What The Subject Always Is

There was nothing very special about the tights. They were just a pair of black argyle patterned tights that I wore with a black a-line mini skirt, a pale pink polo neck jumper and some clumpy black boots. D looked at them quizzically as we were leaving the house but didn’t say anything.

In the Iranian restaurant in Paddington I’m licking hummus off my fingers and making a doomed attempt to talk to D about the garden.

“…so I was thinking maybe a silver birch or a rowan. What do you think?”

“I think…you should tell me what knickers you’re wearing under those tights.”

“A black thong, and don’t change the subject.”

“The subject is always what knickers you’re wearing. You’re the one who interrupts with it with fluffy-headed female nonsense about gardening and whether I’m staring at that girl on the train; which I absolutely wasn’t.”

Later, as he’s paying the bill, he sends me to the ladies to take off the thong. This is easier said than done as it also involves, in a very tight space, taking off my coat, balancing my bag on top of the cistern, retrieving the lipstick that falls out of my bag and rolls behind the pedestal, unzipping my boots without putting a pig hole in my tights, taking off my tights, taking off my thong, putting my tights and boots back on without causing any damage, putting my coat back on and then standing for several minutes with my cheeks pressed against the tiles by the sink to try to calm down my flushed face.

He’s standing on the pavement outside smoking impatiently when I finally emerge and I stuff my knickers in his pocket.

Standing at a taxi rank, I lean against the railings of a big cream stucco house. D stands beside me, his hand slid through the vent in the back of my coat and underneath my skirt, stroking my arse through my tights. There are other people around, some pass close by but it’s London so nobody notices anything.

In the taxi, I shift in my seat, the seam that runs through the crotch of my tights digging into the folds of my cunt. I can feel its wetness and I open the window a fraction, worried that the scent of cunt will slowly fill the cab. D smiles happily at me than looks away, out of the window, grinning to himself. He’s enjoying this.

In the darkened hallway I drop my bag on the floor as he peels my coat off.

“Touch your toes.”

I stretch, spreading my legs for balance, unsteady in my boots. He stands behind me, watching my skirt ride up and the tights strain across my buttocks. My hair falls over my face so I can only listen to the slow, menacing unzip of his cock and the sudden rip as his fingers burst through the tights and tear them open along the seam.