Would Like To Meet. No Strings Ch. 05

Although some people clearly don't like slow build-ups and tease I am gratified by the feedback to some of my stories that other folk really like them. I have tried to cater for both in this chapter as I build up to the next chapter(s?) which will bring Joan's tale to a climax.

Partly for my own enjoyment and partly to help the story along I really do like to develop characters and their feelings, reactions, etc. As well as hopefully building up a tease I feel it also makes the characters a bit more real too.

FOR THOSE WHOP PREFER TO GET STRAIGHT TO THE ACTION I HAVE FLAGGED WHERE IT STARTS WITH A ROW OF -*-*-*-*- AS OPPOSED TO JUST ______.

Hope you enjoy it – if you do I would value your comments

ALL CHARACTERS AND PLACE NAMES ARE FICTIONAL

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As she drove, Joan's felt the same mixture of excitement, nervousness and shame that she had felt earlier when on her way to meet her first blind date, who had turned out to be her former neighbor, David. Snapshot-like scenes came to her mind. The initial shock of recognising him when he turned round to face her. The cat-and-mouse game in the bar until they both agreed to retire to the room she had booked. The provocative glimpses of herself she had given him. The way she had stood astride him to let him gaze up her skirt. The French maid role-play.

She recalled with a thrill the hunger in his eyes, the burning desire that he had felt – and nurtured – for her over several years, and the intensity of its release as he came inside her. She thought of the feel of his younger body, his tender and ardent caresses and kisses, and of the naughty role-play. She felt a surge of squishy delight as the images flooded her mind.

But just a few hours after having sex three times with David, she was now heading to meet another stranger, a man who was a few years older than she was and who was married. And she was hoping that the encounter would lead to sex. She felt a twinge of shock at her wantonness.

She tried not to guess Laurence's appearance to avoid disappointment. She tried, too, not to try to speculate about his liking to be "dominated a little". She tried instead to think about mundane things like what to add to her shopping list, and tasks that needed to be done in the garden. And over and over again she reminded herself that for the time ahead she was Brenda, not Joan.

Her nervous excitement grew as each motorway roadsign she passed counted down the distance to her destination. At last she left the motorway and approached the outskirts of the city. She looked at her watch, reassuring herself that she was on schedule.

Her stomach churned as she saw and approached the Black Bull pub and pulled into the car park. A navy blue BMW was among the parked cars, and she wondered whether it was Laurence's. She sat for a few moments to compose herself. She played with her wedding ring. It seemed futile to remove it – it would leave a visible mark around her finger where it had been anyway, so she left it in place.

A couple in their thirties approached the pub doorway as she got out of the car. Joan's partly unbuttoned skirt flashed a glimpse of her thigh as she did so, and the bloke furtively checked her out before entering the pub with his partner. Joan took it as a good omen and followed a few yards behind them.

She pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside. It was a weeknight and not too busy. She made herself look straight ahead at the bar to avoid making eye contact with the wrong man. She had described herself on the telephone and would wait for Laurence to approach her. The suspense was agonising but after just a few steps a voice she recognised spoke just behind her, questioningly, "Brenda?"

She turned round.

He was about her own height. He was not hugely overweight but, as he had said, he was carrying a few more pounds than he should. He wore glasses, and was balding. The crescent of hair he had was short and greying. He was clean-shaven and although dressed casually, his trousers, jacket, and shoes, and even his shirt, were clearly well made and expensive.

She smiled, though she felt silly and out of her depth, unsure whether to shake hands, offer him a peck on the cheek, or neither. Laurence, however, beamed reassuringly at her and guided her to a quiet table. He enquired what she would like to drink and returned with a Britvic orange for her and what looked like a pint of shandy for himself.

Despite his plain appearance, he proved to be engaging and witty. He looked into her face as they chatted. And although he allowed his eyes to drift to her breasts form time to time, she felt flattered rather than uncomfortable. His glance alighted on her wedding ring. She was tempted to explain that she only wore it to protect her from unwanted attention. But she decided against it. It felt deliciously naughty to pretend she was still married and playing away from home. In fact it felt like payback on her cheating ex-husband.

