by Annice Dare
Larry is tall, probably six-two or -three. He looks skinny and weak, but he’s not. Someone had mentioned that he was heavily into one of the Oriental disciplines—Karate, or Tai Chi or something. All I knew was that he moved like a big, lazy cat, totally in command of his body.
And now he was in command of mine. I stared at his cock, standing tall and proud. My God, he is enormous! A droplet glistened at its tip. I had an irrational desire to rear up and lick it away. The inner walls of my vagina contracted as I imagined the salty taste of it. “You can let me go now,” I told him. “I won’t fight you.”
“Ah, but I want you to.” He leaned sideways and picked up something. At first I thought it was the sash to my white terry bathrobe, but then I saw that it was rope, thick, soft rope. One end of it disappeared off the edge of the bed. “What’s that for?”
“You’ll see.” He transferred my wrists to his other hand, then leaned and caught up another rope from the other side of the bed. It, too, was attached somewhere that I couldn’t see.
“Larry?” I was starting to get a little nervous. Kinky sex had never been my cup of tea. Whipped cream and chocolate syrup was about as adventurous as I’d ever cared to be.
“Trust me.”
Maybe I’m an idiot, but I did.
Chapter Four
He looped the rope he held around my left wrist and tied it quickly. How he managed it without letting go, I don’t know, but before I knew it, both of my wrists were firmly bound. I could have scratched my nose if I’d turned my head to the side, but I couldn’t reach one hand with the other.
I supposed I should have told him to stop, but I didn’t. Instead of scared, I was hot. Oh, God, I was so hot. I couldn’t remember ever wanting sex more in my whole life.
Larry loomed over me, standing at the side of the bed. So tall, so strong. Restlessly I moved, unable to lie still. The motion made my robe fall open. I could feel the cool air wafting across my thighs.
“Raise your knees,” Larry said, still in that syrupy, sexy tone. “Open them.”
I knew how a puppet must feel when its strings were pulled. My feet slid toward my bottom and my knees fell open. The skirt of my robe did too, and as it did, it pulled the loose knot at my waist even looser.
Larry’s eyes widened. “God!” he breathed. “Oh, God, Cilla. That’s the prettiest sight I’ve ever seen.” He climbed onto the bed and knelt between my feet. His hands closed firmly over my bare feet, the palms a little rough against the tender skin of my arches. He clasped, then let go and slowly slid his hands up to my ankles. “You’ve got pretty feet. I would never have expected the green toenail polish, though. You’ve got a secret side, don’t you Cilla? A secret side that’s dying for an adventure?”
Yes. Oh yes! But I only thought the words. If I could’ve spoken aloud, I’d have begged him to stop making me crazy with desire, to take me right then.
I was enjoying being made crazy. Oh, God, was I enjoying it!
His hands continued to slide up, around my calves, over my knees, where he paused to tickle the backs. I squealed—tickling is almost painful to me—and kicked. Even as a child I’d hated being tickled, and I still tend to react violently.
My foot caught him on the chest, with a good thump. “Ah, you don’t like that. Well, let’s try something else.”
He bit me on the knee. Just a gentle nip, but it tingled all the way to my belly, and got even better when he laved the place he’d bit with a tongue so hot it burned me.
By now my skin was so sensitized that the merest touch was torture. The texture of the soft terry of my robe on my breasts was almost painful. Not quite, though. It was like an itch, an irritation. At the same time, when I did move, when I rubbed my back and bottom against the fabric, it stung, yet at the same time soothed.
As if he could read my mind, Larry leaned forward and opened the robe. “There,” he said, smiling, “that’s what I wanted to see. And all ready for me, too. Just look at that!” He tweaked one nipple, gave the other a light flick with his forefinger.
This time my squeal was closer to a scream. Not from pain, but from sheer, burning lust. “Larry, give it to me now!” I trapped him between my thighs, capturing his legs with mine. I locked my feet together and pulled him forward, until he had to catch himself with his hands on either side of my waist. “Now,” I demanded.
