by Linnea May
He kissed me again, his hands now moving below my shirt, eagerly reaching to my back, where he opened my bra within seconds. He started kneading my freed breasts, causing me to interrupt our kiss with moans of pleasure.
He pushed me backwards and suddenly there was something behind me. A bar? He quickly lifted me and placed my bare bottom on the counter. I was not wearing panties; there was no use for them.
“Sorry, this can’t wait,” he said. He continued kneading one of my breasts while his other hand wandered beneath my dress. Humming in approval, he reached my wetness and started to massage my clit. “Good girl, very good girl.”
I tilted my head back, groaning, silently begging for him to fuck me. The wait had been long enough.
He would not give me his cock yet, but let a finger slip inside me while he continued to use his thumb to play with my clit. I started moving my hips, winding my body like a bitch in heat, welcoming him inside me.
“Please,” I begged.
He was quick to fulfill my wish. Opening his pants he released his erect cock. I reached for it, wrapping my fingers around his impressive girth. It was rock hard, ready. I started stroking it, looking up to him in a daze, my pleading eyes half-closed. I needed him inside me. He smiled generously and pulled out his fingers, moving his hips forward to replace them with the beautiful cock I craved so badly.
He grabbed my knees, spreading my legs as far as possible to make way for him, and entered with one deep, brute thrust, filling me with his entire length.
And then I woke up.
I stared at the ceiling above me. My center was throbbing with lust and I didn’t have to move to know that I was insanely wet. Had I just come in my sleep? Was I about to come? I think I was.
Still in a confused after-sleep daze, I reached down between my legs and carefully massaged my clit, finishing the job myself.
Fuck.
Waking up with an orgasm was a novelty. I truly was in need of some good fucking. Friday couldn’t come fast enough.
I checked my phone. My alarm would go off in a few minutes, so I might as well just get up now. And he had left me an early-morning message already.
“I can’t wait to grab your hair, pull your head back, and kiss you. Deep. Fill your mouth with my tongue. And put my other hand around your neck. Hold you, very tight. You better stand in a corner… I don’t think I can hold back.”
Even in my post-orgasm clarity, this sounded very promising.
“You won’t have to hold back,” I wrote.
It didn’t take long for him to reply.
“Good. I want my baby girl to feel nothing but pleasure and dominance with me.”
8
He actually made a promise the next day.
“I won’t cum again unless I am inside you, my beautiful baby doll.”
I caught myself imagining our encounter far too many times during the day. I had long decided on what to wear, but I had no idea how to approach him, or how to react if he actually did welcome me with a deep kiss, grabbing me and pulling me toward him. Claiming what was his. A part of me wanted him to do exactly that. After all, he had promised so much, showered me with compliments and nice words—it would be such a letdown if he would just look at me and shake hands when we finally met.
“I swear to you, you will be made mine,” he continued. “Are you going to be a good girl for me and cum a lot, beg for it? And obey?”
God, yes. I wanted nothing more. The next twelve hours could not pass fast enough.
“Yes, sir.”
“You can fall into my arms and I will never let you down. I will treasure, spoil, and tease you for as long as you are close to me. Feel free to get as wet as you want from now, love.”
I still couldn’t explain why his words had such an impact on me. But they did and it felt wonderfully endearing.
“My heart is literally racing,” I admitted.
“So is mine.”
The first half of that Friday went by painfully slowly, even though I had a ton of work to do and was pretty good at keeping myself occupied. Apparently, he did the same thing, as there were no messages for a while.
Until early afternoon, when he wrote: “Can you make time pass by faster?”
“I would, if I could.”
“Seven p.m. at the east exit of Shinjuku station, right?” he confirmed.
“Yes.”
“I have been trying not to be so turned-on all day, but I can still hear and feel my heart pounding…”
Reading his words made my heart sprint as well. This was crazy. And it could culminate in the most passionate night I had had in a long time—or in a big disappointment.
“I am going wild thinking of you. I will be there a bit early, waiting for my beautiful baby doll.”
“I hope I will be on time,” I randomly wrote.
“I will punish you, if you aren’t.”
“Is that a promise?”
“You can count on that. I am a savage beast right now. Be careful.”
“But we can still have a drink first?”
“Yes, love,” he ensured, noticing my anxiety.
Even this last, long day ended at some point and I was actually running late when I finally left the office. I hurried home, took another shower, and dolled myself up as good as I could. I wanted to look pretty for him, but not slutty, so I opted for a black skirt, a black top with a cowl-neck and silver jewelry that was cheap, but looked nice and subtle. My makeup always entailed smoky eyes for nights out. I straightened my naturally wavy hair and let it fall down over my shoulders.
I actually liked what I saw when I checked myself in the mirror before I left. My ego might have been unfoundedly pushed by all his sweet talk, but it did not matter. I felt good about myself, confident, excited—and extremely hungry for this man.
I took a ridiculously deep breath before I stepped off the train at Shinjuku station. This had always been one of my favorite areas in Tokyo. I loved the hustle, the craziness, the potential that the city ward offered. It felt right to meet him here.
