dontjudge06242014aRe

by Unknown

  That didn’t help the fact that I felt exposed here, standing on the precipice of his luxury waiting for entry. Everything inside me screamed for him to let me in, yet I dared not ring the doorbell again. I’m an amateur, no, worse than that, a beginner with wild ideas and fantasies that probably should be kept within the confines of my own head. It wouldn’t surprise me if he left me out here all night, what was I thinking? That I’d just waltz into his home and he’d bend me over and spank me? Sometimes my own immaturity is so blaringly obvious that I just want to cringe and crawl under the nearest rock.

  Movement. The door handle clicked as he unlocked it but it opened only a few inches. I saw him turn away from it and walk casually into another room. Not the gracious welcome I’d expected, then again who knows what I’d expected. All that I had in the way of visuals were either staged internet photos, the cover of a box in a ‘couples’ store, and what I’d seen at his club last night. I pushed the heavy door open and took care to step inside soundlessly while cursing the five inch heels I’d bought this morning in an effort to sensualize my wardrobe. The foyer was even more massive than I’d expected. The entire effect was that of a vault; a catacomb where one could enter but never leave. A chill ran up my spine and I struggled with my fight or flight instinct, but finally closed the door behind me. Every click, step and movement echoed within the hall. My breath sounded like that of a racehorse, and at any moment I expected my bladder to give up its challenge.

  Music so soft and melodic, that at first it blended into the background of the blood rushing through my veins, seemed to surround me. My heels clicked on the marble floors and threatened to disrupt the mausoleum quality of his home. I was tempted to take them off but didn’t want to ruin the look that’d taken me an entire day to achieve. If I could just stop shaking so damn bad, get control of myself, maybe I could follow him. You can do this I told myself over and over again until I began to believe it. Just walk right in there and tell him you’re ready. Yet somehow his marble floors had turned to quicksand and I was stuck here in his foyer, teeth chattering and knee’s wobbling.

  “Are you coming in here or not?” he said brusquely from the other room.

  That’s it, I’m outta here. I turned and stared at the door behind me with hope for freedom but my heels were deeply buried and refused to budge. This is ridiculous, I told myself. I came here to find out once and for all if this is truly what I need, and I’ll be damned if I’m just going to make a run for it before I even know. Still I was frozen in place.

  He moved in the other room and my body trembled. I felt like a squealing sorority girl at a haunted house. “I think we’re going to find it hard to discuss things with you standing in my foyer like a deer in headlights. Won’t you come in?” He leaned against the door jamb wearing a humored grin that made me want to whack him in the teeth.

  “I didn’t come here to be the butt of your jokes. I’m just a little intimidated, that’s all.” I said in a voice not even remotely my own.

  He shuffled a bit in his bare feet, and I didn’t miss the fact that in his surroundings he fit in perfectly, as though the house itself had been created with him as its centerpiece. While I seemed to be shrinking miserably in its midst, he rode above the grandeur and somehow made it seem inconsequential, casual. “Elizabeth, please come into the library. I’ll fix you a cocktail to calm your nerves.”

  He floated towards me with his hand outstretched. I took it more for stability than for the fact that I wanted to touch him, though that part was true as well. My pale southern hand disappeared within his dark Arabian fingers, and the magic of their joining drained my fear. He came to a halt in the doorway, turning to me, “Trust me,” he whispered, staring into my eyes.

  I’ve always been a sucker for a man with pretty eyes. The latest Cosmo quiz told me that I’m a woman looking for substance, not flights of fancy and flowery words. I need a man I can read, not one anxious to play juvenile games. Give it to me straight or I’m not interested. This man’s eyes are as dark as coal, and equally as baffling. One minute they beckon me with ‘come hither’ and the next they reprimand me for each disturbance my heels make in the crypt he calls home. There are no warm fuzzies here. Yet something behind his eyes tells me that I will trust him, that I must.

