Teaching Paula to Sing

Sir would let her have only two glasses of wine with dinner. He said it was for her own good. He said he wanted her relaxed but in possession of her senses; he wanted her to remember what she was going to experience that night. She drank the first glass very quickly, and Sir put his fingers on her wrist and said, "Make the next glass last, Paula." His touch calmed her. She was finding it difficult to breathe. He seemed to know that. He let his fingertips linger on the inside of her wrist briefly.

Sir and Celie drank more, but not to excess. Sir ordered for all three of them, and Paula barely noticed what she was eating. The restaurant was beautiful, dim, expensive. Seventeen floors above was the suite where the three of them would go after their meal. Celie was intimidating—not that she intended to be, but in her blue halter dress, with her bare arms and lightly tanned back and shining eyes, she seemed to be the kind of woman Paula could only hope to be someday. Celie talked about her design business, told stories about some of her more interesting clients, and Sir watched her with amusement and approval. Sir himself told stories about his younger days, ending up with a long description of what he called his "sensual awakening."

"She wasn't the first girl I'd slept with," he said. "She was the fourth? sixth? Something like that. But she was the first one who seemed to crave sex as much as I did. More, probably. And she was older. I was 24, she was 29. And she pursued me, which was very flattering to my young male ego. She pursued me, she got me very drunk one night, and she had her way with me. But the interesting thing was that, to her way of thinking, having her way with me meant serving me. She was an assertive submissive, if that makes sense. Of course at that stage of my life I had no idea what a submissive was, or a dominant, or, frankly, what day of the week it was. I only knew that I had a woman who seemed to live for my cock. She needed to touch it, lick it, suck it, have it inside her, whenever possible. And she talked about it. This was nothing I'd ever experienced. The girls I'd been with were not sexually adventurous; they weren't brought up that way, and they lacked the imagination to break out of their upbringing. But I lacked imagination too. But my assertive submissive—her name was Julie—taught me to get beyond the narrow sort of Puritanical vision of sex I'd been raised with. I'd wake up in the morning with my cock in her mouth, and she'd bring me right to the edge of cumming, and she'd look up and me and say, 'Shoot your hot cum all over my tits, baby, I want to wear you to work today.' And she did. She wore me to work on a regular basis. Hell, she wore me to church once, to a memorial service or something." Sir paused for a moment and sipped his wine. He looked as if he might still miss this girl, Paula thought. "Anyway," he said. "She set me on a journey. And tonight is part of that journey." With that he looked straight at Paula and smiled. She blushed deeply.

"You approached me, didn't you, Paula," Sir said. "Are you an assertive submissive?"

"I don't know," she said quietly.

The waiter came to clear their plates and they all fell silent for a moment. It was true, Paula had approached him. She had seen his blog on Tumblr and liked his posts very much. They were visually striking and deeply erotic without being cheap or vulgar. They seemed to capture people's passion without resorting to the sort of crass, too-brightly-lit porn that her college boyfriends had enjoyed. Paula could tell from the pictures that Sir was a dominant man, but there seemed to be very little in his style of dominance that fed his own ego. His posts seemed to suggest or create a world in which dominance and submission were choices made by people who understood themselves and knew how to achieve a mutually satisfying and profoundly passionate life. Sir didn't suggest that his way was the only way. But he did suggest that if you felt drawn to this world he evoked, if it expressed the longings you felt could not be expressed any other way, then Sir's way could be most wonderfully fulfilling. So Paula sent him a note to say she enjoyed his blog, and they struck up a correspondence. She would tell him when he posted something that touched her particularly strongly. She wouldn't say, "Sir, I masturbated to that gif three times yesterday"—she'd just say, "Oh, I love that one"—but she imagined that he understood. She kept a blog, too, of course. It was a few weeks into their correspondence that he posted one of her images on his blog. When she saw that, a surge of heat passed through her body and her pussy clenched so hard she nearly whimpered. The image was a slow-motion gif of a woman's face—of the changes that came over her face as her man's cock entered her. In reposting it, Sir commented, "I want to be the man who is privileged to have such an effect on that beautiful face."

And now here they were, the three of them, each of their journeys coinciding in this hotel restaurant, with a suite reserved upstairs. Sir motioned to the waiter for the bill, then looked at Celie and said, "Shall we?"

As they walked toward the elevators, Sir holding each of them by the hand, Celie suddenly giggled and said, "Oh, James, I've got another one."

