I can’t remember when it happened but there came a time in my life when I felt a continuous numbness. A nothingness. I didn’t live, I existed. Everything I did was ‘in the moment’. Nothing to look forward to and nothing excited me. Sex was boring, normal, casual and consisted of one-night stands. Maybe it was the conversation that accompanied the sex, I don’t know.

I used to frequent pubs that were classy and where you hoped to meet some high-flying executive that could shower you with presents but now, I prefer the normal pubs where you meet everyday sort of people. People that want to talk to you and not just look down your cleavage or up your skirt. I don’t even dress for the occasion anymore. I wear jumpers, jeans and boots; a far cry from my previous life. A life that made me boring.

Not anymore.

Not since he spoke to me.

I remember the day vividly. I had just entered a cosy pub; outside was the bitterly cold London fog that caught your breath. The snow was falling and the warmth of the pub was welcoming because for some strange reason I had chosen to wear a long skirt and boots to go out and get some much-needed vegetables. I headed for my usual seat and found that it was taken and so I ended up sitting on a high stool by the bar with my back to the wall, I loosened my bomber jacket but kept it on until I warmed up. I ordered a beer and a coffee; the latter to warm me up, the former to keep me going. I reached out for the newspaper that lay next to him.

He watched me and I thought he was going to stop me from taking it, but he just watched my hand slid it towards me. I looked up into his eyes but ended up looking away when his steely blue eyes pierced me. In that instant, I had already felt inferior to him, an amoeba that could read or an educated piece of dirt that had scraped off the underside of his posh shoes. He looked out of place in this part of London. If I hadn’t had known better, I could have sworn he turned his nose up at my presence; sniffing the air as if to determine the direction of an unsavoury smell.

I had only opened the paper to page two when he turned to look at me. I busied myself by pretending to read but I could see him staring at me, tilting his head to one side and then the other; like he was studying me or reading the front-page headlines from the other direction. His actions annoyed me and I eventually looked over the top of the newspaper into his eyes; an attempt to tell him to fuck off more than an attempt at engaging him in conversation.

I was shocked when his outstretched hand ended up inches from the newspaper, accompanied by, “Hi, my names Jeff,” he had said.

His words were light and soft. I hadn’t taken his hand and I just looked at it dumbfounded.

“Your name’s Anna, right?” he had asked.

My mouth fell open and I looked at him like I was a goldfish in a straight-jacket. For some reason, I glanced from one side of me to the other before looking back into his eyes. He smiled. I had expected someone from the pub to start smiling, hinting that it was all a setup, a practical joke. It didn’t seem to be.

He tilted his head and jabbed his hand a little closer.

I looked in the direction of the barman, Steve, but he was busy serving another customer at the other end of the bar. I took his hand and shook it; feeling a little uncertain. I smiled, hesitantly. “How do you know my name?” I had asked.

He just smiled. His gaze fell onto my pint glass, before settling back on my eyes. I glanced in his direction and there it was, my fucking name on the side of the pint glass that I had been given by my last boyfriend Steve. I felt stupid but I had to grin and ended up biting the side of my lip.

“You look lovely when you smile,” he had said.

I nodded, I knew I looked lovely when I smiled. Everyone had always told me that.

“Thank you,” I had said. I had to reply, it would have been impolite if I had not; actually, it would have been downright rude in my book.

“Your dimples compliment your freckles and they wander across your nose like – like they’re on an erotic journey of some kind,” he had continued.

My mouth dropped open once more and I thought, what the fuck is he on? But his words, the words he chose to use resonated with me. Only one person had ever used the fact that my dimples complimented my freckles and he was an old schoolboy romance and his name wasn’t Jeff and he wouldn’t be dressed like Jeff was dressed.

I think I blushed at his words because I had always been self-conscious about my train of freckles. Without waiting for my response, he continued.

“I bet – ” he paused for effect, “that you also have freckles that start at the small of your back, tiny ones, and I bet they get larger and split in two as they sweep over your shoulder blades, and I bet they like to get kissed, each one in turn. One after the other.”

Fuck, he was forward, but he was right, I did have freckles on my back that blossomed over my shoulders and they did like to get kissed one after each other. I reckoned it was an educated guess on his part.

I suddenly realised that he had me smiling. I rarely smile these days. I was not only smiling with my lips but with my eyes too. I was impressed and the only thing I could think of was, keep going.

“I would imagine, and feel free to correct me if I’m wrong…” he had said, and I nodded in anticipation at telling him that he would be wrong. It’s funny, but those words correct me if I am wrong always grabs my attention.

“That when you’re touched down the side of your waist, by slowly caressing fingertips, soft fingertips that is, that you giggle and squirm but eventually you learn to control the feeling. Capture it, play with it, and then turn it inwards to your advantage.”

I sat there, looking at him. I imagined that his fingertips would be soft; he didn’t look like he had done a hard day’s work in his life. The newspaper had fallen out of my hands to rest on the bar. I picked up my drink and took a long hard squig of beer. The coffee had gone cold but I didn’t need it anymore, my body had been warmed through by his words.

I bit my lip, I couldn’t counter his argument and I listened to him until such a time as I could correct him. My silence allowed him to proceed like it was a game, each statement allowed him to proceed to the next until he got something wrong.

“I would also imagine,” he continued, “that you have sensitive skin.” That was par for the course, I thought, who doesn’t have sensitive skin.

“And that your skin responds quickly to sensitive touches. Especially your small breasts, with their puffy pink nipples sitting atop them, that grow to be an inch long when aroused.”

