My New Lover, A Camera free porn video

"Bollocks," I heard myself saying, as the A4 sized folder slipped from my under my arm hand and fell to the floor in the middle of the Starbucks in Greenwich. As I bent down, I quickly looked around, hoping no one had heard me, maybe I had said it under my breath, I rather ambitiously thought.

I heard a nice, male voice say.

"Hey, let me help."

I didn't look at the owner of the voice.

"No, no it's ok," I said panicking a bit as I knelt down and tried picking everything up as quickly as I could.

"It's ok, maidens in distress are my specialty", the voice went on.

I felt, more than saw that someone was kneeling beside me. I glanced to one side and saw a man on one knee, almost as if he was about to propose. He was reaching under the table, helping to pick up the papers, folders, envelopes and other stuff.

"Oh fuck," I said to myself when I saw that several photos had come loose from the pack they had been in. "Oh fuck, fuck, fuck and fuck again", I breathed as I watched him pick them up.

He couldn't possibly avoid seeing they were photos, he probably couldn't avoid seeing they were photos of a scantily clad, quite slim woman with long legs, a rounded bum and pert tits. I didn't think he could avoid, either, seeing that she was wearing lacy topped, hold-up stockings and a black thong and bra; nothing else, apart from black, shiny, high heels and a sultry, but slightly embarrassed smile. I hoped like hell, though, that he did avoid seeing that I was that woman. There was a chance for in the photos I had my shoulder-length, straight blonde hair up, whilst now it was loose and flowing. The style was probably a little young for me, but what the hell.

I looked at him and saw him staring at the woman in the photos, a wry, impish almost, grin on his face, the lechy bastard. He didn't say anything, but handed them to me.

"Yours, I believe" he said softly making me think he was probably not as lechy as I had classified him.

"Yes thank you," I replied feeling flustered and embarrassed, as we remained crouched looking at each other.

"I'm so clumsy; I must have had a really blonde moment there."

"Well that's what blondes are supposed to do isn't it?" he said flashing me a warm smile.

"Yes I guess it is, but I seem to have more than my fair share of them."

I suddenly realised the man couldn't avoid seeing that the jacket of my black, three button Donna Karan business suit was gaping. He also could not avoid noticing that the above the knee, tightish skirt had ridden up my legs. Moreover, to compound things, he could not avoid, even had he wanted to and why would he, looking down my jacket and up my skirt. That made me once more mutter under my breath. This time I tried both bollocks and fuck, fuck, fuck; that made me feel a little better, so I added another bollocks and two more fucks just for good measure. It didn't alter the fact, though, that unintentionally I was putting on a real display for him and then, I realised not just for him for I had a whole audience of the Starbuck customers and staff.

Still bent down, sort of sitting on the back of one foot with that knee almost touching the ground and with my other leg bent at ninety degrees or thereabouts, geometry was never my strong point, I glanced at this "helpful" stranger. He caught my eye and smiled.

"Hi" he said brightly as if meeting a woman bent over in Starbucks was the most natural thing in the world. It took me off guard.

"Oh hi," I said back, getting into the vernacular and almost putting my hand out to shake his.

Then it hit me, and with quite a jolt. It hit me that there were other things he and the audience most certainly could not have avoided seeing. It hit me that he would have seen my cleavage, for under the gaping jacket I was only wearing a bra; after all how often would I grovel on my knees in my best business suit?

It also hit me that he could not avoid noticing that I was wearing similar stockings to the girl in the photos, well apart from the lacy tops; for I didn't think he could quite see that far up my skirt. On top of all that, as I stopped flustering, a bit, it hit me that he, along with the rest of bloody Starbucks was also looking down my top and up my bottom.

"What a fucking shambles," I thought.

"We all do such things", he said a sparkle, or was it a twinkle, I never know the difference, in his eye as he got up and took my elbow helping me to stand. As I straightened up, he looked me up and down as I patted the expensive suit, pulling the jacket and smoothing the skirt back into place.

I stared at him as well. I have to admit that I was slightly impressed, not something that happens to me very often.

He was about six feet tall, I guessed, certainly some inches more than my five feet six plus high heels. Nicely slim, there was a pleasing, very relaxed way about him. He had short, grey-flecked hair, which was probably black a few years ago. It was neatly cut and looked modern, but thankfully wasn't a 'Phil Mitchell' so was not overly trendy, just about right, I thought. He was wearing stylish, clean and not ripped or stained jeans, which thankfully had no crease, a dark tee shirt and a thin, somewhat rumpled, linen jacket. Although I am not very good at ages I put him in his mid to late-forties, maybe even fifty, some six to ten years on me.

'Mmmmm, quite a good package," I found myself thinking.

"Hey, let me buy you a coffee or something?" He asked in a nicely modulated voice with a touch of a 'Thames Estuary' accent.

"No, no thanks, I'd better be going", I mumbled.

"In a rush to get somewhere?"

"Well no. not really."

"So why not just sit down, relax and have a late or espresso, after all that is why you came in wasn't it?"

I realised that I had not got as far as ordering anything before making such an utter fool of myself.

"Er, I'd rather not, not in here," I stammered.

"Huh?" He said raising his eyebrows as our gazes met.

I smiled. "I think I've done enough damage here, I feel a little embarrassed." I said pulling my posh, power suit jacket more tightly round me, sitting up almost ramrod-like, straight and wishing I had worn a tee or blouse under it and wasn't flashing quite so much cleavage. I could feel and see come to that, your eyes drifting to my chest.

"Why?"

"Well you know."

"Oh that?"

"Yes that," I said looking around and realising that he was still holding my elbow.

"What all of us lucky guys you mean."

"Precisely, I'm not that used to flashing my bits to all and sundry."

"How about a drink then in the pub over the road?" He asked hesitantly, immediately making me think this was all a bit new for him. That made me feel more relaxed, for I hate being pulled by a real player.

What was that all about? I thought where had that come from? What was I thinking about? Being pulled, real players. Fuck off; I don't get involved in such things or with such people, real players, my arse!

I was not in the habit of talking to strangers and I resisted advances at work or other places where I met men. In the three ad agencies where I worked freelance as a copywriter, I was known by most of the men as, either 'ice maiden,' when they were being polite or, ' the les' when they tried and failed to get into my knickers.

So why the hell was I now saying. "Sure a quickie then, if that's ok?"

The man smiled broadly and replied cheekily, but not smuttilly, "Always a time for a quickie."

u*********sly I laughed at that. "You know what I mean."

"Only too well," he replied rather seriously, making me wonder what was coming next. "But always before a quickie I insist on one thing."

