Only the night before he left to prepare the suite for their week, Joe too received a call from a woman, a friend who worried he ‘might be doing the wrong thing’ in meeting a girl he knew only online. He’d gone over the same arguments on his own…more than once…. The idea he might make a dream become real befuddled friends who couldn’t wrap their heads around second chances until the headline risks fell behind. But right now, dreams were still dreams. Anxiety formed their reality, hers especially.
Pita stood up quickly and walked to the bathroom. The watchful businessman’s eyes followed her high heels and the dark seams of her stockings across the hard floor. Joe’s pulse followed the sway and flip of her green dress hem and, knowing she wore nothing beneath but a sea foam green corset and stockings, his breath stopped again. He suddenly needed to be waiting as she came from the restroom, to catch her by surprise…to grasp her hands and hold them hard against the wall above her head, to grind his mouth against hers, to push his tongue between her lips. He took a step.
But with his impulse, a dark door in the back of his mind fell open, and the dream he told her about—the arousing dream he couldn’t recall—fell into consciousness with a rush. He stopped. In the dream, he stood behind her, reaching for her arm and spinning her around. He closed his arm tight around her waist. Strangers rushed by. She looked up at him, her mouth shaping words. He grabbed her arms and clamped them to her sides and pulled her against him.
Impassioned and aggressive, she leaned into him, pressing her mound against his thigh, and her hand suddenly cupped him. He felt his sudden erection, and surprise. She whispered into his mouth: “Please, Sir. I need you to fuck Pita.”
The surge of images and emotions from the dream stopped him. Pita came out of the bathroom and, by the time Joe’s head cleared, she’d approached the table and her seat. He watched the pretty bartender finally arrive and steer her to the table he picked. The bartender placed a napkin in front of Pita and offered a drink. Pita nodded.
Gradually, Pita settled, her cell phone next to her hand on the table. The bartender brought her order, tall and dark in the glass, probably Pepsi and Cap’n Morgan’s. Pita reached for her purse and looked surprised that she did not have to pay.
She finished rummaging in her purse and put it aside. The blonde businessman approached, smiling broadly. She saw him and smiled back but then shook her head enchantingly at whatever he said. Self-consciously she raised her left hand to the choker, and Joe quickly understood her retreat to a touchstone, to a talisman of comfort. His heart warmed. The businessman smiled some more and left.
He called her. The phone waited in her right hand, and she answered it immediately. “Where are you, Sir? I’m frightened.”
“Nothing bad will happen, Pita. Be patient.”
“I don’t feel so well, Sir.”
“Breathe deep and slow, Pita. Say your mantra, three times, slow.” He could hear her reciting the poem and saying his name.
Finished, she said: “Where are you, Sir?”
“Tell me about the man you spoke to, Pita.”
“Please let me see you, Sir.”
He didn’t answer. After a pause, she said: “I think he liked me, Sir.” Her nerves didn’t make her forget to tease. He could feel her voice’s smile. “He wanted me to go to lunch.”
“Did you want to?” She needed a distraction.
Her tone turned serious. “You know I don’t… “
“All of this stress and teasing. Are you aroused, Pita?”
He watched her shift in her chair. “A little bit, Sir.” She drew a breath. “I want you, Sir.”
He took a breath of his own. “Let me answer some of your questions, Pita. You won’t need many clothes, but I’ve brought things for you. If I forgot something, I’ll get it later. I’ve spoken with Alan and Ronal at the restaurant. They’re ready for you to be gone more than a week. Alexi knows and wants you happy. Your sister is a good friend. You need to call her later.
“Are you listening, Pita?”
He listened to the silence as her mind spun for a heartbeat. “Sir, it’s amazing.”
“Pita, if you want, you can turn around and go home. That way your fantasies remain imaginary. Or you can get on the plane with me. If you use the ticket, you trust me with your safety, but your dreams have a chance. It’s time to decide.”
She let silence hang. Her answer came slowly and thoughtfully. “I want you, Sir. I want to be owned, possessed, cared for. By you. And I want to serve.”