  He settled me onto a sofa and I studied each move of his body as he poured a cocktail from a polished silver decanter. While I hadn’t expected for him to be wearing a suit, I didn’t expect faded jeans and a black tee shirt. Dark hair curled in thick rivulets over his forehead, and scruffiness on his cheeks told me that his day had already been a long one. His expression showed that being kind to me was something he could barely face. My heart ached to delve into his, drag out his misery and comfort it. But I doubted that kind of behavior would be welcomed.

  “Here, this is a concoction of my mothers. She says it’s suitable for a lady,” he shrugged. “Try it, she swears by it for her nerves.”

  I took a small sip from the chilled silver cup he’d handed me and studied the dark liquid dubiously. It was presented perfectly with a small sprig of jasmine on top; the scent was both sweet and exotically spicy. I put it to my lips and let it drip between them. “Mmm, it’s very good!” I said with a surprised smile. “Kind of a spiced, mint julep. I love it.”

  He laughed, “I’ll be sure to tell her.”

  I drank in earnest now, “Really, it’s amazing. What’s in here? Do you know?”

  Lowering himself into the chair across from me he looked weary, “Muddled dates and orange, cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice over Kentucky bourbon. Then she steeps it slowly and strains it through ice into the decanter.”

  I chuckled, “Sounds like you’ve had instruction.”

  He stood abruptly, “We’re not here for a cooking lesson, Elizabeth. Stand up and let me see what you’ve worn for me.”

  My nerves returned with vengeance but I managed to follow his simple order. I’d done my homework: Rule number one was always follow orders; they’re there for a reason. Regardless, I felt like a poser, a bad actress portraying an even worse role.

  His eyes followed me coarsely, “Take off those clothes. You look like a cheap whore.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes and blood rushed to my face. I’d imagined, incorrectly, that this sort of lifestyle required a bit of ‘smuttiness’. Now he looked at me like a tramp - a prostitute - and the humiliation rang through me like Baptist church bells. Reaching up I unbuttoned the remaining four buttons on my silk shirt. I’d chosen it because of its tight fit, but now it disgusted him and I wanted it off. The coolness of the room struck my skin and my nipples perked beneath the simple bra I’d chosen. The urge to run was nearly overwhelming, but I stayed my ground with timid acceptance.

  “The rest,” he said plainly.

  I concentrated on the sound of his voice and let it ring over and over in my head until it was the only sound, thought and reality available to me. The short black skirt slid down to my ankles and I stepped over it, revealing the white boy shorts that matched my plain bra. If I’d expected some expression from him I’d have been sorely disappointed. He never flinched or blinked. “I don’t understand your attire, Elizabeth. On the outside you’ve chosen to dress like a whore, but beneath you’ve let your innocence run amuck. Did you do this intentionally?”

  I shook my head, “No.”

  With a chuckle he stood and moved towards me; his scent became my sole source of concentration. He was slightly spiced, as if his cologne was measured daily for the exact amount. I had the feeling that nothing in his life was left to chance, not even the spray nozzle on his cologne. And I had displeased him right off the bat by being inconsistent, awkward, and covered in sheer terror.

  His breath was warm next to my chilled throat. I swallowed and stood as solidly as I could when he began to touch me. Running his fingers tentatively up and down my spine, lifting my hair from the back of my neck and unhooking my bra, he examined me as carefully as he would any other object he was thinkin
g of purchasing. It was only then I realized my teeth were so firmly clinched that I must have the nature of a mannequin. Quickly I relaxed my jaw and turned my attention to his touch. My bra fell to the floor with a light flick of his fingers.

  “Do you like it when I touch you?” His voice was nothing but a deep whisper.

  “Yes,” I said with a falter.

  He stepped back and studied me from the short distance. “Take those panties off. Never enter my home again wearing panties, am I clear on that?”

  I nodded and I slid my panties down my thighs as gracefully as one can while wearing five inch heels and nothing else.

  “Good, bend over and touch your ankles,” he said, making his way back to his comfortable chair.

