by Gabi Moore
She could tell that no matter what else was going on here, she was turning me on. She could see it.
She raised up on her tiptoes and began walking up and down the edge of the pool, her impromptu catwalk. Her steps were exaggerated and slow and sexy, and when she reached the end she turned around and came back again with a toss of her main. She raised both arms up above her head and held them loosely there. God did her tits look amazing.
For a brief moment, I reconsidered. I thought about going back on my plan. About forgiving her and absolving her of everything. I loved her so much it hurt me. And to see that flicker in her eyes? That twinge that was just as maddeningly beautiful as it was the first time I saw her? Well, that certainly made things harder.
But I would not forgive her. She had no idea what was in store for her. I held onto the idea and it let me get a grip on myself, no matter how hard I was getting just watching her slink up and down like an alley cat.
I stood up and went to her, and I swore her nipples tightened and pointed as I approached. She stopped pacing and turned to face me, but couldn’t lift her eyes up to meet mine. Fine. I wanted to drink in the sight of her anyway. Up close, she smelt like sleep and shampoo and stale perfume. She noticed my dick. I inched closer. Close enough to feel the heat off her, to hear her breath, however shallow it had suddenly become.
“I have a friend, and you know what he told me the other day?” I said suddenly, and she shot me a quizzical look.
“He said that it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than it is to ask for permission.” She looked away again. I almost detected a note of fear. “And I thought that was such a disappointing thing to hear from a man like him, you know? I know a lot of those guys aren’t what you’d call faithful, but I still found it shocking.”
I watched her chest rise and fall as she listened intently, me an inch from her body and her balancing on the smooth white pool edge.
“I could never be unfaithful to my spouse, personally. Even though I’ve had plenty of opportunity to do so, of course. Lots of women push themselves at me. And I mean a lot. But you know why I never go for it Natasha?” I leaned in a millimeter closer and she was like a trapped bird, all heartbeat and breath and panic.
“Why?” she said eventually.
I smiled and said, “Because I like to do the pushing,” and with one sharp movement I pushed her. She wobbled a little as she tried to regain her balance but instantly flew backwards, splashing inelegantly into the water, a look of horror on her face. In a second she dunked under and back up again, slick as a seal pup, her blonde hair gone dark in the water.
She sputtered and glared up at me standing above her on the pool ledge. I put my hands in my pockets and watched her trying to figure out whether she should swim towards me or stay where she was and tread water. Once I was sure she had nothing to say, I smiled and turned to leave.
“You make swimming look so good right now, but I think I’ll head out and go for a drive or something.”
“You’re not going to work?” she asked. She looked so small without her blonde crown. I was going to enjoy toying with her.
“Nope. Day off. And tonight I’m taking you somewhere fancy for dinner and we’ll spend the evening together.”
I could see her pale breasts bobbing somewhere under the surface of the water.
She opened her mouth to say something but I cut her off quickly. “And for God’s sake, wear the black dress. You won’t embarrass me again,” I said, gave her one more glance and left.
Chapter Six - Natasha
I’ve always had complete and utter control over men. Even the smart ones. Because when it comes to their dicks, men are unable to control themselves, whether they’re dropouts or have multiple PhDs.
It’s something like a universal law, and it was one I first found out about when I was around 14 years old. Almost overnight, at roughly the same time I could no longer conceal my budding breasts, I realized there seemed to be a different set of rules for beautiful people. For hot people. Within one summer, it was like a hidden world suddenly opened up to me: one made of secret transactions, smiles and sex …or even better, the hint of sex.
I found this hidden web pulsing underneath everything. Why bother with all the mundane things in life when you could just cut to the source? I discovered the strings underneath every action, every word, and the bald face of men’s true, hidden desires. Men seemed to me like puppets, and learning how to pull their strings myself became my top priority. When my teenage brain tried to make sense of the new attention I received, I soon saw that it wasn’t fate, or merit or class or luck or even money that determined people’s paths in life. It was sex. Everything was sex.
My first few boyfriends were, in hindsight, an embarrassment. I had overestimated the effort it would take for a precocious blonde teen to lure anyone. In fact, my first mistake was aiming too low, and being disappointed to find that teenaged boys needed no ‘seducing’ at all, and can be lured by anything warm with a pulse, or if needs be, without one.
So, I set my aim higher. In my town, people never leave. They grow up poor, they stay poor, they have poor children, and then they die poor. Once in a while, someone strikes it lucky and breaks away, but that was rare.
Me? I was rare. I left. I pulled myself up by my suspenders and found a way out. People at home had opinions about me, sure, but at the end of the day, they were poor, and I wasn’t. A less intelligent woman may look at my false eyelashes and mini skirt and write me off. But it was a uniform I used to sneak into a corner of society that those women weren’t even aware of. It was armor that protected me from a life of ugly drudgery that they themselves had fallen into without realizing it.
What I’m getting at is that in this world, power comes in many different forms. I’ll admit that my style and my choices aren’t to everyone’s liking. Fine. But they’re powerful.
By the time I was twenty-three or four, I knew men inside out. I knew how they ticked, where their soft spots where and what I needed to do to get what I wanted from them. It was easy. Almost too easy. Until I met Todd.