After a brief awkward lull in the conversation they discovered a mutual interest in cats. Laurence was flattered that she knew of the unusual breeds that he owned, and was quite a raconteur about their antics. He also had some amusing anecdotes from his legal career. They both began to feel more relaxed together.

The younger man and his partner who had seen her get out of her car were sitting at a table not far from Laurence and her. Joan saw the man furtively glancing at her thigh. She was embarrassed yet glad that she had left some of the buttons at the side of her skirt unfastened. She was showing enough to catch the eye yet little enough to appear respectable and innocent of any intention to arouse. She shuffled forward to make her skirt fall open just a little more. It felt very naughty to court deliberately the gaze of other men while she chatted to her "date". The man's girlfriend glared and hit him on the arm. Joan had to hide her gratified smirk behind her glass.

And as she chatted with Laurence and enjoyed the glances of the bloke at the nearby table she called to mind with a thrill what neither Laurence, nor her secret admirer, nor anybody else in the quiet pub would ever guess. Under her respectable outer clothes she was dressed to kill in her appearance, she was dressed to kill in her stockings, suspenders, corset and matching panties. And in her bag she had scarlet satin gloves. And a packet of condoms – flavoured ones at that!

Joan smiled to herself at her outrageousness.

"Anyway, Brenda," Laurence said in his soft, refined voice, "let's be honest. We didn't meet to chat about Abyssinian and Somali cats and their antics."

Fortunately Joan had been making a conscious effort throughout to listen for, and respond to, her pseudonym. Laurence casually looked around to ensure that nobody could overhear, then leaned forward.

"About your advert and my response, my dear," Laurence continued. "I am flattered that you agreed to meet me. I tried to explain that I am nothing to look at and that I am past my prime. I also mentioned my marital status and my, ah... PENCHANT to you."

Joan smiled to herself at his formality and especially at the way he said "penchant" in an emphatically French accent. Besides seeming quaint, it also reminded her of her earlier French maid naughty role-play with David.

"I assume that as you are here I didn't alarm you too much," he said, tentatively. "Though I have no way of knowing how near or how far away you live – nor do I need or wish to know. No-strings, what?"

Joan felt tense but nodded as Laurence glanced around again to check that nobody was within earshot.

"It isn't a particularly extreme PENCHANT. I simply like being ordered around somewhat, perhaps told off, maybe even spanked for being naughty. And I like to be tied up and teased during foreplay and sex. And as I mentioned I do not like penetrative sex, for the reasons I stated."

His candour and matter-of-fact manner surprised and reassured Joan. His leanings were much tamer than she had feared (though she was unsure how well she would be able to partake) and Laurence's frankness made it seem not so taboo.

"That's me, anyway, Brenda. Now, I am convinced that besides you evident charm and attractiveness you would make a... ah... most delightful and appropriate companion. But I have no desire to put you on the spot..."

Joan felt that she should say something, but had no idea what. Then, as he had done, Joan looked casually around to ensure that nobody could hear and leaned forward. She placed her hand on his arm.

"Well, like you, I have a PENCHANT too, darlin'. I er... I really like role-play. Not just dressing up a certain way, but... well, getting into a character... sort-of-thing..."

Compared to his fluency and command of language she felt stupid, uneducated and inferior. But his eyes lit up and he nodded enthusiastically.

Still speaking softly Laurence made a chivalrous suggestion to avoid her feeling awkward or under pressure as she decided whether to progress their "ah, liaison." He would go to the gents' toilet for five minutes. If when he returned she was still there, all well and good. If not – and, he insisted, she must feel no embarrassment or offer any excuse or apology should she decided that she did not want "no strings fun" with him – then he would understand completely.

Joan could think of nothing to say in response, so she simply nodded again.

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Laurence turned his back and walked slowly to the gents' toilet. He resisted the temptation to look back at her one more time, even though it might be the last glance he ever had of her.

She was sexier than he had dared to imagine, not only bodily, but facially attractive too, yet with a natural, down-to-earth, woman-next-door attractiveness.

Her breasts (C-cup, as he rightly guessed) looked perfect under her purple, shiny blouse; and although she was not tall, her legs were shapely and her thighs fleshy. Her whole figure was perfect for him, too, neither skinny nor fat.

