F.M.B. free porn video
October 2012.
Zipping up the cool leather boots to within an inch of my knee always sent a delicious shiver racing up my spine. It wasn’t just the temperature of the soft material against my bare flesh, it was what it symbolised; what it made me.
It made me his.
Alone I sat, framed between pillars either side of the headboard that was almost twice the width of the one at home. Green irises stared back from the mirror on the wardrobe opposite, chest heaving with anticipation beneath the snug-fitting black dress. I’d elected to wear my hair down, its inky length outlining features lightly accented with mascara, a dusting of blusher and a ruby lipstick to which I was unaccustomed. With the make-up the only colour in my otherwise monochrome outfit, I bore more than a passing resemblance to Sin City's Ava Lord, yet fretted it wasn’t a bold enough statement for him.
Uncertainty occupied every second that ticked through treacle towards the designated hour. Should I be early or fashionably late? Would tardiness displease him or increase his desire for me? He could be so unpredictable, which was precisely his allure. I trembled a little and willed my nerves to calm, running through his checklist in my head to give myself focus.
The first item: boots. An end-of-season bargain from the previous year, they hugged my calves, delivering an air of femininity, elegance, yet striking authority. The extra handful of inches in height they afforded gave me fabulous poise, accentuating hips that I traced with my fingertips, slowly following the contour of my hourglass up to the swell of my chest, then down and down, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from the material and my body beneath.
Brushing flesh a mere couple of hand-widths from the top of my thighs, I shuddered. The list merely stated "something short" yet I could hardly believe the dress still fit me. The thought of what he would be able to see when I sat, and how close others would be to discovering my charms as I breezed through the lobby flushed warmth to my cheeks.
Breathing deeply, I stared hard at my reflection, the sensible side of me searching for reasons to run while my more reckless inner tramp was raring to play his sexy game. Deep down I knew there wasn’t much point fighting: I wanted to blame the boots for uncaging Her, but knew which side of my psyche was really in control. The proof was when I gingerly parted my legs to check the next item from the list, heart rate increasing several notches when the light from the hotel's bedside lamp caught a telltale glazing of wetness across my smooth lips. My belly fluttered and I clipped my knees back together. If the evening took the path I hoped, there was no doubt that She would make an appearance and take charge as desire overflowed, but I wanted to delay the inevitable.
Nervous energy consumed me and I paced the room as distraction therapy, plush carpet springing back with each step, like fresh moss beneath the soles. Although no stranger to the footwear, I knew the execution of my entrance had to be flawless. I'd seen too many girls in killer heels do themselves a major disservice by tottering ungainly into a room instead of allowing the shoes to help sell the package.
I practised the perfect walk, heel-toe, heel-toe, trying to ease myself into the correct mindset. He wanted the confident, sassy me who would challenge and tease him, not the everyday, indecisive introvert. Hands on hips I stared myself down, unhappy with the overall effect, frustrated that I couldn't even seem to act in a manner that lived up to the promises the outfit portrayed. There was something missing, some quality that would make me own the boots instead of vice versa.
Trying again, I accentuated my swagger with varying degrees of success before I hit upon the catwalk strut, slightly crossing my feet to parade along an imaginary beam. The effect was sensational and I swelled with pride. He would definitely approve. It exuded power, radiance and, most importantly, sex appeal. I repeated the move, each time better than the last, finally smiling at the result, boosted… until I spotted the time.
Cursing and grabbing my clutch bag from the bed I gave one last lingering look in the mirror, telling myself I could totally do this, then crossed the room, swung the heavy bedroom door inward and whipped the room card from its holder, plunging the place into darkness. The next sound was the door latching some distance behind me.
Using the strides I’d just perfected I sashayed along the garish carpet that lined the corridor, past closed doors from which snatches of TV shows or conversations bled. I became intensely aware of my pussy lips rubbing and squeezing together with each step, cooler air swirling under the ridiculously short dress as I swept towards the elevator. Confidence grew, inhibitions faded like the memory of summer, transforming me from chrysalis to the alpha female after whom he lusted. The boundary where apprehension ended and excitement began was a blur, ensuring I remained wet.
Summoning the lift gave me a short while to reflect upon my day. The morning had been fairly ordinary save for the printer going down for an hour, which upset management more than anyone else. But it had been almost impossible to get through the afternoon thanks to the lunchtime texts that burnt a hole in my knickers.
They started out playfully: "I want you to myself. Tonight. It's been too long."
I pictured him tapping in the words with his piano player's fingers, choosing carefully for the greatest effect. He was meticulous like that. I'd replied: "I can't. I have plans." I almost added "With Adam," but thought it might be a shade too far.
His response took long enough for me to start to wonder if I'd disappointed him already: "No you don't. Cancel them. You're mine from 7:30. The suite is paid for."
With already trembling hands I tapped out: "Suite?"
"Radisson Blu. Cash. Nobody will ever find out.”
“There's always a trail.”
The reply was swift this time: “My hot little pussy getting cold feet?”
“It's not like that.”
“Then I'll see you at 7:30. Wear something classy and short. No underwear. And your FMBs."
Oh the boots, the fucking boots. How could I resist?
The remaining texts described what he'd do to me in increasingly graphic detail, to the point I started turning red at my desk. Kept checking over my shoulder to make sure nobody in the office could see what he'd sent and in the end had to leave to cool down. Knew I should delete the messages, but the conversation was too delicious for that. I re-read its entirety a few times during the afternoon, each iteration rekindling the heat and wetness at his use of the words "caress", “ravish”, “kiss”, “shove”, “lick”, “ice” and “spank”. The whole sexual spectrum was represented, from love to lust and beyond. I'd been a shaking wreck ever since, adding precious little value to the company's bottom line, my imagination taking over instead.
The lift pinged obediently, silver doors sliding open to reveal the empty interior. I entered, watching myself every step of the way in the mirrored upper half before reaching for the control surface and keying my destination. The doors imprisoned me, and even though the lift descended steadily, my stomach remained on the fifteenth floor.
The lack of control was suffocating, yet somehow liberating. Everything about the evening was his choice, from the swanky location right down to the very clothes I was wearing. And those I wasn’t. To him, I was merely entertainment, his plaything for the evening. A malleable rag-doll he could wine, dine, bend, treat, mistreat, taste, fuck, and everything in between. I ought to have felt shame or revulsion at being chattel, but my nipples straining against the lacy bra, and the juice factory working overtime between my legs belied any such notion.
The lift slowed and stopped at eight allowing a middle-aged couple to step in, well heeled for dinner. A cursory acknowledgement was all that passed between us as I shifted slightly to make room, but as the carriage continued its downward crawl the woman cast me a dirty look and then averted her eyes. Like I was a footprint on her crème brulée. Paranoid, I whirled to check myself in the mirror. No obvious signs of anything out of place, but when I spun back to face the door her objection became clear: the unmistakable miasma of a woman in heat. I hadn't noticed until that moment, but my arousal drifted from beneath the hem of my dress, heady and thick in the confines of the small lift. Involuntarily I blushed and looked at my boots, squeezing my legs together to stem the flow, willing the lift to hurry.
I let the muttering couple exit first then strode, chin up, after them, peeling off left towards the bar area, unsure if the clack of the boots against the marbled floor or my dress were the reason several male heads swivelled my way. Maybe it was both. I felt them staring at me from over their newspapers or pint glasses. One put-out wife gave her husband a sharp kick for ogling me and I couldn't help but let a satisfied smile creep across my face. They all wanted me. Undressed me with their filthy imaginations. Wished I were standing over them wearing nothing but the boots and a dripping hot pussy with which to grind on their faces and hard cocks until the small hours. My confidence was boosted at the realisation that, despite my shapely yet otherwise unremarkable curves, I really did ooze desire. It made me tingle.
