Zipping up the cool leather boots to within an inch of my knee always sent a delicious shiver racing up my spine. It wasn’t just the temperature of the soft material against my bare flesh, it was what it symbolised; what it made me.
It made me his.
Alone I sat, framed between pillars either side of the headboard that was almost twice the width of the one at home. Green irises stared back from the mirror on the wardrobe opposite, chest heaving with anticipation beneath the snug-fitting black dress. I’d elected to wear my hair down, its inky length outlining features lightly accented with mascara, a dusting of blusher and a ruby lipstick to which I was unaccustomed. With the make-up the only colour in my otherwise monochrome outfit, I bore more than a passing resemblance to Sin City’s Ava Lord, yet fretted it wasn’t a bold enough statement for him.
Uncertainty occupied every second that ticked through treacle towards the designated hour. Should I be early or fashionably late? Would tardiness displease him or increase his desire for me? He could be so unpredictable, which was precisely his allure. I trembled a little and willed my nerves to calm, running through his checklist in my head to give myself focus.
The first item: boots. An end-of-season bargain from the previous year, they hugged my calves, delivering an air of femininity, elegance, yet striking authority. The extra handful of inches in height they afforded gave me fabulous poise, accentuating hips that I traced with my fingertips, slowly following the contour of my hourglass up to the swell of my chest, then down and down, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from the material and my body beneath.
Brushing flesh a mere couple of hand-widths from the top of my thighs, I shuddered. The list merely stated “something short” yet I could hardly believe the dress still fit me. The thought of what he would be able to see when I sat, and how close others would be to discovering my charms as I breezed through the lobby flushed warmth to my cheeks.
Breathing deeply, I stared hard at my reflection, the sensible side of me searching for reasons to run while my more reckless inner tramp was raring to play his sexy game. Deep down I knew there wasn’t much point fighting: I wanted to blame the boots for uncaging Her, but knew which side of my psyche was really in control. The proof was when I gingerly parted my legs to check the next item from the list, heart rate increasing several notches when the light from the hotel’s bedside lamp caught a telltale glazing of wetness across my smooth lips. My belly fluttered and I clipped my knees back together. If the evening took the path I hoped, there was no doubt that She would make an appearance and take charge as desire overflowed, but I wanted to delay the inevitable.
Nervous energy consumed me and I paced the room as distraction therapy, plush carpet springing back with each step, like fresh moss beneath the soles. Although no stranger to the footwear, I knew the execution of my entrance had to be flawless. I’d seen too many girls in killer heels do themselves a major disservice by tottering ungainly into a room instead of allowing the shoes to help sell the package.
I practised the perfect walk, heel-toe, heel-toe, trying to ease myself into the correct mindset. He wanted the confident, sassy me who would challenge and tease him, not the everyday, indecisive introvert. Hands on hips I stared myself down, unhappy with the overall effect, frustrated that I couldn’t even seem to act in a manner that lived up to the promises the outfit portrayed. There was something missing, some quality that would make me own the boots instead of vice versa.
Trying again, I accentuated my swagger with varying degrees of success before I hit upon the catwalk strut, slightly crossing my feet to parade along an imaginary beam. The effect was sensational and I swelled with pride. He would definitely approve. It exuded power, radiance and, most importantly, sex appeal. I repeated the move, each time better than the last, finally smiling at the result, boosted… until I spotted the time.
Cursing and grabbing my clutch bag from the bed I gave one last lingering look in the mirror, telling myself I could totally do this, then crossed the room, swung the heavy bedroom door inward and whipped the room card from its holder, plunging the place into darkness. The next sound was the door latching some distance behind me.
Using the strides I’d just perfected I sashayed along the garish carpet that lined the corridor, past closed doors from which snatches of TV shows or conversations bled. I became intensely aware of my pussy lips rubbing and squeezing together with each step, cooler air swirling under the ridiculously short dress as I swept towards the elevator. Confidence grew, inhibitions faded like the memory of summer, transforming me from chrysalis to the alpha female after whom he lusted. The boundary where apprehension ended and excitement magarsus izle began was a blur, ensuring I remained wet.
