I texted Liz this morning and told her to have her husband take her out to buy a new dress and pumps. I was interested to see what her tastes would run to. The four times I'd met with her she was frumpy, conservative or naked. After the last time, I left her hanging and told her that I would be back to her in two weeks and in fact as of this morning it was three.
There is a subtle level of control exerted in setting up expectations and then letting them down - something that doesn't come easy to me. I keep my word.
Liz is of Trinidadian heritage - both parents are from there. She is in a marriage with a demanding slob. Short, about 5 feet, she had a medium frame with muscular calf's and thighs and a great ass. Her breasts weren't overly large, a C cup without a hint of sag even though she had a bit of a thick mid-section. I wasn't a prize in the gut department but compared to her husband's soft rolls of fat I was a veritable Adonis.
Her husband tired to bully her into a sub-threesome responding to an ad I put online on a lark. Instead I started the process of turning her into a sub. I had the feeling there was steel in her and wondered about her struggle between wanting to please with a fierce self determination.
Today was the day she was going to pay a visit to my friend's spa. I was very clear with El that the special treatment would have to stop short of orgasm.
I spent a bit of time surfing my online contacts when my phone rang.
"Hello"
"She's here." El could be a little abrupt and businesslike when she wants to be. She hung up before I could answer.
I walked over to the dilapidated building just off Chinatown - a building exterior that masked a spa meets boudoir for women only. My wife absolutely loved the place and I was one of the privileged few non- women who got serviced there - sort of like a pet.
Walking in I brushed past the desk and straight into El's office, checking first that she wasn't with anyone. She smiled when I walked in and poured me two fingers (much bigger than hers) of McCallan 10. She kept it around for me (I'm sure I've paid for it many times over but she is sweet).
I sat down across from her as she sipped her Chardonnay, beads of sweat still forming on the outside. She must have seen me coming up the walk and poured it before I got to her office.
"I can see what you see in her. If you ever tire of her let me know." El was great in bed but I knew generally her tastes ran to woman - certainly my wife loved having her go down on her.
"Is it too early to go in?" I wanted to know.
"You were right, she's never waxed before and she has a lot of coarse hair. She just went in for her mani and pedi."
When we last were together I told her to stop shaving for two weeks and now there was something on the order of three weeks of growth on her.
El giggled, "she's like some of the butch who come in here. I'd love to nibble at some of that hair between her legs or under her arms."
"They'll let us know when they're going back."
The spa was a bit warm and between the office and the back rooms it was hot. I wasn't usually brought in for treatment unless the coast was clear. Behind those doors customers didn't wear anything and it wouldn't do to have a white-haired man with a white beard wandering through, pony tail or not.
I sipped my scotch and when the phone rang and El got up and left the room. I reached over and refreshed my drink. I suppose scotch is an acquired taste and I prefer sweeter rather than spicy or peaty, especially peaty. I spent part of my military career digging holes or having my face planted into the ground trying to make myself as tall as a short blade of grass. Peaty scotch brought me back to those smells all too often. And as for acquired taste, my Scottish alcoholic grandfather considered it an elixir akin to mother's milk so I had acquired an early taste for really bad stuff, neat.
El came back in and motioned me to follow her - I dutifully fell in behind until we got to the door and as I squeezed to get by her she gave me a good stroke.
God bless her though; she had a comfortable chair set up for me with a small table next to it with another bottle - this time a sweeter Glenmorangie with a small bucket on the side with ice. Sweeter requires a good ice and forever true to her excellence they were fresh and large. One cube, two ounces and I settled back.
There's something about the ripping sound of tearing hair from flesh that gives me goosebumps and every strip off Liz brought the same curse: "who the fuck does he think he is that the fucker makes me suffer like this?" As promised the technicians didn't cut the hair down and were being a little less than gentle than they normally are. I made the up and down movement with my right hand, sort of like a bird flapping it's wing, which in infantry sign language is akin to slow and careful.
I was right, away from men she was feisty and profane. I was going to have to work carefully with that.
Liz was naked on the table with a facial mask and something covering her eyes and had those ridiculous spacers between her freshly manicured toes. I would have loved to have walked over and sucked her toes but I'm sure I would have had my lips covered with some sort of lacquer.
Besides the whole point was to be there while she received the second part of the treatment - they had done her legs first before the mani and pedi and were working on her upper body. They had just finished her armpits which is why I think I heard the string of profanity.
They were working on her breasts now, slowly massaging them to get the ring engorged and her nipples standing up to their majestic half inch height. They were being gentler and Liz was sniffling a moan.
