We spent that first weekend just kind of hanging out at his place. Getting take-out, playing Parcheesi (Parcheesi!), watching the original Godzilla. And talking. Looking back, it was a perfect way for Malcolm to show me what I was getting myself in to. What he expected of me. It was a time for me to learn. To question. And question I did. I questioned him and myself and what I felt and what was happening between us and the way my whole being responded to him. He must've thought he'd taken up with the daughter of 'The Riddler'. But he didn't seem to mind. Like when I asked if he would take me home to pick up some underwear, he refused. He told me I wasn't allowed to wear panties when I was with him. "I want to know that when I reach under your clothes I will touch nothing but
you
. No knickers between me and what I want," he said plainly.
It was new, and exciting. And also frustrating at times. I'd never been with a man who forbid me to wear panties; I found that both arousing and irritating. And the fact that it irritated me aroused me even more, that Malcolm assumed such control over me to presume to tell me what I could and could not wear got me so hot for him I couldn't stand it. I wanted to fight him on that, I really did. But I knew it was only to save face, to save the idea of myself as a fully liberated woman of the 21st century. So instead I gladly agreed, the idea that he had such unfettered access to me too tempting, that he had that much control of me too enticing.
Okay, maybe 'agreed' is the wrong word. I gladly obeyed. I think, in looking back, those couple of days were also the beginning of a re-training, or a re-conditioning, of sorts. It was almost 'Pygmalion-esque', really. You may think I'm looking back through rose-colored lenses, but I'm not. It was never threatening. Not once did I have any fear of Malcolm. (In fact, I can't remember ever being afraid
of
him. I've been afraid
for
him, but that's different.) He never raised his voice. He never coerced me to do anything, to accept anything I didn't want. He pushed my boundaries, my limits, for the first of many times that weekend, but I was – and I remain - a willing party to it.
I was supposed to meet Tony for brunch at Glo's that Sunday. I had called him the day before Malcolm and I left Houston and told him everything that had happened so far, and I knew he was anxiously waiting to hear how it all went. I didn't want to break the date. But I also didn't want to cut short my time with Malcolm. Stupid, I know, but remember everything was still so new with him. I considered asking Malcolm to join us, knowing Tony wouldn't mind as he was already dying to meet him, but decided against it. I wasn't sure – at that time – if it was my place to ask him. So instead, I simply told him I was supposed to meet Tony for brunch on Sunday, and told him when.
"I suppose I should have you home in plenty of time to make your date then?" he asked, giving me a funny smile. It was Saturday evening, and we were sitting around the coffee table in his living room, eating cold pizza. "You will, after all, want to wear some knickers."
"I...umm...yes, I...I will..," I laughed breathily. I was suddenly very aware I was in Malcolm's Chelsea FC t-shirt and nothing else.
"Does it make you uncomfortable to be so exposed? To know I can touch your cunt anytime I wish?" he asked quietly. I shook my head, staring at his lips as he spoke as if mesmerized. "No? Does it excite you? Does it make you wet to know I can play with your slutty little cunt whenever I want to?" I nodded, feeling the heat between my legs increase. "Answer me."
"Yes," I whispered.
"Yes." He looked at me closely. "In fact, you're getting wet right now, aren't you?"
"Yes."
He suddenly leaned forward and swept off the coffee table, pushing our napkins, water bottles, the pizza box, a book and some magazines to the floor. I jumped at the noise it made when it hit. He patted the table in front of him, looking at me. It took me a minute to realize what he wanted. I slowly stood and walked to him, standing in front of him for a moment before sitting on the edge of the coffee table facing him. I kept my legs together and pulled his t-shirt down over my thighs. Malcolm surprised me by leaning forward and softly kissing each of my knees.
"Ass on the table, poppit," he said. I looked at him for a moment, then leaned forward and lifted my backside a bit, pulling the hem of his shirt up and sitting back down. "Good girl."
He sat back, leaning on his hands behind him, looking at me appraisingly. His eyes roamed with that greedy look to them, like a child looking through a candy shop window, and I could feel my heart speed up a bit.
"Open your legs." I let my knees fall open a bit, and his shirt fell between my thighs. "No," he said, shaking his head. "Spread your legs as wide as you can." I did as he asked, his t-shirt still between my legs, as if keeping me modest against my will. I slid my legs open until they were in front of the table legs and I was nearly doing the splits. My hands rested on my thighs as I watched Malcolm's gaze run up and down my legs. "Very good, poppit. Sit tight, I won't be a minute," he said, standing and walking out. I could hear him rummaging about nearby for a brief moment.
