The Little Red Kilt (Matryoshka #1) by Elizabeth Woodham Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Woodham
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height, my only
blemish an accidental break.
The shape of
almonds, I need not emphasise my eyes. The mask is exotic,
Venetian. Awkward, I secure it. Anonymity achieved with luscious
lips exposed. Zipping soft, buttery, red leather, skin so soft, a
fingertip traces where it ends, and mine begins. Red skin, next to
my skin; I run my forefinger along the zipper and halt just above
the swell of my well-formed breasts, untouched by surgeon’s
knife.
I decide on
tights. Another struggle, sheer black lace, provides a barely
perceptible nod to modesty; no panties provide a nod to hedonism.
My little black boots complete me and walk me to the kerbside.
31.12.12 –
23:45 hours
I dance among
the heaving throng with my arm aloft, keeping my hand away from
further harm. Dancing behind my disguise, perspiring gently into
snug, red leather, rivulets make their way from clavicle to clit.
Seeping into crevices, pooling at my tights, the damp patches are
hidden, but I feel them, smell them, mixed with my perfume and my
scent they assail my senses. Turn me on, wetter and wetter, I am
lush, and yet, untouched.
It’s New
Year’s Eve, a man grabs the hand at my side, closes his long, slim
fingers over mine, pulls me closer. I keep my injured limb in the
air above us; an ache travels from fingertip to armpit, matching
the acute agony glowing between my thighs.
01.01.13 –
00:01hours
The chimes have
stopped, and the explosions started, spiralling rockets shoot into
the air, a cacophony of surround sound. Someone opens the doors and
windows, a whoosh of cold air accompanied by a whiff of cordite
rushes towards us. The room empties, partygoers move to the outside
space, eyes heavenward where my hand once resided.
‘Take me
home,’ I say, against his lips, my wet flesh sparkles.
A charge of
hesitation frizzles my nerves, everything has moved into the
distance, except him and me in a bubble of expectancy.
01.01.13 –
00:25 hours
Part of me
remains on the seat of a black cab, seeping moisture settled there,
the little red kilt too tiny, my leaking self, unchecked by fabric
as the man moves against me, stealthily. I check the back of the
driver’s head, knowing his eyes are on the rear-view mirror more
often than the road ahead. No matter, I’m sybaritic.
We alight,
giddy from alcohol and lust, my teetering legs in little black
boots, their high heels planted on paving. Waiting while he pays,
my boots, my little red kilt, my sheath jacket, and me, Cold air
dries me, a scourge of winter scours my skin.
We ascend
stone steps leading to my front door. Left-handed, I fish key from
boot and push it home, my crippled hand cannot turn keys, but will
curl a finger. He follows me in, and I move up the stairs leading
to my flat. Staying close at my rear, his fingers trail my calf a
degree at a time, the climb of a lifetime, his fingers probe my
progress, and his hands cup rounded flesh. I’m wet again, moist,
and hot, a mountain to climb before reaching the top of the flight.
My door at the summit, an entry pad this time, I enter the code and
push. A wall of warmth, a womb of red walls surround us, he closes
the door and closes in.
01.01.13 –
00:35 hours
He drops his
jacket, and I am against the wall, between him and me, the leather
of my sheath and the linen of his shirt. His Zorro disguise and my
own mask in situ, feathers oily black, silky soft, their brilliance
reflected in the faint red glow of the narrow passage. My soft,
red, tight passage floods and moisture seeps. He is on his knees,
lifts my skirt the inch required, grips the waistband of my tights,
and pulls them down to meet my little black boots. I’m tied at the
ankles; I have no desire for escape. I am bound, my tights imprison
me, and my feet are less than hip width apart, my round bottom
pressed against the wall. His hands move upward, a millimetre at a
time. I can’t see them, but I know that they are capable, slender,
long-fingered with elegant nails, and I
blemish an accidental break.
The shape of
almonds, I need not emphasise my eyes. The mask is exotic,
Venetian. Awkward, I secure it. Anonymity achieved with luscious
lips exposed. Zipping soft, buttery, red leather, skin so soft, a
fingertip traces where it ends, and mine begins. Red skin, next to
my skin; I run my forefinger along the zipper and halt just above
the swell of my well-formed breasts, untouched by surgeon’s
knife.
I decide on
tights. Another struggle, sheer black lace, provides a barely
perceptible nod to modesty; no panties provide a nod to hedonism.
My little black boots complete me and walk me to the kerbside.
31.12.12 –
23:45 hours
I dance among
the heaving throng with my arm aloft, keeping my hand away from
further harm. Dancing behind my disguise, perspiring gently into
snug, red leather, rivulets make their way from clavicle to clit.
Seeping into crevices, pooling at my tights, the damp patches are
hidden, but I feel them, smell them, mixed with my perfume and my
scent they assail my senses. Turn me on, wetter and wetter, I am
lush, and yet, untouched.
It’s New
Year’s Eve, a man grabs the hand at my side, closes his long, slim
fingers over mine, pulls me closer. I keep my injured limb in the
air above us; an ache travels from fingertip to armpit, matching
the acute agony glowing between my thighs.
01.01.13 –
00:01hours
The chimes have
stopped, and the explosions started, spiralling rockets shoot into
the air, a cacophony of surround sound. Someone opens the doors and
windows, a whoosh of cold air accompanied by a whiff of cordite
rushes towards us. The room empties, partygoers move to the outside
space, eyes heavenward where my hand once resided.
‘Take me
home,’ I say, against his lips, my wet flesh sparkles.
A charge of
hesitation frizzles my nerves, everything has moved into the
distance, except him and me in a bubble of expectancy.
01.01.13 –
00:25 hours
Part of me
remains on the seat of a black cab, seeping moisture settled there,
the little red kilt too tiny, my leaking self, unchecked by fabric
as the man moves against me, stealthily. I check the back of the
driver’s head, knowing his eyes are on the rear-view mirror more
often than the road ahead. No matter, I’m sybaritic.
We alight,
giddy from alcohol and lust, my teetering legs in little black
boots, their high heels planted on paving. Waiting while he pays,
my boots, my little red kilt, my sheath jacket, and me, Cold air
dries me, a scourge of winter scours my skin.
We ascend
stone steps leading to my front door. Left-handed, I fish key from
boot and push it home, my crippled hand cannot turn keys, but will
curl a finger. He follows me in, and I move up the stairs leading
to my flat. Staying close at my rear, his fingers trail my calf a
degree at a time, the climb of a lifetime, his fingers probe my
progress, and his hands cup rounded flesh. I’m wet again, moist,
and hot, a mountain to climb before reaching the top of the flight.
My door at the summit, an entry pad this time, I enter the code and
push. A wall of warmth, a womb of red walls surround us, he closes
the door and closes in.
01.01.13 –
00:35 hours
He drops his
jacket, and I am against the wall, between him and me, the leather
of my sheath and the linen of his shirt. His Zorro disguise and my
own mask in situ, feathers oily black, silky soft, their brilliance
reflected in the faint red glow of the narrow passage. My soft,
red, tight passage floods and moisture seeps. He is on his knees,
lifts my skirt the inch required, grips the waistband of my tights,
and pulls them down to meet my little black boots. I’m tied at the
ankles; I have no desire for escape. I am bound, my tights imprison
me, and my feet are less than hip width apart, my round bottom
pressed against the wall. His hands move upward, a millimetre at a
time. I can’t see them, but I know that they are capable, slender,
long-fingered with elegant nails, and I
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