A Perfect Gentleman

It's a dangerous idea, but that's what you love about it and what makes it exciting. You've observed him for many months now. He lives in the apartment building across the street and often parks his car, a black BMW 350i Coupe, on the street, rather than in his garage, why you don't know. Does he have a partner? Is her car parked in the garage? You're pretty sure he doesn't. You would have seen her by now. There must be some reason he parks on the street, but it's a mystery.

He's handsome, around 5' 10", with tanned skin and dark brown, almost black wavy hair cut short. He could be Jewish or Arab, French or Italian or Spanish or Iranian, from Europe or the Middle East or Central or South America. That's part of what intrigues you about him. You're attracted to them all.

He jogs and is in great shape. You get up early and sit by the window, sipping your first cup of coffee, waiting to watch him appear. That's how you first noticed him. When he does and leaves, you sit by the window for an hour, waiting for him to return, his shirt sweat-soaked, and watch him walk into his building checking his watch. You've even gotten in your car and discreetly followed him, staying back a safe distance. You know his route well enough that you don't have to follow him anymore. You can watch him all the way in your mind's eye.

You've thought long and hard about leaving the note. It's harmless fun, sitting by the window, watching him leave and then fantasizing about having sex with him and masturbating several times before he returns, but leaving the note will change everything in ways you can't predict and the outcome might not be anything like what you've been imagining. Things could go terribly wrong. In the end, you realize your uncertainty is precisely why you will leave the note.

You sip your coffee and stare at the note you've taped to the rear window of his car, where he's sure to notice it, as he's leaving on his early-morning jog. Finally he appears and checks his watch and jogs down the front walk of the apartment building and along the sidewalk and glances at his car as he passes it and slows and stops. He takes the note from the rear window and opens it and reads it, then looks at your building and scans the windows. You draw back, not wanting him to see you. He tapes the note back on the window and jogs down the street and the idea that he's read it and knows what you want him to do is thrilling and you masturbate several times, harder this time, waiting for him to return.

Finally he does and you see him slow and take the note from the rear window and look again at your building and scan the windows and you stare at the back of his sweat-soaked shirt until he disappears inside his building.

The time you asked him to arrive is drawing near. You lay the items you've selected for him to use on the bed and undress and put on the eyeshade and get into bed and lie on your back and wait. You listen to a few neighbors returning from their evening out, but soon the building is quiet. You're filled with pent up sexual energy and want to masturbate to relieve yourself of at least some of it, but you resist, with great difficulty. You want your climax with him to be more than hard — you want to explode.

You think about the note. You only told him where you live and when to arrive and where you'd be waiting, but nothing about how you'd be waiting, blindfolded and naked, or what you've left on the bed for him to use or how to use them or in what order. You've left that up to him and are eager to see what he does.

Finally you hear footsteps on the stairs outside, leading up to your floor. Your body tenses as you listen to him climb the stairs and his footsteps grow louder as he approaches the door to your apartment. You think it's him, but aren't sure — it could still be a neighbor, arriving home later than usual — until the footsteps stop at your door. It's him. You hear the door open and listen to him step inside and shut the door quietly behind him.

You picture him in your mind's eye, standing there just inside the door, taking a moment to look around at your apartment before coming into the bedroom. Finally you hear him enter the bedroom and walk to the side of the bed and stop. You can see him in your mind's eye, standing there looking down at your, at what he can see of your face that isn't covered by the eyeshade, at the shape of your body under the sheet, your breasts and stomach and hips and legs, your arms held straight by your sides and then at the things you've left for him on the bed.

What must he be thinking as he looks at them, about you and the type of woman you are, who would choose these things to leave for him to use? Thinking about it is thrilling and as much as you want to lie perfectly still, you can't help squirming a bit, which you know he notices and want him to.

He stands there what seems a long time and finally you feel his hand on the sheet at your neck and the sheet slowly being pulled down, exposing your body. You enjoy the feel of it against your skin as he pulls it slowly all the way down to your feet.

What must he be thinking of you now, gazing down at your naked body, at your breasts and nipples, which you've rouged for him, at your pussy, which you've shaved and baby-oiled for him and also rouged, at the message — I'VE BEEN BAD! — you've written in red lipstick on your stomach?

You feel your skin tingling as you wonder what he'll do next. You know what you hope he'll do. It all depends on how intuitive he is and how well he understands you, based on what he's experienced of you so far.

You hear him pick up something from the bed and are pleased to find it's the long lengths of velvet ribbon you cut, in hopes that he would use them to bind your hands and feet, which he does, your hands to the head of the bed and, spreading your legs wide, your feet to the foot of the bed.

You lie there, completely vulnerable now, wondering what he'll do next. Will he fondle your breasts, pull your nipples, stroke you between the legs, fuck you? That's not what you want him to do, not yet, anyway, but it's what most men would.