  With a gasp I did as I was told. I was trying to concentrate on anything that would keep my mind from talking to me, and his voice was becoming my hypnotic tool. Part of the comfort and excitement about him was that I knew he’d done this before. Hell; they probably had classes on it in his club. But I’d needed a man who knew what he was doing, not one looking to use me as practice. This isn’t a game for me. It’s an introduction to a new way of life; one that I pray will release me.

  “Very well. Sit down, Elizabeth.”

  I did as I was told.

  “I’ve had a rough day,” he began. “It would be easy for me to take you now – like I want to - but that would only free me from my pain.” He seemed deeply troubled. “Why do you want this?”

  My skin was melting into his plush sofa with each word he spoke and I started to worry that if I was told to stand again a wet spot might be left in my wake. But this was a question I’d been prepared for, “Because I’m not satisfied during sex.”

  “And you believe you’re missing something? Something crucial?”

  “Yes,” I said glancing up into the dark pools of his eyes hoping that he would see my need.

  “Have you even had an orgasm before?”

  I sat silently, humiliated by the answer, “No.” I said finally.

  He stared at me in disbelief, “Never?”

  “Never,” I repeated. “Well, not with anyone else.”

  Now he cleared his throat and ran his fingers across the stubble on his chin as if considering what to do with me. I’d never admitted to anyone that orgasms had eluded me; it wasn’t something that came up during normal conversation and I wasn’t proud of it. But it was the reason I was here tonight.

  “So you came here hoping that I’d give you that experience,” he said, but it wasn’t a question. “I’m half tempted to do it, not because I think you’ve earned it. Showing up here looking like a two dollar whore…” I’d disappointed him. “But because I want to wipe that look off your face. It’s there now as it was the first day I saw you: Raw need, ultimate disappointment, and a tank of hope that’s running on empty. I couldn’t stand it the day you walked into the bar, and I can’t stand it now. Oh fuck it, come here.”

  Four steps to stand in front of him and each one seemed like eternity. He reached up abruptly and plucked at my most tender spot. I’d shaven it for the occasion, and he inspected me with his fingers until they became drenched, then he pushed inside.

  Upwards.

  Exploring.

  Finally he seemed satisfied and withdrew, leaving me breathless and desperately in need. A harsh ache attacked my belly as my lips below quivered and clamped. Only the humiliation of standing in front of him naked held me steady.

  “On the floor.”

  I took two steps back, and knelt on the floor in front of him.

  “Show me.”

  “What?”

  “Show me how you pleasure yourself.”

  “I…” I literally was dumbfounded, embarrassed, but honestly too scared and excited to actually verbalize anything.

  “Now!” he commanded. With a smooth and velvety voice his continued, “Sit back and spread your legs… show me.”

  I didn’t even process anything more than the actual words, yet my desire to please him took over and I complied without question. Sitting back on the carpet I spread my legs, bending my knees and balancing my heels of the shoes on his floor. Using my left arm I leaned back, and with my right hand cupped my breast and squeezed my aching nipple.

  “Look at me!”

  I stared into his eyes, and found myself once again wanting to crawl inside him; feel his warm strong arms around my body, holding me safely within him.

  Trailing my fingers down across my recently shaved pubic bone I brushed across my clit. A surge of power seemed to emanate from my fingers, lighting up my world as my juices began to flow uncontrollably. I slipped my index finger down between the folds, spreading my lips open for his approval. I hoped he’d at least give me the satisfaction of knowing he enjoyed the view, but from his stone cold expression I got nothing.

  Forging ahead I slipped my finger inside, first the index finger and then my middle finger, coating them both in the process. I retrieved them, sliding them up and down my opening, lightly brushing my clit with each stroke before returning them inside once again. I lowered myself onto my back, staring at the ceiling and wondering if this is what he had in mind. Nevertheless, with my left hand I pressed into my clit, feeling it throb under the pads of my own fingertips as I rhythmically stroked the opening with my right hand. I couldn’t believe how excited I was, and I feared I’d leave a huge wet spot on his floor beneath me.

