plaything
by
m. kay moran
Copyright 2012 m. kay moran
Currently available by m. kay moran
plaything
plaything II
75 Word Stories
Soon to be released
plaything III
Mommy Tied to the Swingset
Chapter 1
I caught most of it with a napkin until Ryan could arrive with a towel from behind the counter. It never fails. Just when you've managed to spill the better part of a double cappuccino all over your client files, that cell phone is bound to ring.
"Sorry about that," I said, pulling the impatient phone out of my purse as he took charge of the sticky mess.
"No problem," he said with that smile of his; the one that makes him look like a black-and-white movie actor whose name always escapes me. "Are you gonna get it?" he asked.
"Get what?"
He nodded toward the phone still playing a hip-hop ringtone in my hand. I'd been meaning to change it to something more professional ever since receiving my real estate license 18 months earlier. But then one listing turned into twelve listings, turned into six closings, 80-something showings, 19 open houses and so on. Figuring out how to download a ringtone would have to wait. Most days, it was all I could do to answer the damn thing. Which I finally did.
"This is Lauren," I said as if I weren't currently starring in a coffeehouse shit-show.
"Did I catch you at a good time?" His voice was new, but knowing. I generally tried to call clients by name, even before they tipped me off, but this one had me stumped. Too young to be Mr. Jankovich, too throaty to be Jimmy Wallis. I didn't dare risk getting it wrong.
"I'm sorry, who am I speaking with?" I asked as Ryan finished fixing my mess and exited with a wink. I took my seat again and sipped what was left of the cappuccino.
"You don't know me," he said.
"Okay," I hesitated. "How can I help you, Mister…?"
Silence. Didn't he know you're supposed to fill in the blank?
"Are you there?"
"I'm here," he said. "There will be time enough for names later. After we've gotten acquainted."
Buyer? Seller? Ax murderer? The real estate course hadn't covered this one. I considered hanging up, but in a business where you're always one call away from a five-digit commission, I wanted to be sure.
"Why aren't you married?" he asked with startling nerve. "You look like the marrying type."
Yep, ax murderer.
Ryan showed up with a replacement cappuccino and I reached for my purse only to have him wave me off. "Thanks," I mouthed.
"Look, I'm sorry but I'm walking into a meeting at the moment, perhaps you could give me your number and I could call you back at a better time?"
"I don't believe you," he said.
"I'm sorry? You don't believe what?" I asked.
"That you're walking into a meeting."
Commission or not, I'd had enough of this guy. "Look I really have to go," I said, taking a sip of cappuccino number two.
There was a long pause. I looked at the face of the phone to see if it was still connected. "Hello?"
"You're sitting in a bistro on the corner of 14th and Maple," he informed me. "With a brand-new skinny cappuccino, lovingly prepared by a young Errol Flynn."
I looked out of the large picture window at the front of the shop, not knowing what for exactly. After all, even an ax murderer wouldn't be stupid enough to actually wield his steely weapon in broad daylight.
There was an old man sitting on a bench facing away from the storefront, petting a golden retriever. Two teen girls were leaning on a newspaper box, whistling at a boy on the far side of the street. Eight or ten parked cars lined 14th Avenue, all appearing to be empty.
"Not out there," the voice said, "In here."
I turned my attention inside the shop, scanning the room for crazed psychos.
Of the twelve or fourteen other customers, only two were using cell phones. One was a female college student in front of a laptop computer.
The other was a man in his early forties, impeccably dressed in Armani with the accessories to back it up. He appeared to be reading a magazine from his right hand, even as he held a phone to his ear with the left.
"Say something," I asked. There was no response as I watched the man set his magazine down, turn the page, and raise it back toward his face. "Please," I offered, convinced his lips would not move, regardless of the response.
"When was the last time you were with a man?" I both heard and watched him ask. His eyes looked up and found mine from twenty feet away, melting me all over my chair. I looked away, searching frantically for anything else in the room.
"It's okay," he said.
I fixed my gaze on the exit and took another sip of my drink, afraid to make any sudden moves as he continued.
“Since when is stalking okay?” I found the breath to ask.
"I'm new in town. I saw you for the first time just twenty minutes ago as I stood in line waiting for you to quit flirting with the coffee boy."
"How did you get my number?" I asked.
"From the business card you dropped as you were paying for your drink."
He was right, by the way. Errol Flynn was exactly the movie star whose name I'd been trying to pin on Ryan. My father's favorite movie was The Adventures of Robin Hood. I should have recalled that easily.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"I want you to answer my question," he said.
"I don't remember it."
"When was the last time you were with a man?" he reminded me.
My mind was racing even as my body sat motionless, afraid in fact to move. Who asks something like that of a total stranger? Why was he doing this? And why did he have to be so damned attractive? He was attractive wasn't he? I can't make myself look. Those eyes were too deep, too green. I can't risk another glance.
"Has it been more than a month?" he persisted.
"Yes," I found myself offering for no apparent reason.
"More than a year?"
"I don't know," I said, "Maybe."
"Then it's been two years," he suggested.
"Yes," I said.
