She let herself in with the key he had given her.
The room was wide and light, with a hardwood floor. He was sitting on the couch, his legs crossed, waiting for her. She walked toward him, slowly. He watched her dispassionately as she came towards him.
Standing in front of him, she cast her eyes to the ground, afraid to look in his eyes. Afraid he might see the rawness of her need.
He spoke. “I see you have dressed appropriately. Like a lady, and not the whore I know you are.”
She was wearing a skirt and blouse. The skirt’s hem ended below her knees, and the blouse was buttoned to the neck, with a bow tied modestly beneath her chin. She wore stockings, and had sensible shoes on her feet. The skirt was tweed, the shirt a silky fabric.
“I wore what you told me to,” she whispered.
“I can’t hear you,” he said firmly,“and call me ‘sir’.”
She cleared her throat, and spoke louder. “I wore what you wanted me to wear, sir.”
“What I wanted you to wear? No, you wore what you are supposed to be wearing.” He stood up.
“Kneel down,” he said, coming closer to her.
She knelt in front of him, trembling slightly. She felt flushed and excited, but knew not to show it.
“Look at me,” he said. She looked up into his eyes. They were blue and cruel-looking. She felt a little weak. She was wet.
“Raise your arms,” he commanded.
She raised her arms obediently and he grabbed her wrists and held them in one hand above her head. With his other hand, he unzipped his linen slacks. He was hard. He laughed at her when she saw, her eyes widening a bit at his size.
“Open your mouth, whore.” He was looking down at her, daring her to refuse him. She opened her mouth. He ran a finger around her lips. He licked his finger and did it again, wetting her lips with his saliva. Then he took his cock and slid it between her lips.
He held the back of her head and pushed in and out of her mouth, slowly. He still held her wrists in his hand. She was caught in front of him, her mouth full of his cock. He bent over and whispered in her ear, “This is all women like you are good for, a receptacle. You look like a lady, but you are a whore, begging for it, needing it, taking it…” He straightened up and leaned back, moving his hips faster and faster, listening to her gag with a smile, until he thrust hard once, and shuddered, pulling back and coming against her lips.
She felt humiliated. She craved it. She wanted more. He let go of her hands and pointed to a door.
“Go clean yourself up,” he said. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and stood up.
She went through the door. It was a bedroom, but there was another door through which she could see a bathroom with a sink. She went in and rinsed her mouth. She washed her face. She wondered what was next.
Jean Michelle is a lady of a certain age who writes. She enjoys sex and writing, sometimes both at once. Just kidding. One must pay attention to each by itself to fully do justice. She blogs at wordabsinthe.