10 Shades of Seduction

by Tiffany Reisz

  There is another session coming. I can feel that in the air as surely as I feel the soreness in my thighs, so I take the respite he’s giving me. I breathe deeply, soften a little from the heat and weight of his body, stroke my hands over his curve of his ass. I rest in the colors flowing in discrete streams through my empty mind.

  Moments pass, minutes or an hour, I cannot tell. But eventually he has marked the skin over my shoulders and the base of my neck with nips, soothed it with licks, and the weight of his pelvis against mine rekindles the heat in my pussy. His mouth settles over mine for long, languid open-mouthed kisses, the ones I wanted so intensely before he went down on me. I arch into him, feel our damp skin sliding as we shift. In this room, kissing like that means a lengthy fucking; when this is over, I will feel the ache in my thighs for days. Jack doesn’t hesitate to use me hard.

  He slides one arm under the small of my back, lifts me with him as he sits upright and swings his legs over the foot of the bed to place his feet flat on the floor. I straddle him, my hair hanging in sweaty strands in my face, and grip his forearms as I orient myself.

  “I like this,” he says. “You do all the work, and I watch.” He looks over my shoulder as he says this, cupping my bottom in his hands and moving me up and down on his cock. I risk a quick glance over my shoulder and see we’re visible in the mirror above the low dresser. His hands are dark, curved around the pale cheeks of my ass marked by my bikini tan line just below the twin dimples at the base of my spine. He moves me again, and his cock, flushed a deep red and slick with my juices, appears as I rise on my knees, and disappears as I take him inside me, deeper than before. The sensitive skin of my lower cheeks brushes his balls.

  The sight makes me moan. I turn back to face him, mightily embarrassed. Experience has taught me Jack can last a good long time in this position, without the primitive thrill of pounding into me. His hips still under my movements mean I’ll get the penetration I crave, the repeated action of his cock spreading open my pussy to seat itself deep inside me, without him losing control. And he’ll talk to me, that wicked, wicked voice ordering me to move to please him. He’ll watch my breasts bounce, my cleft spread wide to take him again and again and again.

  I smooth my hands up his arms, feel a surprising quiver in his biceps before coming to rest on his shoulders, for balance. I’m entirely open to him, my breasts, belly, clit, and ass available. Vulnerable. The same slashing excuse for a smile flashes in his face as he cups my breasts, then slides his hands down over my hips.

  My eyes flutter closed as I focus on how he wants me to move. The rhythm is slow, a little pause at the top so I can feel the head of his cock caress my pussy lips, then back down to seat him fully inside me. His hard abdomen grinds against my clit on each down stroke. As I catch on, his hands lose their proprietary grip on my hips and begin to roam. I look down to see his tanned fingers, the hair dusting the backs of his knuckles bleached a pale blonde, stroke over my breasts, along my ribs, over the swell of my hips and ass, then reverse course and move back. He loves the softness of my body, and when I am with him like this, I feel truly beautiful.

  I’m watching him, but his eyes are focused on the mirror. The image of my pale skin against his darker body, the sheer eroticism of what I’m doing, is burned into my memory so I don’t need to look over my shoulder again. I do anyway, catch his eyes in the mirror, my darker hair falling in tousled waves over my face. A hot red flush stains his cheekbones. His hands clench on my bottom, and I feel him throb inside me.

  “Fuck. The look in your eyes.”

  I don’t recognize myself. The body is mine. I see my hair, the shape of my shoulders, the nip of my waist, but the woman I usually see when I look in the mirror is gone. In her place is a succubus, her eyes incandescent with lust. When our eyes meet Jack shifts a little under me, groans and clenches his fingers into my ass, lifts his hips to get a little closer, a little deeper. My breasts chafe against his chest and the tug of my nipples against his skin makes me ripple around him.

  Each slow thrust is now torture for both of us.

  With every prolonged withdrawal and penetration the burn heightens, grows, pushes everything else aside. Jack is thick, so thick, inside me. I rest my forehead on his, my breath easing from me in soft little pants. His tongue flickers over mine, retreats, then returns. All worries about appearing needy or clingy disappear and I slant my open mouth across his.

