Controlling Colleen

Colleen lay in bed, panting.

She had just woken up, admittedly not a normal cause for it.

Why am I panting?

She was alone and at the mercy of an appetite that no typical eggs and sausage would satisfy, a result of having taken no one to bed the night before.

Well, except for Dexter, of course.

And while the Dexter had served his (its?) purpose, it was not full body-and-soul satisfaction. It was not contentment on a cellular level.

Nothing new there,

she thought.

She'd never had such an orgasm, in fact.

For her, the Earth had never moved. Many a bed, yes. More than a few cars and vans. Several sofas and airplane bathrooms, of course. Hell, even an occasional late-night subway car and once, memorably, a helicopter.

But those movements were due more to the physical act of fucking than to the more ephemeral act of cumming her brains out.

All of which meant waking up that Monday morning with an even more intensified hunger than she normally woke up with.

She considered putting Dexter to use to start off the day, but like soccer players who swear off sex during the World Cup so as to channel that energy into winning the championship, so Colleen also resisted the urge to sate hers with Dexter.

Still, the panting...

Did I masturbate in my sleep?

She knew, of course, about sleepwalking and sex dreams, but sleep-

masturbating

? No way.

She groped for Dexter under the adjacent pillow. Still there. Cold, dry, unused for hours.

So, she hadn't sleep-masturbated.

Or whatever the hell it would be called.

Her left hand slid down her torso and caressed the folds of her labia.

Dry.

Although now there were stirrings. She easily aroused, even when it was her own fingers, and not a man's, that did the probing.

She pulled her hand away and flopped it above her head.

Then it hit her.

Aha! It was a

dream! She'd been fucked senseless by a man who'd ripped apart her discipline.

But she could remember no details.

As if a man like that exists.

Sighing heavily, she flipped off the covers and walked -- naked, tight, and curvy -- to the shower.

Dexter was her seven-inch vibrator. Firm yet soft, like the rubber handle of a ball-ping hammer. Thick and meaty as a Hungarian sausage, with a flared head resembling

leotia viscosa

, the famed chicken lip mushroom.

She'd never been eye to eye with a man's penis as thick. Or with a head that caused her clit to whir and trill like a radar detector.

In fact, she'd yet to meet a man who could make her cum like Dexter did.

However, she knew that intense orgasms were usually regulated less by the physical touch of a man than they were by the emotional trust in a man. That didn't necessarily mean love, though. It simply meant trust. By her in him. By him in himself. By them both in his knowing how to satisfy her by controlling himself until she lost it herself.

With Colleen, control was paramount.

She could control Dexter, but what she really wanted, in the deepest recesses of her carnal honesty, was to lose control to a man who knew how to take it from her.

Many a man she'd fucked were massively equipped. But such men fucked lazily. They didn't use their dick well. They were arrogant, she'd discovered, as if thinking their impressive equipment was sufficient to satisfy women when all it really did was satisfy their own ego.

She'd fucked many a lesser-tooled man, too. Such men fucked more diligently. Yet, they still didn't use their dicks well, either. They were insecure, she'd found, as if feeling inadequate at being less equipped, and it came through in their fucking.

No man she'd fucked yet had been man enough to take control and make her lose hers.

Thus, she had Dexter, so named for the famed serial murderer from that popular cable television series because, like the lead character in the show, her Dexter was emotionless but ruthlessly efficient and delectably satisfying.

The water cascaded down from the oversized showerhead. Warm, sensual. She rubbed her taut body with it and mixed it with her usual morning lustiness.

I'll be coming for you later, Dexter. Pun intended.

The thought heightened her arousal. Her fingers brushed over her nearly shaven vagina, lingering over her clitoris. Even the briefest of touches to this oh-so-sensitive ground zero of explosive feminine power had her entire body humming like an electric wire.

Though her sexual desire didn't have an on/off switch, her self-discipline did -- and only that would get her through the day.

In fact, knowing what she was coming home to -- Dexter, the vibrating prince of her pussy palace -- and whom she had set her mind to coming home

with

-- Antonio, the arrogant, smoldering hunk of macho heat who was serving as one of her two co-counsels on this case -- would make this day in court all the more exciting.

