I linger over the glass-fronted counter, admiring a cake which features a naked body made of chocolate buttons. Liquorice bootlaces trail from a Twix whip handle. How inventive. I peek over my shoulder every now and then, to watch Lloyd and Rachael, deep in confabulation about what sinful things will be done to me tomorrow night.
‘Can I get you anything?’
The barista, handsome and obsequious in an apron and a black silk shirt beneath, gives me what seems like a knowing look. I wonder if he’s a sub. Does getting ordered around the coffee machine turn him on? Are there people who work in service industries because they love to serve so much that they get a thrill out of it? I grin to myself, imagining an alternative workforce, role-playing the country back to economic ascendancy.
‘I’m not sure,’ I tell him.
‘When you’ve identified your whim, please let me satisfy it,’ he flirts.
‘Oh, aren’t you precious? I’ll take three of those flapjacks, ta. Have you ever considered hotel work?’
He blinks.
‘Never mind.’
He puts the flapjacks on a tray, gives me my change.
‘Is it safe to come back?’ I hover around Lloyd and Rachael’s vicinity, not wanting to interrupt them mid-plot.
‘I think we’ve got everything covered,’ says Lloyd.
‘Unlike your thighs,’ comments Rachael. ‘Great boots. Where did you get them?’
We lapse into chat until the last flapjack crumb is consumed and Rachael confesses that she is late for her date in the dungeon and scurries away, though scurrying isn’t easy on six-inch heels.
‘I guess we go back to the hotel and wait for tomorrow night,’ says Lloyd, rising to his feet.
But he missed something out of his guess, because the moment we are out of the building and back in the dingy backstreets, he finds the first disused side alley he can and pushes me up against the wall. He parts my coat with urgent hands and presses himself into my rubber curves.
‘Do you really think,’ he whispers in my ear, ‘you can get a man all hot and worked up, showing yourself off in front of strangers, and expect to get away with it?’
I bite my lip, grind into the hardness he must have been nursing for at least half an hour. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘Three guesses.’ His hands are at my hem, yanking at the latex. The wool of his suit trousers chafes my thighs.
‘OK.’ I dart out my tongue and flick it along his lower lip. He catches it for a moment, sucking it in, then releases it so I can speak. ‘Guess one: pick me up and spread my legs.’
‘That’ll do for starters.’ He jolts me upwards so I have to cling to his neck, my breasts pushed into his chest, my legs wrapped tight around his hips. The wall is hard and uncompromising against my spine, but I don’t care, caught in a forceful kiss that knocks my senses sideways.
‘Next?’ he demands, drawing away with a bite of my lip.
‘Guess two: get your cock out of your trousers.’
His hand bears my theory out, fiddling with belt buckle and zip for an intense moment, while I start to wonder how secluded this spot really is. It’s getting late. Soon the offices will release the workers and they will flow and flood through the streets, bound for stations and bus stops all over town. Maybe this alley is a cut-through.
‘Guess three,’ I rasp, more urgently. ‘Fuck me into the wall.’
‘Oh, you’re a mind-reader,’ he says, nipping my ear.
He gets his cock gets into position underneath me, holds me up by the undersides of my naked thighs and enters me. It’s a quick and effortless first stroke, impaling me without fuss or struggle. He pushes in to the hilt and stands, crushing me in place, still for a moment. I can tell by his breathing and the twitching of his face that he won’t be able to hold himself in for long. He’s already close.
I want to unhook an arm from his neck and touch my clit, catch up with him before he streaks ahead and leaves me behind. He helps me, bracing one of his forearms underneath me while he releases my arm. I tense for a moment, feeling my body drop an inch, my coat scraping against the cold brick, but then I am hoisted back into position, with my hand free to self-pleasure.
For the second time that afternoon, I start to rub my clit. I love the feel of his thick hard stalk underneath, keeping me filled and tight while I finger myself.
‘Don’t take too long,’ he gasps. ‘I don’t know if I can …’
‘It turned me on,’ I tell him in brief bursts, panting in between, ‘when you made me show myself to those people. Doing what you told me … having to do it … knowing they thought I belonged to you … it got me off … oh God, it did.’