Gothic Plum
"Time to get ready," he says, leaving her embrace to pull on his trousers. "I'll be downstairs."
She waits, tangled in the sheets, savoring his backside as he walks away. So easy for him to get dressed up.
In the bathroom, she breathes in his lingering scent. Her back arches, recalling his breath on her neck and his hardness against her from behind. Her thighs ache from being wrapped around him, but the flowing water eases her tension with a blur of serenity.
Towel around her hair, she steps out of the shower and smiles as she inspects the reflection in the mirror. Mascara lines run down her cheeks, her makeup ruined from the tears she shed, gagging on him over and over again. She wipes away the streaks and opens her bag to start anew.
She stops. A new item sits atop the others, a piece of parchment rolled up like a scroll, held in place with a red wax seal.
Breaking the seal, she unrolls the note, which contains a single sentence:
You will wear this tonight, babygirl.
She shivers, in a room hot and humid with steam.
Inside the rolled note is a single case of lipstick. It's a bold, stark hue. She finds the name:
Gothic Plum
. Smirking, she holds it next to her fingers. Is it coincidence that the shade matches her nail polish? The same one he picked for her last weekend.
Her routine is automatic: It gives her headspace to remember, and to imagine. A tingle passes along her arms, and up to her neck. She picks up her phone and sends him a single text:
"I can still feel you."
She's nearly ready by the time he replies. "Good."
It's time for the lipstick. Slowly, she turns the bottom to expose the color inside, and paints the deep, dark shade across her lips.
---
He's waiting for her as she treads down the stairs, engrossed in a book until he looks up, pages forgotten.
"Oh my," he says, eyes lingering on her lips, then back down over her busty chest, jet black skirt, and revealing fishnets.
He's dressed to match in a dark sleeveless shirt with canvas buckles running across the front, collar fastened tight enough it must be choking him slightly. She stops herself from licking her lips, lest she smudge the plum still wet from application.
"Shall we?" she asks, sizing him up as he stands.
"We shall," he says, taking her hand in his and kissing it before leading her to the door. He reaches down to explores the curve of her hip, squeezing tight. She breathes in deeply, recalling that same grip, and the feel of his pelvis against hers.
She steps closer and her lips creep forward toward his, stopping when they are separated by centimeters. He tilts his head to kiss her, and she stops him, hand against his chest.
"Now, now," she says. "Wouldn't want to ruin this Gothic Plum before the night begins."
"Of course not," he replies through gritted teeth.
---
The warehouse pulses with throngs of humanity dressed in leather and lace. It's their least favorite part of any outing: An unfamiliar crowd.
"We're in this together," he says.
"I know." She smiles and clasps his hand, then they step into the moment. Naked bodies and smut adorn the art from wall-to-wall. They navigate the gawkers and the crowd envelops them with the smell of cheap booze and the sound of idle chatter.
A watercolor catches her eye. She stops, admiring the portrait of two naked bodies. One is on her stomach, the other pressed against her from behind, masculine hands wrapped around feminine ones. A moment of passion captured on canvas.
"Remind you of anything?" he says from behind. His arms envelop her waist. For a moment, it's just the two of them, and the couple in the painting. Everyone and everything else blurs away.
She turns her head, catching his bright blue eyes in her periphery. "That's us," she whispers.
The moment ends as a tottering woman in pasties and little else bumps against them and giggles at a nearby piece.
"Damn vanillas," they say together, grinning. He rests his head against her shoulder for a final quiet instant, beard gently prickling her neck, before they move on.
---
"What did you think?" he asks. The car is blessedly warm against the winter chill.
"I think you were the best of the show tonight."
"And I you." He reaches over to grasp her thigh. Their lips meet fully this time, and she allows herself the slightest of moans.
"Now, now. Careful with the fishnets," she says. "I want to wear them again."
His grip tightens. "Whatever you say, my slut. My gorgeous Gothic Plum."
She feels her eyes widen against her will.
"We best get home," she says, pressing her thighs together and holding them tight.
---
They cut through the night, past streetlamps and restaurants, white picket fences and carefully landscaped yards. The house is cold and dark. He forgot to leave a light on.
They make it through the door, and not much further. She reaches to flip on the light, and his hand stops her, gripping her wrist.
Ah, he didn't forget.
His outline edges closer in the darkness, and she grunts, backed up against the wall. Lips find her neck, and then her shoulder.
Oh, Fuck
. She bites her tongue not to cry out, as the softness of his lips turns to the bite of teeth on her flesh.
He's got both of her wrists now, held above her in one of his hands. The other has somehow made its way inside her clothes, middle finger running softly over her clit. Teasing bastard. She'll show him.
"Let me taste myself," she says as she meets his eyes through the darkness.
"Let me taste myself..."
"Fuck. Let me taste myself,
please
."
He looks down at her from over his glasses, saying nothing, finger inching deeper inside her.
"Let me taste myself please,
