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Monday, February 20, 2012

First date

He's Dominant. Capital D. I guess that makes me submissive. I've never gone there consciously, but my fantasies have featured direction like this. Tell me what to do. I'll do it. What you wish is what I want. And he does.

On our first date he requested I bring a change of clothes.
"Go change," he said, sitting close to me on a banquette, his fingers on my thigh. I wasn't finished chatting yet. I didn't know the rules.

We were in an anonymous hotel bar, Manhattan traffic trundling by below us.

We talked some more, inconsequential, flirtatious. "Will you go change already?" he said, some asperity and a fleeting note of irritation in his voice. Oh.

I got up and walked toward the bathroom- wondrous and nervous, slightly embarrassed. I locked myself in a stall, removing my jeans, my top. I left the white tank, and slipped the black eyelet dress over it. The dress is short, with a smocked waist and wide, gathered neckline, girlish. I stepped out, feeling small, delicate, and a little unsure.

He watched me as I walked toward him. I began to feel more sure.

I am an actress, I don't yet know the role. I'm me, but not me. I'm finding my way. I'm game.

We hailed a cab, climbed in. He kissed me, deep, a little fierce, establishing again his dominance. His hand between my legs, his tongue sweeping my mouth. My breath catches, and I close my eyes.

The door of the taxi opens suddenly, shockingly.

We laugh at our intruder's expression, as he scrambles to close the door, apologize. I flush. I'm surprised by my embarrassment.

The hotel is modest, anonymous, seedy.

We go upstairs. He pushes me against the wall outside our door. He tastes like cigarettes- it's not unpleasant- only different, exciting. I feel illicit.

He is ravenous, so am I. He tells me to lie down on the bed, "Don't take anything off. Play with yourself for me". I do as I am told, watching him remove his shoes, his shirt, his jeans.

He's watching me too. My hand is stretching my underwear away from my body, my fingers are pressing slow circles against my clit, dipping now and then into my cunt, which is very very slick.

He stands next to the bed, bends to kiss me deeply. My knees feel liquid, and my belly flutters and melts. His hands are on my chest, pulling my dress down. My lips feel bruised, pressed, alive.

He withdraws just a little and I yearn toward him, my hands reach for his cock, feeling him through his boxer briefs. He is hard. I lift myself on my elbows, look up, meet his eyes.

I take him into my mouth, roll him on my tongue, taste him. I lick the underside of his cock, feel his hands descend into my hair, pull me over him. I suck him, feel him fill my throat.

He strips the pillowcases off the pillows, ties my hands to the rails of the bed. My bonds are soft, loose. I could get free, but I don't.

He pushes my dress up further, pulls my underwear aside. His tongue on my clit is possessive, greedy, strong. I writhe under his attention. My hips arch to meet him. My arms are extended over my head, and I hold on, my thighs spread.

He presses his fingers into me, fucking me with his hands, his tongue, his mouth.

I come, gripping the pillowcases hard, my breath shallow and quick, my heart beating fast.

He fucks my face. I've never used this term, but this is what he does, what we do.  My arms are still above my head, my hair fanned out on the sheets. I am dizzy.

He releases me. I climb over him, take him into me, grind my body down, envelope him. Bend to kiss him. His hands on my hips squeeze and guide. I ride him, fuck him, thrill in the sound, the sensation of my ass meeting his crotch.

He comes, holding me on him, sealing me to him.

We breathe. We smile. We're good.

This is our first date.

2 comments:

  1. I'm on the train and I am hard.. Very hard. But amazingly I don't care!

    ReplyDelete