The Little Red Kilt (Matryoshka #1)

by

Elizabeth
Woodham

Copyright,
Elizabeth Woodham, 2013

Cover Image,
©
Andrey
Kiselev
|Dreamstime.com

All Rights
Reserved

Warning – Adult
Content

Copyright
Notice

Short
Provocative Erotica

Copyright,
Elizabeth Woodham, 2013

All rights
reserved
including the right to reproduce this book, or
portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be
reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse
engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage
and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether
electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of
the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book
via the internet or via any other means without the permission of
the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase
only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or
encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. This book is
a work of fiction.

Published by
Secret Narrative publishing at Smashwords

Smashwords License
Statement

This ebook is
licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be
re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share
this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy
for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase
it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return
to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for
respecting the hard work of this author.

Provocative Erotica
Designed to Turn You On

www.secretnarrative.com

Warning

This book
contains strong language and sexually explicit content that some
readers may find offensive and which is unsuitable for persons
under the age of 18.

Contents

The Little Red
Kilt

About the
Author

Bonus Story

Lust: It’s a
Sin

The Little Red
Kilt

‘My mother
doesn’t talk to me.’

‘Because you
wear short plaid skirts, which barely cover your arse and tight
little red leather jackets snugger than a condom?’

‘No. I’ve
always dressed this way. Will you take off the mask?’

‘No.’

New Year’s
Eve. Pressing against me in the throng, he takes my hand, pulls me
closer, and bending me backward in an emulation of an iconic image,
plants a kiss onto my mouth. He keeps his tongue politely
non-invasive; I part my lips anyway and hook him in. He tastes
marvellous. He tastes of vodka and tonic, and of lemons, sharp,
zinging. I fish for more, knowing my own breath echoes Southern
Comfort, sweet and cloying at first, before the burning liquor sear
epiglottis and oesophagus.

I deploy
medical terms in homage of my new obsession. Benjamin O’Carroll, a
surgeon, older than me. Much older actually, but vulnerable, I make
him feel vulnerable, I can tell. He turns my broken hand this way
and that, examining me, using microscopic eyes, beneath brows that
seem to move independently and wishes that my injury was at the
core of me.

My nails are
blood red, eight fingers, including the broken digit and two
thumbs, thankfully uninjured. An icy fall. A lucky break.

Eyes, sharp
and shrewd, a lilting voice. An accent. I struggle; my musical ear
is out of tune, and I cannot properly hear his provenance. I lick
my lips, slowly, no makeup. It’s my right hand, application is
tricky, and best left undone. He watches the tip of my perfect pink
tongue travel a circuit. I pause and repeat for effect and
pause...

‘At least
another three weeks, Miss Merrywell.’

Hope
diminishes, shrinks away, and shrivels my expectation of
freedom.

‘Three
weeks!’

‘I’m afraid
so. A nasty break, as I said when we fixed you up. You may yet need
an operation to straighten the finger.’

‘Thank you.’
Plummeting, I grope for reassurance, ‘I hope I won’t need an
operation.’ I fix wide eyes on his mouth, and raise them slowly,
deliberately meeting his. Liquid, dissolving resolve, I make him
water, watch him salivate; waver.

‘Make a
follow-up appointment, please. After Christmas, of course.
Meanwhile, if you experience significant pain or the cast becomes
uncomfortable, contact my secretary, she’ll fit you in.’

Rising,
leaving his chair redundant, no revelation of occupation in his
attire, plain trousers, and pristine shirt, teamed with plaid tie.
His shoes polished, though they are out of sight, hidden, with his
lower half, behind the desk.

I stand too,
and push my chair back. The nurse is behind me, helps with my coat.
I grab my bag, unnaturally left-handed and check myself.

‘Goodbye and
Happy Holiday.’

‘Yes, you
too,’ he says, re-seated, moving his next patient’s notes into
position as I leave his office.

‘I don’t
really feel like it.’

‘It’ll be fun,
Chloe, take your mind off your missed deadlines, and other
crap.’

‘What will I
wear?’

‘Tartan. Don’t
worry about anything else. Just wear something tartan and a
mask.’

I’m tempted to
wear only the skirt and the mask. I remember my mother telling me
never to give into temptation, so I don’t, not then anyway, before
the party, before midnight.

Protected with
Clingfilm, I shower.

Dressing is
difficult wearing the cast, so I take it off, toss it onto the bed,
and make a good fist of getting ready. Makeup as accurate as
possible, my youthful skin needs little embellishment, my long,
caramel hair shines a cascade to the middle of my back. Centre
parting, no fringe, it needs little adornment but looks better
washed. What the hell? It’s impossible one-handed. I leave it
loose.

Plaid red
velvet barely covers my bottom. Round, juicy, ripe full cheeks, I
know it’s pert, and pretty, I’m blessed. Lucky. Long legs travel
all the way up from feet, sized perfect for my height, my only
blemish an accidental break.

The shape of
almonds, I need not emphasise my eyes. The mask is exotic,
Venetian. Awkward, I secure it. Anonymity achieved with luscious
lips exposed. Zipping soft, buttery, red leather, skin so soft, a
fingertip traces where it ends, and mine begins. Red skin, next to
my skin; I run my forefinger along the zipper and halt just above
the swell of my well-formed breasts, untouched by surgeon’s
knife.

