Girl After Dark (9 page)

He moves back towards me, rubbing his cock tantalisingly against my opening, teasing me with it, sending shivers right through me — a heady mix of pleasure and frustration.

“Please,” I whisper again. “Please …”

He’s rubbing the head of his cock against my clit now, but all I want is to feel him inside me again.

“Please,” I cry, so loud it startles me. “Fuck me.”

And finally he complies, driving himself so deep inside me that I gasp, feeling my whole body melt as the intensity of my pleasure bubbles up once more inside me, threatening to spill over at any moment.

I’ve never been taken like this before: so hard and rough, yet so intimate too.

He’s tensing up now too, as if he can sense my own fast-approaching orgasm, his breath coming in short low grunts as he plunders me with his thick hard cock.

I wrap my legs tight around his back as I come, gasping and panting, my nails digging deep into his flesh, totally lost in the sheer intensity of my desire.

And my stranger comes too, tensing up, burying himself deep inside me as his own pleasure flashes and pulses through him …

*

And so that, dear readers, was very first adventure in New York City.

Before I began this journey, I thought I was in control of my fantasies. But what tonight has taught me is that I had no idea just what my true fantasies really were.

And even better was that I had no idea just how good it would feel to finally let go of control for once
.

§

I know I promised to tell my readers the truth. But that isn’t quite where things really ended. How could it be?

Just a few minutes before, I’d become an animal: only fixated on fulfilling my own desires. And I’d come so hard I’d felt shattered into a million pieces.

But as I came back to Earth, the nervous girl who’d pulled her flimsy silk robe a little tighter around herself also quickly returned.

My self-consciousness now back in full force, I swiftly rose from the bed, gathered my things, and dressed as quickly as I could, pulling on my panties, my stockings, my bra and my dress. And although I had my back to him, I could still feel his big, greeny-brown eyes burning into my skin.

Our experience had been so intense that I could barely bring myself to meet his gaze now. So instead I just stared hard at the floor as I gathered my bag, then begin to slip my high heels on with trembling fingers.

The air in the room still felt electric, and a small part of me kind of expected him to make another move. To continue this game of chess that we’d begun.

And sure, playing had been fun, but I felt totally overwhelmed too by what had just taken place and I knew I just needed to get the hell out of there, before I let myself fall any further.

As I headed to the door, I heard him move swiftly behind me, pushing himself up from the bed.

“Wait,” he called, reaching out, grabbing my arm, and turning me so that I had no choice but to face him once more — to face
those eyes
once again.

“I need to know who you are,” he said, his voice low and steady but insistent, too. “Who you
really
are.”

I shook my head, fearing that if I spoke, this whole facade would come crashing down around me.

“Right now, I might not know your name … your
real
name,” he explained, “but I sure as hell know what just happened between us. You’re amazing, you know that? And I just
have
to see you again.”

“I … I …” I stuttered, taken aback by the sheer force of his emotion; something I really wasn’t expecting from an encounter like this. “I … have to leave.”

I quickly broke free from his grip and fled the room, hearing the hotel room door slam closed behind me, so loud, so definite.

I practically ran towards the elevators, through the lobby and then out, into the street, and safely into the first cab I could flag down, just moments later.

And as my taxi sped over the Brooklyn bridge, I took out my phone and looked at it.

One new message on Tinder — from Carson:

I must see you again.

But I knew that what we’d shared had to stay in that room.

This wasn’t about emotions.

I’ve been through so much, I couldn’t deal with any more right now. I’d promised myself that this was one night only — anonymous — and that’s where it has to stay.

And so, with a heavy heart, and before I could soften and change my mind, I deleted Tinder (and Facebook for good measure) from my phone.

There
, I thought, both sad and satisfied. 

There was literally
no
way he could contact me now.

§

A little later, I collapse into my bed, totally exhausted, hoping to fall straight to sleep.

But of course, the moment I close my eyes, all I can see is Carson — Carson staring back at me, the way he did tonight, as if he’d seen right into my soul.

I’m walking down a long dark corridor. I don’t know where I am. All I know is that I’m trying to find the way out.

All of a sudden I see the sign. Big green neon letters: EXIT.

I start heading towards it, but then, behind me I hear a now-familiar voice. His voice. A voice that stops me in my tracks.

“Melissa!” he calls.

“But how do you know my name?” I reply.

I know that I shouldn’t wait for his answer, that I should just leave, that I shouldn’t turn back.

But of course, I do.

I turn around and there he is, waiting for me.

“Don’t leave,” he calls out. “Come back to me.”

I can feel myself being pulled in two directions at once.

I know I should go, but at the same time, there is another force, even stronger, drawing me back towards him.

I take a first step, then another, and then, before I know it, I’m running back down the corridor towards him, throwing myself into his arms.

“I knew you’d come back to me,” he says.