"What? What's that?" I asked rather dumbly.

With a broad smile, knowing he had 'got' me, he said.

"I insist on being on first name terms. I'm Matt," he smiled extending his hand. I shook it replying.

"Hello Matt. I think that's a good idea too, I'm Christine or Chris if you prefer and Chrissy at a push."

We shook hands. It was only then that I remembered all of bloody Starbucks was looking on at me being most comprehensively picked up. I was rather surprised not to hear a round of applause as you do when someone proposes in public.

We walked out; he was holding my elbow, me clutching my damaging folder very carefully.

"So, any suggestions for our quickie?" He asked jokingly, well presumably jokingly.

"I don't really know the area, I got dropped off here by my bastard of a boss, I live in Docklands so I'll get the DLR home."

"I know just the place, it's only just round the corner near the Cutty Sark," he said adding. "It's a bit touristy, but just right for a quickie. I laughed.

"Oh shut up about those."

In the very 'olde worlde' typically English pub that Americans so like, we discussed the usual "getting to know you" things. Where each other lived, hobbies and pastimes, what we worked and that sort of stuff.

"Before you ask, let me make an admission right away Christine."

I thought, rather unnecessarily and for no good reason, that he was going to go back on his earlier statement about being separated from his wife; men seem to do things like that.

"Sure," I said, rather more casually than I felt, for yet another no good reason.

"About my work," he said giving me an unexpected sense of relief.

"Yes go on," I said, now full of curiosity.

"I'm a police officer."

To say I was, as the modern saying goes, gobsmacked is a terrific understatement. Why I don't know? I tried a joke.

"Don't say you're going to arrest me for possessing smutty photos are you?"

He laughed. "No Christine, I most certainly would not arrest you for that, I might thank you maybe."

We talked about it a bit and it turned out that he had been an engineer or something. For some reason I didn't understand, or the third glass of white wine in the afternoon, made me forget, he told me the reason for 'chucking it all in' and doing something useful. I seem to recall that the reason sounded good.

We had exchanged brief explanations, without going into much detail, about our marriage break ups and Matt had explained that he had a young daughter with whom, thankfully, he had got good visitation rights.

I explained that I had been born in Essex, where, incidentally, he had spent his early c***dhood, and that I now lived in Docklands, just across the river from where we were. Matt said that since his break up he had moved back to Dartford where he had a flat and travelled to Greenwich, where he was stationed each day.

"I've been spending today looking at flats round here, but they're so bloody expensive," he explained.

I told him about my job as a freelance copywriter and that I worked mainly from home, but had to visit agencies to get work and be briefed and occasionally I attended client meetings or helped out on new business presentations.

"That's where I have been today and why I'm wearing the posh suit."

"I was wondering. It's a great suit," Matt said, smiling as he pointedly looked down the front of the jacket. "I guess you don't wear them that often."

I smiled. "Is it that obvious?"

"Well you don't seem that comfortable in it, or that used to wearing it."

"No, I'm not, you tend to forget just how much you show off," I muttered, forgetting that I hardly knew Matt. I sat up straighter stopping his view of my cleavage.

"I'm sorry, but I feel I must confess that I did see the contents of your folder back there, but don't worry, your secret is safe with me, a gentleman never tells after all!" He said.

"Well, thank you very much," I laughed, "I'm glad that this damsel was assisted by a real knight in shining armour, but of course a real gentleman would never have looked in the first place"

He flushed red, "Oh, erm, er, yes, I, I'm sorry"

I took pity on him and smiled. I leaned forward and rested my fingertips on his forearm. "Matt, it's ok; I'm glad you were willing to help out, most people just walk on and laugh in London these days and I realise that you could not help seeing them."

I saw him let out a deep breath, "That's ok; I'd do the same for anyone I guess, maybe that's why I'm a cop." We both smiled at that as I added. "Although the rewards are rarely so high."

I felt myself blushing. Was it hot in here? Had I had too much to drink, or what? I was thinking.

On a daft impulse, I pushed the folder across the table. "If you want a real reward, go on, take a proper look, I'd like to know what you think"

Matt didn't do or say anything. We merely stared at each other, wondering. Wondering what this was all about?

Almost as soon as I pushed the folder across the small, glass topped, slightly beer stained, table, I thought.

'What the hell did I do that for?'

Was I fishing for compliments? Did I want to flaunt myself to this stranger? Was I that hard up for compliments and starved of men's attention? Or was a well-hidden and unknown exhibitionistic streak raising its ugly head? Alternatively, maybe, it was that I was with a stranger who I need never see again and my sense of bravado was telling me, what the hell?

"Actually Matt, on second thoughts maybe not? I said reaching out to grab the folder. As I did that, he was already reaching out to pick it up. It was like snap and I won. My hand was on the folder first, with my white tipped painted, square cut nails pointing at him. He was a close second, however and his hand slapped on top of mine.

"No?" Matt questioned looking at me and smiling.

My hand was trapped by. I was leaning forward at a degree that had I worn business suits more often, I would have known revealed too much of what was the nearly naked me inside the jacket.

"Shame, I thought that might be my reward for saving the blonde, damsel in distress in the dragon's den of Starbucks."

I couldn't help smiling at Matt's quick wit. "I thought you had rather already had your reward in there," I quickly retorted.

"Well I was hoping more for a linger than just a quickie," he replied as he pointedly, but in no way pervy, obviously looked down my jacket.

'Hmmm, have to watch out for this one,' I thought. 'He's smart and quick.' Then I saw where his eyes were focused, so I added a few more, bollocks and fuck its to the earlier litany of profanities. Hopefully, this time they were completely under my breath.

I really can be such a clumsy, cackhanded bitch at times. I am always mislaying items, forgetting to put arrangements or meetings in my diary or on my Microsoft Oulook thingy via my Blue or is it Blackberry, and I quite often bump into things or drop papers or books. So, what had happened in Starbucks didn't come as that big a surprise to me and didn't embarrass me perhaps as much as it should. Ok, him looking at the photos of me in the underwear was bit off-putting, but it was more what he was thinking about why I had such photos than the snaps themselves that was causing me a tad of concern. 'But then' I thought 'Why should I care, I'm only having a drink with a guy, his opinion of me has little weight and probably even less continuity.'

I looked up from where I had been staring at his hand on mine. I had to admit that it felt nice, but then skin on skin usually does, doesn't it? Our eyes caught, he was still smiling and he raised his eyebrows in a silent question, which was asking what? I had no idea, but I thought he looked quite good with his eyebrows raised, so I raised mine too. We both smiled.