When he came back in he was carrying something that looked a lot like a tripod with a video camera on it, but at first I refused to believe that's what it was. When he set it up at an angle to the table, just off to my right, and began fiddling with it, checking through the viewfinder and making slight adjustments, I had to acknowledge it.
"What the fuck are you doing with that?" I asked. My voice sounded shrill. I was seriously stunned and more than a little pissed. I stood up, watching him.
"Do you really need to ask?" Malcolm said, coming over to me and putting an arm around my waist. He stroked my hair, smoothing it back, with his other hand. He meant to soothe me, I know, but it didn't work.
"No. I won't."
"Won't what?"
"I won't be filmed."
"Why not?"
"I just won't," I said. I put my hands on his chest, meaning to push away from him, but he moved, putting both arms around me, pulling me close. He held me tightly, my hands still on his chest, my lower body pressed against his. I leaned my head back and looked at his face.
"What are you afraid of?"
"Nothing," I lied.
"Then why are you trembling?" I shook my head, dropping my eyes. I didn't know why the camera scared me. I just knew it did. "Look at me." I met his eyes again, the tenderness I saw in them making me weak. "I will not show this to anyone. I give you my solemn promise on that."
"Why?" I squeaked, wincing a little at the sound of my voice.
"I want to watch you come." He kissed my brows softly. "I want to watch your eyelids flutter while you twist about." He kissed my cheeks. "I want to be able to watch your lips pout and nipples flush whenever I please. I want to be able hear you moan and say dirty things when you're not here." He kissed me softly, his tongue lightly tickling at my lips. I opened my mouth to his with a sigh. He moved his hands to my hips and gently pushed me to sit on the coffee table again.
"Please-"
"I love to watch you come, Melody. You are so achingly beautiful when you do." He dropped to his knees in front of me, kissing my neck. "I just want to be able to see that whenever I wish." He gently spread my legs and ran his hands up and down my calves. "I am the only one who will ever see it." He moved his lips back to mine and kissed me deeply.
"Promise?" I whispered, looking in to his eyes. He nodded, meeting my gaze. "Alright. But if this ends up for sale on the internet, I want a seventy-percent cut." He gave a small laugh and smiled, pulling the t-shirt off me and tossing it on the sofa before sitting back.
"Lovely," he said quietly, unleashing his eyes again. I could feel my skin erupt in gooseflesh as his eyes wandered. "Are you wet?" he asked, his voice low. I nodded, looking down and chewing my lower lip. "Show me."
I spread my legs out as before, turning my head to the left and closing my eyes. I felt almost dizzy from excitement and nervousness.
"Yes, you are quite wet, aren't you?" I nodded, my face still turned to the side. "Do you like showing me your cunt? Displaying yourself to me like a common whore?" I sucked in my breath at his words, shifting my hips to expose myself even more fully to him. "Yes. I can see you do. I can see it excites you." I watched out of the corner of my eye as he took his cock out of his shorts and began stroking it. His cock looked impossibly hard, with come oozing out of the tip in small amounts.
I thrilled to think looking at me did that to him. That the sight of me naked and open before him made him that hard. I leaned back on to my hands, turning my head to face him and opening my legs a little wider. I could feel my wetness run from my opening down the crack of my ass to pool beneath as Malcolm watched. I shivered a bit, getting more excited.
"Touch yourself. Play with your cunt for me." I had never done that before, never masturbated in front of any man, but I didn't even hesitate. I moved my right hand, running two fingers from my opening to my clit and back down. I arched my back, sliding forward a little to the very edge of the table, my fingers slowly running up and down, watching him stroke himself. "Do you like that? Do you like to play with your cunt while I watch?"
"Yes."
"Feed it to me," he said, getting up onto his knees between my legs. I held my hand out to him and he sucked and licked my fingers quickly, almost frantically, making me moan. He pulled my fingers out of his mouth and put them back on my pussy. "Keep playing with your whore cunt for me."
"Yes, Sir," I moaned, rubbing my clit in a circular motion, my hips moving.
"Do you want to come? Do you want to come all over your own hand like a slut while I watch?"
