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Tempted by text (Foxy Lady and Lowblow Emma)

I read the text as I was waiting for the London Tube that would take me down the Northern Line from my flat in Muswell Hill to Tottenham Court Road.

What was that? A number certainly. And it looked like a time, but it could have been lots of things, like a code for instance.

I didn’t recognise the number. It was probably a mistake or one of those gimmicks that catch your attention only to turn out to be advertising the next James Bond movie or something.

I thought no more about it.
 
I read the text as I walked from the tube station to my office in Covent Garden. It must have arrived while my phone was out of range in the deep tunnel.

Tonight? So it was definitely a time, well almost certainly anyway. I was sure now that this was some advertising gimmick. I fully expected everyone in the office to be talking about it when I arrived.

But they weren’t and I forgot about it in a morning full of meetings.
 
I read the text at my desk as I ate my sandwich for lunch. It had arrived while I was in the most tedious of the boring meetings that morning, the one where an accountant sat in the corner without saying a word, just taking notes.

So they – whoever they were – expected people to turn up somewhere. And the result would be chaos on top of the usual mayhem of the rush hour home.

I asked the guys around me, but they’d not had these texts, not even the ones on my network. So it sounded like the messages were being targeted. But why was I one of those selected.

Obviously, there was going to be at least one more text. How else would I know where to turn up so that I wasn’t late?
 
The text arrived just as I was finishing my lunch. I read it on the way to a meeting with the creative director. At least, that’s what he calls himself.
The fourth plinth? That could only mean Trafalgar Square. The one plinth without a permanent statute. The only that changed its installation every few months. It had had a statute of pregnant disabled woman, a ship in a bottle and a real person talking to the crowds, to name but three.
Right now it held a huge blue cock – cockerel that is, the male chicken, not – well you know.
So this was about getting me, or us, or some of us at least, to Trafalgar Square, where no doubt something would await us. Something which, like all surprises, would come as a disappointment.

But why not? It was hardly out of my way, and I could catch the tube from Leicester Square. Where was the harm?
 
I’d glanced discreetly at my phone as it pinged. No one noticed, especially the creative director who was talking about being creative.
Now I knew who it was. Claire. My girlfriend, partner, whatever. We’d been an item for a year now and had just moved in together, into my flat initially while we looked to buy something together. She must have got one of those cheap SIMs and was stirring up my imagination, especially over that dress, her favourite colour. And it wasn’t only my imagination that was stirred. I eased my crotch under the table. No one noticed.
Would there be another text, I wondered? Or was this one going to be the last. Knowing Claire, I was sure there would be more.
 
I texted back, confident now that I knew who was sending the message: “So will I”

I hurried out of the office, making sure I had plenty of time to get through the crowds, eager to find out what Claire had planned for me, for us. It was bound to be sexy; she had a vivid imagination that always took me by surprise. On the surface, she was a very conservative banker, but under that exterior she was more like a high class courtesan or when she chose, a low class whore. May be she planned to lead me to some seedy hotel where had booked a room by the hour. Or maybe she planned some strictly illegal but strictly exciting outdoor sex.

I arrived a few minutes early and walked around, keeping my eyes peeled for Claire in her red dress, but there was no sign. Then I realised; she hadn’t said she would be wearing it. She could be in anything. I scanned the crowd thronging the Square, but there was no sign.
 
I heard the phone ping, saw the message and spun round. Yes, there on the further side of the Square was a red dress. But not the tight fitting one that Claire liked; a loose billowy dress that was blowing in the warm breeze. And a red scarf was trailing around her neck. And the woman wearing the dress wasn’t Claire.
 
The phone pinged again as the woman set off in the maze of streets north of the Strand that made up Covent Garden. I hurried, just in time to catch sight of her turning down a road. By the time I arrived, she was nowhere to be seen, only to appear down another road as I cast around trying to find her. Whoever this was, she was teasing me. And whoever she was, she didn’t want me to catch her.

Why was I chasing her? She wasn’t Claire, so why was I pursuing her? The best thing for me was to catch a tube home. But I had the bit between my teeth and rushed around, trying and failing to catch her.
 
I was standing in the piazza looking around when my phone pinged again. “Who are you?” I texted back, but there was no reply.

I shrugged my shoulders and headed to Leicester Square to catch a tube home. This was some sort of prank. The best thing to do was to forget it. Just put it down to one of those things that you never understand. I’d block the number. But, of course, I didn’t.
 
I was there ahead of time and saw her approaching from the Strand. She was wearing the same dress that was pressed against her body as she hurried towards me, and the same scarf blowing behind her. She came right up to me.

“Hi,” she greeted me. “Good to see you’re eager. Let’s get a drink shall we.”

We settled on a bar and ordered Pinot Grigio. She chatted away inconsequentially, talking about her day, my day, what I enjoyed doing, what books I’d read, what films I’d seen. Every so often, her leg touched mine and stayed in contact. Every so often, her hand touched my arm and lingered. I couldn’t escape the feeling that I knew her, but couldn’t place her and for some reason I didn’t dare ask.

When we had finished our wine, she leant forward and whispered in my ear.

“I need the bathroom.”

I sat back and waited. My sink tingling from her touch, my body aroused by her warm breath in my ear. After a while, my phone pinged. I glanced at it and saw the eleventh text.

It read: “See you tomorrow.”
 
Obviously a room number at the hotel. At 17.30 prompt, I knocked on the door. She was wearing the same dress.

“Come in.” She stepped back and I entered a large double room overlooking the Strand. The curtains were partially drawn and the lights were dimmed. “I’ve got some wine cooling for us.” She poured me a glass and stretched out on the bed; I settled down beside her.
 
After a few sips, I put my glass aside and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, peeling it back to reveal his smooth chest and the erect cherry red nipples that told me of his arousal. Neither of us spoke as I removed his shoes and pulled off his socks and slacks. That left just his shorts.

I rolled him over and massaged his back, working down to his waist, easing the tension, dropping butterfly kisses in the wake of my fingers. Then I rolled him back and repeated the procedure down his chest, listening to his moans as I sucked hard on his nipples. Finally I reached the waistband of his shorts. With a quick flick they were off and I was cradling his balls in my hand. Large hard balls, balls pulled tight up to his crotch so aroused was he. I bent over and took his twitching cock into my mouth. It was obvious he couldn’t last long, so I took him into my throat as I kneaded his balls. He was soon groaning and bucking. “Who are you?” he asked as he came.

I ignored the question, as I took his cock out of my mouth and licked it clean.

Then I lay back. It was his turn.
 
I rolled her onto her chest and unzipped the dress, revealing her bare back. No bra strap. I peeled the dress down over the hips, so reveal tight buttocks cut by a red thong.

I copied what she had done to me, massaged her back, working down to her waist, easing the tension, dropping butterfly kisses in the wake of my fingers. My hands lingered those peaches of her buttocks, teasing into the crack and pulling on the thong, which elicited a low moan. Then on to her feet.

I worked back up to her shoulders, faster this time. Then I rolled her onto her back. Her breasts were small, little more than a man would be with well developed pecs. But her nipples were dark and inviting and hard to my lips. Nibbling at them elicited another long moan. Then down to the thong. With a quick flick it was off and I stared in amazement. I was looking a pair of smooth balls and a cock.

It was a man.

‘Don’t you recognise me,’ he asked peeling off his wig.

It was the accountant who always sat in the corner of the room taking notes at meetings.

Fuck.
 
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