Precious things are for those who prize them

Cat sat alone again, I thought of the time she had undressed for me in my mind.  I loved the way she was so open to my imaginings, somehow so much more open than anyone else.  Well, at the moment anyway.  Perhaps it was her sensual earnestness, the way she held my gaze like it was me she was pleased to see when she came into the pub.  Perhaps it was her unconventionality, her lack of decorum.  It was raining earlier and her tights must have got wet from the spray from her bicycle wheels, although why she came by bike I do not know as she lives a short walk from the Playground.  There must be a reason why she cycles straight to the pub on a Tuesday rather than dropping her bike at home first, though I respect her commitment.  So she smiled at me, shrugs and somehow, even though there is a good 5 steps between us I know she is referring to being wet.  So many connotations to that phrase, and every one seemed to be going through Cat’s mind as she knelt on the chair placing her bag on the far side away from me and showing me her bum.  Full round pear shaped buttocks with two delightful curves joining in an upside-down heart.  She knelt one knee on the chair creating a round apple shape for the left cheek and a curvy pear shape for the right cheek.  Her hand ran up the pear leg hoiking the skirt up till her hand was hidden by the skirt, right above her little peach.  She stopped like that, deciding how wet she was.

Wet.

She arched her back for her other hand to slide up the apple leg until it met the first under her skirt and the both travel further.  Her skirt is lifted up to and over her waist as she delves up to get to the hem of her wet tights.  She slowly stretches the tights down, peeling them away to reveal the smooth naked skin of her derriere.  Slowly for my pleasure she lifted her knee from the seat placing her feet together and bent at the waist to reveal her fanny in both the American and British use of the word.  Her skirt remained hooked at her waist as she fiddled with the buckles on her shoes, deliberately slowly allowing me a glimpse between the two mounds of the dark pucker above the line of her vagina enclosed by the brackets of her labia.

(¡)

The emoji wouldn’t quite work as the brackets need to be much smaller than the exclamation mark, only up to the height of the line.  Too fiddly for messaging but delightful for fiddling, Cat waiting, bent over, for my finger or, should I be bold enough, the tip of my cock to run along the exclamation mark from top to bottom and back again before…

“You remind me of flowers that have died.”

“What?”

A brief flash of anger crossed my brow but it was washed away by Martha’s smile.  I hadn’t been listening closely so I figure I must have misunderstood.

“Just that, I can’t remember why I drafted those words but there they were in an email to Bertrham that I didn’t send about five months ago.  I may not remember why I wrote those particular words but I know the story.  It was an anecdote Cat told me that I thought I should act up.”

“Ah,” James said quietly.  There is nothing quite as good as an old game, whenever Martha hints she has a story to tell James and I see how long we can make her wait.  I wanted to return to my fantasy but Cat had sat down, her wet tights draped over the chair behind her, her wet skirt spread out to dry and her naked skin resting on the red velvet seat.

“Cat and Bertrham, that is a strange pair.  I wouldn’t have put them together.”  James hardly even tried, he must have been as intrigued as I to listen to a tale of Cat.

“Bertrham can be quite attentive when he wants to be, it is something women like but you two oafs don’t seem to have figured that out.  The thing that I worry about is his motivation, but maybe it is the same with all you blokes wanting to return to the mother’s womb and Bertrham is simply not as swave at getting into a girl’s knickers.”

Both James and I remain quiet with the admonishment.  I steal a glance across at him and he is looking absently at Cat sitting drinking her larger.

“It started as it so often does on a Tuesday evening with a quiet drink, just like today.  Cat sitting at her table, Bertrham sitting on his bar stool.  Like today, Cat was on her own and Bertrham was watching.  Around eight Bertrham brought Cat a drink and Cat dutifully invited him to sit.  She talked.  He listened.  She was having a bad week, she wanted to talk.  He encouraged her with carefully chosen comments that always put her in the best light.  She felt like she had a connection with him so she opened up.  She talked more intimately, more boldly.  She told him about the real cause of her trouble, orgasms.  She didn’t have any.  She talked about what she wanted.  She told him she was looking to explore her sexuality with someone.  She wanted to spend long evenings trying different touches.  Gentle caresses flowing from her toes along her legs, over her hips, up her arms then down her breasts and to her sex.  She wanted deep kneading massages on her muscles pushing up to her neck, her breasts, her pussy until the touches change into caresses, or nibbles or nips.  Or pinches and rubbing when she says, yes, that is the spot.  And when she was ready, when her body was tingling all over she wanted attention on her pearl, she wanted a slow approach, a tease as fingers or tongue searched out her pleasure pearl, probing and cajoling until the spot is exposed.  Then rhythm, she wanted rhythm.  So many men forget about the slow build up of movements, the rocking, the rolling, again and again to give the pleasure time to build.  She would put her hands in his hair to guide his mouth to help him know when to keep the rhythm and when to up the tempo.  And Bertrham seemed to be taking is all in.  He let her rant when she wanted to rant, he let her disclose what she needed to say.

“And they left together, sashaying their way to Cat’s flat, there was not even the pretence of a nightcap she simply asked you coming up? The intimacy of the conversation spurred her into action, she led him by the hand to her bed and stripped off her clothes more in a flurry than in an erotic dance.  She lept onto the bed, spread herself out and awaited her pleasure.  Well, it turned out that Bertrham was a cock and nothing more than a cock.  When faced with a pearl he thought to himself: what is this, it is not my desire.  The cock rammed his cock in, pounded as if he were using her to masturbate furiously, came, and went.

“Cat told me it was not bad, she had been so turned on by the conversation that his cock had slipped about in her quite easily.  Quite deliciously, really, just it was such a pity she had been hoping for so more.  Much, much more.  She still hasn’t had a penetration orgasm but she tells me she is very happy exploring her pearl.”

Martha smiled at us then looked over at Cat, both James and I followed her eyes and quietly contemplated Cat in a new light.