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CaptainElegant15 59M
1 posts
1/29/2015 7:54 am
Making Amelia




Eyes in the mirror.

Amelia was somehow renewed and exhilarated lately, yet she could not fully comprehend why. She could see it in her own eyes when she looked in the mirror. It was the same face but now she was seeing someone else. There was something inside her too. Something was alight. Perhaps that it had been there all the time but needed unlocking? It had only been a week since she her second meeting with The Captain. She had heard nothing from him since. It was as though they suddenly ended, like waking abruptly from a dream. And what a dream!

The movie

On that previous, grey Saturday afternoon, as she left the hotel entrance, the evening was already drawing in. It was cold. She felt exhausted, used, violated, cast down like a . She had been humiliated and subjugated but she also never felt happier. She still had Oksana’s scent on her fingers from the last few moments before she finished her off. She felt empowered touching another girl like that. It wasn’t the first time but being watched by a man – this was new.

She felt the chill outside after the warmth of the hotel suite. She did up her coat, tied her scarf tightly yet chose to walk the mile or so home. As she wandered back slowly along the wide, historic canal, the street lights were coming on and their characterful, gas-like glow seemed to cast everything in a different light, both literally and metaphorically. The centre of Amsterdam at night is like the set of a movie or play. She recognized herself as a character in that play – partly of her own making, partly authored by The Captain. She was evolving, being born as someone new. And it was exciting.

Distracted

During the week she could not help reflecting on what had happened. She couldn’t concentrate. She kept looking at her inbox in case there was an email from him. The memories were stronger than the aroma of the coffee in the café she frequented on the way to work. For the first two days the images and sensations were especially vivid. She felt slightly separate from others – even her close friends could not share her secret. She bumped into a good friend on the Berenstraat while locking her bicycle and momentarily forgot her name. It was as though those not on the stage, not in the scene, not in the movie were somehow unable to comprehend or connect to her excitement. In bed alone, in the darkness, she could recall it even better – the feelings of being enclosed, the disturbing lack of control, being handled by others, giving herself. The stripes she found on her backside were still just visible, the stinging only tangible if she pressed her flesh slightly. She began to cherish that all week long and would pinch herself there to re-connect herself with those feelings.

A turn of the page

Finally, a mail arrived. She was invited to a meeting. Her heart was beating faster than her fingers on the keyboard as she wrote back accepting. It would be the following Thursday evening, another discussion over a glass of wine at the same place they had first met. This gave her time to think and the days leading up to the meeting passed with interminable slowness. How should she dress? How could she please him? What would he be like with her? What would be on offer? How should she be with him? He had seen her; naked, raw, touched her and he had violated her though she hadn’t actually seen him do it. He was therefore in part as real as any lover she had ever had and in part an abstract concept, a stranger, a player in the movie. Only he knew what the next act might contain and she was desperate to turn the pages of the manuscript…

On Thursday evening it was a little awkward at work. Her attention span was shot entirely to pieces and it kind of showed. She didn’t want her colleagues to see her dressed for a date because there would be too many questions. Besides, it wasn’t a date was it? Nor did she want to give the impression she had a special meeting of some sort, it might make her Boss think something was awry. She planned to run home to change before the appointment – then at least she might slip out without being noticed. The meeting was exceptionally local. She hoped no one she recognized would also be in the bar.

Making Amelia

Her outfit was already chosen in her mind the evening before. It occurred to her she should veer on the side of decency and formality – to try to look as turned out as possible. She knew he wanted her neat and unadorned in vanilla settings. But inside Amelia was glowing somehow and felt a little glamorous, a little wild. How could that inform her decisions on how she should look?

She swiftly showered and chose a simple, plain white bra and panties. As she fastened the closure on her bra, she tweaked her pierced nipples to bring them forward. It was a routine she enjoyed and it offered a little shudder – not of discomfort - but a tiny, shivering warmth of anticipation.

It was still freezing outside, so she opted for opaque black, woollen tights not stockings. Next she took her sweet, classic grey, pleated skirt from its hangar on the back of the door. She paused and held it to her in front of the mirror. Wouldn’t a little colour show her naturally creative side? But she wanted to be entirely demure and innocent – unadorned. The skirt had dense pleats; it was a pleasantly light fabric, combining a veneer of severity with a hint of frivolity.

She found her favourite, crisp, standard, white blouse and slipped it on, doing up each button with care and finally deciding to ensure it was done up right to the neck. Yes - buttoned up for him could work. She knelt and withdrew a shoe box from under the bed. She took out her new Mary Janes in black, patent leather with a slightly high heel to raise her and trim her figure. As she buckled them she observed the cute round toe of each shoe – plain, simple, perfect. The patent leather was classic yet unorthodox.