It's funny isn't it how a couple sometimes just hit things off? How they very quickly, occasionally develop a part of their relationship that's so on the same wavelength that things can be said in jest or fun, which would be impossible in other relationships; things such as quips about 'quickies ', 'all us lucky fellas' and me flashing my bits. I felt that with us.

'Shit Chris, get hold of yourself' I thought. 'Stop thinking 'us' and 'relationships' think quick drink in a pub, then bye. "I thought this is rather like a linger, isn't it?" I said glancing down at my chest.

'Gotcha,' I thought as I saw the look of embarrassment on his face.

"Oh sorry, I shouldn't do that," he muttered, looking and sounding as if he really meant it to the extent that I found myself replying.

"That's Ok Matt, I understand."

The volume of silent 'fuck its' and bollocks that exploded in my mind increased, probably exponentially.

"Really Chris? You understand?"

"Well sort of yes," I replied, at last pulling my hand away and sitting up straight. That lost me the rather nice feel of his hand on mine and closed off the tit show for the time being. 'Time being? Come on you silly tart,' I told myself.

Matt's hand was by itself on the folder. He looked at me for explanation, instructions or something. With me having said that I understood his lingering look down my jacket, it could well be that the something he was looking for might have been me standing up and undoing the bloody jacket. It struck me that I had flashed most pretty much everything else, so I might just as well. I didn't of course. Instead, I said.

"Go on then Matt, open the folder."

"No, no I shouldn't Christine, it's private, and it's confidential."

Again, the easy way we had come to relate to each other.

"I thought you felt you deserved a reward."

"Well yes."

"And wanted a linger, whatever the hell that is?"

Matt smiled. "Let's say I had that shall we?"

"Ok fine, so you've had a linger, you've had a reward."

"Well not fully, I think St George slaying the Starbuck dragon for you deserves a little more."

"Do you now, and what little more would my knight demand from this damsel?"

"Your knight, mistress, would request, for he would never demand, that you sup with him this evening."

I wanted to keep up the mediaeval parlance, but felt moving it along might involve lances, helmets and the like, so I dropped it?"

"Is that an invitation to dinner?"

"Er yes Christine, it is, would you like to have an early dinner?"

I rather pointedly looked at my watch. "Matt, it's only four thirty."

As quick as anything he retorted.

"A late lunch then?"

We both laughed.

"Actually I haven't eaten, so yes that would be lovely."

We went to a pub on the river opposite the palace. It was a nice dinner, we drank probably too much, we talked endlessly about many topics until about seven thirty when, out of the blue, we were both tipsy by now, Matt asked.

"So Chris, I know what curiosity did to the cat, but as I am not a cat and a red-blooded male instead, tell me about the photographs?"

"What do you think they are?"

"Are you a model in your spare time?"

I laughed. "No of course not. Being a one parent mother with a f******n old daughter, a freelance, copywriter job in advertising and a very heavy golf habit, doesn't leave time for moonlighting as a model."

Laughing, he said. "I'm beginning to know how that bloody cat felt, I am now so curious."

Giggling, I reached down into my ridiculously large WAGS handbag and pulled out the folder. I put it on the table and pushed it towards him.

"No, 'Hands, touching hands,' this time" I sang softly."

He sang back. "Or touching me touching you?"

Thoughtlessly, I muttered. "Oh I don't know."

In the way that tipsy people do, we found that amazingly funny.

"Well not in here," I went on as I watched him open the folder.

"Be careful Matt, I know I flashed a lot in Starbucks, I don't want to do the same in here, I'll get such a reputation in this area."

He discretely looked at the dozen or so print offs from the digital images.

They were all of me in, what I suppose is the classic male fantasy of ladies underwear. All black, an almost diaphanous bra, a tiny thong, lacy top, hold up stockings and high-heeled stilettos. They were from a variety of angles each illustrating different aspects of the underwear and, of course, of me. I could see him taking in my legs in the stockings, the patch of bare skin above them and below the panty line, my bottom spilling out from the thong and my breasts, both the part of them covered by the bra, although my nipples were clearly seen through it, and that spilling out over the acutely cut tops of the cups.

"bloody hell Chris, these are great," he gushed.

Again, I had no idea what made me say I but I heard myself saying, probably a little huskily.

"Keep them if you want."

"Would you like desert?" A pretty, young, blonde-haired, probably Polish waitress asked, smiling at me, maybe because she had seen what Matt was looking at.

"Not for me thanks?"

"Actually nor me, just the bill please, that is unless you want coffee or something else?"

We argued over the bill with Matt's macho maleness winning and him stumping up fifty-five quid.

Stumbling out into the still warm, early September evening, Matt said.

"What now?"

I giggled. "Is there a what now Matt?"

"I would very much hope so," he said as we walked into the grounds, which contain the Greenwich Observatory, which sets Greenwich Mean Time.

"Like to see the telescope?"

"What, in these heels, no thanks, the inside of a DLR train is the better option."

"I'll walk you to the station."

That he was interesting, there was no doubt. That he was an attractive man was equally certain. That we got on easily and well was clear and that I could quite fancy him, was becoming that way. That overall, he was a good package was beyond dispute.

"So why the fuck am I on my way home to watch TV by myself?" I thought, as I got off the DLR and made my way to the apartment.

I answered that by realising that he hadn't offered anything else. For all I knew he might have several bits on the side round London and/or a wife tucked away in Thameside, Kent, Dartford was it?

I didn't think the former was likely, sure, it was possible, but improbable, but I had no idea on the latter; he had been rather unforthcoming when I had floated the boat on whether he was merely separated or getting divorced, always a ticklish topic. But then I hadn't said much about my divorced status and whether I had a partner or anything, had I?

I slightly tottered on my high heels from the DLR station to my apartment block and let myself in. I felt tired.

Sara, my daughter, was staying at a friends that night so I was alone. Alone, but not lonely. In the four years since I had kicked Paul out and the three since we had divorced, I had got used to my own company. Got used to fending for myself, being by myself, and taking care of myself. I had also got quite used to making love to myself.

It was as well I had, for I had become more and more jaundiced about the whole dating scene. After the hurt and disappointment of Paul I found it impossible, at least until Sara was more or less off my hands at university in three-year's time, to contemplate any close relationship with another man; I didn't want her having a series of "uncles" or "mummy's friends" to cope with. So I couldn't visualise me having any real attachment until then, for I was in terrible fear of becoming emotionally dependent on a man. But, I wanted sex, I needed it, I had been used to such a regular and generally very satisfying supply of it during my marriage that being without it was awful. Yes, I had played round a bit and now and then still took lovers, but less frequently and with less enthusiasm as time went on. The hassle just didn't seem worth the dubious pleasures so, more often than not nowadays, I made love to my hands and fingers not men.

