Me: a hired tuxedo, £50 max.
Her: Rani Zakhem evening dress, £1,000 minimum
I’m comfortable with this, dressed in monochrome. I’m so anonymous, I’m flat, I almost fade into the walls. She literally shines, wearing a sliver of silvery sparkles that somehow describes every inch of her in three dimensions. The rustle of the clusters of gems that cling to her body. I walk two paces behind her, because that is what her control requires. But it may as well be twenty because I can’t even get close to her poise. Her dress whips around her legs, swirled by hips that roll low, elastic and wide. Her head set dead level, despite the piles of hair skewed and spiked with bobby pins, clips and fixatives, like an Escoffier creation made human. A gossamer of shimmery glitter clings to her shoulders and chest, making the flesh of her plunging neckline a thousand points of light.
We are making a direct line for our object, cutting a channel through the seas of sequins and satin, and eddies of black ties, leaving everyone in our wake. We’re stepping out of the spotlight. Because she needs some of the darkness. She needs to get out of this hangar-sized ballroom and into something more appropriate. A more earthy space. Right now.
We walk through the door marked STAFF ONLY, and take a flight of stairs down to the basement. She moves quickly despite her heels, and I have to skip quickly to stay ahead, until I find the room I found earlier today, as part of my recce. Because it all has to be right, and we always need a Plan B wherever we are. It’s my job to manage this.
The room is no more than a six-foot square, empty except for bare metal shelving down one wall, a pile of rags and empty plastic containers in a corner and a single 40-watt bulb hanging from the middle of the ceiling. Whatever its purpose was, it clearly has none now as evidenced by the sticky, dirty lino, worn through to the concrete in places. The dingy walls are chipped plasterboard and brick, the air hangs cold and damp, and the only additional source of illumination is through a high barred window that sends a sodium shaft of light onto her, casting her face into shadow. Though I can’t see her expression I feel her mood and I notice her ‘tell’ – a short, involuntary shiver. It is perfect.
Instinctively I look into her eyes for affirmation, to know I’ve done well to find this place. But that time has passed. Already, I can see the look of fierce concentration in her eyes. It is time to go to work.
I remove my jacket and lay it on the floor. Without warning, she kicks it to one side and roughly pulls off my cummerbund, while I untie my bow tie. My appearance is of no relevance now nor, apparently, the deposit on my suit. I stop undressing to await her direction. She looks into my eyes, daring me to look away, and I feel her hands down my trousers, greedy and fumbling. In her frustration, she tears at the waistband, ripping them open with force, before leaving them rent at my knees. Delicately now she parts the twitching curtains of my dress shirt, slowly undoing every button from the top until she finally reaches down to grasp my awakening member.
Despite the coolness of the room, her hands are warm and moist. She grasps me and pulls me downwards, indicating the floor with her eyes. She releases me and I take up my rightful position – kneeling, legs spread wide, looking up. She keeps her eyes on mine, and, by placing a six-inch heeled foot on the raised steel shelf, one thigh slips between the full-length slit up the side of her dress. Thrusting slightly forward, she slips a hand beneath the remaining material and just rests it there.
Although I can’t see, I’ve seen it often enough to know. Three fingers placed, just resting, two nudging open her labia, the middle one resting on her clit. No knickers, because they ruin the lines of the dress. She’s managing her own tease and denial, centre stage. My only task now is to provide the support.
I grip tightly and move in gentle rhythms of five slow strokes, from my balls to just under my cock head, supplementing the dampness of my own hands with precum that now dribbles in a steady stream and which wells into my fist as I pause at the final upstroke. As agreed. Always it’s as she’s scripted it before.
Her perfume and hairspray are masking the damp, noisome atmosphere of the cell. I can’t smell the scent of her arousal, but in the mortuary silence of our scene, the slightest sound seems amplified. The slick slip of fingers as she starts to part her lips and press on her clit. Her breathing that moves with the shimmer of silver on her tits, under her impromptu spotlight. The metallic rustle of her dress as she leans back into the shelving, testing its give and support. But the rest of the silence is suffocating. It sits on my shoulders, and I draw breath heavily, waiting for her.
She stops and looks down at my slightly raw and hardening penis, before expelling a large gob of saliva onto its already shiny head. She resumes her play, and I can see it in my mind: drawing her fingers up and down her inner lips, alternating between barely touching and flat-fingered pressing, her thumb now rubbing across the clit like a guitarist. As her fingers reach inside, she braces herself against the shelves, and her sharp intake of breath squeaks like a rusty door.
She’s watching me through slitted eyes, hand buried deeper, shoulder dropped to reach underneath herself, as though grappling inside a narrow-necked jar. “Not… Yet.” she wheezes, reaching up with her spare hand to slip inside the halterneck and cup her swelling breasts. She bites a lip, hard – as hard as she is pinching the nipple between first and second finger, like a clamp, scratching at the aureole with a frantic third finger.
“FUCKING CHRIST” she shouts, at no one in particular, and I know I have to keep up. The cramp in my legs is starting to burn, and a thin film of sweat is pricking under my shirt. I focus on her – thinking of what she needs from me, hoping I can do it. The thought of my role in her desire makes my nipples hard; I start to stroke my cock faster and grab my right nipple, hard, mirroring my mistress. I pinch it through my shirt and the pain helps ground me, keeps my mind on her need. That makes me harder and I feel an extra surge in my cock, rubbed red with my efforts.
I no longer need to imagine because a crash brings me back to her, as the shelves and wall absorb the impact as she slides down, her face a picture of desperation. Sweat has streaked her make up and wilted her hair. Thousands of pounds of couture is torn, speared with dagger heels. With all clothing and modesty pushed aside, literally, she sits, hips forward, legs spread with feet flat on the floor, now reaching two fingers up inside, pressing her g-spot as she levers off the thumb pressing on her clit. It can’t be long.
“DO IT, SLUT” she barks, and this is my cue. The words have their intended effect and an ache rising in my back is propelled through me, my hand, my cock, spreading across my body. I cry out as the first drops of cum hesitate to flow, before white arcs of my foiled desire fall out in jagged jets. I screw up my face, and focus on keeping my hands by my side, riding the agonising pain of the ruined orgasm as it tears through my cock like a shard of glass.
I look down at the puddle and streaks of cum on the dirty floor, a reversed out Jackson Pollock of the expression of my soul at the moment of climax for her. And yet still I must finish this. But not until I hear her say the words.
And when they come, they are barely a whisper above the furious beating of my own heart and liquefied mashing of her fingers in her cunt:
I prostrate myself as if in prayer, close my eyes, and lick. I chase my cum with inexpert lips until I’ve retrieved an oyster-load that sits in the well of my tongue.
Kneeling, I show her the bounty in my mouth, and then I know I have done well. It has primed the pump of her own orgasm, released by a hoarse grunt. She flops forward, convulsing with an electric charge, finally subject to a force even beyond her ability to control.
Unseen, I swallow, gag, cough, swallow. And it is down. I kneel, head bowed, awaiting her verdict.
“Did you take it, slut?”
Her voice sounds burnt. I open my mouth to prove my obedience.
That single word my only reward.
See who else is lapping up the muck this Wednesday – click on the ring below.