  I can hear him shifting in his chair, and I’m hoping it’s his need to adjust himself, not sheer boredom at my lack of experience. Still, my need grows, and I sense my orgasm beginning to mount as I begin to press harder into my clit, making small circles. My back begins to arch, and the feeling spreads towards my outer extremities as I dig my toes into bottom of my shoes.

  “Stop,” he says calmly. I obey, although I feel the frustration of need swell in my core as I lift my head towards him. “I didn’t give you permission to come.”

  “What?”

  “Sir!” he corrects me. “I didn’t give you permission to come. Come here and lay across my lap.”

  First I kneeled at his side and then lifted my upper body over his jeaned thighs. Hardness at my belly told me he wasn’t completely immune to my body as I’d imagined. My head faced the floor now and my entire weight rested on him, his fingers flowed through my hair directing it downward so that it cascaded into a river and me in a cavern inside it. I could see little from the room my hair created; the exotic oriental carpet below was my single focus and I began studying its pattern intently. My hands pressed against it, but they were outside my field of vision so I tried to connect the lushness between my fingers to the fibers in the pattern below. I did this as I waited for his next touch because the fear of what I was doing was in direct conflict with the destitution of my need. It came without warning, as I was immersed in the monotony of the rug, and the instant stinging hot pain shot up my spine like a clear, paved road. Then warmth, massaging, hot hands delving between my thighs to test the reaction to his slap.

  Massaging.

  Then wham, he spanked me again. This time my behind was fresh with capillaries open and pink. The sting caused me to shiver uncontrollably until his long fingers began comforting me again. Each time I calmed, he hit me again. My ass was burning with fire and I realized with startling reality that I’d not been offered a safe word. Yet his fingers continued to probe around the opening of my ass and into the depths of me, and then back around again. Between each slap he marched me closer and closer to the answer I’d come here looking for.

  He began a pattern of his own. His fingers delved inside me with five strokes, then retreated and hiked up my spine to the bare back of my neck. Down again to my ass; to touch it, explore its rim and then slid forward inside me again to tickle the spot that was becoming my prominent thought. On and on he went spanking me harder as the onset to his routine.

  Pain then pleasure.

  Pain then pleasure.

  Until my need had grown so loud in m
y head that I thought I’d scream. Then he reached inside me; more fingers now, stretching me until I knew I’d burst. Throbbing and pulsing inside me, his fingers filled all voids except one, and then he slapped the living hell out of me. The stroke was so strong it jolted my entire body on his thighs. The flame that shot through me as the weight of his palm struck sent me reeling. I was almost there and somewhere in my mind I realized I’d never been this far before, but things were foggy now and my goal was just ahead. His palm didn’t comfort now; he placed it on my lower back and pushed with his entire strength. I was sure his fingers inside me were touching the ones on my back through my skin and my ass was chilling from the last sting, then he hit me again. This time the pain wasn’t pain at all, it was pure pleasure and my body took control. I was floating, so I desperately grabbed his ankles to keep me grounded. A shrill scream filled my ears and though I could feel my body trembling I had no control over it. Hot blood flashed through my veins and I could instantly feel every part of me. I could feel the tips of my toes, the frailest hair on my arm, and each nipple with astounding clarity, but mainly the frantic throbbing of my inner walls.

  I must keep him there, inside me, and it’s my single need, but slowly my mind and body began to rejoin. The connections weren’t welcomed but inevitable, and I floated back together in his lap. It was only then that I noticed that my hands had been clutched so tightly into the carpet that they were now asleep.

  “Now get up slowly or you’ll fall,” he said.

  Without warning he stood and began walking towards the doorway. “That’ll be all for now, Elizabeth. Gather your things and show yourself out.”

  “But…”

  “But what?” he asked. “Is there something else? What about you?”

  He turned and leaned against the doorway, and shoved a hand in his pocket. “You want me? To do what?”