Letters Around Midnight

by Carla Croft

  “Sorry Ladies” he said

  “Are you going up?”

  “Absolutely” Ann replied “All the way.”

  There we were, standing inches away from each other and we couldn’t do anything. The lift started up and my stomach lurched not only with the movement of the lift but the thrill of the situation. Ann leant back on one leg, resting the heel of the other against the wall. I felt her cup my bum with her hand and squeeze it. She slid her fingers through the slit in the back of my dress and worked them into the warmth at the top my thighs. We were so horny but there was nothing we could do. I looked up at the floor indicator as Anne continued to rub her hands in between my legs as the floors ticked up. It was my own personal horny-o-meter, and I was ready to go through the roof.

  “You ladies here for the jazz?” the man asked, not turning around, making small talk,

  “Yeah for the music” said Ann,

  “And to have a good time,” she flicked her finger between my legs. I startled and feigned a cough.

  I could have stayed in the lift all night but it stopped at our floor and we got out. The man stepped aside to let us out.

  “You enjoy yourselves” he said.

  “Oh we will.” We ran out laughing.

  The lift doors closed and Ann put one hand behind my neck and pulled me to her and kissed me. My heart leapt. I tasted her lipstick and the wine. She had a firm, smooth tongue and luscious lips. My pulse raced. We arrived at the room and she pulled me in after her. Muted sounds of Miles Davis filtered up from the bar, filling the room as light spilled in from outside casting long shadows across the room. I’ve always thought the sound of good trumpet jazz is like a girl whispering yes. Great jazz, like great sex, is pure improvisation. You can’t rehearse it. Ann pushed me up against the wall and kissed me urgently, seeking out my tongue with hers.

  “You were driving me crazy down in the bar,” she said

  “I couldn’t wait to get you up here.”

  Our breasts pushed up against each other as we kissed, reaching behind each other to undo the zips of our dresses. We let them slip to the floor and stood there in our underwear. Ann looked absolutely stunning in a white basque and suspenders. The pearls at her neck were gorgeous. I kissed the pearls around her neck and the tiny ones in her ear lobes, tasting the bitterness of her perfume. Her hands were all over my body. I felt my bra pushed up as she took a breast in each palm, gently rolling my nipples between her fingers. I unhooked my bra, sighing as she took a breast in her mouth, sucking it in as far as she could, her other hand pulling me toward her by the small of my back. I laced my fingers into her hair and pulled her onto it, leaning my head back. It had been so long since I had had a woman on my breasts. No man can suck breasts like a woman. They suck too hard, or too soft, never right. Ann got it right on the button. I buried my face in the back of her neck as she sucked my nipples. Waves of her perfume and hair spray wreathed through my senses. I could feel her warmth along the entire length of my body; she pushed me back to the bed.

  Ann slipped my knickers down crawling on all fours on to the bed beside me. She kissed me from my neck down over my breasts to my tummy. Her fingers running lightly over my body as I lay there, surrendered to her touch and to the music. She flicked her tongue around my belly button and as I thought she was going to go for my pussy she went as far as my pubes and then came back up to my breasts. She was teasing me with her tongue and her fingers. Her hand slid down the outside of my thigh as she brought her mouth to mine. I was trembling as she let her fingers come up the inside of my thigh and I spread my legs in anticipation, willing the fingertips on to me, but again they slid away at the last moment. They barely brushed the wisps of my hair as she moved them up to my breasts, leaving my pussy untouched and aching for it. She did it again and again; I cried out as she avoided my pussy each time. It was such a beautiful agony. The sensitivity of my pussy grew the more she ignored it. The more she teased the more I wanted her, the more I wanted her the more she held off. I put my hands to her head and pushed her down to my groin,

  “Please, please lick me.” I begged her.

  Ann traced the length of my body with her tongue as she moved in between my legs. She missed my pussy going down, diverting her attention to the insides of my thighs. I covered my face in my hands. If she didn’t lick me soon I was going to go crazy. She lay flat between my legs and worked her tongue up the insides of my thighs in circles. I could smell her perfume getting stronger as she moved up to my pussy and then she paused. My God I thought, this is it; she’s going to lick me now. Barely perceptible at first, I felt the merest tickle of my hair as her tongue brushed against the lips of my pussy. I cried out. The relief of finally feeling her tongue on me was indescribable. My lips were swollen in anticipation and opened up to her. The tip of her tongue swiped so gently across me, hardly touching me. The lack of stimulation made my pussy all the more sensitive. The less she touched me, the more I felt it. She moved her attention to my clit, the intensity of the sweep and swirl of her tongue around it was heaven. I surrendered to the music as I gave in to her. She must have heard the tempo of the music change as I could feel her stroking around my clit to the rise and fall of the trumpet. My pelvis moved of its own accord. The pressure in the pit of my tummy was reaching fever pitch. I felt my pussy tighten to the sound of the music as it ascended higher and higher, reaching for the highest note of the piece. Right then, I got to the brink, a split second before you climax when you know you are going to come and nothing, nothing can stop you. A flood of release began to sweep over me. And in a crash of notes and gut trembling spasm, I came. No more tension. My body was in total free-fall. My body plummeted helter-skelter along with the music. I was crying, I was screaming, I was gripping Ann’s head between my legs, rigid with the strength of my orgasm. She carried on licking me. She knew if she stopped, she would ruin it: starve me of the aching, wonderful release. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t speak and I came again. Having surrendered myself to the music and let it carry me away, my body relaxed. It was over and I could breathe again.

