After Midnight (6 page)

“Are you going to the theater?”

Her voice was husky, with a lilting accent that tinged her English with a hint of Scandinavia. Closer now, I saw she was indeed blonde, her eyes blue or green, too muted in the half-light for me to be certain. Her coat billowed with each step, exposing long legs in pale denim and a shirt unbuttoned far enough to reveal that she wore nothing under it.

“Yes. Do think I'm too late?”

“No,” she replied, extending her hand. “I think we're just in time.”

I took her hand as if I had a hundred times before.

Her fingers were long, slender, and cool. Her palm was soft but with a faint ridge at the base of each finger suggesting that she worked with her hands. I stole another glance at her face, thinking that with her arched cheekbones and full jaw she might have been a model. But there was nothing studied or posed
about her. She was at ease in her body in a way that those who made a living with theirs were not.

“Have you seen this before?” I asked.

Her full mouth curved into a secret smile. “Many times.”

She moved even closer as we walked, until her shoulder and thigh touched mine, the way a lover's would, with familiarity and possession. I struggled not to close my fingers tightly around hers as a surge of desire caught me unawares and made me stumble.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Perfect,” I replied, only then realizing it was true. At the first touch of her hand, I'd forgotten the disquieting sensation of being halfway around the world and a stranger to everyone, even myself. The parts of myself I'd left behind slowly reappeared, sliding into the empty places effortlessly until I remembered who I was and why I had come.

“Two, please,” she announced as she passed several oddly colored notes through the semicircular hole in the Plexiglas to the bored-looking young man in the booth.

“Oh, no,” I protested, belatedly realizing we had reached the theater while I had been lost somewhere between yesterday and tomorrow. “You must let me pay.”

She laughed softly. “It is, as you would say, my treat.”

I blushed furiously, not at all certain that she meant it the way I took it, but her words brought another flood of arousal from my depths. She cocked an eyebrow at me then swept her fingers lightly over my cheek and down my neck until her hand cupped my throat. She leaned close, there in the bright lights of the ticket booth, and skimmed her mouth over mine. “We should go in.”

“Yes,” I breathed, wanting nothing more than more of her mouth.

The lights went down just as we stepped into the theater, and she guided me through the blackness into the back row, to the far corner seats. There was no one in front of us or to the side. In fact, the other figures in the room were merely faint reminders that we were not alone. Distant images of Garbo and Barrymore flickered on the screen, their words a faint hum beneath the roaring in my ears.

Her coat fanned out behind her as she shrugged it from her shoulders, and when she extended her arm along the seat behind my back, the tips of her fingers grazed my shoulder. Each fleshy circle was a burning coal that penetrated the cotton to my skin. I leaned against her, and when my breast pressed to her side, my nipple tightened into a pebble of tingling nerves. She curled her arm and drew me closer, shifting to put her mouth against my ear.

“No one can see.”

It wasn't true, but the illusion of invisibility beneath the otherworldly light in the cavernous space was enough. I tugged the shirt from her jeans and rested my hand on her belly. Her stomach tensed as I slowly rubbed my palm over the soft skin, pressing harder as the moments passed, my eyes on the screen but every sense tuned to her. The muscles beneath my fingers quivered and grew rigid, and with a faint moan, she shifted in her seat and spread her legs wide, her knee brushing mine. I knew she would be naked under the denim. The fingers that curved around my upper arm trembled. I could stop, but what would be the point? From the instant she'd taken my hand and I'd let her, our destination had been clear.

It was my turn to skim my lips over her ear, my breath a teasing kiss. “Are you hard already? Can you feel the seam brush against your clit, just like my lips caressing the tip?”

“Yes,” I said, urgent and low.

My hand moved up, pushing fabric aside to cup her breast, grasping a nipple—already standing up, hard and sensitive, waiting. I squeezed gently. Once more. And again, harder, twisting a little until her body stiffened and another soft gasp escaped her. Her hips lifted, her heart skittering beneath my palm. I lowered my mouth to the other breast, biting through the soft cotton to tug on tender flesh. The gasp became a moan—hers or mine, I wasn't certain. My clit jerked insistently, keeping time with her racing pulse, and I finally dropped my free hand to my crotch and rubbed the stiff prominence through my pants.

