Fine Line

Eve:

I didn't mind the location he named for our first scheduled meeting. Even the fact that I had to pay the cover didn't rankle nearly as much as the fact that he'd told me what to wear.

Or the fact that I'd worn what he told me to. His voice had slithered over the phone, "Wear a short skirt and high heels." I'd asked, a little sarcastically, if there was anything else he wanted. "More sexy underwear," he told me, then hung up.

I wore a black skirt I'd inherited from my much shorter aunt. It was so short it revealed the lacy tops of the stockings and the garter belt straps. If I stood up straight, the hemline stopped just short of illegal. I wore a white tube top under a black sheer blouse. I did my hair in that "just-rolled-out-of-bed" look, which took longer than it should have. I finished it with knee-high boots that laced all the way up.

I grabbed my long coat to wear over it and left the house. As I drove to the place, my heart beat far too fast. I had to be insane: I was being a puppet, dancing at the puppet master's command. But…I wanted him bad enough to do this. I was a slave to my hormones after all.

I showed my ID at the door and paid the entry fee, getting stamped with the "under 21" stamp so the bartenders wouldn't sell me alcohol. As if I needed it: I felt ready to pass out from adrenaline overload as it was.

The music was so loud I couldn't hear anything but the bass. I looked around the hazy atmosphere. There were high tables with barstools scattered around, and a few cushy chairs gathered at odd intervals against the walls. The place had nice ambiance; sexy without being obvious. Not like me, I thought as I checked my coat. I saw a lot of guys watching me, their tongues practically hanging out. I was sure they were going to ask me for my hourly rate. I wondered for a small moment what I could get away with charging them.

Michael had said he would find me, so I moved into the seating area. Everywhere I moved I felt eyes on me. It was a real rush, knowing that men wanted me, even if I was dressed kind of cheaply.

A hand touched my back, smoothed down to my ass as someone fell into step behind me. He put his mouth right up to my ear. Even there, he almost had to shout to be heard. "Come and dance," he said, making it clear that it wasn't a request.

I spun to face him, and stopped dead in shock, looking him up and down.

He looked utterly sexy. He wore tight black jeans, a subtle belt and a white formal shirt, tucked in but unbuttoned almost to his waist. The look sould have been trite, but his sheer arrogance allowed him to pull it off.

He grabbed my hand and led me out to the dance floor, where a hip-swinging rhythm had just begun. I'm not a stellar dancer, but my hip movements leave nothing to be desired. I ground and brushed against him with the fast beat. After a while, the beat changed to seductive, and Michael spun me as he pulled me into his arms. I was locked against him, felt his cock nestled between my cheeks, and felt the skirt riding up as he pulled me slightly upward with his grip at my waist.

His mouth found my ear again. "I bet every man here wants to do this to you," he said as he made a little grinding movement against me. I gasped, my eyes half-closing, my body bowing. "They want to do more than that. They're watching us, right now." He lapped at my earlobe with the very tip of his tongue. He guided my hands until they were stretched around his neck.

"They want to be me," he said. "They want to be the ones grinding into your body. They want to be the ones who can touch your bare skin." His hands slid down my arms, grazing over my breasts, making me shudder and lose the rhythm of the dance for a moment. They continued over my stomach, tracing patterns there. "The men here want to lynch me for touching you in front of them. For showing off what they knew when they first saw us together."

"And what's that?" I asked, not really caring what he was talking about, as long as he continued to touch me.

"You're mine," he said fiercely.

I stopped cold. "I'm yours?" I demanded. His lips sucked the lobe of my ear into his mouth, flicking it for a moment before moving down my neck. One hand slid until he could wrap his fingers around my thigh, physically guiding me back into the rhythm.

"You're mine," he said, and began walking us both into a dark, sheltered, secluded corner. His hands slid from my shoulders to my hands, guiding them up to the wall, pressing them against the sweating plaster. One of his hands stayed there, both my wrists locked in his grip.

His free hand traced its way down my body, sliding over my breasts, squeezing one gently when he passed. "You have very sensitive nipples, don't you?" he murmured in my ear, feeling the hard peak pressing into his palm. Then his wonderful fingers continued down my thighs to the hem of my skirt. He slid under the hem. "What are these lacy little things?" he asked in my ear, sounding highly amused. Without my answering, he quickly removed them, ordering me to kick my favorite pair of cheeky panties against the wall.

"I like those boots," he told me. "The heels make you the perfect height, actually," he added, and ground his hips against me, at the perfect level for penetration.

"Michael," I pant, and press my hips back against him. His fingers moved inside me, making me cry out wordlessly as I grew wetter with his ministrations. In one corner of my mind, I thought idly that my hands were almost numb, but the rest of me didn't care.

Suddenly, his fingers were gone from me, and I nearly whimpered at the loss of sensation. Then I felt the head of his cock nudging my entrance and I pressed back against him, trying to get him inside me. He plunged hard into me, and I wanted to scream in pleasure, biting my lip and letting me forehead rest against the wall. My eyes were closed tight as he began to move inside me, and I felt his mouth latch onto my shoulder just below and to the right of my neck.

His shaft is so hard inside me, sawing in and out, friction against those sensitive nerves, occasionally hitting that one spot, that perfect spot. I don't even notice that I can't move my arms. I'm lost in the pleasure as he continues to fuck me. One of his hands moves down my front to my clit, and begins to pull on it, sliding off it with the amount of moisture I'm generating.

Finally, I feel myself coming, feel the white-hot rush break over me, until I can't see, hear, or smell anything. I can only feel: his shaft inside me, my muscles clenching around him. I can almost feel every oversensitized inch of exposed skin, the scrape of the wall against my fingers, the shifting air as it blows against my face. The pleasure of it all.

His teeth scrape my shoulder as he comes, his mouth detaching from my skin for a moment. I'm sure I'll have another hickey, and I know I'll have to be creative with my wardrobe again to hide it. But I'm just feeling too good to care, really.

My sweat molds me to the wall as he presses against me, breathing hard in my ear. "Hmm," he said, humming directly into my skin. His hands worked, pulling my skirt back down and my blouse back up. "Remember," he said, his voice low, harsh. "You're mine."

By the time I get enough energy to turn around he's gone, and when I emerge back into the club, he's nowhere to be seen. I shudder slightly to see the other men leering at me from the shadows, but mostly I feel aroused that I actually had sex in public. And hadn't gotten caught. I was sick.

And it was all his fault.

And who the hell did he think he was, anyway? I'm his? In his dreams! I flounce over to retrieve my coat, and my indignation gets me all the way home and into bed before I'm overcome by exhaustion.

The next time he called, even his numbers flashing on the display sent a shiver through me. I was playing right into his hands, but I couldn't stop myself from listening attentively to his instructions.