How We Met - Part 1 - Strange Meeting free porn video

HOW WE MET A prequel to The Autumn Weekend Part I - Strange meeting You do not make an immediate strong impression on me when we first meet. You are wearing a finely knitted grey woollen dress which conceals rather than enhances your curves. It has a hemline a couple of inches above the knee, long sleeves, and a round neckline. Flat heeled ballet pumps. Make-up which is understated in comparison with the appearance I become used to later. Your unruly, dark hair is tied back and tamed, and you are wearing little jewellery - a single string of pearls and a couple of discreet gold rings. The most noticeable thing about you is the musky perfume you are wearing, which combines headily with your feral animal scent - a sensation that I find impossible to describe in words. You walk into our booth in the middle of a quiet afternoon to ask about the services we offer, and I take you through them carefully. I should explain that l am at a conference (which is really a trade fair) for information technology companies. My own company provides consultancy advice on outreach, marketing, and publicity across a range of different industries, and we are trying to break into the IT field as a potentially expanding area of business. This attempt is not very successful, principally because IT companies tend to be rather good at outreach and marketing, and there is little new that we can bring to the party. But our senior partners see this as a marketing opportunity that we cannot ignore. Trade fairs are tedious at the best of times, and this one is particularly unrewarding. We have had few visitors to our booth, have not been invited to speak in the plenary conference, and have taken only a small part in some of the sectoral seminars. To make matters worse, our senior operations manager has decided that we should dress in the colours of the company logo, which are a particularly jarring combination of aubergine and bright orange (which must have been unaccountably stylish for an all-to-brief period at the time when the logo was designed). Given this palette, the opportunities for style and flair are limited. I have bought an aubergine moleskin suit, which I am wearing with an orange shirt and orange patent shoes with black laces and black crepe soles. I feel awkward and ugly, and even the silky underwear I am wearing beneath fails to cheer me up. Emma, a senior partner in the firm and my immediate boss, who is normally the most achingly stylish of women, has made the most of a bad job, but even so she has been the unabashed victim of a sequence of fashion disasters. She is tall (taller than me) with beautiful auburn hair which I half believe to be hennaed, although she denies this. A true beauty, she has an original and innovative dress sense: flamboyant, on trend, full of raw sexual energy. All this is wasted this week: she flinched visibly at the start of the conference when the senior marketing director insisted on taking a group photograph. I am present as a senior account manager (almost all job titles in the company seem to contain the word ?senior?), and have taken the lead in liaising with potential customers, of which you are one. But we quickly decide between us that the fit between our businesses (you run a small software company based in Edinburgh) is limited. You are polite but formal, and our discussion takes less than 15 minutes. We exchange business cards, and yours tells me that your name is Emily Bouchard. Sighing, I file it with the others. The day dawdles on. There is a conference dinner in the evening, but irritably I tell Emma that I will not be attending. After three days of boredom, I am looking to free myself from the conference crowd and look for something interesting to do on my own. Emma is understanding, but disappointed: if you want to get on in this field, David, you will have to reconcile yourself to doing a lot more networking ? you can?t keep ducking out of the social side of the business. She and I both know, however, that little will come out of this conference, and she does not insist. I sense that she is only attending out of a sense of duty or, more likely, so that she can report back to the other partners that our failure to drum up business was not for want of making every effort to do so. I have not booked into the conference hotel, partly because it is bursting at the seams and I left it late to confirm my attendance, but partly precisely so that I could take full advantage of any opportunities to do my own thing. At the end of the day, I walk back to my hotel about half a mile away. A thin drizzle is falling and the afternoon is dark. The brutalist architecture of the midlands city where the conference is taking place adds to the general air of gloom. My hotel is quite plush, with a lobby decorated in brown and cream marble. I collect my key from the reception desk (an old-fashioned fob key rather than the plastic card favoured by most modern hotels), snake my way through a gaggle of red velvet easy chairs towards the brass- fronted lift. I emerge on the first floor and open the door to my room. The room is comfortable enough with a double bed, desk, and capacious wardrobe with a sliding door. The ensuite has a proper bath as well as a shower. I take off my shoes and then my outer clothes, and finally slip out of the lingerie beneath. I untie my long blonde hair and smooth my hands over my hairless body, pausing momentarily over my swelling penis. It is time for a shower. I linger over the shower, luxuriating in the steam, washing the tedium of the conference hall from my body, gradually relaxing. After washing and conditioning my hair, I blow dry it into a long bob (it is quite straight at the moment). Emerging from the bathroom wrapped in a thick white towel, I slide open the wardrobe door. I intend to go out this evening: what shall I wear? I have brought a full and varied wardrobe with me. From the rail hang a leather skirt, a short black dress, a pair of leather trousers, a cream blouse, a full length black slip, and a purple camisole. There are a couple of pairs of boots, and a pair of patent court shoes with heels. Tops, tights, stockings, and lingerie await me in the drawers. My plan has been to go out fully dressed to a club or a congenial bar, relax, and find some like-minded people to socialise with. But I have been put off, partly by the weather, partly by the general atmosphere of the city, which is cool and less than friendly, and partly by some internet research which has revealed that the most promising clubs do not operate tonight. A couple of websites mention a small number of pubs and bars close to the city centre, but again strike a cautious note about visiting them early in the week. I envisage an evening walking around a collection of unpromising venues, and sigh with irritation. I reject the more flamboyant items in my wardrobe, and opt for androgyny rather than full-on display. I pull on a foundation garment to give the lower part of my body some shape as the tight trousers I will wear are fashioned in a feminine cut. Then a camisole, stockings and a suspender belt, and a stretchy, long sleeved top in a deep, rich burgundy colour. I struggle into my leather trousers, and pull up the side zip, and finally pull on a pair of western-style boots in soft black leather. These boots have a stacked heel, which is just low enough to pass them off as unisex, although they aren?t really (the pink leather lining, which of course you can?t see when they?re being worn, gives the game away). I often wear these boots to work: they are amongst my favourite items of ?almost male? garb. I return to the bathroom (there is no dressing table in the room) and contemplate my hairless face in the mirror. A little foundation, perhaps, with some colour on the cheekbones. I dare to apply a hint of mascara, with just a touch of colour on the upper eyelids and