Red-Hot Polka

A couple if weekends ago I visited my Mother. It was a beautiful warm September day, summer still clinging to the afternoon air. I wore a polka dot summer dress knowing it would be one of the last times I did this year and beneath which were matching polka dot knickers. As my family sat about me and talked I took this picture and posted it on Twitter. I got a variety of responses but the one to note here was from E.T Costello (@ETCostello1) who declared the image gave him thoughts. I suggested he share them. The result is this story, inspired by my picture, which he has happily given me permission to post here…

It is cool in the shade of the fig tree while late summer sun falls in gold splashes among the turning roses and the nodding sprays of nicotiana. The gold falls on the house, on the mosaic table, the tiles and on the wrought iron, slatted bench where she sits. It brings the sun to her pale skin: at throat and cheek, forearm, and to her knees and thighs. Burnished bare skin, perhaps the last bare legs of the year. We are close together in the little space, this circle below the fig, close enough for me to see that, despite the falling sun, her thighs are covered in goose pimples, the tiny hairs atop them glimmering like minute flames. How I wish that it was my touch, my breath that made them so.

We have been talking, talking, talking. We work hard, she and I and, under our care, our hands the project grows. We can almost see it now. Its foundations are laid. The first courses of intellectual brickwork. By early Spring it will have arches, fountains, glittering crystal domes of thought.

We’re proud of our work. The last funding stumbling block was crossed this morning and the champagne tastes like nectar. The champagne and joy have loosened her. Not that she was ever tight, of course. But today, sunlit over champagne she touches me. Little flutters of finger on arm, on elbow. The back of my hand. As she moves, the white dots dance on her dress. They hypnotise. Christ I want to take it off.

The work has not been without tension, of course. There was the night that Serota described our thing as a ‘sordid little celebration of sluttishness’ and holding her weeping in the dark by Blackfriars Bridge while the water sucked and roiled in the river beneath us and I marvelled at the fit of her to me. It seems unlikely that she did not feel the swell of me against her stomach. In a different dress then, green as summer. Most of the tension since then has been in the country between my ears and betwixt my navel and my knees, or in those unmapped places, the aching nowhere behind, beyond, where the light lies waiting to be lit still further, to reach into this world and burn me up. Under the table, I am now as hard as a cobra, risen, aching, needy. I worry that she’ll hear it in my voice. It will be worse if she doesn’t recoil in shock but might just pat my arm apologetically and say some polite meaningless words.

Words. I haven’t heard her words for some time, and she has fallen silent. She is looking at me quizzically, looking under my downcast brows.

“What is it?” She reaches into my chilly shadow and grasps a forearm. Looks me in the eye. Beneath the table, I twist and leak.

A moment stretches among the turning leaves and light. A moment tight as a wire. There are sudden lines of electricity, of force. Eye to eye, and through our touching limbs, and in an imagined future the power between us draws a tumult of other limbs, of bodies twisting, tesselating, joining, rocking. I stand shakily and the question rises in her eyes and changes to a sort of shock as I go to my knees before her. Changes to a brilliant smile as I reach, reach shakily for her own, her own lightly parted knees.

“Oh.” She says. “Oh”.

Her hands are in my hair long before I part her thighs and kiss. Before I kiss and nibble with my champagne-frozen mouth. Before I groan my way up the pathway of golden parted thighs to find, beneath the silky polka dotted dress, matching knickers, a sheer veil over what is – I think with reverent glee – a very pretty muff.

“Oh”, she says again, and settles lower, her legs a loose sprawl, bare to her polka-dotted crux. Her hands rove in my hair, as do mine below. Each inner thigh is warm and smooth and on each, I raise cities and forests of gooseflesh. I try to keep it gentle, even, nibbled, but she is everything I’ve wanted to put in my mouth for months and I lose myself in her, pushing her thighs wide and flat to press my face into her silk-clad cunt.

The polka dots shift on the cushion of her muff and my tongue finds salty places here and there. Soaked by my exploring tongue, the wet fabric is soon saturated by her own wet eagerness and she is shuddering under my hands and her nails rake deep into my scalp. So full of words before, she is now nothing but wet noises, an O of mouth gasping, her fingers rubbing at my head in an echo of what she requires, she needs.

Hands beneath her arse, I lift her, slightly, peeling the knickers down. Now so very dark with fragrant wet they roll tightly on her thighs, falling as a perfect figure eight as they reach her ankles, where I take them off.

Beneath her muff, the sweet lines of her cunt are smooth and slippery, glossy with wet. I part her reverently, pressing and spreading till she lies open and shaking, her lips open like a butterfly’s wings. Coral wings deepening to red.  I take another long swallow of freezing wine and bend to her again. Her long lips slip through mine, searingly hot against my chilled mouth. I sink my tongue as far as I can into the sour hollow between them and she growls:

“Touch yourself.” So I do. “Show me,” she says, so I do.

I rock back on my haunches, stand. My undone suit trousers fall away and the cool air swirls around my bare arse and I feel my balls tighten, winding in upon themselves, hard and throbbing, musical.

She watches my hands as I stroke myself and squeeze and pull, driving the blood into my cock, and as she watches, so do I. Her fingers dance and part and push. One hand forward, one hand aft. I see the bright blue fingernail appear at the nub of her arse, another at the butterfly. I am as wet and glossy as she is.

“Put your fingers inside me.” It is a command, of course, and I do so. I am soon mesmerised. Moving my hidden digits in time to her flying fingers we bring her up, and up and just as I feel the arch growing in her back, the strangle growing in her voice, I stop.

Abruptly.

I whisk my fingers away and stand over her. She is a delightfully dirty, sweaty mess. Her polka dot dress is wrinkled and her eyes are slightly mad, glaring at me over her wide open gasping mouth. She twitches and groans.

“I rather think we should have some lunch, Molly.”

I say it firmly and begin to button up my needy, springy, rigid cock. It isn’t easy. A bright loop of my arousal connects me, slippery, aching, to one sprawled and quaking golden thigh. I wipe the silver chain away with her polka dot knickers and put them in my pocket.

” Let’s go”.