Don't turn on the lights
Take off your clothes
Then, scrawled way down at the bottom as if in afterthought:
Her first reaction was irritation. She'd gotten all frenzied with finishing up at work (a four-top that absolutely refused to finish their tiramisu no matter how many times she cheerfully offered to bring them the check) then a quick change in the storeroom into her clothes for their midnight date (black garter belt, lace-top seamed stockings, see-through thong, equally transparent mesh bra, little black dress and high heels), then a bus driver who almost drove past the stop by Keith's apartment and an awkward block-and-a-half walk in stilettos. Undress? Did he have any idea how much of a pain in the ass it was to put on a garter belt and stockings while leaning against crates of canned tomato paste? Did he even think for a second that she might have worn high heels and been planning on seducing him with a gentle stroke of them up his leg as they sat on the couch together, probably enjoying leftovers from his dinner at his parents' place? She was not in the mood for games: that was her first reaction.
Her second reaction was to powerfully, uncontrollably wet, especially as she read that part again: "Take off your clothes."
It was one of those things that wouldn't have had the same effect if Keith had opted for a simple "Undress," or a playful "Get naked." Not really any more complicated of a command, "Take off your clothes" nonetheless had history for the two of them, ever since he'd growled it into her ear on the roof of her apartment building, his hand tangled in her sienna hair and his cock hard against her ass. She'd done it then, and she'd do it now, without question, because he said that phrase like chocolate, and she could hear it in his gentle scrawl across the middle of the page.
The door was open; she went in and found it the apartment black, like he'd covered the window, eliminated the yellow glow of the sodium light she was so used to. Her eyes blinded by the porch lantern, she felt a moment of vertigo, tottering on her high heels; she reached back for the door, steadied herself against it, and breathed deep. She could smell him.
"Take off your clothes" -- what did that mean, anyway? All of them, or just the important parts? She knew what it meant, and her hands trembled as she did it, or started to. She shrugged off her jacket and let it fall behind her; she heard it rustling against the door. She could smell more than just him -- she could smell leather, mingled with him, mingled with the scent of microwaved turkey from the kitchen.
She unbuttoned the front of her dress and peeled it off over her shoulders, feeling slightly unsteady on her high heels. Her arms felt stiff as her cold fingers fumbled for the clasp of her bra behind her, and then she realized she'd worn the front-clasp mesh one, not the back-clasp lace one. She could hear him breathing behind her. Her heart raced.
She'd just gotten her hand on the clasp and was working it free when she felt his arms go around her -- one, under her arm, supporting her, letting her melt into the strength of him; the other, down her front so his hand could go down into her panties, finding her melting there, too; she always got wet quickly, but this was ridiculous. That was her last thought before warm waves of pleasure surged through her, and she felt his breath against her ear: "I told you to take your clothes off," he purred.
"If you'd give me a minute--" she started, but he silenced her with a hard kiss, and then she couldn't have found the words if she'd tried.
"I also told you not to talk," he growled, and she caught her breath against saying "Sorry." He slid his hand back up her body and into her mouth, wet, telling her what those perfect lips of hers, that wonderful cocksucking mouth -- his phrase, and one of her favorites -- was meant for tonight.
She obediently sucked his fingers, tasting herself, as if she needed to be reminded that she'd gone impossibly, desperately wet in the two minutes since she read the note. There wasn't much to her thong, so she could feel him hard against her, against her ass; he was wearing his leather pants, which outlined the length of him irresistibly. He pushed his fingers deeper into her, telling her what her throat was meant for tonight, too, and she opened for him, remembering with a sudden flash of heat how she'd gagged on him the first dozen times, but with her begging and Keith's gentle training, she'd learned that all she had to do was breathe and open and let it happen; his fingers tickled what used to be her gag reflex, and she went wet to the knees all over again.
Then his other hand was into her panties, fucking her, two fingers curved into her tautness as she felt herself doubly penetrated before they'd been together for a minute. She was limp against him, but he had her tight, supporting her as he switched hands, letting her taste herself more while he took hold of her bra clasp and opened it up. The way her back was arched into him, the cheap, rough mesh went popping off of her and inched down her arms as they hung limp at her sides.
One hand came out of her mouth wet with spit and tangled in her long hair; the other caressed her tits and pinched the nipples lightly as if to test just how turned on she was -- or remind her of it, which was her biggest turn-on. "Shameless," she thought, kind of hoping he'd say it, that or "Slut," which she liked even better, but then his fingers were roving over her body, exploring what she was wearing, touching the straps of her garter belt and feeling that she'd put her thong on over them -- and then he didn't have to say it. She could feel his cock against her as she pulled her thong down to her thighs, wriggled a little trying to get it to her knees -- and then he took over, as his strong hands gently steadied her and bent her over just enough to where he could get her thong down to where it would fall down her calves.
Then she was in his arms, lifted bodily with his strong arm under her thighs. She surrendered against him, nude except the garter belt and high-heeled shoes. She felt her face warm against his bare chest, and breathed deeply to smell him as he carried her. She had been about to obediently step out of her thong, and her dress, too, which she could feel bunched around her feet. Even that small gesture of submission was denied her, as he took her across the room.
Her eyes had begun adjusting, but she still couldn't see much: Just the faint shadow that was him and the darker shadow that was a table, maybe, or a chair, some piece of furniture she was absolutely sure had not been there when she'd left Keith's apartment this morning. "What--" she began to say, but he silenced her with his fingers in her mouth, and she opened, and tasted, and before she knew it she'd been firmly positioned on a sort of kneeling chair that left her stretched back, knees against pads and ankles against cold, smooth wood, her back and head supported by a leather-covered, padded platform that kept her neck straight. The ropes were ready.