Then Matt came into my life. But hey, I thought as I took off the black power suit, he hasn't come into my life, for Christ's sake, he just bought me a drink and meal and had sneaky look at my tits.

As I was rolling the suit up to put into a plastic bag for collection by the dry cleaning service, I remembered we had exchanged phone numbers as we had pecked each other on the cheeks at Greenwich DLR station. I rummaged through the pockets finding it, feeling relieved that I hadn't sent the suit with the number in it. I tapped the number into my iPad and laptop planning to download it to my phone later. Accessing the laptop I saw the folder Lejaby pitch and that reminded me about the photos. Opening up several password protected folders, which hopefully prevented my daughter getting into the folders by accident, I opened the folder. Suddenly there was that woman, me, in those sexy, black undies filling the large screen. I have to say that I looked pretty good, cocky bitch that I can be.

I had looked at these photos many times, too many really, but still every time I looked at myself in them, I became aroused. Why the hell is that pictures of myself dressed in sexy gear turns me on? Sheer bloody arrogance?

This time was no exception. I stood in my lounge in just the black bra, thong, holdups and high-heeled shoes, clicking the mouse so that shot after shot of 'that woman' in the sexy underwear filled the large screen as I became more and more sexually agitated. In some ways, I wished I didn't have this terrible hang up about emotions and sex.

As I unclipped my bra and stared at my C cup, soft tits I thought how nice it might have been to have invited him back here with me.

To have been doing this sort of strip tease and running my own personalised film show as he looked on. To have been holding my breasts as I was now, or for him to be holding them, stroking them, caressing them and rubbing them. Yes, him doing all the things I was doing that would have been so nice, I thought regretting in some ways the bloody hang-ups and morals.

Squeezing their softness, I sank down onto the black leather, six-seater sofa. Pinching and pulling the hard, aching nipples as I laid back I imagined it was Matt working my breasts as I was, for my own pleasure. In my mind's eye we undressed and my hands found the hard, welcome warmth that soon would invade me. At the same time, we both watched the 'film show' of me in so many poses in the erotic underwear. Lying in his arms, me cradling his cock, he cupping my breasts, as we watch the still images of me, was it really me?

I was now lying full length on my sofa. On the sofa where so many times I had been fucked, where so often I had made love, where, more and more frequently recently, I had had sex, great sex with stupendous climaxes, but always alone. Nobody had ever shagged me in my own apartment, it just didn't seem right. One or two had come near in that first crazy year after the divorce was final, but I hadn't yet felt able to go 'all the way' in here. After all it was my daughter's home as well and it sort felt as if I would desecrate it by fucking men here; the idea was slightly, but not totally abhorrent to me. Deep down, I knew that soon I would 'break my duck' in that area.

My hands, as I imagined his would, left my breasts; not completely, though, for the sensations were so wonderful that, as if with a mind of their own, they kept flitting back to the full mounds and aching buds. Yes, they kept returning, but overall they travelled downwards towards where all my mind and body demanded them to be, where they had to be, to do what I needed, where I was now imagining his hands were. They were on my panties, on that black silk thong; they were in it, roughly pushing it down, my fingers rubbing me through its lustrous material. That brought me back to my senses. It was ludicrously expensive, forty pounds for nothing other than the best-looking pussy hugger and bum accentuator you could get. I lifted my bum up and slid it off, now was not the time for ripping my panties off, not at forty quid a pair, although of course I hadn't paid for them!

I could feel his fingers stroking me, touching my lips, unfolding me and finding the epicentre of my sexuality. Finding it and arousing it so easily and so expertly, rubbing me alongside it, not on it, showing the touch of a man that knows women.

It wasn't long, it never is, it just can't be when a woman is so aroused and so frustrated. My fingers, though in my mind his, were in me, up me, probing and thrusting as I lay on that sofa. I wanted to be fucked, I wanted him to fuck me, I wanted my mind to imagine him on top of me, my legs bent and parted widely with his body between them, both of us holding his hardness guiding it to my wetness. My mind, wasn't good enough, I couldn't do it, I couldn't imagine the feelings of him inside me, of his cock up me, of Matt fucking me.

But my fingers sliding into my soaked crevice helped me. Yes, the three then four, straightened fingers I shoved into my pussy assisted me in imagining that it was Matt's cock. I arched my back, I lifted my bum from the sofa, my skin momentarily stuck to the thin, luxuriant, black leather. I thrust myself against the rigid fingers. I plunged them in and out of myself. Yes, piston-like now I fucked my cunt with the surrogate cock made by my fingers.

"What the fuck was that all about?" I asked myself as, still clad in the hold-ups and heels; I brushed my teeth before going to bed.

****************

As we were parting, Matt had said something about being very busy for the next couple of days, yeah right, probably wifey won't let him out to play, I thought rather wickedly.

I got on with life the next day working away on my freelance copywriting trying to ignore thinking about him. I put the time with him out of my mind and tried to forget the fact we had had such stupendous sex on my sofa. Sara arriving home that evening helped push him further away, although alone in my bed that night my hands felt drawn toward my breasts as I thought of that glint in his eyes as he had teased me about the photos.

I had taken Sara to school and was on my way home in the car when my mobile rang. I didn't for one moment think it would be him but it was; luckily I have full, hands-free Bluetooth otherwise he might have arrested me over the phone, I smiled to myself. I felt unusually nervous. We sort of bumbled round a conversation eventually agreeing to meet the next evening for a drink in bar then dinner in Docklands.

I ploughed into my work during the rest of the morning feeling quite excited at the prospect of seeing Matt again the next day.

Around noon, my mobile rang. I picked up thinking it might be him. It wasn't

"We got it Chris, we only fuckingwell got it?"

James, the MD and owner of one of the ad agencies that employed me on a freelance basis as a copywriter, was referring to the account we had pitched for the day I had taken Starbucks by storm.

"Great, that's fantastic," I gushed.

"So babe, you can have all the stockings, tights and sexy underwear you like now, can't you?"

The account was Lejaby a hosiery and ladies' intimate apparel provider as they termed themselves. A naughty knickershop as Fred, the Art Director on the pitch, who was also on the phone, called them.

"Only if you model them for us Chrissy, all in the spirit of promoting creative juices of course," he shouted.

I guessed that the team were in James' glass, walled office and that there was probably eight or nine of them listening to this exchange. Political correctness is a late arrival in the ad industry.