He couldn’t have known any of that from where he was sitting, my bomber jacket was hiding all my assets but he described my breasts to perfection. Fuck, he had even made my nipples erect, and I could feel them push my bra outwards and tent my Cashmere jumper. He had made them erect with just his words. I started to get uncomfortable, uneasy about him. Who was he? How did he know all these things about me? Had he been talking to Jenny, my best friend? Or what?

I also started to become aroused. My pussy was wetting itself and I could feel my body respond as I waited. I wanted him to peel my clothes off and suck on those nipples right now. I gave the game away by closing my eyes; waiting for the next arousing statement.

“I wish I could kiss your neck, it looks lovely and smooth,” he had said.

I looked into his eyes, I told him, silently, that I would have liked him to kiss my neck too. I even think my eyes told him as much. My nipples were positively screaming at him to get the fuck on with it.

“Of course, even better would be to draw my hand across your curvaceous bottom and let it slide down and over your thighs, letting a single finger linger a little too long over your hot honeypot.”

Honeypot, I thought, who the fuck uses honeypot? I was about to butt in and correct him, because, at last, I had him, he was wrong, I did not have a hot honeypot. I had a very hot and wet pussy but that was not a honeypot. That’s what I wanted to say. That’s not what came out of my mouth though.

I took another squig of beer and leaned a little closer to him. I wiggled my finger indicating that he should move closer to listen to what I had to say.

“I like the way you're slowly, slowly, getting to the point where you're going to ask to fuck me?” I had replied in a whisper.

I smiled to myself, cutting his approach off immediately, making him either say yes, in which case I would have hesitated and may have swung either way or he would back down and leave me alone. I secretly didn’t want the latter. Instead, he shocked me once more. The same sort of shock when I saw his outstretched hand close to my face for the first time.

“No, but you're going to let me make you climax in that chair, at this bar, right now.”

“I am, am I,” I said.

“After you go to the toilet to remove your knickers, yes,” he had replied, nodding.

I must have looked at him like he was mad. Out of his fucking mind – mad! I shook my head but my pussy was on heat. My heart was thumping in my chest, my nipples were erect and could have done with a tug right then.

I stood up, removed my bomber jacket, and put it on the seat, and headed to the toilet.

As soon as I was safely in a cubicle, I stuffed my hand up my jumper and I started to twist and turn my nipples. My fingers felt so fucking good as I pulled on them. Next was my pussy, and with my hand up my skirt, I felt the tell-tale wetness that seeped between my lips. I removed my knickers and headed out of the door. I couldn’t believe I was actually doing this, but my curiosity got the better of me and I wanted to know whether he would and how he would carry out his promise in a bar.

As I approached him, I could see a smugness on his face, I rounded the end of the bar and grabbed his hand, opened it, and placed my wet knickers into them. I sat back on the high stool and made sure my skirt had plenty of room.

He stood up and moved to my side.

“I bet you have soft, smooth skin, all the way to the top?” he had said.

My breathing came in short sharp bursts. I didn’t need to answer him, he was going to find out any second.

He dipped his head and for a moment I thought he was going to lick me, but he gathered up the bottom of my dress and then I felt his hand, his soft fingertips, slide, and crawl up my thigh. He was watching them on their journey. They were indeed soft; not a hard grafter by any means. He took his time. I could feel his breath on my neck and I thought of only one thing, kiss it.

He didn’t.

He did reach my pussy, he did let his finger wander over my outer lips, he did part them and he did coat my whole sex with my juices. His finger was exquisitely warm and it caused a shiver through my core as it entered me. He was gentle, yet firm; teasing me, slowly pushing me up that pleasure slope.

His finger had hardly entered me; playing furtively at my entrance like a child's first day at school. One moment his breath was on my neck and the next he was looking around the bar at the few other people that had gathered there. Then his breath was back on my neck as he whispered all those dirty and filthy words that I wanted to hear. His voice was intoxicating and he aroused me by just talking; telling me that I wasn’t to come just yet, that I was to wait, that he would let me know when I could release myself and take my well-earned orgasm. He brought me to the edge, he forced me to stay there and I waited and waited for his word. My face was lowered as I watched his hand gently lift and lower my skirt. I closed my eyes and concentrated on his touch and those words.

He started telling me how sexy I was, how my submission looked so beautiful from where he was standing, why he had chosen me. That revelation shocked me, but it was true, I knew it. Deep down I knew it. Then he told me precisely what I was feeling, why my head was lowered, why it would stay there until I climaxed and how close I was. I didn’t know how he knew how close I was but he did.

“Come for me now,” he had said, just before he kissed my neck.

And I did. A squeak left my mouth, so desperate was I to avoid crying out in the corner of the bar. He told me that I would whimper and then try and control it and he was right.

At the point of my climax he moved his face close to mine, he had lifted his other hand, the one with my knickers in them, and he had positioned it between our noses. We sniffed at my arousal from my own knickers in the throes of my own orgasm.

His finger sensitively touched my pussy and thigh as he allowed me to come down from my silent orgasm. He had removed his hand. He had taken mine and had pulled me off the chair. He held me close as I stumbled towards him; unsure of myself on shaky legs. He had picked up my bomber jacket and he had handed it to me.

“Now, do you want to go home and fuck?” he had asked.

I had a huge grin on my face. All I could do was put my jacket on and nod. My lips still quivering from the aftershocks or from the uncertainty of what was to come.

I remember thinking, that was not normal, that was not boring. I didn’t feel numb, I felt alive, so alive.

Fuck, that was hot. He was hot and I knew that when we would enter my house the temperature would soar.