"Would you look at me please?"
"No."
"Why not."
"Because I can't."
"Okay, fine. Then just listen and breathe while I tell you what I'm looking at," he said, "Fair enough?"
"Maybe."
"I'm looking at a smart, successful young woman in her late twenties who is in danger of squandering the best years of her life. Judging by the small diamond ring on her right hand, she married at an early age but it didn't work out. She's tried to date a few times since then, but they were all too impatient, too eager. And who could blame them? After all, they knew exactly what was hiding inside that perfectly dry-cleaned jacket and skirt. They'd seen those ripe, round breasts pressing against her designer blouse. They'd studied the contours of her adorable, bubble-ass. Watched everything from drink straws to bananas slide between her hungry lips, wishing their own stiff cocks could be so lucky. But they can't, and they won't. Because she's too busy selling California split-levels and two-story brick Tudors to make time for something so trivial as entertaining men."
He paused and I heard him take a sip of his own coffee.
"Am I right?" he finally asked.
"Not entirely," I said, "I'm allergic to bananas."
I heard him chuckle just a little, making me feel every-so-slightly more comfortable.
"And besides," I continued, "I'm not a complete prude."
"Prove it," he said with renewed seriousness.
"And how would I do that?" I asked, ignoring an incoming call from my office.
"Show me
the color of your panties," he suggested.
"What? Here?" I asked, feeling my pussy become instantly moist.
I needed to hang up. No, I needed to hang up, stand up, walk over to his table and douse his $3,000 suit with hot coffee. Instead, I found myself standing up, repositioning my chair about 45 degrees to the right and sitting back down, all without looking away from that exit.
"You should really try to look at me while you do this," he said.
"I can't," I replied, "I'm sorry."
Sorry! Sorry for what? Now I'm apologizing to a man who brazenly plucks my business card off the floor, calls my phone and demands to see my panties? I'm supposed to be a professional now. The days of fumbling around in the back seat with awkward boys ended ten years ago. And, even then I never fully yielded control. Never simply agreed to do as I was told. Why now? Why him?
"You can," he said, "And you will."
"Will you be looking at me?" I asked. "Because I can't take your eyes. It's too much. Too soon."
"I'll be looking at your trembling knees," he replied. "Waiting for them to part."
"Do you promise?"
"Yes."
"You're going to have to say it," I pleaded.
"I promise to look only at the delicious space between your knees as you part them and show me your panties," he confirmed.
"Okay. Here goes," I announced, as I slowly turned my head away from the exit and found him with my eyes.
He was more gorgeous than I had been able to appreciate in that first, electrified glance. His eyes were set low on my knees as agreed upon, but I could still feel their energy, even on my skin. His features were decidedly Mediterranean. A long, proud nose pointed down to a strong, solid chin. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed back to reveal a high, olive-skinned forehead with three very faint worry lines that looked as if they had not been exercised in years. His left leg was crossed over the right, his free hand draped over the dominant knee. Arms and legs were lean and angular. He wore his beautiful clothes beautifully.
"I'm waiting," he said.
He remained stalk still, a Greek statue gazing back at its admirer.
I tore my eyes off of him long enough to case the room. People typing on computers, reading newspapers and tablet devices. A woman and her young daughter assembling a puzzle at the back table. Three men in polo shirts--car dealers?--talking shop. Ryan breaking down the espresso machine for cleaning.
Then him. Sleek, beautiful him, still fixed on my frightened, pink knees.
"Okay," I half croaked. I cleared my throat. "Here goes."
I reached down and pulled the hem of the skirt up just two short inches, resting it on the tops of my legs. He took a sip of his coffee without so much as blinking. I felt my knees slowly separate, shaking like a newborn fawn. His energy, those damned eyes, instantly filled the space between my milky smooth thighs, warming them then sending a wave of moisture from my intoxicated pussy lips.
"Red," he said.
"Yes," I verified.
"Silk?" he asked.
"I don't think so," I admitted. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be, you had no way of knowing."
He looked up from my dripping wet panties and we locked eyes. This time I was unable to tear myself away. They were emerald green and deep-set with large black pupils. These eyes had seen things, that much was clear. Things far more salacious than a pair of red satin panties. And yet there was softness in them as well. A gratitude that he may have preferred to conceal, given his otherwise commanding nature.
"Have you ever shaved your pussy?" he asked.
I felt the moisture nearly spraying from my pinkness.
"Once, back in college." I said. "I wasn't sure how it looked."
Suddenly and without warning he stood, produced a large roll of cash, peeled several bills onto the tabletop, and walked for the exit. My heart screamed in protest as he opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Halfway across the street, he finally raised the phone back to his ear.
"Same time tomorrow," he said. "Leave the panties at home."
Chapter 2
The half bottle of cheap Merlot on top of my refrigerator had partially turned to vinegar, but I wasn't feeling picky. I poured a second glass and quadruple-checked the call history on my phone:
1:35 pm…UNKNOWN
No missed calls. No new texts.
I understood his decision to remain anonymous during that first, daring call. But now found myself at his complete mercy. A deliciously agonizing thought.
