Crystal Balls by Amanda Brobyn

There is nothing much I can do about my freckles but, strangely enough, they’re not bothering me too much tonight. Not since I was a child have my bare legs been on
display, no matter how tanned, and while the thought of their exposure tonight causes me a little insecurity, I can think of plenty of distractions to ease the burden.
    Brian sits alone on the white leather sofa holding a champagne flute, watching the fire burn romantically as the rain pelts against the window frame. Operatic tunes sound through the stand-alone
speakers, low in volume but loud enough to gauge the passionate but alien words of the singers predictably declaring their undying love. Or rather dying as is so often the outcome.
    The room is minimalist and typifies every man’s perfect bachelor pad. It plays home to a cinema-sized wall-mounted TV sitting above the fireplace, and a compact music system with endless
speakers carefully placed in various angles of the room. Real boys’ toys! On the solid floor, polished to precision, lies a huge white rug, immaculate and uninviting.
    I tip-toe into the lounge, conscious of damaging the floor but determined not to lose my killer heels. I nestle down close to Brian. Very close.
    “I won’t ask what took you!” He laughs, leaning closer, inhaling deeply.
    Oh God, please don’t come any closer. Okay, do. Yes, do!
    “You smell wonderful, Tina.” His head sinks into my hair, inches away from my tingling neck, and he gently takes a handful of it, savouring its boutique like a vintage wine. This is
all too much for a girl who hasn’t seen more than her Rampant Rabbit for God knows how long.
    Brian pulls away, turning to retrieve my drink, and as he hands it over our hands touch and we freeze. With two hands practically clutching the same glass, we stare into each other’s eyes
– his wild with lust and mine desperate to witness the sight of his muscular chest, to run my fingers over it, stroking it, teasing it and giving a clear indication of the level of expertise
awaiting.
    “God, you’re sexy, Miss Harding!” he pants breathlessly.
    “You’re not too bad yourself,” I wink, taking the glass from him, placing it on the floor away from us.
    I sexily kick off my shoes and, lifting my legs, draw my feet onto the sofa. The deliberate motion causes my dress to slide up a little, revealing more thigh.
    I take Brian’s hand and boldly place it on the soft denier and like a puppet I control his every move. Holding firm, just above his wrist, with my eyes never losing his, I slide his hand
up very slowly, inch by inch, teasing him. I let out a loud groan as his fingertips touch my bare flesh and try to stop myself from taking his hand and thrusting it deep inside my pants. Slowly,
Tina. Make him beg for it.
    Brian, unable to control himself any longer, suddenly makes a plunge for my lips. His strength topples me over and, no longer in control, I lie helpless on my back as he regains full
authority.
    “Are . . . you . . . okay . . . Tina?” His words are broken up between gentle kisses on my neck and I arch my back, feeling the wetness of his tongue flicking expertly, wishing he
would make his way down my body with accelerated speed. I feel a wetness ooze below, ready for him, and as his body leans more heavily against mine I note his hardness and the smell of his
manliness, desperately wanting to feel him deep inside of me.
    Getting carried away, my pelvis rises and falls violently against him as I simulate my eagerness.
    “I am going to make you come like never before, Miss Harding,” he promises and I almost cry with the anticipation.
    “Oh God!” His knee gently presses against my swollen clitoris and I part my legs, allowing added pressure, feeling like I could orgasm like this alone.
    “Brian,” I mutter.
    He continues to tease my neck and earlobes.
    “ Brian !” I say with urgency.
    “Tina!” He joins in with the game as I push against him fiercely but his weight suppresses