Sometimes hot, passionate sex is worth paying the highest Randelas in damages for.
I slipped on a new black dress and admired myself in the mirror. Nice, but I dropped it to the floor.
Pulled on jeans and buttoned up a crisp white shirt, but no, whipped it all off. I tossed a skirt on to the growing pile of clothing, a lace bustier, a kimono, a hat, went back to the first black dress, then rushed out to the store to buy another one.
On the way home I picked up the lobster, bought a few bottles of wine and chose a shiny new lip gloss. All pretty expensive, but hey, it was only money.
A luxurious bubble bath, a splash of my new perfume, sexy stockings, and I was ready when he rang the doorbell. The wine was on the table, tulips in the vase, dinner bubbling away in the pot.
He walked in. Hot. My knees felt weak. My heart nearly exploded. I said hi, took him by the hand and lead him to the kitchen.
Before I had time to pour a glass of wine, he’d pushed me against the wall, kissing me hard. Within seconds my stockings were torn, my French underwear ripped and my dress off and over my head.
He was holding me, kissing me, messing my hair, smudging my lipstick and pushing himself deliciously against me, into me.
The oven timer was beeping as I wrapped my legs around him and he carried me to the dining room table. Crash. The Clementina Van Der Walt dishes, beautifully set up for dinner, shattered on to the floor. Whoosh. The wine bottle went flying.
Smash. The glass candle holders burst into a million pieces, the sofa caught fire and there were flames licking the tips of the curtains.
He went down on me, on that table, glass everywhere. I came. Once. Then twice. It was so good. We were both on fire, and it had nothing to do with the flames all around us.
He cracked open another bottle of wine, poured two glasses, then picked me up again and carried me, gently this time, to the bedroom.
We had sex. Sweaty. Messy. Magnificently. For hours.
Afterwards, we lay on top of the bed, stained sticky sheets, sharing a cigarette and a glass of wine, breathing in the soot of the smouldering sofa.
When I got up to go the bathroom, I could barely walk. He rubbed arnica gently between my bruised thighs. I gave him panado for his headache and removed shards of glass from his feet.
He left in the morning. I swept up the damages, showered, called Davenports to come fix the oven and Fabriports to re-upholster the sofa.
I gathered the sheets, tablecloth and dresses and dropped them off at the Dry Cleaners. And then, because I was going to see him again, and again, and again, chose another new black dress.
And a pair of high heeled black shoes.
I still don’t know how the heels broke on the ones I was wearing.
But I know I need new ones.
And stockings. And underwear. And curtains.
Pulled on jeans and buttoned up a crisp white shirt, but no, whipped it all off. I tossed a skirt on to the growing pile of clothing, a lace bustier, a kimono, a hat, went back to the first black dress, then rushed out to the store to buy another one.
On the way home I picked up the lobster, bought a few bottles of wine and chose a shiny new lip gloss. All pretty expensive, but hey, it was only money.
A luxurious bubble bath, a splash of my new perfume, sexy stockings, and I was ready when he rang the doorbell. The wine was on the table, tulips in the vase, dinner bubbling away in the pot.
He walked in. Hot. My knees felt weak. My heart nearly exploded. I said hi, took him by the hand and lead him to the kitchen.
Before I had time to pour a glass of wine, he’d pushed me against the wall, kissing me hard. Within seconds my stockings were torn, my French underwear ripped and my dress off and over my head.
He was holding me, kissing me, messing my hair, smudging my lipstick and pushing himself deliciously against me, into me.
The oven timer was beeping as I wrapped my legs around him and he carried me to the dining room table. Crash. The Clementina Van Der Walt dishes, beautifully set up for dinner, shattered on to the floor. Whoosh. The wine bottle went flying.
Smash. The glass candle holders burst into a million pieces, the sofa caught fire and there were flames licking the tips of the curtains.
He went down on me, on that table, glass everywhere. I came. Once. Then twice. It was so good. We were both on fire, and it had nothing to do with the flames all around us.
He cracked open another bottle of wine, poured two glasses, then picked me up again and carried me, gently this time, to the bedroom.
We had sex. Sweaty. Messy. Magnificently. For hours.
Afterwards, we lay on top of the bed, stained sticky sheets, sharing a cigarette and a glass of wine, breathing in the soot of the smouldering sofa.
When I got up to go the bathroom, I could barely walk. He rubbed arnica gently between my bruised thighs. I gave him panado for his headache and removed shards of glass from his feet.
He left in the morning. I swept up the damages, showered, called Davenports to come fix the oven and Fabriports to re-upholster the sofa.
I gathered the sheets, tablecloth and dresses and dropped them off at the Dry Cleaners. And then, because I was going to see him again, and again, and again, chose another new black dress.
And a pair of high heeled black shoes.
I still don’t know how the heels broke on the ones I was wearing.
But I know I need new ones.
And stockings. And underwear. And curtains.
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