Archive for thong

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.”

Sole Possessor

Le foie gras aux groseilles,” F______ said to the waiter without waiting for me to answer.

The waiter regarded me with a cocked brow. I still said nothing–Dr. F______ had instructed me that I was not to speak to anyone but him tonight, and only when he asked me a direct question. He listed a few more items.

“That is all,” F______ said.

The waiter retired.

“I have been considering what you revealed to me in our recent sessions,” F______ said to me. “Your fascination with being broken, as you call it, reinforces the conclusions I reached. Tell me, are you familiar with Carlos Castaneda?”

“I haven’t read his works, no,” I responded.

“He posited that reality is multi-dimensional and that a person can only see a very limited amount of of it. Two major concepts are that of the nagual and the tonal, a non-ordinary or unknown reality and a mundane reality respectively, which exist as dual aspects. He spoke much of something called the assemblage point, which I like to use to illustrate a transition from rigidity in patterns to unpredictability. In the human body, reality is assembled at this assemblage point–depending on the location of the point, a person perceives a specific reality. Castaneda believed that in adulthood, the assemblage point has a strong tendency to become fixed in place. If one can move the assemblage point, however, one has the ability to experience a change in reality. Ultimately, a more fluid assemblage point allows for a multi-dimensional experience.”

I said nothing.

“Zita. I require an immediate, elegant, detailed response from you.”

“But you didn’t ask a question,” I remarked.

“You will be more intuitive,” Dr. F______ said, leaning forward and pinching my nipple through the thin fabric of my dress.

I felt face heat up and knew I was red.

“It’s a very–” I cleared my throat. “It’s a very colorful metaphor. Is that what we’re doing then? Shifting my assemblage point–where are we going to put it?”

“There is no specific location or goal to the therapy,” F______ said, still holding my nipple. “The main thing is that it moves, that you relinquish your grip on your established patterns and stereotypes.”

“I see.”

A server came by and poured more water in his glass. He paused briefly when he saw F______’s hand pinching my nipple, but quickly averted his eyes and pivoted.

“Now,” F______ said. “Let’s talk about what you’re wearing.”

I regarded my lap where the yellow fabric of the Bluemarine jersey dress met the darkness of my legs.

“Is that is all you have on?” the doctor asked.

“No,” I replied.

“Go to the restroom right now, remove anything else you may be wearing and bring it back to me immediately. The men’s restroom, Zita.”

“The–” I began.

“Do not make me repeat myself. Bring back your panties in your hand.”

I rose, flushed, but I refused to show it. I strutted decisively to the men’s room hoping no one would see me. There was no one inside it. I slipped out of my thong and walked back out.

At the table, I put a hand on F______’s lap and tried to give him the piece of lingerie. He regarded me coolly.

“Doctor,” I said in a whisper, reaching my hand toward him further.

“Put it on the table.”

I paused for a moment, then placed the thong unceremoniously on his bread plate.

Dr. F______ smiled, “very intuitive. I’m pleased. Why don’t you wear a bra?”

“It’s unflattering to the deep v-cut of the dress.”

“Are your tits real?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And what size shoe do you wear?”

I blushed. More quietly, I responded, “10.”

“You like shoes, don’t you, Zita?” F______ asked me, lifting up my chin. “You think of fashion as a real form of self-expression. It’s one more layer to push through. From now on, I will be the one who tells you what you wear.”

I was flabbergasted.

“And Zita?” he added, looking at me. “From now on you may only wear your beloved stilettos with my express permission. Otherwise, you’ll wear tennis shoes.”

“I don’t own any.”

F______ placed a box on the table.

“Your delicate frame gives the impression of a much smaller foot,” he said. “But I like that I got them two sizes too small. Let the pain remind you that your fashionista sense is now entirely mine.”

We ate in silence. I spread my legs thinking that at any moment he might begin to finger my pussy but he didn’t.

Dinner came and went and not another word was spoken.

As we were leaving, I reached for my thong, but he signaled with his hand to leave it.

So I did, like a tip.

He opened the door to let me out and caught me a cab in the street. As he opened the door for me, he looked in and said, “I think it would be beneficial that you begin to write everything that comes to mind in regard to this matter of being broken. Do it in a notebook and bring it with you every time we meet.”