Please, Sir

I’m seated facing the entrance to the restaurant, at a choice and intimate table of your liking. I slowly swirl the contents of my glass—something subtle and red, uncorked and awaiting my arrival, a vintage of your choosing. It changes with each sampling—elegant, mysterious and complex, with a subtle but unmistakable intensity. I am reminded of you.

I sit with an air of casual disinterest in my surroundings, outwardly poised and relaxed. Nothing in my demeanor betrays the nervousness I feel as I await your arrival, save for a slight tremor in my hand as I raise my glass to my lips. I am dressed as you asked, in a simple sleeveless black dress, a favorite of yours.

The door opens and you cross the threshold, your gaze immediately and unerringly finding mine. My heart skips a beat, then resumes at an erratic, accelerated pace. One corner of your sensuous mouth curls slightly upward—I am revealed. I set down my glass and fold my hands in my lap, lowering my gaze. Your effect on me is profound, even at a distance. My body tightens with awareness and anticipation, as though awakened by your presence.

I raise my eyes to meet yours again—they’ve not left my face; I had not expected that they would. I drink in your appearance: your perfectly tailored gray suit with only the top button casually fastened, your black dress shirt accentuating your short dark hair and brilliant blue eyes. The hostess has engaged you in conversation, your body is inclined slightly toward her, and you answer her inquiries in your calm, self-assured way, your gaze still firmly holding my own. And then you move, slowly crossing the distance that separates us with lithe, confident strides. I am held captive by the strength in your frame; your body moves with the fluid grace and power of a jaguar stalking its prey.

You sit opposite me, and though my body yearns for your touch—your lips pressed to my cheek, a casual hand on my shoulder, a simple stroke of your finger on the inside of my wrist—you do not touch me, and my body struggles in desire and disappointment. My discomfiture pleases you, and you do nothing to alleviate it. Instead, you skillfully guide the conversation through appetizers, dinner and the bottle of wine, coaxing detailed and thoughtful responses from me despite the simmering arousal in my body that refuses to abate. You are fiercely intelligent and demand no less than my complete engagement in this as in all areas. You challenge me—and I am as seduced by the intensity of our debate as I am by the heat of your gaze and the promise of what is to come.

I am distracted by the sensual movement of your thumb stroking the curve of your wineglass. I can’t look away, watching the pad of your thumb move in small lazy circles on the smooth surface of the glass. You ask me a question, but I’m rendered incapable of speech, transfixed by the hypnotic movement of your hand. My body swells and responds as though it is me you are caressing, as though it is my flesh you are exploring and not some inanimate vessel. I close my eyes for a heartbeat as a wave of intense longing floods through me. I am helpless, trembling at the mere suggestion of your touch. When I meet your eyes, I see the knowledge of your power over me reflected in their depths, and I am stripped, as surely as if I were standing naked before you.

We are headed to the theater, so I excuse myself to the restroom for a moment, in hopes of regaining a measure of control over my arousal. I brace my hands on the edge of the sink, head lowered, drawing deep calming breaths. But my respite is short lived. I hear the barely perceptible sound of the door swinging open and look up into the mirror to find you slowly advancing toward me. I move as though to turn toward you, but you stop me with a shake of your head. My back is to you, our gazes locked in the mirror, and you halt your advance only when your body is a hairsbreadth away from my own, your heat mingling with mine.

You lean forward, placing one hand immediately in front of my own on the edge of the sink, your mouth—your beautiful sensuous mouth—next to my ear. You tell me to take off my panties, and I gasp at the intimacy of your command. I hesitate for only a fraction of a second, but I know it’s too long, and your hand moves with decisiveness from the sink to the back of my neck, and I am slowly bent forward at your insistence, moaning now from the combined pleasure of your touch and the vulnerability of my position. With your other hand, you reach beneath my dress, fingers splayed, palm sliding up the inside of my thigh until you reach my wetness. I am drenched with my desire, and whisper only “Please,” but I am denied even now, and your knuckles only glance over my flesh as your fingers wrap around the fabric of my thong and tear it off with a firm jerk of your hand.

