Women I’ve slept with – Pt 10 – Ep1 : My vampire diary
The existence of love at first sight is a debatable issue: can such an emotion truly be regarded as love, or is it something more primal? When I first saw Marilyn (my number 4), I certainly felt something pretty instantly, and I did again when Sarah floated into my office. It wasn’t that she had the look of a glamour model (she was short, dark, skinny, and not remotely hour-glassed) but there was a certain je ne sais quoi about her that instantly caught my attention. She was dressed completely in black, with a full length coat, and although it didn’t strike me at the time, there must have been a hint of vampire about her.
It is said that dogs can smell fear: maybe vampires can smell lust and I later found out that Sarah had felt a similar attraction at that moment. We clicked instantly.
As an internal client, Sarah had brought me the sort of project that I love to work on, and we joked and flirted our way through the day. She was more than happy with my work and over the next few months she became a regular visitor to my office.
At some point she noticed a motorcycle helmet sat under my desk, and asked about it. I can be a bit of an evangelist when it comes to bikes, and if a non-biker shows an interest, I’ll invariably invite them for a ride. So it was with Sarah. She accepted and we arranged that I’d pick her up one weekend and we’d ride down to the coast. I knew by this stage I fancied Sarah, and this was an excellent sign – I was pretty sure I was on to something good.
At the appointed time I parked up outside her flat and phoned to say I’d arrived. As I waited, a tall, dark, muscular, Mediterranean looking man walked out of the building, and spoke to me briefly across the street …
Him : Are you AM?
Me : Yeah.
Him : Hi, I’m Harvey.
Me : Ah, hi.
Him : Sarah will be down in a minute.
… and then he walked off. I’d never heard of Harvey, so guessed he was one of Sarah’s flatmates, but it meant she’d been talking about me, and that filled me with confidence.
I’d borrowed a helmet, jacket and gloves for Sarah, and having established she had leather jeans and sturdy boots, advised she wore those. When she finally walked out of the building and across to my bike, she looked very very sexy, in a rock-chick kind of way.
If you’ve ever been two-up on a bike, you’ll know there is a degree of intimacy to it, especially on a sports bike like mine. The rider is sat between the pillion’s legs, and I’ve always found it best for my passenger to have one hand on the grab-rail behind them and one hand resting on the fuel tank in front of me: it makes for a more stable ride for both of us. It usually results in body contact, and with Sarah’s diminutive stature, it meant she effectively hugged me for the next 1¾ hrs as we carved through Saturday traffic, hooned round sweeping bends, and headed towards the sea. This was cool. This was fun. This was sexy.
Having got to the coast, we had lunch and then went to sit on the beach. Although sunny, there was chilled breeze and Sarah sat between my legs with my arms wrapped around her and we huddled up close to keep warm. To say the signs were positive is an understatement.
Eventually we headed back towards the big smoke, and as Sarah had enjoyed the ride down, I was a little less restrained with the throttle on the way back. As my pillion weighed very little, and was happy to be wrapped around me, the bike still handled well, and I made the most of the twisty roads. This was what life should be about.
Arriving back at Sarah’s flat, we dismounted, took our helmets off and said our goodbyes. I’d had a brilliant day, and that was good enough for me. I felt no need to make a move, but as she broke off from our parting hug, Sarah kissed me on the lips. And then promptly turned and walked away. In my experience, friends (and colleagues) do not kiss on the lips. I was surprised, but grinned a grin that wrapped itself round my head twice.
Over the following months, Sarah turned up in my office pretty regularly, and when not working together, increasingly flirtatious emails bounced between us. Anything up to 40 or 50 a day. We had lunches together, went for drinks after work a few times, talked about anything and everything, from politics to our sexual tastes, and even though greetings and departures were invariably marked on the lips, somehow it never seemed like dating – it was just two good friends, who had nothing to hide from each other, having a great time.
Bathed as I was in infatuation, I bent the ear of a friend, Tania. (You’ve not met her yet, Dear Reader, but you will .. in Women I’ve slept with – Pt 11.) Tania’s and my paths had crossed merely because we worked near each other, and we’d got chatting in her shop. She became my lunch time confidant and on I poured out my confused heart to her over a sandwich and a coke on several occasions. It’s often useful to get a woman’s perspective when it comes to dating, and although Tania thought Sarah was toying with her prey, she also assured me I was virtually guaranteed to get what I wanted.
Whilst my hopes of getting into Sarah’s knickers had begun to wane a little, it seemed we learned pretty much everything about each other. It quickly became apparent that Sarah had a penchant for the darker sides of popular culture. Black leather jeans and the long black coat were obviously cue cards, so it wasn’t particularly surprising that she was indeed fascinated by vampire literature. After one related conversation she presented me with a book of vampire short stories and pointed me towards a couple of her favorites. With their mildly erotic content (you’ve got to love the Victorians for inventing mystic monsters with decidedly kinky undertones) I was confronted with yet more mixed messages.
Inevitably, all this sat alongside her taste in music: Nick Cave, Nine Inch Nails, Def FX, The Mavises. Dark sleazy rock. Amongst the many genres in my CD collection, it is not hard to find metal, goth, and industrial, so we agreed to go to an appropriate night club. One Friday evening, I headed over to Sarah’s flat, and was greeted by the usual kiss on the lips. I sat in her living room, sipping premier vodka and chatting through her open bedroom door while (out of sight) she got gothed-up for the night. She called for my assistance to help lace her up … and I was a little taken aback. But hey …! When I walked into her room, she was stood with her back to me, wearing tight black leather jeans (the same she’d worn on our bike ride) and a black leather strapless bustiere which laced up at the back.
I followed instructions and tied Sarah into the bodice, and was genuinely surprised how tight she wanted it. How I didn’t throw her onto the bed and tear her clothes off there and then, I do not know, but I was, to a degree, in a state of shock.
Whilst we were in her bedroom, the conversation somehow revealed how Sarah made a point of starting every day “with an O” and she opened her bedside drawer to show me her pink rampant rabbit.
If I thought she hadn’t wanted me to take an interest in sexually, despite a little confusion, my blood was now getting redder by the second.
Before we headed out, Sarah told me one final touch was required : I wouldn’t be properly dressed for a goth club until I was wearing black nail varnish. And so she painted my nails. This was a first for me, and a surprisingly sensual experience.
At the club more vodka was consumed and if any inhibitions remained, they were quickly eroded. The dancing was hot and sleazy, and the only way Sarah and I could have got any closer was if we’d got naked. Lips quickly met, fingers were dug into arses, my hand found no resistance when grazed across her diminutive tits, and before long Sarah’s hand found its way into my trousers … where her discovery of leather briefs obviously met with approval.
Not too much later, Sarah was lent over the crowded, but barely lit balcony, surveying the dance floor below, with me stood behind her. In the dark I took my chance and deliberately cupped both of her tits. She pushed back against me and craned her head back, offering her open mouth. I slipped my tongue in, to meet her’s, and slipped one hand down the front of her jeans to find her knickers already decidedly moist. Her back arched in response, my fingers found their way round the gusset of her panties and pushed effortlessly into her sopping cunt. She rode my fingers for a while, before dignity, self control and prudence got the better of us, and we returned to the dance floor. As we ground our hips against each other, her hand squeezed my turgid member through my jeans and I offered her my sticky fingers, which she eagerly sucked clean.
Tune in next time folks, to find out what happened when we left the club.