I search out his eyes with my own, feeling that thrill all over again when his gaze meets mine, as if he’s looking right into the centre of me, right into my soul.

I lean forward to kiss him, our lips softly brushing and then …

I wake with a start. It’s a dream, of course. But it’s one of those dreams that feels
so
real, it actually takes me a moment to return to my senses, to work out where I really am.

I look around me, at the familiar environment of my bedroom here in New York, and I have to admit it: a little part of me feels disappointed, wishing I could have stayed in that dream world just a moment or two longer.

I sigh, suspecting I’ve not exactly got the hang of this ‘one night stand’ thing just yet. After all, I met this Carson guy
once
and already he’s turning up in my dreams?

But I suppose that with a little more practice, and a little more experience, things should get easier …

Once I’ve shaken the final few fragments of the dream from my head, I remember the blog post I wrote last night — all about my experience with Carson, my ‘mysterious stranger’.

I climb out of bed, wrap a soft white cotton dressing gown around me then sit at my desk in front of my laptop, opening its lid and quickly typing in the address for Girl After Dark.

I wonder if anyone’s even cares what I write these days
, I think.

Or maybe I don’t
care — maybe this time, I’m just writing for myself?

But still, even so, I check to see if there are any reader comments and to my surprise there
are
.

In fact, there are lots of them:

Abigail_X
: Love this. So sexy. You’re my new hero. Can’t wait to see what fun you get up to next! X

BigGeorge84
: Hot stuff. Would love to see some photos next time too.

MistressBelinda
: Wow! That got me hot under the collar. You’re a great writer, GAD

Prince_C
: I think it’s safe to say that you made this anonymous stranger as excited as the readers of your blog. I’m looking forward to getting to know you better, Girl After Dark. ;)

B_Freidrikson
: Do you have agency representation? Email us if not!

JulietGreene:
Absolutely loving this blog. Does anyone know who she really is??

I feel a familiar rush — the same little shot of excitement that I used to get, back when I first started posting my writing online. Back then, I couldn’t quite believe that people were interested in what I had to say. I mean, it was just clothes and shoes and handbags and things, it was all a bit
trivial
really, but my readers said that they loved my way with words, and it made them feel that maybe liking that stuff wasn’t so stupid.

But this is different. The stuff I’d written last night … Well, it was pretty personal and candid. And so it meant even more when anyone said they liked it.

I jump to my feet, ready to start my day.

I look at myself in the mirror, just as I do
every
morning. Except today, the question isn’t, ‘What do I want to wear?’

It’s: ‘Who do I want to be?’

The girl that stares back at me in the mirror is petite, with unremarkable 32B breasts, the kind of small waist that’s perfect for vintage dresses, and cascades of long, honey-blonde hair.

She looks ‘cute’ — no wonder Carson said she did in his messages.

Do I really want to look like that any more?

When I was running VintageHoney, my advertisers and sponsors warned me against any drastic changes to my appearance. They didn’t want it to “tarnish my brand”. But I don’t have to worry about them any more, now do I? And it’s not like I haven’t tried out new looks in the past. My hair was every colour in the rainbow when I was a teenager.

But there was one mark of teenage rebellion that I never did try out but was always curious about. And I realise that now is the perfect time.

So, just like that, I know what my next blog post is going to be.

§

Girl After Dark: Image overhaul

Welcome back, my dear new readers.

I’ve been overwhelmed by the response to my last post. I’ve so enjoyed reading your comments and your messages. I know some of you found my date incredibly exciting and want me to see him again. But I’m afraid I have to tell you: that’s just *not* going to happen.

There wont be any looking back on this journey, and I’m certainly not going to settle for the first guy I meet (no matter *how* good he is in bed). No, I’m going to find out who I am first of all; and I’m determined to take you guys along with me for the ride.

Speaking of which, I’ve done something slightly out-of-character.

In the past, I’ve been a bit of a goody-two-shoes. I was squeaky-clean. The kind of girl that didn’t get too drunk, who went to bed early, and always pressed her clothes neatly. I was the kind of girl you’d take home to your mother.

But I’m learning that that isn’t the whole me. And I wanted something to symbolically represent this. Now, I know what you’re thinking. That I’ve done something rash. But I haven’t. This is actually something I’ve considered for a long time, but never felt able to do …

So, would you like to see my new tattoo?

I know that probably doesn’t sound too radical to you. Everyone’s got them these days. But as I said, this is symbolic.

A few of you have been asking to see a photo of me. So here is a photo of my tattoo … without my face in shot. I’m sorry, but that’s something I’m never going to give you, either.

Paint whatever face you desire onto my body. Paint the picture of the girl you want to be, or the girl you want to be with
.