"Fuck off you dirty old pervert," I said back smiling, as I heard the rest of the guys and the two younger women laughing. I didn't mind, for in the main I think PC has gone far too far.

"We pay good modelling fees," Fred retorted.

"Even you lot couldn't pay me enough to persuade me to parade myself like that within a half mile radius of you Fred, you know that."

Kelly, one the young, female, media research girls called out.

"In any case he'd run a mile, he's a big tart really."

I rang off shortly after that, for they were all getting pissed and raucous. I did though agree to join them in a Soho restaurant for a drink or two after lunch; I knew that lunch would go on well into the afternoon and would become dinner as well; typical ad industry excess.

Why it happened later that afternoon, I'm not sure. It had happened before. Several times in fact. Probably half a dozen or so, I think; in the past few years that is. If you add in the fling we had before I got married and the one just after the divorce, oh and the one a couple of weeks ago, but that was excusable, I had probably had sex with Carl fifty or so times. But not for some time. We had reached a sort of unsaid agreement to stop. Nothing heavy and we both knew it would never go anywhere, so we had almost until a couple of weeks ago, stopped, well put it on hold at least.

So really, it shouldn't have been that big a surprise that I ended up after the boozy, fun filled, nice lunch with my work colleagues and mates, in Carl's bed in his small flat in that narrow road opposite the station and hospital in Blackheath Village. I wondered, as he undressed me, whether, somehow, meeting Matt had made me more receptive to Carl's cool and casual. "Shall we," as he ran his hand over my bum in the the restaurant when no one could see him, or so I hoped.

Carl and I went back a long way. He was a part owner of the agency, which was run by James. He was my first boss when I started out in advertising and it was to him that I turned after my divorce when I wanted freelance work, more as a therapy than as an income. I was financially ok after the devastation of splitting from Paul; it was emotionally and mentally that I was fucked up.

It was nice sex, but then it always was with him. He was the only man I had met since Paul that could satisfy me physically and emotionally.

"So did the photos help?" He asked.

"Yes I think so," I replied.

"Well James was pleased, he thought your copy was, as he put it, inspired and spoke from your cunt and tits."

The client had sent over loads of samples for the creative team to look at and use for inspiration for the ads we would have to put together for the presentation. The room that was assigned to the presentation prep was a ladies underwear fetishist's Aladdins Cave. Panties of all descriptions, colours and styles, loads of bras, waspies, camisoles, basques and teddies. Stockings and tights and nightwear. All was sexy, but none were tacky; it was high quality 'intimate apparel.'

The creative, research, media and account handling guys had a field day.

I was assigned to write the body copy of the ads, the Head Copywriter and Art Director came up with the overall theme and the headlines, one of which was. "Lingerie to be undressed in," another being. "A lover's gift to you and your gift to him." They got to me. I liked both the terms and the underlying sentiment's, restrained sexiness. As both a copywriter and, more importantly, a woman I associated with them, what they were saying about the product, the wearer and what she would experience from wearing the beautifully made garments. After all, the prime factor when buying undies, for many of us is, 'What will I look like, if he sees me in it' and 'How will I feel in it?'

I needed more than just looking at it and feeling it.

I smuggled some out and at home put it on and walked round the flat looking at myself in the mirrors. It worked; it did what it was supposed to do. It was lingerie to be undressed in and it had the effect on me that it was supposed to produce. It was a good job they had provided loads of pairs of panties and thongs, for I soaked at least three pairs in my research!

I discussed the part of the presentation for which I was responsible with Carl. I admitted to him that I had worn some of it.

"How did it make you feel?"

"Good?"

"Good as in virtuous?"

"No," I smiled, "Good as in sexy."

We talked more about it and, as they do, one thing led to another. He photographed me in them and then, inevitably we fucked.

We weren't fuckbuddies; well at least I didn't think we were. We were able, though, to have sex, cuddle up, be very tender, caring and loving towards each other then get out of bed and go home, him to his wife in Wiltshire, at weekends, me to my daughter.

I was quite amazed at myself. Having sex with an old flame one afternoon and a date with new one the next; what a busy social butterfly I am becoming, I smiled, as I was getting ready to meet Matt.

I was trying to persuade myself that this would be nothing more than just a few drinks and dinner. After all that is what grown ups do. I was telling myself, it was no big deal, I wasn't that interested in him or men come to that, as he probably wasn't that interested in me.

So if that was true about my feelings, why am I pampering my body and face so carefully? Why am standing naked before the mirror looking at myself? Why am wondering, 'is he tit man' or, turning and looking over my shoulder, 'a bum guy?' Why, as I looked at my full breasts, did I wonder whether he was used to large, sagging tits? Did his wife or ex wife have big ones or mere pimples, was she a little overweight or thin, had she got the testimony to having had c***dren of a slightly bulging tum, did she carry a few extra pounds on her hips? Or maybe he dated a lot and was more used to the stick-insect figures of younger women, the kind for which Paul betrayed me so many times. If that was the case, he was going to be bloody unlucky when he saw what I was carrying. 'What?' I may well have said aloud. 'Saw, what do you mean saw, what's he gonna see, it's only a first fucking date, for Christ's sake?' I argued, remembering what I was about to put on and recalling one of the strap lines I had written for the pitch. 'Lejaby, it's undewear to be undressed in.'

So why was I slipping into the most risqué matching, black bra and thong set from their catalogue? Why was I wearing a deep, plunging lace and net bra that did nothing to hide my tits or nipples, but gave the support my C cup goodies needed nowadays, I asked myself? I got no sensible answers.

I decided on black, leather trousers and high heeled strappy shoes with my toes poking out. Nice and smart, but casual with an elegant tartiness about them.

I slipped into a little, black, loose weave, cashmere cardy that was cut low at the top and high at the waist revealing a fashionable band of bare flesh when I stretched or reached out. It had tiny buttons that ended half way up my cleavage, which, with the tight, uplifting, supportive bra, looked deeper than usual. Mmmm the product is quite good, I thought putting my copywriting hat back on as I heard the intercom buzz four times, realising that was the concierge telling me the cab was there. I slipped into the long, black linen coat that billowed down past my knees and set off for the restaurant and my date with Matt.

I was late, purposefully so. Although I was now four years on from the split with my ex, I was still not that comfortable going into bars and restaurants by myself, I still didn't like it. I still felt vulnerable and on show. I still wondered what the, usually mainly, couples and even more the single men thought. The more of a bar the place was, the more I conjectured if they were wondering if I was a hooker; a high class one of course! So, I tended to arrive a discrete, but not too impolite, fifteen minutes or so after the agreed time. Not long enough to annoy, but sufficient to make sure my partner was there and that he might be wondering, is she going to turn up? No harm in starting off teasing and using my womanly wiles is there?