a contrasting dab of translucent pearl-coloured gloss on the arches of the eye. Neutral lip gloss. Finally, I pull on a soft, leather jacket (biker style, lots of zips), and stuff my wallet, mobile phone, and some make-up into a soft leather shoulder bag. I pose before the mirror, and, satisfied with my appearance, step out into the corridor, locking my room door behind me. The lift doors open to reveal a couple, apparently in their thirties, already inside. I step into the left and smile. The woman ? slim, well-dressed, long dark hair ? gives me a tight smile, but the man looks away and then downwards to the floor of the lift. His expression is neutral, but does not invite conversation. I stand with my back to the wall of the lift: I?m used to this kind of reaction when dressed half- man, half-woman, and have long since ceased to be offended by it. There are worse things to endure, sometimes. When the lift doors open in the lobby, the man ostentatiously hangs back to let me leave first. I deposit the key at the desk, and make my way across the lobby, my heels clattering on the marble floor. There are half a dozen people in the lobby ? sitting down reading newspapers, chatting with each other, heaving suitcases through the outside doors ? and I attract a few curious glances, which I ignore. I walk outside, pull my smartphone from my bag, and call up a mapping app to help me navigate through the city. It is not that the street plan is complicated ? far from it, it?s an unimaginative geometric grid ? but the homogeneous modern architecture and the absence of distinctive landmarks makes it difficult to pin down locations or identify through routes. In addition, in a city designed for the car, pedestrian travel can be complex, with direct routes blocked by pedestrian barriers, and routes through subways difficult to relate to above-ground scenery. The gloom of the evening is now gathering, and the atmosphere remains damp and raw. I pick my way across a couple of main roads, and follow the map on my phone towards a bar that has been advertised as comfortable and friendly towards people of all sexes. This turns out to be a cellar bar beneath a suite of offices, with metal steps leading to a narrow entrance. The bar is brightly ? not to say starkly ? lit, and the canned music is loud and rhythmic. A couple of lesbians waring denim jackets and jeans and doc martins are sitting at a low table. They both have identically cropped and coloured blue-black hair and garish red lips. They give me a bored glance as I enter, and then return to their own conversation. The only other customer is a white- haired man with a thin face wearing a business suit sitting on a bar stool, who gives me an interested look, but this time it is my turn to return a blank stare. He may be perfectly nice, but he is not what I am looking for (although, to be fair, I am not sure what I am looking for). Behind the bar is a bored-looking young woman chewing gum wearing a short black skirt, a white blouse, and heels which are surely too high for someone who is going to spend all evening on her feet. I order a glass of white wine, which is warm, and ? as the barmaid fails to respond to my attempts to strike up a conversation ? I sit down in a booth and pretend to look at my phone. The man at the bar looks at me and half gets up, but I shake my head and he sits down again. To my relief, another man ? younger, more casually-dressed ? comes in and starts talking to the man at the bar. They are obviously friends, or at least acquaintances. The barmaid strolls reluctantly over to them and in answer to their order, pours out two shots of what looks like vodka. She gives me a look which, perhaps unreasonably, I interpret as hostile (how dare this stranger come into our bar!), and I cross my legs and try to look unconcerned. During the course of the next half hour or so two couples ? one apparently hetero, the other consisting of two rather matronly middle-aged women ? come into the bar, and the two denim-clad lesbians leave. There is no laughter, little conversation, and certainly no opening for me to socialise with any of them. Dispirited, I drain my by-now-tasteless wine and head for the exit. Perhaps given my general mood, I am expecting too much from the evening. There are two more bars within easy walking distance. One turns out to be a crowded sweaty bar full of bullet-headed men and teenaged girls wearing micro skirts and skimpy tops, all shouting at each other, and all apparently in an advanced stage of intoxication. As I press through the crowd to the bar, I am groped several times by men who either do not realise my gender or who do not care, but these clumsy fondlings are painful and annoying rather than gentle and sexy. I see no sign of anybody to whom I could possibly want to speak, and stand awkwardly by the bar with my small glass of wine avoiding eye contact and being jostled from time to time by punters diving past me to try to order drinks from the impossibly busy barman. The third bar on my list turns out to be closed for refurbishment, which ? by this stage in the evening ? seems more of a relief than a disappointment. I trudge back towards my hotel, dispirited and tired, stopping at an undistinguished wine bar which advertises food. I find myself eating a limp salad with another undistinguished glass of wine, watching a catwalk show on a satellite TV channel. When my phone tells me it is 10.15 pm, I leave. Dispirited, I walk the two blocks back to the hotel, enter the lobby ? more crowded now ? and join the queue for keys. Whatever it is that I have been looking for that evening, I have not found it. It is certainly not sex, but it is probably some kind of companionship, of shared experience, in a congenial setting: instead, I have spent a tawdry, solitary evening in a succession of unsatisfying, unfriendly, and rather squalid bars. As I stand in the queue, I become aware of a heady, musky scent coming from behind me. Heart beating hard, I turn around slowly to see you standing immediately in the queue behind me. But it is not the same you that came to my booth. You have changed ? subtly, perhaps, but definitely. You are wearing the same grey dress, but this time it is clinched in by a broad, shiny black corset belt, which has the effect of revealing your voluptuous curves, and also of raising the hemline by at least three inches so that the dress now hangs a little below mid-thigh. You are wearing knee-length leather boots with four-inch heels, and a beautiful ankle-length leather coat ? single-breasted, belted ? which you have left unbuttoned. Your glorious hair has been freed and frames your symmetrical oval face. Perhaps for the first time, I become aware of the sensuousness of your rather full lips ? painted a glossy red this evening ? and finely-chiselled features. Your bright green eyes have been made up carefully to tone with your outfit, and you are wearing both mascara and eyeliner. In your hands (long red nails, I notice) you carry a pair of soft leather gloves. ?My,? you say, ?it?s my friend from this morning. I must say you look a whole lot better without your uniform on.? I ponder this for a second or two: your reaction to me is unexpected but you seem pleased to see me and genuinely interested in my appearance. This is not a response I am used to from strangers, and for a moment I am unsure how to respond. ?Thanks,? I say after a pause. ?You look pretty good yourself.? You twirl theatrically, letting the long skirts of your coat fly open, giving me a mischievous grin as you do so. ?First time I?ve felt myself since the beginning of this bore-fest,? you add. I reach the front of the queue, retrieve my key, and turn towards you as you ask the clerk for your own room key. ?Not that I?ve done much this evening,? you continue. ?The city centre?s not exactly the place for elegant nightlife.? You have obviously passed on the conference dinner too, hoping