More Scenes of London Life  

lucy_36C 5/12/2007 9:39 am	In the coffee shop, D takes his security tag off, tying the strap it hangs from round my wrists, knotted tightly, the card dangling. I put my hands on the table, eyes lowered as the waitress brings our coffee. I can feel her looking at me, feel her surprise, but I don’t make eye contact. In silence we sip our coffee. Sitting in the window, as I raise the cup to my lips with both hands, my bound wrists are displayed to passers-by, to the other customers, to the staff who peer at me over the coffee machine like startled meerkats. When I lower my cup the tag clatters onto the table. D watches me, gazes out of the window, stares back at the staff. I keep my head bowed, cheeks pink, pulse racing. Between my thighs I can feel the prickle of nerve endings and the warm, insistent throbbing of my clit. Cycling in Hampstead on a breezy day, I stand up on my pedals as I cycle up hill, thigh muscles flexing as I lean forwards, strands of hair whipping round my face and neck. At the crest of the hill I sit down, my skirt no longer tucked demurely beneath my bum but draped over the edge of the seat. It slides up my thighs as I pump my legs and the breeze catches it, blowing it up, billowing in out. An elderly gentleman, in tweed jacket and bicycle clips, cycling towards me rings his bicycle bell furiously and grins at me. I try for a few seconds to keep a straight face but fail miserably, shaking with silent laughter as I take my feet off the pedals and begin to free-wheel down hill. The road here is cobbled and my bicycle rattles as it picks up speed, jiggling my tits and vibrating the saddle violently against my pussy. By the time I coast to the bottom of the hill I am breathless and my knickers are soaking. A bright morning in Parliament Hill Lido and I cautiously lower myself into the unheated water, dangling my legs over the side first then climbing down the steps until the water laps against my pussy. A deep breath then I plunge up to my waist with a shriek. My skin is goose-pimpled, shivering as I wade deeper, my nerve endings alert and crackling with the cold, my nipples stiff and tingling as they press against the fabric of my bathing suit. The water comes up to my chin and I tip my head back, letting my body float to the surface where I bob, squinting up at the watery sunshine. Peering down at my new one-piece suit I can see it is moulded to my body, my breasts and nipples closely outlined, the hollow of my belly button clearly defined, the mound of my pussy slightly exaggerated by the cut. I roll out of my float and dive under the water, exhilarated by the cold. Wandering bored through a drizzly Berwick Street market while D spends about eleven hours in the many vinyl record shops the street contains. A fruit stall trader calls out to me. “Over ‘ere darlin’, nice couple of ripe melons.” He is indeed holding up a pair of melons. I falter for a moment. Maybe it’s a coincidence. “Or a nice juicy pear?” he offers. No, it isn’t a coincidence, I have wandered through a portal into British 1960s sit-com land. But I’m bored and have nothing better to do, so… “What I want is a nice big banana” I say. “Course you do treacle, ‘ere you are, on the ‘ouse.” I slowly peel and begin to eat the banana while he stares at me. I cast my eyes across the pyramids of fruit then look him in the eye. “Can I squeeze your plums?” He is very red now, I don’t think he was expecting this. “Um, sure doll…” I bend over, reaching out to finger them. “Ooh, they’re firmer than I expected.” I have a remark lined up about the ripeness of cherries but I can see D coming out of the shop so I lower my voice and hold out my bag, “I tell you what, why don’t you just fill me up with whatever you think will be good for me.” With his head bowed he hurriedly piles a selection of fruit into my bag and, still not making eye contact, says hoarsely, “That’ll be a fiver.” “What have you been up to?” asks D. “Oh, nothing.” When we get home I unload about £15 worth of fruit from my bag. Sitting in the drawing room of my great aunt’s house in Chelsea. No one has great aunts any more. They are a species that disappeared with P G Wodehouse. Mine has gone to make tea and so will not be back for at least six months. The drawing room is oppressive with furniture and prints and the scent of lilies in a vase. On the mantelpiece a clock ticks loudly and I am sure I can hear dust settling. To pass the time I flick through a photograph album showing pictures of her in her twenties when she lived in Kenya. Mostly they show garden parties and passing out parades, a few show smiling people in her house and garden. And then I’m pulled up short by a long series of shots of a naked man. A naked man who I am certain is not my great uncle. For a start, my great uncle was white. I am particularly taken by one photo of a white woman sucking the naked black man’s not inconsiderable cock. The photo cuts the top of her head off but I recognise the three strand pearl necklace with sapphire clasp that my great aunt is indeed wearing today. I am shocked. And shocked that I feel shocked. And terribly proud of her.
voncharles 5/12/2007 10:42 am	what
abstractaddict Ask me for a photo 5/12/2007 11:43 am	Alrighty ??? *Grabs coat and runs for very life* Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap !
cum2gether1969x Ask me for a photo 5/12/2007 12:28 pm	a fantastic read. very well written and very erotic.
toothysmile 12944 posts 5/13/2007 8:16 am	i just knew you had great genes in you. your great aunt must be proud! btw... you are cordially invited to a masked ball... kisses
Goodolecountrybo 914 posts  5/13/2007 8:44 pm	My mother asked me what i thought of oral sex once.... I nearly died! Bet you made the fruit guys day...week even!!! Dan