She squirted threads of silky body wash onto her belly, forearms, breasts, thighs, and shins, took the luxurious loofah from its perch on her bathroom wall, and began to wash. Her pink nipples shone in the soapy bubbles, becoming erect as she rubbed them.

Damn,

she thought,

wish I had time for a bath. I could really work myself up.

As she scrubbed her skin with the vigor of one scrubbing away bad memories, she imagined lying in the adjacent tub, spraying her yearning vagina with the removable, cylinder-shaped faucet head, spreading her legs to accept its gentle but insistent streams directly onto her sensitive pressure points.

Actually, she had time, but she knew from her current state that she'd want to prolong the bath and then glide dreamily into the bedroom and administer Dexter.

That

she didn't have time for.

Easy, girl, get your mind on the case.

Business before

bidness.

Her smile flustered the plump young barista into nearly dropping her red-eye coffee. He wasn't the first male to be awed by that smile. She'd won many a case with it. And many a heart.

Not to mention many an erection.

Which she teased herself by imagining that he was frantically trying to prevent behind his green apron as he rung up the next customer.

By the time she sank into her Audi TT convertible for the short drive to the courthouse, she was focused on her day ahead. The start of a new trial.

Both professionally and sexually, Colleen was ravenous. While already one of the top defense attorneys in Los Angeles at just thirty-one years old, she hadn't used her sexual rapacity to improve her professional capacity.

She just liked to practice law.

And to fuck.

And she was good at both.

Years earlier, in high school, she had discovered that she liked to fuck, though she didn't become ravenous about it until college.

She had learned a life lesson in high school, as well -- that society lied: women, not men, had the

real

power. Sexuality was a weapon, not a burden. Wielded correctly, it brought untold levels of control.

She also realized another lesson: people gossiped. That she liked to fuck had gotten around.

She found out how people thought of her.

She discovered what people thought about her.

In the beginning, she was bothered by it. She wanted people to like her. So, she changed her ways, fucking less frequently and more surreptitiously.

It didn't work, though; family, friends, and lovers she'd previously thought to be loyal ripped her, deserted her, turned on her. She realized during that trying time that she could only control her actions, her decisions, her choices, not what people thought of her.

As a result, she chose to become an attorney. It was the one profession where a reputation like hers was an asset.

So,

she had decided,

I might as well do what -- and whom -- I want.

Colleen crossed her legs, purposely not bothering to pull down her black skirt as it rode up her suntanned thigh.

She cut her eyes at Antonio on her left. His eyes were riveted on her exposed flesh.

Colleen smiled and turned to face him fully, catching him still eyeing her legs. She could almost see him salivating onto his tailored navy Armani suit.

His dark brown eyes transferred from her legs to her eyes. There was no shame. He did not blush. Though he smoldered, his gaze was cool, one of a man used to women fawning over him. The gaze of a man unafraid that a woman knew he wanted her.

His full lips parted like a shark's, revealing predatory teeth made all the whiter by his tea-colored skin. His dark hair was slicked back, glossy, falling just above the collar of his shirt. He leaned easily back into his leather chair, the tailored suit jacket pulling taut across his wide shoulders and broad chest.

I bet he thinks he's playing me.

She held his gaze, the left side of her mouth pulling up ever so slightly.

So, you think you're a big leaguer, huh? We'll see tonight who holds court, so to speak.

"Excuse me." A deep voice to her right cut through her reverie.

She whipped her head around and was confronted by unwavering emerald green eyes.

Russell. The second of her two co-counsels for this case. She'd forgotten about him, wasn't even sure if Russell was a first or last name, but she did know that he was Antonio's partner at a firm in Redondo Beach. He was on this case because of his familiarity with Judge Reinhardt.

His eyes did not waver from Colleen's, even as she flashed her A-game smile.

He held out his hand. "Russell."

His eyes never left hers.

"I know who you are." She took his hand. "Colleen."

She gave him the once-over. His shaven head gleamed, reflecting the courtroom's fluorescent lights. The startling color of his eyes was all the more so because of his café au lait skin and green linen seersucker suit.

Only a certain type of man can wear such a suit in Los Angeles and carry it off,

she thought.

And he certainly does.

"Are we focused?" His voice, like whiskey filtered in an old oaken cask, surprisingly stirred her. Not only in its depth, but also in its velvety assuredness.