for better things, and like me, failed to find them. I nod in rueful agreement. ?I?ve spent most of the evening tramping round damp streets, peering into sad bars, hoping to find kindred spirits who never appeared.? You give my upper arm a sympathetic squeeze, and as you lean towards you I get a renewed sense of your musky perfume. A definite awakening of sexual interest. But you are speaking again. ?Pity we met at the end of the evening, rather than at the beginning.? ?Still time for a drink,? I reply hopefully, looking at my watch. It is a little before 10.30 pm. But you shake your head regretfully. ?I?ve got to give the opening speech at the plenary at 9 tomorrow morning. I need to spend some time going over what I?m planning to say.? I grimace, feeling that I?ve lost my chance of getting to know the first half-interesting person I?ve met in the last three days. But then you add, ?Still, I come to London quite a lot on business. Perhaps I?ll look you up next time I?m there.? I agree enthusiastically ? perhaps over enthusiastically, because you frown fleetingly. Or perhaps you are just trying to collect your thoughts. We say the conventional goodbyes, and I wonder whether you really mean to look me up when next in town, but you touch my arm as we part outside the lifts. As the lift doors are closing you give me a last look up and down. ?Love the boots,? you say. My room is on the first floor, and I climb the stairs with a lighter step than I might have managed a few minutes before. I do, at least, have your contact details, and if you don?t move first, I plan to use them. The following morning: back in uniform, lingerie defiantly beneath. The final day of the conference, and a long, unsatisfying day of fruitless networking stretches before me. It is 10 am, and I have already sent three unlikely punters on their way. And then I sense, rather than see you behind me. Perhaps it is your perfume, perhaps it is something else, but before I turn around I know you are there. Today you are wearing a charcoal grey, pinstriped business suit with a knee- length skirt and pumps with a low heel. You look consummately professional and business like. Unlike me. But you look me up and down again, as if trying testing the impression you gained of me the previous evening. ?Pity,? you say, ?that your company doesn?t have a uniform that plays to your looks.? You give me a grin. ?But I still love the boots.? I?ve worn my black leather boots this morning, rather than inflict on my fellow men the hideous orange loafers I was wearing the previous day. I try to explain that we don?t have a uniform, that we?ve just been asked to wear our rather unfortunate company colours, but you brush my explanation aside. ?Next time we meet, I want you to wear the clothes you wore last night.? I note the implied promise with satisfaction, and the qualification with interest. I ask you if you?ve time for a coffee. You give me a look, as if to say that you have no wish to have coffee with somebody dressed like I am that morning, but then you explain that you?ve only dropped in to say goodbye and that you are catching a flight to Edinburgh in a couple of hours. I watch you leave with sadness, and turn my flagging attention to getting through the rest of the day. ++++++ For days after our encounter, I turn the brief conversations we have had over and over in my mind. What is the nature of your interest in me? I wonder anxiously whether you will follow up our meeting, and if so when. But time passes, and the memory fades a little as memories do, while I am taken up with a new project in the office. My interest in you remains, however, and it is liminal and genuine. I have not had a regular partner or girlfriend for years: although I have enjoyed some stimulating sexual encounters, they have been just that. Little emotional connection and no follow-up. It?s not that I?m pining for commitment, but I am all too conscious that many people find my eclectic couture rather challenging: androgynous in my public-facing life, and more feminine in my private moments. Women often seem intrigued by my appearance, and are often friendly, sharing intimacies and secrets with me freely. But that intimacy falls short of any interest in a relationship: many of my closest women friends have turned out to be lesbians who see me as a kindred spirit, but not as a sexual partner. Some men have shown sexual interest in me, but usually not the sort of men whom I might find reciprocally attractive. In any case, I prefer women. I?ve had serious flings with two girls in my college days, but one of them has since become a hard-core lesbian, and the other has married and produced two children. In the four years since leaving university, nothing. My career has been a success, I have a rather beautiful apartment in West London, and I have an active social life encompassing the arts, sports (I still play tennis), and clubbing. But there is this void at the heart of my personal life. Not that I have a sense of urgency about the need to fill it, but it remains there, always reproaching me, and I have no clear strategy for dealing with it. So I am eagerly intrigued that a woman who has aroused my undoubted and highly sexual interest has indicated that she wishes to see me again. And I am anxiously, nervously, irrationally hopeful that one or two of your remarks might ? just might ? suggest that you might find my appearance and habits a positive incentive to get to know me better rather than a reason to avoid me. The days pass and I am starting to wonder whether I need to take the initiative to contact you when my phone rings. I look at the screen, and see that it is you (I have programmed in your contact details). I answer it. It is not, perhaps, the best of moments. I am in the middle of a project meeting about a contract with a new customer in Yorkshire, for whom we are designing an expansion programme and marketing campaign. The meeting consists of myself as account manager, Emma who needs to approve the strategy, my senior design consultant, Graham (another job title with the word ?senior?), and graduate trainee Jane. Emma is wearing a magnificent indigo jumpsuit tucked into slouchy boots, clinched in at the waist with a wide, black elastic belt. Graham has adopted his preppy look (check shirt, cords, tank top, horn-rimmed spectacles), and Jane is comfortable in jeans and a roll-necked top. I have on a pair of tight black trousers, tucked into highly-polished knee-length boots, with a white, stretchy top, over which I am wearing a long, purple cashmere cardigan with flared sleeves. A black bangle on my right wrist; gold studs in my ears. The outfit looks better than it perhaps sounds, and Emma, as she often does, has complimented me on my appearance this morning (?At least your clothes are interesting,? she says from time to time, ?not like most of the guys who think that provided they are wearing a suit ? however old or crumpled or ill- fitting ? they are smartly-dressed.?) I indicate that I need to take the call, and get up from my seat at the low table where we are examining rushes of artwork and slogans for the campaign we are designing. I wonder furtively over to the corner of the room and gaze out of the plate-glass window onto the street below. A London bus passes. There is a long queue outside the sandwich shop as lunchtime is approaching. I?m not far away from my colleagues so I speak softly into the receiver, returning your greeting. The purpose of your call, you tell me, is to let me know you are coming to London next Wednesday and that you will be in town for a couple of nights. Might we perhaps meet? Yes, of course: either night would be good for me. Wednesday, then, you suggest. Fine. And then: do I remember what you wanted me to wear. Of course, I say, intrigued. What will you be wearing yourself? I want (I do not say this in so many words) to be sure that our outfits complement each