Shortly before I finally left the station’s east exit, I checked my phone one last time. There was one last message.
“I want to kiss you before you say a word.”
9
And that was how it started. With a kiss. A unique kiss.
I was running late. Tension and guilt were forming a toxic mix when I finally passed the east exit of Shinjuku station. Despite my talent to miss even familiar faces, I spotted him immediately. Our eyes met from a distance and for a moment neither of us moved. We were just staring at each other, me standing about twenty feet away from him. It was ridiculously crowded. Herds of people were passing between us as we continued our gaze.
He was tall, very tall. And dark. He was dressed entirely in black with a red tie. He stood out from the crowd, not only because of his height, but also his demeanor. He just stood there, calm, tall, staring at me with a stern expression, completely in control already, looking insanely handsome in his black suit, accompanied with that dominant gaze. There was something utterly attractive and mysterious about him. I couldn’t believe that a man like him could be so intrigued with someone like me, someone so ordinary.
I only let a few seconds pass until I continued to move and finally approached him. As I did, his serious expression changed into a smile, which calmed my nerves tremendously. When I was within reach he slowly lifted his arms, but not for a hug. Gently holding my face with both hands he pulled me toward him and kissed me. Not a cautious, shy, just-met kiss, but eager, demanding, and passionate, as if we were long time lovers who had been apart for a long time. His tongue was invading my mouth so forcefully, I instinctively tried to take a step back. But he didn’t let me. His left hand had wandered to my back, holding me tight and gently pushing me closer to him. With his right hand he grabbed my hair and—just as promised—tilted my head back by pulling it, pushing his tongue deeper inside my mouth. I didn’t struggle. I was clasped so tightly, there
was no way for me to move away from him. And I had a feeling that his grasp would only tighten more if I tried to get away.
I didn’t want to, anyway. This was the hottest welcoming I had ever experienced. He smelled fantastic. And he tasted delicious. Fresh and a little sweet. I loved it. Loved every moment of that very long and intimate kiss.
After what felt like a sweet eternity and yet was too short, he released my lips. The kiss stopped, but his grip did not. His grasp on my hair loosened a little, just enough for me to be able to lower my head in a more comfortable position. His left hand was still pressing against my back, holding me close to his undeniably toned body.
We had never met before, but nothing was weird about this. Being so close to him, forced to be this close, felt exactly right.
“Finally,” he said, as if he could read my mind. His right hand let go of my hair, stroking it gently when he pulled it away to touch my chin with his fingertips. He softly pushed my head back up so our eyes could meet, then slowly moved my head from left to right and back, carefully observing every detail of my face. His expression changed to a more serious, occupied smile as he let out a deep hum of approval.
“You are perfect. Such a delicate beauty.”
Incapable of speaking, I looked up at him in disbelief. Blood was rushing to my cheeks…and other parts of my body.
My reaction obviously pleased him. His smile widened and he pinched my cheek as if he was trying to make me reply.
“You may speak,” he said, giving me an encouraging nod.
The thought that my silence was actually based on him forbidding me to speak made me chuckle. I looked at him, timidly grinning like a little girl and whispered, “Hi.”
His presence was so incredibly daunting, in a good way. I had never felt so small and insecure before and enjoyed it. And damn, he was handsome in his black suit. The fabric felt thick and expensive and it fit him perfectly.
He let go of his grip, and when I made no move to distance myself from him, he gently pushed me away by the shoulders.
“You are so cute. Are you nervous?” he asked.
I nodded. “Very much.”
“Let’s have a drink first, like we planned,” he suggested. “Where do you want to go?”
I shrugged and demonstratively looked around.
“I know a place close to here, a chain izakaya. Nothing special,” I said.
“Show me.”
I turned around, intending to lead the way, but he held me back.
“Take my hand,” he ordered. And I did. His grip was firm, possessive. “Stay close to me.”
We meandered through the crowds following my directions and his stride. He moved with slow, but wide and set steps, determined and assured, like a predator carrying his prey, while I paced along with him like a child, trying to keep up. He was holding my hand so firmly it almost hurt.
When we had to wait at a street crossing, he pulled me even closer to his side. I happily leaned against him, looking up to catch him smiling at me.
“What is it?” I asked, intimidated.
“Your accent is so cute,” he said.
“Can you tell where I’m from?” I asked.
He took a guess—and like most people, hit the right answer on his first try. That was disappointing, but to be expected.
The traffic light turned green and we hurried across the street in a moving sea of people.
Like many bars in this area, the izakaya I was leading us to was on one of the upper floors in a narrow and high building, plastered with bright advertising signs and lights. It was a classic sight in central Shinjuku.
“Here,” I said when we reached the building. “Ninth floor. See?”
I pointed up to the sign way above us, unsure whether he was even able to read Japanese.
We entered the small and crowded elevator, tucked in with half a dozen Japanese customers who were heading to bars on other levels.
