by Dee Palmer
“You didn’t address any concerns?” I question the silence now that I start to undo my seatbelt.
“Your home?” He asks ignoring my question.
“Yep, that’s right! Thank you, Mr. Stone.” I go to open the door. He reaches across and holds my hand against the handle. My breath hitches.
“More lies, Miss Thorne?” He is leaning into the small space between us and his rich aroma is intoxicating. My fingers twitch to run through his hair, maybe touch his face. Unfortunately, his question is more like a statement and diminishes any rising temptation as I tense with renewed panic.
“I live here.” I try to sound convincing.
“Mmmm, perhaps this will help.” He is still leaning into me, still holding my hand on top of the handle of the car door, and, God, he still smells so fucking good. “Firstly, your concerns: I have no interest in your degree, I know who you are because I was introduced to you, and I am thorough in gathering information about people in my life, but you have secrets and as thorough as I am, I would like you to tell me yourself.”
“You questioned my commitment to my course. No. You didn’t question it, you attacked it, and picked on me in the process… but regardless, I would still attend your lecture program, I’d be an idiot not to.” I drop my head and sigh. “Forgive me if I assumed you had an interest in my degree. I was clearly wrong.” I mutter and added even more quietly “On every count.” I push against the handle and he releases his hold. The door opens, and I get out.
“Yes, Miss Thorne, you were wrong. Your friend however, was spot on. I do want to fuck you.” His voice is like silk, sensual, sinful silk. “To clarify, the comments I made, however forcefully, were said to make a point. You have a sound business proposition, but you won’t secure the necessary investment to develop your idea further with your current ‘hope to’ attitude…and Miss Thorne…I didn’t pick on you. I picked you.” I can’t bring myself to look into his eyes. A tiny moan escapes the back of my throat and is captured, silenced in my mouth. I open the door and walk away visibly shaking, then ring the bell on Marco’s door and wait. I’m in shock.
A sleepy Marco comes to the door. and I push past his confused state.
“Sorry to wake you, Marco, but don’t ask.” I peek through the glass in the door frame. “I’ll be five minutes, then I’m gone.” Marco presses his nose against the glass beside me.
“What are we looking for, Bets?” His eyes are squinting, and his yawn is exaggerated.
“That.” I point to Daniel’s car as it pulls from the curb, and the red lights disappear down the road. I turn to give Marco a quick kiss on the cheek and leave him a little stunned as I close the door behind me and begin my walk home, to my real home. I set a brisk pace along the main road. It’s not ideal walking late at night, but it’s a pretty safe area. I’ll grab a cab if I see one, but it won’t take me long if I don’t. I would normally be nervous at the speed the car was approaching, but my heart is racing for an entirely different reason as I recognize the growl of the heavy engine of a super-fast sports car. It stops abruptly just in front of me, and a very stern Daniel Stone exits, slams his door and storms up to me. His face is dark, scowling and fiercely handsome.
“Get in the car!” His voice is deadly quiet and I take a step back. He moves to match my retreat.
“I don’t give a fuck about your secrets, Bethany, but you are not walking in the dark alone!” He tries for a more gentle tone. His face softens, and his anger is replaced with obvious concern. “Now, please get in the car.” I pause, but only for a moment before I do as he says. I remain quiet as he starts the car and pulls away.
“Shall we try this again? Where to, Miss Thorne?” His tone is calm and commanding.
“The restaurant, I live above the restaurant.” I reply quietly.
“There. That wasn’t so hard,, was it?” I know he must feel it, but he doesn’t have to sound so fucking smug.
“No.” I mumble my reply with irritation and petulance.
“No?” His voice is deep, coaxing, and laden with promise, and I shiver when I suddenly understand his intent.
“No, Sir.” He smiles.
Less than five minutes later, he is pulling up outside the rear of the restaurant. “I don’t think it is very polite to lie. We are going to need to work on those secrets, aren’t we, Miss Thorne?” He is tapping his steering wheel, I’m still in shock from his earlier declaration and he thinks I’m being rude.
“I didn’t ask for a lift home. If I’m being rude, it’s a result of your behaviour and not a reflection of mine.”