“Ah, Cilla, I wish I could. But it’s late, and my boss would kill me if I didn’t get a good night’s rest. Remember, tomorrow night we’ve got that public meeting. We need to be in top shape for that.” He bent and kissed my belly. Not once, but many times, in a slow progression downward, until I could feel the heat of his breath as he dropped light kisses on my thatch. His fingers separated my folds and his tongue dipped between them and found my clit. When he sucked it between his lips, the orgasm hit me with all the force and subtlety of a freight train. I know I screamed.
The next thing I knew, Larry was gently untying my hands. When he held both lengths of rope in one hand, he leaned down, cupping my still-trembling chin with the other.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, his tone now hoarse and strained. “Sleep well.”
Before I could find words, he was gone.
* * * *
The next morning when I arrived in the hotel café, Pete and Larry were already seated. They were in the middle of a heated discussion over the Mariners’ chances for a pennant this year. Not being a baseball fan, I left them to their debate and ordered a poached egg, toast and orange juice. Ordinarily I don’t eat breakfast, but this morning was going to be busy. In fact, the whole day would be hectic.
I tried to concentrate on what I had to do before the night’s meeting, but all I could think about was the events of the previous two nights. As I ate, I stole surreptitious glances at both men—still arguing baseball—and wondered if I’d dreamt it all. I mean, here they were, acting as if we were no more than colleagues on a business trip, and yet I remembered.
Oh, God, I remembered. When Larry reached across the table for the cream, I saw the flex of tendons in his hand, recalled the touch of those fingers, the slight roughness of callus as he clasped my naked thigh. Pete called to the waitress for more hot water, and the velvety-husky timbre of his voice made me remember how he’d described what he wanted to do to me as he bent me over the desk. “...tease you until you’re wet, and then I’ll eat you. You’ll taste like strawberries with cream. Or maybe maple syrup on ice cream. But hot. Oh, God Cilla, you’ll be so hot. You’ll burn my mouth. I’ll be afraid to put my cock... “
I shivered with desire.
Pete laughed and bet Larry ten dollars that the Mariners would make this year’s World Series.
And I wondered if I was going mad.
* * * *
“Well, that went much better than I expected,” Larry said, as he helped me load the remaining handouts into the trunk of his car.
“Cilla’s good,” Pete replied. “I’ve worked with a lot of Project Managers, and she’s one of the best.” He set the projector beside the laptop. “What about that idiot from the neighborhood committee, though? Wasn’t he a pain in the ass?”
“Shhh!” I looked around. A few stragglers were still emerging from the school gym where the meeting had been held. “Wait until we’re in the car.”
“Sorry. What I meant to say was, ‘Isn’t it fortunate that the gentleman from the neighborhood committee is so concerned about the quality of life of its residents?’“
I had to laugh. Pete’s first comment was closer to what I was thinking. Every public meeting I’d ever attended had one or more people like the man in question. Negative, outspoken, illogical, and determined to be heard, at the cost of everyone else’s fair turn. I’d learned a few techniques to deal with them, but nothing had worked this evening. I’d finally had to cut him off rather forcefully, in order to let everyone have a chance to comment. As it was, he’d caused us to run a half-hour over the time we’d planned for. Then he’d cornered me afterwa
rd and had harangued me for another fifteen minutes.
“Why didn’t you just walk off?” Pete said, as he held the back door for me. “He wasn’t saying anything he hadn’t said before.”
Larry got in and started the car. “Listening to him was the right thing to do. She made him feel like he was important, like what he had to say was valid. People like that, if you don’t listen to them, can give you all sorts of grief later on.”
Pete said something in response, but I’d tuned them out. The day’s stress had caught up with me, and I wondered if I’d be able to stay awake until we got back to the hotel.
As I sat there, half-zoned, their voices lured me toward sleep. I’m not sure whether I actually heard Larry say, “Ever consider a threesome?”
“With Cilla?” Pete asked. “Oh, man! What a concept. When?”
“I thought maybe tomorrow night. We’ve only got that one meeting scheduled Friday, and it’s not until ten.”
“Dinner first?”
“Sounds good to me.”
