They always met in the same dark, dated, motel room where the sound of neighboring televisions blared through paper-thin walls and parking spots around back were at a premium because nobody wanted to risk having a car recognized. Every Thursday at noon. For the last six months. Each week Lola entered the unlocked door and stripped down to black lace panties and matching stilettos, just as Michael had instructed when they first agreed to meet. Each week, she felt the breath knocked out of her as her gaze lit upon the curve of his neck sloping into broad, sinewy shoulders. He never turned to take her in. Never watched her walk, her almost naked body taut with anticipation, across the room. Never acknowledged her presence until she sat on the hard, metal folding chair facing him. And then it was only a nod and the utterance of a single word, "Begin."
Though he wooed her with beautiful emails each day, teased her with scintillating messages, awoke a primal beast within her by opening her imagination to acts she had not previously considered, he still hadn't laid a hand on her. For six months, he hadn't laid a hand on her. Yet, she still showed up, hopeful that he would. He had hands, and lips, and based on the bulge she saw in his pants every week, a cock worth waiting for. So, each week, Lola showed up and sat in a cold, metal folding chair and quivered, waiting for him to say the word: "Begin."
For the first few weeks, she played by the rules. When the command was given, she touched herself, caressing the ample flesh of her breasts, nipples ripening to plump, red berries, while delicately stroking her sex through the confines of lace panties. She imagined her hands were his, cupping her womanhood, releasing her juices. Once they were soaked through with the hot, slippery wetness of her pussy, she moved her panties out of the way and placed one finger on each side of her clit, rocking her hips in time with the pulsing of her fingers. Locking eyes with Michael, her owner, her master, even though he'd never touched her, drove her instantly to the brink of orgasm, so she tried to look anywhere else. Coming before he allowed it would be punished with a week of silence, and she could not go that long without reading his words, hearing his voice. So she focused on his lips, his shoulders, his hands, the bulge in his pants, anywhere but his eyes. Until he said, "Come." Then she allowed herself to drown in the depths of his soul and call out his name as her body came undone from the heat of desire in his gaze.
Once, after the first month of playing this game, doing as he commanded, obeying Michael's rules, she tried to antagonize him. Tried to force him to take her. Not being touched, not being able to touch him, was killing her. So instead of sitting and spreading her legs and waiting for his consent, she went to him. She stood before him, shimmied out of her panties and dropped the wisp of black lace onto his lap. Sick of letting him dictate the rules of their meetings, she straddled him, naked but for heels, and brought her mouth to his. And found only unyielding flesh. Instead of returning her kiss, Michael gripped both of her arms, lifted her from his lap and carried her across the room to her chair. Then, without a word, he retrieved her panties from the floor, stuffed them into his pocket and was gone. Though humiliating, it was still not as painful as the week of silence that followed.
The following Thursday, and every week since, Lola had stayed on script, always hoping that Michael would eventually allow their relationship to be consummated.
Though today marked exactly six months since their first meeting, she tried to push aside any sentimental notion that this time would be the time it happened. If Michael wanted Lola to touch herself, to bring herself to orgasm for him every single week for the rest of her life, she would. He owned her.
Already unzipping her dress as she pushed open the door to Room #8, their room, the place of their unsated desire, Lola was rendered immobile by the scene awaiting her. In place of their normal arrangement -- one plush armchair, one hard, metal folding chair, and one untouched bed -- Michael had created a tableau that spoke of passions beyond anything she had ever experienced. The bed, lit from all sides with hundreds of candles, was turned down, ready for use. On the nightstand, Lola spotted an assortment of toys -- dildos of various sizes and shapes, vibrators, bottles of lube, nipple clamps, silk scarves, a riding crop -- it looked like Michael had visited a sex shop and purchased one of everything. But, what stunned and excited her the most was the vision in the center of the room. Michael, shirtless, skin glowing in the candlelight, sitting in his armchair, not with his back turned to the door as it had been every week, but facing her. Looking at her. Seeing her. And wanting her.
Shaken from their usual routine, Lola froze, uncertain what was expected of her. Until Michael commanded, his voice the same unyielding tone she was accustomed to hearing each week,
"Undress."