  He groans again and tightens one arm around my hips. Because I love the restraint I resist this, fighting to rise to the top of his cock. As I rise he struggles to force me back down onto his cock, but I have his number now. When he would keep me snugged up against his pelvis, I force myself back up, rising despite the iron strength of his arm, merely clasping the tip of his cock when he would have me hot and slick around his aching shaft. His legs spread wider and he pushes off with his powerful thighs. His tongue is dancing in my mouth, harsh grunts ripping from his throat as I tease him. I have brought him to the point of orgasm, and the heady power makes me laugh.

  His hands grip my hips to pull me down hard against him, so deep inside his balls press against my ass. I expect to feel his release pulse into me, marking me. I’m hovering on the edge of my own orgasm and I twitch in anticipation of the moment his hands relax, intending to sneak a couple of thrusts, heighten his release and send myself over the edge. But his fingers remain firmly clamped around my hips, and I let out a soft groan as I swivel on him, trying to rub my clit against him. When I find I cannot move, I open my eyes.

  “Did you think that would work, baby?”

  I go utterly still at his smile-that-isn’t-a-smile, the dark power in his eyes, the sweat gleaming on his chest and darkening his hair at his temples. I tried to play him, but he won. My cunt spasms around his cock. I don’t answer, but he doesn’t push. He knows.

  “Take your claws out of my shoulders and hand me that case.” He nods behind me.

  Oh, God. I’ve actually embedded my short, blunt nails into smooth skin and hard muscle. When I lift my fingers he shrugs then rolls his head on his neck, and I realize he’s used the mild sting to focus on holding back...the better to torture me. Slightly off-balance I look over my shoulder again and for the first time notice a black leather shaving kit, the one he uses when he travels, on the low dresser.

  I have a fairly good idea what’s in it.

  I brace one hand on his knee and reach for the kit with the other. The movement seats him even more deeply inside me and I gasp as my outstretched fingers grab the kit. He slides one hand up my back to help me upright again, and I offer him the case.

  As casually as if we were seated at a table in a fancy restaurant, not naked and sweating and engaged in a power play in an anonymous hotel room, he sets the black bag between our stomachs and unzips it. He removes lube and a dildo, not nearly his girth but big enough to my widening eyes.

  We’ve played those games before, but only with fingers, never with toys, and certainly not with these dark undercurrents ebbing and flowing in the room. While I’m much the same person in this room and outside of it, he’s different here. Harder. Less likely to give quarter. Over the past few months he’s taken me places I hadn’t acknowledged I wanted to go. I never asked him to orchestrate elaborate evenings at an expensive hotel. Somehow he knew, just as he knew this lay in the back of my clouded mind.

  But that’s why I’m here. The colors coalesce for one brilliant, shattering moment.

  “Jack?” I barely hear the word, almost inaudible over the hum of the air conditioner.

  He looks me straight in the eye. I’ve always loved that about him; he doesn’t dissemble or cajole or shy away from his demands. He makes me stand toe to toe with him and either face my own desires, or back down.

  “You can take this.”

  As he says the blunt words, he’s looking in my eyes; I don’t know what he sees there because I don’t have words for whatever I’m feeling. Colors, perhaps, a deep, intense violet swirled with velv
ety chocolate-brown. A blue the hue of twilight. When I don’t protest, don’t even respond, he matter-of-factly works the lube into my pucker, smears a bit more on the dildo, then positions it, his eyes intent on our reflection in the mirror.

  Heat flashes through my aching pussy.

  “Spread, baby,” he says, but he’s not asking and that makes me even hotter. He widens his legs. My bent knees rest beside his hips, the tops of my feet braced on his thighs, my nails once again digging into his shoulders. He cannot sink any deeper into my swollen channel and I’m now totally vulnerable to him.

  He’s still looking at my face, unapologetic, and there is no hint of quarter in his dark eyes. If I can’t handle his demands I am the one who must halt our play. My implicit, unquestioned trust in Jack stems from the fact that from our first time together I’ve been able to say no, always. I simply don’t.

  The pressure increases slowly, patiently. Jack never rushes, not even on the night fifteen years ago when he took my virginity in the more conventional sense. The head of the dildo expects entrance to my ass, but without meaning to I’m resisting. His free hand leaves my hip and slides into my damp curls to find my clit. Three liquid strokes, a shocking counterpoint to the insistent push against my ass, and I quiver, sensation leaping through me. I soften, relax and the head slides in, just a bit, just enough to make my eyes widen.

