Love at First Bite

Not all Blind Dates go according to plan...

 

 

 

George had been watching her for the last 10 minutes. The way she moved across the dance floor had captivated him from the moment she'd arrived. A preying mantis on the prowl, looking for fresh meat to devour, that was his first impression of her. Then he'd noticed the way in which she threw back her tousled red head and laughed at the lame jokes of that oaf she'd come in with. The lanky blonde youth was leaning ever so casually against the table where the gramophone stood, an area the management called euphemistically the "entertainment zone".

 

Neither of them were what George's circles would call out of the top drawer, but she'd do. The oaf was somebody famous, ah yes, some crooner from the West End stage, George remembered with a frown. He dismissed the crooner without hesitation and cast his eyes over the redhead's slender ankles. Yes, she'd do very nicely indeed!

 

George's attention and admiring looks had not gone unnoticed. For a start, Deborah couldn't see herself spending the night with that long misery Hugh, a bloke denser than most, and that was saying something in this joint!

 

The other reason for Deborah's furtive looks towards the bar was that George cut rather a fine figure on the high chromium stool. Long legs encased in immaculately tailored trousers that could only stem from Saville Row, a debonair pencil moustache that would have made Rudolph Valentino jealous and a cigarette holder the length of the Suez Canal were not the only features marking George out as an ideal night-time companion for Deborah. His shiny black hair, sleeked back with fragrant brilliantine, a lazy bed-room glance around the rows of young women who'd come to hear the American jazz band play, all spoke of the lounge-lizard within. That was a fellow who'd think nothing of using every seduction technique known to mankind to get into a girl's unmentionables. Her friend Doris would have called him perfect romance-fodder!

 

Deborah snorted ruefully. Perfection, she knew to her cost, came at a high price. The last time she'd fallen for a lounge lizard, she'd lost all her savings and her favourite silver powder compact into the bargain. It had not been a satisfying experience by any stretch of the imagination. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Now that she'd taken a better look at him, she remembered having seen him before. Even better, it made what she had in mind a lot easier to manage. She patted her red shingled bob into place, straightened her boyish, creamy white flapper dress and sidled over to where the "lizard" was currently lounging with a Manhattan in his hand, casting an appreciative eye over the rump of a plump blonde doing the Charleston. Oh my, he was looking even more delicious in close up! Deborah silently cursed under her breath. Out of the way, Blondie, Deborah's arriving on the scene! Here's hoping he isn't one of those men who only fancy girl's with love-handles and big behinds.

 

"What-ho handsome, I'm your blind date," she lisped into his ear in her little-girl voice, the one she reserved for mustn't-let-him-get-away-men. She had to stand on her toes to reach his ear, but she didn't mind making a diminutive first impression. It allowed her to lay one hand ever so lightly onto his well-cut shoulder, while hoisting herself up into the barstool opposite him. The heat emanating from his body struck her like a force; she removed her hand in an instant, fearing his warmth would burn through her silk glove and sear her hand.

 

"Are you now?" he drawled in an Old Etonian voice, half turning to get a better look at her. "I wasn't aware there had been any such arrangement for this evening." He raised one black, well-shaped eyebrow. "But you are most welcome to keep me company. Eddie, a Manhattan for the lady," George said, turning slowly back to the barman. He flicked ash from his long cigarette holder into an empty cocktail glass and resumed his quiet contemplation of the female form now clambering onto the barstool next to him.

 

Deborah managed to wriggle her small person into the ideal position under a large frosted glass shade, showing just enough of her figure and slightly upturned nose to intrigue the male of the species without looking too forward. She knew the reddish halo of her hair drove certain men wild. Finding just the right angle and light conditions, Deborah's profile could see that Garbo off any day. The drinks arrived. Deborah tilted her head like a little bird and cast a twinkling glance out of violet eyes at her blind date.

 

"But sure, honey bunch, old Tusker Fortescue arranged it. We've met before, ever so briefly, you know, weekend shindig at the Fortescue pile, down in Hampshire, don't you remember?" Deborah breathed over the frosted rim of her Manhattan. Instead of melting the ice a little, her breath seemed to frost up the glass even more. The ice crackled, as she put her lips to it and sipped delicately.