"Let's hear it," Sir said.

"Okay. Cheap steak, flat Diet Coke, and sneers."

Sir laughed and said, "Oh, very nice, Celie."

She beamed and said, "Thank you."

"My turn," said Sir. "Let me see... How about Arby's Horsey Sauce, too many breath mints, and sweaty, stubby fingers?"

Celie giggled again. Paula was flummoxed. Sir, noticing, said, "It's a little game Celie and I invented at the end of a long and tipsy conversation. The object is to name three items that best approximate the taste of Donald Trump's cum."

"Ewww," Paula said, involuntarily.

Sir and Celie laughed, and Sir said, "Try it, Paula. It's fun."

He looked at her with his blue-gray eyes, smiling, and gave her hand a squeeze. She sensed that this was some sort of odd test. She did not consider herself a witty person, especially in this company. Celie was very sharp, obviously, as well as classy/sexy/vibrant/adventurous—that much was clear even on a first meeting. She knew Sir better, having corresponded with him on Tumblr and so diligently studied his sexual aesthetic as he expressed it on his blog. He was articulate, often very funny, and in Paula's opinion possessed of much intelligence, though he did not flaunt it. It just seemed to inform his conversation naturally.

Paula looked down and tried to relax her mind. She couldn't bear to think of Donald Trump in a sexual way, but she realized in a flash of insight that if she thought of him more generally, the elements of an answer began to occur to her.

"All right," she said slowly. "Donald Trump's... sperm." She gave a small theatrical shiver and Celie giggled. She had a very fetching giggle, Paula realized. "I'll say... Cheeto dust, borrowed money, and the tears of a betrayed nation."

Sir stopped in his tracks. "Why, Paula," he said. "You're revealing hidden depths here. That's very good. I mean, yours has a moral component. Celie and I just went for the easy laugh."

Paula blushed again as Celie grinned at her. The elevator doors opened, they entered in great high spirits, and Sir pressed 17. It was a glass-walled elevator. As the car rose smoothly, they could see out over the hotel's atrium, the turquoise pool, and the walls of rooms, some dark, some dimly lit behind heavy drapes. How many people were in those rooms fucking, Paula idly wondered. Then, as they passed the 12th floor, Sir reached out and pushed the stop button. No alarm sounded, which momentarily surprised Paula, and then seemed natural. Sir would never have pushed the button if he knew an alarm would go off.

"Paula," he said. "Please stand facing the glass, as close you can to it without actually touching it, with your feet about a foot apart."

She turned and did so immediately. Her nipples hardened almost as quickly as she turned. In fact, they had been in various states of hardness all evening, which she knew had been evident through her silky top. But now, suddenly, they swelled until they ached.

Now Sir said, "Celie." His tone conveyed instruction. By saying her name, he was initiating a direction they had discussed previously.

Celie stood to Paula's left and spoke softly into her ear. "Before we go into the suite," she said, "James wants me to make sure you're really ready for this. All right?"

Paula nodded. Her legs were trembling. She had dressed exactly as Sir had specified: simple black skirt, sleeveless top (the color of Paula's choosing; she had worn cream), minimal jewelry. She wore only small pearl earrings that had been a gift from her Aunt Donna, who'd never married. Why was she thinking of that now? Also, no panties, no hose. Sir had made that clear.

Celie reached down with her right hand and let her fingers rest on the back of Paula's bare leg, just above the knee. Paula swallowed and tried to breathe from her diaphragm.

"Are you wet, Paula?" Celie whispered, her lips brushing Paula's ear.

Paula nodded, once.

Celie's fingers slid upward, which made Paula shiver. "Open your legs a bit more," Celie breathed.

Celie cupped Paula's smooth pussy very lightly, her hand never staying still, gently rubbing and squeezing. Paula bit her lower lip. Slowly, gently, but purposefully, Celie let her middle finger sink between Paula's swollen lips, sink and curl and slide deep. Celie said, "Mmmm, Paula, you're drenched." Paula was trembling almost violently now. She looked out over the atrium, at the people going about their business, going about their lives. This was her life, and it seemed to be just beginning. Celie slid a second finger inside her, while with her thumb she stroked softly, slowly between the cheeks of Paula's ass. Paula wanted to moan, to writhe, to press her hips down and draw Celie's fingers in deeper. She wanted to laugh, to cry, to sing. She wanted to be filled with flesh and ecstasy.

