Simply Billy

Five crisp one hundred dollar bills rest on the faded brown surface of the hotel bedside table.

**

It's always the same with Billy. A little over an hour, and few, if any, words are spoken. It's sixteen steps from the elevator to the room, room 214, his favorite room because he's superstitious like that.

He leaves the deadbolt open so the door doesn't shut all the way, and I walk in casually and drop my large leather duffle on the floor. The room is disorganized, disheveled, typical of a bachelor; you'd think he lived there, but this tornado was only left behind during a one-night stay.

It's just an Ayres Inn not like the Ritz that I am used to, hell, not even like the Renaissance I use for travel. It's a simple, messy Ayres room and he's a simple, messy boy anyway -- so I ignore it all, and get to what I have come for.

Billy is already kneeling, and he's already naked. I can't tell you how many habits I have trained and untrained from him, over and over again, until his meticulous habits become less annoying and more stimulating to me. I used to hate his need for protocol and rules and structure. God knows how such a slob could be so strung out on rules, but that's Billy -- a walking contradiction.

Or crawling. Billy crawls to me obediently and on time, greets me with a kiss to the top of my boot. Just another silly ritual that I find kind of needless but it helps in the cock-rock department, so I let it slide. And it gives me time to admire the shape of his back, the tone of his flesh, the outline of the muscles that frame his body.

No words with Billy this time. Not that we have anything to say, anyway. Billy's eyes do most of the talking, or the signals that come with the shakiness of his breath. His fingers curl into the cheap carpet of the Ayres Inn as I bring out the first flogger, then the paddle. If I were not in boots I could feel his breath coming in ragged pants across the tops of my toes.

Instead, I just keep beating him, and watching what seems like a gloss appear over the top of the black patent leather. His body is shaking and he starts to collapse, just a little, his shoulders slouching as he tries to find the strength to stay upright for the continued necessary beatings.

I don't beat Billy because I like beating. I beat Billy because I like what it does to Billy.

By the time I am finished with the flogger, and the paddle, his body is covered with a thin film of sweat and his cheeks have turned a beautiful sweet shade of pink. His ass cheeks. Without a moment of hesitation, though, I take him by the chin and haul him up to look at his face, to confirm that the cheeks of his face are equally flushed, and indeed they are.

It's one of the finer mysterious of life. How come after the aerobic workout of a ruthless eleven minute beating, he is more out of breath than I am. And clearly he is in better shape than I am, as evidenced by the definition in his arms. He's the one shaking on ragged breath, his face covered in sweat, and his lips nearly quivering, but not quite enough.

"Bitch," I say, and it ends up being the only word I speak to Billy that day.

"Yes," he agrees, obediently, and of course, that's the only word he says that day.

I slap him, once, across the face, and he stumbles from his knees to the floor, probably more melodramatic than anything. I didn't hit him that hard, after all. I never do. I just find myself needing to take a swing at him after calling him a bitch. It reminds him of his place.

Billy holds still, naked, in his pile on the Ayres floor, as I investigate the contents of my leather duffle bag. It's always fairly random, what I toss in the bag. Billy never knows, and never is told anyway. I see the clock in the corner of the room, but damn me, I forgot to look at it when I came in, so I have no idea how much time we have left.

I take longer than I need to. In my bag. Because Billy's just softly, sweetly, barely whimpering there, and he's doing it for my benefit, I think. I hate to use the word "whimper" because Billy doesn't really whimper -- he just makes a sweet sound when he exhales, if he's in pain, a sound that makes me so incredibly wet. It's one of the few sounds made by man that makes my pussy literally ache; with every exhale, with every soft trace of the sound, I feel a pounding inside my crotch that makes me want to drop everything in that moment and merely wrestle his head between my legs and order him to use his tongue.

Clearly, that's not part of our agreement.

I quiet the aching between my legs by letting my fingers wrap around the familiar, rigid form of the large latex cock. My fingers trace it as I listen to Billy's breathing settle, and when I peer over at him to see what he's up to, I realize he's kneeling forward, close to the ground, his hands behind his head and his face pressed into the carpet.

For my benefit, he's intertwined his fingers. Luckily, Billy remembers these important details.

Observing him in this vulnerable pose makes strapping into the harness an even more enjoyable process. Sometimes I make him watch, but this time, I take some pleasure in knowing that he can hear me and must know what is going on, while his face is pressed hard down on the floor. He doesn't dare look; the beating put him into the perfect frame of mind, the one that curbs his otherwise uppity attitude and strips every last shed of false confidence from his core.

I take my time with the buckles and stand close enough so that they jingle where he can hear them. I pull the harness straps tight, deliberate, and see his body tense and flinch at all the right times. Once again, his breathing starts to shake, and I even see the hint of a tremble in his otherwise steady, talented hands.

For a moment, it's very easy to discard the knowledge that he's quite strong, quite capable and quite desirable to so many women. For the moment, he's merely a bitch for my amusement, and the aching in my pussy demands that I push him to completion. To my completion.

This time, I won't make him suck my dick, or beg for lubricant. As much as I long to see his eyes water, his cheeks turn even more read as he gags on it, I fear that time has been lost and I really am behind schedule. All I can do is use my boot to kick apart his legs, give him a nudge with the toe of my boot to force him to raise his ass for me, and coat the head of the dildo with the moisture from my pussy and nothing else.

It doesn't go very easily.

There's a fine line between stifled, painful humiliation of an ass that's simple too tight, and real terror or danger of physical harm, and I know Billy can walk that line. Hurting him, for real, simply isn't an option, but if at any time in our relationship he felt the fear of potentially being hurt, it is now. To say he is tight would be a huge understatement. But with the help of a lubricated condom, my cock finds its way.

Fucking Billy from that point is fairly inconsequential, except for the fact that it drives me close to orgasm three times from the mere thrusting, only because I watch him clench his own fingers in his thick hair and try to muffle his cries by biting into the carpet, using all his physical strength to keep his hips positioned and ass elevated, knowing that collapsing on the floor would have serious consequences.

He knows I want to ride until I am done.

Without my clock as a guide, with no real concept of time, I ride him dangerously close to our cut off time. I visualize the crisp one hundred dollar bills on the brown nightstand table of the Ayres hotel and something inside me aches, a different kind of ache. An ache of sadness, of longing. An ache for closeness.

I imagine deep, romantic and sensual kisses that I know will never happen; I imagine the feel of his thick, almost curled locks of hair between the flesh of my finger tips. I imagine the scent of his cologne, closer, as I curl against him in the Ayres bed and listen to his breathing when he sleeps.

Such closure is simply not possible. I push those thoughts out of my mind as I feel my emotional release peaking as much as it possibly could, as I look down at him and hear the kind of honest, vulnerable sounds I need to hear to know he's been pushed as far as he is going. At least for today.

I leave him to clean up himself, and listen to the sounds of his ragged breathing as I put my things back in my bag. Billy doesn't help; we both know that after the act, he needs emotional and social distance even more than I do. I never confess to him my fantasies of curling up in the bed next to him and holding him, allowing him to comfort me as I reconcile my sadistic thoughts and process the token guilt.

On the nightstand, next to the ashtray, he's left a torn page of a calendar with a date for next month circled. I take the paper and fold it in half, sliding it into my pocket; we'll never talk about it, we just both know what it means.

Since this time there's no words, I say nothing to him before I exit his room at the Ayres Inn. I quietly remove the crisp one hundred dollar bills from my purse and place them next to the ashtray as usual, and force myself not to steal one last glance before I go.