Agitated, I text back: Must it be now?
Yes & I need photographic evidence.
I look around me. Nobody is paying me much attention. There is a lot of competition for that, something the pickpockets are ever grateful for. On the river, the pleasure boats cruise by, slow and stately, some of them trailing jazz music in their wake.
I let my camera rest around my neck on its lanyard and put my phone back in my jacket pocket.
I look around once more. A man dressed as Darth Vader has everyone’s eyes fixed in his direction.
I put a hand on the skirt hem and sort of pat it and flutter it for a few seconds, trying to work out exactly how long this might take. No. Thinking about it will just prolong the agony.
Facing the river, I lift the front of my skirt and take hold of the elastic so quickly my fingers seem to double in quantity. Looking fixedly ahead at the palatial facades on the opposite bank, I yank the knickers down, hoping that they’ll just fall themselves once they reach a particular region of thigh. They are stubborn, though, and I have to lower them to my knees before they oblige me. I shut my eyes as they drift to my ankles.
Stepping out of them, I’m tempted to just take off at speed and leave them lying on the bare concrete, but that won’t do. Photographic evidence, he said.
I make a point of not checking to see if anyone’s watching me this time. Do anything brazenly enough, and the chances are you’ll get away with it.
Instead, I crouch down to pick them up then hold them at arm’s length and take a picture on my phone. A boat sails by and some of the trippers wave and take pictures of me. Well, probably not me. Probably the South Bank complex and the fairground and the aquarium that used to be County Hall. But I’ll be in there somewhere, waving my polka-dotted cotton briefs like a flag, representing Britain.
Once the picture is taken, I send it to Lloyd, then I stuff the knickers and phone into my jacket pocket, sigh heavily and resume my original work.
A text interrupts me.
Well done. You’re on the South Bank?
Yes.
Did anyone see you?
Not sure.
Nobody hovering over your shoulder with propositions?
Not yet.
OK. Next task.
Another one?
Yes. It’s a treasure hunt. I’m sending you all over the city with little tasks to complete. Fun!
Hmm.
Don’t be like that! Next task. Go to Buckingham Palace and flash a sentry.
What? How am I going to get a photo of that?
After you’ve shown him your arse, leave those knickers in his sentry box and take a picture.
I’ll get arrested!
You won’t. They aren’t supposed to react, are they? Go on. Bet it’s been done a million times before.
The light is fading now, the sky an amazing violet grey.
I take a few photographs then I decide to walk the distance between here and Buckingham Palace. If I walk everywhere, perhaps there won’t be so much time for these damned challenges, I reason. Besides, I like walking.
So I head over Westminster Bridge and past Big Ben, chiming the half-hour, through St James’s Park to the Palace.
The Queen is away, according to the flag, which is a faint relief. Don’t want Her Majesty catching a glimpse of anything untoward, after all.
Drawing closer, I notice that the crowds aren’t too thick now. The museum part of the palace has closed for the day and it seems to be mainly people coming off the park and heading into Victoria, passing through rather than stopping.
I take myself to the extreme right side of the pavement, wanting to get a good run up so that my little flash will be a blur of speed that leaves the sentry wondering if it really happened. I compose myself, do a few breathing exercises, like an athlete preparing for a race. I wait for it to get a little darker and the crowd a little thinner. Then, once I have a clear path ahead, I pitch myself at speed towards the gates, weaving between the milling groups of tourists.
At the crucial moment, I perform a balletic quarter turn, flip up the back of my skirt and lean forwards, before completing the full pirouette, the fabric falling back over my bottom.
A couple of squeals and some hysterical laughter follow my onward progress to the far side of the palace. I hide myself around the corner and gasp for breath, once, twice, three times, before part two of my mission.
It has to happen quickly. I take out my phone, put it on camera mode and hold it in front of me, running back through the same crowd, some of whom are still commenting on what they just saw, if they saw it.
They part before me, curious to know what I’m doing.