“Well, my behaviour just saved you a three mile walk in the dark, and I don’t think it would be too much to ask for some gratitude.” He leans closer, and my senses are filled with his rich exotic smell.
“What?” I’m almost speechless. “I wouldn’t, I didn’t even need… you… you…” I can’t construct a full sentence, because I am utterly astonished at his arrogance.
“Me? Yes, what about me?” He is holding my gaze with searing intensity, and his mouth curls in a deeply sensual smile. So despite his arrogance, I need to get out before I grab his face, claw my fingers tight into his hair, and consume those soft, full lips. I lick my lips at the very thought of their taste. The small movement is enough to draw his eyes to my mouth. His jaw twitches.
“Thank you for the lift… Sir!” I slam the car door and without looking back, make my way into the darkened restaurant, locking the bolts behind me. If I wasn’t so exhausted, I think I would be taking one of those cold showers right about now.
I HAVE DECIDED to give Late Night Calls a go, and I informed a delighted Mags that I would take my first call on Monday. Although I am apprehensive, I like the flexibility, and the money is really good. You would have to be an alien to not be aware of the recent interest in erotic literature, but I was a little vague on the specific nature of submission and, given my chosen medium, I felt I was going to need specifics. So I spent a flushed and fevered Sunday researching all things D/s. My misunderstanding and subsequent offense at Mags’ assessment of me was a result of my perception of weakness in relation to submission. As with many things, there’s a spectrum, and although I’m not sure how I would handle a call with a guy set on demeaning, humiliating, or ordering me around like a pet, the notion of consensual ‘total power exchange’ I found, frankly, hot.
I had been offended when Mags first declared that I was a ‘natural submissive’, but it did go a long way in explaining my reaction to Daniel. He is definitely a Dominant, and I react strongly to him. On paper, it’s simple; in real life, it’s a different story. It’s not that I am not surrounded by strong male characters all day, every day, but he just presses some seriously erotic buttons that have me trembling with pent-up desire.
So with a play on my name ’Bets’ and gambling, all things Vegas and showgirls, I decide that, for one hour each night, I will become Lola; not hugely original, but it works. Mags is thrilled and extremely enthusiastic. I don’t share her optimism. We discuss the obvious limitations and safety awareness, like I’d be giving anyone my personal details. But Mags was very clear that my identity would be entirely safe. Monday night I was set to take my first call. I found myself closing my eyes, and, all too quickly, Daniel’s face fills my imagination. It is his face I see, his eyes on me as I mentally step into Lola’s world.
“My hands are tied together, the thin soft black leather strip is bound and wound in an intricate bond. Looped between the silky soft skin of my wrists. You can see the blood pumping through the veins in my wrists, and the straps tighten as you pull my arms above my head and secure them high on a hook. My smooth skin is flushing.” Everything I describe is slow and breathy, and I pause to moan. I take some encouragement from the caller’s mirrored moan. “You are holding a black riding crop, which has a hard chrome handle and is woven with fibers in a crisscross pattern down its length to the end where there is an elongated loop of soft black leather. You hold the loop up to my cheek a
nd gently trace a pattern along my jaw and over the swell of my bottom lip. My tongue reaches for a taste…Mmmm.” I sigh and pause. “You are going to take the tip of that crop and trace it down the curve of my breast and pull back slightly to catch the tip against my tight peaked nipple, Arhh… I ache for some release, Sir.” I draw in a deep, satisfying breath. “Taking the crop loop down, down, with long leisurely strokes across my stomach, catching the top of my panties.” I’m in no hurry, the threat of punishment implicit. “You push the tip further into my panties and you can feel the rush of heat flash across my body and see the sheen of perspiration which covers my pale skin, you are going to have to slide your fingers between my legs to see if I am really as wet as you think I am, and I am desperate for that touch, Sir. I am desperate for the relief you can give me, Sir.”
“Thank you.” A hushed breathless voice breaks my flow, followed by a click, and the line goes dead.