The bar was lively, some inoffensive jazz fusion drifting between the gaps in conversation. Men in sports jackets and crisp pastel shirts unwound with colleagues and clients after a day of making the business world turn. Couples passed the time, politely sipping pre-dinner drinks and perusing the menu. But they were all mere window dressing for my whole reason for being in the place, the main event sitting at the bar, his back to me.
His short brown crop of hair ascended from the collar of a dark suit that was tapered to his trim physique over a burgundy shirt, while a highly polished shoe tapped to the beat. I threaded my way over. With each foot that landed in front of the other I willed him to turn so he could see the practice I'd put in, but he remained steadfast, facing forward. As I approached and hopped onto the bar stool alongside him, heart thudding its own counterpoint to the music, I saw he was tracing a long finger around the rim of a glass containing amber liquid over ice. He didn't acknowledge me, continued to stare across the flecked surface of the bar.
"You're late."
It was very matter-of-fact. Almost cold. I slid my clutch bag onto the bar. "Haven't you heard that all good things come to those who wait?" He nodded, grudgingly and I tossed a smile that he missed. "Well I'm the epitome."
Satisfied, he waved the barman over. "Singapore Sling for the lady. I'll have another JD and a dash of coke."
I arched my eyebrows. "Presumptuous of you."
He flashed a toothy smile then returned to staring across the bar. "No need to act innocent, dressed in those Fuck-Me Boots and little else. You're here because…" he tailed off, waiting for me to complete the sentence.
"Because I'm yours for the evening."
That pleased him. "Yes. Yes you are." He drained his glass and returned it to the shiny surface of the bar, sliding it forward like it was Rook to Bishop four, leaving a ragged trail of moisture in its wake. "Tell me, how many men in this room do you think want you?"
I swept the room, gauging numbers. "Quite a few. Fifteen maybe?"
He shook his head. "All of them. Every last man in this room wants to tear that dress from your body and drive his cock inside you. Wants to smell you, taste you, hear you scream as you come, then make you take their seed in your mouth. Or pussy. Or your firm arse." I found myself agreeing even though it was more a statement than a question. "Yes, every man wants you. But who here can have you?"
My breath caught before I answered. "Only you."
"And why is that again?"
"Because I'm yours."
"And what can I do to you?"
I exhaled noisily. "Anything. Everything."
"And how will you take it?"
"Gratefully. Willingly." My voice cracked. "Like a whore."
His grin widened. I'd clearly passed the test. "What if I allowed you some say in proceedings? What would you have us do?"
The barman delivered our drinks, accepting the twenty slid across the bar with a curt nod. I played with the paper umbrella before folding it so I could access the cherries, swirling them in the red liquid, eyeing my date. I couldn't very well say what had flashed through my mind: to hop off the bar stool, unzip him, blow him to full hardness, then climb onto his lap right there and sink his length inside me. Sometimes, my urges were so damned inappropriate. Instead I went with: "Eat. Dance. Fuck."
My frankness caught his attention and he seemed to notice me properly for the first time, casting an appreciative eye over my attire. His gaze lingered on my exposed neckline as if I were the last non-vampire on Earth.
"You look good enough to eat."
"I sincerely hope so."
"You wearing what we discussed?"
I nodded, took a sip and felt the alcohol warm my throat followed by the tart rush of cranberry juice. He continued:
"How does it make you feel?"
"Naughty."
"And?"
I fixed him a sultry gaze, brought the cocktail stick to my mouth and slowly drew a cherry between my lips, casting my eyes to his crotch as the fruit split against my teeth. It pleased me that there was motion beneath the material. Sometimes clichés are born because they simply work. Leaning in a little and lowering my voice I breathed, "Wet."
He licked his lips. "Show me."
Checking over my shoulder to make sure we weren’t being overlooked, I swung my legs from under the bar to face him. The air crackled between us as I slowly parted them, revealing my sticky insides to his obvious appreciation. I didn't allow him to linger on the vista, a real-life snapchat, leaving him wanting more while I returned to swirling a cocktail stick in my drink. As I brought the remaining cherry to my lips, he darted for me and grabbed my wrist.
"Feed it to me."
I turned the stick in his direction, but he shook his head. "Wetter than that." His hazel eyes sliding all the way down over my curves to rest at the base of my dress left no doubt over what he expected.
Heart hammering in my chest, keeping my eyes on his I drew the cherry between my teeth from the cocktail stick, deliberately slowly, letting the wooden spear fall to the bar. With a measured movement to enhance the lewdness I turned my body to face him again and prised my legs apart. Fetching the cherry from my mouth I first kissed it and then watched him track its path south until he was staring right at my core. Being wanted was insanely hot. As I glided the fruit ever closer to my entrance, his eyes widened until I thought he’d burst with excitement. I controlled the flinch as the cherry made contact and was astonished at how wet I really was. There was hardly any need to push inside, the surface of the fruit was already coated with my sweet glaze, but I dipped half of it inside myself, then abruptly extracted it, shut my legs and leant forward again, proffering the juicy object.
Hungrily, his lips sought the tips of my fingers, eyes drifting closed as he tasted his prize. His mouth felt warm around my digits and he took more than necessary, swirling his tongue over them to the second knuckle. When he pulled back, they glistened in the bar light. He snapped his eyes open.
"Touch yourself."
I didn't move immediately. Wasn't sure I could do it without getting carried away in my current state of arousal. But I knew the rules: do what he says or pay the consequences later. Truth be told, the consequences could be just as exhilarating. Certainly last time I defied him, it ended with my arms tied and him burying his spunk deep in my tight bottom. I shivered at the beautiful recollection, the key to my immediate future hanging in the balance. Maybe insubordination would reap similar rewards again, but could I risk it?
He sat there unmoving. Waiting.
Decision made, I again checked over my shoulder. Everyone seemed engrossed in their own private bubbles of conversation and the barman was tending to a portly couple in ill-fitting clothes. Returning to face the gorgeous man alongside me, I watched his eyes surrounded by long lashes track my wet fingers the way he had done the cherry. Once again my legs parted stickily and I hovered my hand in front of my pussy before tracing the shape of the outer petals with his saliva, loving his reaction.
It was so dirty. As I feared, the fact he loved me acting this way amplified the experience and made me hornier by the second, teetering on the edge of releasing Her. I drifted a finger to the centre and pressed it inside, opening my mouth at the touch and wishing my digit was his smooth cock instead. I left it there as long as I dared then withdrew, closed my legs again and turned back to the bar, running my juices around the rim of my cocktail glass. With a wicked glint in my eye I slid the drink towards him like it was my own chess piece. He picked it up and brought it to his lips, first tasting me and then washing it down with a slug of the crimson liquid.
He smiled. “You hungry?"
"In more ways than you'll know."
"Then let's eat.”
Stepping from the bar stool, he offered me his hand. In the extreme boots I was level with him, which was a refreshing change. As he leaned past to fetch our drinks I breathed his cologne. Earthy and masculine, it stirred my hormones.
He waited then indicated the way. “Ladies first.” To outsiders it was a chivalrous gesture, one man impressing his date with good manners. But I knew the real reason was so he could ogle my arse wiggling in the dress. So I gave him the full works, pacing evocatively, catwalk-style across the room to the far corner, feeling his twin lasers burning into my full rump with every step, and catching glimpses of more men from nearby tables eyeing me up. I flushed, convinced that the base of my naked bum was visible to anyone I passed. It was such a turn-on and by the time we reached the maître d' I sensed a trace of juice smeared against my inside leg.
“Good evening. Do you have a reservation?”
I nodded and gave him the details. As he scanned the list I felt my date step into my space, his breath tickling my neck and his hardness against me. I shivered. All of a sudden I wasn't sure I could manage to sit through the entire meal without sweeping the plates to the floor, clambering across the table and fucking him.
The maître d' evidently found us. “Ah yes, follow me please.”