The next thing I knew, Pete was leaning in the open door and saying, “Wake up. Cilla. We’re home.”
I managed to get to my room without help. I even managed to hang up my suit and brush my teeth. When I woke the next morning, I was still wearing my bra, half-slip and pantyhose.
Best of all, none of the erotic dreams had disrupted my rest, and I felt able to face the dragons again.
* * * *
As if in reward for a hectic three days, Thursday went smoothly. My early morning meeting with the design committee required only that I be there. I found the discussion interesting at first, then got lost as they went deeper and deeper into technical aspects of engineering design. When it was over, well past noon, I joined Art Fortnum, the GA Project Manager, and a couple of the architects for a late—and long—lunch. I didn’t get back to the hotel until four.
The message light on my phone was blinking. I picked it up, punched the code for a recorded message. “Hi, Cilla. Larry here. I found this great place for dinner. Wear something that’ll wash. I’ll meet you and Pete in the hotel lobby at six-thirty.”
All I wanted to do was hole up in my room and rest this evening, but I needed to talk to both men. A couple of things had come up in the lunch conversation that they needed to know. Stripping down to my bra and panties, I set the alarm for six and slid between cool, soft sheets. I must have been asleep in 30 seconds.
The alarm pulled me out of a vague, frustrating dream where I kept trying to find files in unlikely places, but everything was locked and I kept dropping the folders and scattering their contents all over the place. I fumbled for the switch, muttering imprecations against hotel clocks that all worked differently. After a few moments of mental confusion, I remembered where I was and what I was supposed to do.
I also remembered who I was going to dinner with—and wondered if I wouldn’t be smarter to beg off. I knew, deep in my gut, how the evening would end.
I’m not ready for this.
“Coward,” I told myself as I ran a brush through my hair. Tonight I’d leave it down, instead of pulling it back into the twist I usually wore. “All you have to do is say no. It’s not like they’re going to hold a gun to your head, or tie you up.”
A tingle of desire quivered in my belly as I remembered the white ropes and how I’d been completely at Larry’s mercy in my dream.
It was a dream. It had to be.
“Stop worrying. Nothing’s going to happen tonight, as long as you’re with the two of them. Safety in numbers, and all that.” I stepped back to make one last check. My chinos and lime green polo shirt were about as washable as I’d brought with me. Slipping into a mulberry boiled wool jacket, I grabbed my purse and went out, before I could change my mind.
Chapter Five
"A cab? You’re taking a cab, Larry?” Ordinarily he insisted on driving his Mercedes everywhere.
“We’re going to a brew pub, Cilla. I don’t risk my car when I’ve been drinking.”
“Not just a brew pub,” Pete said as he followed me thought the wide double doors of the hotel. “They’re known as much for their barbecue as for their beer.”
I climbed into the back seat. “Yum! Southern style, I hope?” Pete got in after me.
Instead of getting into the front seat, Larry squeezed in beside me. It was cozy, and I was way too conscious of the pressure of their thighs against mine. When Larry raised his arm and stretched it along the back of the seat, it relieved the crowding. Then I felt his fingers threading through my hair. I pretended not to notice, glad he couldn’t see the goose bumps on my arms.
I doubt I’d ever find my way back to that brewpub. I can’t even remember its name. But I’ll never forget that evening.
We pulled up in front of an old brick building, windowless and dark. If it hadn’t been for the neon sign above a heavy wooden door, I would have thought they’d brought me to a deserted warehouse. Ruby’s, it flashed. On-off-on-off-on, turning the rain-slick street into an eerie red tunnel through the night.
The interior was smoky, lit by wall sconces with amber globes. As my eyes adjusted, I could see that the tables were small, round, and covered with brown wrapping paper. I was wondering how long we’d have to wait to be seated, when a tall woman came out of a narrow door behind the high counter on which a cash register sat.
“We’re reservations,” Pete told her. “Ivanov.”
She led us to a table in the back corner. Despite the nearby sconce, I wondered how I’d read my menu. As it turned out, I didn’t have to. There wasn’t one.
