It is easy to propose impossible remedies
Cat was alone, gently she rocked on the studded leather pouf to a tune only she could hear. I expect if I were sitting next to her I would have be able to hear her hum but from across the room any sound she made was masked by murmurs and outbursts. The Playground is the type of pub that doesn’t play music for the afternoon drinkers so the noise was mostly a quiet murmur, but you can expect afternoon drinkers to burst out with laughter occasionally. Gradually I undressed Cat in my mind. I pulled her plain white T over her head causing her hair, already disheveled, to float lightly down into moody clumps. I reached behind her to undo her bra with one hand, touching her as it did. First I brushed the skin on the inside of my arm against the skin on the outside her arm, then I traced my fingers along her back to find the clasp. Her skin was soft and warm, and her breath quickened to my touch. Then it was undone, the straps loosened on her shoulders, the lace cups dropped forward away from her breasts which curved downward in their natural acclaim. I slipped first one then the other strap off her shoulders and the undergarment dropped away. Cat’s hand gently ran under her breast and round her side following the indentation left there. I held out my hand and she placed hers in mine, and responded to my gentle tug by standing. I undid the single button on her blue corduroy mini skirt and eased down the zip. The skirt stayed in place until Cat wiggled her hips a little to let it drop. I was pleasantly surprised to find she is not wearing anything underneath. She slipped out of her slip on shoes, folded one leg beneath her and sat back down on the pouf. She had shaved so even sitting down I can see the folds where her inner lips push past her outer lips. It was a fine memory.
“I heard something that was intriguingly like belling the cat.”
For a moment the words sidled into my daydream and I imagined the tip of my penis, tight from my erection, taught like a bell, and Cat... But I shook the fantasy away and returned to my afternoon drinking companions: James who sat pensively bemused by what Martha has said, and Martha who was looking at me expectantly.
“You know, the Aesop’s Fable: the mice, the cat, the bell?.”
The only thing my expression offered her was confusion.
“Oh, you are useless.”
We sat in silence for a while, I took a sip of my beer. I had chosen a Weissbier, I allowed the flavours to wallow on my tongue to hide my slight embarrassment for not listening, and my greater embarrassment for being caught in a fantasy, and greatest embarrassment of fantasising about undressing Cat. The silence did not worry the three of us, we have been drinking partners for a long time, a little misunderstanding can easy be ridden out. This time it was James who broke the deadlock.
“OK, you’ve intrigued us, tell us the story.”
So it seemed I hadn’t missed anything in a daydream, James’ eyes twinkled in my direction knowing I had mistaken Martha’s introduction, though, fortunately, not knowing why I had made the mistake.
“See Cat down by the dartboard? So last night I was drinking with her and the conversation turned a little kinky.”
“As it so often does with you.”
“Yes, thank you James, I like to think of it as my talent.”
“A fine talent too.”
“Thank you. So, as I was saying, Cat opened up about a most interesting side I would not have suspected of her. I am not going to tell the story chronologically, as I usually do, I am going to play out the things Cat told me in a little scenario I have been mulling over. Imagine, if you could what might happen when Cat leaves the Playground later on this evening. Much of the evening before that point in the future, she will spend by herself, alone but not alone. She will be watching a beautiful young man, a suit, quite unlike her normal type, really.”
Martha paused briefly scanning the pub.
“The man is not here yet, he will come after work with his colleagues. They will laugh and joke but they will clearly not be honest or truthful as close friends are. They will never stray into risky conversations like the sexual peccadilloes of the other people in the pub, no matter how much they drink. Some colleagues are like this. Bonhomie is their playground, but underneath the good humour is a callousness, a disregard for each other’s well being, a crass selfishness. Maybe Cat will suspect this, maybe she won't. Maybe she will like the lack of passion between the colleagues that manifests in a casual ease, maybe she will try to work out who is having an affair with whom, that is, after all, the way with colleagues. I don’t know what Cat will think while she is drinking but I do know she will be watching the suit and the suit will notice her watching him.