§

My parents, not to mention Katy and the rest of my friends, would be so shocked if they knew what I’d done. It wasn’t like I’d got a tiny dolphin on my ankle or anything. This tattoo was
huge
— a beautiful simple black floral design, running from my navel to just below my right breast, and curling around my back too. But best of all, I’d chosen something personal: a honeysuckle. My favourite flower, and of course my nickname. I loved this flower: beautiful, English and fragrant. It represented everything I wanted to be.

This tattoo would symbolise who I was, and who I was
becoming
, too.

I’d felt like the name Honey had been tarred by Will leaking my video — how he showed everyone my body without my consent — and I wanted to regain some control.

I love it; I can’t stop looking at myself in the mirror, stroking it, posing.

One thought keeps popping into my mind, which I try to ignore: I’d love to show Carson this.

I trace my fingers along the delicate jet-black lines that now decorate my body, imagining my slight fingers are his strong, many yet tender hands, caressing me. I begin to feel light headed, and I have to stop myself from going any further.

God. I must stop thinking about him, I tell myself, and fast.

So I sit down on the bed, breathe deeply, and try out a yoga technique.

I visualise his name,
Carson
, in huge white letters. And I push them down a stream, until they join the sea and I can see them no more.

I open my eyes and catch sight once again of my tattoo in the mirror.

I love it. I love the girl who is taking shape before me in the mirror. But the transformation still isn’t complete just yet. There’s one more thing that I’ve been dying
to do …

§

“Oh my God, your hair!” Jonathan exclaims.

I smile. My little visit to the hairdresser this afternoon is obviously causing quite a stir!

“What do you mean?” I ask, pretend-coyly. “Do you like it or not?”

“
Like
it?” he replies. “I love it! You look
so
vamp, so modern. You look like Lorde or something! All that blonde hair was so two-thousand-fourteen. This is perfect.”

“Thanks,” I blush.

“To the new Melissa,” he says, raising his mojito.

“To the new me,” I reply, raising mine in return and clinking glasses.

Just a little earlier this afternoon, I’d dropped into the High Horse salon in Williamsburg. It was so cool — done out like a Wild West saloon.

I’d asked to have my hair dyed dark. Not
totally
raven-black, I know that wouldn’t quite work with my skin tone, but a deep dark chocolately brown. I’ve always wanted to go brunette, and I’m so pleased that I finally have.

My hairdresser was this amazing girl, too. She had hundreds of piercings and was absolutely covered in tattoos. But the best design was on her right arm — it was a huge stag’s head, intricately drawn. It was strong and powerful, yet sexy at the same time.

And I nervously lifted the hem of my shirt to show her
my
new tattoo. I felt proud as she admired the work. She said my tattooist had done a really good job.

From someone as stylish as her, it was a real compliment.

And when she said, “Any change to the cut of your hair, or just a trim?” I didn’t hesitate to reply: “I want bangs, just like yours.”

“So, what’s this new look in
aid of
?” Jonathan asks, busting me out of my thoughts as he leans in across our little table at the back of Maison Premiere, this cute little cocktail bar on Bedford Avenue. “No, no, don’t tell me,” he says, his eyes flickering with mischievous glee, before I can even begin to answer. “It’s for more internet dating, isn’t it? How are you getting on?”

“Actually?” I reply. “I’m through with that.”

“What?!” he says, almost spitting out his mojito.

“Let’s just say, I got what I needed out of it,” I say, hoping it sounds as sassy and enigmatic
out loud
as it does in my head.

“Woah. That was fast!” he replies, his grin getting bigger and his eyebrows wiggling.

“Say, what are you doing later tonight?” I ask him, wanting to change the subject. I can tell Jonathan wants to ask more questions about my internet dating experiences, and I don’t want to lie to him. But I’m worried that if I have to talk about Carson, my words will betray my true feelings which certainly
don’t
feel sassy and enigmatic ... Not when it comes to him, anyway.

“I’m doing nothing tonight,” he replies. “Why?”

“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath, “now, don’t laugh at me but there’s something I’ve always wanted to do. You know how much I love vintage fashion, right? Well, I’ve always wanted to go to a …”

I can feel myself beginning to blush, but I force myself to say the words anyway.

“To a …  burlesque show. I don’t suppose you know of anywhere cool do you?”

“Oh,
Honey
,” Jonathan laughs warmly. “I thought you’d never ask!”

I laugh, glad that I feel so comfortable with Jonathan so quickly.

“Shut up,” he says, his eye catching something over my shoulder and waving excitedly. “No way!”

I feel confused, turning to look behind me. And there, strutting over to our table, are two cool, hipster-looking girls, both smiling and waving.

“Cami! Rita! This is my cousin!” Jonathan says when they reach our table. “Melissa, meet two of my oldest friends from college!”

Despite being intimidatingly dressed, super-cool hipster chicks, the girls both smile at me, and they both actually look pretty warm and genuine.