He led us to one edge of the restaurant and pulled a chair for me in front of the crisp linen tablecloth and array of cutlery glinting in the soft lights. Unfurling my napkin with a practised flick of a wrist, he draped it across my lap unaware of just how close his hand came to my nakedness. I shuddered as he informed us of the daily specials and left us with both the food and wine menus that I perused.
Steak. It had to be steak. Medium-rare with peppercorn sauce and seasonal vegetables. Accompanied with a 2009 Châteauneuf-du-Pape. The man directly across the table from me selected the tenderloin and we sat back, finishing our cocktails before the wine arrived, splashed and aerated expertly into the goblet like purple fire, the tannin clinging to the inside surface a few beats. It was every bit as good as I expected, warm, ripe and fruity.
His eyes sparkled over his wine glass, five-o-clock shadow visible across his firm jaw. “If we were alone I'd peel that dress from you, dribble this over your body and drink it from you.”
“What a terrible waste of good wine.”
“Depends where I'd drink it from.”
I could only imagine. He drank both his wine and my visage simultaneously, placing his glass carefully in front of him. "Hand me your panties."
The colour drained from my face and I went cold. Shit. In my haste and pre-occupation with perfecting the walk I'd entirely forgotten his final rule. I was supposed to wear them all day, take them off just prior to the date and bring them with me. I pictured them crumpled and perfectly stained on the bed, now useless.
Looking down at my cutlery, a small voice escaped. "I, uhhh, forgot them." When I swung my gaze up to his, expecting displeasure, I found something else instead. A twisted smile.
"No panties, no deal."
"Wait! No. I can fetch them now. Bring them to you. You'll not notice the…"
He silenced me, waving his hand like I wasn't the droids he was looking for. "No panties. No deal. Tonight you fuck yourself alone."
"No!"
"Unless…"
"What? Anything." Jesus, I hated sounding so desperate.
The crooked grin returned. "Forfeit."
I didn't like the sound of that, but I had screwed up. I exhaled. "What?"
He didn't answer immediately. Made me squirm. Took a long pull of his wine. "Play with yourself under the table."
Was that all? I could hardly believe that was the extent of it, but knew I had to comply. I craved his cock that much. Running my fingers below the table edge, I traced them to my thigh beneath the napkin and wiggled, sliding the already short dress upwards. The heat from my pussy was incredible; could power a small city for a day. I brought a digit to my centre and coated it with juices, then dared to run it up to my clit. He could immediately tell when I hit the spot as my eyes fluttered. Fuck, it felt amazing. Relief if not release.
With one elbow resting on the table, hand partially concealing my mouth to prevent the breathy 'Ohs' and chewed lip from revealing what was going on beneath, I started to ease into a rhythm. Dip. Slide. Circle. Dip. Slide. Circle. Every so often I'd glance around the room to check I wasn't observed. Other times I'd be watching him watch me, evidently pleased at my wanton behaviour. My pussy oozed fluid and I swept it to my central oyster, perpetuating the juice cycle. A self-fulfilling contract between my electrified clit and wet tunnel.
As excitement percolated in my belly, gradually rising to take over my whole body, I began to want again, the same as I had at the bar. To want him, right then, as if the other restaurant patrons were oblivious to our actions, yet thrilled that they would witness our bucking union over the tabletop as he pawed my tits and filled me in the effortless manner that makes me melt. The exhibitionism would double the effect of every inch he slid inside me, every bite of my nipples, every shallow breath in my ear.
I pressed onwards, inwards, watching him the whole time through narrow slits. Waiting for any further command, but losing the ability to respond with each passing second. My sluice gates opened, faint clicking audible to anyone who dared to listen closely as I neared climax, breath shortening and becoming louder. He recognised the signs and when I was a mere handful of insistent circles away from exploding, one word shattered my progress:
"Stop."
So cruel. I didn't at first, trying to finish, quickly realising that might not be prudent. So I slowed, leaving my hand still touching myself, eventually pausing as requested. Waiting.
"Wipe yourself up." I arched my eyebrows. "With the napkin."
Was he serious? It seemed that way, his calm exterior patiently awaiting my compliance. I brought my sticky hand atop the pressed linen in my lap, spread my thighs and pushed down and inward once more. The cloth began to absorb my wetness and I gently stroked the area, using the touches as an excuse to continue elevating myself. Why had he chosen now to make me stop, the bastard? I continued to mop my sopping area, feeling the material stick to me with each stroke. Looked up at him enjoying my predicament.
He leant forward and whispered, "OK good. Now come for me, all over the napkin."
Already so close, I was only too glad to continue. I pressed my finger through the starched material, connecting with my inflamed clit. An involuntary gasp escaped my lips and I snapped my eyes around the room to see if anyone had noticed before resuming, making rough circles. The lights in the room began to dim and I realised it was because my eyes were closing. My mouth opened as I sucked in more oxygen to fuel the fire inside me.
A distant beat began to drum my veins, bubbling, roiling, a hammering starting in my ears and rippling the length of my body, eddying my pelvis. The decision over whether to come was no longer mine to make. One hand clutched the table edge while the other coaxed tumbling wetness from inside. Seconds later the restaurant faded, to be replaced with dancing colours as the borrowed linen bore the brunt of my orgasm.
I was vaguely aware of panting, trying to keep as much of a lid on what I was doing, but succeeding only as far as my body and mind were able. My clit pinched inwards, contracting, winking, drawing my tunnel with it roughly once a second as juices flew from me. It was so fucking decadent to come in front of everyone else in the establishment, whether they noticed or not. Heat erupted and filled every corner of my being simultaneously, not rippling through me like it sometimes did. My whole body glowed like the element of a toaster, pulsing deeply as I rode the long tail of climax, almost unaware of the world until the idle chatter of guests filtered back to my consciousness.
Fluttering my eyes open, the first thing I saw was him, mouth agape, clearly appreciative of my show. He nodded. "Put the napkin on the table."
I shot him a glare but slowly peeled the napkin from my lips and did as he asked, trying to cover up the obvious dark patch. He coughed. "Wet side up."
With trembling hands I rearranged the linen so the stain was facing the ceiling. It glistened in the low light, silvery trails criss-crossing its surface, clearly not from a simple liquid spill. I went red. He seemed to revel in my discomfort.
I reached for my wine and drank deeply, aware of my chest still heaving and orgasmic flotsam in my veins. He replenished my glass, settled back with his own drink, pleased with himself.
No words were spoken until the meal arrived. The waiter was efficient, attentive, clearly very good at his job, the mouth-watering dish presented exquisitely, a testament to the exclusivity of the restaurant. I prayed he wouldn't notice my arousal on the napkin.
With mine delivered, the remaining meal was set down on the place mat across from me. "Thank you," he said. "I wonder, would you please replace my companion's napkin? She appears to have soiled that one."
I stared at him, open-mouthed and turned crimson. The waiter nodded. "Of course, Sir." He came round to my side of the table again and I leaned slightly away to allow him to reach across me and retrieve the dirty item. Ever professional, he didn't make a scene when his fingers stuck to the surface before he scrunched my pussy juice into the centre, but I swear he glanced at me oddly. I wasn't sure I liked the look on his face. There was every possibility the napkin inventory would be one short that evening. I shuddered at the thought of what he might do with it.
The steak was divine, every forkful melting as it should, the only problem being it was over too soon. On the upside, that did mean I was closer to getting fucked, and I sure as hell needed that. Could almost feel the familiar heat of his length pressing deep, his after-shave filling my lungs as I breathed him in.
I silently cursed him for ordering coffee, wondering how he could bear to delay the inevitable. Surely the anticipation must have been tearing him up in the same manner as it was me. All the time through the drink and subsequent bill exchange I had to endure his piercing looks, those filthy ones that undressed me, that demonstrated in no uncertain terms how much I was his property. He knew waiting made it better. Wilder.
