On the one month anniversary of our meeting, I announced that I was going to treat her to dinner at one of the swankiest eateries in the city. “Ponticelli's has the most exquisite seafood you've ever tasted,” I told her over the phone. “Pure ambrosia. I'll pick you up at seven.”
“Mel, you don't need to take me out,” she replied, an odd edge to her voice. “I'd much rather stay home with you and play.”
“I want to show you off, kitten. Wear the dress you had on the night we met, that forest-green jersey, and heels. And no underwear. Who says we have to keep our games in the bedroom?”
“But Mel...”
“Are you arguing with me?” The desperation I heard coming from the other end of the line puzzled me. Meanwhile, her uncharacteristic resistance tried my patience. Normally she'd follow my instructions to the letter.
“Well...”
“If you're not going to obey me, we might as well break this off right now, Jana.” The thought of losing her made me cringe, but I couldn't let her know that. ”Is that what you want?”
“No, oh, no...please, I'd just rather not eat out.”
“Well, I want to eat out, and I'm the one in charge. You promised to do whatever I said, baby. You said that was your deepest desire. Have you changed your mind?”
“No...”
“I told you. I know what's best for you – what you really need. Don't you believe that anymore?”
“Oh, I do! I love you, Mel. I want to please you...”
“Good. Be ready at seven, then.”
“All right.” She stifled a sigh. “Whatever you say, Mel.”
I hung up feeling just the slightest bit smug. When she walked down the stairs of her apartment building toward my vintage Mustang, though, I almost changed my mind about the evening's activities. I wanted to hustle her back inside, peel off that slinky dress and bury my face between her creamy thighs to enjoy my own private seafood dinner. At the same time, I really did think our past month together was worth celebrating.
I kissed her as she settled onto the leather seat, my tongue probing while my fingers sought out the stiff nipples I'd glimpsed poking through the stretchy fabric. My pinch made her moan into my mouth. That strangled cry of pain/pleasure made my own nipples tingle and throb. I slipped my other hand under her skirt, plunging two fingers into the soaked heat I knew I'd find there. Inside my tailored slacks, I was at least as wet.
Jana squirmed on my pinioning digits, trying to take me deeper. I dug my fingernails into her flesh. She yelped, sending a bolt of arousal straight to my clit.
“Miss me, baby?”
She nodded with enthusiasm as she licked her juices off my fingers. “I couldn't stop thinking about you today,” she said, in that velvet-soft voice that drives me wild. “I sat there watching my students do grandes pliés, their thighs opening and closing, and remembered the feel of your fist deep in my cunt. Every time one of them performed a porte de bras I imagined my arms stretched up, shackled to your headboard. By the time I'd finished my last class, the crotch of my leotard was drenched.”
“But you didn't touch yourself?”
“Of course not.” She snuggled against me shoulder, making it a bit difficult for me to shift gears. “I know it's always a lot more intense when you make me come – even if you sometimes make me wait.”
I glowed as though someone had lit a bonfire in my belly. The purr of the engine echoed my own buzz of satisfaction. Jana was my long-time dream come true, a naturally submissive femme who seemed willing to fulfill my every wish.
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