I open my eyes and look at my phone only to be faced with the screen save of the picture I got caught taking a few weeks ago. I fall back into my bed and throw my hand over my eyes, trying to slow my own breathing. That was fun. I feel a little flustered, and, if I’m honest, wasn’t expecting it to last that long, but I got a ‘thank you!’ That was my only call on the first night and I wasn’t surprised. I think perhaps my lack of experience will make my calls a little tame. However, the following night was a full hour, much of the same, but with one guy who wanted a full description of my oral skills. Part of me did want to say that there’s not going to be much of a description if your dick’s in my throat, but I refrained. By Thursday, I have fallen into a comfortable routine, PJ’s, warm milk, and some D/s before lights out.
Mr. Wilson had sent an email requesting I hand my work in directly to him as he wanted to check my progress personally, and, after my rocky start courtesy of Mr. Stone, I have welcomed his support and encouragement. I am back to my normal confident, if somewhat quiet, self. I knock and wait outside his office.
“Come in!” The identity of the voice is masked by the acoustics of the closed door.
“Oh!” I stop on the threshold, not who I was expecting. “Sorry, Sir, I have an appointment with Mr. Wilson. I’ll just wait outside.” The vision of a darkly intense Mr. Stone sitting behind Mr. Wilson’s desk has me frozen to the spot.
“I don’t think that’s necessary.” Mr. Stone grins at the flush to my face. I have got to stop wearing every reaction on my face. “Please come in, make yourself comfortable.” He smoothly invites me in.
“Not sure that’s even possible,” I mutter under my breath.
“There are pigeon holes for that, you know?” He stands and moves silently around the desk continuing to step my way. I swallow loudly. Thinking he is some sort of mind reader, I glance down at my boldly titled course work pressed against my chest as a shield.
“Yes, I do, but Mr. Wilson wanted to see me.” He is standing so close I have to tilt my head to look into his eyes, which are smouldering and his mouth is curved into a knowing grin.
“Mmmm. Well, I can’t blame him for that.” He hums. “Tell me, Miss Thorne, why are you trying to study a part-time degree in record time?” I take a sharp breath at this. He is leaning so the last words are whispered breaths against my ear. I am hoping the full body shiver I feel isn’t visible.
“I, umm.” I let out a short puff of air. “You are mistaken, my timetable is part-time… Plus your lectures, of course.” I am a terrible liar and my hand reaches for the hairs on my neck to tug indicating as much, blatant as if my nose had started to grow.
“I thought we talked about lying. I know you are lying, but I want to know why?” He touches my chin with the tip of his finger, and I can feel the intensity of the heat from that tiny connection like a branding iron.
“How?” It’s all I can manage and his lips curl in to a sinful grin.
“I know you, Miss Thorne. I know you better than you know yourself.” He pushes my jacket open, and I gulp for the air that won’t stay in my mouth. His strong hands hold my waist, his thumbs tracing circles over my hips, and his fingers hook over the waist band of my jeans and follow the band to the middle. “I know what you need.” He slowly pops the buttons and I let out a small moan, his eyes darken from brilliant blue to almost black. I jump at the sound of the door handle. It’s unlocked.
“Don’t move.” I barely hear his low growl as he takes one step to my side but remains flush against my body, his fingers gently stroking the top of my panties.
“Ah, Daniel.” I recognise Mr. Wilson’s cheerful voice.
“Jack, if you don’t mind I just need a moment with Miss Thorne.” His voice is soft but commanding, and with that he sinks his hand down the front of my panties and begins to leisurely move his index finger up and down my soft folds. I try to suppress a full on erotic cry at the intimate intrusion, and all that escapes is a strained squeak from the back of my throat. I begin to tremble. My legs are feeling weak, and my blood is rushing, deciding whether to flee to my head or my crotch.
“Yes, of course. Bethany, I hope you are well. You have my assignment completed, yes? Are you enjoying the course?” Oh, crap! I’ve got to answer. Daniel looks like he is asking for directions. I dread to think what my face looks like as perspiration forms a sheen across my skin, and I struggle to breathe.
“Yes, and yes, I am, thank you, Mr. Wilson.” I manage to speak in a level but strained tone.
“How much?” Daniel says under his breath and sinks a finger further into me. I clench around him and squeeze my legs together. My hips want to grind, but I’m guessing the movement wouldn’t go undetected.