Eventually though, the words, "Shall we retire?" were a sheer delight to my ears, even though he insisted once more that I walked before him. Thinly disguised chivalry aside, there was some delightful power in strutting ahead of him, chunky heels clicking, bum wiggling all the way across the lobby to the elevator, this time a different set of men dreaming of ravishing me. I wanted them to watch. Wanted to stop walking, bend at the waist, grab my ankles and have the man behind me puncture my drizzling slit as the men in the lobby formed a circle, encouraging me to take it faster, harder. The braver ones would pull out their shiny cocks, feed them to my waiting mouth in succession, splitting my lips as I was fucked, losing their willpower and firing salty spunk down my throat. Then pulling back to lash it across my searching tongue, pumping it over my contorted face.
The ride up to the fifteenth was further torture. I wanted to hit the emergency stop, unbuckle his trousers, crush him to the wall, hook a shiny boot around his body and feel him take me. I didn't care what it made me. Escort. Harlot. Slut. As long as I was filled. But I endured the ride and seemingly endless corridor until finally, the faceless hotel room door was before me. The click of the latch sounded cavernous.
Sliding the keycard into the holder by the bathroom door with a shaking hand, the room illuminated. He guided me to the centre and made me wait as he selected some music. Something I didn't know with a beat. He returned, perched on the edge of the bed where I had been earlier, and picked up my forgotten underwear. "Dance."
I hooked into the music, self-consciously at first, gradually losing myself, turning away from him to grind my rear in his direction. He was an absolute sucker for my arse. I'd lost count of the number of times he'd been inside it, licking my dirty hole, stretching, preparing. Maybe tonight would be plus-one-more. I eased up the hem to show him my delicious bait, gyrating it sexily then returning the tight dress to cover the goods. Teasing worked both ways.
He sat there ogling my wares, lifted my used panties to his face and inhaled deeply, rubbing the crotch all over his nose and mouth. He adored my scent. Would gladly spend hours between my legs if I let him.
He beckoned me. "Open your mouth."
I did, and he shoved the panties in. "Muffles the screams," he explained. "On the bed."
Standing, he allowed me to crawl onto the king size bed, admiring me. "Stay on all fours. Turn around. Face the mirror."
With a deliberate slowness that nowhere near matched the engine revving inside me, I turned. In the mirror I saw desperation in my eyes. Gagged and waiting, dripping with want. He made me wait a little longer, before shuffling onto the bed on his knees, positioning himself behind me. He removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, peeled the dress up over my globes to bunch at my hips and smacked each cheek, playfully at first, becoming bolder, harder, eliciting cries that the panties absorbed.
When I reached my pain threshold and was sure my bum was glowing red, I heard his fly, the rustle of his underwear, and felt the heat of his turgid cock at my entrance. "You want me?"
I saw myself nod in the wardrobe mirror.
"Slow?"
I shook my head.
"Hard?"
A nod of affirmation.
"You dirty fucking slut."
He grabbed my hips and pressed forward, making me whimper into the panty gag. God it felt good. My pussy lips split and he filled me completely, pulling out roughly and slamming back in. I barely recognised the woman in the reflection. So wanton. Eyes begging to be fucked, expression melting with every forward thrust of his hips, mouth stretched around my own underwear.
There was something animalistic about his performance. The gentleness of one or two previous hotel encounters a distant memory. With no loving embraces, this one was simply raw. Necessary. Frenzied.
He leaned back, grabbed the heels of my boots and bucked into me, a solid staff amid my wetness. Using my forearms I pushed down against the bed, shoving myself harder against him, our bodies slapping into the bedroom between the music.
"Yeah that's right. Fuck me, you horny slut. Your hot cunt is all mine, and worth every penny."
I knew it already, but loved hearing it, groaning into the gag at his crude words, breathing heavily. He rummaged in his trouser pocket and tossed some twenties over my back. Utterly owned.
Reaching forward, he sought my lips and pulled the gag from me, growling, "Who owns you?"
"You do."
"Who can do anything to your body?"
My eyes flashed with need as I whispered. "You can."
"Who?"
Louder: "You can."
"And when should I do it?"
I chewed my lip, stared into his eyes via the mirror. "Now. Please do it now. Plea…" I was cut off by him stuffing my panties in my mouth again, after which he leaned back again to take in the view of my firm derriere bucking against his body. I could see the need in him welling up just before his hand raised.
Another cascade of spanks rained down on my behind, each responsible for adding a tributary to the stream that trickled down my thighs to the bed. He sawed his hardness into me relentlessly, the pent up self-denial of the day finally awarded an outlet. I don't know which of us needed it more.
All I could be sure of was that neither of us were going to last much longer. I was becoming overwhelmed and sensed he was too, his strong hands kneading my hips roughly as he pounded. The angle our bodies made ensured his thrusts glanced off parts of me that I adored being rubbed. A delightful internal massage that complemented the rawness of our dirty liaison, building on the filthy texts we'd exchanged. The hours of sexual torment consummated in such a beautifully unrefined display of physical need.
A finger at my rear pressed insistently. I relaxed, letting him slip inside and redoubled my efforts to fuck him, my second orgasm surfacing.
With his free hand he grabbed my hair, yanked my head back and used the anchor to ride me wildly. "I've wanted you all fucking day," he snarled. "And now I'm going to come in your slutty wet pussy."
I moaned my acceptance, feeling his pumping become erratic immediately preceding a roar as his load filled me. I watched, mesmerised in the mirror as his head tipped back, before thrusting against him hard. I froze, coming with him, barely able to watch my mouth twitching with pleasure as heat tore through my body and our explosions collided.
There's nothing quite like orgasm. Popping candy in my brain every few seconds, conducting a symphony to which I alone know the tune. It takes a short while to ramp up fully and then paralyses me with a delicious connectedness. As if every hair follicle is a receptor that channels the energy of the room and of him directly into my veins. The best thing is that, although the initial burst is over all too briefly, the tail keeps on giving, sometimes for hours. I can drift afterwards, even while performing mundane tasks like shopping, re-living the moment of climax to a lesser extent many times over.
But there was nothing mundane about our most recent act. My insides were alive, despite being emotionally drained from the climax. I wanted more, my inner slut energised. More bucking, more spanking, more unrestrained cries, more suffocating orgasms as his hot, fat cock invaded my wettest, tightest places. He made me feel new.
My mind reeled, alert. I pictured us rounding out the evening in the sumptuous room, him peeling off my dress leaving me in nothing but the boots, finishing with the bottle on ice by the coffee table, giggling like teenagers. Maybe once he'd recovered he'd take me roughly there too, draped on my back across the low furniture, tipping the bubbling liquid over my tits, sucking and lapping it up as he pounded into me. Lifting my legs over his shoulders, he could pour the effervescing liquid over my boots and clean it up with his talented tongue. An expensive luxury, but oh so worth it.
Maybe after being covered in sticky alcohol we'd end up fucking in the shower, slippery hands on soapy skin, water battling to wash away the sin of acting a slut as I beg for more of his steel inside me. Heaven is so not for girls like me.
I could still feel him inside me even after he had withdrawn and I'd collapsed on my tummy, sweaty and very happy. The ripples continued to eddy from my sensitive core to the extremities of my body below the leather boots, long after I mustered the strength to roll over and stare at the crisp ceiling. Pulling the panties from my mouth I reflected on my shameless performance. My fingertips idly traced the slight hump of my abdomen and up to the base of my breasts, tingly and full, nipples poking hard against the restriction of the small dress.
Lying sated on the bed I sought his hot hand and gazed across at him, our fingers entwining. My husband smiled back, wriggled, and retrieved a three-inch square of paper from his trouser pocket, dropping it on my chest, his handwriting visible between the single fold. An entry plucked from our fantasy jar.
I flashed Adam a loaded smile, leaned across and kissed him, his breathing still heavy from the exertion. "My turn to choose next time."