Matt was at the bar, positioned so he would see me the moment I came through the door. 'Nicely thoughtful and considerate,' I thought. I liked that, a good start. He stood as I approached. He was just as I remembered. Dressed in a crumpled, comfortable-looking beige coloured jacket and blue chinos, open shirt, no tie, he looked flexible enough to fit in almost anywhere.

"Hello Christine," he smiled looking not quite sure whether to kiss me or shake hands.

"Hi Matt," I replied, leaning forward a little, but not extending my hand, indicating that he should kiss me. He did, with no hesitation. He also rested his hand lightly on the waistband of my leather trousers. He ordered me a vodka, with just a touch of water, and topped up his, what I think was, gin and tonic. We sat at the bar on the high stools; I was relieved that I had worn trousers.

My question. "How's the crime scene in South London then?" got us off to an easy start. As with many men, though, when the subject is their job, he went on a bit. Thankfully not in a cocky or arrogant way and to be honest actually I did find his accounts stories of arresting people and other activities quite interesting and, the way he explained them, rather funny. He was not being boastful or overtly trying to impress me, and that impressed me. I was enjoying myself and feeling comfortable on my first date for such a long time.

My vodka got freshened. I shouldn't really have let that happen for I assumed we would have wine at dinner. Christine, vodka and wine sometimes don't mix that well, I thought almost giggling as we finished the drinks and stood up to leave for the restaurant.

As we left the bar, he casually d****d his arm round my waist. He touched me with not too much pressure, the gesture was not intrusive or assumptive, just nicely affectionate and appropriately proprietarily, well sort of. I thought that he was demonstrating to others that we were together, and to me indicating that we were a number, or were becoming one. Quite some progress in half an hour!

Outside, he didn't immediately remove his hand, but left it d****d round my waist resting on the swell of my hip, as he asked.

"What's the best way?"

I smiled. "Well first you need to tell me where we are going, don't you?"

"Oh shit yes, sorry, silly me, waffling on about work and forgetting the important stuff."

"So where are we headed then?" I asked, my mind again wandering as I wondered if he might say. "My place or yours?" I speculated as to how I would react to that, but could not reach a clear conclusion, before he replied.

"La Luna, in Canada Square."

I knew the place, but had never eaten there, although I had heard it was good.

"Great."

"Have you been there?"

"No I haven't, I have been meaning to, but just haven't got round to it."

"What's the best way?"

"Over the swing bridge," I replied, turning away, noting with a tad of regret that his hand dropped from my waist.

It had been comfortable having him touch me. The first touch of a man is so important; it can ruin a relationship, for sometimes, inexplicably, it can make a woman's skin crawl as they say. And after that, there is absolutely no way back at all, ever. My skin certainly didn't crawl, shiver somewhat maybe, a slight attack of goose bumps possibly, nice feelings from which no recovery at all was needed. Matt's thumb had rested just about horizontally on the pleated black belt of my trousers. The trousers were fashionably low-rise so the belt rested on the lower extremities of my waist. The area just above my pelvis, where, inevitably for a slightly "meaty" woman, there is some excess flesh. Matt's thumb being where it was, meant that the rest of his hand and fingers were sort of cupping that softness, with his little finger being lower down, right on my outer thigh.

I thought. 'Good job I'm not wearing suspenders.' Why I thought that I have no idea, for I never wear them and hadn't even thought about it. Odd.

We walked along the dockside and started across the pedestrian bridge over the big dock. With a strong breeze coming off the Thames it was quite chilly.

"Wow that really is some sight isn't it?" he said stopping when we in the middle. We looked at the cluster of massive buildings that make up the area known as Canary Wharf.

We were standing facing each other, our heads turned to the right looking up. My linen coat was open, flapping in the breeze. The slight chill was going straight through the loose-knit top onto my skin. It was also finding its way through my bra. I could feel it on my breasts; I could feel it on my nipples, which are very reactive to stimulation, both sexual and cold. The inevitable happened, the little buggers betrayed me as they had many times in the past. They hardened, suddenly and obviouslyly. They pushed at both the gossamer thin bra and the light, loose-weave, cashmere top, making large bumps. I saw him look at them. I tried to turn my attention away from what was happening to my body by replying.

"Yes it sure is."

I saw that nice, quizzical smile, the same one that had impressed me in Starbucks, the same he had given me when he handed me the photos. Looking right into my eyes, his hand again slipping onto my waist, he moved closer and said softly and pointedly about my nipple show.

"Yes, a very nice sight indeed Christine. It would make a great photo"

I was flustered. It was too soon.

"Just like those other very nice sights you gave me in the folder," He went on referring to the photos.

"Did you look at them?"

"Yes many times, they are amazing, I love photography."

Flustered and surprised at the turn of events and, I have to say, aroused far more than I should have been I mumbled something stupid like.

"Oh yes, still life or portraits?"

That nice, quite sexy, sort of knowing, yet enquiring smile again.

"Well my preference would be for glamour stuff, but finding models is so hard," he said staring intensely into my eyes. He went on slowly and softly. "However, as I have a sort of captive audience right now, may I?" he asked bringing a small, digital camera from his pocket.

I was amazed. Not just at the surprise of him asking me, but more so at my reaction. The idea excited me. I was a little turned on by the thought of posing on this narrow bridge in the near darkness with the backdrop of Canary Wharf and with my nipples bursting out from the thin bra. Where was that excitement coming from? Maybe the same source as when I posed for the underwear shots I thought, realising that it was not just the cold that was now stimulating my nipples.

"You don't really want that Matt," I said unconvincingly not doing anything; I realised to cover myself up.

"Oh yes I do ma'am, it will be a wonderful addition to my Chris, damsel in distress photo collection."

I found to my surprise that I was replying. "Just one then."

"Don't be daft," he muttered sodding around with the focus and flash. "Smile for the camera, say cheese."

The crazy thing was, I did. He must have taken at least a dozen, giving me instructions with which I found myself readily complying.

"Turn to your right, now your left, hold the coat by your hip so it's open, now wrap it tightly round you, just leaving your cleavage showing, now hands on hips, the coat open straight on to me."

My mind whirred as I followed his instructions. I loved it, but we had to stop. I thought we had gone far enough. I wanted intimacy, I think, but not yet. I wrapped my coat round me.

"I think it's time for dinner, don't you Matt?"

