Fifty Shades of Off-White

It seems, much to my surprise, quite a few of you actually read this blog, rather than just looking at the pictures. Not only read it, but enjoy it! So much so that some have even suggested I should write a book.

Well, it’s funny you should mention that!

At the start of the first covid lockdown, I was very low. My divorce had just come through and I was struggling to re-establish life as a single. Then isolation. I had to do something and thought of writing.

I had no intention of writing an erotic novel, but that’s what came out of the other end. It was/is a work of fiction and at the time I had no idea why or how I’d written what I had, or where the scenarios that ended up on the page came from. Now, it’s self-evident. I was planning my future. Subliminally, but nevertheless, I was writing the future I wanted. Needed.

I’m not convinced every part of the story is in my wish list — far too painful — but certain happenings over the last month are too close to what I’ve written for there not to have been subconscious thoughts directing my typing fingers.

I did even get round to publishing it on Amazon, but sales amounted to a big fat round zero so I rather forsook the poor thing and left it to wither.

If any of you seriously think it might be worth wasting a few hours of your life reading it, I’ll happily resuscitate it.

The synopsis and first chapter are below to give you a flavour.

I’m tempted to give it away, but I know if I say it’s free you’ll all say yes please and I’ll spend the rest of the year emailing copies out.

So if you should by some fluke be prepared to buy it I can send an electronic version in various formats. I’ll price it at a massive £2.50 and promise to spend the proceeds on more sheer lingerie! DM me on Twitter @tops_terri or email me at Terri_Tops@mail.com if you are interested. XXXX

Dark Stranger

Synopsis

Paradise or perdition? Where will this lead?

Sophia — Single, shy, and sexually naive.

Khadra — Domineering, confident, and devotee of BDSM.

As Sophia celebrates her thirty-second birthday alone, a chance meeting with Khadra changes her life forever.

Lured into a sexual world of perversion, pain, and humiliation her monochrome existence becomes one of multi-coloured depravity.

But then, addicted to her new lifestyle, her world is turned upside down again when she meets Bruce, a perfect partner; but for the “vanilla” world.

Must she forgo her depraved existence for the new love of her life? Or can she merge the two?

Chapter 1

Little did I realise, sitting there alone, drinking my third glass of Pinot, that events were about to unfold which would turn my world upside down. Events which, depending on your point of view, had the potential to lead me to paradise or perdition.

The bar was busy, it always was. I had this hope that looking all forlorn, a white knight would come charging in and sweep me off my feet. A Colin Firth. Or even a Hugh Grant; any port in a storm! (Only joking any Grant fans reading this!). The actuality didn’t quite follow the plan. I’m not saying what came to my rescue was Shrek the Ogre, far from it, but it was as far removed from a white knight as Homer Simpson is from Albert Einstein.

I’m Sophia Hawkins, named after an Italian actress, Sophia Loren, a heartthrob of my paternal grandfather. My looks are not Italian, I’m auburn-haired; well, I like to think it’s auburn. To be totally honest, it’s closer to red or even ginger. And therein lay a problem. I was shy and blushed at the slightest attention. Thirty-two and I still blushed!

My marital state? Single. In large part because of my shyness; any man asking me out was immediately presented with an accurate impersonation of a beetroot. People tell me I’m attractive, at least my Mum does. I didn’t help myself though; I tended not to worry about making myself irresistible because I liked to think men would be attracted to me for… for other reasons, so make-up or fancy hairstyles were low on my list of priorities.

Until the age of twenty-nine, I lived at home with my parents. That didn’t help, and I’d still be there today if Dad hadn’t retired and moved to the Welsh coast. I even thought of moving with them, but luckily they talked me out of that, and my job was — is — enjoyable.

I wasn’t unhappy, but I was in a boring rut. I had a flat, plenty of money living on my own, and was successful at work. I just didn’t have many friends or any social life. In truth, genuine friends were non-existent. Think Bridget Jones! Not that I wore big knickers like her. That was one thing totally out of character. I loved silky undies, spending far too much on them, especially considering my infrequent boyfriends rarely got to see them.

I wasn’t a virgin. I’d lost that at university, but it didn’t go into my diary as a world-shattering event. I did it a couple of more times after, but it left me underwhelmed. Whether that was because the boys weren’t very good, I couldn’t say. I assumed I was experiencing the full gamut of what sex could offer and decided it wasn’t worth the hassle. I had a lot to learn!

