by Mimi Strong
“Yeesh, I'm still wearing my damn dress,” I said. “You're so impatient.”
He grunted something unintelligible as he swept the head of his cock up and down my pussy, everything as slick as it was willing.
I twisted my torso to look back at him, to see if he was smiling or serious, but he avoided eye contact, looking straight down or closing his eyes.
“Fine, don't look at me when you fuck me,” I said. “So rude.”
He kept teasing me with the tip, nudging the hot, bare head in and out, seemingly aware of how bad I wanted him inside me.
“Make up your mind,” he said, between ragged breaths. “Do you want me to look at you, or fuck you?”
“Just do me already.”
“Sorry, I don't understand your response.” Again, the tip nudged up and down, gliding over my clit and then back again, until the whole shaft was gliding back and forth between my swollen lips. “In the ass? You want it in the ass?”
“No.”
He groaned and poked at it anyway.
I shivered. “Not the ass. And don't look at me. Just fuck my pussy. And do a good job of it, will you?”
He muttered, “So demanding.”
I felt him unfastening the thin belt I wore over my blue dress, and then he pulled the dress up. I stretched out my arms to help him get the garment off, but he only removed it partway, leaving it over my arms and face like a hood.
“Stay like that,” he said, his voice commanding.
I could no longer see anything except shadow and blue fabric.
“Stay,” he repeated.
“Yes, sir.” I held my position, essentially blindfolded by my own dress. Without sight, my other senses picked up.
Touch. I could feel his cock still teasing me, gliding back and forth, side to side, but not plunging deep into me. My whole body was tingling with sexual excitement, and the cheeks of my ass were hot from where I'd been spanked. I imagined my pale skin was strawberry-red, possibly showing hand prints.
Smell. Trapped in my fabric cloak, against the bed, I couldn't smell his musk over the fabric detergents and my own perfume. The scent of cherries and sandalwood lingered on my skin.
Sound. The television was still on in the other room, set to a sports channel. I could hear my own breaths, but when I slowed my breathing down, I could just barely hear Smith. Every few breaths, he'd make a low mmm sound that sent fire through my core.
Taste. My bicep was next to my mouth, and I licked my skin, imagining I was tasting his skin. I'd been out, and the city had settled on me—all cigarette smoke and sunshine.
He wasn't inside me yet, and my mind escaped the sensations for an instant. Where was this going? What would happen at the end of my typing contract? I pulled my focus back to the heat between my legs, so I didn't have to think about the future.
Was he ever going to fuck me, or was it all a tease? I moaned in frustration, and he chuckled.
From within my cloak, I said, “Smith, what's your ex-wife's name? I want you to call me by her name. I want you to fuck me like I'm her.” I spread my legs wider and arched my back to tilt myself up. “Do it. I'm your dirty, fucking ex-wife, and I'm nagging you.”
He paused, adjusted his cock so it was lined up, and slammed into me. I gasped, my eyes flying open, but still seeing nothing. His hands were everywhere. Holding me steady as he pounded into me, and then all over my body. Rough hands. Grabbing. Pinching. Squeezing.
He reached under and found my clit with rough fingers, but I was already coming, moaning and crying out in pleasure from within the confines of the fabric.
Rough hands moved around again, cupping my breasts and pinching my nipples, then finding their duty on my hips as he thrust into me, again and again, harder and faster.
Stars winked before my eyes as I cascaded into another orgasm.
I heard him gasp as he pulled out. He let out a sound like an angry growl.
Hot like candle wax, his fluid landed on my bare back.
I bit my lower lip and smiled to myself.
He lost, and I won.
His palm slapped my back and he rubbed the fluid around and around.
I paused, unsure of what was coming next. I held absolutely still, my pulse rushing in my ears.
