Archive for kiss

The Bathroom Stall

I hear the bathroom door open; the music shoots into the room and then becomes muffled again when the door shuts. I hear the clap of stilettos on the marble floor in front of the stalls and then the sound of one opening and closing.

I examine my toe-nails. The French pedicure is starting to peel. Who gets a French pedicure? It looks so tacky.

“That wasn’t very nice, Joan,” a voice says and I look up and through the crack between the stall and its door.

“Up here.”

I look up and see Miriam looking down at me.

“Jesus!” I scream, “Miriam, what are you doing?”

“Finishing our conversation.”

“Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

I realize she’s not going to get down, so I finish, wipe off, pull up my thong quickly, without looking at her.

“Cute ass,” she says with a giggle. I hear a Zippo open and flash on before it snaps shut. I look up. Miriam has a cigarette hanging from her mouth. “Want one?” she asks.

“No.” I reply, straightening my dress. “How did you know I was here?”

“Brad told me. He heard you and that guy talking. Is he your boyfriend or husband or…? He’s older than you.”

I said nothing.

“Right,” she giggles, “does he know about me?”

“That I was looking for a whore? No, it was a surprise, but it didn’t work out.”

“Why did you run away like that?”

I turned to face her, “because you weren’t what I had in mind.”

Miriam jumps down and I hear the stall door open and close again, and then the sound of hip hop come pounding in before the door closes and the music’s reduced to a series of thumps.

I open the stall door and it stops midway. Miriam throws it open all the way and pushes me into the stall, closing the door behind her.

“Hi, Joan,” she says. “Did you think I’d left?”

“You’re fucking insane, aren’t you?”

“I want you to write about me,” she says.

“Is this what this is about?” I ask her indignantly. “Miriam, I’m not a writer. I just drink coffee and smoke cigarettes.”

“And fuck,” she adds, pushing me against the cool stall wall and bringing her lips to my ear, “don’t forget you fuck.”

She licks my ear lobe and traces my jaw line with her lips.

“You never answered me, Joan,” she whispers, “how would you fuck me?”

Her hand slides up the inside of my thigh, under the gray jersey dress and then higher, until her finger is grazing the space between my thong and leg.

I push her away from me and she pushes hard against me, “what, Joan?” she asks, “why do you run away?”

“I’m busy now,” I whisper.

Miriam kisses me. Her lips are hot; she pushes mine apart with her tongue. I feel it over mine, moving slowly. Her right hand has slipped around me, pulling me closer, pinning me between her and the wall. Her other hand has reached into the low cut of the dress and pulled it to the side, so my tit is exposed. I feel her cold fingers and hot palm cup it; she pulls away from my lips and brings her mouth to it. Her hand is now pushing away the other side of my dress so both my tits are out. She’s moving from one to the other, still holding me to her.

I let my head rest against the wall and finally bring my hands up to touch her. Her back is warm. My hand slips under her little black tube top and I pull it up to see her tits, those little nipples I’d seen earlier.

She brings her mouth to mine again and presses against me so our tits are sandwiched together between us. I put my arm around her, reach under her skirt; her ass is soft and full. I hadn’t noticed before when she had that skirt on.

Her fingers have found my thong again and she’s playing lightly over it with her fingernails. I moan as she begins to kiss my neck.

The door opens and the music fills the room. There’s the sound of stilettos on the floor, but I’m not listening. Miriam is sucking on my earlobe and I can hear her moans distinctly; her fingers are under my thong, playing my clit and I’m playing with her asshole.

Someone pushes the stall door open: “oops, sorry,” she says when she sees us and closes it again.
I pull my hand out from Miriam’s skirt, “Miriam…”

“You want to fuck me, don’t you?” she whispers in my ear, her finger now inside my wet cunt.

“Yes,” I say, “yes, but not here. Come to my hotel.”

“And your boyfriend or whatever?”

“He can watch.”

Slave Material

I waited for Cheyenne’s call all week. There was always a degree of apprehension–would she call me to the office or some other place? It was impossible to tell what would happen with F______, but as a general rule, places other than the office were more exciting.

Today, I didn’t get a chance to stare psychotically at my mobile because Cheyenne called me at exactly 7:00, just as I was getting out of the shower.

“Your appointment is at 3:00PM. Dr. F______ will be waiting for you in his consulting room.”

I ended the call and threw the phone on the bed.

+++

When the elevator doors opened, I didn’t go through the waiting room. I turned left and headed straight for the door that led to F______’s consulting room. I slid my patient key on an unobtrusive panel beside a nondescript landscape painting and the door opened with a small screak of wood.

Inside, F______ was standing at one of his bookcases.