My body trembles in the wake of your controlled aggression. You relinquish your hold on my neck, your hand slowly descending, tracing the curve of my spine, moving outward until it rests lightly against my hip. I feel you then—for one brief, almost imagined moment, I feel you—feel the reflexive tightening of your grip in the same instant that I feel your hips rock forward, the thick length of your cock unmistakable against my ass. I close my eyes, drowning in the sensation of you pressed so tightly against me…but just as quickly, you’re gone. My eyes snap open and I cry out at the loss of your touch, but you are already moving to the door, holding it open and waiting for me to precede you out of the restroom, tucking my ripped panties into your suit jacket. I search your face for evidence of your desire, for some small sign that lets me know you are as affected by this exchange as I am, but your composure is intact, your face a mask that gives no emotion away.

We leave the restaurant, walking the short distance to the theater in silence, yours contemplative, mine tormented. I am awash with arousal, miserable with desire for you, and my body is proclaiming its need of you with wet, aching clarity. I am acutely aware that my sex is exposed beneath the thin veneer of my dress; the cool evening breeze kisses the moisture that has accumulated there and my cheeks flood with shame. I feel your knowing stare and struggle to regain my composure, but I can’t. I know that if you were to lead me down any of the shadowed alleys we are passing and push me to my knees, your hand knotted in my hair, pressing my face to the front of your suit pants, I would eagerly use lips and teeth and tongue to free your cock and greedily swallow the length of it. I would work your cock until I gagged, until every inch of you was wet with my saliva, until your breathing grew ragged and your hips jerked convulsively and you threw your head back with the force of the orgasm tearing through your body. I would beg you to let me touch myself; I’d stroke my clit for you right there—on my knees, on the pavement in that shadowed alley until my cunt clenched and my clit exploded and I cried out my pleasure for you.

Tosca is superb, but right now I hate Puccini. I hate the seconds and minutes and hours that stretch between this dark theater and lying naked beneath you. I hate that I think these thoughts, squirming quietly in my seat, when you are so clearly enjoying the performance. I feel like I am somehow letting you down because I can’t rise above this driving need pulsing through my body. I worry my hands distractedly in my lap, unable to keep them folded demurely as I should.

I gasp with surprise at the feel of your hand on my thigh and am immediately stilled by its solid pressure. Though I can’t make out the nuances of your expression, I feel your gaze locked on mine and feel a moment of quiet comfort—there is a measure of ease to be found in knowing that the play of emotions and wants coursing through my body is directed by you, like the maestro with his orchestra below.

With aching slowness, your hand traces invisible patterns across the top of my thigh. I scarcely breathe for fear that you will stop and am rewarded for my stillness when your hand dips lower, to the sensitive flesh of my inner thigh. The sound of the opera recedes, and my world narrows to the feel of you stroking me, inching closer to my wetness. Still, you keep me off balance, refusing to settle into a predictable rhythm; you stroke me and then pause, and I can do naught but tremble and hold my breath until you resume. Your fingers linger teasingly at the edge of my skirt until I bite my lip to keep from moaning aloud in supplication. Then, with a sinfully slow slide, they ease beneath the material and continue ever higher, until you are stroking my cunt, spreading my folds and taking possession of the wetness that meets you. My thighs spread farther apart of their own accord; this is my offering to you, this hot flood of arousal. Here in this confined space where I am stripped of words and actions to show you how I feel, it is all I have to offer. It is yours—it belongs to you, as surely as I do.

I know you approve because the heel of your hand clamps down on my pubic bone and your fingers penetrate my cunt so that you’re gripping me firmly, my slick sex held tightly in your palm. You lean into me and whisper that I’m going to come for you, right here in the middle of the theater, sitting perfectly still, and without making a sound. Your voice is like sex to me; I feel each word you breathe into my ear across my clit, so wet for you that it drools off your knuckles and trickles between the cheeks of my ass. I nearly come from your words alone and nod my head, though really, it’s not a question of agreeing. You slide your fingers out of my cunt and up to my clit, all teasing gone, demanding my orgasm with hard strokes, and then I’m coming in waves, cunt heaving as pleasure wracks my body. A second rush begins to coil in my belly but you stop your movement and say, “Enough,” and I gasp, halted immediately on the edge of that precipice and robbed of breath, the pain it produces as acute and intense as the pleasure that hammered through me moments ago.

