Meeting me at the door, he greeted me coolly, wasting no time before escorting me to the bedroom. He knelt on the floor and told me to hold onto his shoulders. They were bare, warm to the touch. The only thing he wore was loose boxers and I could plainly tell he was happy to have me here. I closed my eyes as he carefully untied the ribbons that secured my sandals and then slipped them off, tenderly caressing the soles of my feet as he did so. The shoes were placed side by side under the bed, out of the way.
“Are you ready?”
He’d asked with a hint of a snicker. I was. My replay shaky, it held no jollity.
Next the robe was removed and lay forgotten on the carpet. A collapsed ghost, it glowed in the hall light that lashed across the room, a thin line of brightness in the dim flicker of candles. Not forgotten was the cotton sash from about my waist. This he immediately used to bind my ankle, a little too tightly. Its length just enough so that he could fuck me on either the floor or the mattress, its other end tethered me to the bare metal support leg.
A serviceable blanket was thrown over the bedclothes, sheets of an extraordinarily soft Egyptian cotton. The bed devoid of comforter or quilt, even extra pillows, indicated the whole room. Stark, utilitarian, the only seemingly soft touches were the plush desk chair at his computer station and the dispersed batches of glowing tapers.
I knew better.
The chair’s padding was both for his comfort when working and also to prevent unintentional contusions when he included it in sex. Spots darkened the upholstery in a few places. He’d neglected to steam clean it recently, defying his admission that he did it fastidiously. I did know he owned the machine to perform the laundering of it. It had become too embarrassing to take it anywhere for professional service. And yet I could determine the offending blemishes from where I stood: coffee, catsup, semen, the wine dark stain of menstrual blood.
That last had earned me extra torture, though it was him insisting I be mounted on it that day. I didn’t care; yearning for all that he would give me. It didn’t matter if it were reward or reproach (I often couldn’t tell which was which and it didn’t concern me in the least). My one dread was neglect. Without admitting it to him, I suffered when he failed to call. He was usually unreachable when I gave in and tried contacting him first. By design or carelessness, I could never be sure.
When I didn’t see him, it was due to his obsession with some project. Customizing security software for big corporations consumed him, especially when he got a juicy assignment. His brain craved the challenge that so suited his intellect. He’d barely sleep for days at a time, only eating at his desk.
Finally satisfied with the final product, he’d install it for the latest patron. His clientele list included many Forbes 500 companies. I wasn’t sure how he got so many such good contracts, only that his employer encouraged competition between coworkers. I really didn’t care as long as I heard from him when he was done.
His occasional assistant, hired to maintain his bookkeeping and correspondence, would ultimately get disgusted by the piles of dirty plates and laundry. Starting out by doing some cleaning herself, she would sometimes insist upon a housekeeper if the venture carried on too long.
Even though I’d only met her a few times, I knew this because she insisted he was a better person around me. At our last meeting I was greeted with a litany of just how good I am for him and how I ought to consider moving in. Flustered, he shooed her out the door, something I’d never seen happen. Then I was offered a stammered apology. It didn’t faze me because she sounded like the do-gooders in my own life.
He told me he’d slept for 24 hours straight. I looked toward his bed. The dent in the one big pillow looked as if it would still be warm to the touch. The sheets were a twisted tangle lying half on the floor. A water glass sat on the nightstand, half full or half empty, depending on your outlook.
Half full, I decided, watching silently as he picked it up. Suddenly, he splashed the contents over my front. The tepid water felt cold and my erect nipples stiffened further. I cried out in surprise.
He liked this space very cool, almost cold. He said it helped him focus on the job, and the way he screws me I’d probably suffer heat stroke if it was warm in here.
Now naked, his raging hard on taking all my concentration, he stepped up to me and all the air seemed to have been sucked from my lungs. He ducked his head just enough to lick the water streaming down my chest before it disappeared entirely into lace and satin. I found my breath. He took it away again because I’d tested him, coiling my fingers in his longish rumpled curls. He struck like a snake, grabbing my wrist and hissing venomously.
“Did I say you could touch me? I don’t recall that I did.”
“I don’t care what you said,” I uttered sardonically; “I wanted to touch your hair.”
The tendons stood out in his arm. I watched for it, the subtle display of power always enflaming me. He jerked me closer and I stumbled against the hard smooth swell of his chest.
I had no clue when he found time to work out. He’d once let it slip that he ran, sometimes for tens of miles, clearing his head when he couldn’t get around a particularly difficult design problem. He was firm without being overly muscular, so God alone knew if he lifted weights or if it was just natural.
I wanted to learn his every secret but feared that he’d lose interest if I did; or equally horrible, that I would. Being with him right now was all that mattered.
The carpet was black, lush. It felt luxurious beneath my bare feet. The one time I’d worn stilettos and thought to keep them on, he’d pushed me into his chair and then yanked them off. Throwing them out the bedroom door, he spoke, low and threatening.
“Don’t waste my time. If I want you any way but naked, I’ll tell you.”
Truthfully, they weren’t practical with him. Sure, they made my calves look sexy. We were well enough matched in height that a high heel actually hindered any standing position. I am not tall and he only had perhaps 4 inches on me. I liked that I didn’t have to stand on tiptoe to kiss his lips. That is, if he’d let me.
He trapped me in his arms and I turned my face to look at him, blinking from my lashes a single drop of water. My parted lips begged silently for the feel of his mouth on them. He shoved my head to the side and gruffly brushed my hair off my neck. I moaned, then again, louder, as his powerful fingers clamped my wrists behind my back. They were merciless. I felt a twinge in my shoulders to which I was very much accustomed as he pulled down on my hands. I braced for more, welcoming it.
To be continued...
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