by Deena Ward
He said, “I like the way you’ve trimmed your pubic hair. I prefer the labia be completely bare, the way you’ve done yours. And the triangle of hair above your clit is fine, though I’d rather you trim it shorter, maybe a quarter of an inch more.”
I thought to myself that apparently nothing was beneath his notice, not even the length of my pubic hair. It was ... fascinating.
He continued, “I have some questions for you. Are you currently using some form of birth control?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any STD’s that you’re aware of?”
“No.”
“Are you willing to be tested for STD’s and other communicable diseases?”
“I guess, yes.”
“Good,” he said. “The boring questions are out of the way. Now, have you ever been tied up, for real, in a bondage sense, other than the night we were together?”
I answered no.
“Have you ever been whipped, or struck with a cane or paddle?”
I didn’t think a few swats from Michael’s belt counted as any of those, so I answered no.
“Spanking? Other than the minor one I gave you.”
I answered no, but wondered at him deeming it minor. It seemed like a pretty major spanking to me at the time.
He asked me more questions about my sexual history, such as if I had ever had sex with another woman, if I had ever had sex with more than one man at the same time, if I had ever participated in an orgy, if I had ever been filmed while having sex. No, no, no. Always, the answer was no.
I wouldn’t have thought it possible to be standing naked, posed no less, in front of a fully-dressed man, and yet feel that I was guilty of having a tame sex life.
His next question truly surprised me. He said, “You were in one of the viewing rooms at Private Residence Saturday night. What did you see? What were they doing in the display room?”
I hesitated. How did he know? I thought he left the club after he saw me, obviously an incorrect assumption. It made me uncomfortable to think of him watching while I went into the VIP area with Michael.
I answered as blandly and honestly as I could, “I watched a woman get beaten with a rod.”
I wished I could see his reaction, because I suspected there was one. There was an edge to his voice when he asked, “How badly was she beaten?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never seen something like that before. It seemed really bad to me, but she was liking parts of it, the way he touched her after he hit her. She had all these red welts on her. I didn’t want to watch anymore after he hit her breasts.”
The sharp edge still in his voice, he asked, “So did you? Keep watching?”
“Yes,”
“Why?”
I took a breath. I couldn’t avoid mention of Michael now. Let it be on The Businessman, though. I didn’t control the questioning here. “Because Michael made me,” I answered.
“How did he make you? Were you restrained, unable to leave?”
“No. I could have left whenever. He told me that. I guess ... well ... there was this bar he made me hold and ... he just made me watch. I don’t really ...” I floundered around. It was an excellent question, I thought. One I apparently didn’t have an answer to.
The Businessman didn’t say anything. He was waiting for my answer. What was the answer? Was it fear of punishment? No, I wasn’t thinking about punishments at that time. Michael hadn’t threatened me. I remembered him shoving his fingers inside me and ordering me to grab that damned bar. He told me to keep watching.
Finally, I said the only truth I knew, though it seemed lacking somehow. “I guess he made me keep watching by telling me to do it.” It seemed a stupid answer.
The Businessman was silent for a while longer. Some of the edge was gone from his voice when he finally did speak. He said, “Okay. Now turn around.”
And I supposed that was that, at least for him. I wasn’t going to forget that question, though. I believed there should be a better answer.
I turned around, holding the inspection pose.
When my back was turned to him, he said, “Second inspection stance.”
A few moments before this latest order, I hadn’t thought it possible that I could be more embarrassed. I did not want to bend over. I mean, through all of this posing and questioning I never forgot how bright the room was, and how naked I was, in every way, in front of him. He hadn’t even taken off his jacket, for God’s sake. And now I was supposed to bend over, right in front of him? I couldn’t do it.
But, I only had one other choice, to tell him I wasn’t going to do it, which would mean putting on my clothes and leaving. I didn’t want to leave. I needed a middle ground, a middle ground that he made clear did not exist. Hell. I bent over.
I wished there were some sound in the room, music, or a television, or even the ticking of an old-time clock, anything to break up The Businessman’s silent study of my most private parts. Between the embarrassment, and the blood rushing to my head because of the position I held, I knew my face had to be growing red, a certainty that only made everything worse.
His voice cut through my consternation. He asked, “Have you ever had anal intercourse?”
I think I may have said “Eep.” I know I said, “God no.”
“Okay,” he said. “You can stand up straight. No position. We’re going to the bedroom.”
And he stood up and walked off into the next room.
Naturally, I followed. But slowly. I wondered to myself if he were deliberately trying to shake me with his questions. What was his game? I couldn’t be blamed for wondering. I don’t know how anyone could spend any amount of time with someone so shuttered, so closed off, and not wonder what he was thinking.
The way he looked me over, and the questions, and ... it was like an interview, a naked, sexy interview, but still much like an interview.
Once I was in the bedroom, The Businessman instructed me to remove the bedspread and blanket from the king-sized bed and to throw them into one of the corners of the room. While I did that, he shrugged out of his jacket, removed his tie, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. I would have preferred he take off his shirt with the jacket, but it wasn’t my call, was it? We were in the bedroom, though, a definite improvement over the sitting room.