  I clench my fingers into his shoulders and while the tip of his finger continues to caress my clit with a feather-light touch, the dildo’s progress ceases immediately. Sensation, however, does not, but rather beats under my skin. My heart is thundering in all my pulse points, the rhythm a deep violet, and my nipples are throbbing caps on my breasts. Heavy electricity is collecting in my groin, sparks firing in my clit, in the stretched nerves of my passage and in the tight ring of muscle about to be unquestionably breached for the first time. Between the rhythmic stroke of his finger, the unceasing demand of his thick cock in my pussy and the heated promise of the dildo, tendrils of pleasure are weaving a net, dragging me into a whirlpool of desire.

  I want this. He’s given me a taste. Now I want it all.

  “Please,” I say, and while he makes no noise, I see his lips form the word fuck. Jack is eloquent. Fluent in Latin and French. My surrender has reduced him to single syllables of Anglo-Saxon origin.

  The pressure against my pucker is now a demand, and I wince as the head pops past the ring of muscle. At the same time, however, my cunt spasms from his wickedly knowledgeable attentions to my clit, and the line between pleasure and pain blurs, then disappears. I arch into his finger, inadvertently clasping the dildo, and oh, it feels so good. He works it in and out, shallow, easy thrusts that glide over astonished nerve endings and send pleasure expanding through me. And while his cock is stationary in my pussy, the dildo creates a heightened sense of fullness, each stroke contracting me around his shaft.

  “Look,” he says, his normally smooth, even voice a harsh rasp. “Look in the mirror.”

  I peer over my shoulder to watch him fuck me in the ass with a sex toy. My dark hair hangs in sweaty tangles around my flushed face, and the length of my spine reminds me of a string of pearls. The curves of my ass, round and even and perfectly matched are far less pure than pearls, though, as is the carnal image of the lifelike shaft working me over. I stare in shock, then my eyes meet Jack’s in the mirror. Connection arcs electric and visceral between us and suddenly need sears me. I can’t keep still anymore. I rise and fall, impaling myself on both his hard flesh and the dildo.

  He’s got one hand on my clit and the other on the toy; I’m balanced on his lap but using the strength in his shoulders to keep myself upright as I gyrate under his fierce gaze, back arched, reaching for it. The ache balloons, bursts, then collapses in on itself. I come in a wild surge of colors so sharp and jagged I envision only the shattering of an intricate, sunlit window.

  “Fucking amazing,” he growls when my shudders cease. “So goddamn tight. The friction...”

  Heated images explode in my mind—of the dildo stroking my forbidden passage but also of his cock. It’s too much; I sag against his chest as he seats the dildo firmly in my ass, then grips my upper arms. In a tumble of light and color I find myself on my back, arms flung over my head, legs spread and shaking from the strain as Jack looms over me. He hooks my knees over his elbows and leans forward, bracing his hands by my ribs. Before I can catch my breath, even anchor myself in the world, I feel the blunt tip of his shaft against my slit. He pushes in, stopping when I quiver, whimper.

  “Look at me.”

  My eyes fly open to find him looming over me, fierce need etched in the lines of his face. I see anguished lust, aching desire, and find the ground I need to take this, to take the fucking he has been promising me from the moment he called. My body softens as I reach that ultimate surrender. There isn’t a particle of resistance left in me. He groans as he plunges in, all the way to the hilt.

  The dildo forces his cock against the top wall of my pussy, and with each stroke he rasps over my G-spot in a way that lights me up from within. In moments I’m surging under him, writhing as bolt after bolt of sensation sizzles along nerves already raw and vulnerable. I dig my nails into his biceps and lift my hips for more. His control is tenuous, edgy as he pounds into me. I feel his cock swell, his rhythm grow erratic, but to my utter disbelief I am there, I am there. I sink my teeth into his shoulder as all color, all noise disappears from my head. All that remains is white light and silence as I shatter. Vanish.

  * * *

  When I re-form, return to the hotel room, he is poised above me, teeth bared in a fierce grimace as he fights his own release while thrusting strongly because he knows the strokes prolong mine. Our eyes meet, and now I’m not the only one naked and surrendering. As he balances on the razor’s edge of pleasure and pain, I lay my palms against his cheeks and pull his mouth down to mine. His lips tremble, open and wet, as he drives deep into my body, each thrust strong enough to make the flesh of my breasts quiver with the impact. I take them, one after the other, whispering into his mouth what he knows, has always known.