At first I recognized in him all the small things, things that only other people who’ve grown up poor will notice about one another. His accent wasn’t perfectly smooth on some words, and once or twice he’d slip up with a word I hadn’t heard used since my aging, toothless grandma used it when I was a child. He wasn’t like the other men. And I wasn’t like the other women. But oh, we were like each other.
When he proposed, it was the first time since I was a little girl that I relaxed and gave someone else control. I was used to getting gifts from wealthy men. But Todd gave me something else. He had all the hallmarks of the men I’d learnt how to manage and manipulate …but only on the outside. On the inside was someone playful and unpredictable and indescribably kind.
Like I said, I don’t know what happened between us. Years went by. I stopped thinking of myself as any kind of expert on men and what they really want. I was married, in any case, which took the fun out of things in ways I hadn’t expected. He worked. I got bored at home. He worked. I soon wished I had never married him. He worked. I had my first affair. Nothing changed. He worked.
So, the tables were turned. I suddenly understood the desperate hunger I had seen in all the eyes of the married men I had seduced as a teen, eons ago when I was still young and plucky and full of hope that my life would only keep improving. I found that special loneliness that only married people feel. And, as you already know, I started sleeping around. A lot. More than I even thought possible. Todd worked.
You might be wondering why I’m mentioning all this now. Ordinarily, I’m a straightforward gal; you know, the past is the past and all that. But here I was, alone in an exclusive restaurant, waiting for him. Nothing to do but think. I checked the time. He was now a full 20 minutes late.
I had never been to Les Principaux before. Somehow, he had gotten us a reservation, and when the driver dropped me off, I was whisked immediately to
the VIP lounge and given champagne. Fifteen-year-old me would have fainted to get a glimpse of the inside of this restaurant, and to know the cost of the designer black dress I was wearing. But twenty-seven-year-old me was bored already.
I was seated at my table and took a sip, my long, bare arms looking pale against the black tablecloth. I chose not to wear the stupid gloves. He could throw me into any body of water he wanted – those gloves were for a woman far older and more cynical than me, and I wasn’t going to wear them, no way no how.
I scanned the restaurant. A sequined chanteuse was singing something breathy into an old school microphone, and the lights were dim. People were dressed extravagantly. To the side was a fish tank filled with dangerous looking tropical fish swimming round a broken urn. Drapes, gleaming silverware and a thick pile carpet underfoot. And so on. I yawned.
My watch told me plain as day: he was now 25 minutes late. My little scratch of irritation was turning into full anger. It was a good thing I was curious about what all this was about, otherwise I might have been angrier a hell of a lot sooner. I browsed the menu and tried to decipher all the pomp and bullshit. Poulet à la bretonne was just chicken. Rillettes with fennel panzanella and fougasse? Basically a spam sandwich with greens.
I ordered the wine from the very bottom of the list, knowing it would cost him an arm and a leg, folded the menu and waited some more. He wasn’t at work. So what was he doing? Making me wait on purpose? To punish me?
It was obvious he was angry about the incident in the kitchen alley. But behind that hard, masculine face, I couldn’t tell what kind of angry he was. One thing was for sure: it wasn’t an out of control anger. It made sense, I suppose, that the man I finally married was one of the few who wasn’t ruled by his dick. One of the few men who was in complete control of himself. And possibly me, if I’m dumb enough to wait here for him for almost half an hour.
I decided that when the 30-minute mark was reached, I’d get up and leave, end of story. I quietly resolved to think about the next man I would fuck, while I waited. I scanned the restaurant, floating my gaze around and seeing if any opportunistic young men caught the bait and let me reel them in. But I kept looking down at my watch. It had now been 31 minutes.
I cursed under my breath and got up to leave, just as I saw him walk in. I froze. He was taking his time, smiling and shaking the hands of some people on their way out, then chatting to the hostess. The fucking nerve of him.
He caught sight of me and sauntered over, like he had all the time in the world. It was probably also no mistake that the man I chose to marry was single handedly the hottest man in the room right now. He was in a three-piece suit, inky black, a steel grey tie and hair that looked recently clipped and styled. A few heads turned to see him enter, and I thought with a pang, back off, he’s mine.
I quickly searched my mind for something witty and biting to say as he approached, but his smile caught me off guard
“I’m so glad you didn’t give up on me and leave – I’m disgustingly late, I’m sorry,” he said and seated himself. Onto the table he gently placed a small gift bag but made no further mention of it. I smiled and waved off his apologies, but he grabbed my hand, kissed it, stared into my eyes for a moment and then picked up the menu and inspected it.
“You couldn’t have chosen a more ritzy place,” I said and crossed my legs. He raised his steely eyes to mine and smiled.
“Yes, well, I seem to remember how much fun you are in a places you’re meant to be on your best behavior.” He returned his eyes to the menu. An old in joke. “I can never take you anywhere” he’d say. And I’d laugh and try to embarrass him in front of his uptight colleagues. I smiled to myself, recalling the memory of us, when his money was still something novel, and my beauty was still something worth celebrating.