It had been a lovely meal. In fact, it had been a lovely evening. In truth, it had been a lovely date. In my mind, it had been the prelude to what could well turn into a lovely night.

But it was too soon. He was too nice, too attractive, too appealing, too interesting, simply too fucking fanciable to go further with at this stage. I wanted to, quite badly, I realised, as I stood in the doorway of the restaurant while he went back inside to order a cab, but I was scared of getting in over my head, I can fall for a man so easily.

"It will be twenty minutes or so," apparently there's a world shortage at the moment, something to do with global warming."

"What?" I asked, at first not getting the humour. I smiled and looked at him our eyes meeting. "Oh I see, well we'll just have to walk. That'll reduce our carbon footprint as well as my waistline won't it?"

Matt slipped his arm loosely round my waist as he let me walk past him out of the narrow doorway.

"Now that's something you have no need at all to worry about?"

"My carbon footprint?"

"No, your waistline," he said, his hand resting lightly on me just above where my bum flares out from my waist.

"Well thank you kind sir," I replied lightly, starting to walk along the dockside, quite forgetting that he had seen 'those photos.'

"You'd be surprised there's loads of lumps and bumps."

"Not on the body on those photos, I have looked very closely."

The word body seemed to crash into my brain. It took on such an evocative meaning, it became such an erotic term in my mind, it adopted such a sexual connotation that it had never had before. I felt myself responding.

"And not on these," he suddenly said holding his camera up.

"You've seen them?"

"Yes, I couldn't resist it; I had a peek in the loo."

"Oh," was all I could of saying as we stopped. Standing close together, he clicked a button on the camera. It was the waist up shot of me with my hands on my hips. The cardigan had ridden up so there was a band of bare flesh round my midriff, its whiteness accentuated by the black of the leather trousers and the cardigan. That was stretched across my breasts, the loose weave being pulled open slightly. My bra was very clearly on view, as were the sizeable lumps of my nipples.

"Oh shit, were they that obvious?"

"Mmmmm, wonderfully so," he murmured flicking on several of the other shots, all of which focused on my breasts or my hair.

He put his arm round my shoulders.

"I'll walk you home if that's Ok Christine?"

Although I was pleased with the gallant gesture, I replied, a little more curtly than I intended.

"It's well out of your way, I'll be fine."

"I couldn't be at peace with myself if I left you alone around here in the dead of night."

"I am used to being on my own and alone, you know."

"Of course I do, but please just indulge my gentlemanly beliefs."

I smiled at him, quite pleased really and slipped my arm through his I said.

"It's nice to know the age of chivalry isn't over."

"Yes a real knight aren't I? Pity I forgot the shining armour."

"And your lance," I said, honestly not realising the potential for a double entendre until I had said it. I heard him snigger and that made me giggle as we both saw the other meaning.

"Oh I never forget that, in fact I never leave home without it."

"That's good to hear," I went on quite enjoying the stylishly smutty banter. "You never know when you might need it?"

He paused, probably considering whether he might be going too far, before saying something like. "Will I need it tonight, I wonder," but instead asked. "It usually lets me know in good time."

I saw where this was going and my heart seemed to beat faster. I didn't say anything for a moment or two, for I couldn't conjure up a response that was appropriate. Then I mumbled, rather lamely.

"It has a mind of its own does it? Your lance."

His arm seemed to be tighter around mine and somehow it felt as though we were closer together. I could feel the side of my breast against his upper arm. It felt nice. Was I imagining that he was pressing harder?

"Oh yes very much so, Chris, most lances do," he said quietly. "And sometimes when they let the knights know they really do need their shining armour."

"Really?" I said as I felt drops of rain. "Why is that?"

"As a cover really."

I realised what he meant as the rain started to fall heavier.

"Oh yes I see, for the same reason, I suppose, that us maidens really need a waist to shoulders cover sometimes." I muttered starting to run. "Quick over there,"

We had to sprint across the deserted dockside towards the doorway to what looked like a warehouse. My open coat was flapping behind me as I bounded along my boobs bouncing uncontrollably. I could feel drops of rain going through the loose weave cardigan and more falling onto the bare flesh of my breasts and into my cleavage. It was oddly arousing.

"Phew," Matt said as we sheltered in the dryness of the deep doorway of the warehouse.

It was a large area, probably thirty feet long and twelve or so deep. As with most warehouses in Docklands, it was being refurbished and turned into flats. They were some way from being finished so we were in a large alcove. There was some light from a lamppost on the dock, but not much. The walls had been recently tiled and were clean and shiny as was the floor.

"That was unexpected," I replied as we stood facing each other panting from the exertions of the run.

"What do you reckon, stay 'til it passes or call a cab now?"

"Let's give it a few minutes and then make a decision. Ok?"

"Sure, fine, whatever you say Mistress Chris."

"Mistress?"

"Yes you referred to yourself as a maiden, didn't you?"

"Oh I see."

"Yes one that sometimes needs the same sort of cover that a suit of armour gives a knight," he smiled returning to our earlier line of repartee. He dropped his gaze downwards a little.

I knew exactly what he was looking at and why. This time, though, I was acutely aware that it wasn't just the cold that was causing me to need the waist to shoulder cover. I would usually be so embarrassed if that happened with a man I hardly knew. But for some reason, as the blood pounded into my nipples hardening them and making, what I knew would be, very noticeable lumps in both my bra and cardigan, I didn't feel that embarrassment with him. Usually, when such accidents occur I turn away, bend over or cover myself. Normally, I would never say anything. Now, though, for some inexplicable reason I didn't feel embarrassed, I didn't turn away or cover myself, I didn't remain silent and I didn't even do my silent, fuck, fuck, fuck or bollocks verbal routine. In fact, I welcomed his gaze, I enjoyed feeling it on the bare skin of my chest and on my breasts, I revelled in his focus on where my nipples were pounding. I said, very huskily.

"I guess I need that cover now, don't I?"

In a very serious tone that was exactly right for the moment he quietly replied.

"No Mistress Chris you do not need a cover at all."

Matt placed his hands, almost ceremoniously, on my shoulders, inside the thin linen coat, which was damp from the rain. He applied a little pressure indicating that we should move further into the doorway, further from the dock, further from where any passers-by might see us, not that many would be likely in this foul weather, I thought.

We stared into each other's eyes; we didn't speak, that wasn't necessary, now. His hands slipped from my shoulders and went to the top button on the black, loose weave, slightly see-through, tiny, low-cut, and high-waisted, cashmere cardigan.

As if by a sixth sense, I knew exactly what he was going to do. What he wanted to do for that was what I wanted him to do and what our relationship needed him to do.

