She turned to me and said brightly ‘I need to use the bathroom. Come with me?’
I admired her style; she sounded exactly like a woman who simply didn’t want to go to the bathroom alone, no hint of arousal or desire crept into her voice. No one at the table had the slightest idea, but then, at that stage I think that if we'd said we were eloping to become circus freaks they wouldn't have cared. Amazing, the effect alcohol can have on otherwise upright and uptight citizens.
We got up, grabbed our bags like ladies, and hastily made our way to the restroom. She pushed me in the door ahead of her and pounced on me as it swung shut. Her lips were furious against mine, her hands in my hair as I ran mine over the small of her back. We began to gyrate our pelvises together, and I fancied I could feel her wetness soaking into the crotch of my pants.
‘Someone might come in’ I said, and dragged her into a cubicle, turning to lock the door behind us. By then she was already out of her top, and I lunged forward to assist her with removing her bra. I was rewarded with the sight of her beautiful breasts, freed and pale, the nipples erect and pointing in my direction. I began to unbutton my top and she stepped forward to help me; I let it become her job as I began to play with her small soft breasts. She tore my bra off hungrily and took my breasts in her hands, caressing them firmly, teasing my nipples up into little monuments of lust. I sighed involuntarily, and she took this as an invitation to tongue-kiss me again.
I let go of her breasts and allowed my hands to travel down her torso, then her thighs, bringing them up again under her skirt. She trembled as my fingers’ light embrace moved up her inner thighs, fingertips kissing the soft skin. I ran the back of my fingers lightly over the sheath of material between her legs and she gasped out loud. I began to rhythmically stroke her engorged lips, and she squirmed against my hand, pressing her body into mine and then jerking away again as the sensations took her. I slid my hand under her panties and she squealed, then looked shocked at her reaction.
‘You little bitch!’ she exclaimed, a wicked smile lighting her face and taking the edge off her words. ‘You're not getting to me that easily!’ With that, she hastily opened my pants and shoved her fingers inside, finding my pussy wet and eager for her touch. I moaned and rocked against her fingers as they expertly found my clit, first circling and then rubbing forward and back over my responsive lips and clitoris. My fingers found their way inside her and I began to fuck her, stimulating her clit with the heel of my hand as I moved my fingers in and out of her. Our bodies moved together, tensing and shuddering as we pleasured each other. I felt so close to her it was as if I was masturbating, and I felt all my anger towards people and the world sliding out of me.
Together, with the intensity of a lightning bolt, we came, both crying out and moving against each other in frenzied passion, not caring if the world and all our dinner companions could hear. We began to kiss again as we came down, holding each other and shaking uncontrollably.
‘I have to sit down,’ she gasped, and collapsed onto the toilet seat. I followed her lead and folded myself up onto the floor of the cubicle.
‘You can share the seat,’ she told me, suddenly shy.
I looked up at her. She really was beautiful. I allowed my head to snap back to eye level, and her pussy looked evenly back at me from its nest of blonde hair.
‘I'll be fine. Thanks though, Kate.’ Her name sounded beautiful on my tongue.
‘That was…incredible,’ she said, her gaze steady on me. I suddenly felt the urge to mark her somehow, to show my lust for her visibly on her body and, I admit, in part to attempt to make her mine. In that moment of clarity, I realised I'd found someone I didn't want to lose.
My gaze fell to my bag, and I realised I had the capacity to do just what I wanted to.
‘Kate,’ I ventured, ‘would you object to me…decorating you?’
She looked startled; by the looks of things, it wasn't a request she’d had before.
‘What exactly do you mean, Ange?’
My name, though commonplace and plain, sounded rich and extravagant on her tongue. I grabbed my back and rummaged through it, coming up with just what I’d been after – a tube of lipstick. I drew it out and watched her eyes respond to it, first confused and then light as comprehension set in.
‘Okay’ she said, a slow smile lifting her features. ‘Go for it.’