other. ?Oh,? you say, ?a girl never says in advance what she?s going to wear. I?m sure that you?ll like my outfit though.? And then you add, as if as an afterthought, ?I?ve just bought a new pair of boots with the highest heels I?ve ever owned. This will be my first opportunity to wear them.? A pause. ?I?ll probably be a few inches taller than you.? I can?t help being intrigued by this. And of course the fact that you have scarcely said hello to me before asking for reassurance about the clothes I?ll wear has hardly escaped my attention either. But all I say is, ?I expect I?ll cope.? But I am struck by a thought: your heels made you at least two inches taller than me when we met that night in the hotel lobby and if these are higher... Well. Another pause. ?Perhaps you can find a pair of heels lying in your wardrobe somewhere.? The ?you? is drawled for emphasis. I hesitate, wondering whether this is all that it seems. And I find myself thinking that any sort of reply ? enthusiastic agreement, vigorous denial ? could strike a false note, and perhaps put you off. So I temporise: ?Perhaps,? I say. ?It?s possible I might be able to find a pair.? A beat, and then, ?Perhaps this will be an opportunity to wear them. I don?t expect you get too many.? Well, that?s not quite true: there are certain bars and clubs where I feel sufficiently comfortable to express myself through my outfits. But it is certainly the case that there have been few occasions when I?ve had a chance to wear my more daring and suggestive outfits in a normal, social environment, with an attractive straight-appearing woman. Or perhaps you are not intending for us to be in a normal, social environment? ?Perhaps I will,? I say, ?if that?s what you want.? I glance over at my colleagues, who are still poring over the project paperwork, other than Emma who keeps shooting me inquisitive glances. I almost miss your reply: ?Oh yes. That?s what I want.? I am about to say something (heaven help me, I don?t know what exactly) when I notice Emma?s continuing gaze, her expression one of thoughtful interest. I run over what we have said in my mind, but don?t think she can have heard anything very definite about my likely choice of footwear, but nonetheless I decide to bring the conversation to an end. You sound a little put out by my abruptness, but you promise to get in touch before Wednesday to arrange a time and a place to meet. I try to explain that I?m in the middle of a meeting, and we part on what seem to be friendly terms. As I rejoin my colleagues, I worry that my hesitations might have given you the impression that I?m taken aback by your admonitions about my wardrobe, and perhaps I have, because a message soon pings into my inbox: ?I mean it: wear them.? You have given me something else to turn over in my mind for the next few days. I wonder what Emma has made of this (presumably) half-heard conversation, and she gives me a quizzical look, but says simply, ?Such a bore, isn?t it, agonizing over what outfit to wear for a hot date.? Where has that come from? I feel myself blush and don?t reply. I try, none too successfully, to concentrate on the work that is in front of us. After the meeting closes, I realise that I can?t remember what we?ve decided. But Emma is evidently still brooding on our conversation, as of course am I, and she looks at me with concern in her eyes. ?Is something wrong,? she says. But I don?t explain ? I can?t explain ? what is troubling me. There is something about hope and expectation. When you feel that your innermost desires and fantasies are unachievable, you can reconcile yourself to that. But when hope irrationally flares, and it seems that there is a prospect of a kind of relationship that you have always believed to be beyond your reach, then that is almost unbearable. And worst of all is the feeling that you might be wrong, and that someone will say, ?That is not what I meant at all. That is not it, at all.? And the prospect of a dying fall is the most horrible thing you can imagine. ?No,? I say, ?there?s nothing wrong.? ?Who is it?? asks Emma, a little abruptly. She looks at me long and hard: she sees my worry and is troubled by it. I don?t quite know why. She and I have never had any bond other than that between a manager and her subordinate. And I have never seen her as somebody who cares about the emotional life of her colleagues, self-contained and self-confident as she is. But today, rather suddenly and oddly, she shows concern for my personal welfare. ?Someone I met at the conference,? I say. Emma stays silent for a moment, and then looks me in the eye. ?Well,? she says, ?I hope that it turns out well.? I find that I cannot meet her eye. ++++++ Your request about my footwear poses several awkward questions for me. You seem to have been direct and forthright about your instruction to me to wear heels, so I suppose I should take it literally. But what is the thinking behind your intervention in my choice of outfit? You have been pretty clear that you want me to dress in the same manner as on that evening at the conference, so why this one change? Do you intend to feminize my look completely, or are you just taking me one more step along the road? And is it to satisfy your own fantasies, or have you simply made some judgments about mine, and are trying to accommodate them? And ? whatever the answer ? does your request imply that I should make other changes ? breast forms, more assertive make-up? I have already said that I have found it difficult to find a woman to share my fantasies, and this opportunity seems too good to pass up. But I don?t want to blow my chances with you by going too far at our first proper meeting. One thing is clear though: wearing heels implies a different pair of trousers. The trousers I wore that night will be too short to wear with my highest heels ? they will expose the entire foot and heel of my boot and make me look like a mannequin on stilts, as well as potentially attracting unwelcome attention from those who don?t share my (our?) tastes. I resolve to go shopping over the weekend, and Saturday finds me in a skirt walking briskly along the King?s Road, bouncing on my high heels, clutching my shoulder bag defensively in front of me. I should explain that while I am confident in my appearance in certain clubs and bars at night, particularly when I have a taxi - ordered from a firm that I know well - to transport me there and back, I do not habitually go out dressed in broad daylight, and going shopping by myself in such circumstances is quite novel. I find myself trying to work out whether the glances in my direction are from men who fancy me as a woman, or from people who have read what is beneath my sexy outfit (short leather skirt, soft leather biker-style jacket, boots), and if the latter, whether there interest is likely to be the result of excitement or hostility. When somebody bumps into me outside an entrance to Peter Jones, I flinch, expecting some kind of physical confrontation, but in fact it is an accident ? a young woman with two small children who is having difficulty manoeuvring a buggy. She apologises and I smile at her. ?No problem,? I say in my best feminized voice (soft and modulated, rather than artificially high-pitched). I press on towards my favourite leather shop, hips swinging a little and heels clattering on the pavement, careful not to look away too obviously when people glance at me, while avoiding making too much direct eye contact. The shop is empty when I walk through the door, and I see with disappointment that my favourite shopgirl (tall, skinny, blonde, chatty) is not there, but the proprietor who is a sleek, middle-aged man of Middle Eastern appearance. He has an obsequious, knowing air that is not exactly hostile but which by silences, facial expressions, and a general air of resenting having to meet my needs, makes clear that he knows what I am and dislikes having to serve