He didn't ask permission, he didn't need to, it was unnecessary. It was implied in me standing there, my breasts and nipples almost convulsing with desire, as I, as good as, offered my body to him.

Without breaking our gaze his, surprisingly dextrous, fingers slowly undid each button of my cardigan.

He gently pulled it apart tucking each side of that and the coat round the protuberance of my boobs to hold it open. That almost made me giggle, as I thought 'What odd bookends,' but the strong erotic atmosphere stopped me.

My breasts seemed so full and heavy, I felt they were overheating and pulsating, but of course, they weren't, they were just hugely aroused. As he pulled the cashmere away from each mound, my nipples exploded to an even fuller erection and a harder state, the slight chill adding to the sexual excitement that was stimulating them

"Oh Chris," Matt breathed. "You look amazing, just like in the photographs."

"Yes Matt," I replied, not really knowing what to say.

He turned my body slightly so that the small amount of light coming in was on me.

"They look incredible," he breathed, rather making me feel, as others have in the past, that all I am to them is a pair of big tits. But hey, who's complaining at that!

I watched with surprise as he once more took the camera from his pocket.

"Pose for me Chris, show me yourself, give me those tits and nipples," he said softly, shooting away as I turned to my right then back to my left.

The rain was teaming down now. Everything was quiet outside. The dockside, being pedestrian only, was deserted. I had never done anything like this. Well I'd had sex in a car a few times and once or twice in the open air, but that seemed different, and of course, it was different. But then most things are different to a woman flaunting her bra-covered tits at a bloke inn the doorway of a building as he photographs her.

"Slip the coat and cardigan off Chris."

"No, don't be daft," I replied, not totally convincing myself let alone him, that I meant that. There are times when 'no' may not mean 'no' I have found out since being 'in play' after the divorce..

"Come on. No one will come by and even if they did they wouldn't be able to see in here."

He was right of course.

Looking back on that incredible evening the next day, there were three aspects of it that so surprised me.

Obviously, the first was letting him photograph me.

Letting him persuade me out of that coat and cardigan and letting him take shots of me just in my bra, of me cupping my breasts and pinching my very evident nipples as he shot away.

The second was the sheer excitement I gained. It wasn't just the combination of a new man, what we were doing and where we were doing it that got to me, but more so it was the intense pleasure and buzz I got from being photographed.

The third, and in some ways greatest surprise, was that he didn't try to fuck me. Had he have done so, I really am not sure that I would have had the resolve to let my head overrule my body and stop him.

Had the rain have not stopped and had that bunch of revellers not come along the dock, I think we may well have gone further in that doorway. At least, in the stream of e-mails we exchanged the next day we thought so.

Although I think he was on duty, speeding around in cop car doing all upright, citizen type things and protecting us from the bad guys some of the next day, he found time to exchange some increasingly steamy mails with me. Even cops have their 'dark sides.' As the mails became more intense, as he sent me a stream of photos taken in that doorway and as we lost most of our inhibitions, it seemed to be taken for read, that we would have sex, and soon.

"I want to photograph you as you were in those first photos."

"I want to shoot all of your body. I want to take shots of you without your bra; I want to photograph your breasts and your big, hard nipples."

These were typical phrases he used during that day of mail exchanges. And these typical phrases, somehow so got to me. I was being incredibly turned on by a combination of the written word about photographs and by looking at myself in the shots he had taken.

After that extraordinary exchange of mails, we finalised our arrangements late the next evening day on one of those messenger sites.

"You do want me to photograph you, don't you Christine?"

"Yes," I typed back, "Yes Matt."

"You like me doing it don't you?"

"Yes, yes I do."

It was so much easier saying these things in type than face-to-face.

"Where can I photograph you Christine?"

"I don't know?"

"My flat is too small and its miles away. Shall I rent a studio?"

"No," I replied, my mind working fast. Sara was with her father for the next three days. I was alone in the apartment. Matt was working nights the next day, so we had all afternoon and evening. "You can come here."

"Are you sure?"

I wasn't, but typed back. "Yes."

We tied up the loose ends.

I was incredibly nervous waiting for him to arrive at 1.00 pm. Several times, I thought of calling him and changing my mind and numerous times I hoped he would call me. But almost dead on one, the intercom at the gates buzzed. I opened those and waited for him to buzz at my door then went down the stairs and opened the door.

We had a couple of drinks. We talked about the other evening and he asked if I would like the rest of the photos put onto my PC. I agreed. I logged on and stood alongside him as he popped his memory stick into my computer. That did make me giggle.

"What's so funny?" He asked.

"Oh just you shoving that memory stick into my PC, makes me think."

"You dirty woman," he smiled, turning and sliding his arm round my waist.

"Yes," I managed to say before he kissed me, deep and long. It was a great first kiss and it melted any reservations I may have had.

He was holding the remote mouse and I heard him clicking as he looked over my shoulder at the screen.

"bloody hell these are good," he said.

I turned and saw the screen filled with just my breasts in that black diaphanous bra. The outline of my coral pink, fairly large areola and the horrendously swollen nipples were pretty clear, despite the dim light and small flash on the camera and I had to agree, they did look good.

We sank onto the sofa our arms round each other still kissing as we watched vision after vision of my breasts, my head and shoulders and just my face and hair on the screen.

I felt his hands on me, on my boobs through the thin sweater, inside that sweater and on my bra. Then, inside it, on my flesh, squeezing, pinching and rubbing. Mine went inside his shirt. He was pulling my breasts out of my bra, pushing the sweater up and clamping his face to them, sucking and slurping as I pressed that soft, so sensitive flesh against his pleasure giving mouth. His shirt came off and his chest was against my boobs. Flesh on flesh at last, wonderful.

It was all a whirlwind of action, removing clothes, grinding our mouths together, squirming our bodies and feeling, rubbing, stroking and caressing.

And all the time there were pictures of me fading on and off the PC screen.

"Fuck Chris, one view of your tits is fantastic; seeing them in stereo is just amazing," Matt was saying as we removed my sweater and bra.

Gloriously topless and wonderfully bare above the waist, I felt liberated, free and so fucking horny I knew that little would be needed to make me cum. 'Please, please, God, give me the strength to resist cumming until he is fucking me,' I was unashamedly praying. It's so bloody naff and sodding embarrassing to start your orgasm before he's even in you, as I had a couple of times when having my first sex with two different guys, just after the divorce came through.

I needn't have worried unduly though, for he seemed to be in just as much of a rush as I was.

It wasn't a romantic shag. It wasn't slow, languid or particularly tender. It was fast, a little roug