Angel with Dirty Knickers

By Carol Anne

We meet at last at a train station; it is difficult to tell which, one 

of the old grand ones, maybe Marylebone.

You are of course beautiful; breathtaking in black, leggings that seem 

to continue stretched on your powerful thighs forever. Your hair is long 

and all caught up in a tight bun that makes you seem slightly severe, a 

little like a cross schoolmistress. Your perfume is musky, and I just 

want to follow around in your cloud.

I can barely speak, and for the first time since I was 11 or 12 feel 

very very shy.

You tell me we are going shopping, and immediately I am excited. But 

still bashful.

You take my hand, and lead me underground to the tube station. We get 

out at Oxford street, and I am like a child as you walk me past shop 

windows glittering with prizes, past La Senza and Knickerbox, where 

satins and silks softly wave at me past pronuptia, where the gowns and 

garters tease me, into Soho, where the tone changes, and we start to fit 

in, and at the same time attract attention.

You hardly say a word, pulling as I try to linger at the windows, and 

stare at the beautiful women all around. 

We clatter down some basement steps, into a very seedy looking tattoo 

parlour.

In no time I am stripped to the waist, but you are not paying attention 

to me, issuing instructions to a woman with cropped bleached hair, who 

descends upon me, and with no ceremony pierces my nipple, washes and 

cleans my breast roughly, and you tell me to get dressed.

I have to discard my bra, as even though I am small, it presses upon the 

ring, which stings.

I tell you it hurts and you ignore me.

We start to walk the way we came, and still in silence, in sunshine, in 

pain, I begin to cry.

You scold me, like a child, and tell me you will simply let go of my 

hand, and lose me here in this big dirty city.

I could not bear this, and try to stop crying.

We walk for what seems to be hours and at last you take me into the 

shelter of a department store.

Will we head for lingerie? I hold my breath as we mount the escalators, 

and we emerge into a world of shoes and boots.

I do not have a choice, again, you all but ignore me, issue brisk 

instructions, I am measured, and without my trying them on, a pair of 

boots that seem as long as I am are wrapped and paid for. I am allowed 

to carry the bag.

We stop next for lunch, and we drink wine, or I drink wine, probably a 

bottle and you drink mineral water.

It is not dark or even late when we descend into the tube again, but 

when we reach the station, I am falling asleep.

I do not remember getting on the train, but you whisper softly to wake 

me when it is time to get off in a strange and unfamiliar place. It is 

the first sign of tenderness you have shown me.

We walk for a little way, and I am weary, carrying my bag, turning down 

suburban streets, into a huge door, and into a clean white space.

I am still tired, and you tell me that I should rest.

I sleep in your bed, which seems huge and cold, while you do something 

downstairs.

When I wake it is dark, and could be any time. You are naked and perfect 

your hair down over your round and hypnotically perfect breasts.

Without being asked, I start to undress, I have fallen asleep fully 

clothed, and pull off my jumper to reveal my t shirt, and my t shirt to 

reveal my own breasts, the left one is an angry purple, and the sight of 

it reminds me, and the pain starts again.

You hand me a long white gown, which is sheer and almost invisible. 

Despite this I slip it on over my clothes, and only then tug at my long 

skirt which falls to the ground. 

I know you can see my white cotton knickers, and my ivory white hold 

ups.

I know I am very very wet and wonder if it is visible how excited I am.

"I want to make love to you, in here, please"

You do not need my permission, but as I lay on the bed, you motion for 

me to stand up, and you lead me round to the long white leather boots, 

which I know to put on.

I struggle to put my foot past the ankle, and when I do I feel wetness, 

warmth. I know you have been busy, and when my foot finds its place I 

feel your warm piss fill up the barest space between my skin and the 

leather. The other is fuller, and it spills over the sides. I try to 

catch it, to taste it, but watch as it soaks into your carpet.

I lay back on the bed, and you lie down next to me, first caressing my 

right nipple, then my ringed left, through the sheer rough slip, and 

when a spot of blood sparkles on me, you lick it off me, sit upright 

over me, and smile.

I remember you sitting on my chest, and the warmth as you soaked me 

again, I remember you gently tugging at my cotton knickers with your 

teeth, and nibbling at me as you fumble to stuff them in my mouth. I 

remember my own taste, and yours, I remember a time that seemed to last 

forever, while you were riding me, singing, and feeling you inside me, 

in my behind and in my very hot hole, whose warmth seemed to fill me.

I remember the dark rich chocolately odour as your tiny anus balanced 

over my nose, your clit teasing my darting tongue, while you busied 

yourself, and I remember another explosion of your hot piss, followed by 

mine, I remember waking, while you slept, slipping to the bathroom for 

water, and catching my reflection, lipstick all over my bosom, a little 

shit around my lips, my slip soaked through, and a smell that I fell 

asleep with again.