You hear him pick up something from the bed and feel his fingers on your cheeks, forcing your mouth open. It's the gag ball and you feel it being pushed into your mouth and then the straps being tightened behind your head. Excellent. Things are going just as you hoped they would.

You here him pick up something from the bed and smile when you hear the lash hiss through the air in the spilt-second before you feel its sting on your thighs. You're impressed that he began with your thighs, which is where you hoped he begin. He's very intuitive, indeed. Most men would have begun with your breasts, an all too tempting target. He strikes you again, then again, then again and you picture him admiring his handiwork as he does, painting your thighs with lash markers, making them redder with each stroke. He strikes you again, then again and you're certain that by now your thighs are deep red and that there's blood oozing from open wounds.

You realize his whipping has made the juice gush from your pussy and you squirm on the wet spot on the sheet beneath your ass, which feels cool, in contrast to the skin of your thighs, which feels hot.

You feel the lash on your breasts now, which is what you were hoping you would, and he strikes you again and again until you know your breasts look just like your thighs.

When he strikes you the first time between the legs, you feel he knows you completely and you admire his skill. He struck you just hard enough to stimulate you without marking you, preparing you for what comes next, which is precisely what you were hoping for. You know how he wants you to look as he strikes you between your legs, not like the slut with an insatiable appetite that you are, but like an innocent schoolgirl, who's been abducted and is horrified by what's being done to her and moves her body to try to avoid the next strike of the lash, yet can't help keeping her legs spread wide and offering up her pussy hungrily. It's a role you know how to play well. It's who you've always felt yourself to be, deep down inside.

He stops striking you between your legs and you hear him undress and feel him untie your legs so that you can move them freely. You know where he wants them. You feel him climb on the bed between your legs and then his hands on the insides of your thighs, pushing your legs farther apart, and then his mouth on your pussy and his tongue licking you. He sucks on your clit until you come, bucking violently, and keeps his mouth on you, until he's drained the last drop.

He lets you rest for a few minutes, enjoying being bathed in the afterglow of your orgasm, and then you feel him positioning himself over you and the gag being remove, which you were hoping he would do. You hear the gag hit the rug and then feel him leaning toward you.

You smell his breath and feel his lips on yours, gently at first, then pressing harder, his tongue parting your lips. You open your mouth, inviting his tongue inside, and wrap your lips around it and suck it the way you want to suck his cock, so he knows what you have in store for him.

You feel him entering you and his cheek pressing against yours. His cheek feels warm and he smells sweetly musky, as you imagined he would. It's the scent of a runner.

You wrap your legs tightly around him and he begins pumping, slowly at first, but then faster and harder. He fucks you with the same steady pace he maintains when he jogs. It seems he can go on like this forever and you'd like him to, but you have to interrupt him to come, which you do with your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, biting his earlobe just hard enough, and you've lost track of how many times you've come now.

He turns you over and positions you on your knees and pushes your back down to present your ass better and you hope the message you left for him in lipstick on the cheeks of your ass — HARD PLEASE! — is still readable. With all your squirming and the wetness of the sheet, you doubt it is.

You feel him entering you, slowly and gently, and then slide in all the way. He begins pumping just the way he did before, slowly at first and then faster and harder. He's pulling your hair so hard you think he'll rip it out of your head and it feels like he's about to split you in two and you beg him, whispering, to stop, please stop, that you can't take the pain anymore but you're forcing yourself back so hard now on his cock and against is thighs that you're afraid you'll bruise them.

When he knows you're finally satisfied, he takes you by the wrists and leads you off the bed to the rug and you kneel on it and feel him place your hands behind your back and handcuff you. You tilt your face up toward him and open your mouth, waiting to receive him. You feel his hands on the back of your head and his cock enter your mouth, deeper and deeper until it's all the way in and down your throat. He begins pumping again, like the runner he is, with that steady pace and it seems he can go on like this forever too.

You have to interrupt him, though, to puke, which you do until there's nothing left in your stomach and you finally feel his body jerking and his come spurting into the back of your throat. It tickles and you gag but he holds your head tightly against him and you jerk like a fish out of water, gasping for breath, his come streaming from your nose. He slowly takes his cock out of your mouth and you kneel there, your face tilted upward, waiting to receive what you finally want and deserve and will make this a perfect evening.

When the blow comes, it's surprisingly forceful and almost knocks you to the floor, but you maintain your balance and steady yourself and tilt your face upward again and gratefully receive the next one, and the next, and the next.

Finally he's finished with you and you kneel there, enjoying the feel of your face, the skin hot and throbbing with pain.

You're already savoring the memory of the evening as you listen to him dress. You hear him walk toward the bedroom door and then stop. He stands there a moment, looking at you, you imagine, and then walks toward you. You feel his hand on one of your wrist and then first one and then the other handcuff being removed. You listen to his footsteps as we walks to the door and smile when you hear him place the handcuffs and key on the vestibule table before leaving, like a perfect gentleman.