I removed the lid of the lipstick and wound it out, pleased to discover that it was my signature colour, the deep blue-scarlet Splendour. I shuffled over to Kate on my knees and crouched between her legs. Tentatively I began to draw on her chest, thrilling to the vivid traces of the lipstick on her skin. I circled her breasts and down her stomach, not intending to draw anything in particular, just wanting to denote where I’d been on that pale, freckled frame. She watched as I decorated her, silent but expressing her pleasure through her energy. Feeling her arousal mounting again, I started stroking her pussy, watching my fingers and the way her lips passed through them. She rocked against my hand and I increased the pace of my ministrations, feeling her tense and writhe as she began to come again. Sweat ran down her body, coloured scarlet from the makeup, and she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
We sat staring at each other in silence, neither one of us wanting to break what we precariously held between us. I wanted to speak, to tell her she was the most incredible person in the world, that she was who I wanted most, that our sex was the most incredible thing I’d ever shared with anyone, but I didn’t know how to phrase it without sounding, well, pathetic.
Although she was obviously content and satisfied, I couldn’t read how she actually felt – whether I’d provided great sex and that was it, or if there was something more there for her too.
Our silence was interrupted by the sudden entrance of one of our party into the toilets.
‘Are you guys okay?’ asked a voice which I recognised as Jess’. ‘You've been ages, and Mel thought she heard crying or something…’
Terror (and I admit, a little proud thrill of exhibitionism) ran through me, but before I could think up a lie, Kate spoke.
‘I…I'm a bit upset’ she said, putting a slight tremor into her voice. ‘Ange has been comforting me. We’ll be out soon.’
‘Are you going to be okay?’ Jess was concerned. ‘Is there anything…’
‘No, I’ll be fine. Just give us a few minutes.’
‘Done. See you soon.’ And the door to the restaurant swung open and closed again.
I looked at Kate but still could not read her. I began to feel ashamed and idiotic – she mustn't give a damn, I was probably just a cheap fuck to her. And that hurt. That hurt excruciatingly.
‘Do you want my phone number?’ I managed to ask. ‘I'm going to head home. I think there’s going to be a male stripper at one of their venues, and that's not my thing.’
‘Sure,’ she said, looking a little dazed or perhaps something else. I hoped it was dazed. ‘Got a pen?’
‘Um, no. Just lipstick.’ I managed a grin. She smiled back wanly and invited me to write on her. I scribbled my number, said my goodbyes, and left her in the cubicle. Back in the restaurant, I made a hasty excuse about feeling a bit sick and walked outside into the chilly autumn night.
Three nights later, melancholy, I sat at my CD player, looking for music that would suit my mood. The party was still firm in my mind, but I was attempting to let it go, convinced that I meant nothing to Kate.
I jumped at the sound of the phone ringing, and stumbled to answer it. Kate's voice came down the line to me, breathy but as alive as I'd remembered it.
‘Hi, Ange, hope you don’t mind me ringing you…’
‘Of course not!’ I cut in before I could stop myself. ‘I've been hoping you'd call.’ Those words didn’t say it enough.
‘Great! I’ve been thinking, and I’d really like to see you again. What happened the other night feels really special to me. I could tell you felt that way too, but I was too overcome to be able to tel
l you. I’ve never had that happen before. I’m sorry if I seemed disinterested, I just…’
‘It's fine, Kate. I want to see you again too. I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind.’
‘Really?’ she sounded surprised, and more than a little flattered. ‘Great. How about you come over to my place?’
‘Sure,’ I said, and she gave me her address.
‘Oh, and Ange?’
‘Yes?’
‘Bring your lipstick!’
All Eyes on Him
1.