"Now, Paula," Celie said, "a few questions. Have you come here freely, out of your own desire and curiosity?"

Paula nodded.

"Have you come to serve James, or Sir as you call him—to serve his lust, to serve his cock, to serve his imagination, wherever they might lead you, wherever they might lead us all?"

Her pussy clenched repeatedly during the question, which made Celie smile. "I'll take that as a yes," Celie said.

"Do you have any desire to leave now, before the door of the suite closes behind us?"

Paula wanted to scream "No!" and "Would somebody please just fuck me?" Instead her pussy clenched again, very tightly molding itself around Celie's fingers, and she simply shook her head.

Celie turned her head to Sir and nodded, a little briskly, like someone closing a sale.

"Taste her," Sir said, and Celie made a small sound of pleasure. She drew her fingers slowly from inside Paula, who almost grieved to feel them slipping out of her, brought them to her lips, which were still at Paula's ear, and licked them slowly, thoroughly, letting Paula hear.

"Delicious," Celie said. "God, James. So good."

He said nothing. He just reached over and pushed another button, and the elevator rose again.

###

In the suite things happened quickly. Sir told Paula to take off her clothes almost casually, as he was walking to the bedroom. He loosened his tie but left his dark gray suit on. Celie, too, remained in her blue dress and tall black heels. She led Paula into the bedroom and motioned for her to lie crosswise on the bed. Sir sat so that he was at her head; she could look up at him. Celie knelt at the side of the bed and looked to Sir, her pretty face so very alive, so eager. Sir took Paula's wrists in his hands, so that her arms were stretched above her head.

He leaned down toward Paula and said, "Celie is going to feast on your cunt." Her gaze moved away from his for an instant, and he said, "I know you call it your pussy, Paula, but it is your cunt. A girl has a pussy; a woman has a cunt. Especially a woman as desperate to be fucked as you are. You have a cunt—"

"A beautiful cunt," said Celie, who as Sir spoke was untying the two strips of fabric that knotted behind her neck to form the bodice of her dress. As she let the fabric fall and her breasts were revealed, Sir stared at her. Paula could tell he loved Celie's breasts. She felt as if he had barely looked at her own. "A beautiful cunt," Celie said again. "So smooth, so pink, so fucking wet, Paula. You should see how it glistens. So tight, so warm, so hungry, so sweet." Celie was tugging and twisting her nipples as she spoke; Paula could feel the lust coming off of her like a perfume.

"A beautiful, perfectly delicious cunt," said Sir. "Now that we've established that—" He nodded at Celie, and she wasted no time.

Paula arched off the bed as Celie's tongue entered her. Celie's hands cupped her ass, pulling Paula's face tight to her mouth. The dinner, the time in the elevator, all that slow buildup, was released seemingly in an instant. There was no tonguetip teasing, no slow patient licking the length of her slit. Paula had wished to be fucked, and Celie was doing it, her tongue plunging deep, deep, again and again, sometimes sliding up to roughly circle Paula's clit before diving back into her. With Sir holding her wrists, she couldn't grab Celie's head as she longed to do. She bucked and rode and writhed, with Sir's face above her, watching intently. Her body arched again and again, her small breasts heaving, her nipples so fucking hard she thought they might burst from sheer pleasure. Sir seemed to sense this. He took both her wrists in one of his hands and with the other hand he worked her nipples, one at a time, the ball of his thumb stroking them—God, she didn't think they'd ever been so elongated, so dark, so sensitive. He pinched them, hard, held each one between his thumb and his first two fingers and pulled them, timing his movements to Celie's, so that as her tongue went deep into Paula's cunt and then moved upward, he was pulling, pulling her nipple, and then as Celie's tongue came free for a moment, he released her nipple and reached for the other one. In a parallel universe she would have said it hurt, his powerful fingers having their way with her tender nipples, but in this universe it was a new kind of pleasure, one she had dreamed existed but never before felt. He began to ask Paula questions, which she could only answer with shuddering nods and gasps. "Do you like it when Celie moans into your cunt?" he said. Yes. "Do you want her fingers inside you, too?" Yes, yes. And Celie pushed two fingers into her, fucking her with fingers and tongue, and then a third finger, which made her feel stretched and filled and nearly made her scream, and began sucking Paula's clit while her fingers pistoned in and out. God, Celie was so good at this. "Do you want Celie to make you cum, Paula?" Yes, fuck yes, please please please oh God Sir please. "You know that you may only cum with my permission." Yes, Sir, I know that, Sir, that's been very well established but my cunt is on fire and I'm begging you.