So there I was, ten years on from university, celebrating my thirty-second birthday alone in a wine bar, feeling dejected and sorry for myself.

Then, there she was.

Some people have an aura about them, don’t they? They walk into a room and it goes quiet. They become the focus of attention. I’m not like that. Quite the reverse. My stature doesn’t help. At 5’ 1" and under 8 stone, I’m hardly domineering, and adding that to my retiring personality makes me easily ignorable.

The woman who had just entered the bar was the converse of my persona. Easily 6’ tall. Dressed in a pin-striped trouser suit. A bone structure that would be the envy of an actress and legs that went on for ever. Her skin, the darkest of blacks; a burnished piano ebony. Her hair cropped to within millimetres of her head. Severe in the extreme, but adding to the powerful presence that emanated from every pore. Eyes that looked capable of piercing steel plate. Not a woman to be messed with.

The antitheses of me. She was the antithesis of my fantasies too, I’d not been big on lesbian ones, (Big? They hadn’t existed).

I watched her as she scanned the room, looking for someone. Someone who appeared absent given how many times her head swiveled to take in the entire bar. On her third pass, she saw me staring at her. I immediately turned my signature bright crimson, embarrassed at having been caught. I dropped my eyes to my drink and took a huge gulp. A mistake. The gulp caused me to have a coughing fit, which seemed to last a century. By the time I’d got myself under control and glanced up, the woman was standing at my table. Oh god, I thought, she’s going to berate me for staring. Before she could say anything, I started to mumble an apology, but she held up her hand. She had a quality about her that commanded obedience, so I stopped.

“Are you alright? Not choking?”

The comment unsettled me. No one ever worried about me. A quick look at the other patrons would show no one else was even aware I’d had a brush with death (exaggeration!). And from this woman. Why on earth should she care about me choking?

“That’s very kind of you,” I meekly replied, “but I’m fine.”

“You look very red. I’ll get you some water.”

“That is sweet, but there’s no need. Honestly, I’m okay.”

“It’s not ‘sweet’, it’s common decency,” came back the reply in a tone that brooked no dissent, certainly not from yours truly. She made the trip to the bar and returned with a bottle of mineral water, which she uncapped and poured for me.

“Thank you, how much do I owe you?”
My question elicited a further withering stare. “Do I look as though I need you to pay for a bottle of water?” She sounded and looked as though she was about to bite my head off. I couldn’t work her out. She was putting herself to unnecessary trouble for me, but sounded livid.

“I’m sorry. Thank you so much.” I sipped the water. I’d assumed the woman would walk away or go in search of her friend or whoever she was meeting, but she pulled out a chair and sat down. She leaned back, crossed her long legs, folded her arms, and gave me a quizzical look. It was an improvement on the thunderous stares she had been launching at me, but still unsettling.

My face coloured up again, so I returned to studying my glass in minute detail. Starting conversations had never been my strong point, even with people I knew. Strangers were the same to the power of ten. Eventually, she broke the silence. “Are you awaiting someone?”

“No.” An illustration of how chatty I was.

“Do you often drink by yourself?”

“Sometimes.” Being honest the answer would have been yes, but I had no inclination to tell her that.
“Sometimes being the vast majority of times?”
I raised my eyes from my glass. What was this? I felt depressed enough; there was no need for her to rub it in, so I didn’t answer. “I should go.” I took another mouthful of my nearly empty glass and went to stand up.

“Do you have a problem with my company?”

“No, it’s just… I should go.”

“So you’ve said. Why?”

“Well, I…” What I wanted to say was, I don’t like your inquisition, but that was not the nature of the beast that inhabited my body, so the sentence trailed off.

“You appear indecisive. In which case I shall decide for you. Sit.”

Her voice was authoritative. The only time in my life where I asserted any authority was when talking numbers. My job as a forensic accountant enabled me to immerse myself in a world of certainties. Numbers didn’t lie, didn’t answer back. When on the solid rock of numbers I knew were constant, I could stand my ground. Otherwise, I folded, melted away, allowed others to make the decisions in my life. Until recently, that had been my mother; now having flown the nest, too many inconsequential decisions were left for me to make. What to eat, what to wear. I didn’t need them. So when told to sit, I sat.

“Good. Offering to pay for the water, I could have taken as an insult. To make amends, you can buy me a drink. Vodka, neat.”

She maintained her impassive look, totally relaxed, lounging back in her chair. She was not smiling, her expression neutral, but inwardly I felt she was smirking, seeing how far she could push this little mouse. If I’d known the future, I would have taken the analogy a stage further and described her as a cat playing, and, eventually, devouring its prey.