He took a pee in one of the cubicles then sat down on the toilet seat and counted down the minutes. He rated his chances no more than fifty-fifty. On the surface they seemed to get along well enough, but after all, she was seeking a sex partner, not a companion. And, despite her age, she could easily attract better-looking men by far than him.

To Joan's surprise, most of her doubts had been dispelled. She had driven a long way for this meeting anyway, and it would be an anticlimax to drive home unfulfilled. More than that, though, she found herself genuinely drawn to him, not romantically, but in the same way that two colleagues might enjoy each other's banter and company despite differences of age, interests or background. And she was sure he would treat her decently and with respect.

She hoped deep down that he would offer to take her somewhere now rather than arrange another time. Delay would be an anticlimax and would allow more time for her doubts to return.

She heard the door that led to the toilets swing open and there he stood, a huge grin on his face as he saw that she was still there. As she smiled back, somewhat coyly, he blushed bright red, and when he sat down he was clearly excited.

"I can't believe it, Brenda. I really can't!" he gasped quietly as he rejoined her.

She placed her hand on his.

"And in some ways, Laurence, neither can I, darlin'! But... where do we go from here? I mean – we both want to do... what the advert said... I suppose we need to decide..."

He looked down at the table.

"Yes, it comes down to where and when, doesn't it? If... ah... you're really sure you want to..."

He still looked down at the table. For the first time he seemed doubtful. Joan sensed she needed to take the lead.

"I DO want to, Laurence. I... I can manage most evenings. What... what about you?" she coaxed.

He looked into her eyes briefly again and smiled nervously.

"Well, as for the 'where' – there is a hotel just a mile or so from here where I sometimes go. It's fairly upmarket. As for 'when' – it's Wednesday evening now. I go back home tomorrow until next Monday. So I could manage next Monday. I... ah... I'm sorry I can't manage any sooner than that. I mean... ah... I nearly suggested tonight, but that I expect that would be rather short notice. I would hate to..."

"Just fine, Laurence. Tonight is just fine," Joan murmured, and gave his hand a little squeeze. "In fact, tonight is perfect. I was hoping you'd suggest it!"

He opened and closed his mouth several times in rapid succession, but no words came out. He was still amazed to have struck so lucky. He had paid for sex with less attractive women than her. He looked at her and drained his glass. She did the same. They looked at each other again, each waiting for the other to make the next move.

Joan stood up. He immediately did the same. She sensed the other bloke look at the partly open flap of her skirt, and at her calf-length boots as she followed Laurence to the door. She smiled to herself.

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As the hotel was no great distance and lacked its own car parking, they walked, though they spoke little, each lost in thought and feeling nervous. Joan slid her arm around Laurence's. Before long "The Metropole" came into view and they stepped inside.

Joan looked approvingly at the decor. The smart young female receptionist smiled as they approached the desk. Joan guessed from her blush that she recognised Laurence from previous visits with other companions.

"Room 103 is available again tonight Sir, if you like," the young lady lilted.

Laurence nodded appreciatively, took the key, and led Joan to the lift. She squeezed his hand, which was rather clammy, and smiled. He smiled back nervously.

"There's only one way for us to do this, darlin'," she said softly as the lift door closed behind them. "Once we are in the room we start. If we don't, we'll be awkward and nervous and it all fall apart and be spoiled. Why... why don't you let me take control of things?"

Laurence's nervousness had made his mouth dry. Nodding, he cleared his throat and said, croakily, "Just one thing, Brenda. If either of us becomes uncomfortable we use a phrase as a sign to the other to stop. Wha-what about, ah, 'no strings'?"

Joan found her false name hard to get used to, and felt a little guilty in view of his candour. Her heart beat fast at the mention of a special password to call a halt to whatever kink they were about to indulge in. She gave a little shudder of fear and excitement and nodded in reply.

She briefly admired the room, but as she swept her eyes across the bed she guessed why he liked it. The bedhead and the foot of the bed were made of brass, vertical rods connected by horizontal ones. Rods – or bars. As in for being tied to. She felt a flutter in her stomach again. Laurence stood almost rooted to the spot with apprehension. Joan shared his nervousness but forced herself to act. She switched on the two bedside lamps, and closed the door and the curtains.

