Dinner for Two
"I'll be in your city for a few days," my message read to you, "Just transiting through really, but I'll be at the Grand Hyatt Hotel. Why not join me for an evening? We can have dinner and...see where things go. A friend will be with me, who is also very excited to meet you." I was worried you'd decline. Nerves, fear, anxiety. I remember all those feelings when I was still fresh-faced and innocent. To both my surprise and joy, you accepted.
"What should i wear, Sir?" Of course, it had to be a sundress, for easy access. A yellow one, bright and happy. For a sharp contrast, black heels. Heels like ice picks. "i don't have anything like that". Fortunately, being a few weeks away, we managed to arrange a PO box and I ordered a carefully selected pair of exactly what I wanted for you, and we discussed exactly what I would have of you...
In the days running up to our arranged meeting, I admit I had nerves myself. Mostly that you wouldn't show up. I had such wicked plans for you after all, and getting through customs with all my...hmm...equipment...was more than a little nerve-wracking.
But you are my obedient little girl. As your taxi comes to a stop outside of the hotel, I open the door for you. Your eyes for a moment caught by the great gleaming tower looming over the city, and then lock onto mine. The primitive part of your brain recognizes the barbaric hunger swirling just beneath my pupils. I offer my hand to help you out. The gentlemanly gesture a disorienting contrast.
"Hello, baby." I smile.
"Hello, s- Tom." You hesitate for a moment. Careful, my little toy, we're out in public now. Our "polite" masks are on. We'll move through this world of banal niceties and empty compliments and false smiles and hypocritical mores. Polite greeting at the front desk, nod hello to the attendants by the elevator. The mask only slips when those polite, smiling, complimentary hypocrites notice how unsteadily you walk on those heels. Heels that can be classed as "porno" as you cling to my arm for balance. Scared, nervous nails cutting into my skin. They'll look. Eyebrows raised. Maybe guess. But we keep our masks on. Then, when I swipe the card to unlock the room, set out the "do not disturb" sign, and close the door behind us, those masks come off. We become the real us.
I guide you into the room. The door clicks locked behind you.
My teeth at your ear: "Kneel." The first time you ever felt that tiny pressure of air from my mouth against your skin.
"Yes sir." Almost relieved to shift your weight from your feet to your knees, you sink down, and look up to me with wide eyes. I collect a fistful of your hair as a convenient leash.
"Crawl." I lead you through the small entryway and into the surprisingly spacious room. Before the bed are two large, lavish leather armchairs facing each other. Seated in the chair facing the entryway is an athletically built blonde woman. Her musculature screams "Amazonian". Her hair is pulled back in an almost painfully tight bun.
Her make-up is laser precision. Her mascara, eyeliner, and eyeshadow are all dark and thick, giving her eyes a sharp angle. Something about it gives an impression of an eagle diving in flight. Flared against her pale skin, a blush of rouge and crimson lipstick.
Her outfit leaves little room for guessing: a rigid corset, black and nasty as oil, pressing out already ample breasts, black leather gloves to the elbow, garter belt, sheer pantyhose, platform heeled boots that look like they weighed a metric ton. Wrapped around her hips is a leather mini-skirt that just isn't quite long enough to cover her ass. Her eyes flash at you, and it's not just the eyeliner: her look is hawkish and hungry. You're a scared little rabbit in her eyes. "Why the fuck is she wearing more than me?" Her voice, tinged with a German accent, had a sharp bite to it.
"Relax, Nats, we had to come in from outside. It's quickly amended." Before you can summon a word of protest, I've poured you out of the dress, and left you kneeling on the floor. I plant my leather shoe on your shoulder, and press you down, back to all fours. Dress in one hand, your hair-leash in another, I lead you between the two chairs, facing Nats, and prop you back on your knees for a closer inspection. She leans forward in her chair, slender unlit cigarette hanging from her mouth. As she does so, she brings a waft of the most intoxicating scent to your nose. But your attention is snapped to her ice-cold blue eyes. They're running over you, scanning you. Inspecting even the tiniest pour, every millimetre.
"Tits, now." Her bark has sent many a freezing shiver down the spines of the bravest men. Few can resist. It's so jarring it even takes you a second to understand what she means. You unclip your bra, and present your fuck-udders to the naked air. I take your bra and collect it with the dress. She gives a sneer, "Mm, biteable." That sounded like a threat, not a compliment.
"Easy now," I chuckle, "She's green as grass."
"I am being nice." She is. Relatively speaking. She turns her attention back to you. It feels like being under a sniper's scope. She is certainly aiming at you. "What are you, a nun? Panties off too, little girl." There is the briefest of hesitations, but her glare brooks no argument. After all, what are you going to do? Run? With those fuck-me shoes on? You move to stand to take them off but she angrily clicks her tongue, "No. From the floor. That's where whores like you belong." You look to me for...what? Protection? Fuck you, I'm enjoying this show. I led you into the lioness' den and I'm going to watch her feast on your meat.
Finding no ally, you slip your thumbs under your panties and with shaking hands - and more than a little struggle getting them down past your knees - they eventually come off. I add them to my collection, giving a quick sniff before folding them with the rest. "Heels-" she begins.
"Stay on." I assert.
"You and your black heels. So basic."
"Classic." I correct, "I paid for them, so I am going to enjoy them." I turn towards the hotel's cupboards and call over my shoulder, "Maybe later I'll fuck her pussy with the heels."
"What?!" You cry out. Nats snaps her fingers right in front of your eyes and gives you a light slap.
"Speak when spoken to, slut. No-one cares about what ever silly-bitch ideas are going on in your head. Except for one: do you know your safeword?" Too shocked to speak, you nod quickly. "Good. Hands behind your head. Chest proud. Show those tits off to the world. Don't hide them or I'll slap them too. Chin up," she kicks out her leather boot, nudging your chin to the proper angle with their tip, "Eyes down." Shoots a gloved finger down and points to the floor, showing you where to fix your gaze. "Good." She launches herself up with surprising litheness, and stomps behind you. For a mad moment you're worried she'd kick you from there. There would be a helluva lot of momentum, between her muscles and those boots. You can feel the fire of her gaze burning up and down your back, inspecting every muscle, every twinge, every rise and fall of your breath. How is it possible to feel more naked when you're already naked?
While this inspection is going on, I bundle all your clothes into the room's safe, and lock it tightly. You're completely ours now, sweetheart, until we decide otherwise.
After inspection comes dinner. Little did you know, when I "invited" you to dinner, I omitted the little detail that you would be the table.
