Finger Music by Elizabeth Coldwell

Author:Elizabeth Coldwell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Xcite Books
Published: 2012-03-13T16:00:00+00:00

A Woman of Pleasure

by Izzy French

I guess you might call me a woman of pleasure. A bit of a Fanny Hill for the 21stcentury, but without the advantage of accepting payment for my services. I’m a thrill seeker. And the trouble with that is, once you’ve experienced one thrill, then you want to move onto the next. And it’s got to be bigger, better and, preferably, more risky.

So that’s why I arrange most of my assignations whilst at work. I’m tap-tap-tapping away, my IT-phobic boss oblivious to the fact that I’ve long ago finished typing up her minutes, and now I’m arranging to meet John, or Mark, or Liza or some combination of the three of them, if I’m really lucky. Last night it was John and Liza. I’m just adding them both to my contacts list and I squeeze my thighs together, shivering at the thought. My rather sore thighs, I might add.

We met in the wine bar in town. The barman had given me a bit of a look. I think he’s cottoned on to what I’m up to. He’s obviously a whole lot smarter than my boss.

I catch his eye as I make for the corner of the bar where a couple are waiting. Liza and John. She looks chilled, blasé, almost. He’s looking a mite nervous. That’s OK; it’s how I like them. Makes them more pliable, more open to my rather lewd suggestions. I love a man who’s keen to please.

Introductions are soon over. I tell them I’m Natalie, they buy me a drink, I finish my drink, they finish theirs and we go back to their place. It‘s as simple as that. I think it’s the first time John’s done this. But I can tell it‘s not her first, second or third time, despite the impression she tries to give. We start off in the living room. They offer me another drink. And we’re assessing each other, making small talk, casting our eyes over each other’s outfits. Well that’s what me and Liza do. John’s in the kitchen fetching drinks and nibbles. I love nibbles, as my hourglass figure attests. Liza is lean. I’m guessing she just says no. Well, to nibbles of the peanut variety, anyway. I’m hoping she’s amenable to another kind. We stand to begin with; then I bite the bullet and sit on the sofa, patting the seat next to me.

‘Join me?’ She’s down like a shot. And she hasn’t sat at the other end of the sofa; oh no, you’d be lucky to squeeze a feather between us, though I wouldn’t mind trying. She’s beautifully turned out, wearing what I’d wear if I had her figure. A tight black satin pencil skirt, cream silk blouse, very few buttons done up, exposing a black bra. I’ve gone for the flirty 50s strappy boned polka dot look, cinched in at the waist with a waspie belt, high red heels and lippy to match. My hair’s in a sleek, high ponytail that’s giving me a headache.

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