Summoning the lift gave me a short while to reflect upon my day. The morning had been fairly ordinary save for the printer going down for an hour, which upset management more than anyone else. But it had been almost impossible to get through the afternoon thanks to the lunchtime texts that burnt a hole in my knickers.
They started out playfully: “I want you to myself. Tonight. It’s been too long.”
I pictured him tapping in the words with his piano player’s fingers, choosing carefully for the greatest effect. He was meticulous like that. I’d replied: “I can’t. I have plans.” I almost added “With Adam,” but thought it might be a shade too far.
His response took long enough for me to start to wonder if I’d disappointed him already: “No you don’t. Cancel them. You’re mine from 7:30. The suite is paid for.”
With already trembling hands I tapped out: “Suite?”
“Radisson Blu. Cash. Nobody will ever find out.”
“There’s always a trail.”
The reply was swift this time: “My hot little pussy getting cold feet?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then I’ll see you at 7:30. Wear something classy and short. No underwear. And your FMBs.”
Oh the boots, the fucking boots. How could I resist?
The remaining texts described what he’d do to me in increasingly graphic detail, to the point I started turning red at my desk. Kept checking over my shoulder to make sure nobody in the office could see what he’d sent and in the end had to leave to cool down. Knew I should delete the messages, but the conversation was too delicious for that. I re-read its entirety a few times during the afternoon, each iteration rekindling the heat and wetness at his use of the words “caress”, “ravish”, “kiss”, “shove”, “lick”, “ice” and “spank”. The whole sexual spectrum was represented, from love to lust and beyond. I’d been a shaking wreck ever since, adding precious little value to the company’s bottom line, my imagination taking over instead.
The lift pinged obediently, silver doors sliding open to reveal the empty interior. I entered, watching myself every step of the way in the mirrored upper half before reaching for the control surface and keying my destination. The doors imprisoned me, and even though the lift descended steadily, my stomach remained on the fifteenth floor.
The lack of control was suffocating, yet somehow liberating. Everything about the evening was his choice, from the swanky location right down to the very clothes I was wearing. And those I wasn’t. To him, I was merely entertainment, his plaything for the evening. A malleable rag-doll he could wine, dine, bend, treat, mistreat, taste, fuck, and everything in between. I ought to have felt shame or revulsion at being chattel, but my nipples straining against the lacy bra, and the juice factory working overtime between my legs belied any such notion.
The lift slowed and stopped at eight allowing a middle-aged couple to step in, well heeled for dinner. A cursory acknowledgement was all that passed between us as I shifted slightly to make room, but as the carriage continued its downward crawl the woman cast me a dirty look and then averted her eyes. Like I was a footprint on her crème brulée. Paranoid, I whirled to check myself in the mirror. No obvious signs of anything out of place, but when I spun back to face the door her objection became clear: the unmistakable miasma of a woman in heat. I hadn’t noticed until that moment, but my arousal drifted from beneath the hem of my dress, heady and thick in the confines of the small lift. Involuntarily I blushed and looked at my boots, squeezing my legs together to stem the flow, willing the lift to hurry.
I let the muttering couple exit first then strode, chin up, after them, peeling off left towards the bar area, unsure if the clack of the boots against the marbled floor or my dress were the reason several male heads swivelled my way. Maybe it was both. I felt them staring at me from over their newspapers or pint glasses. One put-out wife gave her husband a sharp kick for ogling me and I couldn’t help but let a satisfied smile creep across my face. They all wanted me. Undressed me with their filthy imaginations. Wished I were standing over them wearing nothing but the boots and a dripping hot pussy with which to grind on their faces and hard cocks until the small hours. My confidence was boosted at the realisation that, despite my shapely yet otherwise unremarkable curves, I really did ooze desire. It made me tingle.
The bar was lively, some inoffensive jazz fusion drifting between the gaps in conversation. Men in sports jackets and crisp pastel shirts unwound with colleagues and clients after a day of making the business world turn. Couples passed the time, politely sipping pre-dinner drinks and perusing the menu. But they were all mere window dressing for my whole reason manifest izle for being in the place, the main event sitting at the bar, his back to me.