He told me to climb into the center of the big bed. Then he told me how he wanted me to “display” myself, his word, not mine. I knelt, not unlike the way Elaine knelt on the floor of the room in the sex club, the exception being that The Businessman insisted I spread my knees. He demanded further adjustments, which I obeyed as best I could.
Finally, he was satisfied. I was on my knees, which were spread apart, and my hands rested on my upper thighs. The arch in my back thrust out my breasts, and I held my head high with my eyes looking downward.
He called this the relax stance, something of a misnomer in my opinion; trying to hold the pose on the soft mattress was a serious study in maintaining balance.
I tried to keep myself steady while he walked over to the antique, full-length mirror. The mirror’s feet must have been on some kind of sliding casters, because he didn’t even grunt when he pushed the massive piece of furniture toward the foot of the bed.
He maneuvered the mirror directly in front of me, then adjusted the tilt until my image was reflected dead center. Then he pulled one of the chairs over beside the mirror and sat down.
He casually crossed his legs and said, “Look at yourself.”
I looked and thought dumbly, yep, that’s me.
He said, “Tell me three things you like about your body.”
I couldn’t resist peeking a glance at him. Was he serious? He met my eyes. Yes, he was serious. Okay then. Three things I like.
“Well, I guess I like my hair all right, though it’s not at its best right now, a little frizzy because I wasn’t able to style it.”
“What do you like about your hair?”
“It’s thick, and has some w
aves. I like that it’s long. I like that it’s so dark, black. I don’t color it.”
“I can tell,” he said.
I risked another glance at him to see if that statement was a criticism.
He said, “It’s good that you don’t color it. What else do you like?”
I studied myself in the mirror. I wasn’t accustomed to finding what I liked about my body.
I would have said I liked my eyes, but without mascara and some eyeliner, my eyes didn’t seem up to snuff. Eyes were out.
I said, “My nose is okay. It’s not too big, anyway.”
He said, “Okay. One more.”
“My answer is kind of dumb.”
“Tell me anyway.”
I sighed then admitted, “My knees.”
He didn’t even blink. He only asked, “Why?”
“Well, when they’re bent like this, they’re not all bony and pokey-looking the way some people’s knees are. I like that they’re smooth.” I couldn’t say anything else.
He said, “You’re right, you have attractive knees.”
I smiled.
He said, “Now tell me three things you don’t like about your body.”
I thought, only three? I had a certain level of confidence in my body, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t aware that it could be better ... way better. I was a pro at finding things I didn’t like about myself.
I wished that my lips were fuller, that I had more defined cheekbones, that my neck were longer, that my breasts were a little bigger, that my arms were more graceful, that my feet were smaller. No matter how many sit-ups I did, I always wished my stomach were more toned and my waist narrower. No matter how many different cleansers and over-priced creams I used, I still wished my skin were clearer. I wanted thicker fingernails and prettier teeth. I wanted a firmer butt. An endless litany.
And I could only pick three? And I had to tell them to this man who was looking at me kneeling here spread out and naked in full light? He didn’t need me to tell him what was wrong with me. I was certain he already had a complete mental catalog.
I picked out three things, choosing my teeth and neck and feet. I mumbled the reasons. Something about this was humbling, shaming. I didn’t like it.
He didn’t speak until I was finished, then he said, “You didn’t say anything about the obviously sexual parts of your body, like your breasts, or ass.”
I didn’t have anything to say to that, so I kept silent and stared at the white sheets.
He continued, “I personally believe that every part of a woman’s body is erotic. And I find your body particularly appealing.”
A rush of warmth flashed over me at his much-needed compliment.
He said, “I put you in that pose because I want to watch you touch yourself, intimately.”
I inhaled. Were we done, at last, with the questions and answers? I was definitely ready to be done with them.
He said, “Touch your breasts.”
Yep, we were definitely done with the questions. I touched my breasts.
He said, “Squeeze them, gently.”
I squeezed.
He said, “Watch yourself in the mirror. Don’t look away.”
I stared at my reflection. Everything about me seemed small. My embarrassment read clearly on my face, which surprised me, since I was trying hard to suppress it. My hands looked tiny on my breasts, squeezing tentatively, clumsily. I couldn’t see myself in that little woman.
The Businessman said, “Stop. But don’t look away from the mirror. Listen to me very carefully.”
I did as he asked and nodded.
He said, his voice low and clear, “There is no place for shame in what we do together. I enjoy a certain amount of humility, and some embarrassment, in you, but not shame. Never that. If I didn’t find you physically attractive, I wouldn’t be with you tonight. Remember that.”
He continued, “I didn’t put you in front of that mirror to degrade or humiliate you.”
He waited a few moments, while I took in his words.
Then he said, “Saturday night at the club you were watched. Afterward, you watched others. I suspect you’ve never watched yourself, though. And so I’ve put you in front of this mirror.”
Once again he paused to give me time to think. His words were soothing away much of my self-consciousness. He found me attractive. I definitely found him attractive.