customers like me. He doesn?t actually refuse to help me, of course: I spend a lot of money in his shop. To goad him a little, I spend a lot of time looking through and trying on trousers of different styles and fits, coming out from behind the curtain that conceals the tiny changing room and asking for his opinion on my appearance each time. Each time, he looks me up and down, his face etched with disapproval, while protesting that the garment looks superb (of course, it?s always the garment that looks superb, never me). Eventually, I find what I am looking for: a pair of trousers which is skintight above the knee, with a side zip, but bootcut below, with a the bottom two inches of each outer seam left unstitched so that the bottom of the trouser flares slightly. The trouserlegs are long enough to conceal all but the extreme heel and pointed toe of my boots (I?ve brought the short boots I?ll wear on the night with me in a bag) so that, when standing up or even walking, a casual observer might not notice the stiletto. Of course, if I sit down, and particularly if I cross my legs, the whole shoe will be exposed, but I?m hoping that when that happens, I?ll be in a safe environment. I pay with my ?Katie? credit card and leave the shop. I walk down the street. A taxi passes me, but does not stop when I try to hail it, and I decide in any case to stop for a few moments and rest. I walk into my favourite coffee shop a few metres down the street and order a double expresso, which I need. I sit at a table by the window and watch the parade of fashionably dressed young men and women who form the majority of the shoppers. A girl walks by with pink hair and a microscopic tartan skirt, looks into the caf?, and gives me (or perhaps it is the world in general) a cheerful smile. The driver of a Waitrose delivery van whistles at her. A man walks into the shop and orders a latte at the counter, exchanging a few words with the girl barista. He?s about 30 years old, wearing mustard coloured cord trousers, a cream shirt with thin brown and green horizontal and vertical strips making a check pattern, and a brownish tweed jacket; on his feet is a pair of brown brogues, carefully laced. He has mid-brown hair, tousled at the top, but cut short over his ears. He looks around the caf?, and although there are several free tables, he makes a beeline for mine. I freeze. He?s going to engage me in conversation. Although I?ve grown in self-confidence in the hour or so I?ve been walking and shopping, I?m still cautious enough to be wary of the potential for confrontation. I?ve been going out in public in a variety of costumes and styles for years, and I?m not unusually nervous in company. Friends accept me for what I am, and strangers are rarely hostile. London is a cosmopolitan city, and King?s Road is home to the more flamboyant part of its population. But bad experiences can sometimes happen in the most surprising places, and whilst I have been lucky in this respect, I have very occasionally encountered hostility. I?m not too worried about physical threats at 11 o?clock in the morning in a highly public space, but verbal confrontations can be at the least embarrassing, and sometimes unnerving. Daylight and bright lights increase my worry about exposure. This guy looks seriously straight and conventional, so I don?t know what to expect from him, and I can?t help but wonder why he?s chosen to sit next to me. Although I?m fully dressed, I experience an odd sensation of nakedness and helplessness. I raise my cup to my lips and sip the scalding coffee quickly, hoping to make an early and unobtrusive exit. After a couple of false starts, he observes that I?ve been shopping. Since I?m carrying a purchase in a glossy carrier emblazoned with the name of a boutique a few metres down the road, I can hardly dispute this penetrating observation. I agree that I?ve been shopping. He asks me what I?ve bought, and I cautiously tell him. He makes no comment but raises his eyebrows, perhaps wondering how one girl can own so much leather. The conversation continues: we talk about shops, clothes, styles, and fabrics, before moving on seamlessly to talk about bars and clubs we?ve visited. Surprisingly for such a conventional-looking male, he goes to lots of places I?ve frequented and knows some of the people I?ve seen there. He smiles a lot, and starts to flirt with me. I can?t help liking him, and start to ask him questions about himself. He introduces himself by the name of Richard. He?s an architect-designer, with a studio close by. At length, after a bit of verbal sparring he suggests lunch. At this point, I decide to stop modulating my voice so that there is no ambiguity about my identity or status. If he is surprised, however, he doesn?t show it. I explain to him that I don?t do married men (he is wearing a ring on his wedding finger), and he shrugs and says that by lunch he means lunch. I give him a sceptical look, and he says, presumably in an attempt at explanation, that he collects interesting people and he?d like to get to know me more. He?s happily married and not looking for an affair. With a person of any sex. And proceeds to show me a photograph of his wife on his iPad. I see a slim, attractive woman wearing a glossy one-piece black leotard. She is sitting on the floor, with one leg stretched out, and one bent at the knee. Her arms are wrapped around her raised knee, and her head rests on her arms, looking directly at the camera. She has a closely-cropped cap of jet- black hair, and her lips, which are scarlet, are posed in a half-smile, half-pout. But her carefully made-up, green eyes are her most striking feature. She is barefoot, but a pair of mid-calf platform boots is placed artfully next to her, one boot standing on its high heel, the other laid on the ground. ?She?s beautiful,? I say, meaning it. He gives me a smile. He?ll bring her along if I like: he?s sure she?d like to meet me. And carried away by his evident enthusiasm and his apparent genuineness, I agree to exchange phone numbers with him. After I leave the caf?, I will wonder what I have let myself in for, and what this strangely direct man really wants from me, but for the time being I reason that I can always put him off if I decide I don?t want to see him. In the end, we finish our coffees together, and he hails a taxi for me. I shuffle my bag inside, and before I get in, he puts a hand on my arm and kisses me on the cheek. I climb in, settle into my seat, give him a wave and a smile, and give the taxi driver my address. Crossing my legs, I fiddle with the zip of my right boot. I release my breath, which I realise I?ve been holding since he kissed me. How come such a conventional chap can have such an intriguing looking partner: because her look, her expression smacks of pure sexual energy. Her ambiguous expression fascinates me, and I have an uncanny feeling that I?m looking at a soulmate. Without thinking how he?ll react, I get out my phone and send him a text asking him to send me a copy of the photograph. His reply, which pings into my inbox is a simple question mark, although the photo follows a few moments later. I don?t know what I?m going to make of this encounter, and I suspect that now, he doesn?t either. But of course, you are uppermost in my mind, and after this odd episode, my thoughts return to our coming evening together. Thanks to you, I don?t have to think too hard about my outfit or appearance, but I do find myself speculating about what you want from the evening, and what it might lead to. Time passes agonisingly slowly. At work the following week, I spend a couple of days putting together my worked-up proposal for the company in Yorkshire, but my mind isn?t really in it. Our deadline is four weeks hence, and I know I?ll have time the following week to polish what the team has produced. Wednesday evening arrives at last, and I make an excuse to leave work early to prepare myself. The