I take a fresh look at my boyfriend, suited in black from head to toe, besides metallic purple cufflinks that match the purple streak in his hair. He’s so fucking gorgeous, I want a piece of him myself. Right now.
I haven’t played with myself once today, like a good girl, and the need is eating me up. Buzzing constantly under the surface.
I prefer a tingling clit a million times over to the kick in the guts of losing Heath, so that’s where I hone my attention.
Sex.
Filth.
Fun.
“See you later.” I give Josh a wink. “Enjoy your ride.”
“You too, baby. Whatever yourrideentails.”
My pussy is tingling like crazy as I set off in the cab. It’s an instinctive reaction I get now that my proposals are returning. Another win for the taking. I’m not nearly so nervous of getting spotted as I was just a few days ago. My trip to Canary Wharf put paid to my crazed paranoia, and I’m already reaping the benefits.
Thank fuck I re-activated my profile and filled up my calendar. I’m never watchingCake Bakeragain.
I’ll worry about the wider logistics of my predicament as time goes on, but in the meantime, it’s one day at a time, and one dirty night at a time.
My destination is only twenty minutes away, so my mind doesn’t have time to race withwhat ifswhen it comes to this booking.The cab speeds along until we are off into a side road, then pulls into a yard, dimly lit with a single white security light. I see what User 965 was talking about when he said workshop. There are a row of those permanent huge storage containers converted into workspaces. All of them with big metal lift-up doors.
The cab drops me at the side of them, and I pay in cash, giving him a decent tip. Hell knows what he thinks I must be doing here, but he clearly couldn’t give two shits. He just holds up a token hand in farewell and drives off. No sensationalism.
The noise from the road seems a mile away in this place. Silence reigns supreme for a city night. I give the cab a minute to make sure it’s well and truly gone before I clickarrivedon the app and await my instructions. As usual, they ping straight back through.
My workshop is the one on the right. Number five. The door is open. Light switch is on the left hand side. You’ll see the bench and your mask when you get in there. I want you naked and ready for me, no matter how long I leave you waiting.
So much for my co-ordinated bodice and tutu. Oh well. Get out the violins.
If User 965 wants me naked, he’ll have me naked.
I walk along the row of units to number five, checking out the numbers marked out in white paint. Rough and ready. There’s a padlock on the overhead garage style door, but it’s unlocked, so I take it off and put it on the floor before I wrench the bolt and try to gain entry. Damn, it’s heavy. It screeches in protest, and my pulse thumps as the noise cuts through the silence, but the yardis still dark with nobody to see me. This place feels so empty. So isolated. Almost dangerous.
Dangerous.
I get prickles on the back of my neck, but I’m smiling.
I love this kind of proposal, where my senses are deprived and time stands still. Every second always feels like an hour, heart pumping in trepidation.
My heart has been pumping with so much trepidation at life lately that a different outlet will be a blessing.
Once I’m inside the unit, I struggle to find the light switch on the left. I have to pat my hand around the wall to locate it, but when I do, a long bar of fluorescent light buzzes and flickers above my head, lighting the space up in a dull shade of yellow. Seedy.
The perfect ambience for a proposal like this.
I brace myself for the screech as I pull the door back down behind me and shut myself in. I figure User 965 is going to take his time to make sure I’m all set and in position. Hence, I take a minute to survey my surroundings to get a feel for the place. There are tools hanging up everywhere, and timber planks stacked up in a corner. Some chipboard panels. Offcuts tossed against one wall and surrounded by wood shavings. And at the centre of the whole place is a massive wooden workbench, just as the proposal stated there would be. It’s got a couple of vices on one side, cold to the touch, and the workbench is one hell of a serious piece of kit. I test it out by leaning on it, and it’s solid as a rock, and then I notice the sleeping mask, hanging off one of the vice handles.
It’s a good quality one. The light isn’t going to get in, and neither is the sight of my client.
This isn’t going to be a comfortable experience, lying on a bench for nearly four hours straight in a unit with no heating. My nipples are rock hard from the chill when I strip myself bareand hang my clothes up on the workman’s apron hook. I climb up onto the workbench, then take one final look around me before I put the sleeping mask on. With that, I see a fresh load of tools on another shelving unit.
Hammers, tongs, sanders, and saws, and spanners, screwdrivers. And a grinder. An industrial fucking grinder.
I get a fresh shiver at the thought of what User 965 meant when he saidloud.
I pull the mask on, lie back, and relax as best I can until his arrival, shuffling around on the hard wooden workbench with my legs spread wide. I want to give User 965 an impressive view when he first appears. I’m tempted to slide my hand down and strum my clit to get myself dripping hot and horny, glistening wet under the fluorescent light overhead. but I’ll leave that all to him. Instead, I keep my arms stretched above my head, one hand gripping a vice as I wait for his arrival.