I stop dead in front of the sentry box, grab the knickers from my pocket and fling them at the feet of the soldier. He doesn’t move a muscle.
I take the photograph and hare off again, barging past an American man who entreats me to ‘Show some damn respect!’
I take cover back in the park.
Done. I text Lloyd the photo.
Impressive! He’ll be sleeping with those tonight.
He’ll probably hand them over to the police.
Lol, I think not. Ready for the next phase?
Not really.
Of course you are. It’s the cocktail hour. Take yourself off to the Ritz, buy yourself a cocktail and find an attractive woman to snog. Get a photo.
A woman?
Yep. Pulling a man in a hotel bar would be shooting fish in a barrel for you, wouldn’t it?
True.
The Ritz isn’t far away. I walk purposefully past the doormen and up the steps, under its shimmery glimmery awning and into the bar.
I forget why I’m there for a moment, and imagine I’m on an industrial espionage mission, looking for ideas for my own hotel. Their drinks are pricier than ours but then they have the history and the prestige behind them and they can get away with it.
I order a Cosmopolitan and scope the place for likely talent.
In one corner a group of impeccable young things giggle and snort among themselves. They are pretty, but they just seem wrong somehow. And what should I say to them? ‘Excuse me but would you mind most awfully if I kissed one of you?’
I figure I’ll play this the same way I always play it.
I’ll sit alone at the bar, make plenty of eye contact and see what happens. It’s as good a way as any to waste some challenge time.
I spin the cocktail out, watching the bar staff – no Lloyds among them – do their stuff. They’re good, efficient, polite, personable. Maybe I could poach one of them.
Several men approach me, but I reject them. I tell the fourth one straight. ‘I’m looking for a woman.’
He blinks. ‘Any woman in particular?’
‘No, just a woman I can kiss.’
‘Well, you know, Soho is just around the corner.’
‘It has to be here.’
‘Has to be?’
‘Yes.’
He checks his watch. ‘Well, you know, I’m meeting a girlfriend here. Maybe she’d be interested.’
‘You’re meeting a girlfriend? So why are you all over me?’
‘We’re open-minded. She’s not my only girlfriend. I’m not her only boyfriend. If you catch my drift.’
‘I catch it precisely. I’m in a similar set-up myself.’
‘My name’s Brad, by the way.’
We fall into an easy, flirtatious conversation about our unconventional sex lives. When the girlfriend arrives, in a cloud of perfume, I am regaling her lover with an account of the time I took three cocks simultaneously. He’s impressed.
‘Hello,’ says the girlfriend, whose name is Kristen. ‘What have we here?’
‘This is Sophie. She’d like to kiss you.’
Kristen is certainly kissable, with full, slightly sardonic lips and a cascade of shiny brown hair. She looks sleek and expensive but there’s a glint in her eye that I recognise. There are other people like me. I sometimes forget this.
‘Just like that?’ she laughs.
‘Just like that. Shall we retire to that corner?’
Four leopard-print bucket chairs surround a table in their own niche. It’s in view of the bar, but slightly secluded from the rest of the room.
We take our drinks over. On the way, I give my cameraphone to Brad.
‘So then.’ I turn to Kristen, feeling it’s time I got down to business. I put a hand on her thigh.
She smiles. ‘Forward, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. I am forward. How about you?’
I lean in a little. Her perfume is surprisingly floral, not the predictable knockout musk. Her skin is so perfect it almost shimmers.
Her smile fixes in position, her cheekbones quivering a little with the effort. She has a gap in her front teeth. I find it sexy, imagining my tongue seeking out the groove.
‘Love your shirt,’ I say, brushing the silky sleeve.
‘Thanks. It’s Stella McCartney.’
She lets my hand come to rest around her upper arm, my fingers stroking its soft inner side.
‘So, this kiss, then,’ she says, looking over at her boyfriend. ‘Is it for a bet?’