My skin tightened as he dragged one slippery finger down the center of my back, and all the way down to my pussy. He stuck one wet finger straight into my pussy, and then two fingers. The other hand went to my back, smeared around in the fluid, then dragged down and around my stomach to my clit, which was so sensitive now. He burrowed his fingertips roughly into my folds and stroked in rhythm with the movement of his fingers penetrating me.
I didn't want to, but I came again. My inner walls clutched at his fingers, and before I'd even stopped shaking, he abruptly withdrew.
Without a word, he walked away, his bare feet slapping the wood floor, on the way to the bathroom.
I heard him urinate and then turn on the shower.
What the hell was that?
After a moment, when I was sure he wasn't coming right back, I carefully extracted myself from the dress, then took some deep breaths of air-conditioned air.
Smith was showering in the main bathroom, connected to the room, but something told me not to go in there.
Had I changed the game, or played right into his hand?
I went to the other bathroom and cleaned myself off with a good, long shower. I couldn't wipe the smug smile off my face, but three orgasms will do that to you.
PART 3: GOING OUT TO A SHOW
For the next few days, Smith and I fell into a routine.
He said we weren't going back to Vermont until the book was finished, so I unpacked all my things and set them up in the bedroom.
At night, he slept in the second, smaller bedroom, while I sprawled out in the master bedroom of the penthouse like a lazy housecat.
After the time he'd fucked me with my dress pulled up over my head, he wouldn't touch me. I could tell by the way he looked at my body that he still wanted me, so I practiced being patient, and didn't make any demands.
We worked on the novel for several hours each day, making good progress. This bothered me, because when he didn't need me as his typist anymore, what would happen? I asked him a few times, at first casually and then, after a few days, less casually.
He simply said, “Tori, I'm not thinking about anything beyond the story. You know I like you as more than a typist. We'll take things one day at a time.”
One day at a time.
I'd been hired for a two-week contract, and we'd spent five days together in Vermont before coming to Montreal.
By day ten, I stopped being hopeful about us having a future, and resigned myself to enjoying the present.
My requests for sex became almost perfunctory.
He refused, saying he was conserving his creative energy for the writing, and that plenty of people in various fields did the same thing.
“Sounds superstitious to me,” I said, trying to play it off with humor, but I was heartbroken that he wouldn't touch me. I even tried picking a fight with him, but he blocked me by becoming The Most Reasonable Man.
“Where would you like to go for dinner, dear?” he'd ask. I'd say something crazy and he'd agree. We had the concierge send out for McDonalds Big Macs one night, and Smith ate his burger and fries with nary a complaint.
I hadn't seen him naked in far too long, and everything he did turned me on. He'd scratch the bottom of his chin with a single finger, flicking at his light blond stubble as he thought about a plot point in the story, and his sexy lips would twitch with hints of words. I wanted to crush his lips under mine, envelop his sex in mine. He offered only chaste hugs and polite kisses.
On the evening of day ten, I broke out the new sex toys I'd bought at the boutique, and used them on myself. All of them. I thought of Smith as I pleasured myself, but he was on the other side of the wall in his own room, and my orgasms were sudden and empty, like the echo of a slammin
g door.
On the eleventh day, he stopped dictating mid-sentence.
I thought we were stopping for a food break, and turned on the tea kettle, but Smith put on his shoes.
“Are your feet sore from pacing?” I asked.
He said, “I'm calling it a day. Montreal awaits. Come on, I'll take you on a walking tour.”
We'd been out of the hotel room plenty of times, but there's something about a hotel that gives you cabin fever if you spend much time in it beyond sleeping. They'd decorated the place to resemble a stylish condominium, but everything matched too perfectly. The gleaming dining room table bore no scratches from a family dinner, no love scars from a real life.
I ran to the washroom to fix my makeup, and noted the time and weather by a quick visit to the patio. The sun was high overhead, as it was barely past two o'clock, so I put on extra sunscreen and grabbed a big, floppy sunhat.
Smith grinned at me as we stepped into the private elevator. “You look ridiculous,” he said.
