn’t actually touched her yet, so she was still slightly tight inside. He slid in to her, and groaned like she felt good, and she felt him more too, more intensely. She liked feeling more. She knelt over him, with her knees on either side of his legs. She kissed him, and pressed her hand against herself, rubbing herself as they fucked. She fucked him, fast.
“Make me come,” she whispered. The first thing she’d said since she sucked him. “Don’t you yet. Make me come first.”
He nodded and said, “I will.”
He did. He lasted for her. He was older, so perhaps that was why. He kissed her, and fucked her as she knelt across him, and slid his hands up underneath her dress, taking over for her, touching her.
Touching her without seeing her.
She liked that idea.
Touching her. Wanting her. Worshipping her.
Letting her be as she wished. Letting her be her.
She liked that as well. She liked it a lot.
She kissed, and rubbed herself, and felt him hard and deep and hot inside herself, and after a while, after fucking in front those view windows in his tasteful apartment for a little while, she came.
She was pleased.
She slid down, and rolled the condom off him, and then put him in her mouth.
She sucked, lazily. She was good at this. People said she was good at it, anyway, after she did it for them, and she liked doing it, so she thought she might as well. She liked the feel of his cock in her mouth, against her tongue. She liked the taste of him, the way he groaned and lifted his hips against her mouth and the way his whole world, for a moment, was her.
She liked doing this, so she did. She sucked him until he came, until his hot thick saltiness filled her mouth. She sucked a little more, swallowing, and then she sat back up, and kissed him.
He kissed her back. He didn’t seem to mind kissing her after she’d done that, and she liked that as well.
She sat across his knee, with his softening, sticky cock against her leg, high up the inside of her leg, dripping on her, cooling on her. She sat there, feeling brave, because his semen was so close to her pussy.
She sat there for a moment, then she reached back behind herself, and picked up the glass she’d put down. She sipped it, looking at him. “I should go,” she said.
“Stay,” he said.
She shook her head.
“Beg,” she said.
He grinned. “I’m begging,” he said. But he wasn’t really, and she wouldn’t have liked him as much if he had.
“No,” she said. “I won’t stay. But I’ll come back another time if you want me to.”
“I do,” he said.
“Then I will.”
He looked at her, and she thought he might ask when, and she didn’t want him to do that because it would seem a little insecure. She wanted this to be calm and mysterious and enigmatic, all the things it already was. It was perfect now, and she wanted it to stay perfect, so she hoped he wouldn’t ask.
He didn’t ask. He didn’t argue. He seemed to accept what she’d said. And she smiled, knowing she would go back because of that. Because if he didn’t argue now, then he wouldn’t again, and then next time she would be able to leave again without a fuss. And the time after.
She stood up, and he looked at her legs again as her dress slid around. She liked that he did, and that he was already missing her being there. She grinned, and stood there for a moment while he looked, while she finished the glass of whisky. Then she handed the empty glass to him, and picked up her bag, and walked over to the door.
It felt right. It felt good. She was pleased by how it had gone. She was pleased by how she was leaving.
She left without another word, and he watched as she did.