Zipping up the cool leather boots to within an inch of my knee always sent a delicious shiver racing up my spine. It wasn’t just the temperature of the soft material against my bare flesh, it was what it symbolised; what it made me.
It made me his.
Alone I sat, framed between pillars either side of the headboard that was almost twice the width of the one at home. Green irises stared back from the mirror on the wardrobe opposite, chest heaving with anticipation beneath the snug-fitting black dress. I’d elected to wear my hair down, its inky length outlining features lightly accented with mascara, a dusting of blusher and a ruby lipstick to which I was unaccustomed. With the make-up the only colour in my otherwise monochrome outfit, I bore more than a passing resemblance to Sin City's Ava Lord, yet fretted it wasn’t a bold enough statement for him.
Uncertainty occupied every second that ticked through treacle towards the designated hour. Should I be early or fashionably late? Would tardiness displease him or increase his desire for me? He could be so unpredictable, which was precisely his allure. I trembled a little and willed my nerves to calm, running through his checklist in my head to give myself focus.
The first item: boots. An end-of-season bargain from the previous year, they hugged my calves, delivering an air of femininity, elegance, yet striking authority. The extra handful of inches in height they afforded gave me fabulous poise, accentuating hips that I traced with my fingertips, slowly following the contour of my hourglass up to the swell of my chest, then down and down, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from the material and my body beneath.
Brushing flesh a mere couple of hand-widths from the top of my thighs, I shuddered. The list merely stated "something short" yet I could hardly believe the dress still fit me. The thought of what he would be able to see when I sat, and how close others would be to discovering my charms as I breezed through the lobby flushed warmth to my cheeks.
Breathing deeply, I stared hard at my reflection, the sensible side of me searching for reasons to run while my more reckless inner tramp was raring to play his sexy game. Deep down I knew there wasn’t much point fighting: I wanted to blame the boots for uncaging Her, but knew which side of my psyche was really in control. The proof was when I gingerly parted my legs to check the next item from the list, heart rate increasing several notches when the light from the hotel's bedside lamp caught a telltale glazing of wetness across my smooth lips. My belly fluttered and I clipped my knees back together. If the evening took the path I hoped, there was no doubt that She would make an appearance and take charge as desire overflowed, but I wanted to delay the inevitable.
Nervous energy consumed me and I paced the room as distraction therapy, plush carpet springing back with each step, like fresh moss beneath the soles. Although no stranger to the footwear, I knew the execution of my entrance had to be flawless. I'd seen too many girls in killer heels do themselves a major disservice by tottering ungainly into a room instead of allowing the shoes to help sell the package.
I practised the perfect walk, heel-toe, heel-toe, trying to ease myself into the correct mindset. He wanted the confident, sassy me who would challenge and tease him, not the everyday, indecisive introvert. Hands on hips I stared myself down, unhappy with the overall effect, frustrated that I couldn't even seem to act in a manner that lived up to the promises the outfit portrayed. There was something missing, some quality that would make me own the boots instead of vice versa.
Trying again, I accentuated my swagger with varying degrees of success before I hit upon the catwalk strut, slightly crossing my feet to parade along an imaginary beam. The effect was sensational and I swelled with pride. He would definitely approve. It exuded power, radiance and, most importantly, sex appeal. I repeated the move, each time better than the last, finally smiling at the result, boosted… until I spotted the time.
Cursing and grabbing my clutch bag from the bed I gave one last lingering look in the mirror, telling myself I could totally do this, then crossed the room, swung the heavy bedroom door inward and whipped the room card from its holder, plunging the place into darkness. The next sound was the door latching some distance behind me.
Using the strides I’d just perfected I sashayed along the garish carpet that lined the corridor, past closed doors from which snatches of TV shows or conversations bled. I became intensely aware of my pussy lips rubbing and squeezing together with each step, cooler air swirling under the ridiculously short dress as I swept towards the elevator. Confidence grew, inhibitions faded like the memory of summer, transforming me from chrysalis to the alpha female after whom he lusted. The boundary where apprehension ended and excitement began was a blur, ensuring I remained wet.
Summoning the lift gave me a short while to reflect upon my day. The morning had been fairly ordinary save for the printer going down for an hour, which upset management more than anyone else. But it had been almost impossible to get through the afternoon thanks to the lunchtime texts that burnt a hole in my knickers.
They started out playfully: "I want you to myself. Tonight. It's been too long."
I pictured him tapping in the words with his piano player's fingers, choosing carefully for the greatest effect. He was meticulous like that. I'd replied: "I can't. I have plans." I almost added "With Adam," but thought it might be a shade too far.
His response took long enough for me to start to wonder if I'd disappointed him already: "No you don't. Cancel them. You're mine from 7:30. The suite is paid for."
With already trembling hands I tapped out: "Suite?"
"Radisson Blu. Cash. Nobody will ever find out.”
“There's always a trail.”
The reply was swift this time: “My hot little pussy getting cold feet?”
“It's not like that.”
“Then I'll see you at 7:30. Wear something classy and short. No underwear. And your FMBs."
Oh the boots, the fucking boots. How could I resist?
The remaining texts described what he'd do to me in increasingly graphic detail, to the point I started turning red at my desk. Kept checking over my shoulder to make sure nobody in the office could see what he'd sent and in the end had to leave to cool down. Knew I should delete the messages, but the conversation was too delicious for that. I re-read its entirety a few times during the afternoon, each iteration rekindling the heat and wetness at his use of the words "caress", “ravish”, “kiss”, “shove”, “lick”, “ice” and “spank”. The whole sexual spectrum was represented, from love to lust and beyond. I'd been a shaking wreck ever since, adding precious little value to the company's bottom line, my imagination taking over instead.
The lift pinged obediently, silver doors sliding open to reveal the empty interior. I entered, watching myself every step of the way in the mirrored upper half before reaching for the control surface and keying my destination. The doors imprisoned me, and even though the lift descended steadily, my stomach remained on the fifteenth floor.
The lack of control was suffocating, yet somehow liberating. Everything about the evening was his choice, from the swanky location right down to the very clothes I was wearing. And those I wasn’t. To him, I was merely entertainment, his plaything for the evening. A malleable rag-doll he could wine, dine, bend, treat, mistreat, taste, fuck, and everything in between. I ought to have felt shame or revulsion at being chattel, but my nipples straining against the lacy bra, and the juice factory working overtime between my legs belied any such notion.
The lift slowed and stopped at eight allowing a middle-aged couple to step in, well heeled for dinner. A cursory acknowledgement was all that passed between us as I shifted slightly to make room, but as the carriage continued its downward crawl the woman cast me a dirty look and then averted her eyes. Like I was a footprint on her crème brulée. Paranoid, I whirled to check myself in the mirror. No obvious signs of anything out of place, but when I spun back to face the door her objection became clear: the unmistakable miasma of a woman in heat. I hadn't noticed until that moment, but my arousal drifted from beneath the hem of my dress, heady and thick in the confines of the small lift. Involuntarily I blushed and looked at my boots, squeezing my legs together to stem the flow, willing the lift to hurry.
I let the muttering couple exit first then strode, chin up, after them, peeling off left towards the bar area, unsure if the clack of the boots against the marbled floor or my dress were the reason several male heads swivelled my way. Maybe it was both. I felt them staring at me from over their newspapers or pint glasses. One put-out wife gave her husband a sharp kick for ogling me and I couldn't help but let a satisfied smile creep across my face. They all wanted me. Undressed me with their filthy imaginations. Wished I were standing over them wearing nothing but the boots and a dripping hot pussy with which to grind on their faces and hard cocks until the small hours. My confidence was boosted at the realisation that, despite my shapely yet otherwise unremarkable curves, I really did ooze desire. It made me tingle.