He found he’d been holding his breath. He let it out. “In ten minutes, go through security, and go to gate B5. You are in the “A” group. Stand by that sign at the gate. Take a seat in the back of the plane and save the aisle seat for me.” She didn’t say anything. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” she said.
“Does thinking of the next week excite you?”
“Yes,” she breathed, “Sir.”
“Check with your fingers, Pita. Are your nipples hard?”
“Here, Sir?”
“Now, Pita.”
She looked quickly around the room and raised her free hand to one breast and then to the other. From the mezzanine he could see the green silk momentarily wrinkle. He could hear her inhale through the phone.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Do you want me to come to you?”
“Oh, yes Sir, I do. Can I see you now?”
He knew she would hear the firmness in his voice. “I want you to get on the plane alone. You have to make your decision with action, not words. And it must be your choice. Do you have any questions, Pita?”
He paused to wait.
“Where am I going?”
“With me, Pita.” He closed his phone and went down the escalator to follow her.
Pita’s body relaxed as she walked. She touched the choker, and he could feel his pulse throb. She watched the crowd for him and drew glances from men. At gate B5, sunlight flooded the waiting area, and her auburn hair glowed in the late-morning sun through the windows.
He needed to wait to see for sure that Pita would fly. He knew she didn’t like air travel. Joe felt his heart steel. He wanted her to come with him, but without promises, without softening the magnitude of their actions or desires. He wanted her to come, not because she thought she loved him but because she wanted to find out about herself, and him, and if she had the heart of a slave.
He stood across the concourse. She looked over her shoulder, right and left. A teenage boy maneuvered behind her, transparently adjusting his angle for a close-up glimpse of her breast pressing against the side of her dress.
Her head tilted and look at a bank of monitors with arrivals and departures next to the gate. She rummaged in her purse. He thought she might call him to make sure of the gate, but she took a note pad and pen from her bag. She turned and said something, smiling, to the teenager, who nodded and blushed down to his neck. Then she moved in front of the monitors and wrote something down.
Joe understood in a rush. The arrival times of planes arriving from Providence displayed just above her head, and she needed a buffer, a hedge, between her risk and possible disaster. She made a choice to submit but listed options in case her future fell through.
Her simple act made him suddenly certain she would board, that she would come with him, that she accepted the risk that Joe would be what he appeared. Emotion stir hard in him, and he recalled how Lydia, a friend and consensual slave, explained how the submission felt to the heart of the slave. She said it felt like a step that might fall off into bottomless space, or like walking a tightrope might feel without a net other than hope and promises.
The burning in his eyes cramped at his throat. He knew he would be there for her. He wouldn’t fail…and it seemed increasingly likely that she herself would be what she seemed, and seemed for months to him. But their week would be about that: the reality of actions.
Boarding began, and he saw her draw a breath and move to the gate. No longer surprise
d, still his heart leapt. He hadn’t understood the extent of his own uncertainty. He went to a kiosk to buy a pink rose, then moved forward to the end of the line.
He bent getting on the plane to keep from hitting his head. Nearing her seat, the auburn sheen of her hair gleamed and sun glinted off her choker. His hands gripped the flower in a clammy embrace. He smiled grimly and whispered, “Here we go, Pita,” but he knew he spoke for his own comfort. She had been looking sadly at the ground crew, but she glanced up and knew him immediately. Her face went pale, tears came to her eyes, and she staggered to get out of her seat.
“Oh Sir, I thought you weren’t coming.” He reached down, put the rose in her outstretched hand, closed his fingers over hers tightly, and gently pressed her back into her seat. She didn’t look at the flower.
“Let me put my bag up, and I’ll hold you.” She eagerly smiled, the first time he’d seen her smile in real life, but she also looked on the edge of tears. Joe folded his jacket to fit the overhead and took a blanket. He lifted the chair arm between their seats and put his arm around her. She tilted her head eagerly and kissed him.
The energy in her lips signaled the easing of tension: fear, joy, waiting, fantasy, and the release of suspense bundled in her kiss. He tasted the salt of her tears. Gradually her lips relaxed, and her cool palm, damp from nerves, came up against his cheek.