The voice

She sat down at her dressing table in front of her hairbrushes and cosmetics.

“Hair up?" "Hair down?” she asked rhetorically.

She grabbed her medium length brown locks and dragged them into a top knot. Not good enough! It was too ragged. She thought of wearing it down, so brushed it and examined the result. It would have to be brushed back and then she thought she would maybe take the extra moment and ensure it was tightly wrapped into a bun – balletic and formal - with two grips in front of each ear to keep it flat and prevent loose ends - besides it would highlight her cheekbones and show of her long, fragile neck to have her hair up. She quickly applied a tiny stroke of a pencil beneath each eye, a hint of mascara and then hesitated again.

“Red or brown?” she asked.

She had recently bought a fantastic dark, cocoa lippy from the glamorous department store in the centre of town. It was so understated and chic. It looked fabulous on the cosmetic advisor who sold it to her. Looking carefully into her own eyes in the mirror she had a revelation. She realized these were her first ever conversations with the new Amelia.

“Red or Brown?” she asked again. And the voice inside her head came back emphatically, clearly and with a calm practicality. It was a sound both familiar and unfamiliar. It was her.

“Red. No question. Red will make him want to fuck you.”

She quivered. There was a clear tingle between her legs. Was that what she wanted? Did she want to be fucked? Or was it simply the power of knowing that she could make herself desirable to The Captain that she could submit, to serve his needs, pander to him? It was a hysterical idea. She had been brought up to strong- minded, independent, ambitious, self-possessed and now she was being possessed herself by some ‘she devil’. Who was this girl who wanted to know what it was like to submit – to serve herself like a delicate morsel to be savoured? Who was she now that she could accept being told what to do? How could she resist acting of her on own free will? She opted for red..

Her instructions were to attend dressed perfectly in every detail. The outfit was to be chosen with care and vision. It had to be elegant yet not obvious. She was to remember her role, a poetic muse like Erato or Calliope. He had sent her pictures of them. She had chosen who she wanted to emulate. How did she look?

A final glance in the mirror. Her hair was perfect, though in a delicate final touch, she drew a single strand downward and it curled by her left ear. He blouse was perfect – neat, plain, no jewellery - she was unadorned. The skirt was really very pretty – it was something she had chosen with exceptional love and care. It was expensive and an appropriate length, the pleats swung for the evening, yet it oozed formality. The tights and shoes, pared down, basic, basic, basic black with that pinch of juvenile perversity she was really hoping for. On went the slash of red lipstick and finally the simple costume pearls for each ear. Enough. Iridescent and elegant – they would look chic in the dim light of the bar not obvious. But she had forgotten something. She sat again and reached into the top drawer. At the back beneath her underwear were some short lengths of scarlet satin cord she had been given. She tied one neatly around her left wrist as a bracelet. She knew she was tying this for him. The colour was his and the knot, a signal of their secret symbolic tryst.

The meeting

Grabbing her trusted trench coat and the new Liberty scarf she adored, she checked the time and scampered down the stairs belting herself tightly as she walked. It would not do to be late. She desperately wanted to see him again to understand better if any of this was real. Her heels clicked on the pavement as she walked with purpose to the bar. Entering, she could see him at the other end reading messages on his phone. She approached and he rose. They kissed three times in the Dutch manner and she was seated. He waved at the barman and ordered a second glass of chilled Chablis. She wondered why he hadn’t asked her what she might like first but accepted it gracefully. Actually, sipping it twice, she realized it was perfect. She removed her coat and tried to look confident, to show she could make herself feel comfortable, at the same time acutely aware that she was sitting opposite him and he was observing her every detail.

He looked distinguished. His hair was receding though he retained the silver flashes at the sides. He wore a bespoke, black, Saville Row suit, white shirt, silk links and a polka dot black and white silk tie knotted perfectly. There wasn’t much to say but she felt bold enough to meet his gaze. He leaned forward and touched the lock of hair curled around her ear, rearranging it. In so doing she felt he made her perfect. She loved that moment. The tiny, deft caress of his fingertips shot through her like a miniature lightning bolt.

They talked about her interests, places she had been and experiences she enjoyed: dining, art galleries and music. It was cordial chit chat. No progress. Why not? She dived in with a question about another scene or adventure. What might it be and how, where and when? He more or less ignored her. She noticed he was watching her mouth in particular and wondered if she should refresh her lipstick. Just being with him made her tense but this indifference to her, feigned or not, was unbearable. Maybe she should have undone the blouse and gone for the higher heels? Why did he not pay her a compliment? She excused herself to use the bathroom. As she walked to the door she could feel his eyes on her the whole time like lasers.