“Oh, actually, Bethany, you’ve saved me an email.” I whimper, as the pressure building is becoming more than a distraction. “We have a drinks reception, selected few, blah blah, but as a representative Mature student on my course, I would be grateful if you would come.” His offer is kind but barely registering with me as Daniel continues his deep rhythmical movement, slowly in and out, in and out.
“She’ll come, I’m sure of it.” Daniel answers on my behalf but not for my benefit. I look at him with heated, pleading eyes. He grins but continues to look at Mr. Wilson, his glance the picture of calm whilst sinking a second finger deep inside me.
“Oh good, the details are on my desk, I’ll just…” I hear him step further into the room. I freeze. Daniel interrupts him.
“I’ll make sure she gets them, but if you wouldn’t mind, I need to finish with Miss Thorne.” He barely whispers the word with, but the deep timbre of the rest of his commanding dismissal weakens not just my resolve, but my knees, too. Mr. Wilson closes the door. My eyes are so wide and my body quakes as I am stepped forcefully back towards the door.
“I can’t believe, -arhhhh” Daniel strokes a sweet spot inside me, and I feel my knees give way. He holds me up with his frame and continues to move his finger deep inside. His thumb puts light pressure in tiny circles on my clit. My hips move of their own volition, grinding against his hand, riding him, needing release.
“You’re so wet, and I’m so fucking hard.” He growls into my neck as he flicks the door locked. “No interruptions, I want you to come for me.” Like I could stop. “Now!” He demands through gritted teeth.
“Oh God, Sir. What? Oh God!” The most amazing climax rips through me the instant he said that word, pulling wave after wave of intense pulsing heat through my body, contracting my innermost muscles around his fingers. The tightness and the slow rhythm of his fingers seem to keep this heightened state of arousal at its peak, forever. Minutes, maybe hours later, still trembling, I finally give in to my weakened knees and slide down the door sinking to the floor. He gives me a few minutes to regulate my breathing, and he gently lifts me from the floor and begins to carefully tuck my clothes back in neatly and does the button up on my jeans.
“You’re so fucking responsive, Bethany.” He slowly sucks on his fingers, and I can see the raw desire still in his eyes. That’s maybe the most erotic t
hing I’ve ever seen and certainly the most erotic act I’ve ever experienced, but even so, I realize I am seriously out of my depth with this man. He returns to the desk, picks up the details of the drinks reception, and hands me the information. He is unaffected, and I’m a wreck.
“Until Friday, then?” His casual dismissal has me gawping like an idiot.
“It’s Saturday; the reception, Mr. Wilson said Saturday.” I can’t even construct full sentences. I’m in so much trouble. I turn to leave.
“Yes…Saturday, too.” I close the door, and I swear I can hear him laugh. Well, I am glad he has something to laugh about. I don’t know whether to scream with frustration or sigh with satisfaction, but I definitely don’t find it remotely funny.
That evening I manage to pick the saucepan from my single ring hob just before the milk boils over, and I stink the apartment out with the smell of burnt milk. I make myself a decaf milky coffee; I like the flavour, but I don’t need the buzz from caffeine this late. I wriggle to get comfy, not an easy task on a futon, but it helps that I have a ridiculous number of throw pillows. I place Mags’s phone next to my coffee, sit back and wait. It’s literally a second after one a.m. when I get my first call. I pick it up instantly.
“You kept me waiting,” A low stern voice informs me. The call has a slight echo, and I strain to hear through the muffled connection. This is new. I get a strange prickle over my body like an instant chill, but I’m toasty warm in my fluffy pj’s. I reach down to pull the covers up to my neck.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” I reply with a deep exhale of breath. “It won’t happen again.”
“No, it won’t!” His curt reply makes my breath hitch and core clench. “Tell me what you are wearing.” He practically growls.
“Yes, Sir.” I pause as my mouth feels suddenly dry. Maybe this is just a follow-up reaction to events this afternoon. I’m probably just hypersensitive right now. “I’m wearing tiny black lace panties and I’m wearing my six inch black leather thigh high boots… and nothing else.” My response is slow, not to extend the length of the call; I’m just having a little more trouble breathing tonight.