The bar was lively, some inoffensive jazz fusion drifting between the gaps in conversation. Men in sports jackets and crisp pastel shirts unwound with colleagues and clients after a day of making the business world turn. Couples passed the time, politely sipping pre-dinner drinks and perusing the menu. But they were all mere window dressing for my whole reason for being in the place, the main event sitting at the bar, his back to me.
His short brown crop of hair ascended from the collar of a dark suit that was tapered to his trim physique over a burgundy shirt, while a highly polished shoe tapped to the beat. I threaded my way over. With each foot that landed in front of the other I willed him to turn so he could see the practice I'd put in, but he remained steadfast, facing forward. As I approached and hopped onto the bar stool alongside him, heart thudding its own counterpoint to the music, I saw he was tracing a long finger around the rim of a glass containing amber liquid over ice. He didn't acknowledge me, continued to stare across the flecked surface of the bar.
"You're late."
It was very matter-of-fact. Almost cold. I slid my clutch bag onto the bar. "Haven't you heard that all good things come to those who wait?" He nodded, grudgingly and I tossed a smile that he missed. "Well I'm the epitome."
Satisfied, he waved the barman over. "Singapore Sling for the lady. I'll have another JD and a dash of coke."
I arched my eyebrows. "Presumptuous of you."
He flashed a toothy smile then returned to staring across the bar. "No need to act innocent, dressed in those Fuck-Me Boots and little else. You're here because…" he tailed off, waiting for me to complete the sentence.
"Because I'm yours for the evening."
That pleased him. "Yes. Yes you are." He drained his glass and returned it to the shiny surface of the bar, sliding it forward like it was Rook to Bishop four, leaving a ragged trail of moisture in its wake. "Tell me, how many men in this room do you think want you?"
I swept the room, gauging numbers. "Quite a few. Fifteen maybe?"
He shook his head. "All of them. Every last man in this room wants to tear that dress from your body and drive his cock inside you. Wants to smell you, taste you, hear you scream as you come, then make you take their seed in your mouth. Or pussy. Or your firm arse." I found myself agreeing even though it was more a statement than a question. "Yes, every man wants you. But who here can have you?"
My breath caught before I answered. "Only you."
"And why is that again?"
"Because I'm yours."
"And what can I do to you?"
I exhaled noisily. "Anything. Everything."
"And how will you take it?"
"Gratefully. Willingly." My voice cracked. "Like a whore."
His grin widened. I'd clearly passed the test. "What if I allowed you some say in proceedings? What would you have us do?"
The barman delivered our drinks, accepting the twenty slid across the bar with a curt nod. I played with the paper umbrella before folding it so I could access the cherries, swirling them in the red liquid, eyeing my date. I couldn't very well say what had flashed through my mind: to hop off the bar stool, unzip him, blow him to full hardness, then climb onto his lap right there and sink his length inside me. Sometimes, my urges were so damned inappropriate. Instead I went with: "Eat. Dance. Fuck."
My frankness caught his attention and he seemed to notice me properly for the first time, casting an appreciative eye over my attire. His gaze lingered on my exposed neckline as if I were the last non-vampire on Earth.
"You look good enough to eat."
"I sincerely hope so."
"You wearing what we discussed?"
I nodded, took a sip and felt the alcohol warm my throat followed by the tart rush of cranberry juice. He continued:
"How does it make you feel?"
"Naughty."
"And?"
I fixed him a sultry gaze, brought the cocktail stick to my mouth and slowly drew a cherry between my lips, casting my eyes to his crotch as the fruit split against my teeth. It pleased me that there was motion beneath the material. Sometimes clichés are born because they simply work. Leaning in a little and lowering my voice I breathed, "Wet."
He licked his lips. "Show me."
Checking over my shoulder to make sure we weren’t being overlooked, I swung my legs from under the bar to face him. The air crackled between us as I slowly parted them, revealing my sticky insides to his obvious appreciation. I didn't allow him to linger on the vista, a real-life snapchat, leaving him wanting more while I returned to swirling a cocktail stick in my drink. As I brought the remaining cherry to my lips, he darted for me and grabbed my wrist.
"Feed it to me."
I turned the stick in his direction, but he shook his head. "Wetter than that." His hazel eyes sliding all the way down over my curves to rest at the base of my dress left no doubt over what he expected.
Heart hammering in my chest, keeping my eyes on his I drew the cherry between my teeth from the cocktail stick, deliberately slowly, letting the wooden spear fall to the bar. With a measured movement to enhance the lewdness I turned my body to face him again and prised my legs apart. Fetching the cherry from my mouth I first kissed it and then watched him track its path south until he was staring right at my core. Being wanted was insanely hot. As I glided the fruit ever closer to my entrance, his eyes widened until I thought he’d burst with excitement. I controlled the flinch as the cherry made contact and was astonished at how wet I really was. There was hardly any need to push inside, the surface of the fruit was already coated with my sweet glaze, but I dipped half of it inside myself, then abruptly extracted it, shut my legs and leant forward again, proffering the juicy object.
Hungrily, his lips sought the tips of my fingers, eyes drifting closed as he tasted his prize. His mouth felt warm around my digits and he took more than necessary, swirling his tongue over them to the second knuckle. When he pulled back, they glistened in the bar light. He snapped his eyes open.
"Touch yourself."
I didn't move immediately. Wasn't sure I could do it without getting carried away in my current state of arousal. But I knew the rules: do what he says or pay the consequences later. Truth be told, the consequences could be just as exhilarating. Certainly last time I defied him, it ended with my arms tied and him burying his spunk deep in my tight bottom. I shivered at the beautiful recollection, the key to my immediate future hanging in the balance. Maybe insubordination would reap similar rewards again, but could I risk it?
He sat there unmoving. Waiting.
Decision made, I again checked over my shoulder. Everyone seemed engrossed in their own private bubbles of conversation and the barman was tending to a portly couple in ill-fitting clothes. Returning to face the gorgeous man alongside me, I watched his eyes surrounded by long lashes track my wet fingers the way he had done the cherry. Once again my legs parted stickily and I hovered my hand in front of my pussy before tracing the shape of the outer petals with his saliva, loving his reaction.
It was so dirty. As I feared, the fact he loved me acting this way amplified the experience and made me hornier by the second, teetering on the edge of releasing Her. I drifted a finger to the centre and pressed it inside, opening my mouth at the touch and wishing my digit was his smooth cock instead. I left it there as long as I dared then withdrew, closed my legs again and turned back to the bar, running my juices around the rim of my cocktail glass. With a wicked glint in my eye I slid the drink towards him like it was my own chess piece. He picked it up and brought it to his lips, first tasting me and then washing it down with a slug of the crimson liquid.
He smiled. “You hungry?"
"In more ways than you'll know."
"Then let's eat.”
Stepping from the bar stool, he offered me his hand. In the extreme boots I was level with him, which was a refreshing change. As he leaned past to fetch our drinks I breathed his cologne. Earthy and masculine, it stirred my hormones.
He waited then indicated the way. “Ladies first.” To outsiders it was a chivalrous gesture, one man impressing his date with good manners. But I knew the real reason was so he could ogle my arse wiggling in the dress. So I gave him the full works, pacing evocatively, catwalk-style across the room to the far corner, feeling his twin lasers burning into my full rump with every step, and catching glimpses of more men from nearby tables eyeing me up. I flushed, convinced that the base of my naked bum was visible to anyone I passed. It was such a turn-on and by the time we reached the maître d' I sensed a trace of juice smeared against my inside leg.
“Good evening. Do you have a reservation?”
I nodded and gave him the details. As he scanned the list I felt my date step into my space, his breath tickling my neck and his hardness against me. I shivered. All of a sudden I wasn't sure I could manage to sit through the entire meal without sweeping the plates to the floor, clambering across the table and fucking him.
The maître d' evidently found us. “Ah yes, follow me please.”