The bathroom

The bathroom was modern, spacious and empty. She glanced in the mirror then went to open the door of the cubicle. Suddenly she heard the door bang behind her and a hand wrapped tightly over her mouth. Roughly she was pushed inside into the cramped space. She protested and pushed him back but he locked the door behind them.

“What the f…. We’ll be caught! Get out!” she protested.
“SHH” he commanded in a harsh whisper.
She wasn’t sure what to do or say. He grabbed her between the legs.
“Take the tights down, then the panties!” he explained firmly
She could see he would not accept a refusal.
It was a confined space and she had to lift her skirt right up to reach into the top of her tights. She did so and the pants could not be released from her ankles because the tights were in her neatly buckled shoes. It was tight and awkward.

He turned her, towards the wall, pushing her back so she was pressed forcefully against the cool surface. Raising her skirt right up behind her he slapped her naked cheeks wickedly hard. She was forced to yelp. She tried to cover herself with her hands so he placed them above her head against the side of the cubicle. It sounded so loud with the tiled walls. He slapped her so hard on both cheeks she was red in moments and it stung like hell. She protested but did not want to scream. His hand reached hard between her legs and parted them. The strong fingers were quickly moistened and she felt slippery there. He was rubbing her outer lips and the fingertips were circling her clitoris. It was such an awkward position and standing up she, she knew she would never cum. She accepted it and tried to ride his hand. She was sobbing. It was much too rough and her bottom was stinging.

Then the main door to the bathroom opened and girls' voices could be heard speaking Dutch. They froze. He removed his hand. She tried to contain her next sob and he grabbed her shoulder forcing her to sit. He inserted a single finger in her mouth to silence her and stood above her. She tried to contain her crying and there was no reaction from the girls outside. They waited, heard them loosen their clothing, sit and pee. The Captain’s eyes told her he expected her to pee too. But she couldn’t possibly. There were other people listening and he was standing in front of her. She’s just been receiving his fingers – it wouldn’t come yet. Both the other girls finished up, chatted and laughed as they washed their hands and used the mirror then left the room.

The waiting

The Captain crouched. He leaned forward, close to her face keeping his finger in her mouth and ordered her to do it. He was clearly going to wait until she did. She was trying but nothing was happening. The time ticked on. She felt awkward, exposed, violated, intruded upon and her cheeks were stinging on the cool toilet seat. He wasn’t moving or showing any signs of impatience. She could smell his after shave, a deep musky fragrance.

They waited and she knew she was going to have to comply or this would never end. Eventually the trickle started. She was trying. Just a short stream at first. Then she was able to relax herself enough to start a longer go. He rammed his hand between her legs and fondled then parted her labia as she did it. It was a weird and wet feeling. She felt embarrassed and yet oddly available. As she strained to wring herself out, her legs opened still further and they both looked, watching his piss- wet fingers massage her there.

He turned, unlocked the door, left the cubicle and did not close it. She had to reach forward awkwardly for the lock. She could hear him washing his hands. Then she heard the door go. Quickly she wiped herself and pulled up her panties and tights. She turned to flush and left the cubicle herself. Her face was bright red in the mirror and her hair had fallen on one side. Her mascara had run, her lipstick was smudged and her eyes were still filled with tears. She started to wash her hands and look for a comb in her handbag. Another girl came in and looked at her before entering the cubicle. She saw herself as she tried to make adjustments – those were Amelia’s eyes crying.

Leaving

Moments later, she felt she had done all she could to arrange herself again, pulling her blouse down to ensure it was neatly tucked, readjusting her hair and adding fresh lipstick. She re-entered the bar and he was gone!

Her trench coat and scarf were lying where she left them. Her half empty glass remained. She sat for a moment wondering if he was in the other bathroom himself but 5 minutes later, she realized the futility and embarrassment of her situation. The barman looked at her and she indicated she wanted to pay for her glass.

“The gentleman already paid,” he said. He was surveying her red face and moistened eyes.
“Didn’t work out hey?” he smiled sympathetically.
“No, no...” she protested in realization. “It wasn’t like that.”

In curling embarrassment, she collected her trench coat and left, doing it up as she walked angrily through the cool, canal-side breeze outside. As she stepped onto the street, a passing cyclist braked suddenly and cursed.
“Fuck you!” she replied uncharacteristically and walked on. She was furious.

Then she rammed her hands in her pockets against the breeze and felt something. An envelope. On it a single letter written in black ink, 'A'.
She stopped outside Nielsen's, the popular "local cafe for shelter and tore it open. There were eight, new, 50 Euro notes inside it, 400 bucks. Was he trying to make a of her? She was astonished, but realising she couldn't wave cash around in the street, returned it to her pocket and began walking home. Under her breath she muttered a single word as she listened to the click of her heels... "Bastard!






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