I placed the phone back on the corner of the bathroom sink and picked up my wine glass.
Sitting on the edge of the tub, I held a small hand mirror between my legs to inspect the plump outer lips of my freshly shaved girl parts. I couldn't remember what I hadn't liked about seeing them this way just six or seven years earlier. Perhaps it had just been too soon. Too new. Like a runway fashion that had yet to find life on the streets. Regardless, something beautifully pink and new reflected up at me now. Something extra naked.
I reached down and coaxed the hood of my clitoris back to reveal the sensitive cargo beneath. There was certainly no excuse for a man--any man--not finding it now that the surrounding jungle had been cleared.
I felt like a shiny new sports car right off the factory line, ready to be opened up on a twisting, turning road. If only he would text. Just a few simple words. Anything to confirm that what had happened this afternoon had, well…happened.
I stepped out of the tub and began drying my legs when suddenly the phone vibrated sideways into the empty sink basin. I snatch it out and read the caller I.D. It was a competing realtor, most likely with a counter-offer on a three-bed, two-bath lake property upstate. He was not the man I was hoping for, but at that sparkling moment of newfound nakedness he was, in fact, a man. I answered without hesitation.
"This is Lauren."
"Lauren, Norm Larson," he revealed in a perfectly dry business voice. "I've received that offer from the couple down in Blaine and was wondering if you'd have a moment to go over it."
I rubbed the towel over my damp hair.
"Yes, that sounds exciting, Norm," I said, "I'm afraid you've caught me fresh out of the bathtub, but if you'll give me just a second to dry off..."
He hesitated, then rebounded with, "My apologies, perhaps you'd like to call back at your convenience."
"No, it's fine," I assured him, "It's not like you can see me naked or anything. Just a second."
I wrapped the towel around my hair and grabbed what was left of the wine. Strolling out to the living room, I sat on a large ottoman. Its leather felt cool and reassuring under my smooth, soft bottom.
"Okay, Norm," I said, "Where are we at?"
He started with the usual crap about hoping my client and I would keep an open mind, and then proceeded to undercut the asking price by nearly twenty percent. I sighed and he backpedaled, suggesting that perhaps his clients could come up a few thousand if we rolled the antique dining room table and four-post bed into the deal.
As he blathered on about mortgage rates and letters of credit, I stared at a small marble statue of a porpoise sitting on the coffee table, just within reach. It had been a gift from my Aunt Susanne upon returning from one of her yearly trips to Cancun. It was a cheap trinket that couldn't have cost more than $20, but at the moment I found it more beautiful than I had previously thought possible.
Still listening to Norm's line of unbelievable bullshit, I plucked the porpoise from the table and brought its smooth, bottle-shaped nose to my mouth. I made a point of saying "Mm, hm," to Norm as I began giving Flipper a full-body blowjob.
"Do you think you're client would settle for three twenty-five?" he asked.
"Mmmm," I answered.
"What about three twenty-eight? Now that's almost within fifteen percent of asking," he pointed out.
"Mmm-mm," I replied
"Look, Lauren, you're going to have to help me out here. We both stand to lose this sale unless we can
meet somewhere in the middle," he begged.
I removed the dolphin from my mouth, ran it's wet nose around an unsuspecting nipple, then introduced it to my sweet, pink pussyhole. Just the nose at first, then the sleek, slippery body.
"Oh, my God," I let myself say aloud.
"Now don't get all indignant," Norm cautioned, "Let's leave the emotion to the clients, we're paid to run the numbers."
"Jesus, Norm," I moaned, "Where are you right now?"
The porpoise frolicked inside me, rolling and tossing against the moist walls of its makeshift undersea world.
"I'm at three hundred and twenty-eight thousand, like I just said," he was becoming frustrated, "Are you even paying attention?"
"No," I said, "I mean where are you physically."
He paused.
"Oh," he said, "I'm at home, where else?"
"Where at home?" I asked, plunging the porpoise in right up it's dorsal fin.
"In bed," he admitted.
I turned the statue upside down so that it could nibble at my g-spot, arching my back to help it along.
"And where is your wife?" I asked with freshly gasped breath.
"She's laying next to me asleep," he replied with a hint of curiosity, "Why?"
I grasped the tail of the porpoise and push down and away to give it the best possible angle at my long lost treasure.
"Oh, fuck," I moaned, "how does she sleep through all your bullshit?"
"She wears earplugs," he said "But this isn't bullshit. It's a buyer's market out there."
The porpoise nuzzled an open chest of priceless gold doubloons, stirring them back and forth in the deep, warm current.
"Norm," I moaned, "Is your hand on your cock right now?"
"Jesus, what is your problem?"
"Well, since you asked, I have a porpoise sculpture in my tight, pink cunt," I revealed without an ounce of embarrassment, "And I'd really appreciate it if you would reciprocate by at least wrapping your hand around your own fucktool."
He said nothing. In fact, he actually seemed to stop breathing.
"Are you hearing me?" I asked between gasps.
"Yes," he confirmed.
"Are you stroking your cock?"
plaything Page 1