As he drew back, she looked down at the rose and unclenched her fingers; she gripped it tightly, and three tiny drops of blood gathered where thorns punctured her fingers. “It’s pretty,” she said.
Joe plucked a petal from the flower to wipe away the specks of blood.
“Even the thorns,” he said.
She began to babble, embarrassed, gesturing. Her eyes were full. The stewardess stopped beside them: “Are you alright, ma’am?”
Pita looked up, surprised to be noticed. “Yes, she’s fine,” Joe assured the stewardess. “We’re just excited.”
Pita began to giggle and said, “May I have something, Sir?” He nodded and placed a drink order. The stewardess gave her best professional smile. Joe unfolded the blanket and spread it across Pita, pulling it up to her breasts. She chattered, replaying the boarding adventure as if he hadn’t been watching.
She didn’t mention writing down the inbound flight schedule.
Beneath the blanket, he held the inside of her wrist. “Hush, Pita,” he said in her ear. Then, “Be quiet, Pita,” as she continued to babble, and finally he gripped firmly and said “Shut up.” She jumped but immediately went quiet. He took the rose and inserted it in the seatback pouch in front of her.
“Put your head on my shoulder. Whisper your mantra.”
He heard her recite with her soft, southern drawl at his ear. Her breath settled against his cheek and, in person for the first time, he felt a familiar, direct connection between her voice and his sex.
“I felt so afraid,” she said. “I wanted you with me.”
“I know,” he said, “and I’ll take over for awhile now. You can let go. After you’re calm, tell me anything you’d like. You haven’t flown much lately. Maybe you’d like to look out for the takeoff.” He rotated his thumb slowly over the quick pulse in her wrist, then down into her palm, calming her.
Once she breathed evenly against the side of his throat, he moved his hand to her leg and began to stroke her stocking beneath the blanket. He moved his fingertips in small, slow circles. The plane taxied and lunged into the air, pressing them back against their seats, but he continued to claim her and moved his hand up her leg. Joe felt her twitch, as if surprised. But her eyes remained shut as she focused on his touch.
“You didn’t get to see the take off,” he said.
“Your hand is cold,” she whispered. “Put it between my legs.” He felt the lace on her stocking and the garter. She didn’t move her head from his shoulder but returned to the mantra, whispering slowly, her hot breath on his skin sometimes repeating a line of it as her mind slowed. When he lifted the hem of her skirt and drew it up, she tensed. He took it to her waist.
“Please stop,” she whispered.
He raised an eyebrow and thought, “So we begin.” The risks of exhibitionism often worried her. Beneath the blanket, her bare sex must have made her feel vulnerable. He continued. He felt the hardness increase between his legs.
She said firmly, “What do I have to say?”
“A safe word,” he said, just as firmly. His hand caressed her thigh, an inch or less from her sex. She began to bring her legs together, and he moved quickly, squeezed a tuft of her pubic hair between his thumb and forefinger and tugged sharply. Pita squealed, and her legs flew open, but she started laughing with embarrassment at the sharp noise she made and brought her hands to her face, laughing into them.
The stewardess, arriving with their drinks, suddenly appeared above them. “Are you sure you’re okay, Ma’am?”
Joe laughed with Pita. “She’s just embarrassed with all the excitement,” he said. Pita’s blush covered the pale skin of her face. She nodded vigorously and reached for the drink in the stewardess’ hand.
The stewardess pretended to understand the humor of the situation and left. He continued to stroke Pita’s thigh on the soft skin inside of her leg. His tray was down, and Pita opened his spring water for him while he continued, letting each stroke of his fingers graze her sex. “People…” she began.
“…are my concern,” he finished her sentence. “Let go,” he added. She looked at him and took a breath. She closed her eyes.
He let his hand wander; drifting from the inside of her knee up her smooth stocking and her taut garter to the softness of her skin and fuzz. The people around them dozed, read, peered at laptops. Her occasional muscle spasm returned; he decided her sexual energy made the twitch.