He led us to one edge of the restaurant and pulled a chair for me in front of the crisp linen tablecloth and array of cutlery glinting in the soft lights. Unfurling my napkin with a practised flick of a wrist, he draped it across my lap unaware of just how close his hand came to my nakedness. I shuddered as he informed us of the daily specials and left us with both the food and wine menus that I perused.
Steak. It had to be steak. Medium-rare with peppercorn sauce and seasonal vegetables. Accompanied with a 2009 Châteauneuf-du-Pape. The man directly across the table from me selected the tenderloin and we sat back, finishing our cocktails before the wine arrived, splashed and aerated expertly into the goblet like purple fire, the tannin clinging to the inside surface a few beats. It was every bit as good as I expected, warm, ripe and fruity.
His eyes sparkled over his wine glass, five-o-clock shadow visible across his firm jaw. “If we were alone I'd peel that dress from you, dribble this over your body and drink it from you.”
“What a terrible waste of good wine.”
“Depends where I'd drink it from.”
I could only imagine. He drank both his wine and my visage simultaneously, placing his glass carefully in front of him. "Hand me your panties."
The colour drained from my face and I went cold. Shit. In my haste and pre-occupation with perfecting the walk I'd entirely forgotten his final rule. I was supposed to wear them all day, take them off just prior to the date and bring them with me. I pictured them crumpled and perfectly stained on the bed, now useless.
Looking down at my cutlery, a small voice escaped. "I, uhhh, forgot them." When I swung my gaze up to his, expecting displeasure, I found something else instead. A twisted smile.
"No panties, no deal."
"Wait! No. I can fetch them now. Bring them to you. You'll not notice the…"
He silenced me, waving his hand like I wasn't the droids he was looking for. "No panties. No deal. Tonight you fuck yourself alone."
"No!"
"Unless…"
"What? Anything." Jesus, I hated sounding so desperate.
The crooked grin returned. "Forfeit."
I didn't like the sound of that, but I had screwed up. I exhaled. "What?"
He didn't answer immediately. Made me squirm. Took a long pull of his wine. "Play with yourself under the table."
Was that all? I could hardly believe that was the extent of it, but knew I had to comply. I craved his cock that much. Running my fingers below the table edge, I traced them to my thigh beneath the napkin and wiggled, sliding the already short dress upwards. The heat from my pussy was incredible; could power a small city for a day. I brought a digit to my centre and coated it with juices, then dared to run it up to my clit. He could immediately tell when I hit the spot as my eyes fluttered. Fuck, it felt amazing. Relief if not release.
With one elbow resting on the table, hand partially concealing my mouth to prevent the breathy 'Ohs' and chewed lip from revealing what was going on beneath, I started to ease into a rhythm. Dip. Slide. Circle. Dip. Slide. Circle. Every so often I'd glance around the room to check I wasn't observed. Other times I'd be watching him watch me, evidently pleased at my wanton behaviour. My pussy oozed fluid and I swept it to my central oyster, perpetuating the juice cycle. A self-fulfilling contract between my electrified clit and wet tunnel.
As excitement percolated in my belly, gradually rising to take over my whole body, I began to want again, the same as I had at the bar. To want him, right then, as if the other restaurant patrons were oblivious to our actions, yet thrilled that they would witness our bucking union over the tabletop as he pawed my tits and filled me in the effortless manner that makes me melt. The exhibitionism would double the effect of every inch he slid inside me, every bite of my nipples, every shallow breath in my ear.
I pressed onwards, inwards, watching him the whole time through narrow slits. Waiting for any further command, but losing the ability to respond with each passing second. My sluice gates opened, faint clicking audible to anyone who dared to listen closely as I neared climax, breath shortening and becoming louder. He recognised the signs and when I was a mere handful of insistent circles away from exploding, one word shattered my progress:
"Stop."
So cruel. I didn't at first, trying to finish, quickly realising that might not be prudent. So I slowed, leaving my hand still touching myself, eventually pausing as requested. Waiting.
"Wipe yourself up." I arched my eyebrows. "With the napkin."
Was he serious? It seemed that way, his calm exterior patiently awaiting my compliance. I brought my sticky hand atop the pressed linen in my lap, spread my thighs and pushed down and inward once more. The cloth began to absorb my wetness and I gently stroked the area, using the touches as an excuse to continue elevating myself. Why had he chosen now to make me stop, the bastard? I continued to mop my sopping area, feeling the material stick to me with each stroke. Looked up at him enjoying my predicament.
He leant forward and whispered, "OK good. Now come for me, all over the napkin."
Already so close, I was only too glad to continue. I pressed my finger through the starched material, connecting with my inflamed clit. An involuntary gasp escaped my lips and I snapped my eyes around the room to see if anyone had noticed before resuming, making rough circles. The lights in the room began to dim and I realised it was because my eyes were closing. My mouth opened as I sucked in more oxygen to fuel the fire inside me.
A distant beat began to drum my veins, bubbling, roiling, a hammering starting in my ears and rippling the length of my body, eddying my pelvis. The decision over whether to come was no longer mine to make. One hand clutched the table edge while the other coaxed tumbling wetness from inside. Seconds later the restaurant faded, to be replaced with dancing colours as the borrowed linen bore the brunt of my orgasm.
I was vaguely aware of panting, trying to keep as much of a lid on what I was doing, but succeeding only as far as my body and mind were able. My clit pinched inwards, contracting, winking, drawing my tunnel with it roughly once a second as juices flew from me. It was so fucking decadent to come in front of everyone else in the establishment, whether they noticed or not. Heat erupted and filled every corner of my being simultaneously, not rippling through me like it sometimes did. My whole body glowed like the element of a toaster, pulsing deeply as I rode the long tail of climax, almost unaware of the world until the idle chatter of guests filtered back to my consciousness.
Fluttering my eyes open, the first thing I saw was him, mouth agape, clearly appreciative of my show. He nodded. "Put the napkin on the table."
I shot him a glare but slowly peeled the napkin from my lips and did as he asked, trying to cover up the obvious dark patch. He coughed. "Wet side up."
With trembling hands I rearranged the linen so the stain was facing the ceiling. It glistened in the low light, silvery trails criss-crossing its surface, clearly not from a simple liquid spill. I went red. He seemed to revel in my discomfort.
I reached for my wine and drank deeply, aware of my chest still heaving and orgasmic flotsam in my veins. He replenished my glass, settled back with his own drink, pleased with himself.
No words were spoken until the meal arrived. The waiter was efficient, attentive, clearly very good at his job, the mouth-watering dish presented exquisitely, a testament to the exclusivity of the restaurant. I prayed he wouldn't notice my arousal on the napkin.
With mine delivered, the remaining meal was set down on the place mat across from me. "Thank you," he said. "I wonder, would you please replace my companion's napkin? She appears to have soiled that one."
I stared at him, open-mouthed and turned crimson. The waiter nodded. "Of course, Sir." He came round to my side of the table again and I leaned slightly away to allow him to reach across me and retrieve the dirty item. Ever professional, he didn't make a scene when his fingers stuck to the surface before he scrunched my pussy juice into the centre, but I swear he glanced at me oddly. I wasn't sure I liked the look on his face. There was every possibility the napkin inventory would be one short that evening. I shuddered at the thought of what he might do with it.
The steak was divine, every forkful melting as it should, the only problem being it was over too soon. On the upside, that did mean I was closer to getting fucked, and I sure as hell needed that. Could almost feel the familiar heat of his length pressing deep, his after-shave filling my lungs as I breathed him in.
I silently cursed him for ordering coffee, wondering how he could bear to delay the inevitable. Surely the anticipation must have been tearing him up in the same manner as it was me. All the time through the drink and subsequent bill exchange I had to endure his piercing looks, those filthy ones that undressed me, that demonstrated in no uncertain terms how much I was his property. He knew waiting made it better. Wilder.
