Black Silk Blindfold (Sample)
Below is an excerpt from a short story of 12,000 words or roughly 35 pages.
Some men are gentlemen and it is almost impossible to get them to fuck you no matter how hard you try. Benedict Knowles was such a man. He was twenty-two, tall, dark-haired and handsome with soft brown eyes and dimpled cheeks. He was training to be a lawyer and he came to my desk in our law firm every day so that we could exchange pleasantries and have a little chat. I wouldn’t call it flirting. He didn’t know how to flirt. He’d recently split up with his girlfriend and was feeling a little low. He was not someone who could recover from a setback very easily. I felt sorry for him. He was gorgeous in a soft, boyish way. I fancied him like crazy but I was wary of encouraging him. He would have been way out of his depth with me. I was twenty-eight. I liked hard, dirty, wicked men. Benedict was just a piece of fluff who blew across my path.
I imagined him naked in the shower, masturbating and thinking about me. He had a good body. I would have liked to rip his shirt off and rub my hands all over his chest. I could tell he had a good physique. He played squash and went swimming every week. He’d had a public school education where they put a lot of emphasis on sport. I could easily imagine him in a rugby shirt and shorts, red faced and panting, his hair tousled by the wind. He was the type to run hard after the ball but shy away from physical contact. He was too delicate to hunker down in an aggressive scrum or block a fleet-footed opponent. He would weave and dodge; he wouldn’t shoulder-barge.
I learnt a lot about him through our daily chats. He had studied law at Cambridge where they didn’t have many girls. He lived in a two-bedroomed flat in Parsons Green and cooked ready-made meals from Waitrose, which he accompanied with Bourgogne Pinot Noir. His brother was a civil engineer in Dubai and his sister was married to a property developer in Hong Kong. His girlfriend had left him for an investment banker who was forty-three, divorced, with three grown-up children and a Ferrari. They lived in Chelsea in a luxury flat overlooking the River Thames. Benedict, at the very start of his career, was unable to compete with such ostentatious wealth. This had made him depressed and bitter.
“Why should you compete?” I asked him. “If she is only interested in money, she is not worth your time.”
“There’s such a thing as love,” he confessed mournfully. “I didn’t judge her; I loved her.”
“You’re too sweet. You deserve better.”
“But it’s what all women want, whether they admit it or not.”
“No it isn’t.”
“If you had the choice would you turn down a man like that?”
“That sort doesn’t interest me at all,” I said. “I like creative men. My last boyfriend was a poet.”
“Really? Has he published anything?”
“Oh. So how did he make a living?”
“No-one makes a living from writing poetry,” I said. “That’s not the point. He had a creative soul. That’s far more important than how much money someone has.”
“So why didn’t you stay together?” he asked me.
“Because love is complicated.”
It was late May and the weather in London was dismal. Every other day it rained and when it wasn’t raining the wind rocked the trees outside our office. We talked about going away.
“I want to go somewhere really hot,” he said.
“I want to go with someone really hot,” I replied.
He laughed. “I’ll bet you could take your pick of hot guys.”
“No-one has invited me yet,” I said.
“No-one has invited me either,” he complained. “It’s too depressing going away on your own.”
It seemed not to occur to him to invite me. I said, “Do you always wait to be asked?”
“No, of course not,” he said and I’d swear he blushed a little. He was definitely not my kind of guy. I liked men to take the initiative, to have courage and confidence. I couldn’t stand quiet types who dithered and prevaricated, waiting for something to happen. So I have no idea why I felt a twinge in my pussy just then and had a sudden urge to caress my breasts. Which I resisted, of course.
“Don’t you have any friends you could go away with?” I asked him.
“All my friends are couples,” he said, “except for one or two single women. But if you ask a woman to go on holiday with you, she’ll get totally the wrong idea.”
“That’s a shame, isn’t it?” I said. “Why can’t a man and a woman go on holiday without it leading to … that?”
“What it leads to is not the point,” said Benedict, dissecting my words with his fine legal brain. “The point is, she’ll think you want that when maybe you don’t.”
Since we were in the office I lowered my voice to a near-whisper and asked, “Don’t you miss having sex?”
I could feel the heat between my legs intensifying. I suspected my pussy was drenched. Some days that happens. I can’t stop thinking about sex. Arousal comes unbidden. My body is suffused with lust.
“Of course I miss it,” he said. “But I wouldn’t have sex with just anybody.”
“Wouldn’t you?” I hoped the desperation couldn’t be heard in my voice. Perhaps I pouted a little, I don’t know. Honestly, I tried not to flirt. Benedict was not in my league. It would have been callous to lead him on.
“Women are so emotional,” he said. “They get attached to you and start to expect things.”
“I see. Yes, you’re right.”
“And the truth is, I still love Hermione.”
“But she’s out of your life now,” I told him. “You have to forget her and move on.”
The misty look in his eyes told me I was wasting my breath. He hadn’t even heard me. He was thinking of Hermione. That bitch.