She didn't answer. His voice reverberated in her womb, holding hers captive in her throat.

The cum collated in his balls, ready to carom through his cock and into the unsuspecting air.

That is, until Colleen clamped the base of his shaft with her left hand and squeezed. It was pleasurably painful, but effective in stemming his tide.

I don't want to waste his jizz on my hands or all over his stomach. Either down my throat or into my pussy.

She had to be back in court in ten minutes, and no way his refractory period was that short. There was only time to suck or fuck, though she'd have killed for time to do both.

Well, maybe

kill

is not the right word, considering who he is.

She laughed inwardly.

They were in "consultation" in the conference room down the hall from the courtroom. The judge had received an urgent phone call during the proceedings and had adjourned for a half hour, delaying her opening statement on her client's behalf to the jury.

Now she was preparing to make a statement on her own behalf.

She needed this right now, needed this diversion so she could focus on the case. She sensed she'd finally come across a man worthy of her and it had left her uncharacteristically unfocused before the judge had called this unplanned break.

She squeezed back his salacious sperm and contemplated into which of her canals she wanted him to release his sticky confection. Sucking down his cumshot with her mouth would mean she'd have to brush her teeth and gargle mouthwash.

I can't face the judge or jury with cum breath

, she thought.

On the other hand, taking his load up her twat would mean it might trickle down her leg while she addressed the jury.

And I'm not wearing hose or panties today. Don't want any stickiness coalescing in my alligator Chanel pumps. That'd be a bitch to have cleaned.

She looked at her lover. He was also her client, accused of hacking up his wife and her two lovers some weeks previous.

He squirmed. His flat, hairy belly heaved. His eyes had taken on a dark tone. But Colleen wasn't cowed, no matter how dangerous others thought he was. She had his dick in her hand, which she knew gave her all the control.

"Will you hurry up for fuck's sake?" His spoke partly with malice and partly in desperation.

She looked at him, tightening her grip. "More than just your dick is in my hands. Got it?"

He beheld her a moment, then nodded.

She looked at her Cartier wristwatch, the black alligator strap matching both the color and material of her shoes. She had eight minutes to finish him off.

Sexually, of course.

Time and his attitude decided it. She wasn't going to give him any of her tasty pussy today. Besides, brushing and gargling were better than marring her new pumps.

She took him into her mouth. Normally, she'd lick, tease, suck, play, swirl her tongue, and nibble. Now, however, it was business and she needed to close quickly. Fortunately, her earlier fondling had warmed him up and her expert tongue would finish the job quickly. She worked up some saliva and bobbed her head up and down. She flattened her tongue as much as possible, which made it wider than his narrow girth, and worked the underside of his shaft.

Maybe she wouldn't fuck him later, after all.

His tool is nice and long, but I like penises with more girth.

She had to have some standards.

She focused on the tip, easing it in and out of her mouth faster and faster about an inch down his shaft. At the same time, she stroked the bottom half of his saliva-covered dick with her right hand. Her left hand cupped his balls.

He breathed faster and louder. She pulled her from his dick. "Quiet, or I'll leave you with balls bluer than a clear summer sky."

He fell silent, but his chest still heaved like he was sprinting.

Within thirty seconds, she had him at the precipice.

Just then, a knock came at the door. She stopped stroking and squeezed the base of his shaft hard. He gasped and covered his face with his handcuffed hands.

"Judge Reinhardt will commence in four minutes." Russell's captivating deep voice again.

She was instantly wet.

Goddammit. I'll have to make this quick.

Colleen relaxed her grip and resumed fellating. She sucked. She licked. She stroked furiously. When he came, he did so forcefully, exploding sticky, salty ropes of fluid into her mouth. She gulped and swallowed. She tasted fear, loathing, and control. The fear was his, the control hers.

They shared the loathing.

She gave him one last lick and stood up. She straightened her hair and adjusted her tailored black Jimmy Choo jacket and skirt combination.

"Be presentable in three minutes. If you're not ready when I return, I'll make sure the next blow job you get will be in prison from someone much less feminine and gentle than me."

And with that, she strode out of the room, down the hall, and into the bathroom, where she brushed and gargled away her cum breath, looking in the mirror all the while.