“Open your jeans,” I murmured against her neck as I drew my tongue along the curve of that beautiful jaw. Her breath, shallow and fast, drowned out the sound of Crawford's haughty inflections. I glanced down, saw her rip at the button and zipper, and squeezed the fabric between my thighs hard around my own aching need. My clit twitched, my vision blurred, and I had to ease off or come. I tortured her nipple a little more with my teeth to take my mind off the pressure in my clit.

Her eyes, suddenly bright and clear in the murky light, held mine.

“Please.”

I stopped touching myself and pushed my fingers down the front of her pants as she rocked her hips, urging my fingers to find her. God, I wanted to take her fast—to make her come on my fingers, in my hand. I rested my fingertips just above the base of her clitoris, pressing down ever more firmly while circling up and down the stiff length, making it throb as the blood built inside. I knew how it felt, how it hurt in a way that could only be pleasure. Then, one hand stroking through that liquid heat below, I grasped her neck with my free hand and turned her face to mine. I worked my tongue into her mouth, the way I wanted to be working inside her. Turning in the seat, I threw one leg
over hers. Clit pounding as I rode her leg, I sucked on her tongue the way I wanted her sucking on me. She bucked on my hand and moaned into my mouth and I forgot why I was waiting. Her need and mine conspired to undo me, and I surrendered willingly.

I pushed my hand deeper into her pants, my wrist tenting the denim until the zipper bit into my skin. Unmindful of the pain, I slid my fingers into her and angled my arm to get higher, crushing her clit, wet and hard, into my palm. Half laying on her now, my tongue in her mouth, my fingers buried inside, I took her hard and fast, beating her clit with the heel of my hand on each thrust. She pulled away from the kiss and closed her teeth on my neck when she started to come, muffling her cries with my flesh. She clamped down around my fingers as her hips jerked up, her rigid body barely touching the seat, and I felt a breathless, heart-stopping wonder as she came. I was ready to come, needed desperately to come, but in that moment, the only thing that I knew was her pleasure. Only when she slumped back into the seat with a last, long moan did the fury of my desire overtake me. I closed my hand around her still-pulsing sex and lowered my forehead to her chest. Dimly I was aware of her holding me as I shuddered and thrust against her tensed thigh. I choked on my own sobs of pleasure as a dam burst inside me and every barrier dissolved. I came in the arms of a stranger who knew me more intimately in that moment than anyone else in my life.

We dozed through the rest of the movie. I blamed my torpor on jet lag, but the truth was that I liked the way she held me. When the credits rolled, we straightened our clothing and left before the others. The streets were completely empty, and we walked in silence the few short blocks to my hotel. In the darkness beneath the awning, she leaned down and kissed me, the
same knowing brush of lips with which she had first greeted me.

“Good night,” she said softly.

I watched her walk away until the billowing edges of her coat became only the shifting shadows of the night. Then I turned and walked inside. It was not the Grand Hotel, and no grand passion awaited me here. But when I finally laid my head upon the crisp, white pillowcase, I felt her body next to mine, and her breath against my cheek. I closed my eyes, knowing I would not sleep alone.

 

 

 

 

 

T
he phone rings. It's a familiar voice: “I'm in town. Come to me and bring your toy bag.”

I dress with care. It's important. I know what she likes, what she needs. Black silk boxers, black silk shirt, no bra, black leather trousers, and heavy black boots. I bring my toy bag as requested. I have some new toys—I know she'll like them.

This is not a date. There will be no predinner drinks, no meal. I arrive at the hotel and give her name at the front desk. I'm told to go right up, room 220. She opens the door. She's dressed in a crimson silk robe. It must be hers—this hotel is far too miserly to give its guests robes of any sort, let alone silk. It clings in all the right places. My mouth waters as she walks away from me toward a small table. The sheer fabric slides across her skin, outlining her breasts and buttocks. I can tell she's naked beneath it.

