Leather and Salt Air

The bass thudded through the floorboards of The Blind Tiger like a second heartbeat, and James felt every pulse in his sternum. He'd been at sea for eleven weeks straight, and London was hitting him like a wall of noise, perfume, and spilled gin. He elbowed his way to the bar, ordered a rum he didn't sip so much as inhale, and turned to scan the room.

That's when he saw her.

She was leaning against a pillar near the back, half-shadowed, wearing a leather jacket that looked painted on and jeans that did absolutely nothing to hide the long, athletic line of her legs. Dark hair fell past her shoulders in loose waves, and her lips were painted a shade of red that belonged on a warning sign. She was talking to someone, laughing, and the sound cut through the noise like a bell.

James stared. He knew he was staring. He couldn't stop.

She glanced up and caught him. Instead of looking away, she held his gaze, one eyebrow raised, the corner of her mouth twitching. She didn't smile exactly, but she didn't look away either. She held him there, locked, for three full seconds before turning back to her companion.

James took another slug of rum.

Twenty minutes later, she was at the bar beside him. He hadn't seen her move. She just appeared, close enough that her leather sleeve brushed his forearm.

"Sailor?" she said, nodding at his tattoo.

"Royal Navy," James said. "Just docked."

"Fresh meat," she said, and this time she did smile. "I'm Roxy."

"James."

"Well, James. You look like a man who needs to be shown around Soho. Or shown something, at least."

Her eyes were dark brown, almost black, and they moved over his face with a kind of lazy precision that made his neck heat up. He was broad-shouldered from years of hauling ropes and climbing rigging, and he could feel her appreciating that, the way her gaze tracked down to his chest and back up.

"I could use a guide," he said.

"Good answer."

They talked for an hour. She was sharp, funny, quick with a jab and quicker with a laugh. She worked in fashion, something about styling, and she knew London the way a sailor knows the sea, instinctively, in the bones. She ordered whiskey neat and drank it like water. Every now and then her hand would brush his on the bar, and each time the contact lasted a fraction longer.

"You want to walk?" she asked.

"Anywhere."

They left the bar and stepped into the Soho street noise, a tangle of cabs and laughter and neon. Roxy walked close, her shoulder bumping his, and James felt the warmth of her leather jacket against his arm. She steered him down side streets he'd never have found, past shuttered theatres and late-night noodle bars where steam poured through doorways.

"Here," she said, stopping at a railing overlooking a small square. "This is one of my spots."

They leaned against the iron railing, hips touching. The streetlight caught her face, and James thought again how striking she was, high cheekbones, a jaw that was somehow delicate and strong at the same time, and that mouth. He wanted that mouth.

"You're staring again," she said.

"I know."

"Come here."

She turned to face him, and her hand came up to the side of his neck, fingers sliding into the hair above his collar. She pulled him down and kissed him, slow and deliberate, her lips parting against his. She tasted like whiskey and something sweet, and her tongue found his with a confidence that made his knees loosen.

James groaned against her mouth. His hands found her waist, then slid lower, palms pressing against the leather of her jacket and then down to the tight denim stretched across her ass. She was firm under his hands, toned, and she pressed into his grip.

"Careful," she murmured against his lips. "You'll start something."

"I'm counting on it."

She laughed, low and throaty, and kissed him again, harder this time. Her hips rolled against his, and he felt it, the pressure of her body against his growing hardness. She felt it too. Her hand dropped between them and palmed him through his jeans, one slow squeeze.

"Jesus," he breathed.

"Not quite." She grinned. "Taxi?"

"Your place?"

"If you're brave enough."

He didn't know what she meant by that, not yet. He flagged a black cab, and they tumbled into the back seat. The partition was up, and the moment the door closed, Roxy was on him, straddling his lap, her leather jacket creaking as she ground against him. She kissed his neck, his jaw, his mouth, her tongue pushing deep. James grabbed her ass with both hands and pulled her harder against him, and she made a sound that vibrated through his chest.

The driver glanced in the mirror once, then turned his eyes firmly forward.

Roxy's flat was on the third floor of a converted townhouse in Bethnal Green. She unlocked the door and pulled James inside, flicking on a lamp that threw warm amber light across a room full of clothes, racks of them, dresses and skirts and leather everything, boots lined up along one wall like soldiers.

"Nice place," he said, barely looking at it because he was looking at her.