I almost felt disappointed when the doors opened on the ninth floor, as we had been pushed closely together and now had to separate to enter the izakaya.
Inside we were placed at a small table in the back and sat opposite to each other. He had taken off his jacket and placed his elbows on the table, leaning toward me.
“What do want to drink?”
I caught myself staring at what I assumed to be very muscular biceps beneath his shirt and looked up.
“A highball,” I answered. “Ginger highball.”
Highballs were a very popular mixed drink here. Whiskey with soda water, or Coke, or ginger ale—which was my favorite. He ordered two for us and turned right back to me after the waitress was gone.
“You are even more beautiful than your picture,” he whispered.
Again, I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to return the compliment, to tell him how much he intimidated me, how much his touch had impacted me. How good it had felt just to stand next to him. How good he smelled. His calm and self-assured demeanor was killing me.
“Um, thank you, but I don’t know—”
“It’s true,” he interrupted. “You shouldn’t argue with me when I say it.”
I nodded. He raised his eyebrow in anticipation. It took a few moments until I realized what he was waiting for.
“Yes, sir.”
I had never been a good talker or one to chatter away in social surroundings, whether it was on dates or in groups. But he made me especially shy and silent. It was something that would bring in trouble again and again when I was with him.
“What should I call you, when we’re in public?” he asked. It was in that moment that I realized we had never exchanged names. I had no idea what he was called.
“Linn,” I said. “What should I call you?”
“Master,” he replied instantly.
“Um, in public, too?”
A devilish smile appeared on his face.
“I’d like that,” he said.
“But what is your name?” I asked.
“You don’t need to know that right now,” he replied.
“But—” I tried to object.
“Master,” he said with a stern expression. “I want you to call me Master. That is enough for now.”
Our drinks came and smoothed over the situation. We started chit-chatting for the first time since we had virtually met. “What are you doing?” I asked. “Job wise, I mean.”
“I told you,” he answered. “That’s another thing you don’t need to know for now.”
“Why not?”
He looked at me with a stern expression. “Because it doesn’t matter.”
I frowned.
“You don’t need to tell me either,” he added. “It doesn’t matter for what we are about to embark on.”
“All right,” I said. My voice was trembling in a weird, unfamiliar way. His secretiveness worried me a little, but it also made him all the more interesting. The way he was looking at me with this intensity and his longing black eyes. It all made me so incredibly nervous. My hands were shaking when I reached for my drink to take another sip.
“What are you thinking about?” he wanted to know, noticing my nervousness.
“Nothing,” I lied.
“I don’t think it’s nothing. You wouldn’t look so cute if it was.”
He continued to observe me. So intense. Every little detail, the tiniest movement of my eyes, of my hands…nothing went by him.
I looked up, ready to play along. But before I could say anything, he added, “Were you thinking about our conversations?”
I nodded.
“Why does that make you smile?” he asked and took a sip from his drink. His black eyes remained fixated on me the entire time.
“I liked what you said,” I finally dared to say.
“Is that so,” he remarked. “What exactly?”
“You know—” I began, while shifting around on my seat.
“Do I?” he asked, his look still fixated on my face.
He had a very distinctive w
ay of looking at me. Intense, attentive, as if he were soaking in everything I was. I tried to return his look, but couldn’t. My eyes continuously shifted downward, to my drink, my safety net. Slightly embarrassed, I noticed that I had drunk much quicker than him. My glass was almost empty.
“Do you want another one?” he asked.
I laughed. “Well, you know Europeans are better drinkers than Americans.”
“Is that so,” he said. “I’ll order you another one if you let me know what’s going on in your head.”
“Can’t you tell?” I sheepishly asked. The drink did have an impact already, probably because I hadn’t eaten much all day. My appetite had disappeared—or turned into a different kind of craving.
“I love how you shiver,” he said. “You are so fucking beautiful, so delicate. I want to do endless things to your body.”
Damn.
“This… this doesn’t help,” I said and finished my drink. I looked at him with pleading eyes.
He shook his head, but was smiling. And he ordered us another round of drinks.
“Just this one,” he said. “I don’t want you to get drunk. I need you to be clear-headed for what you do, alert, at least sort of. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.” I replied. “You don’t have to worry.”
“But I do,” he said. “Your well-being is all that I am worried about tonight. We’ll do whatever you want, whatever makes you happy. But you need to be sober enough to consent.”
I nodded and gave him a look that hopefully could be read as grateful.
“I want to spoil you,” he added. “But I am selfish. I can’t hide what and who I am. I have a feeling I don’t have to pretend with you, but we have yet to find out, don’t we?”
I nodded.
“And you should probably stop that,” he said.
“Stop what?” I asked, bewildered.
“That breathing,” he replied. “That mouth. It’s always slightly open, letting out heavy breaths. It’s as if you’re calling me, begging me. Are you inviting me to attack you right here and now?”
“No, I…”
“It makes me want to grab you and bend you over the table, pull up that dress and fuck you senseless while everybody else is watching us,” he said. “Is that what you want?”