‘Not a bet, but similar. I don’t want to mess up your lipstick, but …’
Small talk is starting to bore me. It’s not like I want her for an enduring friendship. I put my free hand on the side of her neck opposite the arm I’m holding and brush my thumb under her ear. She tilts her head in Pavlovian pleasure, bringing it closer to me.
‘OK,’ she murmurs.
Her lipstick is luxuriously creamy without the distracting taste the cheap stuff leaves in your mouth. She has been chewing spearmint gum in the fairly recent past, and perhaps before that she smoked a cigarette.
Her lips are firm, but she offers no resistance, letting my tongue slip in to investigate that delightful tooth gap. The cameraphone flashes as our breasts touch, her silk against my cotton. Her nipples are hard.
Screeches of laughter from the girl group bring us to our senses and we draw apart, mission accomplished, shy smiles on our faces. Her lipstick must be the stay-put kind. She looks no different.
‘Thanks,’ I say, getting back my breath. ‘Thanks for helping me out.’
I turn to Brad, reaching out for my phone. ‘Can I see?’
He hands it over and I examine the five pictures he has taken of the kiss in every stage. I select the most flagrant of the in flagrante poses and forward it to Lloyd.
‘So, Sophie,’ says Kristen, checking her face in a mirror compact. ‘Do you have plans for tonight?’
Brad’s ears prick up. He leans forwards.
‘You enjoyed yourself there, huh?’
‘We could make that table for two a table for three, couldn’t we?’
‘Oh, I think I’ll be busy,’ I say. ‘Sorry. I’m just waiting to hear from my boyfriend.’
‘He can come too,’ says Kristen swiftly.
‘Er …’
The text alert bleeps.
‘Nice work,’ says Lloyd. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘I’ve just been invited to dinner by this couple. I gather a threesome could be on the table. Well, not the restaurant table, obviously. But you know what I mean.’
‘Never mind them,’ comes the reply. ‘Thank them politely and get yourself out of there.’
I do so, after they insist on giving me their number ‘in case I find myself at a loose end later’ and find myself on the pavements of Piccadilly in a late summer early evening fug of exhaust fumes and street pizza stands.
I lean on a lamppost, recreating in my head that rather delicious lipstick kiss, waiting for Lloyd’s next directive.
When it comes, it makes me clench my thighs.
Get something to eat, then find a pub garden or similar open public space and get yourself felt up in it. Photos required.
My stomach churns, but I buy myself a slice of carcinogen and pepperoni and chew my way stoically through it before heading towards Mayfair. If I’m going to be felt up outside a pub, it might as well be by a high class of feeler-upper.
Amidst the art galleries and celebrity eateries, I find a classic old Victorian pub in pink sandstone with pavement tables.
This will have to do. The additional element of being seen to in the actual street appeals to me on a very base level.
The pavement is thronged with crowds of well-heeled tourists and the smart post-work crowd, none of whom seem to mind paying Mayfair prices for average tipples.
I scope out the different groups and settle on three good-looking young men in rugby shirts and sunglasses, drinking lager and talking animatedly.
I buy myself a mineral water – that cocktail in the Ritz has given me enough head-fuzz for the time being – and lean on the wall, ostentatiously looking over at them every few seconds. I make a big deal of checking my phone and my watch in between sly glances.
After about ten minutes of this, one of the guys, who has been following my progress fairly avidly, calls over to me. ‘Has he stood you up, love?’
He’s Australian, big and beefy, with a blond crop and a square chin.
‘Looks like it. I guess I’ll finish this and go home. Unless …’
Bingo! He pats the bench beside him. ‘Sit yourself down. He’s a loser anyway.’
I scurry over and plonk myself beside the large lager-drinker. ‘Do you know him?’
He laughs. ‘If he’s stood you up, he’s a loser. Trust me.’
This is going to be easy.
It takes the duration of one more pint.
There’s five or ten minutes of general chat about London, then his hand lands on my thigh, heavy as a brick.
Then, another five minutes discussion about Australia with specific reference to his home town of Melbourne while his hand moves up and down and he shifts ever closer along the bench, his two friends looking on in amusement.