"Celie," he said. "She may cum."

He sat back, releasing Paula's wrists, just watching, and her hands went to Celie's head, fingers twining in her dark hair. She bucked her cunt urgently, desperately, against Celie's open mouth. With Sir's permission given, her orgasm tore through her body and came out of her own mouth as a long high-pitched cry of joy. She hadn't known, she hadn't known a person could cum like this. How had she not known, why was this kept from her for so long, and how could she ever thank Celie, and Sir, he was the orchestrator, how could she thank him, ever? And even as she was still cumming, Celie's tongue still making circles on her swollen, trembling clit, she was yearning to thank them both, to serve them, to give back to them this amazing thing that they had given her. Finally, panting, almost unable to catch her breath, tears in her eyes that blurred Sir's face as he sat above her, she said the only thing she could say, which was "Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck." And Celie was smiling up from between her legs, her face shiny with Paula's juices (my beautiful cunt made her beautiful face shine so beautifully, she thought, knowing it was a sappy thought and not caring, not capable of very much thought at all). She was just riding in the ether, this post-orgasmic place she had only just discovered, and a new wave of gratitude filled her, she wanted to eat Celie's pussy (no, cunt, cunt, her fucking glorious Celie cunt) all night long, and suck Sir's cock for him, make him happy, make him smile, make him shoot his luscious cum down her throat and over every inch of her grateful body, and suck him again till he was hard and take him in all her holes, feel him spurting, his thick hot cum surging in her mouth, her cunt, her ass, which no man had ever had but which Sir could own, please, Sir, own my ass, own me, ass cunt mouth body soul.

###

In the immediate aftermath of her orgasm, Paula must have passed out for a few seconds; when she came to, she was sitting against the padded headboard, and Sir was tying her right wrist to the bedpost with his silk tie. Celie, now naked except for her black panties and heels, was tying Paula's left wrist to the other bedpost with a length of soft, velvety rope. Celie's panties looked very shiny, which puzzled Paula in her current mental state. Sir must have seen her looking confusedly at them, because he chuckled and said, "Celie loves her latex, Paula," and Celie said, "God, do I ever," and giggled.

Sir said, "Come show her, Celie," and Celie grinned, kicked off her shoes, and climbed up on the bed. She stood straddling Paula's body, and Sir, still in his suit, came to stand behind her. He let his hand rest lightly on her body, just beneath her breasts, and looked down at Paula over over shoulder. "Celie loves how the latex squeezes her," he said. "How tightly it contains her ass and her pretty little cunt. She has beautiful catsuits that contain her whole body that way. They have zippers at the crotch so that she can keep them on while I fuck her—she can have that feeling of her entire body being tightly contained and squeezed while her core is being penetrated and pounded by my cock." Sir let his hand slide down over Celie's smooth belly. He curled his fingers around Celie's latex-encased cunt, and she moaned.

"The thing about these panties," he said, his fingers gently moving over the gleaming latex, "is that they not only contain Celie's flesh—they also contain her juices. Right now"—Paula saw his hand grip and hold steady, and Celie moaned again—"right now Celie's cunt is swimming in her own juices. Her cunt is a warm, squelchy, glorious mess." Celie threw her head back and her legs tensed. "She loves the feeling of having her cunt touched through the latex," he continued. "It has a thickness and substance to it, but it conducts touch in its own special way. Doesn't it, Celie?"

"Yes," she said softly.

"I don't know if Paula heard you," Sir said, and Paula saw his grip tighten. Celie gasped, then swallowed hard and tilted her head down to look at Paula.

"Yes," she said again, a bit more loudly, though her voice quavered from the pleasure of Sir's grip. "I love—oh God, James—I love being touched through the latex." She squeezed her eyes shut, took a sharp deep breath and exhaled slowly. Paula was sure she was trying very hard not to cum. Sir had not given permission yet.

"Paula," Sir said, "would you like to get an idea of what we're talking about?" Paula nodded up at him, but with her wrists bound to the bedposts, she wondered how this was possible. However, Celie knew what he wanted. She slid her feet forward until her pubic mound was almost grazing Paula's forehead.