She felt a surge of excitement and panic as he circled first one wrist, then the other, knotting them smoothly. He always favored ropes, never cuffs -- he knew the feel of the rope against her body did things to her. His cock brushed against her face as she felt the ropes going around her ankles, too, leaving her trussed and helpless, bent in a kneeling position but with her neck straight, impossibly straight -- open, vulnerable, unprotected. Her tongue went thick as her mouth hung open. She began to salivate.
He ground his leather-clad crotch against her face while he bound her. As he finished with the last knot, he asked her in an even voice: "Did you eat?"
She remembered not to speak, this time: She shook her head, and he could feel the gesture against his crotch.
Keith chuckled. "Good," he said. "I like that you're hungry."
She was, too: uncontrollably. Kneeling, she was bent back in just the right position for him to enter her from either side. She trembled as she waited for it; though she knew from the pressure of his fingers and the obvious pleasure he took in his new toy what part of her he'd choose to penetrate, she craved the moment he'd "make" her do it -- and when she heard the snaps of his leather pants popping while he crouched over her face, she surrendered to her hunger.
His cock came free with a sharp familiar scent that made her relax into her bondage and open wide for him; she was panting as he guided his cock head into her mouth. The angle was perfect; she accepted it, feeling her clit throb as he began to fuck her mouth. He gave it to her slow, making her dread and desire the moment he'd "make" her swallow him -- the top of his cock head worked rhythmically on her tongue and she realized that in this position, she couldn't stimulate his glans the way she was used to -- she'd have less control over whether and when he came. She also couldn't use her hands, and even though she was used to that it made her still hotter, as she wrestled with the bonds and felt Keith slowly fucking her deeper.
He seemed to read her little moans and whimpers flawlessly; as she panicked with him going deeper, about to penetrate her, he backed off and went into her with more shallow strokes; nonetheless, he built inexorably to the moment when he slid down her throat, and as it neared she felt his hand on her clit, then her pussy, then inside her, then her clit again, then her clit, for longer, even strokes matching the thrusts into her mouth as she got closer and closer, so near to climax that she didn't think she could swallow him.
Then one hand gripped her thigh, and the other hand held her hair, and she felt his cock head against the entrance to her throat, ready to enter it.
He gave her just the time she needed to take a deep breath and relax for it; then she swallowed as he thrust into her, and the familiar sensation of her throat filling with his cock sent a pulse through her that was closer to orgasm than anything except orgasm. He slid all the way down until his balls caressed her lips, and as she savored him he gently caressed her pussy lips again, then teased the opening and fingered her a little. When he slid back out of her throat and then out of her mouth, she felt a wet smear across her cheeks and chin, thought "Slut!" deliciously and gasped air, her neck muscles tightening to reach for him with her mouth. He pulled back and she whimpered, her tongue desperately seeking after him. Her eyes had adjusted a little, now, and she could see the glistening head of his cock as he gradually brought it to her lips again.
This time she took it even more smoothly than before, and he rewarded her with a caress of her clit, her lips, her entrance. Two fingers went into her and he tested the swelling strength of her G-spot, feeling her wriggle as his fingers worked against it. Then he was out again, but just to her lips, and into her, slowly fucking her as she trembled under his strokes. After a few dozen thrusts down her throat, he pulled back and let her strain after him again, her tongue barely reaching his balls as he fingered her.
Whether he knew she couldn't come in that position -- too much tension on her back -- or just intuited it, she didn't know, but when she felt him reach off to the side and then heard the familiar buzzing, she uttered an expletive and realized she was going to come, whether she wanted to or not. She relaxed into the sensations, her clit suddenly alive with unexpected stimulation, her throat opening wide as he slid into her again, and -- wouldn't you know it? -- the devious son of a bitch matched the strokes so that she could feel him going into her and coaxing her toward orgasm, simultaneously in delicious coordination like some intricate choreography of sleaze.
She was so disoriented from the strange position and the darkness and the swirling sensations of her orgasm that she barely even realized what he was doing; she felt the weight of his body on hers, making the new piece of bondage equipment groan as his cockhead stretched her opening, slick with juice but tight with desire, and his cock slid into her while she was still agonizingly sensitive from her climax. She uttered more expletives as she writhed there against her bonds, bent back and helpless, taking smooth thrusts of his cock as he reached up to grasp her hair again and this time, pull it. Her eyes had adjusted as much as they could, now, and she could see him, his face and his sparkling eyes and the hard shadow of his body, as he fucked her with one thing in mind -- he was going to come.
If she hadn't already come so hard, she would have strained against her bonds, fucked back against him -- but that was hopeless; she was limp in her bondage and helpless to do anything except accept the sensation as he thrust a dozen slow times into her and moaned softly in orgasm.
Deep inside her, she could feel herself go wet with his come, hot and slippery. The drying smear of her spit and his pre-come felt delicious on her face, the smell of him even more so in her breath. She moaned and drew deeply.
Afterwards, unbound and with only the slightest pink marks where she'd struggled against the ropes, Heather cuddled up on the couch against Keith, nude, while they spooned stuffing and gravy into each others' mouths, having eaten all the turkey. The lights were still low, but she could easily see the piece of bondage equipment that had so completely immobilized her.
"It's just a kneeling bench," she said, her voice rough from his cock. "With a bench behind it...it's just like one of those computer desk thingies. With an extra piece added to stretch someone back."
"Just?" asked Keith, clearly offended. "Someone?"
"Me," said Heather flirtatiously, and smiled a little. "And not 'just.'"
She fed herself a spoonful of gravy, just because she could.
N.T. Morley is the author of more than fifteen published erotic novels
of dominance and submission including The Castle and The Library
trilogies, and the editor of Master/slave, a double anthology of
erotic stories. He can be found at http://ntmorley.com.