My bit of divine intervention is still making his way to me. At the same speed as before, but his posture has relaxed. Even from here, I can smell his sporty cologne. Something between lemons and linen.
When he finally reaches me, he lowers his shoulders and head so he's on my level. Not to tower over me as Greaser Boy tried to.
“Are you alright, miss?” he asks.
Though I’ve had a lot of men in my life put on an act of being the one who put gentle into gentleman, this doesn’t seem to be an act. This young man seems genuinely soft-spoken. Genuinely concerned for me. He reaches tentatively for me but doesn't make contact. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?
“No,” I say with more force than I intend, but I don’t want or need him thinking I’m a damsel in distress. “I’m fine.” I purse my lips. “And I’m perfectly able to take care of myself. You didn’t need to intervene.” I flick my eyes toward my ski poles. “I’m armed and wouldn’t have been afraid to use them.”
The young man — I call him “young” because compared to me, he looks barely twenty-one — seems to take no offense to my words. He just bats his eyelashes (an unconscious gesture) and says quietly, “Forgive me for saying so, but I think you know as well as I do he wasn’t listening.”
His eyes dart to the ski poles, just as mine dart to the bit of bare chest I see peeking out from under his jersey. “Ski poles or not, sometimes men’s ears don’t work unless another man tells them to fuck off.” At his use of “fuck,” my savior looks slightly contrite. Nervous, like I’m his mother, and he’s cussed in front of me. “Excuse my bluntness.”
I smile, feeling genuinely at ease. You’re right about that, young man, I think, enjoying the innocence on his face. Sometimes that’s the only way to get them to listen. But I don’t like being rescued. I don’t like needing to be. I lose my smile, thinking this. No domme worth her salt loses control of the situation.
Out loud I say, “Thank you for your assistance, but I’m not the kind of woman who needs others to interfere in her business. And I’m definitely not the kind of woman who needs rescued.” As I speak, I keep my voice blunt. Harsh, almost. The same tone I used with Greaser Boy.
But, to my surprise, my savior doesn’t react badly. He simply bows and takes my hand in his. Held there like I’m his Queen, and he’s my knight, he kisses my hand.
Right after, he says, “I appreciate your honesty with me. But would you deny someone the chance to do something for you if he is at your service? If he wants to make himself available however you need, for whatever you need?”
I’m shocked by his words. Intrigued by them, but I try my best not to show it on my face. At my service? I look him up and down. You’ve got my attention with those words, young man.
“Interesting.” I allow my hand to rest more completely in his. “You’re at my service, are you?”
“Absolutely, miss,” he whispers, obviously hungering for another chance to kiss my hand.
“And you say you’d be willing to serve me however I need, for whatever I need?”
He nods softly, yet resolutely. “However, whatever, wherever, miss,” he answers. “You’re in charge. You make the rules, and I’ll follow.” He goes to kiss my hand again, and this time a shiver goes up my spine. It’s out of excitement, not fear. Could this punkishly dressed boy be asking me for what I think? My mind races, thinking about what it would be like to make him my sub. Make him my obedient playmate.
Just as the possibilities are about to rush down to my clit and fill it with blood, the young man’s phone rings.
Clumsily, angrily he lets go of my hand and fishes around in his clothing for the disruption.
He’s cussing again, but under his breath as if he doesn’t want me to hear. When he finds his phone and answers it, a whole other aura envelops him. This one is bratty. Punkish, like he really is a gangster and is dealing with someone he hates.
“What? What are you calling me for?” His jaw tightens. His eyes roll. “Fine. Fine, I’ll be there.”
I hear talking on the other end, but what I hear more is my little gentleman sighing. Growling impatiently.
“I’m coming right now, okay?” He stamps his foot in a childishly adorable way. A way I find even more adorable when I compare it to the gentlemanly, heroic aura he was overwhelming me with before. “Right now, I swear.”
So, you have a bit of an attitude to go with your princely actions, do you? I like it!
As he hangs up and stuffs the phone back into the abyss that is his baggy jeans, he quickly loses his irritated lines. His pouty mouth.