She took off her jacket. Underneath she wore a black crop top that showed the flat plane of her stomach, toned and smooth. Her jeans sat low on her hips. She kicked off her boots and turned to face him.

"James," she said. Her voice had changed. Still confident, but there was something careful in it now. "There's something you should know about me."

He waited, his pulse loud in his ears.

She reached for the button of her jeans. She popped it open, slid the zip down, and pushed the denim down over her hips. Underneath, she wore black briefs, and they didn't hide much. The fabric was tented, pushed outward by something thick and heavy, and as James watched, it pulsed, a visible twitch that made the fabric shift.

"Fuck," he said. Not in disgust. In surprise. His mouth was open, and he couldn't close it.

Roxy looked at him steadily. "Still brave enough?"

She hooked her thumbs into the briefs and pulled them down. Her cock sprang free, half-hard, thick, and already glistening at the tip. It was big, bigger than his own, and it hung against her thigh, pulsing gently with her heartbeat. Below it, her balls were full and smooth.

James stared. His brain was doing something like a system reboot. She was beautiful, undeniably, impossibly beautiful, and she had a cock. A big, thick cock that was getting harder as he watched, lifting away from her thigh, the head flushing dark.

"I didn't, I mean, I couldn't tell," he said. "You're so, you're gorgeous."

"I know." She wrapped her hand around herself, a slow lazy stroke that made him swallow. "The question is what you want to do about it."

James exhaled. His own cock was still hard in his jeans, straining against the denim. That surprised him too, that the surprise hadn't killed the ache. If anything, it was sharper now, mixed with something he couldn't name, curiosity, hunger, a kind of reckless want that eleven weeks at sea had built up to a pressure point.

"I want to stay," he said.

Roxy smiled, and it was the warmest smile he'd seen from her all night. "Good boy. Come here."

He crossed the room. She took his face in both hands and kissed him, and her cock pressed against his stomach, hot and hard. He could feel it throbbing against him through his shirt. His hands went to her hips, then around, gripping her ass, pulling her closer.

"First," she whispered against his mouth, "I want to dress you."

"What?"

"You heard me." She stepped back and turned to the racks of clothes. Her cock jutted in front of her, fully hard now, thick and dark, swaying as she moved. She pulled out a short black skirt, barely more than a scrap of fabric, and a pair of knee-high leather boots with a low heel.

"Try these on."

James took them. His hands were shaking slightly. He'd never worn anything like this, never even thought about it. But Roxy was looking at him with those dark eyes, her cock standing rigid against her belly, and he wanted to do whatever she asked.

He stripped off his jeans and boxers. His own cock stood straight out, hard and leaking. Roxy watched, her hand slowly stroking herself as she took in his body, the broad chest, the tattoo, the arousal he couldn't hide.

"Put the skirt on," she said.

He stepped into it and pulled it up. It was tight, clinging to his hips and ass, and it barely covered the tops of his thighs. His cock pushed against the front, tenting the thin fabric.

"Boots too."

He sat on the edge of her bed and pulled them on. The leather was soft and tight against his calves. When he stood, the heels changed his posture, tilting his hips forward, and he felt the skirt ride up in back, exposing the lower curve of his ass.

"Fuck," Roxy said. She was stroking herself faster now, her fist wrapped around the thick shaft, her thumb smearing precum over the head. "You look good enough to eat."

She crossed to him and pushed him down onto the bed. He sat on the edge, and she stepped between his spread knees, her cock level with his face. It was right there, inches from his mouth, thick and veined and flushed dark, the tip wet and shiny.

"Have you ever done this?" she asked.

"No."

"Open your mouth."

He did. She guided the head between his lips, and the taste hit him, salt and skin and something musky that went straight to his own cock. She pushed in slowly, inch by inch, filling his mouth with heat and hardness. He closed his lips around her and sucked, instinctively, the way he liked it done to him.

"Good," she breathed. Her hand came to the back of his head. "More."

She pushed deeper, and he felt her cock slide over his tongue and nudge the back of his throat. He gagged, his eyes watering, and she pulled back, then pushed in again, setting a rhythm that had him drooling, spit running down his chin.

"Fuck, James, your mouth." She was panting, her hips rolling, fucking his face with slow deep strokes. He gripped her thighs, feeling the muscle flex under his hands, and tried to relax his throat. On the next thrust she went deeper, and he gagged hard, tears spilling, but he didn't pull away. Something about it, the fullness, the surrender, had his cock throbbing against the skirt.