You wait until the sensation subsides, then remove your hand, wiping it clean with a handkerchief produced from your pocket. I feel dizzy and disoriented, and the final moments of the opera pass in a blur of music and applause, bright lights, the buzz of conversation sliding past me. I am aware of only the firm pressure of your hand in the small of my back, guiding me through the noise and into the quiet of your car, and of the constant thrum of my arousal as you guide us skillfully through the night, your beautiful square jaw thrown into profile by the passing headlights of oncoming traffic.

You don’t touch me again until the door of your penthouse clicks shut behind us and you push me to the ground, one hand opening your fly even as your other reaches in to free your dick. I scramble to my knees as you grab the back of my head and then your cock is filling my mouth. I grab on to your legs to steady myself as you bury yourself in my throat with a rough thrust and I feel myself choke on your thick length, tears filling my eyes. I am filled with bliss, so wet I’m running down my thigh, thrilled at last to be able to touch you, to be used by you, to please you. You fuck my mouth and I struggle to take you in with some measure of grace but I cannot, and feel myself sinking into sensation: The feel of your suit pants beneath my fingertips. The wet slide of your cock over my lips. The feel of your hands knotted in my hair, pulling my head toward you in time with the rhythm you drive out with your hips. Your smell, a heady combination of cologne and arousal assaulting my senses. The silence, broken only by the shallow erratic sound of my breathing.

I want you to come. I want to feel you unravel and lose control. I want to feel the tremor in your thighs, feel your hands tightening in my hair. I want to show you how good I am for you. But you have other ideas. You relinquish your hold on me and take a step back, robbing me of your warmth and support and I falter, kneeling awkwardly before you, eyes downcast.

“Look at me,” you say, and I do. I watch you release the button on your jacket and shrug it off, then toss it to a chair by the door. You remove your cufflinks, then your watch, placing them on the console table. You roll your sleeves up to mid-forearm, then unbutton your black oxford and leave it hanging open, lying in contrast to the white tank top revealed beneath. I drink in your appearance hungrily: your dark hair falling casually across your forehead, the slight flush staining your cheeks, your hard chest and taut stomach outlined by your tight white tank. I watch as one hand descends, wraps around your cock. I watch you stroke yourself, your cock still wet with my saliva. You are wildly beautiful, and I want you more than my next breath.

You tell me to get up, and with slow deliberation you close the gap separating us until I can feel your hot breath on my cheek and I need to look up to meet your eyes. You keep inching forward until I have no choice but to take a step back, and then another, until I’m up against the door with nowhere left to go. You ask me if I enjoyed dinner. I tell you I did. You ask me if I enjoyed the opera. I say yes. You shake your head, eyes glittering dangerously—I know better than to lie to you, you say. You pull my dress up until it’s bunched around my hips, and your fingers find me again, thrusting deep into my slick hole, your eyes never leaving mine as I gasp with pleasure. You press your body against mine, still inside me, fucking me with a hard, even rhythm, telling me how you watched me squirm in my seat, how you smelled my arousal, like some bitch in heat. “Isn’t that right?” you say, and I nod my agreement—I am whatever you tell me I am.

“You want my cock, hungry bitch?” You growl in my ear. I whimper and close my eyes, drunk on the heady combination of your words and the feel of your fingers pumping my cunt. But then you slap my face and I cry out, jolted back to the moment, mind racing, trying to figure out what I’ve done to displease you. “I asked you a question,” you say. “Don’t make me repeat myself.” And I trip over myself in my eagerness to be redeemed, nodding my head, mewing my assent, telling you in a halting, breathy voice I barely recognize as my own how much I want your cock inside me, how starved I am for it. I beg you to fuck me and feel my cheeks flood with heat. I am the greedy whore you name me, my hungry cunt aching for release, and all the while you finger-fuck me, grinding into me up against the door.