An intensely boring description of the rugby tour of Britain they are on provokes me to put my hand on his and move it to the hem of my skirt, encouraging his thick fingers to pull it slowly up to thigh level.
I don’t know how many pints they’ve had, but I guess four or five, because inhibitions don’t seem to be anywhere in evidence. Soon enough, he has managed to wedge my skirt almost to the top of my thighs.
Granted, they are under the table and nobody else outside the pub would be able to see – even the passers-by wouldn’t be looking so low. The Mayfair streets are not busy, the main traffic being taxis gliding past at a stately pace.
Their passengers will be the ones who might catch a glimpse and guess what’s what. From their windows, they will be able to see my legs, sideways on, bare to the very top, with a large man’s hand wedged between them. They’ll catch a flash of the image, but not for long enough to know that what they saw is what is actually happening. They might look back, but by then the backs of the other drinkers and the table will obscure their view.
I think we can get away with this. But how the hell am I going to get a picture?
I widen my thighs just a fraction, enabling his big ham of a fist to make its way to the apex. Just as it does, I take my phone and snap a photograph.
I am examining the rather disappointing shot of some bunched fabric and a wrist, when Jayden’s fingers whizz back down my thighs as if my pussy has actually burnt them.
‘You … no panties!’ he exclaims, loud enough for his fellows to hear and crease up with laughter. ‘And what’s with the photos?’
‘Just a little hobby of mine,’ I say, as matter-of-factly as I can muster. I need to keep him on task, get him hot and bothered so he’ll carry on regardless of his pals.
‘Hobby?’
‘Yeah. I like to take photos of myself getting fingered. Does that seem weird to you?’
His eyes are so confused, bless him. He runs a hand over his buzz-cut hair and says, ‘In a word, yeah.’
‘I know I’m different,’ I tell him, placing his hand back on my bare thigh
. ‘But I just love the feel of a strange man’s fingers between my pussy lips. I just love the way they stroke and rub and make my clit want to burst with heat. When I look at the photos after it gets me so wet to see how I let a man get his hands right up there, pushing his fingers all the way up inside my cunt …’
I break off. All three of them are like waxwork figures captured in a state of hypnosis, leaning over their pint glasses.
‘Is that so wrong?’ I finish, pouting at Jayden.
‘No,’ he breathes, letting me push his hand down the slope, into the dark place in the gap of my legs. ‘You’re a special girl, Sophie.’
I smile at his friends, who lean further, trying to see over the ledge of the table. Jayden’s fingers find my slit, confidently this time, fitting themselves between the lips with ease.
I hand my phone over to Sean, the lad on the left.
‘Get under the table,’ I suggest. ‘And take a photo.’
Jayden’s fingers push against my clit and my bottom squirms on the wooden bench.
‘You might need to put the flash on though.’
Sean looks at his friend, looks at Jayden, looks at me, looks at the phone. ‘Is this a set-up?’ he asks uncertainly.
Jayden’s fingers slip and slide. I lean over the table so as to make sure it’s invisible to anyone standing behind us. He’s getting close to my cunt, readying himself for the full impalement.
‘I mean, like a porn version of Pranked. This isn’t like that, is it?’ He cranes his neck, looking for a nonexistent camera crew.
‘Trust me,’ I say in a strange gaspy voice. Jayden has found a very good place to rest his weary fingers. ‘It’s just me and my little foible … ohh.’
Those thick fingers feel so good, even if they blunder a little bit around the opening. What he lacks in technique, he adds in enthusiasm, though. He wiggles them around inside me while I sit on the bench like butter wouldn’t melt. It would though. It would melt in the time it took to place it on my clit.
My thighs already feel as if butter is running down them, warm juices clinging to my skin. Luckily the cigarette smoke in the air neutralises any telltale odour.
Sean bobs down beneath the table. His friend makes to join him but Jayden holds up his free hand.
Game Page 7