  “Geez honey, you nearly ripped my head off” she said as she crawled up the bed to my mouth and kissed me. I’d never tasted so good on a man as I tasted on her.

  We lay there in the dark, wrapped in the sound of the jazz. We could have been in New York or Paris, it didn’t matter. Real after-midnight jazz. The best session I had ever had.

  ***

  Paula’s eyes were wet. I had never seen her so emotional.

  “Great story, Paula,” I found myself nodding. No words can convey what I feel at such moments. Often, all I can do is say thank you for sharing.

  I decided on one final question.

  “What would you prefer, good conversation, good jazz or good sex?” I know she loves to talk and she adores jazz and, boy, she obviously enjoys good sex. She thought for a while and replied

  “You know” she said stretching

  “Pastorius summed it up when he said: I’m not here to raise consciousness, I’m here to wet some panties.”

  You can’t say better than that.

  Susie - The Lingerie Shop

  In a small alleyway not far from where I work is a lingerie shop. It is run by a mother and her daughter. The window display is always creatively arranged, showing off the latest in. It has to be one of my favourite shops. I cannot walk past it without at least a glance at the displays and judging by the number of times men have collided into me on the pavement outside neither can they. If I were an ambulance chasing lawyer, I would want a pitch opposite their window; and it’s not only for the eye-catching Aubade promo photos which are classics of black-and-white lingerie photography.

  As soon as you enter the shop, you feel sexy. The tinkle of the bell and the bare floorboards, as well as the decor, are perfect shabby chic and there is a hint in the air of laundry; crisp white cotton and lace. I
t gets you right in the mood for some red hot credit card action.

  The mother is often away on buying trips and so I have made good friends with the daughter, Susie. She is a petite young graduate who had aspired to science but found her true calling in selling skimpy clothing to straight-laced female London professionals, like me. She remembers regulars by their size and will call you up if she is getting an item in to suit your particular tastes. She also runs a discreet advisory service for terminally embarrassed males who need that urgent little gift for a forgotten birthday whether it’s matrimonial or secretarial. Discretion is assured.

  On my last buying trip, Susie and I were chatting away at the till as she rang up a frightening number of items I had deemed as must-haves. She folded each item as if it were precious, in pink tissue paper and tucked it carefully into a large carrier. She asked matter-of-factly what I did in my spare time,

  “I write,”

  “Oh, how exciting” she said as she punched the total into the card machine,

  “Have you had anything published?”

  “No not yet, but I have hopes.”

  “What do you write?” I think she expected me to say medical text books or Ancient Egyptian any dry subject but I sucked in my breath and said

  “Actually, we are in the same line.” She looked at me, the lights on the machine winked expectantly,

  “How do you mean?”

  “I write stories about peoples’ erotic encounters,”

  “Oh, wow.” Silence; then the beautiful chatter of the machine printing and the elegant curl of paper unfurling, signifying your purchase has been accepted. The items you wanted are yours to take away.

  We chatted for a while about my writing. The bell tinkled behind me as another customer came in. Susie looked over my shoulder, crinkling her nose

  “Madame Gossard double-G” she giggled and handed me my carrier.

  “Enjoy” she chirped and then added as an afterthought,

  “I may have something for you in a few days. I’ll call you on your mobile.” She headed off to see to Madame Gossard double-G, with a perfect smile in place.

  As I left the shop I heard Susie behind me,

  “Something for every day or a special occasion?”

  A few days later and I had completely forgotten my chat with Susie. I was at the newsstand, struggling with my umbrella, on my way to the tube station. My phone rang out from the depths of my handbag. I trawled it out,

  “Hi, it’s Susie,”

  “Oh Hi,”

  “Are you free?”

  “Ah, Yeah,”

  “I have something for you.” My mind went blank, I couldn’t remember ordering anything,

  “Did I leave something at the shop?”

  “No...”

  “...It’s not lingerie.” She lowered her voice, I heard customers in the shop, the bell tinkled.

  “I can’t talk on the phone,” I had to press my ear to the phone to hear her. My umbrella wobbled furiously overhead as I struggled to hold it and clamp my hand over my ear to shut out the traffic.

  “Oh, okay. I’m not too far away. I’ll pop over.” I was intrigued. If I hadn’t been in heels, I would have run.