And he was right about me never watching myself. I hadn’t ever considered it.
He said, “But the most important point here, is that I want to watch you touch yourself.”
He seemed far away, before, in that chair of his, the cryptic line of his lips, the inscrutability of his dark eyes. My awareness of his actual nearness grew as he told me he wanted to see me touch myself. He suddenly seemed practically sitting next to me in the bed.
The sensual tenor of his voice reached out to me and calmed me, drew at me, began scattering my reserve and my shame.
He said, “I want you to touch your breasts again. If it helps you, imagine your hands are mine, that I’m the one fondling your breasts.”
I touched myself again, my hands steadier, less clumsy. I imagined it was him touching me.
“Good,” he said. “Run your fingers over your nipples. Play with them. I want to see them hard.”
I did as he said, and watched in the mirror as my nipples stiffened under my touch.
“Squeeze them between your fingertips,” he said. “Harder. Just until it hurts.”
I obeyed and sucked in my breath at the moment of pain.
“Twist them,” he said.
I twisted.
“Harder,” he said.
I twisted harder, and flinched.
He told me to pull my nipples, to rub and squeeze my breasts. He wanted me to pull harder, to rub harder, and I did. I watched my hands rub my breasts in the mirror. His hands, I thought. Where I wanted his hands to be.
He ordered me to squeeze my breasts tightly, until my hand was like a claw and the flesh of my breasts bulged between my fingers. I clenched my jaw and stomach against the sharp sensations.
I fell into the flow of his demands.
My breasts were tingling and tight when he commanded me to touch my stomach, then to move lower, between my legs. He wanted me to rub my pussy, to lightly pinch my labia and spread them open, to reveal all of myself in the mirror. To reveal all of myself to him.
He said, look, look at yourself, and so I did.
I flicked at my clitoris on his command. Because he wanted to see me do it, I slid my fingers in the folds of my pussy. I grew ever warmer under his gaze, his low voice guiding my explorations. And the demands kept coming, and I obeyed, having fallen into a sort of unquestioning mode, a place where everything made sense, and nothing but pleasure would follow, if I just did what he told me to do.
I didn’t seem little in the mirror anymore. I was sexy. My eyes were hooded and distant. My hair spread around my shoulders in shiny black tendrils. My breasts were high and a little reddened from my handling. My pussy glistened from the moisture that evidenced my arousal.
And he watched me. I felt his eyes on me. I wanted him to see me.
The more he commanded me and the more I obeyed, the sexier I became. I no longer remembered that I had been embarrassed and scared.
He told me to stick one finger inside myself. Then another. I groaned. He had me spread open my labia with my other hand, the better for me to see, the better for him to see. My fingers moved inside me, standing proxy for his fingers.
He told me to stay as I was, then he went and opened the chest of drawers and pulled out a small black bag that he tossed on the bed beside me. He took the pillows from the head of the bed and stacked them behind me.
After sitting back down, he told me to change position, to lean back against the pillows and bend my knees and spread my legs wide. In the mirror, I looked like some wanton wild thing, all splayed out and open to whatever might come. Is this what he sees? This wildness
?
He had me open the black bag and find a mid-sized black dildo and a tube of lubricant. He instructed me to put some of the slippery liquid on the dildo. I did everything he asked.
“Now,” he said, “hold yourself open with your other hand and slip the dildo inside you, slowly, slowly.”
I carefully and slowly, slid the latex toy into my pussy. My muscles stretched easily to accept it. Keeping my eyes on the mirror, I was fascinated by the slow disappearance of the black dildo inside my body.
He ordered me to pull it back out, also slowly. Then back in. Then out. Then in. My hips rose slightly to meet my hand as I pushed the smooth dildo into my pussy.
All the while, I thought of his hands doing these things to me. And in a real way, it truly was his hands. Mine had become his, under his command. I would do his bidding. The understanding grew under the relentless slow rhythm he set for me.
I looked away from the mirror, a powerful need in me to see him, to know what he was thinking. He wasn’t looking at my face, of course. No, he was looking at my pussy, watching me fuck myself with his toy.
On first glance, he seemed as dispassionate as ever, just sitting there, as if he were casually watching a mildly interesting television show. His breathing was slow and even, unlike my own, which got louder and faster by the moment. I searched for signs, any sign, that there was more behind his impassive gaze.
There ... his hair, always perfectly arranged, it had fallen a bit on one side. And there ... a subtle, recurring twitch in his jaw. Was his hand gripping the arm of the chair with unnecessary force, was there a tenseness in his forearm?
I decided there was. I needed it. I needed him to be moved, to show his desire for me. These suppositions, these potentially phantom proofs of his desire, were all I would get from him for now. I would take them.
And then he told me to rub my clitoris. I rubbed my fingertip over my clit, around and around, harder when he told me he wanted harder, faster when he wanted faster. The dildo slid in and out of me, moving in a slick and steady rhythm.
The pressure grew inside me, and when I clamped down, the pleasure spiraled outward. Faster. He said to rub my clit faster. Not the dildo, he said. Keep it slow. I want it slow, he said. Rub harder. Faster.