She smiled. In more ways than one, her client was putty in her hands. She could get him off in the court of sex, so to speak, any time she wanted.

But his attitude toward her would determine whether she would also get him off in the court of law.

Hours later, after changing her original plans, Colleen was sprawled naked on her beige leather sectional. Her wrists were lightly bound above her head with his patterned pocket square. His navy pin-striped sport coat hung over a nearby leather recliner. A half-empty bottle of A. de Fussigny rested on the coffee table beside two brandy snifters.

He was still clad in his white linen trousers and salmon-colored open-throated oxford shirt.

"I shouldn't be the only one naked," she'd protested.

"Patience," was all he had said.

Butterfly kisses around her ears and across her neck had reduced her protestations some. Hot succulent kisses on her fingers, arms, shoulders, and breasts had further waned her remonstrations. Searing kisses on her abdomen and below had hushed her objections altogether.

But that didn't mean she had been quiet.

Oh, no.

Sighs of pleasure had become murmurs of excitement had become squeals of contentment had become moans of satisfaction as he decorated her with his full mouth, wet lips, and omniscient tongue, lapping lightly and flickering forcefully at perfectly timed intervals.

As he rolled up his sleeves, looking at her with his twin emeralds of shining lust, she was a roiling, heaving mass of hums, vibrations, and stimulation.

"Shed those clothes," she nearly begged.

A smile tugged at his lips. "Not yet. You're not ready."

"What?"

Surely he means that

he

isn't ready

.

"You're not quite ready." He seemed to read her mind. "However, I'm more than ready. I was ready in court today."

His voice vibrated the folds of her womanhood to the point of explosion.

As he bathed her in kisses, she lay looking at the ceiling, lids half-open. She felt luxurious. She felt ravaged. She felt languid. She felt...

Warm liquid in her belly button.

She lifted her head up.

Did he just...?

No, he was still clothed, dick still sheathed in his pants. The warm liquid was the cognac.

He set the bottle back on the teak and glass coffee table and placed his marvelous lips over her belly. His strong tongue lapped at the warm liquid like a cat does milk. He inhaled the last of the liquid, giving her belly button one final, excruciatingly sensual lick.

Before she knew it, his mouth was on hers. She tasted cognac and his hotness, and she became overwhelmingly damp. She sucked at his tongue, taking the last vestiges of the golden liquor from it. She became drunk, not from the de Fussigny -- she'd only had a glass -- but from his kisses, his heat, his passion for her skin and body. She hadn't cummed yet, but she teetered. He'd brought her to the edge multiple times just by his kisses.

It dawned on her as he pulled his mouth away from hers that he'd hardly used his hands yet.

And I'm this hot? I'm this ready to erupt? I don't think I'll be able to handle it if he elevates his game.

And since he'd yet to disrobe, use his hands, or wield his penis, she knew his A game was still to come.

So to speak,

she thought.

It hadn't yet occurred to her that she was losing control.

She lay waiting, legs askew. Her wrists were still lightly bound. Her body hummed like a Phoenix air conditioner in July. Her yearning, warbling clit was on simmer.

What's he up to?

He'd only been gone two minutes, but to her twittering body, it seemed like two hours of excruciation.

She must have drifted off a moment, because her next realization was of him sinking back onto the leather cushions between her open legs. She sleepily lifted her head up and was immediately aroused.

He had disrobed. His shoulders were well-defined, his chest broad and muscular.

His nipples were an impossible brown, made all the more so juxtaposed against cappuccino-colored skin.

She salivated.

They must taste sweet and decadent, like Ghirardelli chocolate.

As arousing as his body was -- and she hadn't yet glimpsed his penis -- what was in his hands had her labia at once flaring and melting.

"Do you mind?" Those twin orbs of his, now an absurd shade of green she thought only existed in lush rainforests, challenged her to object, which she certainly had no intention doing.

"Not at all." Her voice was strong, betraying her body trembling with anticipation and desire.

Once he started rubbing her vagina with it, she forgot to wonder how he'd found Dexter. He ran the length of Dexter's shaft against her. Then, he gently thrust Dexter's head into her a fraction of an inch, simultaneously massaging her swollen clit with his other hand.