 

George noticed it. "I say, you haven't been standing around outside waiting to get into this joint, have you? Perishing out there. Goodness, you must be frozen! " He took one of her hands into his and rubbed it gently, the warmth of his palms penetrating her gloves, then every fibre of her being. It made her heart go bump-ity-bump and her stomach lurch with a growl.

 

"I'll soon get your temperature up, my dear," he grinned. "It's simply criminal the way the doorman keeps young ladies in their silky gowns standing about out there for hours. I expect you left your mink coat at home, thinking you'd be sailing in here with your famous date?"

 

Had he just winked at her to make light of this cheeky put-down? Mink indeed! She pulled herself up. Her dress and shoes were top drawer, even if she wasn't quite quite - no need to rub it in! Irritated, she pulled back a little, but then she remembered her unpaid tailor's bill. Would this fine specimen of night owl pay for it? It was no good losing her head over yet another lounge lizard with nothing in this pockets but betting slips and receipts from the pawnbrokers. A girl had to eat and live in the comfort she was accustomed to, that was a fact to hold onto. She held out her hand resolutely. "Deborah Crossland. Of the Surrey Crosslands," she added quickly, when his eyebrows shot up again.

 

"Nice to meet you...again...Deborah. George Frobisher, Honourable for my sins. The Pater has a pile in Sussex," he grinned. George offered her a cigarette, but she refused. "Quite right, you don't want to spoil such a pretty pale complexion with yellow teeth and grey-ish skin," he smiled, slipping the gold cigarette case back into the breast pocket of his black evening suit.

 

Deborah laid one hand on his wrist, stopping him from picking up his cocktail. "You know, I was saying exactly that to one of my friends the other day. A girl cannot be too careful with her looks. They're precious, aren't they, withering so quickly? Of course, I'm blessed with pale skin and rosy cheeks, so I don't have to resort to powder or blusher, ever so bad for the pores, I read in some magazine. Clogs you up something terrible, it does," she added breathlessly. Noticing George's thirsty expression, she released his wrist and took up her own cocktail glass. "Bottoms up," she smiled, putting the glass to her lips. He gulped down his drink in one go. She managed to throw the content of hers with a practiced air over her shoulder, narrowly missing a passing brunette on her way to the powder room.

 

"Eddie, another two Manhattans over here, if you please," George demanded, clearing his voice with a slight cough, when he saw her glass was empty. His cocktail had gone down the wrong way. George's be-ringed hand flew to his voluptuous mouth. Deborah clapped him forcefully on the back. So forcefully, she nearly swept him off his barstool and into the row of people waiting to step out onto the dance floor.

 

She apologised: "I don't know my own strength sometimes! Blame it on all those doubles at weekend parties in the country. I do so love a game of tennis, don't you? Oh, I say, is that an emerald on your index finger?" She made a grab for his right hand and held it up to the Lalique lampshade next to her. "Oh my sainted aunt, what a beauty! Must have cost you a bundle, or is it one of those heirlooms that comes with a pile in Sussex?" she giggled. George nodded, but rather reluctantly, evidently put off by the mention of anything as vulgar as money. Deborah reminded herself with a sharp stab to her hip that "Honourables" never referred to money matters, if they could help it. Just wasn't done in polite society.

 

After chatting at length about tennis, Tusker Fortescue's pile in Hampshire and the forthcoming season of debutants - it transpired George had a young relative about to come "out" - they moved onto the dance floor, where hot Jazz and even hotter kisses behind the giant palm made up for the lack of a formal introduction via said Tusker Fortescue, who, as it turned out, was an old school chum of George's. The stuffy air in the ballroom soon drove them into the dark back alley, where a row of luxury automobiles with bored drivers was awaiting the return of inebriated owners.

 

"Oh goody, what a sight for sore eyes these shiny motors are! Where are you taking me, Georgie, the Ritz or the Café de Paris...or better still, the Kit Cat Club in Haymarket?" Deborah squeaked excitedly.