She whispered, “I want you, Sir. But would you please stop?” Her eyes sparkled. “Please?” she repeated.
“Would Philip?”
“Of course,” she said.
He laid his hand directly on her sex. He felt her grab her breath. “I’m not Philip,” he said looking hard into her eyes. Then he raised his palm an inch and slapped her pussy. She jumped, even though it didn’t hurt, and her eyes widened. He spoke firmly and punctuated each word with another slap. “I’m. Your. Sir.” At each slap of her labia, she inhaled sharply. Her head fell back, and her lips parted. He felt her moisture on his fingers.
Pita shifted to spread her legs. She responded as quickly now as she would have on the phone, moaning softly and, this time, pushing toward his fingers. He felt her tense.
He turned and whispered into her forehead. “Tell me, Pita.”
“Sir,” she said, haltingly, “I want you.”
He continued the maddening strokes. She tried harder to move onto his fingers. She cooed in his ear, “Sir…Sir…Sir, please.” Her muscles jumped.
“Tell me.”
“Sir, touch me. Please, I’m so turned on.”
He growled, “Tell me what you want.”
Her breath chopped and shivered. She didn’t answer. Her thigh twitched. Then she rushed: “Touch me…my clit, oh God, my, everywhere, go inside. Make me come.”
He stopped.
“Sir, for god’s sake, please, Sir.”
He breathed passionately into her mouth. “I’m going to touch my pussy, and I want you to come. I’m going to fuck you with my fingers right now and, for the next week, with my cock. We’ll see if you can learn to be My slut.”
He dipped into the heat and slick flesh of her cleft. Her body jerked and pressed against his hand. Slick and rigid, her small clit passed beneath his touch, and Pita flinched. He circled her opening and her flesh yielded. Joe adjusted his position to drift his fingers down the soft, damp skin of her perineum. He wondered if her skirt would get wet.
He took the handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped her sex. Even the soft cloth seemed to shock her into greater arousal. He relished her eager sexuality. He tucked the piece of cloth beneath her leg
s and slowly swirled his finger back up her slit.
She placed her hand on his thigh, and her grip tightened. Her other hand clenched the armrest. The bright light of the sky fell across her; her tight grip turned her knuckles white.
He rested his finger on her clitoris for a slow count of ten.
Pita whispered, “Sir, please. Let me come. Touch me, Sir.”
Joe began to tap, maddeningly, against her.
She replied each time his finger tapped, mewling softly “oh, ohh, ohhh, oh…” and her muscles clenched.
When she pressed her pussy forward again, he pressed down on her mound. He wanted her to come to release her tension, but he knew she could come with abandon, and he didn’t want her embarrassed. The pressure provoked enough; his finger pressed her clit, and her orgasm released, intense but silent. He watched her bite down on her lower lip, heard her inhale hard, and watched her breasts lift as she swallowed air to stay on top of it. She exhaled and slumped against him. Joe took the handkerchief from between her legs.
After several minutes she said, “Sir…”
“Yes?” he asked.
“You’re already training me, aren’t you?”
“The week will be short,” he said.
“I’m thinking,” she paused, “of how you’ll keep pushing me farther than I’ve been, like you just did. I’m wondering how hard you’ll beat me, or if you’ll try to share me…”
“You wonder if I’ll respect your limits.”
“Yes, Sir,” she said quietly.
“Talking about limits online is like fantasy. In life, it becomes real, doesn’t it?” he asked. “It’s my job,” he whispered, “to challenge you and your limits…to see if you want to grow and submit, not just in fantasies. Listen,” Joe said, turning to hold her hands, “we’re starting over. But I remember exhibitionism is a soft limit, something you do only to please,” he said. “And I love to share beauty, so I challenge you.
“But you also said giving you to anyone is a hard limit, and so that is just not possible, even if I wanted it, because it’s a hard limit—unless you change your mind and encourage me to think about it. But in play, each time is different, and I have to decide how much is enough.”
A Rose of Any Color: MaleDom: A BDSM Anthology Page 25