I know enough about university lecture theatres not to romanticize them, not to think of them as hallowed halls of learning so much as holding pens for bored, spoiled undergraduates, but even so I'm surprised by this one. It's huge for an Arts subject lecture venue, which suggests that this subject attracts a large enrolment; that this lecturer has important things to say. It's barely one third full, however. I know it's the shockingly early hour of 10am on a Tuesday, but I still would have thought that the students could rouse themselves out of bed for the man who will be talking, the one I'm here to see. And the lack of other bodies makes it harder for me to decide where to seat myself. I don't want to be too much of a distraction. First year PoliSci is serious business.
I decide on halfway back, towards the right hand side. He arrives just as I'm sorting out the notebook and pen I've brought. Amongst the laptops and iPads, my paper is downright anachronistic, but it will do. It's a prop.
He radiates power, control, dominating his space, commanding attention from every mind in the room. It makes me wet.
2.
His message stood out to me. So many of the men who contact me seem to fail at basic reading comprehension. They top from the bottom from the first sentence; they fail to realize that I, too, am human, and seeking to meet my own desires, not just theirs. Worse still are the dominant men who are sure that they can be the ones to change my mind, make me learn that what I really want is to be dominated, not to dominate. The ones who feel they can break me.
In contrast, he was polite, measured, and respectful to the point of obsequiousness. The fact that his profile showed him to be deeply into or curious about some of my favourite things, and his photos showed him to be attractive in an unconventional way, didn't hurt either.
He might not stand out to you, if you saw him on the street going about his day. But he stands out to me, when we are together, and he stands out here in this auditorium.
I know our first coffee meeting involved some good conversation, but the memory of what was actually said remains ungraspable, copied over and erased by all that has come since. I know he was charming, polite, eager without presumptuousness, honest and genuine in the small details he gave of his everyday life.
We met on neutral ground like the sensible grownups we are, but it didn't take long before I knew I wanted to take him home and fuck him.
After we finished our coffees, I asked him, point blank, if he wanted to come back to my house. His hands shook a little as he said yes. He'd driven to our meeting place and I took note of the way he took directions easily, open to listening.
I tied him to the bed with silk, as I am a sensualist at heart. As the last knot closed against his skin, a nearly visible change took place; I felt him relax into the edge of subspace. I stroked his face and murmured sweet nothings; he nuzzled my hand like a calf. I trailed my fingers down his chest, stroking gently, until I came to his nipples. I gave a tiny, playful pinch, and watched his cock jerk in response.
‘Do you like that?’
‘Yes.’
I pinched harder. ‘Yes what?’
‘Yes ma'am.’
His cock jolted to full attention as I gave a sharp twist, and he let out a little moan.
I climbed up to his face and straddled him, holding myself up so that my pussy sat above his face. Looking down, past my tits, I saw him staring at it with hunger. I lowered myself onto his face and locked my thighs around his head, feeling his ears press into the soft flesh of my inner thighs. He licked me, nuzzling his nose and cheeks against my cunt, and I sent a silent sinner's prayer of thanks that he knew what he was doing; his tongue explored me expertly, flicking in and out of me as I rode his face, feeling my orgasm mounting. My muscles began to pulse, signalling something more powerful than my average orgasm. As I rocked against his face, I watched his hands clench into fists and strain against his restraints, his unconscious urge to grab me betraying him.
I paused, and whispered, ‘I see what you're doing there, naughty boy. Do you want me to stop? Because I will. I can take my orgasms from any filthy boy I like.’
He moaned, and his fists dropped back against the pillows. I resumed riding him as he lapped me, and soon my muscles gave one last clench.
With a gush, I came, spraying my juices over his face. I felt him gasp, and moved off him, lest I choke him with my arousal.
I looked down at his face, which was dreamy, cuntstruck.
‘You're a gusher,’ he murmured, like one might wonderingly remark on the presence of a heretofore-unknown species.
‘Yes,’ I said, wiping my come off his face and pushing my fingers into his mouth. He sucked at them as I moved them in and out, miming the thrusting of a cock. He made a little noise, half whimper half moan, and I smirked to myself. I'm going to have fun with this one.
