The Coffee Date 1

The cement grey cityscape shimmered off the telescope lens as it shifted to ground level. His eye on the view finder, he sharpened his focus, and found the shadowy fold between her legs. Outside Starbucks, she startled. Magenta first-date lips curled, and flirty creases formed around her eyes. Were her Lululemons too tight?

Her I-phone flashed his profile photo for an audio-call. "Hello." It was the first time he'd heard her voice. He apologized for the last-minute switch-up, but he was expecting a package and couldn't join her for the coffee date. "Can't the concierge take it?" she asked.

"It's important. The pass-over must be in person."

The freshness of her lip-cover wearied as she bit her lower lip. Her head and shoulders sank, and for a beat he let the silence become heavy and dense. "Why don't you join me chez condo? We'll hang out here and get our drink later." She hesitated. "We both know you made the time." He texted his address.

She squinted up at the mirror-silver high-rise, and crossed the concrete plaza to the polished granite entrance. He stroked the steel handcuffs hanging open from his belt. His dick hardened.

She appeared as pixels on the intercom. "Can you come down to meet me?"

"No, it's unit 25B. You come to me." He buzzed her up.

Spying her inches away through the peep hole, he watched her knock. Silence. She knocked again. Another pause. A nervous reflex triggered a shiver. She turned to leave, and in that instant he yanked the door open, gripped her mouth, and dragged her in. The door slammed shut, and the springlock clicked. Pressing her cheek against the door, he brushed his lips against her ear. "All the time we messaged, I knew I would have you."

She was flushed and breathless, but she didn't call

Red

.

He handcuffed her and turned her to face him.

"I'm going to undress you, understand?" She nodded.

Squatting, he reached to pull off her boot but it held tight. He wedged his thumbs in to stretch the leather. Bracing from his haunches and tugging with both hands, he teetered. She giggled. His bulging eyes shot her a warning look. "You stupid Slut! Everyone knows Blundstones are supposed to be worn loose!" At that, her foot slackened, the boot flew off, and he fell backwards onto his ass.

Bowing, he sucked in a breath and mindfully exhaled, concentrating on his floorboards, mahogany planks, salvaged from Lake Bayano in Panama. Robert the Roomba cruised this light-filled, minimally-furnished, soaring executive suite daily and yesterday's cleaners had buffed the floor to a pristine finish . . . but . . .

What the fucking hell!

A spider crawled by. Folding into himself, he trembled and heaved, gasped and snorted, and then exploded into peals of laughter. OK . . . she could laugh too. He smiled and winked, tore off a sock, twirled it, and tossed it over his shoulder. But only for a moment.

Ceremoniously lifting her sweater, as though it were a veil, he drew it over her head, down her back, and left it hanging from the handcuffs. He noticed her eyes were hazel with flecks of green and when she blinked long black eyelashes flicked her bangs. Her breasts ballooned over her black lace bra, barely concealing her nipples and the outline of her areolae. When he unhooked it, her breasts, pendulous but still ample, relaxed. His cheeks tingled as he imagined burying his face into them.

She yielded as he pulled down her leggings and peeled off her thong, his hands stroking her smooth generous hips and the large fleshy rounds of her bum cheeks. Then, he unlocked the cuffs, and the sweater fell to the floor. Goosebumps prickled the white hairs on her skin. He cuffed her wrists again.

He made her face the door. Framed at the threshold, she was like an art-piece, a goddess sculpted from ivory. "Don't move!"

He slid open his bedroom wardrobe, parted a neat row of suits on hangers, and unbolted a hatch leading into a concealed locker. A dull silence enveloped him as he entered. This was a space he'd carved out and custom-built to store his secrets. Displayed under twinkling spot lamps were vibrators, cuffs, clamps, locks, whips, ropes, and paddles, all laid out on shelves, drawers and hooks. A life-sized jewelry box, it was his inner sanctum, a hidden place to fantasize, flex and plan. While she stood waiting at the front door, frozen, her muscles and back aching, he sunk into a velvet wingback chair, savouring the room's lush bouquet of lubricant, leather and wood, contemplating his next delight, and finally reaching for a coil of hemp.

Her body loosened and complied while he deftly wove, wrapped and tugged the rope down her back and arms into a dragonfly harness. Tracing the coarse tapestry down the links of her vertebrae with the back of his fingers, he lingered at the soft curvature of her hips and then with an open hand stung her ass with a series of smacks, each one more punishing than the last, until the skin on her bum streaked and reddened, and her bound torso writhed away from him.

Pressing her into the door with his body, his fingers blindly probed to explore her front. He pinched her nipples long and hard, until her pain response, a reflexive gaping of the jaw and a silent cough, prompted him to let go. He found her pussy hot, wet and throbbing for him.

"On your knees, Slut . . . and look at me!" In an obedient thud, she dropped to the floor and inched her knees around urgently. She stared up into his eyes, her tongue polishing her now natural, but still luscious lips, and she kept her study as he drew down his zipper. Her gaze remained fixed as he grabbed the back of her neck, slid his cock into her mouth, and forced it down her throat. He pulled her head back by the hair. She pushed forward ravenously towards his rock-hard dick.

He wrestled her into the bedroom and shoved her backwards onto the bed. She opened her legs.

"Master. You own me! Please . . ."

He smirked, and gently stroked the outside of her vagina, smearing its silky sheen between his fingers. "Why should I?" he scoffed.

She strained and fought to pull herself up to sitting. "I want you!" She panted, strained, and moaned.

He pushed her back down. "What?"

"Fuck me!" she begged.

"Ask politely!"

"Please . . . Sir!"

He mouthed and bit her nipples, her ear lobes, underarms, and the ugly pink folds between her legs. Her cheeks glowing scarlet. Her vagina pumping. He buried his face between her legs and noisily feasted on her. There was a salty sweet flavour to her skin. Her purrs, mewls, and howls echoed through the hallways and stairwells of the building. Masterfully holding back, he brought her to orgasm.

Buckling with urgency and desire, he pulled himself to standing. His hands and fingers trembled to peel off what remained of his clothes. Skin-on-skin he fucked her, until triumphant, in a moan of satisfaction he furiously pumped his semen onto her nipples, neck and face. "Thank you for your cum," she said as her glistening body softened.

* * *

The rope fell in a tangled mess on the floor beside the bed, where, engulfed in soft cotton, a fine Egyptian-weave, their bodies rested warm and tender. "Satisfied?"

"When do I get my coffee?" she teased.