ritual is a familiar one ? bath, depilate, dress. Despite the temptation, I do not try to change the shape of my body, but I do adjust my clothes to present a consciously feminised appearance. I also hesitate over the question of make-up. Ultimately, I decide that as I?m wearing a sexually ambiguous outfit, a slightly more assertive make-up palette will be appropriate. Eyeliner, mascara, a little colour on the eyelids, and a dab of contrasting translucent gloss on the arch of the eye. Discreet foundation with a little colour on the cheeks. It?s the lips which give me pause: ultimately I decide on a matte lipstick, slightly darker than the natural colour of my lips, but not identifiably red or pink. It is some time before I am satisfied with my face. I look at myself in the full-length mirror in my bedroom, uncertain about the effect I have created, but unable to think of a look that will serve this evening?s purpose better. My phone beeps to announce that my taxi has arrived. It?s from the company I?ve often used before, and I?ve asked for a driver who knows me well, and who greets me with charm and courtesy as I get into the car. I pull my biker-style jacket around me against the chill of the evening as the car speeds off to your hotel in Park Lane. Given its location, it?s no surprise to me to find that it?s a luxury hotel with doormen, security staff, and a gleaming marble lobby. There is a huddle of people gathered around the reception desk, and a queue of seemingly Japanese businessmen waiting to use the lifts. In the centre of the lobby there are several coffee tables, each of them hosting two facing black leather and tubular steel sofas. Very 1980s, but in keeping with the rest of the d?cor. A tidy pile of magazines and newspapers ? Vogue, Harpers, Country Life, the Financial Times, the Economist ? is lying on the table, and racks by the wall contain others ? Le Monde, Frankfurter Allgemeinische Zeitung, Die Welt, and Corriere della Sera. I sit on one of the sofas, and start leafing through a copy of Vogue. After a few moments, I am conscious of a presence next to me. I look up and see a bulky, muscular man wearing a dark suit which seems rather too small for him, a white shirt, and a narrow knitted tie. An earpiece sits behind one ear, attached to which is a spiral of wire which disappears beneath his jacket collar. ?Excuse me, madam,? he says, ?are you a guest at the hotel?? Interesting that he has called me ?madam? when I am not fully in girl mode. I indicate that I am not a guest. ?May I ask, then, what is your business here?? It occurs to me that, dressed as I am, he thinks I am a prostitute waiting for, or (worse) touting for clients. I stifle half a laugh ? which does not amuse him ? and explain that I?m meeting a friend who is staying at the hotel. He relaxes slightly, but says, ?I?ll be keeping an eye on you. If your friend is not here in five minutes, you will have to leave.? I nod obediently. He retreats up a couple of steps to stand next to the reception desk, but I can feel his eyes on me. Fortunately, after a minute or two, you emerge from the lift, see me, and walk over. You are wearing a beautiful ankle-length leather coat, and boots with a platform and (as you warned me) towering heels. As you walk towards me, I see from the leather-covered knees that peep through the skirts of your coat that the boots extend part-way up your thigh. I swallow, wondering what else you are wearing, and stand to greet you. We exchange kisses on the cheek, and you put your arm through mine. You notice the security guard, who is giving us a slightly prudish look of surprise, and you turn towards me and kiss me gently on the lips. You then look directly and defiantly at him. The guard who up to now has been merely astonished gives us both a slightly shocked look. We walk together arm in arm out of the lobby into the cold evening air, and you ask the commissionaire to hail a taxi for us, giving him a couple of coins as you do so. He gives us a smile and I note that he is unfazed by our exotic appearance: he has seen it all before. I register the noise of the traffic ? acceleration, squeals of brakes, and horns being sounded angrily ? and the gloom of the gathering evening, broken only by the orange glow of the sodium vapour lights. You seem to have a plan in mind, so I do not ask where we are going. I am, I think, in your hands for this evening. It only remains to be seen what those hands will do to me. ++++++ The commissionaire whistles expertly for a taxi, and a black cab with its orange light illuminated draws up within a minute. Park Lane is home to several expensive hotels, and cabs cruise it constantly, in order to pick up wealthy businessmen and extravagant tourists. We sit down in the back of the taxi. Your long black coat falls open below the waist, and above your booted knees I catch a glimpse of a short, tight skirt or dress. You smile at me, and give an address to the driver. We pull through the London traffic quickly and efficiently. The drive lasts less than five minutes, and we pull up in a Mayfair street outside an unobtrusive dark panelled door framed by carriage lights. You open the door and we descend a few steps into an elegantly lit lobby with a dining room beyond. The dining room smacks of serious eating. White napery, red plush benches around the walls, polished bentwood chairs with red velvet seats, crystal glasses, and elegant, heavy cutlery. A waiter takes your coat (I keep my leather jacket on) and guides us to a corner table. We sit at 90 degrees to each other. I feel the toe of your long boot stroke my calf, and flinch slightly. You are wearing, I now see, a tight leather dress with a round neck, long-sleeved, with a very short skirt. You smile gently. A waiter unfolds a napkin, shakes it, and places it on your knee, and a moment later, does the same for me. In answer to a question, you order drinks: ?Champagne, Ruinart, a bottle please.? The restaurant is not full, not empty, with a quiet buzz of serious conversation. No music. A party of Arabs in brilliant white robes (all men) sits around a long table on the opposite wall, and four apparently Japanese business men sit diagonally across the room from us. A sleek plump American in a beautifully tailored suit entertains a much younger women a couple of tables away. A less well-dressed middle aged man is hosting a party of foreigners whose accent I can?t place on the other side of the restaurant. From the snippets of conversation I hear, I gather he is a senior civil servant hosting a trade delegation. Waiters shuffle around, take orders, deliver plates of food, pour drinks. We sip the champagne, talking quietly about our respective days and complimenting each other on our outfits. We skirt this subject gently, sensing that we will come back to it later, turning to other, less threatening subjects: your opinion of London, whether I have visited Edinburgh recently, theatre and music currently being shown in both cities, the Festival, recent film releases. You tell me you are going to the South of France soon, and have an invitation to Cannes. This story is interrupted by a waiter and you order for us both (blinis, roast pheasant, sorbet, a bottle of Vacqueyras). The menu is serious ? simply cooked dishes using first-class ingredients ? and the meal flavoursome but surprisingly light given the ingredients. Our easy conversation continues through the meal. At times you glance lingeringly at me, thinking, assessing, as if trying to confirm a first impression. This makes me a little uneasy, but I ignore it, although sensing as the evening progresses an unspoken tension in the air, which becomes more tangible as the end of the evening approaches. We are both avoiding the subject uppermost in our minds, and the way that we talk about ordinary, everyday subjects emphasizes rather than conceals the fact. As coffee arrives, our conversation returns, as it had to