Don’t Lose That Number

i’ve been having a fun little run this past few weeks, interspersing stories that have a relevant song to go with them. Nothing like Steely Dan to bring me down memory lane…and inspire this little stand-alone piece…enjoy! ~n~)

She stared at the number in her hand. The square drink napkin carried two circles on it, where their wine glasses had rested. The edge that pressed against her thumb was worried and wrinkled from her nervous rubbing of it while they had talked. And in the center where the two rings lapped, was a number.

His number.

It had been their second meeting. Thinking back, she recalled how excited and nervous she had been…

She was on pins and needles getting ready. For the first time accepting his orders as to her dress, her underwear, the way her hair was arranged.

When she was done, she looked at the stranger in the mirror. The sexy, sensual stranger. Her make up was more intense than she usually wore it, her clothing a bit snugger, and definitely more revealing. There were no panties beneath the snug black dress, and really? There was very little dress. The back criss-crossed in strappy splendor, thin lines so fragile they looked as if a strong thought would break them.  The front, deeply cowled, was held by a single gold chain that  revealed her cleavage and a good deal of boob.  Her stockings were nearly transparent, black silk, held in place by two beribboned garters. Her heels were sleek and black, as strappy as the back of the dress he had sent to her.

She’d never known she could look so overtly sexual. Turning her head from side to side, she pulled a face at herself, then brushed her hair into a sleek ponytail. Gold earrings,  long falls of chain swung at her ears, the longest section almost brushing her bare shoulders.

Taking up her little black purse, she walked out of her room and headed to the front door. He was always punctual, she knew. He’d told her so over the five weeks they had im’ed and emailed each other, and had proven it by being at their last meeting exactly at the time He had said.

 ***  **   ***

Looking at the napkin now brought it all back, the way she had felt so damn sexy walking out her door, sliding into her car, pulling out of her driveway. Even sliding out at the restaurant, the tug of the back hem against her naked ass reminded her why she was there.

They were interviewing each other. Their first meeting had been a fast coffee run. Hi, how are you, so that’s  what you smell like, taste like, as they kissed upon leaving the coffee bar.

This, their second meeting would be dinner. Something intimate. More getting-to-know-you time. And a time to test out their chemistry a bit further.

When the evening ended and they had parted, she’d been left with a flurry of sensations; but most keenly she felt an aching sense of loss, and a deep hunger. She’d not wanted to drive away, not at all. He’d insisted, however, and handed her the napkin. He’d kissed her before she drove off, and spoke just four words to her…”don’t lose that number.”

She set the napkin on her knee, tracing the red-wine circles in lazy figure-eights. And remembered.


When she was met by the maitre d’, his eyes had slid appreciatively down her body-  only for a moment-but confirming what her own eyes had told her. He had guided her across the busy dining area to a quiet, secluded corner.   She couldn’t wait for the Mister to see her. He’d risen from the table when she arrived.

The look on his face soothed away any lingering doubts.  His smile appeared first in his eyes, then beamed across his face.


It was all he said, but it was everything.

Taking her wrist, he pulled her into the corner seat of their booth.  The maitre d’ himself poured her Shiraz from the bottle chilling on the table, while noting silently to himself that the Monsieur had carefully lifted mesdemoiselles skirt before she sat. He wondered about her bottom sitting there on the old leather, wondered if later there would be a wet spot remaining, to perfume the air long after she departed. It gave him a delightful frisson of lust to think so.

She had blushed, knowing that the waiter had seen  that by-play. She had wondered if he’d seen a flash of her bottom as Mister had arranged her just so beside him.

It was the only overtly sexual overture of their meal, though he had fed her tiny bits  from the solitary order placed before him.  Had allowed her to keep her wine glass, but naught else. She left the table hungry for more than food.

The repeated touching of his fingers on her lips had made her half crazed with lust, but the outline of their meeting was not to be deviated from. Meet. Talk. Touch. Understand.

Then, time apart once more, to process.

And decide.

He’d taken the napkin, pulled a pen from his pocket, and quickly jotted down his personal, private cell number.  He wasn’t going to make any further moves, he’d told her, until she had time to make her choice. Until then, he would wait.

For 24 hours, she had to sit on it, think about it, roll the flavor of it around in her mouth and decide whether or not she would.

Smiling, at 24 hours and 1 minute, she picked up her phone, and dialed.