straighten my hair — which didn’t do an awful lot to tame the curls. I painted my toes and my fingers, like he’d even probably notice, and tidied the flat until it was presentable. I bundled my clothes back into my wardrobe and cleared my bedside table, using it as a display of every sex toy in my possession. Vibrators and dildos and lubes and lotions, condoms, too. I decided against the handcuffs, stuffing them back in a drawer, along with a couple of floggers I’d bought but never yet used. Maybe another day.
With trembling fingers and a thudding heart I fired off a couple of texts, and he was right off the bat in his responses.
I practice safe sex. Condoms please.
Of course.
Please help yourself to drinks and all that.
Thank you.
I’m really going to be blindfolded, so please let me know it’s you when you arrive.
Stop worrying, dirty girl. One hour to go.
One hour to go.
I slipped into a babydoll and pair of matching white panties. The mirror told me it did little to hide my wobbly bits, maintaining the podge of my belly even when I was sucking it in. My chubby thighs too. At least my tits looked good, squeezed together in an impressive display of cleavage and held precariously with the cutest white ribbon.
I kept my make-up minimal, just a touch of mascara and a dab of lip gloss. Then I put the door on the latch and watched the clock tick down.
I was in position on the living room floor, kneeling with my knees spread wide and my eyes screwed shut under a sleep mask when the panic finally kicked in. In a mad burst of nerves I fired off a text to Tessa that I knew she wouldn’t see til much later.
Don’t go mad. I’ve got a blind date at the flat. He’s from chatline and his name is Jason. He’s from Surrey and his number is on my phone. I’ll text you when I’m done - if you haven’t had another message by the time you finish work please call the police as he’s probably a psycho killer. Hopefully not. xx
I put my phone on silent and hid it under the sofa.
Then I slipped the mask back on, spread my knees, and waited for my dirty bad stranger.
Like a good little dirty bad girl.
***
Jason
Steve’s old Land Rover was a noisy bastard compared to my Range. I put my foot down, chugging my way down country roads until the city loomed. Nobody gave me a second look in this thing, and even if they had, the cap and shades would’ve fooled all but the most beady-eyed photographer.
Sat nav barked out orders, taking me right onto Bay Street without any trouble. This wasn’t the best part of London, but it certainly wasn’t the worst. I passed by a row of small retail units before the sandwich shop came into view. Sat nav confirmed my destination. It was 12.55. The driveway beyond opened up into the promised car park, little more than a yard with space for a couple of vehicles. I pulled up, pleased to discover the arrow for ‘Flats 10 and 11’ in plain view. I contemplated the need to buzz the intercom, but a quick nudge of the door negated the need.
It was already open. 12.57.
The stairwell was basic but clean, leading me straight up to flat 10 on the first floor. I checked my watch again. 12.59.
I turned off my phone and shoved it in my pocket.
With a breath I turned the handle.
The softest voice called out, cracking with nerves.
“Jason?”
A small hallway opened into a decent-sized living room, and there, on the floor just as promised, was my Gemma.
And she was beautiful. Red hair. Freckles. Voluptuous. My cock twitched at the sight of her.
She shifted on her knees, hands unsteady as they maintained position behind her head.
“Jason?”
“Relax,” I said. “It’s me.”
I cast aside my cap and sunglasses, taking a moment to soak her in. Her little nightdress was straining at her chest, milky white tits spilling over creamy lace. She was bigger than she’d looked outside the club, but all the better for it. Her waist tapered in before blooming into full, wide hips and a cute podge of a belly, and her thighs were chunky and pale and absolutely fucking gorgeous, with a dusting of freckles right the way up to the tiny white scrap of her knickers.
“Shit...” she breathed. “I’m so nervous.”
“Don’t be.” I kicked off my shoes, stripping down to