3.
He slips anonymously through other contexts. Here, and with me, he shines.
Sometimes when we are out together, I notice fleeting approving looks from other people, usually men. To a conventional eye, we make a fine couple. Enough of an age difference to look deliberate but not enough to look creepy to those who'd take offense. Even dressed casually, he clothes himself like someone used to power and fine things, like someone used to being looked at, but also looked to for approval. His personal style is understated, but ebbs quality and assurance. I, admittedly, dress like a uni student. This is enough to fool the untrained eye, and looks like the kind of power differential that even completely straight people approve of, even if they do so unconsciously. This is the story we are used to. Women, and especially attractive young women, are meant to be attracted to power. We're meant to be the reason why men who make no effort to please anyone but themselves bemoan their lack of ability to get the women they feel they deserve. We're supposed to accept status and money in exchange for being dominated.
Some of us know that's not the only narrative.
I figured out I was dominant pretty early on, when I used to like to chase the boys playing kiss chasy in the school yard. Freed from having to be the ones always in pursuit, they would flee and squeal and flap as I would run them down, tackling them into the dirt, fighting with them until I felt that precise moment when their brains told their bodies to stop the struggle. Then I would look down at them, smile, and climb off. I rarely kissed them. That wasn't what I was after.
I took an inordinate interest in being the cop in cops and robbers, and felt a smug sense of achievement when my victims were unable to get out of the knots I tied around their hands and feet. If I was feeling particularly unkind, I'd find something to gag them with, and watch as a range of possible emotions coloured their cheeks first pink, then red.
At that age, it wasn't exciting, just...obvious. It was what I did. Other people existed for a range of reasons but sometimes the reason was so I could hunt them down and/or tie them up.
It wasn't until hormones were added to the mix that tying boys up and occasionally making them cry became something far more interesting and complex than my childhood games could ever have hinted at.
And, of course, it's men like him that benefit. While most of the world looks at us and sees a story about a dashing older man seducing a younger woman, people in the know see that there are other stories at play; other ways for our narrative to get from beginning to end via all the interesting stops in between.
He's at the podium, leaning against it with elbows locked, thrusting his weight against it as he gives t
hese first years the Machiavelli 101 lecture that he must have delivered at least a dozen times by now.
I like to think that Machiavelli, with his intricate knowledge of power play and sardonic wit, would have been a kinkster himself. Or at least would have appreciated what it is I do.
5.
I take him to my favourite club, and all the way there I can sense his fear. What if he is recognized? What if something happens to out him? What if what if what if?
Underneath the fear, lurking in the basement of the Escher-house of his emotions, is excitement. What if he is recognized? What if something happens to out him? What if what if what if?
I let him socialize as normal for a while; I haven't collared him tonight, and he comes across as harmless enough that even the shy newbies find themselves drawn into conversation with him.
I wait until I see that Xin has arrived. Xin and I dated briefly, but it didn't work out; we're both tops, and both volatile personalities. Topping helps me find equilibrium, brings a dynamic to a relationship that allows me to relax into things. I like to know where I stand with the person I'm fucking or playing with, and I like them to know where I stand, which sexually speaking is over them, and usually holding something used to inflict pain. Xin and I fucked like we wanted to destroy each other. That can be hot for a while, but it gets a little tiring. Neither of us were switches in any way. The way we've learned to use our dynamic, our energy, is out at clubs, a tag team of pain-bringing and psychological fuckery.
I leave him talking about some TV series I haven’t seen to another sub, a sweet woman who, unfortunately for me, shows no signs of bisexuality whatsoever. Walking over to Xin, I watch him turn to watch me, one eyebrow rising as he takes in my step. Xin knows me well enough to know what my mood is by my walk. I feel my lips curve into a smirk as his eyes meet mine.
The Mercy of Strange Men: Erotic Stories Page 4