His short brown crop of hair ascended from the collar of a dark suit that was tapered to his trim physique over a burgundy shirt, while a highly polished shoe tapped to the beat. I threaded my way over. With each foot that landed in front of the other I willed him to turn so he could see the practice I’d put in, but he remained steadfast, facing forward. As I approached and hopped onto the bar stool alongside him, heart thudding its own counterpoint to the music, I saw he was tracing a long finger around the rim of a glass containing amber liquid over ice. He didn’t acknowledge me, continued to stare across the flecked surface of the bar.
It was very matter-of-fact. Almost cold. I slid my clutch bag onto the bar. “Haven’t you heard that all good things come to those who wait?” He nodded, grudgingly and I tossed a smile that he missed. “Well I’m the epitome.”
Satisfied, he waved the barman over. “Singapore Sling for the lady. I’ll have another JD and a dash of coke.”
I arched my eyebrows. “Presumptuous of you.”
He flashed a toothy smile then returned to staring across the bar. “No need to act innocent, dressed in those Fuck-Me Boots and little else. You’re here because…” he tailed off, waiting for me to complete the sentence.
“Because I’m yours for the evening.”
That pleased him. “Yes. Yes you are.” He drained his glass and returned it to the shiny surface of the bar, sliding it forward like it was Rook to Bishop four, leaving a ragged trail of moisture in its wake. “Tell me, how many men in this room do you think want you?”
I swept the room, gauging numbers. “Quite a few. Fifteen maybe?”
He shook his head. “All of them. Every last man in this room wants to tear that dress from your body and drive his cock inside you. Wants to smell you, taste you, hear you scream as you come, then make you take their seed in your mouth. Or pussy. Or your firm arse.” I found myself agreeing even though it was more a statement than a question. “Yes, every man wants you. But who here can have you?”
My breath caught before I answered. “Only you.”
“And why is that again?”
“Because I’m yours.”
“And what can I do to you?”
I exhaled noisily. “Anything. Everything.”
“And how will you take it?”
“Gratefully. Willingly.” My voice cracked. “Like a whore.”
His grin widened. I’d clearly passed the test. “What if I allowed you some say in proceedings? What would you have us do?”
The barman delivered our drinks, accepting the twenty slid across the bar with a curt nod. I played with the paper umbrella before folding it so I could access the cherries, swirling them in the red liquid, eyeing my date. I couldn’t very well say what had flashed through my mind: to hop off the bar stool, unzip him, blow him to full hardness, then climb onto his lap right there and sink his length inside me. Sometimes, my urges were so damned inappropriate. Instead I went with: “Eat. Dance. Fuck.”
My frankness caught his attention and he seemed to notice me properly for the first time, casting an appreciative eye over my attire. His gaze lingered on my exposed neckline as if I were the last non-vampire on Earth.
“You look good enough to eat.”
“I sincerely hope so.”
“You wearing what we discussed?”
I nodded, took a sip and felt the alcohol warm my throat followed by the tart rush of cranberry juice. He continued:
“How does it make you feel?”
I fixed him a sultry gaze, brought the cocktail stick to my mouth and slowly drew a cherry between my lips, casting my eyes to his crotch as the fruit split against my teeth. It pleased me that there was motion beneath the material. Sometimes clichés are born because they simply work. Leaning in a little and lowering my voice I breathed, “Wet.”
He licked his lips. “Show me.”
Checking over my shoulder to make sure we weren’t being overlooked, I swung my legs from under the bar to face him. The air crackled between us as I slowly parted them, revealing my sticky insides to his obvious appreciation. I didn’t allow him to linger on the vista, a real-life snapchat, leaving him wanting more while I returned to swirling a cocktail stick in my drink. As I brought the remaining cherry to my lips, he darted for me and grabbed my wrist.
“Feed it to me.”
I turned the stick in his direction, but he shook his head. “Wetter than that.” His hazel eyes sliding all the way down over my curves to rest at the base of my dress left no doubt over what he expected.
Heart hammering in my chest, keeping my eyes on his I drew the cherry between my teeth from the cocktail stick, deliberately slowly, letting the wooden spear fall to the bar. With a measured movement to enhance the lewdness I turned manifesto of a serial killer izle my body to face him again and prised my legs apart. Fetching the cherry from my mouth I first kissed it and then watched him track its path south until he was staring right at my core. Being wanted was insanely hot. As I glided the fruit ever closer to my entrance, his eyes widened until I thought he’d burst with excitement. I controlled the flinch as the cherry made contact and was astonished at how wet I really was. There was hardly any need to push inside, the surface of the fruit was already coated with my sweet glaze, but I dipped half of it inside myself, then abruptly extracted it, shut my legs and leant forward again, proffering the juicy object.