Without protest, I went to the bar. I knew nothing about vodkas, and there was a choice of three. I didn’t want to ask her, so picked one at random. “Anything else,” the barman asked. Without thinking, I bought myself another large glass of wine. On the way to the bar, I’d decided I would buy her a drink put it in front of her, and leave. An upbringing of waste not, want not, now meant I’d have to sit and drink my fresh glass. My subconscious was telling me something my conscious didn’t want to know.

I put the glass in front of her and sat. Not a word. No “thank you,” or “that’s kind of you.” Nothing.

I tried my conversational skills again. Feeling as if I was a teenager trying to impress a boy on a first date I announced. “There was a choice of brands, I hope the vodka is acceptable.”

“So do I.”

Excuse me? I’d treat her to a drink, and she responds like that? It did nothing for my self-confidence, so I hid behind taking another mouthful of wine. Her intent stare remained, and it continued to unnerve me. I decided to drink up and leave. That large glass was a mistake. I tried taking swigs, but with a lack of food my alcoholic intake was affecting all areas and I needed to stop. I’d leave it half-finished.

“I must go.”

“There is no must, is there? You wish to go because you are unable to accept my friendship.” A statement, not a question.

“Friendship?”

“Yes, or do you have so many, you need no more?”

I couldn’t lie anymore. Lying needs a clear head and mine was getting far removed from that state.
“No, not many at all.”
“Then we will commiserate together given my ‘friend’ couldn’t be bothered to wait. Unusual for a pooka.”
“I’m sorry?”
“A joke of mine. It tells me things about people. Few know what I mean. Fewer have the temerity to ask. They google it when they get home and depending on their personality it unsettles them or intrigues them.”

Following what she was talking about after my three glasses (or was it four?) was difficult, and I couldn’t get my brain functioning clearly enough to worry about it.

“I will replenish our glasses,” she announced.

“Oh, no, no, I’ve had enou…” my words were addressed to her back as she walked to the bar. Oh, sod it. It was my birthday, after all. She might not be a pleasant person to talk to, but it was more interesting than people watching. And she had a definite aura about her.

I tried to analyse my thoughts, but the wine threw a myriad of obstacles in the way. Before any cogent concepts emerged, my new friend was back. My friend of approximately thirty-five minutes, lifetime buddies in my world.

She sat down. “My name is Khadra Knight. I’m Somalian. I came to this country in 1990 with my mother and brother to escape the civil war which killed my father. My mother died soon after, and I was adopted, hence my surname. My brother is an orthopaedic surgeon. I am a barrister. I am not married. Sexually I am ambivalent regarding men or women. Now tell me about you.”

Wow. As an accountant I like succinct, but to sum up your life in fewer characters than a tweet, takes some doing. I couldn’t respond in kind, not given that everything was blurring because of my alcohol level, so I rambled on for far too long. Within the soliloquy, I must have mentioned it was my birthday. When I finished, she leaned across the table, grabbed my jaw in a tight grip, and kissed me. On the lips. Oh. My. God. Stunned is hardly the word. By the time what had happened registered with my alcohol-soaked brain she was sitting down again showing no signs of anything having occurred. It wasn’t an overly sensuous kiss; she didn’t force my mouth open and use her tongue, but even so.

I was speechless. I didn’t — couldn’t — react.

“Happy birthday, Sophia. We must celebrate it. Too late today. Give me your telephone number. I will book a table and we will have dinner together next week. Friday. You are free.” It wasn’t a question; any of it. Seeing her again, having a meal, or being free. I meekly said yes, on auto-pilot, and quoted my number. My brain was still attempting and failing to comprehend what had happened.

She entered the number in her phone and I heard mine ping. She’d checked that I’d given her the right number. With that, she rose, said, “I look forward to our next encounter,” and strode out.

I stared out across the bar. Shell-shocked. What had happened? It had to be a dream. A six-foot-tall handsome Somalian woman inviting Sophia Hawkins out for a meal? Kissing her!

My addled brain was receiving signals from parts of my body that had been MIA for many months. Not understanding them because the signals had been transmitted at the instigation of a woman, but welcoming them. What? Why? How? I couldn’t cope. I needed to get home, sober up, and see what the cold light of dawn told me.

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Also if you haven’t read earlier blogs click on Tracy_Trouble below to see what I’ve been doing. XXXX