“What’s in the bag?” I asked.
He set the menu aside and gave me a naughty look. He looked like a younger, more excited version of himself tonight.
“You know, I was really hoping you’d ask about that.”
His voice was so warm, and he was leaning in so close, and he smelt so damn good, that I couldn’t help but giggle.
“Is it a present?” I asked, playing coy.
“Looks like it is” he said, arms crossed, looking over at it.
“Is it a present for me?” I shot him a playful smile. Maybe, cheating is exactly what our awful relationship needed all along.
“It does it appear that way doesn’t it?” he said, barely containing his excitement.
I snatched the parcel and peered inside, then pulled out a black gift box. Too large for jewelry, for sure. So what was it?
“Open it,” he said, smiling. It seemed like years since I had seen him smile like that. And I admit it, I felt a flutter inside. Like my body remembered all those things we used to do to one another, in another life, long ago…
I carefully lifted the lid and revealed a slinky purple layer of tissue laid over something. Excited, I lifted the tissue. It was nestled in molded black velvet; a long, silver, phallic shaped item. A dildo. It was a dildo.
I gasped and quickly put the purple tissue over it again and looked at him. His grin was bigger than ever. What the hell? A sex toy? As a present? It seemed so tacky I couldn’t believe that he had chosen it. I struggled to say something.
“You …got me a …it’s a dildo” I said eventually, looking down in disbelief at the box.
“Yes it is,” he said, relaxing back in his chair. “You didn’t think I would just forget, did you?”
“Forget what?” I asked. The warm, gooey feeling between my legs was going cold. I took a sip of water.
He smiled. “See? I knew you would try to pretend it never happened. I’ll refresh your memory for you. An alleyway behind the venue of an important investor dinner, a waiter who couldn’t have been older than eighteen and your filthy cheating cunt.”
I nearly choked on my water.
“Ringing any bells?” he said. My face was burning. I couldn’t look him in the eye. So this was the game. Humiliation. He would set me up, make me wait, make me fucking dress up so he could come here and humiliate me, in public. I felt a wave of anger at him, but I had to hand it to him, it was a cheeky move. I could be cheekier though.
“Back alley? A waiter? Hm, no. You’re going to have to be more specific than that,” I said and smirked at him. If he wanted to do this in a fancy restaurant, fine. I could play too. I thought I detected a little tightening around his mouth, but the smile remained.
“Hm, I thought so. Well, it’s all the same. Needless to say, you’re not going to be getting off lightly,” he said, and he traced a finger over the edge of the table, smoothing down the dark fabric. Christ, he had sexy hands. In a suit and tie, it was so easy to love him again, to want him. To forget how much we hated each other now, and how fucked up everything had become.
“I could see how you might have thought I didn’t mind,” he said carefully, “but I just needed some time to think it all through.”
“Think what through?” I asked. Despite everything, despite how I wished I had never met him right them, how I hated his arrogant controlling stuck up self, how I wanted to reach over the table and slap his smug face right there and then, despite all of that, I was wet. Annoyingly, my body seemed to think this was all just wonderful. I tried to stay calm.
“Think what through? Well, your punishment, of course. You didn’t think you could do that to me and escape any consequences, did you?”
I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t want to escape the consequences. I said nothing.
“Well, I chose this nice restaurant to celebrate.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Celebrate?” He was going to make me ask. The asshole.
“Yes, celebrate. Your last night of freedom.”
He paused and looked at me to see the effect his words were having. I kept a stony face although under my clothes I was squirming and my skin was on fire. He leaned in a little closer and lowered hi
s voice.
“If you insist on being such a filthy whore, well, then I won’t stop you. But from now on, you’re my filthy whore. From this moment on, your little slut pussy belongs to me. You will do as I say, when I say, and you’ll fucking like it.”
His eyes were burning holes into me, and I had to use every last inch of willpower to stop myself from crying. With that single look, with that stream of dirty words, he had set me on fire and was watching me burn. I felt so pinned to my seat I couldn’t even squirm. I gulped and stared back at him, and he eventually looked down at his fingernails, nonchalant.
“The first thing you’ll do is entertain me. I’m a busy man and this little meetup has already taken up too much of my time. But you can start to redeem yourself by heading to the ladies’ room and putting that in. Now.”
What? He had to be kidding.
Here he closed his hands into a fist and laid it carefully on the table, giving me a hard look.
“You don’t seem to understand Natasha. You don’t get to ask me any questions anymore. You don’t get anything anymore. You just fucking listen. I told you what to do, now do it,” he breathed, his voice dripping with threat.
“I won’t,” I squeaked, almost without thinking. “I’ll leave. We need to talk. We need to discuss what’s happened. I’m sorry about what I did, but our relationship--”
“We don’t have a relationship anymore. There will be no chats. There will be no fucking discussion. I own you.”
This time I did laugh.
“You own me? And if I don’t go along with this dumb idea?”
He smiled slowly and reached into his blazer pocket, then pulled out a sheaf of papers, stapled and folded neatly into three sections. He didn’t have to say anything more. As he slid them across the table towards me, I knew exactly what they were.