 

George shook his head. Ordering his driver to take them to the Trocadero, George ushered his blind date into the back of the car, where Deborah sank into the comfortable leather seats with a sigh.

 

"I guess that means no dinner then?"

 

George draped one arm around her shoulders and the car purred into action, gliding out from the dark alley into the even deeper blackness of the metropolis like a giant sea creature on a hunt at the bottom of the ocean.

 

"Who needs dinner? At the Trocadero they've got the best jazz bands; we'll be dancing until our feet blister and we are too sweaty for decent society!" He nudged her with his elbow. "My club's not far from there...and the stewards are very discrete, you know."

 

George began to list his favourite songs, ignoring the rumbling coming from Deborah's stomach. She frowned. Surely, a girl couldn't strike that unlucky twice in a row? Not another skinflint who won't stand a girl dinner and expects his blind date to go all the way on the first night!

 

Humming bits of Tiger Rag, At the Jazz Band Ball and I'm sorry I made you cry in between snatches of conversation that were punctuated by hot, wet kisses, George began to explain the advantages of belonging to a gentlemen's club located so near to the Trocadero. Evidently, the stewards were kept busy turning a blind eye quite often as far as members like George were concerned. Silken sheets that made you dream of clouds, double doors reinforced with soundproofing so no sound could disturb one's slumber, or allow potential blackmailers to hear what was going on inside the rooms, more breakfast any decent human being could expect to devour and a strong pot of tea you could sink your teeth into was how George described his overnight stays at the club. He didn't mention previous blind dates, but it was evident that George had taken his "warm-up duties" very seriously with all of them from the way in which he kept winking at her and guffawing between sentences.

 

She soon discovered that he was every bit the lounge lizard and seducer of maidens she had taken him for. One thing Deborah had been quite wrong about though: back in George's Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost she discovered that there was certainly more in the lounge lizard's pockets than betting slips or receipts from pawnbrokers. While George's Honourable lips were exploring her lower neckline, Deborah's nimble fingers fished around in his jacket, clamping her digits around his gold cigarette case in an instant. George's hot breath on her cheek made her shudder with pleasure and she nestled more closely into his embrace, the whiteness of her neck now fully exposed to the steamy attack on her virtue. While George's hands explored whether or not the boyish cut of flapper dresses demanded girls to bind their boobs tightly, Deborah's mind worked feverishly.

 

She was three weeks behind with her rent and owed money to the butchers for at least two week's worth of black pudding and cheap cuts like offal. Her coal merchant would come knocking soon. There goes another few bob, she thought with irritation. The gold cigarette case would fetch a pretty bundle, but the emerald and diamond rings on George's hands would do even more, they'd set her up for a pretty long time...and not in some dump here in London. No, a pleasant sojourn at the French Rivera would do nicely round about now. Plenty of rich men to fleece. Warm nights where a girl could enjoy meals al fresco. No more of this London fog and rain for her!

 

She giggled, as George's lips nibbled her earlobe, then moved on to explore the exposed bit of skin between her shoulder and long white silk glove. It tickled. Oh, that wicked pencil moustache! George grunted with the effort of twisting her around to open the tiny buttons on the back of her dress. His head was somewhere near her elbow now, his shiny black hair gave off a mirror-like glare as the car passed under a bright streetlight and stopped within a few steps of the Torcadero. The driver stepped out of the car and held the car door open, waiting for Deborah to get out.

 

"Not now, fool! Drive us around the block, man, and keep that damn partition up, there's a good chap," snapped George, pulling the door shut again. The driver got back into the front seat and did as he was told.

 

She reached out with one hand and knocked gently against the pane of glass. "Soundproof, is it?"

 

By way of a reply, George groaned, sliding down on his part of the leather bench to explore what pale skinned treasures were hidden beneath two pairs of pink silk stockings. His hands slid down her breasts to her waist to land on her thighs, from where they wandered to her knees, then down to her feet, loosening the straps that held her pumps in place. "Care for some Champagne?" George asked huskily. She nodded.