Eventually though, the words, "Shall we retire?" were a sheer delight to my ears, even though he insisted once more that I walked before him. Thinly disguised chivalry aside, there was some delightful power in strutting ahead of him, chunky heels clicking, bum wiggling all the way across the lobby to the elevator, this time a different set of men dreaming of ravishing me. I wanted them to watch. Wanted to stop walking, bend at the waist, grab my ankles and have the man behind me puncture my drizzling slit as the men in the lobby formed a circle, encouraging me to take it faster, harder. The braver ones would pull out their shiny cocks, feed them to my waiting mouth in succession, splitting my lips as I was fucked, losing their willpower and firing salty spunk down my throat. Then pulling back to lash it across my searching tongue, pumping it over my contorted face.
The ride up to the fifteenth was further torture. I wanted to hit the emergency stop, unbuckle his trousers, crush him to the wall, hook a shiny boot around his body and feel him take me. I didn't care what it made me. Escort. Harlot. Slut. As long as I was filled. But I endured the ride and seemingly endless corridor until finally, the faceless hotel room door was before me. The click of the latch sounded cavernous.
Sliding the keycard into the holder by the bathroom door with a shaking hand, the room illuminated. He guided me to the centre and made me wait as he selected some music. Something I didn't know with a beat. He returned, perched on the edge of the bed where I had been earlier, and picked up my forgotten underwear. "Dance."
I hooked into the music, self-consciously at first, gradually losing myself, turning away from him to grind my rear in his direction. He was an absolute sucker for my arse. I'd lost count of the number of times he'd been inside it, licking my dirty hole, stretching, preparing. Maybe tonight would be plus-one-more. I eased up the hem to show him my delicious bait, gyrating it sexily then returning the tight dress to cover the goods. Teasing worked both ways.
He sat there ogling my wares, lifted my used panties to his face and inhaled deeply, rubbing the crotch all over his nose and mouth. He adored my scent. Would gladly spend hours between my legs if I let him.
He beckoned me. "Open your mouth."
I did, and he shoved the panties in. "Muffles the screams," he explained. "On the bed."
Standing, he allowed me to crawl onto the king size bed, admiring me. "Stay on all fours. Turn around. Face the mirror."
With a deliberate slowness that nowhere near matched the engine revving inside me, I turned. In the mirror I saw desperation in my eyes. Gagged and waiting, dripping with want. He made me wait a little longer, before shuffling onto the bed on his knees, positioning himself behind me. He removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, peeled the dress up over my globes to bunch at my hips and smacked each cheek, playfully at first, becoming bolder, harder, eliciting cries that the panties absorbed.
When I reached my pain threshold and was sure my bum was glowing red, I heard his fly, the rustle of his underwear, and felt the heat of his turgid cock at my entrance. "You want me?"
I saw myself nod in the wardrobe mirror.
"Slow?"
I shook my head.
"Hard?"
A nod of affirmation.
"You dirty fucking slut."
He grabbed my hips and pressed forward, making me whimper into the panty gag. God it felt good. My pussy lips split and he filled me completely, pulling out roughly and slamming back in. I barely recognised the woman in the reflection. So wanton. Eyes begging to be fucked, expression melting with every forward thrust of his hips, mouth stretched around my own underwear.
There was something animalistic about his performance. The gentleness of one or two previous hotel encounters a distant memory. With no loving embraces, this one was simply raw. Necessary. Frenzied.
He leaned back, grabbed the heels of my boots and bucked into me, a solid staff amid my wetness. Using my forearms I pushed down against the bed, shoving myself harder against him, our bodies slapping into the bedroom between the music.
"Yeah that's right. Fuck me, you horny slut. Your hot cunt is all mine, and worth every penny."
I knew it already, but loved hearing it, groaning into the gag at his crude words, breathing heavily. He rummaged in his trouser pocket and tossed some twenties over my back. Utterly owned.
Reaching forward, he sought my lips and pulled the gag from me, growling, "Who owns you?"
"You do."
"Who can do anything to your body?"
My eyes flashed with need as I whispered. "You can."
"Who?"
Louder: "You can."
"And when should I do it?"
I chewed my lip, stared into his eyes via the mirror. "Now. Please do it now. Plea…" I was cut off by him stuffing my panties in my mouth again, after which he leaned back again to take in the view of my firm derriere bucking against his body. I could see the need in him welling up just before his hand raised.
Another cascade of spanks rained down on my behind, each responsible for adding a tributary to the stream that trickled down my thighs to the bed. He sawed his hardness into me relentlessly, the pent up self-denial of the day finally awarded an outlet. I don't know which of us needed it more.
All I could be sure of was that neither of us were going to last much longer. I was becoming overwhelmed and sensed he was too, his strong hands kneading my hips roughly as he pounded. The angle our bodies made ensured his thrusts glanced off parts of me that I adored being rubbed. A delightful internal massage that complemented the rawness of our dirty liaison, building on the filthy texts we'd exchanged. The hours of sexual torment consummated in such a beautifully unrefined display of physical need.
A finger at my rear pressed insistently. I relaxed, letting him slip inside and redoubled my efforts to fuck him, my second orgasm surfacing.
With his free hand he grabbed my hair, yanked my head back and used the anchor to ride me wildly. "I've wanted you all fucking day," he snarled. "And now I'm going to come in your slutty wet pussy."
I moaned my acceptance, feeling his pumping become erratic immediately preceding a roar as his load filled me. I watched, mesmerised in the mirror as his head tipped back, before thrusting against him hard. I froze, coming with him, barely able to watch my mouth twitching with pleasure as heat tore through my body and our explosions collided.
There's nothing quite like orgasm. Popping candy in my brain every few seconds, conducting a symphony to which I alone know the tune. It takes a short while to ramp up fully and then paralyses me with a delicious connectedness. As if every hair follicle is a receptor that channels the energy of the room and of him directly into my veins. The best thing is that, although the initial burst is over all too briefly, the tail keeps on giving, sometimes for hours. I can drift afterwards, even while performing mundane tasks like shopping, re-living the moment of climax to a lesser extent many times over.
But there was nothing mundane about our most recent act. My insides were alive, despite being emotionally drained from the climax. I wanted more, my inner slut energised. More bucking, more spanking, more unrestrained cries, more suffocating orgasms as his hot, fat cock invaded my wettest, tightest places. He made me feel new.
My mind reeled, alert. I pictured us rounding out the evening in the sumptuous room, him peeling off my dress leaving me in nothing but the boots, finishing with the bottle on ice by the coffee table, giggling like teenagers. Maybe once he'd recovered he'd take me roughly there too, draped on my back across the low furniture, tipping the bubbling liquid over my tits, sucking and lapping it up as he pounded into me. Lifting my legs over his shoulders, he could pour the effervescing liquid over my boots and clean it up with his talented tongue. An expensive luxury, but oh so worth it.
Maybe after being covered in sticky alcohol we'd end up fucking in the shower, slippery hands on soapy skin, water battling to wash away the sin of acting a slut as I beg for more of his steel inside me. Heaven is so not for girls like me.
I could still feel him inside me even after he had withdrawn and I'd collapsed on my tummy, sweaty and very happy. The ripples continued to eddy from my sensitive core to the extremities of my body below the leather boots, long after I mustered the strength to roll over and stare at the crisp ceiling. Pulling the panties from my mouth I reflected on my shameless performance. My fingertips idly traced the slight hump of my abdomen and up to the base of my breasts, tingly and full, nipples poking hard against the restriction of the small dress.
Lying sated on the bed I sought his hot hand and gazed across at him, our fingers entwining. My husband smiled back, wriggled, and retrieved a three-inch square of paper from his trouser pocket, dropping it on my chest, his handwriting visible between the single fold. An entry plucked from our fantasy jar.
I flashed Adam a loaded smile, leaned across and kissed him, his breathing still heavy from the exertion. "My turn to choose next time."
Maris
- 02.07.2022
- 26
- 0
- Category:
- Straight Sex