  “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

  A hoarse groan rumbles out of him as he braces himself on his palms and jets into me. His head drops forward. Sweat drips onto my cheek and collarbone as he jerks, gives a shallow thrust, shudders again. With a softer groan he eases down onto his elbows. After a long, long while his breathing evens out.

  My mind is a flawless pane of glass through which streams brilliant, pure white light as I lie underneath him, our breathing slowly coming together, his exhales wafting over my ear, mine softer, quicker against his shoulder. A minute passes, perhaps two, then he shifts his weight to the right. His fingers tremble as they trail down my belly; the muscles jump under my skin at his touch, then I gasp as he slides his hand between my legs to remove the dildo. I feel empty, yet replete.

  Without a word he slides off the bed, scrubs his hands through his sweat-dampened hair, then begins to dress. Underwear, jeans, the sweater he retrieves from beside the door, then in a gesture so familiar it makes my heart turn over, he pushes his sleeves to his elbows while he scuffs into his shoes. His hands on his hips, he surveys me for a long moment and I cannot help but think of the respectable woman who walked into the Embassy Suites bar two hours earlier. I am boneless, flushed and quivering, coated in sweat (his and mine), juices (his and mine), and I couldn’t stand if my life depended on it. A smile too masculine to be smug flashes across his face. He bends over, braces his hands on the bed and drops a quick kiss on my lips.

  “I’ll call you,” he says. The door opens, then closes behind him.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later I’ve recovered enough to think about a shower when the door opens to admit Jack, an overnight case in one hand, the key in the other. As he tosses the key on the dresser he offers me a sweet smile, the one that makes his ordinary face magical in my eyes. I prop myself up on one elbow and smile back.

&nb
sp; “Your mother texted. The kids are in bed. She’ll take them to early services tomorrow and we can pick them up after brunch.”

  With the trip to his car my dark, demanding lover has disappeared and my husband is back. I don’t mind. The rasp of the cotton against my tender nipples is a delicious, sufficient reminder of my night with a stranger.

  “Mmmmm...I can sleep in,” I purr as he sets the case down on the luggage stand.

  “Not too late,” he replies, his voice gone hard again despite the smile. The incongruence makes me giggle.

  When Jack first took our children to spend the night at my mother’s and called me from the Embassy Suites bar, I was so sure someone had the wrong number I had to double check the caller ID on my cell phone. Eleven years into our marriage, the demands of his job coupled with the day-to-day tedium of stay-at-home motherhood had left me fractured and irritable. I wasn’t working in my studio, but I was picking fights. Frequently.

  One night, after a particularly bitter argument over something I can’t remember but which was probably stupid, like dirty socks on the floor, he asked me in a weary tone what I wanted. Equally weary, I told him that I wanted to stop thinking for a while. I wanted to forget the laundry, doctor’s appointments, meals, where his badge or keys or glasses were, whether I’d bought enough fish crackers for snack at Katie’s preschool, the dog’s incomprehensible urge to vomit only on the new living room carpet, all of it. I wanted to stop being responsible for just a couple of hours, and I really, really wanted to fuck more frequently than every few weeks.

  He sits on the bed and strokes my damp hair. “Thinking already?”

  I smile up at him. “No.”

  Trial attorneys are often very good actors, and Jack reads unspoken, barely acknowledged cues with experience honed in improv theater and the courtroom. He read what was underneath my impossible demands, because we both knew his eighty-hour-a-week schedule left no room for laundry or snack duties. I didn’t want help around the house. I wanted to be transported to another dimension, if only for a few hours. He couldn’t buy Goldfish crackers, but he could restore brilliance to hues and shut off my mind. I have no idea what it was about the unique, incessant demands of motherhood that made me crave surrendering to him in bed, and I have no idea how he knew what I barely knew myself, but when he gets this hotel room and strips me of the last shred of my control, I light up like a summer thunderstorm. The lashing, explosive releases give me what I need to go back to the routine, and back into the studio. For days after we meet, images flow through my mind and into the glass. My work is subtly changing. That artistic growth brings me almost as much pleasure as those moments when I become nothing but white light and his cock inside me.