I decide on
tights. Another struggle, sheer black lace, provides a barely
perceptible nod to modesty; no panties provide a nod to hedonism.
My little black boots complete me and walk me to the kerbside.

I dance among
the heaving throng with my arm aloft, keeping my hand away from
further harm. Dancing behind my disguise, perspiring gently into
snug, red leather, rivulets make their way from clavicle to clit.
Seeping into crevices, pooling at my tights, the damp patches are
hidden, but I feel them, smell them, mixed with my perfume and my
scent they assail my senses. Turn me on, wetter and wetter, I am
lush, and yet, untouched.

It’s New
Year’s Eve, a man grabs the hand at my side, closes his long, slim
fingers over mine, pulls me closer. I keep my injured limb in the
air above us; an ache travels from fingertip to armpit, matching
the acute agony glowing between my thighs.

The chimes have
stopped, and the explosions started, spiralling rockets shoot into
the air, a cacophony of surround sound. Someone opens the doors and
windows, a whoosh of cold air accompanied by a whiff of cordite
rushes towards us. The room empties, partygoers move to the outside
space, eyes heavenward where my hand once resided.

‘Take me
home,’ I say, against his lips, my wet flesh sparkles.

A charge of
hesitation frizzles my nerves, everything has moved into the
distance, except him and me in a bubble of expectancy.

Part of me
remains on the seat of a black cab, seeping moisture settled there,
the little red kilt too tiny, my leaking self, unchecked by fabric
as the man moves against me, stealthily. I check the back of the
driver’s head, knowing his eyes are on the rear-view mirror more
often than the road ahead. No matter, I’m sybaritic.

We alight,
giddy from alcohol and lust, my teetering legs in little black
boots, their high heels planted on paving. Waiting while he pays,
my boots, my little red kilt, my sheath jacket, and me, Cold air
dries me, a scourge of winter scours my skin.

We ascend
stone steps leading to my front door. Left-handed, I fish key from
boot and push it home, my crippled hand cannot turn keys, but will
curl a finger. He follows me in, and I move up the stairs leading
to my flat. Staying close at my rear, his fingers trail my calf a
degree at a time, the climb of a lifetime, his fingers probe my
progress, and his hands cup rounded flesh. I’m wet again, moist,
and hot, a mountain to climb before reaching the top of the flight.
My door at the summit, an entry pad this time, I enter the code and
push. A wall of warmth, a womb of red walls surround us, he closes
the door and closes in.

He drops his
jacket, and I am against the wall, between him and me, the leather
of my sheath and the linen of his shirt. His Zorro disguise and my
own mask in situ, feathers oily black, silky soft, their brilliance
reflected in the faint red glow of the narrow passage. My soft,
red, tight passage floods and moisture seeps. He is on his knees,
lifts my skirt the inch required, grips the waistband of my tights,
and pulls them down to meet my little black boots. I’m tied at the
ankles; I have no desire for escape. I am bound, my tights imprison
me, and my feet are less than hip width apart, my round bottom
pressed against the wall. His hands move upward, a millimetre at a
time. I can’t see them, but I know that they are capable, slender,
long-fingered with elegant nails, and I want them inside me, his
fingers, one at a time, until completion. Somatic sense alerts my
core, the molten centre of me, volcanic, magma bubbling, hot, red,
and fiery. I’m melting.

‘Sweet, sweet
girl.’ He vibrates against me as his mouth reaches mine.

Tactual
exploration, making way for his tongue and he probes, darts, licks,
slurps, my jelly legs trembling again juxtapose my ankles in
bondage. Osculation drives sensation to my brain as he nibbles my
clit and introduces his fingers one at a time into my blazing red
room, my passage, my vessel. His vessel. Filling slowly, my tight
walls grip, gripping, I concentrate my energy on him, looking down
at the top of his head, thick dark hair, threaded with far more
grey than I’m partial to, already looks familiar as he eats,
gobbles, guzzles, and devours.

The stream of
my ejaculate is a surprise. He reaches down to my boots, slick
fingers struggle, I assist and step out one at a time, using the
wall for balance he frees me and himself, discards my tights,
returns to my crown and more. He lifts me, aloft, a few inches, I
straddle his waist. His back feels strong, muscled, and capable, in
common with his arms. He moves into me, impales me, works back and
forth, lifting me up and down, his strength enthralling. I’m
breathless.

‘Which
way?’

‘End of the
hall.’

‘I won’t make
it that far.’

He turns us
away from the wall, lifts me down and drapes me on the floor of the
passageway, drops between my parted thighs and enters again. I wrap
him; imprison him via his waist, my broken hand redundant against
his broad back. The rest of me, my sheath jacket and little red
kilt surge against him, we soar upward, ever upward as if we’re
packed within an exploding New Year rocket, a pyrotechnic of heady
perfume, our intoxicating fragrance sticky in the air.

My cells
speak. Articulate in all languages, they vibrate pleasure against
his skin, and grasp him, tight and pulsing, urging his flood, a
rush of essence, a tidal wave soaks my senses, hot release matches
my waterfall, our sparkling droplets pool in an ecstasy of
completion.

Fluttering
fingers pull at the silken knot, he doesn’t resist. Zorro
unmasked.

Later, we
assess the damage. My arse, carpet burn pink, matches his knees. We
laugh and I pop another cork.