Hungrily, his lips sought the tips of my fingers, eyes drifting closed as he tasted his prize. His mouth felt warm around my digits and he took more than necessary, swirling his tongue over them to the second knuckle. When he pulled back, they glistened in the bar light. He snapped his eyes open.
I didn’t move immediately. Wasn’t sure I could do it without getting carried away in my current state of arousal. But I knew the rules: do what he says or pay the consequences later. Truth be told, the consequences could be just as exhilarating. Certainly last time I defied him, it ended with my arms tied and him burying his spunk deep in my tight bottom. I shivered at the beautiful recollection, the key to my immediate future hanging in the balance. Maybe insubordination would reap similar rewards again, but could I risk it?
He sat there unmoving. Waiting.
Decision made, I again checked over my shoulder. Everyone seemed engrossed in their own private bubbles of conversation and the barman was tending to a portly couple in ill-fitting clothes. Returning to face the gorgeous man alongside me, I watched his eyes surrounded by long lashes track my wet fingers the way he had done the cherry. Once again my legs parted stickily and I hovered my hand in front of my pussy before tracing the shape of the outer petals with his saliva, loving his reaction.
It was so dirty. As I feared, the fact he loved me acting this way amplified the experience and made me hornier by the second, teetering on the edge of releasing Her. I drifted a finger to the centre and pressed it inside, opening my mouth at the touch and wishing my digit was his smooth cock instead. I left it there as long as I dared then withdrew, closed my legs again and turned back to the bar, running my juices around the rim of my cocktail glass. With a wicked glint in my eye I slid the drink towards him like it was my own chess piece. He picked it up and brought it to his lips, first tasting me and then washing it down with a slug of the crimson liquid.
He smiled. “You hungry?”
“In more ways than you’ll know.”
“Then let’s eat.”
Stepping from the bar stool, he offered me his hand. In the extreme boots I was level with him, which was a refreshing change. As he leaned past to fetch our drinks I breathed his cologne. Earthy and masculine, it stirred my hormones.
He waited then indicated the way. “Ladies first.” To outsiders it was a chivalrous gesture, one man impressing his date with good manners. But I knew the real reason was so he could ogle my arse wiggling in the dress. So I gave him the full works, pacing evocatively, catwalk-style across the room to the far corner, feeling his twin lasers burning into my full rump with every step, and catching glimpses of more men from nearby tables eyeing me up. I flushed, convinced that the base of my naked bum was visible to anyone I passed. It was such a turn-on and by the time we reached the maître d’ I sensed a trace of juice smeared against my inside leg.
“Good evening. Do you have a reservation?”
I nodded and gave him the details. As he scanned the list I felt my date step into my space, his breath tickling my neck and his hardness against me. I shivered. All of a sudden I wasn’t sure I could manage to sit through the entire meal without sweeping the plates to the floor, clambering across the table and fucking him.
The maître d’ evidently found us. “Ah yes, follow me please.”
He led us to one edge of the restaurant and pulled a chair for me in front of the crisp linen tablecloth and array of cutlery glinting in the soft lights. Unfurling my napkin with a practised flick of a wrist, he draped it across my lap unaware of just how close his hand came to my nakedness. I shuddered as he informed us of the daily specials and left us with both the food and wine menus that I perused.
Steak. It had to be steak. Medium-rare with peppercorn sauce and seasonal vegetables. Accompanied with a 2009 Châteauneuf-du-Pape. The man directly across the table from me selected the tenderloin and we sat back, finishing our cocktails before the wine arrived, splashed and aerated expertly into the goblet like purple fire, the tannin clinging to the inside surface a few beats. It was every bit as good as I expected, warm, ripe and fruity.
His eyes sparkled over his wine glass, five-o-clock shadow visible across his firm jaw. “If we were alone I’d peel that dress from you, dribble this over your body and drink it from you.”
“What a terrible waste of good wine.”