do, to the subject of our outfits. You compliment me again on the cut and quality of my clothes, and I return the sentiment. ?A really beautiful dress, and a striking outfit all round. A powerful woman in a powerful ensemble.? You thank me. ?I have to appear powerful and confident in my line of work,? you say, before adding hesitantly, ?but actually, in real life, I?m quite submissive.? I absorb the comment for a moment. The conversation has turned a corner and we are now on the meat of the evening. ?You don?t look it. In fact, quite the dominatrix.? I look at you, hoping that this remark has not offended you. But you return my smile evenly, choosing your next words with care. ?Oh, I can switch if necessary, but sexually, I like to be led.? A pause while you take a sip of wine. ?I enjoy being undressed by someone dressed like me.? ?Women?? I ask. You shrug. ?I?ve had both,? you say, ?but I prefer men. The trouble is that while you can generally find women in clubs and such like, it?s more difficult to find a man who fits in with my tastes. And you have to take things carefully. Men are so nervous: it?s all too easy to frighten off a promising contact.? There is silence for a moment. Although there is a buzz of conversation in the restaurant, I have the uneasy feeling that the other diners are listening to us. A glance round the room, however, suggests otherwise, but I remain tense. I find myself holding my breath. ?We are,? I say, ?both wearing leather.? ?Ah,? you reply, ?but I am wearing a dress and you are wearing trousers.? After a pause, you add, ?And trousers can be such a bore in the bedroom, beautiful though yours are.? You squeeze my hand, and look at me, as if awaiting a reply, but my mind freezes. I can?t think how to put what I want to say next. You look down at the floor and then glance furtively around the room, as if you, too, are worried that you might say the wrong thing. At length, you break the silence. ?I was wondering whether there was a leather dress hanging somewhere in your wardrobe.? The moment is an important one, and my mind whirls. Not trusting myself to speak, I nod. You sigh ? I cannot tell whether it?s a sigh of irritation or relief, but then you say, ?In that case, I think we might have a date for tomorrow evening ? that is, if you?re free.? ?I?ll make myself free,? I reply firmly. The tension between us evaporates, and I am aware of a sense of joy and discovery. I can?t remember the rest of our conversation. At some point, you must have called the waiter and paid, because we find ourselves ? you, reunited with your beautiful coat ? outside the restaurant clambering in to a taxi which somebody has called for us. Your gloved hand grips mine, and your lips brush against me, but we are really quite restrained given the intensity of our emotions, and we do not embrace passionately or well up with tears of happiness. The taxi drives back to your hotel and you insist, rather to my chagrin, that I stay in it and take it home. While we are driving, I take my mobile from my soft leather shoulder bag, scroll through my address book, and compose a text: ?You look stunning in your leather dress. I?m looking forward to seeing it again tomorrow ? and of course wearing my own. Xx.? Slightly to my surprise, you do not reply. ++++++ The following morning, I arrive at the office a little late, having slept through the alarm and then taken a while to get ready. I have to put the clothes I was wearing last night away properly, and add some of my undergarments to the washing pile; and then I decide that I need a bath. I find a soft, unstructured suit in a neutral colour, under which I wear a black round-necked sweatshirt and my favourite boots. Although it is cool outside, I do not wear a coat. The weather forecast predicts it will remain dry all day. Breakfast consists only of orange juice and coffee, after which I drink about a pint of chilled sparkling water. The slight roughness in my mouth and throat, which is the result of last night?s overindulgence, eases a little. I arrive at the office after a journey of perhaps three quarters of an hour. It is not yet fully light, and our office building is brightly lit within. As it is a modernist cube with an open plan, and the exterior surface is largely made up of plate glass, I can see a buzz of early morning activity within. My small team is huddled around a coffee machine. Graham is holding a piece of paper in his hand, and is apparently discussing the contents with Jane. Emma is not immediately visible, so I assume that she must be in her own partitioned office space. I can see members of other teams walking around or chatting in small groups, or staring at computer screens. The light from the building is friendly rather than harsh. I am still working to put the finishing touches to the Yorkshire project, and am eager to start work. Perhaps yesterday evening has given me a new enthusiasm for my project. When I climb the open metal staircase to the first floor, where my desk is located, I find that there will be a delay. A sticker is attached to my computer screen, with a note in Graham?s handwriting informing me that Emma wants to speak to me, so I walk over to her corner of the floor and around the partition separating her desk and conference table from the open plan area. She is sitting behind her desk, staring at a paper she has evidently just printed out, and frowning a little. She does not immediately look up when I enter, and I cough gently to attract her attention. She gives me a severe look which takes me aback for a second, until I realise that her eyes are laughing. ?Well,? she says after we?ve exchanged good mornings, ?I?ve done as you suggested, but you don?t seem to have fulfilled your half of the bargain.? She stands up and I register for the first time that she is wearing a leather dress ? burgundy in colour, fastened at the front with black buttons in a double-breasted pattern, short, with three quarter length sleeves. I look at her blankly, not understanding. ?Your text, last night,? she says, in a tone which implies a question. For a moment, I struggle to understand what she means, but then there is a flash of insight. I find myself trembling, hoping that I?m wrong, and scrabble in my jacket pocket for my mobile. I fumble through my messages, my fingers not quite obeying my instructions, until I come to the text I sent from the taxi the previous evening. With a start of horror, I realise what has happened. ?Emma? and ?Emily? are next to each other in my address book, and I have selected the wrong name. ?You look stunning in your leather dress,? I read, ?I?m looking forward to seeing it again tomorrow?? So that?s why Emma has come into the office dressed as she is. I struggle to remember whether I?ve seen the dress before, but I can?t. ??and of course, wearing my own.? Could a short text be more revealing? I wonder, even as I struggle to understand the likely consequences of this error, whether Emma received the message the previous night or this morning, and what she made of it. (Well, on one level, the way she has dressed the morning makes it only too obvious how she?s interpreted it.) I look up, open-mouthed, to find her grinning at me. The grin is not unfriendly, but I don?t yet start to relax. ?You are full of surprises,? she says, and looks at me expectantly, awaiting an explanation. I don?t quite know where to start, but eventually stammer that I went out the previous evening (Emma already knows this), that my companion and I were amused by the fact that we were both wearing leather, and that we have arranged to meet again this evening. I imply, without saying it in so many words, that the text I sent was the punch- line of our exchange about what we were both wearing, and that it isn?t to be taken literally. Emma gives me a sceptical look, but doesn?t press the point. It is only too clear to me, however, that she understands that my explanation