I pulled the hat down further and peered at him from beneath the ruffled brim. “And you're going to have a red nose if you don't let me put some sunscreen on you.”
He took off his sunglasses and fixed me with those deep-as-the-sea blue eyes of his. “Hit me,” he said, and he pressed the button to stop the elevator between floors.
I pulled the tube of lotion from my purse and squirted some onto my fingers. My heart was beating faster already, simply at the idea of touching him. He closed his eyes and I rubbed the lotion across his temples and forehead first, taking my time. He had great skin for a fair-faced man who didn't take care of himself beyond water and whatever soap happened to be in the hotel bathroom.
I rubbed the lotion down his cheeks, using both hands to apply and massage both sides of his face evenly. With my fingertip, I applied the lotion near his eyes and then down his nose, stopping to feel the cartilage at the pointed tip. It felt so different from the tip of my own nose, which was soft and squishy by comparison.
The air inside the elevator hung around us, warm and still, as though we were paused in time, encapsulated away from the rest of the world. I heard nothing but the whir of something electrical, and our breathing.
Smith licked his lips, and when my hand passed near his mouth, he caught my wrist in his hand and stuck one of my fingers in his mouth. He sucked my finger as he gazed into my eyes, and I felt like he was consuming me, devouring some intangible part of me, like my soul.
The sensation of his wet tongue and lips on my finger excited me, the flesh between my legs swelling as quickly as if he'd been sucking my clit.
Closing my eyes, I said, “That feels good. And it's just my finger.”
In response, he moved my finger to the side of his mouth, between his teeth, and he gave me a gentle bite. The points of pressure gave me a flash of fear, like the crack of a bull whip, and my eyes flew open.
He released my finger and pulled me into him, his arms tight around my back and his hands rough on my buttocks. I rocked my hips up and against his, a pleading moan escaping my lips. I'd been waiting so long, and as he kissed me, I opened myself to him, inviting him to devour me.
He pulled away and gazed down into my eyes.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said.
I reached between our hips and stroked his hardening shaft through his brushed-cotton trousers.
“Surprise.”
He chuckled. “Not that. We're going to a show tonight. A concert. And we're meeting some friends.”
I kept kneading his cock through the fabric, only partially aware of our conversation.
“I'm meeting some of your friends? Tonight?”
“They're more… well, they're your age.”
“Going out on a real date? Oh, Smith. You naughty boy.” I unbuckled his pants and pushed him back into the corner of the elevator. “Are there cameras in this elevator?”
“Probably.” He grinned at me. “Hey, would you let me watch you have sex with another man?”
I was getting down on my knees in front of him, and I paused, my face at his crotch. I looked up into his dark sapphire eyes.
“What other man?” My mind raced. Was he planning to take me to a sex club? A swinger's dungeon? He didn't answer, so I said, “What the fuck, Smith? What other man?”
He reached down and pulled off my hat, tossing it to the elevator floor. He stroked my hair and stopped with one palm on the back of my head. With gentle pressure, he pushed my head forward at the same time as he pulled down his boxer shorts, and his bare cock was at my lips.
I felt so many emotions raging within me at the same time. There was his manhood, hot and hard and in my face, and already I was kissing and licking the shaft, unable to resist. He's just messing with my head, I told myself. The mention of this other man was to make me angry, because it excited him to irritate me.
Now he had both hands on my head, and he was pushing more insistently against me, the slippery tip of his cock at my lips, driving against my closed mouth.
“Sure, you can watch,” I said. “I'd love to fuck some guy while you watched. It would be good for you to see how to treat a lady. Maybe you'll learn something.”
Before he could respond, I dropped my jaw and took him deep into my mouth. I remembered how sensual it felt to have my finger sucked on, and my pleasure doubled. The tension in my pussy turned to intense pressure, and I alternated between sliding him in and out of my mouth, then giving a hard suck to the tip, my lips and tongue making wet, smacking noises.