  Last-minute shoppers were being ushered out into the rain and shop doors were being locked behind them as I made my way down the alley. The puddles reflected back the bright lights of the shops. It was one of those city backdrops which could have put you anywhere from Paris to Vienna, New York to Venice. I entered the shop to the tune of the bell. Susie appeared from the back. Making sure no one saw her, she flipped the sign on the door to ‘closed’ and double-locked it.

  “Coffee?”

  “Why not?” I had never been summoned to my Lingerista before, if there was such a word, and if there wasn’t, perhaps there should be. I determined to coin it. I took off my coat and draped it over the table by the till.

  Susie came back out with a couple of big mugs of coffee. She sat on the big sofa and kicked off her shoes,

  “Oh God, that’s good,”

  “Busy day?”

  “Wicked.”

  “You know” said Susie

  “This is my favourite time.” She looked around. I followed her gaze to the garments hanging on the racks around the store.

  “There are no customers and it’s just me and the stock. I call them my soldiers for love. All waiting to join the front line of the battle against ordinary underwear.” She laughed.

  “I look at each item and think at what moment will they be revealed. Will it be the first time? The last time? The only time? Wife or lover? Anniversary or wedding?”

  I looked around the store again. I had never thought of it in that way. Each garment would have a tale to tell after it had been bought and worn. What would they say?

  “It’s as if there are these ghosts of an erotic future woven into the fabric. I swear sometimes I walk through when the lights are out and I can hear echoes of times to come, couples laughing, crying, panting. I’m in the business of selling special moments. Ensuring the woman looks her best for them. You don’t want your man to unwrap you when you’re wearing your “most comfortables”. You want him to see you in underwear which will set you off or at least take his mind off the bits you don’t want him to focus on. It’s a sleight of hand, an illusion to make each woman perfect. In times to come, he won’t remember your wobbly bits but he will remember you were wearing something sexy. Always leave ‘em wanting more, I say

  “Amen to that” I raised my mug in salute.

  “I remember ladies by size and favourite make. There’s a Miss Aubade 34A, size 12 thong, a Mrs Victoria’s Secrets 38DD size 14 brief, but for several of the men I have to remember twice as many sizes and styles. I have had one where there were so many permutations and combinations I had to jot them down in a notebook. I don’t know where he got the time or the energy. I always have to be discreet when they come in. You never know who else is in the shop; and then it’s Hello, what do you want today? Is it something for every day or special occasions? If they blush, it’s generally for the girlfriend, if they are more comfortable, it’s for the wife. Men,” she huffed,

  “You can read them like a book. Well,” she corrected herself,

  “I thought you could.”

  “Aha, so we come to the reason for your intriguing summons” I put down my coffee.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Name?”

  “Mark”

  “Good looking?”

  “Not bad”

  “Aficionado of your “soldiers for love”?”

  “My best pupil” she grinned.

  “Do tell.” I picked up my mug of coffee again and settled in for what I was sure was going to be a sure-fire, red hot, erotic revelation.

  ***

  Susie started her story over her mug of coffee, inhaling the steam her eyes closed, taking in the smell of the coffee and letting out her memories.

  The first time Mark came into the shop, he was your typical shy, thirty- something. You can tell a newbie a mile away. They are always embarrassed, refuse help initially and say they are “just looking”. Which is much worse; who goes into a lingerie shop “just to look”. What are you? some kind of pervert?

  I let him browse by himself for a moment but it was obvious he hadn’t got a clue. So I approached him,

  “Do you need any help?”

  “Ah yeah. I’m not very good at this.” An immediate acceptance of help was a good sign.

  “Is it for a special occasion?”

  “Ah, yeah.”

  “A wedding?” he had no ring on, he shook his head.

  “Birthday? Other?”

  “Um, other” he decided. He was avoiding eye contact, which isn’t unusual. I looked him over. Smartly, well-groomed. A city professional I decided, so I st
eered him towards the more expensive ranges. I picked out some of the better lines,

  “These are popular with our ladies” I started,

  “Special,” he coughed

  “Pardon?”

  “I’d like something special, not popular,”

  “Okay” I nodded, a risk-taker then. Normally a man asks for something special and the woman says “oh lovely darling” and brings it back the next day for “something popular”.

  I took him to the more exclusive labels and suggested a few items, taking them off the racks and handing them to him to look at. He kept his hands firmly in his raincoat pockets. Why is it men don’t touch the items in the shop but can’t wait to get their hands on it in the bedroom? Men are odd.

  “Any particular colour? Is it to go with any particular outfit?

  “Ah, no”

  “So best stick with more neutral colours then, white or black”

  “Black...yes black”

  I labelled him as conservative.

  “Size?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “The lady’s size.” I repeated. He flushed. I can’t think of many men who remember their mistress’ size, let alone their wife’s. I generally make a note for them on our database so when they come in again, they get it right.

  “You can come back tomorrow after checking.” He coughed again,

  “I can’t...check.” The words caught in his throat and he flushed again.

  I was being as discreet as I could but he wasn’t giving me much to work with.