does not reveal the whole story, and that she might be right to interpret the wording of the text literally. We therefore exchange a little more good-humoured banter, before turning to more serious matters. Preoccupied as I am by my mistake, however, I do not really take in what Emma says about the Yorkshire job, although she says to me that she has had the same conversation with Graham. I will need to pick his brains later. After a little while, I leave Emma?s work space and return to my desk. It is some time before I can concentrate on work or talk sensibly to Graham. The day turns out to be rather less productive than I anticipated at the moment when I first entered the building this morning. Emma does not mention our conversation, although we speak several times during the course of the day. I sense from her general bearing that she might want to give me some words of reassurance ? at any rate it seems that my text message will not result in any kind of unpleasant come-back ? but she can?t quite find the words to do so. She leaves before me in the evening, and leans towards me as she passes my chair, putting her hand on my shoulder. ?Do make sure you enjoy yourself this evening,? she whispers in my ear. ?I expect photos.? I give her a weak smile, and she waves a gloved hand at me as she leaves the office space. For the second time today, I feel slightly faint. I leave the office a little earlier than usual. The evening is clear and cold: there is a full moon, although because of the street lighting there aren?t many stars visible. Public transport is crowded, and despite my early departure, I arrive at my apartment a little later than I had planned. The leisurely ritual of preparation, to which I?ve been looking forward all day, will have to be a little hurried this evening. Disappointing. ++++++ After a shower (I had been looking forward to a lengthy, warm bath), I towel myself dry, inspect my body for stray hairs, and don my foundation garments and underwear. I do not need to shave: the one medical procedure I have submitted to is the permanent removal of my facial hair ? a 21st birthday present from my mother. The black dress I have selected is vaguely military in style, with a double row of brass buttons down the front, epaulettes, and cuffs which are turned back and buttoned together (rather like shirt cuff-links, but larger and more flamboyant). It is a recent purchase with which I am rather pleased, and I have not so far worn it in public. I team it with knee-length boots, and a black PVC coat (single breasted with a collar, but lapel-less) which I leave unbuttoned. No inhibitions about make-up this evening. Bright red lips and nails, and smoky eyes. Drop earrings, and silver bangles on my left wrist. Black gloves. Once more I take a taxi with a familiar and friendly driver, and walk into the lobby of the hotel. The security guard from the previous evening is again there, and I think he recognises me, but he is now relaxed about my purposes. You and I have exchanged texts during my taxi ride, and you have suggested meeting in the American Bar on the ground floor of the hotel. I am a little nervous about finding it, but it is well signposted, and I walk down a long, well-lit, carpeted corridor and enter the bar through a slightly oddly-placed revolving door. Although the bar is quietly lit, I see you straightaway, sitting on a bar stool. Two glasses of sparkling wine are in front of you. You beckon me over. The leather dress you are wearing this evening is sleeveless with a decorative zip running from your collarbone to the hem of the short skirt. You are again wearing over-the-knee boots, and you have also accessorised the dress with a pair of long leather gloves. A gold bracelet clasps your right wrist tightly, and you are wearing an array of gold chains around your neck. Everything you are wearing is of good quality and reeks of expense, but the total effect borders on the outrageous. To me, however, you are unbearably sexy. You greet me with a warm smile, and you gesture at my outfit. ?Better than I could possibly have expected,? you say. I absorb this comment gratefully. Wanting this moment to be recorded, and remembering also my promise to Emma, I ask the barman to take a picture of us on my mobile phone. He looks amused, but does so with good grace, taking several shots from different angles. I am pleased with the result, and show you the pictures, scrolling through them, and zooming in on an image of you, with a coy expression on your face, leaning against me. You can just see my shoulder and my hand at your waist. You are leaning against, rather than sitting on your bar stool. One booted leg is straight, the other splayed out at a slight angle, pointed toe in the air, with the slim, very high heel pressed hard into the heavy pile of the carpet. ?You look,? I say, ?like all my sexual fantasies tied up in a parcel.? You give me a pleased look, but say quietly, ?Don?t talk about tying me up. It gets me overexcited.? I look at you thoughtfully, remembering your remark about being more of a sub than a dominatrix. The atmosphere has suddenly become charged. I wonder whether you are inviting me to role-play, and decide to give it a try. Hoping that I look the part, I attempt to mould my features into a stern expression. ?Overexcitement is not to be encouraged in young ladies,? I say. ?It needs to be restrained. Punished, if necessary.? You give a slight shiver, and whisper hoarsely, ?Punished?? I nod, saying nothing. We seem to be proceeding into unsettling territory rather quickly. I sit on the stool next to you and take a sip of wine, which turns out to be Prosecco rather than champagne. You look at me thoughtfully, your red lips slightly parted, as if wondering how to continue the conversation. You get off your bar stool and take half a step towards me, leaning your head back. Instinctively, I lean towards you and our lips barely brush together. ?Surely you wouldn?t want to punish me?? Again, your voice is throaty and husky and barely audible. Your lower lip trembles: you, too, are aroused by the situation. I look around. Unsurprisingly, we are attracting curious glances from other customers and the barman. Two men of Middle Eastern appearance are unable to disguise their fascination, muttering to each other. An African in a brightly-coloured robe, however, looks at us with undisguised hostility. I draw away gently. ?That depends on you, I think.? And then, ?Where do you want to go tonight?? For a moment, the spell seems to be broken, and I curse inwardly at my clumsy question. You look startled, and start to fiddle around absently in your bulky shoulder bag. ?I don?t know. Anywhere. I?ve been so busy, I haven?t had time to plan anything,? you say. You are concentrating on your search and do not meet my eyes. ?Damn,? you say, ?I must have left my purse in my room. I?ll have to go and get it.? You drain your glass. ?Come with me, and we can talk about what we want to do.? You look at me anxiously. I give you an encouraging smile, trying to work out what you might be uncertain about, and stand up to follow you. You leave the bar in front of me with an exaggerated sashay of your hips, and then walk decisively along the corridor, and across the brightly lit lobby towards the lift, leaving me to follow in your wake. I can hear my heels clattering on the marble floor, and walk carefully to avoid the shiny soles of my new boots slipping on the marble. As the lift doors close, you press yourself against me, and kiss me softly on the lips. ?We don?t have to go out just yet,? you whisper. The lift doors open, and we emerge into a carpeted corridor. I wrap my arm around your slim waist, and you instinctively lean your head on my shoulder. We walk, slightly awkwardly, until you stop before a door and insert your key (a plastic card) into the door mechanism. There is a beep and you open the door. The room is large, quite lavishly