You're late. You're always late.
Fortunately, you've never stood me up or cancelled at the last minute. I do so look forward to our trysts.
Within the hour, you will knock on the door of our hotel room with an apology and a tale of woe. You were stuck in traffic, your flight was delayed, an important client called you on your cell phone, etc., etc. I've heard all of your stories, but no matter. If your life was not as it is, high stakes, high stress, you might not have a need for me, perish the thought. I will always have a need for you.
The need I refer to is not monetary, of course. I am neither a prostitute nor a high-maintenance mistress. Like yourself, I have an advanced degree, a career, a spouse and children. My clients treat me with the utmost respect, for I am a consummate professional with impeccable manners. Until I met you, no one so much as guessed my personality has other facets.
"So how did you spot me?" I asked once, years ago, after releasing you from your bonds.
"You had a particular look in your eyes. Bedroom eyes, no, more intense. It's the same look men have when they see something they want. In a woman's eyes it's a little, I don't know, scary, but exciting. I thought, Whoa, what does she want with me?"
I recall the night we met. You had a certain look in your eyes, as well: a willingness to please, a desire to relinquish control. Nothing in your mannerisms distinguished you from the other attorneys attending that dull suaré. You were strong-willed, ambitious, cynical, but your eyes hinted of unfulfilled longings I alone understood. We exchanged cell numbers. We've met this way ever since.
As I wait in our hotel room, I study my appearance in the mirror facing the bed. I prefer to remain dressed until you arrive.
My outermost layer of clothing is conservative yet fashionable: a knee-length, sleeveless black dress, stockings, high-heeled black pumps. My dark hair is swept in a bun. I wear pearls, minimal makeup, absolutely no perfume. That's a very important detail.
The second layer is more interesting: a black lace push-up bra and a matching thong. The stockings are thigh-highs. Underneath the lingerie my body is freshly showered, hairless, pale as cream, toned from countless hours spent in the gym, slathered in unscented lotion, exquisitely soft to the touch. As I examine myself at an angle, my generous breasts, thighs, and ass, I wonder if I've been eating too much lately. I remind myself you prefer me this way.
You've explained why you don't like most of the women in our social class. You see them every day, tanned as leather, silicone-enhanced and painfully thin. They appear either angry or completely expressionless, depending on the date of their last botox injection. Some men may find them suitable trophy wives, but they will never give you a proper boner.
For the sake of pure pleasure you require someone else, a primal archetype. You discovered her many years ago. She was a centerfold in the Playboy your father hid in his closet. Her name was Betty Page. You met someone just like her shortly after you turned fourteen.
Late in life, your mother had another child. Your parents did not trust you with an infant, so they hired a sitter when they went out to dinner, a seventeen-year-old Italian girl name Linda. On a warm night in the middle of July, after she put your sister to sleep, Linda visited your room. She sat on your bed. At the time you were wearing boxers and nothing else, as you were not expecting company. Linda was naked under her gauzy green sundress.
"Would you like to touch me?" she asked innocently. The look in Linda's eyes was anything but innocent. Before you could answer, she lifted her dress and placed your hand on one of her full, round breasts. With her plump little fingers guiding yours, she showed you how to caress her taut, cinnamon-shaded nipples. You immediately pitched a tent in your shorts. You could barely breath.
"I'm sorry," was all you knew to say.
"It's alright, you're supposed to do that," she assured you as she removed her dress completely.
"Here, let me take those off. You'll be more comfortable."
As Linda removed your boxers, you stared at her body, helplessly transfixed. Her curves were generous and soft, more so than most girls her age.
"There's something I want to teach you." Linda said as she straddled your face. "You see this?" she asked, caressing the little pink lump that protruded from her dark pubic hair. "I want you to run your tongue over it, back and forth, really softly, OK?"
The electric current of her scent shot down your spine. Blissfully overwhelmed, you did as she asked.
"Ooh, yes, that's perfect," Linda cooed. "I'll tell you when to stop."
You continued to lick her for the longest time, until she whimpered and trembled. Then Linda did something even more surprising. She turned around, still straddling your face, and put your stiff, aching cock in her mouth. As soon as you felt her wet lips slide down your shaft, you came. She drank every drop. As she dressed, Linda thanked you.
"Did you like that? Was it fun?" she asked.
"Yes," you agreed, still struggling to comprehend what happened.
"Would you like to do more next time?"
'What a ridiculous question,' you thought. "Sure!"
By the end of the summer that good-natured, chubby, eager babysitter taught you everything you needed to know about sharing pleasure. In high school you dated skinny cheerleader types because your friends wanted them, but the sex was never as good. It's never been as good with anyone else, as a matter of fact, not until you met me.
I hear footsteps and turn from the mirror. 'Is that you?' I hear a door slam further down the hall. No, it's not. 'Damn it,' I think, 'where the hell are you? I've been here almost an hour. You know how horny I get while I'm waiting!'
I'm always horny, truth be known, which is why I require a man like yourself to sate me. Successful, respectable women must not openly acknowledge the intensity of our yearnings, lest we lose a certain level of hard-earned respect. But I cannot help being the way I am, it's in my genes, I did not choose it.
My problems began shortly after my twelfth birthday. In my case the shift in hormone levels did not creep up slowly as it does for most young girls. Puberty crashed into my unsuspecting psyche like a bullet train with brake failure.
One morning I awakened to find hair sprouting between my legs. My chest was sore. I thought something was wrong. By the time I entered the sixth grade I already filled a B cup. The older boys in my neighborhood scared me. They gave me dark looks because they thought I was older.
The boys in my class, however, became strangely fascinating. I'd stare at their hands and mouths absentmindedly, as if I wanted something from them but had no idea what. My Greek Orthodox family never spoke of sex.
Later that year I finally realized what I yearned for, what the older boys yearned for, when a classmate found her mother's stash of bodice-ripper novels. I borrowed a few to read "the good parts" (dog-eared for the sake of convenience) and studied them in my room in the wee hours of the night. They described in awful, florid prose all the wonderful things men can do to women with their bodies. After reading a few passages I felt a terrible ache between my legs. Instinctively I pulled down my pajamas and rubbed where it hurt. The release was powerful, glorious, surprising.
Since then I've masturbated at least once a day, every day, with my fingers, with sex toys, whatever is available at the moment. Sometimes that's enough to calm me down, but masturbation alone never truly soothes the ache. For that I need another body, a man's body specifically. 'Where the hell are you?'
I know exactly what I will do when you arrive. First I will scold you. "Where have you been? You're late!"
You'll apologize profusely. I'll tell you I don't want to hear it. "There's only one way to make it up to me."
"What do you want?" you'll ask, sounding cocky and irritated. You'll think I'm being unreasonable.
"How dare you speak to me in that tone of voice! Now you're really in for it!" I'll snap as I remove my dress. "You know how worked up I get while I'm waiting for you," I'll continue as I let down my hair. "It's going to take hours to get this out of my system!"
