expect payment not more than ten minutes after.” She reached over and dropped the receiver back onto its cradle. Pulling her foot away from me, she dropped it to the floor and again leaned forward. She motioned for me to come.
“Come here my Brown Eyed Girl,” she purred.
I shuffled on both knees, around the ottoman, and ran my hands up the outsides of her thighs. She put a finger under my chin and tilted my face up towards hers. Her small, plump lips pressed against mine. They were soft, but when she opened my mouth with hers, I could feel the strength underneath. Her warm tongue touched mine, then curled up against the roof of my mouth, sending shivers across my chest. She tasted like brandy and cigarette smoke. The blonde waves of her hair poured against my face as she tucked her fingers under the leather collar I wore for her. I felt a light, yet firm pressure against the back of my neck as she pulled me closer, sucking my bottom lip between her teeth. The lack of sight from her hair covering my face, and the exotic herbal aroma of her shampoo carried me away once again to the strange, abstract place where all I desired was to pamper and serve. I felt the familiar dizziness, the cool, prickly feeling of gooseflesh spread across my breasts, hardening my nipples, and the simultaneous damp warmth beneath my belly. I knew that I would only be frustrated, as she was going to leave, and the knowledge itself intensified the sensation. Finally I felt her begin to move away, and I desperately breathed in another lung full of her scent. She broke away, trailing a hair thin line of saliva between our lips. Her index finger scooped it from her lip and into my mouth, her middle finger catching the rest that dropped onto my chin, pushing it up to my bottom lip. I kissed it from her knuckle.
“I have work,” she whispered, “and I suspect you do as well.”
I nodded and stood, unhooking the collar and dropping it onto the ottoman. Our little game was over for now, our roles back to even ground, but the warm, almost throbbing feeling remained. Pan would be dressed and out the door in less than ten minutes, and at any moment, my PDA would chime, alerting me to a new job.
I followed behind her to the bedroom, watching with disappointment the reflection of lamplight bouncing back and forth across the shiny black leather that hugged her body. We broke off, her heading to the bathroom, and me flopping down onto the bed and reaching for the nightstand. My PDA was plugged in under the lamp, but the screen was empty of messages. I rolled over onto my back, and layed my forearm across my eyes, listening.
Pan was stripping out of her playtime dominatrix clothes and into her weekend drive/coldblooded murder attire. I listened to the snapping sounds of garters being released, the soft popping of the corset’s ties loosening, the quiet creaking protests of stiff leather being bent and folded as it slipped off her body. I heard the minuscule ring of her hairbrush knocking against the sink as she picked it up. And finally the soft swishing rhythm of Pandora standing naked in front of the mirror and brushing her hair.
Soon I heard nothing but the traffic of the city beyond the window. I uncovered my eyes and blinked away the red afterglow from the pressure of my forearm. She stood above me, already in her white blouse and khaki pants. I propped myself up onto my elbows.
“I’ll see you soon, Sophia,” she said, running a slender hand across my cropped hair. I grabbed her hand, suddenly desperate to keep her near me, and kissed it. She smiled that tiny Mona Lisa of hers and turned away. I watched her leave, the rocking of her hips, the polished redwood handle of the pistol hooked over her belt, the brown leather driving
“Come here my Brown Eyed Girl,” she purred.
I shuffled on both knees, around the ottoman, and ran my hands up the outsides of her thighs. She put a finger under my chin and tilted my face up towards hers. Her small, plump lips pressed against mine. They were soft, but when she opened my mouth with hers, I could feel the strength underneath. Her warm tongue touched mine, then curled up against the roof of my mouth, sending shivers across my chest. She tasted like brandy and cigarette smoke. The blonde waves of her hair poured against my face as she tucked her fingers under the leather collar I wore for her. I felt a light, yet firm pressure against the back of my neck as she pulled me closer, sucking my bottom lip between her teeth. The lack of sight from her hair covering my face, and the exotic herbal aroma of her shampoo carried me away once again to the strange, abstract place where all I desired was to pamper and serve. I felt the familiar dizziness, the cool, prickly feeling of gooseflesh spread across my breasts, hardening my nipples, and the simultaneous damp warmth beneath my belly. I knew that I would only be frustrated, as she was going to leave, and the knowledge itself intensified the sensation. Finally I felt her begin to move away, and I desperately breathed in another lung full of her scent. She broke away, trailing a hair thin line of saliva between our lips. Her index finger scooped it from her lip and into my mouth, her middle finger catching the rest that dropped onto my chin, pushing it up to my bottom lip. I kissed it from her knuckle.
“I have work,” she whispered, “and I suspect you do as well.”
I nodded and stood, unhooking the collar and dropping it onto the ottoman. Our little game was over for now, our roles back to even ground, but the warm, almost throbbing feeling remained. Pan would be dressed and out the door in less than ten minutes, and at any moment, my PDA would chime, alerting me to a new job.
I followed behind her to the bedroom, watching with disappointment the reflection of lamplight bouncing back and forth across the shiny black leather that hugged her body. We broke off, her heading to the bathroom, and me flopping down onto the bed and reaching for the nightstand. My PDA was plugged in under the lamp, but the screen was empty of messages. I rolled over onto my back, and layed my forearm across my eyes, listening.
Pan was stripping out of her playtime dominatrix clothes and into her weekend drive/coldblooded murder attire. I listened to the snapping sounds of garters being released, the soft popping of the corset’s ties loosening, the quiet creaking protests of stiff leather being bent and folded as it slipped off her body. I heard the minuscule ring of her hairbrush knocking against the sink as she picked it up. And finally the soft swishing rhythm of Pandora standing naked in front of the mirror and brushing her hair.
Soon I heard nothing but the traffic of the city beyond the window. I uncovered my eyes and blinked away the red afterglow from the pressure of my forearm. She stood above me, already in her white blouse and khaki pants. I propped myself up onto my elbows.
“I’ll see you soon, Sophia,” she said, running a slender hand across my cropped hair. I grabbed her hand, suddenly desperate to keep her near me, and kissed it. She smiled that tiny Mona Lisa of hers and turned away. I watched her leave, the rocking of her hips, the polished redwood handle of the pistol hooked over her belt, the brown leather driving
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