Still Laurence did and said nothing. Joan took a deep breath as she looked around the room, knowing that he was now depending on her to take the initiative. She was slightly annoyed – after all, she was new to his "penchant" that he had clearly indulged previously. However she felt instinctively that this was how he liked it to be. Besides, she had been tossing a few ideas around her head in the silent walk from the pub. Then it struck her.

Louvre doors were a common trend at the time, and the fitted wardrobes in the room were faced with mahogany ones.

"Take your jacket off, Laurence. And your shoes and socks. Then get in the wardrobe and close the door behind you. I'm going to start getting undressed. And you can watch me – PEEP at me – from in there. But not for long. And I won't be too bloody pleased when I find you, believe me!"

Her tone was firm, but she grinned as she spoke. He blushed, and smiled back meekly. He took off his smart jacket, and kicked off his slip-on shoes. He sat on the bed and tugged off his socks, quaintly folding them and placing one neatly in each shoe. He hung his jacket on a coathanger in the wardrobe. Then, sheepishly, Laurence stepped into the wardrobe, knelt on the carpeted floor and pushed the door closed behind him.

Joan switched on the radio, partly to break the silence and partly to prevent their being overheard in neighbouring rooms.

The wardrobe where which Laurence was concealed was in effect a double one, with a partition to form a single one adjoining it. He gazed through the angled slats as she stepped in front of him, her heeled boots clumping on the floor, and her skirt hem swaying alluringly.

She stood with her back to him and leaned forward to place her shoulder bag on the dressing table. He gazed at the backs of her legs. They were slightly plump but shapely. Her black, calf-length boots had heels about an inch and a half high. The leather was well polished and caught the light, while lines of shadow emphasised the soft folds. They seemed incredibly sexy. Her tights – he did not yet realise they were in fact stockings – were sheer and slightly shiny. Her pinstriped skirt hung over her backside beautifully, showing its nicely rounded shape. With a twinge of shame he nevertheless found himself unzipping his trousers and sliding his hand inside.

His gaze returned to the back of her purple satin blouse. As she rooted in her bag it shimmered deliciously in the subdued light from the bedside lamps. Her hair was immaculately groomed and silken in appearance. He rubbed and stroked his rising bulge through his boxers.

He both liked and silently cursed the wooden louvres. They inhibited him from seeing her properly and he found himself craning and twisting his neck. But they hid him from her view and made a perfect setting for the voyeur role-play she had instigated.

Joan unfastened her folded silk headscarf from around her neck and folded it on the dressing table. Then with a thrill of delight and a quickening of his pulse Laurence realised that, still with her back to him, she was unbuttoning her blouse. He stared through the louvres as she tugged it from the waistband of her skirt. It shimmered and shifted sensually. She sprayed some perfume onto her neck.

She turned round and looked in his direction, yet without acknowledging him. Although his view of her was partially blocked by the angled strips of wood, he gave an involuntary gasp. He had been expecting to see bare flesh and a bra, hopefully a pretty bra. But instead he saw a black corset that pushed her breasts up above its top. It seemed to be made of satin and caught the light, though more subtly than her blouse. The flowers that patterned it were red, small, delicate, pretty, and oriental in style. He could see tiny glimpses of bare skin between the hook-and-eye fastenings. His erection was complete and he had to slow down his teasing of it for fear he would come.

Joan strutted slowly towards the wardrobe. He froze with his hand still inside his trousers, wondering if she would now "discover" him. Instead she stood by the door through which he was peeping and opened the door next to it that formed the single wardrobe.

Her booted and nylon-enshrined legs were just inches from his face and hands. So was the hem of her black, pinstriped skirt. He was conscious of her sweet perfume. He was trembling with excitement and expectation.

Joan's heart was pounding, too. She was acutely aware of his closeness and aroused by the knowledge that he was ogling her just a few inches away, but she delayed the moment of finding him a little longer. She planted her feet a bit wider apart as she removed a coathanger from the wardrobe, slid her blouse onto it and hung it up.