“Hello, Zita,” he said, distractedly.

I took a seat on an ottoman.

F______ pulled out a book, flipped through it, then placed it back. He went over to his desk, looked over a paper and brought a hand to his face.

I observed curiously. I had never seen him working before. He had that look that academics get when they have finally reconciled some impossible fact with reality.

“You might be ready, Zita,” he said. “You might be ready.”

“Ready for what?” I asked him, crossing my legs.

“Something else.”

“Something else?”

Had he decided there was too much risk in what we were doing? Was I becoming a liability to him despite the fact that I only saw him when requested and knew nothing about him? Or was he bored with it and ready to get me off his hands?

“Are you going to tell me?” I asked, getting up and walking to his desk.

He walked around his desk and pulled on the steep v-cut of my jersey dress to expose my tits.

My heart jumped in my chest, I was sure he must have heard it beating insanely inside me as he inspected me.

“You still have considerable bruising from our session two weeks ago,” he said. “Even some scabbing on the underside where you bled.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

He pressed down on a bruise.

I gasped.

“You have done much talking about submission and discipline, Zita,” he said. “Is it a metaphor for a selflessness and humanity you otherwise fear you do not possess or a real desire?”

I didn’t know what to say.

“You throw around the word ‘Master’ as though it’s a game, a though that is something you grant a man. For all your academic musings on Natural Order and the flaws in modern pornographic works depicting BDSM, you seem to have entirely missed the point.”

He had my nipple tightly between his fingers.

“Do you really think that you could be a slave?”

“Y–yes.”

He walked around me, touched my hair, my hands, my shoulders, my waist. His are hands that please and hands that break, hands that conquer and hands that caress.

“Get into position,” he whispered in my ear.

I dropped on the ground in the position he taught me.

He examined me in place.

“I do like this position,” he said.

He pressed down on my back, felt my pelvic bones, my ribs, my vertebrae.

“There is so little of you,” he lamented. “You will always bruise. Up.”

I sat up.

He knelt before me and took me by the neck. He looked at me. I closed my eyes.

“Look at me.”

“Yes, Master,” I responded opening my eyes.

“Don’t call me Master. I have not decided whether you are fit to serve me. Call me Elias.”

Slap! He slapped my face.

“Thank you!” I said before the pain registers.

He slapped it again.

“Thank you!”

“What is my name?”

“Elias!”

He slapped the other side of my face. Then the other side. I thanked him. My cheeks stung.

“Stand up,” Elias said, rising, still holding me by the neck.

I stood. Elias reached under my dress and took hold of my cunt. I gasped, pressing my hips against his arm.

Elias removed his hand and, still holding me by the neck, pulled me into him. I felt his large chest against the left side of my body, rising and falling as he breathed. We stood pressed together like that for a moment before he took my hair with his free hand, pulled my head back and kissed me.

I gasped into his mouth. For some reason being kissed by him felt like a bigger deal than being fingered and slapped.

He didn’t notice or if he did, he didn’t care. He kissed me, first just lips, opening mine like peeling a rosebud. Then I felt his tongue, rough and cold. The kiss was soft but somehow, incredibly violent at once. I moaned and struggled and he held me and kissed me and kissed me and kissed me.

Kisses are for lovers. Dr. F______ is not my lover. How could he kiss me? I felt confused, I felt high, I felt lost, I felt so good, so good, so good. Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

When he pulled away, I was shaking. I was breathing so hard, I could’t think. I was almost crying. My lips were swollen and bleeding.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Elias slapped me.

“Thank you, Elias!”

He slapped me again.

“Thank you, Elias!”

He slapped me and slapped me and with each slap I felt less lost. With each slap, I found my way back.

Yes, yes, yes, punish me, I thought. Punish me. I shouldn’t want you this much. Punish me. Punish me. Punish me.

“Sit down,” Elias said.

I sat in the chair before his desk. He knelt before me. And, taking one of my feet in his hand, pulled it up and removed my shoe.

“Are you ticklish?” he asked.

“No.”

He tickled me. Nothing.

“You have strong feet,” he remarked.

He slapped my right sole.

“Thank you!”

He slapped it again.

“Thank you!”

Elias put my foot down. I lifted the other.

“You little pain slut,” he said, betraying a smile. “You want more, don’t you?”

I sat silent, wide-eyed, feeling betrayed by my body.

“I will take only what you see fit to give me,” I said, too late.

Elias reached between my legs.

“You’re so wet,” he said. He could feel it through my pants.

“Ask me,” he said. “Ask me to give you more so I can punish you.”

“Give me more, Elias,” I begged.

He punishes me and it feels so good.

“That’s enough for today,” Elias says, finally, rising.