 

He flicked a switch and a small drinks cabinet, built into the Silver Ghost's rear passenger compartment, appeared. George removed the cork from a bottle of bubbly, picked up Deborah's left shoe and poured Champagne into it. He drank deeply, then handed her the remainder. In the centre of the shoe lay a narrow diamond bracelet. She laughed. "You know how to dazzle a girl, don't you?"

 

"I know more than that, my dear. I know how to devour a girl in a way that will make her scream in agony and delight simultaneously," he gasped, ripping Deborah's embroidered frock from her shoulders and sinking his teeth into her white flesh.

 

"Those had better not be rhinestones!" Deborah gasped, dropping the bracelet and shoe to surrender to passion.

 

The next five minutes were a bit of a blur, for Deborah tried to get George's body into a position where she didn't end up with a crick in her neck or cramps in one of her legs, but without much success. George's idea of a blind date was to explore his date with every one of his fifty-six pairs of hands, while keeping his eyes firmly shut. A wrestling match at Madison Square Garden was nothing in comparison with those five minutes in the back of the Silver Ghost!

 

Finally, when George's bow-tie draped from the speaking tube, his shirt buttons littered the thick carpeted floor and his trouser's braces were about to come off, she bent her head over his neck and sunk her teeth into his hot and sweaty flesh.

 

He groaned with pleasure."You are a girl after my own heart! Harder, bite me harder!" He gripped her shoulders with both hands and shook her hard; her bobbed hair fell over her face and she sighed with contentment.

 

By way of an answer, Deborah ripped his starched collar off with her teeth and nuzzled his earlobe, then bit forcefully into it, this time drawing blood. "Hard enough for you, Georgie-porgie?" Deborah breathed into his ear.

 

"Not quite that hard, my dear, do leave me an ear or two, there's a good filly," George managed to spit out between clenched teeth. His hand shot up to his earlobe and rubbed it. His eyes were swimming, the sharp pain had brought tears to them.

 

Deborah didn't seem to have heard him or perhaps she just didn't care. She gripped him with vice-like strength, pulling him across her lap and twisting his torso into a very uncomfortable position. So uncomfortable, George was forced to open his eyes wider to see what was going on. His pale face told Deborah that he didn't like the unexpected turn this blind date was taking.

 

Rolling down one of her pink stockings, Deborah crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it unceremoniously into George's mouth. "No screaming now, I can't stand it, it's just so unmanly." She rolled down the other stocking and tied George's wrists firmly, looping the rest of the stocking behind and over the speaking tube apparatus. Unable to twist his body back into an upright and sitting position, George lay across her lap like a dog about to be checked for fleas.

 

George tried to hammer his heels against the glass partition to alert the driver, but failed because Deborah clamped one of her strong legs over both of his, a preying mantis ready to devour her prey. With a smile, she fished the glittering bracelet out of her soggy shoe, reached for the bottle of bubbly and drank deeply from it, cradling George like a child in her lap. She put the bottle back into the drinks cabinet with a belch, leaned over George and whispered: "Can you hear that down there? That's my stomach rumbling. Got to eat, a girl's got to eat. Even a blind date deserves a decent dinner, didn't anybody ever tell you that?"

 

To her own surprise, she began humming a tune, now what was it? Oh yes, I'm sorry I made your cry. "That's one of your favourites, isn't it, Georgie-porgie?" Deborah said, twisting George's neck into the perfect dinner position for her fangs.

 

Passing under the flashing neon signs of the Trocadero for the fourth time, the driver wondered briefly what he was expected to do when the Rolls-Royce ran out of petrol but he soon dismissed the thought. "His nibs will be too busy devouring that tasty little redhead to notice," he laughed. "Must be the...huh...fourth redhead he's having in as many days? Insatiable that man, insatiable!"

 

Impressum

Texte: Maria Thermann
Bildmaterialien: Maria Thermann
Cover: Maria Thermann
Lektorat: Maria Thermann
Satz: Maria Thermann
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 08.10.2015

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Dedicated to all vampire fans who've been on blind dates and have first-fang experience of that uncomfortable "will he-he won't he bite me" feeling...