He groaned. “Tori. Oh, Tori. I thought you were innocent, but you're not. You're wicked. You're my wicked little redhead cumslut.”
I popped his cock out of my mouth and blinked up at him. “Beg pardon?”
He grabbed the back of my head again and stuffed his cock into my mouth as he immediately came, shooting his hot fluid down my throat.
When he was done pulsing and withdrew, I wiped my mouth with my hand as I stared down at his shoes. He was wearing leather sandals with walking soles, his toes visible. I thought about spitting his fluid back out on his feet.
Do it, said the voice in my head. Spit on his sandals. Soak them.
No, it's exactly what he wants you to do, another voice countered.
I swallowed. And instead of giving him the glare I wanted to sear him with, I look up and smiled sweetly. Like an obedient dog. Like a fucking Border Collie.
“Good girl,” he said, patting my head.
He did up his pants, without any mention of doing anything for me. Not that I was in the mood anymore.
I got to my feet, dusted off my bare knees, and picked up my purse and sunhat. I retrieved the tube of sunscreen and squirted a dollop onto my fingers.
“Come here,” I said.
He gave me a sideways look, like he didn't trust me.
“We didn't get the back of your neck,” I said, my voice dripping with sweetness.
He leaned down so I could apply the lotion to his neck. I massaged his skin in light circles, and when I was done, he said, “Thank you.”
“You're welcome.”
He pressed the button to get the elevator going again, and it lurched to life, moving down.
We both smoothed down our clothes and turned to face the elevator doors.
He reached for my hand and grabbed it in his as the doors opened.
Holding hands?
That felt good.
He held my hand for the next hour, as we walked around downtown Montreal, admiring all the buildings, old and new. We stopped for lunch at a quaint cafe, and I had a half-caf latte in a cup Smith joked was as big as my head.
Smith insisted he wanted to talk about something besides the novel, but every conversation came back around to the novel.
I'd ask him about where in the world he'd traveled, and he'd mention a trip done as research for a novel.
I gave up on trying to steer the conversation, and let him carry on about Detective Dunham and his client Sheri. We talked
about the two of them like they were old friends, their fictional love lives endless fuel for our gossip. I can't say I didn't enjoy this new intimacy.
After lunch, we continued to walk around, holding hands like teenagers.
Older couples with silver hair gave us happy smiles.
Women my age narrowed their eyes and looked me up and down in my pretty new dress.
And all the men who were Smith's age stared at my tits.
I was pleasantly surprised about the evening's plans. The concert wasn't some boring classical thing that only rich people appreciated, but the kind of music I actually liked.
We entered the lobby, and as I looked over the other attendees in their black leather and tattoos, I whispered to Smith, “I feel overdressed.”
He put a possessive arm around my shoulder and kissed the side of my forehead. “Overdressed beats underdressed any day.”
I rolled my eyes. “What do you know? You're a man. You look basically the same all the time.”
A smirk curled his lips. “I'm wearing a jacket.”
I slipped my arm under the jacket, the lining silky on my hand. “And you look delicious.”
He grinned and stared at my lips, probably savoring the pleasant memory of me blowing him in the elevator hours earlier. He'd tried for another blow job on the way home from our walking tour, but I'd refused, and then he'd pretended he didn't really want one after all. Yeah, right.
Because of the local liquor laws, we weren't allowed drinks inside the auditorium, so we practically chugged down two glasses of wine each in a VIP lounge.
I felt as wobbly as some of my new sex toys as we took our seats.
“Front row!” I exclaimed.
Smith looked embarrassed.
“Right.” I shook my head. “Billionaire. I forget sometimes.”
We'd been seated for a few minutes, Smith sitting to my right, when I felt my senses tingling. Someone I knew was nearby. I looked up, and my jaw dropped open.
Todd.
My ex-boyfriend.
Todd took his assigned seat next to me, not recognizing me. He had his new girlfriend with him, sitting on the other side of him. She had her face turned away, but I recognized her profile easily.