“Cat will get to the end of the evening alone still, the friend she had made a loose agreement to meet didn’t show. It happens. She will leave alone and starts walking home. It won’t long before she gets that eerie feeling that someone is following her. The harsh sound of footsteps clapping down on the pavement, keeping pace with her. Possibly a coincidence, it won’t be too late, there are bound to be people walking home at that hour. She will know that of course she is worrying for no reason, that all she need do is turn to see what is happening behind her but she won’t turn. She won’t turn because that would be admitting to herself that she is worried. She will rather pretend that she is not worried than risk confronting someone at night. She will quicken her step a little. The footfalls behind her will quicken too. She will be sure they have quickened. They will be gaining on her. There will be nothing for her to do but to slow to let the person pass.
“But the person won’t pass. A hand will grip her arm and will push her into the shadows, push her body against the wall. She will open her mouth to scream but nothing will happen, strangely, she will realise, her body is not fighting, her body is complying. Suddenly she will be struck with a certainty, it is the suit she has been eyeing all evening. Somehow he will now own her body, he will own her desire; somehow her flirtatious glances had been a form of submission. She won’t need to turn to look at him, she won’t need to share a meal and laugh over innuendos and spilt wine. No, somehow the suit will be the object of her desire without any of the mating ritual that confuses her so. She will lean back into his body, his warmth pressing into her warmth. His hands will caress her, will run all over her, causing vibrations of anticipation as the cotton of her t-shirt brushes against her skin. He will lift her dishevelled hair away from her neck and brings his mouth close to her skin, millimetres between her erect hairs on her neck and the warmth of his lips, but he will not touch her, his hands will move down to undo his belt, button, zip. She will feel his cock against her corduroy skirt, pressing against her leg. She will feel his hands lifting up her mini-skirt. He will grunt with surprise when he finds she goes commando, it will be the only noise he will make. She will be wet, very wet, the moisture is dribbling down her leg slightly. He will take his cock in his hand and will rub it in her wetness, rub it over her lips, along the slit. She will try to impale his cock but he will evade her, evade her until he has lined the lubricated tip of his bell end with her puckered arsehole. And he will slip in, it will be a little uncomfortable but not sore, his cock must be long and thin, and she relaxed within her submission. She will imagine it is no thicker than a finger but twice as long, as it finds its way deep inside her. Her fingers will be drawn towards her clit. While this strange enigmatic man is pleasuring himself in her arsehole she will submit to the need to pleasure herself too. And she will come quickly, before the suit, her orgasm will still be rocking through her body when he orgasms, his hands clutching her hips, his groin pressed against her bum.
“She will take a while to recover from her orgasm and by the time she does the suit will be gone. She will go home and jills again thinking about the strange feeling in her arse. ”
“So the confidence Cat told you is about this suit belling her, then?”
They both looked at me and I felt like I had said something stupid. I had said something stupid, and I realised I couldn’t explain myself without admitting to mentally undressing Cat. Ironically, mentally undressing Cat was exactly what Martha did. But as I have said, we are long in the time drinking partners, foolishness can be ignored.
“OK, I don’t get it, you say Cat confided in you and you tell us a story that might happen, but that is not, what, I don’t know.”
Martha sat quietly, pleased as, well, the cat who got the cream. She had set us a puzzle and I was confounded. Fortunately James wasn’t.
“So if I have this correct, the story you have told us is belling the cat, that is, it is the impossible remedy that we could not possibly enact. If either of us were to follow her at the end of this evening and enact the story it would end up with an introduction to the judicial system of our fine country. Which leads us to the problem, presumably, that is the kinky thing Cat confided in you about. A rape fantasy, perhaps, or a submissive fantasy.”
“I couldn’t possibly say.”
“Oh, how droll, because you promised not to, I suppose. Very clever.”
Silence blanketed our table as we contemplated Martha’s scenario and idly cast our eyes over the patrons. Each one had a tale that could be told, perhaps one day Martha would indulge us with another amoral tale.