“Sorry about that, miss,” he says, taking my hand and kissing it a third time. His lips linger on my skin deliciously and this time my nipples pucker with interest. “I promised my friends I would go to lunch with them, and they’ve just called to remind me.” Bringing his lips off my hand, he says, “I hate to leave you like this, but they’ll have my head for part of the buffet if I don’t get going.”
I smile at him. It’s a gentle and easy thing on my face. Something I’ve given to a lot of men in my time, but not with so much authenticity as I do him.
“Well, then. I guess you’d better be on your way.” As my backwards-baseball-wearing boy goes to leave, I stop him with a squeeze on his hand. As I hope, he stops obediently, bringing his eyes right to me. “Before you leave, I’d like to know the name of my Savior,” I say.
“Jordan, miss,” he answers softly.
“Jordan.” Even his name is a sweet dream that fills me with warmth and hunger. “Good to meet you, Jordan.” I tilt my head and drink in one last little bit of him before releasing his hand. “And please — call me Bianca.” I send him on his way with a hand lightly brushing his ass. “Only sometimes ‘miss.’”
Jordan murmurs an understanding before practically running away from me.
I turn and enjoy watching him leave. When he’s no longer in eyesight, I momentarily close my eyes and lick my lips. Oh, my God! Jordan, you are absolutely delicious and adorable! If you weren’t due somewhere else for lunch, I’d have you for mine.
Chapter 6 – Jordan
I make my way to the café, though I want nothing more than to turn back the way I came and go get Bianca. Maybe invite her to join me.
But, as I climb the steps to the café and walk inside, I remember Paul said it was important for all of us to be here. And, by all of us, I assume he just means the core group of us. Myself, Alex and the girls. Which means I couldn’t have brought Bianca along or gone back even if I wanted to. And I really, really wanted to.
I stalk over to the table they’re all sitting at. It’s one of the few in front of the big picture window. Snow still clings to its corners and expensive heart decorations adorn the eaves. I shake my head at the tackiness—our very own Hallmark card. With the way Jane and Mariah are cuddled up to their men, the scene in front of me looks straight out of a Valentine’s Day made-for-TV special.
I’m determined to break up that vibe, so I sit down loudly. Sloppily. I put my elbows on the table, though I know someone’s mother is bound to have an issue with it.
“Okay, so I’m here,” I grumble. Instead of with Bianca. Instead of protecting her in case that dude decides to come back and harass her. I nibble on my fingernail. “What’s the big news you just had to have everyone join you for lunch to share, Paul?” Even before these words are all the way out of my mouth, I’m thinking about Bianca again. About the dip shit who harassed her, and how close his room is to hers.
I should’ve asked her if she wanted to move. I should’ve asked her if she wanted me to go to the front desk for her, see if they could arrange something. But nooo. Brunch is so much more important than anything like that.
Paul, rather than answer my question, begins cuddling with Mariah more. Kissing her anywhere and everywhere he can get away with in a family-friendly place like this.
“Out with it, yo,” I snap, “I’ve got better things to do than play twenty questions with you.” L
ike do whatever Bianca wants me to do. Whatever she orders me to do.
In my head, even as I’m giving a laser glance to the menu, particularly the snack items, I imagine kneeling before her. Submitting myself before her naked body and eating whatever she orders me to eat—preferably her pussy.
A pussy with a thick and wild bush that matches the curtains: a deep blue-black with a lot of natural waves.
I imagine her body shifting, wriggling under my attention. Her skin, while darker than mine and showing some signs of maturity is smooth. Addictive. Finely aged, like wine.
Her eyes, green and bright, call down to me like those of a goddess.
Mindlessly, I order some cola-braised pork nachos, extra cheese, fried onion pieces, and jalapenos, though that's not what I'm hungry for. I wish I was snacking on you, Bianca. You’d be way better for me.
Finally, Paul gives us the news. “Mariah and I are moving in together,” he says excitedly after all of our orders are placed with the waitress. Mariah squeals, as does Jane.