I am rewarded for my answer with a kiss, and for the first time tonight I feel the sublime touch of your lips against mine, your tongue teasing the corners of my mouth, then aggressively demanding entry. I moan and eagerly yield to the pressure of your kiss, hands snaking up your chest to delve into the soft hair at the nape of your neck, reveling in the feel of your tongue stroking wetly against my own. You kiss me hungrily, dominating my mouth with ruthless intensity, the heat between us rising white hot.

You grip me by the waist, never breaking the kiss, and lift me up, my back still pressed against the door. I wrap my legs around your waist and you lean into me hard, moving one hand beneath me to bring yourself into position, and then I feel the thick head of your cock probing the mouth of my cunt, finding no resistance and then filling me, inch by agonizing inch. Hands beneath my thighs, your hips thrust slowly forward as you lower me more fully onto you, until I am filled to overflowing with you, breaking the kiss with a gasp as my body stretches to take you in. You smile then, the corner of your mouth moving upward with that same slow seductive curve you flashed in the restaurant. “Is that what you want?” you ask me, rocking forward again.

There is no teasing in this now. You are strength and force and raw sex, giving me all that I can take, fucking me hard and fast, hips pistoning into me, growling that you want my orgasm, you want to feel my slobbering cunt clench around your dick, you want to feel my nails digging into you, hear me grunting, taste the sweat on my skin. I feel the tension rising in my body, feel it coiling tighter in my belly with every rough thrust and moist word you breathe. My thighs clamp around your waist even tighter, wanting more of you, ravenous for you even as you fuck me with a roughness that borders on violence. I know I’ll hurt tomorrow, feel that sweet ache in my cunt that reminds me of this, of you. I moan with pleasure at the thought, and grab on to you all the harder, working my cunt feverishly on your cock in time with your raw thrusts until orgasm tears through my body and I cry out my release. You keep fucking me, never slowing your rhythm as spasms of pleasure rock through my cunt, and one wave of pleasure spills into the next until I think I can’t possibly take any more.

Only then do you stop, lowering me spent and exhausted to the ground. I want nothing more than to curl into you and rest, but there’s no respite for the wicked. You turn me over so that I’m on my knees in front of you, shoulders on the ground. You kneel behind me, one hand on my ass, the other guiding your slick cock into my aching cunt until I am impaled on your thick length. I can’t help but moan at the feel of you filling me, and again as you start to move with slow thrusts, pulling back until only the head of your cock is in me, then pushing forward again, feeding me your cock inch by agonizing inch. You tell me to stroke my clit for you and I whimper a little, my flesh overly sensitive to the touch, but I obey you, circling the engorged tissue with light strokes. You tell me you want me to stroke myself for you like that until I come again, and I know a moment’s misery because I don’t honestly think I can. You slap my ass hard and I cry out. “Do it,” you say, punctuating your words with hard thrusts.

It’s easier somehow like that, with your cock driving into me aggressively, your hands gripping my hips tightly. I’ll have bruises there too, evidence of your possession. I like your marks on me; I feel less naked in my nakedness with them. You moan then, and your fingers tighten reflexively on my hips, the speed of your thrusts increasing. Some primal feeling breathes new life into my sex, and I press my fingers more firmly into my clit, feeling it pulse, feeling that delicious tension start to rise again in time with your arousal. I hear your breathing, shallow and erratic, feel the tremor in your hands as your pleasure mounts, and stroke my clit harder, feeling my own pleasure rising in turn. I am undone by the feel of you coming apart, losing control as you pump your cock into me, as hard and fast as you can, until I hear you cry out your own release and my orgasm hits me like a freight train.

We collapse in a heap of tangled limbs and rumpled clothes and lie quietly until our hearts slow and our breathing calms and the cool air chills the sweat on our heated skin. You stand, offering me your hand, and lead me to your bed without a word. With gentle fingers and soft kisses, you remove my clothes, and then your own, pulling back the coverlet and sliding in beside me, urging my head onto your shoulder and covering us in a warm cocoon of blankets. You kiss my forehead tenderly and whisper that I am a good girl, that I am your girl. My heart soars. I belong to you.