She pulled out and he gasped, breathing hard, spit and precum smeared across his chin.

"On the bed," she said. "All the way. On your hands and knees."

He climbed onto the bed, the skirt riding up, exposing his bare ass. He heard her open a drawer, the click of a cap, then her slicked fingers were between his cheeks, circling, pressing.

"Relax," she said. One finger pushed into him, and he groaned into the mattress. It was strange and intense and not unpleasant. She worked it in and out, then added a second, stretching him open. He pushed back against her hand, and she laughed softly.

"Eager girl," she said. "Good."

She positioned herself behind him, and he felt the blunt head of her cock press against his opening. She pushed, steady pressure, and the head popped in. James grabbed the sheets and made a sound that wasn't quite a word.

"Take it," she said. "Take all of it."

She fed her cock into him slowly, inch by inch, and he felt every bit of it, the stretch, the fullness, the deep strange ache that was somehow connected directly to his own cock, which jerked and leaked against the skirt. When she was all the way in, her hips flush against his ass, she held still.

"How does that feel?"

"Full," he managed. "Fuck. Don't stop."

She pulled back and thrust in, and his vision blurred. She set a pace, deep hard strokes that had the bed creaking and his voice breaking on sounds he didn't know he could make. The skirt was shoved up around his waist, and her hands gripped his hips, pulling him back onto her with each thrust.

"Play with yourself," she said.

He reached down and grabbed his own cock, stroking it in time with her thrusts. The dual sensation, her filling him from behind and his own fist around his aching cock, built something in him fast and huge.

"I'm going to come," he said.

"Do it."

He came hard, spilling across the sheets and his own hand, his ass clenching around her cock as he shook. Roxy groaned and drove deep, holding there, and he felt her cock pulse inside him as she came, hot and thick, filling him.

They collapsed together, a tangle of leather boots and bunched skirt and sweat-slicked skin. Roxy kissed the back of his neck, still inside him, still semi-hard.

"One down," she murmured. "You've got until morning."

She wasn't kidding. An hour later she had him on his back, skirt pushed up, and she was riding him, her cock slapping against his stomach while she stroked him back to hardness with her slick hand. He came inside his own skirt, making a mess of the fabric, and she laughed and pulled it off him and wiped her hand with it.

Then she lay back and had him go down on her again, and this time he took her deeper, controlling his gag reflex, working his tongue along the underside of her shaft until she grabbed his head and fucked up into his mouth and came down his throat. He swallowed, coughed, and kept sucking until she pushed him off, oversensitive and shaking.

At three in the morning, she fucked him again, this time with him on his side, her chest pressed against his back, her cock moving in slow deep thrusts while she jerked him off. He came for the third time, weaker, almost painful, and she followed him over, biting his shoulder as she filled him again.

At four, he returned the favor. She talked him through it, positioning him, guiding him into her ass, and he fucked her with clumsy desperate strokes while she stroked herself and came across her own stomach, her cock jerking as she moaned his name. He pulled out and came on her thighs, and they lay there in the wrecked bed, breathing like they'd run miles.

"Jesus Christ," James said.

"Roxy," she corrected. "Jesus is Sunday. It's still Saturday."

Dawn light crept through the curtains, grey and thin. James was sprawled across the bed, naked except for one boot he hadn't managed to unlace. Roxy was beside him, propped on one elbow, tracing idle patterns on his chest.

"So," she said. "How was your first time?"

"I think I need to reevaluate some things about myself."

"Or just accept them." She kissed his shoulder. "You looked incredible in that skirt, by the way. The boots were a nice touch."

He looked at her. She was still the most beautiful person he'd ever seen, cock or no cock, maybe because of it. The night had cracked something open in him that he couldn't close again, and the strange thing was, he didn't want to.

"Can I borrow the skirt?" he asked.

Roxy's face split into a wide grin. "Honey, you can borrow whatever you want. But you're going to need your own. I'll take you shopping."

"Today?"

"Today. There's a place on Brick Lane that opens at ten. They'll love you."

James lay back and stared at the ceiling. His ship was leaving Monday morning. He had thirty-six hours to become a completely different person, or maybe just the person he'd always been underneath the uniform.

"I'm going to need more boots," he said.

Roxy laughed and kissed him, and he tasted both of them on her tongue, and his cock, impossibly, twitched again.

"God, sailors," she said. "Give them an inch and they want the whole fucking wardrobe."

He pulled her on top of him, and the morning stretched ahead like a promise.