“Congratulations, lady.” Jane squeals again and stands to hug her best friend even though there is a table between them. The whole restaurant turns around to watch the commotion. “Moving in together. That’s such a big milestone,” she adds, sitting back down and interlacing her fingers with Alex’s.
“Wow, Paul. That’s awesome, bro,” Alex says. He looks to Mariah. “You make sure my brother doesn’t stress himself out too much, Mariah.”
Mariah blushes, saying she will.
Jane chimes in, “And you make sure Mariah spends as much time with you as she does on her studies.” She waggles her finger as if she’s become the unofficial mother to them both.
Paul says he’ll be more than happy to provide Mariah with a little distraction.
And then everyone’s attention is on me. I smile. “Congratulations, man.” I'm genuinely happy for him. But this makes me feel sad, too. Left behind. Like I’m not just unlucky with women, but that I’m gonna get left out of these big milestones. These relationship status changes and I hate it. I put on another smile though I can already feel it fading. “I’m glad you two have each other. It’s gonna be nice for you both to not be so lonely and everything.”
I clear my throat after that, not liking the weakness or the want I hear there.
Thankfully, no one seems to notice and turns their attention away from me to better things. Mostly the weddings they need to plan. The honeymoons after, and then the babies.
I tune it all out, wishing I didn’t have to sit here for the next half hour pretending to enjoy my nachos, or the company of my friends when Bianca’s back in my head again.
To be honest, even as I sit there looking out of the window, I realize she hasn’t left my thoughts since we met. She has just been moved to the background for a minute. But now that I have no one to talk to, and no one needing to talk to me, she’s front and center.
Naked, and burying my mouth in her mound. “If you’re hungry, Jordan, eat,” I imagine her saying as she clutches my hair in her fingers, “eat me all up.”
Chapter 7 – Bianca
Against my better judgment, I’ve decided to go to whatever event is happening at the Exchange Club. But I’m nervous, tense, and more than a little apprehensive.
There’s only one thing that seems to help me when I get like this: masturbating. Buzzing one off until I’m too jelly-like to worry about where I’m going, what I’m going to be doing, and who else is going to be there and why.
I’ve got two hours to myself. More than enough time for a good one-on-one session with me and my Musashi Wand. It’s like Hitachi, but bigger, swoopier and with more options for speeds and patterns.
Already dressed in my favorite outfit for pleasuring myself, and the outfit I’m planning to wear to the Exchange Club (a crimson-red corset with black lace and matching panties and high heels), I retrieve my big pink bag of pleasure. From it, I snatch my favorite vibrator, give it a quick wipe down with a moist towelette, and proceed to check the battery charge.
Full, just like my lips and clit have been since Jordan left me earlier this afternoon to go to lunch with his friends.
Satisfied I have everything I need, I close the blinds on the floor to ceiling windows lining the room and get comfortable on my large queen-sized bed. I prop myself up in the ocean of pillows, being sure to put some under my feet and knees so I feel held by something when I start to buzz. I tap a button on the face of my sleek, silver vibrator, smiling as the first speed comes on.
I press another button, feeling the first vibration pattern ripple through my hand from the base of the toy. As I play with the buttons, adjust the speed to something around “medium” — not to slow or fast — I let Jordan walk into my mind. Saunter like a good boy gangster into a fantasy I’m building. One where he dares to show a bit more of that punk to me.
I hum hungrily, allowing the head of the vibrator to kiss the mouth of my mound. The tip of my already-interested clit. The moment I press the rounded silicone head into my thong-covered pussy, I gasp. Shiver. My nipples pucker. My clit contracts, tightening into the curves, craving more speed, but I hold off.
I want my fantasy of Jordan to build. To last for longer than a few minutes. I increase the speed slightly and rub the vibrator down the length of my vagina, massaging every inch of skin. Every bit of hair.
I imagine Jordan saying, “you called for me, Miss?” Though he’s trying to be polite, he’s irritable. He’s sulking. “I was at lunch with my friends. What do you need me for?” I imagine he pouts his lips and crosses his arms.