“We’ve got beans, fries, cornbread, and buttermilk biscuits,” the woman said, speaking rapidly. “Ranch, Thousand Island, Italian and house dressing. You want a pitcher?”
“A pitcher of the Weizzenbier,” Pete told her, before I could ask for wine, “and three glasses.”
“Wait a minute. I don’t want beer.”
“You want this beer, Cilla. Trust me.” Turning to the waitress, Larry said, “Bring a pitcher of water too, please.”
When she’d gone, he leaned forward. “I had lunch here today, with some fellows from the Business Gazette. I’ve never tasted beer so good. Smooth, dark, rich, with just a hint of spiciness. You’ll love it, I promise.”
“If you say so.” I looked around me, as well as I could. The walls were old brick, the ceiling open, with heavy wooden joists showing. The wood floor, now that I got a good look at it, was wide planks that showed the scars of years of use. The impression I had of an old warehouse probably wasn’t far off. The beer arrived just then, interrupting my inspection.
I sipped cautiously. Beer isn’t my favorite libation, mostly because of its bitterness. But this wasn’t bitter, at least not enough to bother me. It was almost as good as Larry had promised, in fact. “I could learn to like this,” I told my companions.
“Told you so,” Larry said, with a smirk. He scooted his chair closer—no mean feat, considering that we were already practically rubbing elbows. Our round table was perhaps thirty inches across, making two pitchers and six glasses quite a crowd.
Pete, on my other side, also scooted closer. Not quite enough to crowd me, but certainly enough to make me feel surrounded. “We’ll need most of the table for the food,” he said, when I looked at him with raised eyebrow.
Before I could ask why we didn’t spread out and put it between us, the waitress returned. “You decided?” she said, looking at me.
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
“I’ll have the beans and fries,” Larry told her, “and house dressing.” In an aside, he said, “Balsamic vinaigrette. Superb.”
“Beans and biscuits for me, and ranch,” Pete told her. “Cilla?”
“I guess I’ll have the cornbread, but no beans. And the house dressing.” Having seen the mountain of ribs just brought to the table beside ours, I doubted I’d go hungry.
While we waited for our meals, we caught each other up on the day’s accomplishments. We were all
but finished here, and we’d accomplished even more than we’d hoped to. Larry had made some good contacts with a couple of local senior advocacy groups and Pete was sure he’d built some good relationships with local regulatory staff. My own interactions with Gambel Associates had been productive.
We talked while we ate our salads—the vinaigrette dressing was incredible!—and were still recapping the week’s activities when the waitress snatched the empty plates away. She returned in a moment to set a gargantuan tray of ribs in the middle of the table. I was still gaping at it when she came back carrying three aluminum pie plates filled with bread, pots of honey and butter, and two soup bowls full of baked beans that smelled so strongly of molasses and spices that my mouth watered. We all got knives, the fellows got round-bowled spoons, and on the far side of the table she set a container that reminded me of the tortilla warmers you saw in Mexican restaurants.
“You need any more washcloths, you let me know,” she said. “Enjoy your supper.”
“Washcloths?” I said, my voice faint.
“You’ll need ‘em,” Larry assured me, as he reached out and picked up a rib, dripping with sauce. Without ceremony, he started gnawing on it.
Pete did the same. I hesitated, then followed suit. Apparently eating with one’s hands was the only choice here.
After the first taste, I couldn’t stop gnawing until I’d removed every single scrap of meat from the bone. Oh, the ribs were wonderful! Tossing the bone into the pile already begun by the guys, I reached for my beer glass. It nearly slipped out of my greasy, sauce-covered fingers.
Without thinking, I stuck my little finger in my mouth and licked it clean. One of my secret passions is eating with my fingers, but it’s something I rarely do in company. And when I do lick them, it’s carefully and unobtrusively.
Somehow tonight good manners seemed unimportant. I licked the ring finger, inserting it nearly full length into my mouth, and swiping at it with my tongue. Drawing it out slowly, I made sure there wasn’t any sauce left on in. I was about to insert the third finger when Pete reached over and caught my wrist.