There are two bottles of beer in an ice bucket on the table.
Clever girl. She hands me one of the bottles. No words are spoken; none are required. We sit and drink the beers. When we've finished them off, she stands and slips the robe slowly from her shoulders and onto the floor. She kneels beside the head of the bed, and I know it has begun. She has given me total control.

I open my toy bag and spread its contents over the room's other bed. I haven't brought everything, just what I know she likes—plus my two recent acquisitions. The first: a new flogger, not leather like my other ones. This one is latex. The braids are thinner, its sting sharper—lighter and very erotic. I know: I've felt its blows caress my shoulders and back. That's where I love to feel it when I switch and play the sub. But there won't be any switching tonight. She needs a complete domme. Beside the whip I place a glass dildo, yet untried, but tonight we'll christen it. I take three candles—special ones, not the sort your local corner store sells. I light two and place them on either side of her bed, then turn off all the lights.

Should I order her to strip me? Or should I restrain her and give her a slow striptease? I pick up my leather restraints with the fur-lined wrist-cuffs and look at her. I can read in her eyes what she wants, but I haven't given her permission to speak, so she's biting her lip. I hesitate and consider giving her permission—maybe asking her what she wants—but I don't. She really is the total sub; if I ask her anything it'll spoil all of this for her. I don't want that. I want this to be good for her. So instead I fasten the cuffs around her wrists and point to the bed. She climbs onto it and looks at me to see whether I want her on her back or facedown. I press her shoulders slightly so she knows to lie on her back. Then I tie the restraints to the headboard and turn her head to the side so she'll have a clear view of me.

I stand back and strip for her, very slowly. First my boots, then my silk shirt. She bites her lip again as the soft candlelight
glints off my nipple piercings. If she's good maybe I'll allow her to play with the rings later. I can see she wants the leather trousers to stay for a while, so I leave them, just opening the zipper a short way, enough to show the black silk beneath.

When I take out a blindfold, she whimpers.
Ah-ah, naughty girl.
She knows better than to make a sound without permission. I knew she wouldn't want to be blindfolded while I still had my trousers on. She'll have to be reprimanded for that. I tie the cloth over her eyes and fix restraints on her ankles, spreadeagling her completely. I can tell she's into the scene: she's glistening with arousal.

And I'm as wet as she is.

Now I can start in earnest.

I lean over her and blow gently across her chest. Her nipples, already firm, grow harder, more erect. She loves this—knowing something will happen but not what or when or where. I let her feel my leather trousers as I draw my right leg lightly over her thigh and pull myself around so that I can drag it over her abdomen. She can feel the leather but not the pressure. Then I pull back. Oh, she's very good—she doesn't make a sound.

I reach over and grab a mitten. This one is soft velvet. I prefer the velvet to fur, finding it more sensual on heated skin. I run my velvet-clad hand over her body, brushing her thighs, her hips, her breasts. I stroke across her engorged nipples very slowly, very softly. She's twitching already. She'll break soon. She must really need this.

Stepping back, I light the third candle and take some ice from the bucket that held the beer. I'm careful to make no noise, giving her no warning of what's to come. Starting at her shoulder, I allow the candle to drip onto her. As each drop of hot wax lands, I follow up with ice. Hot, then cold, as I work my way down her torso. No wax on her breasts, though, just ice. The first bite of
cold on her nipple catches her by surprise and she gasps. More chastising will be required. When I reach her clit I rub what's left of the ice cube across it. Her body jerks, and I speak for the first time. “Did you come?” She shakes her head. “Good,” I tell her, my voice a low growl. “You'd better not do that without my permission.” She shakes her head again and shivers.

I remove the blindfold, and she watches as I finish stripping. I pull down the zipper with agonizing slowness, its sound loud in a room in which both of us are holding our breath. My body sings with tension. If I'm already this aroused she must be desperate to come. I'll let her, but not yet. She has some punishment coming first.