The authority in his voice left no room for hesitation. Lola unzipped her dress the rest of the way and let it slide down her arms and fall to the floor. Gripped with an inexplicable shyness, she tucked a wisp of her chestnut bob behind her right ear before fumbling with the clasps on her sheer, black bra. Slipping each strap from her shoulders, she felt her nipples tighten even though there wasn't a hint of chill in the air. She stood before him, feeling exposed in a way she hadn't before, as Michael appraised her naked flesh. Though he'd watched her bring herself to explosive orgasm dozens of times during the past half year, the way he looked at her now, drinking her in, felt far more intimate. Her skin blazed everywhere his eyes lit. The pronounced curve of her hips away from the small of her waist, her collarbone where it met the slope of her shoulder, the full, softness of her bottom lip, all felt sunburned from the heat of Michael's overt desire.
Unsure what was expected of her, Lola took a step forward, wanting to go to Michael, make him her lover at long last. But Michael made it clear that, in spite of the new arrangement, he intended to continue running the show.
"Stop." He told her, and Lola froze once more. "Turn. Slowly. I want to look at you."
Time halted as she pivoted, not daring to move more than an inch at a time, having to remind herself to breathe. Even though she could no longer see him, she could still feel his eyes, knew exactly where he was looking, felt as his passion scorched her body. By the time she again faced Michael, Lola was panting and ready to do anything he asked, if only he would touch her.
"Lovely," he sighed, a softness in his voice that Lola had never heard inside this room before. "Come to me, you silken goddess. Come to me and kneel."
Overcome with a level of emotion she hadn't even been aware she felt, Lola went to the source of her desire and knelt at his feet, not caring that the worn carpet bit into her flesh. She would endure any level of discomfort just to be near this man. Arms clasped behind her back, leaving her vulnerable and exposed, Lola met her beloved's gaze. In that look, in her complete submission to this beautiful, powerful man, she claimed him as her own. And then he touched her.
With a gentleness that seemed other-worldly, he caressed the hollow of her cheek, first with only his thumb, then his whole hand as she leaned into his touch, savoring it.
"Do you want this?"
Lola stifled a moan, only able to whisper, "yes."
Michael smoothed a strand of her hair between thumb and forefinger, then ran the back of his hand along her jawline, never wavering from the intensity of their locked eyes.
"Love, you've shown your devotion. But I need to be certain you want this. Because once I take you, you will be mine."
"Michael, I am already yours. I have always been yours. I was made to belong to you." With six months of hunger and desperation lending her voice the reverence of prayer, Lola begged, "please."
Her savior, this man she worshipped, brought his mouth to hers and kissed her deeply, hands tangling in her hair, tongue languidly exploring her. He tasted like warm honey. She wanted to kiss him forever. Michael had other plans.
Pulling her backward by her hair, Michael broke their kiss. Bringing his lips to her ear, Michael whispered, "I'm going to hurt you, Love. I'm going to hurt you, then I'm going to fuck you. And when I'm done, you're going to beg me to do it all over again. Do you understand?"
Eyes closed in ecstasy, Lola nodded, "yes."
Everything that had been withheld from her for six months unleashed by her nod of assent, Michael opened his right hand and slapped Lola across the face. The spreading sting felt like sacrament.
"Do you like that?" he asked, hunger in his voice.
"I do."
"Why? Because you're bad?"
"Yes."
"Because you're a filthy slut?"
"Yes."
"Say it. Tell me why you like it."
"I like it when you hurt me, Michael. I am your dirty, little slut. I belong to you and I need you to hurt me."
For the first time ever, Lola heard Michael moan. It was a deep, overwhelming sound, like the tectonic plates of her world shifting and resettling in unfamiliar locations. Still holding her by the hair, Michael nuzzled the deep, red handprint she knew had blossomed on her face. She cherished the mark that it would leave. Hungered for more.
She heard the glorious metallic sound of an opening zipper, knew that with his free hand, Michael was loosing himself for her. Before she could even beg, the feverish, magnificent head of Michael's cock was parting her lips, covering her greedy tongue in his exquisite saltiness. She opened her throat and slid her tongue down the shaft, taking him all as Michael thrust inside her. A moan that came from deep in her diaphragm vibrated around Michael's manhood. She knew he was big, but the way he filled her mouth and throat exceeded her wildest desires. With Michael grasping and releasing the back of her head in time with his thrusts, Lola swallowed him whole, then, using cheeks and lips and tongue, created an intense suction as she slid back up the shaft that made her lips smack when she released him. Hungry for more, Lola stroked his spit-slicked cock with her right hand while taking his balls into the softness of her mouth, circling them with her tongue.
"Mmmmm," Michael's grip loosened on her hair, "that's good. I love that sweet, filthy little mouth." Pulling her head backward once more, Michael looked into her eyes. "I knew you were going to be worth waiting for."