I smile, imagining my response to him. “Is that attitude you’re giving me?” Jordan doesn’t answer me. Just sulks some more. Looks down and away from me. Shuffles his feet, like the bad boy he knows he’s being right now. “And after you promised to be there to serve me wherever, however and whenever I needed? I'm disappointed.”
At this, Jordan looks guilty. Turning his eyes to me, having responded to my scolding tone. The moment his eyes meet mine, my clit flinches. Throbs, and I jam my thumb onto the button that controls the patterns. As I do, one of my favorites comes on. One where the buzz comes at intervals. Strong, sustained ones. “Please forgive me, Bianca,” I imagine him whispering as my pussy lips tighten, searching for the vibrator. For more direct stimulation. I let them have it, jamming the vibrator at the side of my thong.
I suck in a breath, growling something unintelligible. In my head, my words to Jordan are crystal clear. “That’s Mistress to you, Jordan.” His eyes widen at my words as if he anticipates what’s next. “If you want to call me ‘Bianca,’ you’ll have to behave better for me. And in order to behave better, you need to be punished first.”
My breath hitches, and I change the speed on my vibrator. The vibrating pattern is now something wild and unpredictable. I groan under this delightful changeup. Leaning back into the pillows, I spread my legs more. I push my heels into the mattress, enjoying how blocky my heels feel in these shoes.
In my head, Jordan swallows nervously but obeys to the letter when I tell him to undress completely, turn away from me, and get ready for his whipping.
In my head, I imagine I’ve taken up a flog, and am lazily flicking its leather tongues against my hand.
“I’ll be good, Mistress,” Jordan says gingerly as I approach him. He almost slips up and calls me “Bianca,” before he's earned back the privilege.
I tell him to be quiet, to face the wall, and present his ass to me. When he does, his body flushes with excitement and a little shame. Already, before I’ve even touched him once with the leather, he’s getting hard.
I then imagine I flick his ass softly, resolutely with the flog. I slap him with each of the individual “whips” of leather, but not enough to feel like anything more than getting snapped with a towel.
Deliciously, Jordan whimpers. Groans at this but says nothing. I whimper and moan directly after him, feeling my clit spitting fluid on the vibrator head. Warmth dribbles in a
nd around my lips but isn’t “wet.” Just intense. I savor it, my body's reactions to this boy and his imagined actions.
I whip Jordan a second time, in the same way, and get the same response. Though this hit lands on his other ass cheek, not the same one.
I follow that up with another across both cheeks. A little harder than the other two bits of punishment combined. As I imagine this, I pull my vibrator away slightly. If I keep it pressed against me like it is, I’m going to climax way too quickly. And I’m not at the point in my fantasy where I want to release. Not yet.
So, I lower the speed, take off the wild vibration, and place the vibrator head on the outside of my panties again. It won’t block out all the sensations, but it will dampen them and slow the buildup.
Denying myself my orgasm, I jump back into my fantasy. Into the whipping I’m giving Jordan steadily now. Across his ass, but also across his back. His muscular, bad-boy shoulders. I imagine he groans and cries at some of the punishment. And as he does, I imagine he’s growing harder and harder. Stiffer and bigger.
My pussy jitters under this vision, imagining the vibrator is actually Jordan’s cock. His flared head.
I give a low, reeling scream. Suddenly, even the lowest setting on my vibrator is almost too much. Too intense. But I don’t back down. I keep the vibrator there, imagining I’m saying to Jordan, “You were a bad boy, Jordan, for giving me such an attitude after promising to serve me.” I give his back another swat. “But you’ve been taking your punishment like a good boy, so I’ll let you serve me if you think you’ve had enough.” I give his ass yet another smack, enjoying the shapely newness of it. How sculpted and defined his muscles are. I also enjoy another imagined look at his cock, which is now blooming forth in all its glory.
“Only my mistress can decide if I’ve had enough,” Jordan answers. His voice is strained but also husky with arousal. “Whatever will make me into your good boy, I will do.”
Four Billionaires for St. Patrick's Day Page 60