Rewards

Walking briskly back to her flat for her first reward. I lay down the ground rules. Do as I say from the moment we get in. "I'm slightly scared," she says. I stroke her backside openly on the busy street. "We don't have to." She looks at me sternly. She wants this. She doesn't know what this is yet. She has no idea what to expect.

We'd ended up in bed together three drunken times. This was daytime, work time, a lunch hour. There and back and what does she think is going to happen? Some sort of reward. What have I decided is going to happen?

We're in the lift. I stare at her, hard, running through what I'm going to do in my head again. I place my hand on her hip. She closes her eyes. Lips together. Open, lustful look. The lift bings. I tilt my head, she gets out of the lift and leads me to her apartment. I stride into the living room, appraise the wall on one side; too close to a window blind she can't close. This isn't about exhibitionism. There's a plain white wall close to the kitchen. "Stand there, facing the wall."

She does.

"Put your hands above your head. Palms against the wall."

She does.

That she does without question is startling in itself. Exciting in itself. Satisfying in itself. A big girl in every sense. Tall, taller still in her heels, big breasts, hips and thighs. Exudes authority. Forceful personality. An intelligent woman.

I stand behind her. Close to her. She can feel my cock already and I'm stunned by how hard I am. How hard, how quickly, cock straining through work trousers. The anticipation of this reward has been rattling round my brain for days. She is, perhaps, just beginning to realise that the reward is much more serious, much more thorough than she anticipated.

I reach up and stroke her little finger against the wall. Put pressure on it, treat it like her clit, stroke its length. Her breathing becomes irregular. I know I turn her on. She doesn't try to hide the fact I can arouse her with a look and if she did try she'd fail. Her openness is part of the reason why my cock is so hard.

I begin stroking her inner arms. Another tried and tested technique that gets to her. The effect here though, of being here, in her flat, in this illicit time, of her acquiescing to my control, is multiplied. Already I think I can smell the essence of her; sweat and lust and naked want. I lean into her neck, her hair, her breath, keep stroking the inner arms and push my cock into her.

I stroke her clothed back, remember being disappointed yesterday when she wore her black dress to work that just invites fingertips knowing she wouldn't be wearing it today. She wasn't to know what I was planning. Still, I feel the tremors while I run my hands up and down her back, her sides, her neck, and there, leaning in again, she takes her hands off the wall and grabs my hair.

I stop. "Hands against the wall." She groans. "Hands against the wall."

She does as she is told.

I have my hands on her hips. She's backing in, wants to feel my cock. I push her against the wall, hard. She likes this. I know she does. Too many men have keeled over in front of her air of natural authority. Too many haven't realised that she yearns to have that authority respected but then cast aside. It's in her groan as I push her, one hand on her arse, one against her back, against the wall that I realise I was more correct when I conceived this than I had imagined.

Three drunken nights and she hadn't come once. She'd nearly come, spent an age on the verge, undoubtedly enjoyed herself but not reached the tipping point. And I love a woman's orgasm. I love its atavistic grace, its throb and pull, its shudder and shock. But to go to the brink of it and not produce wasn't an option in this lunchtime. We had only half an hour and having spent entire nights with her, I'd concluded in my reveries this reward would only arouse, not satisfy. That it shouldn't be attempted.

I realised, though, in that moment, hand on arse, hand on back, her body pressed against the wall, breathing ragged, hearing the lust, smelling it, that I was wrong. This was different. I crouched down to stroke the backs of her thighs. "Take your top off and your bra. Keep facing the wall."

She did as she was told. I pushed her again, from my crouched position, into the wall, could imagine the effect of the cold wall on her nipples and wanted her to feel it. I kept stroking her thighs with one hand and allowed a second to drift up to her stomach, stroking its tender points and making her whimper. Mutual acquaintances would not believe she was a woman who whimpered.

I stood, pushed in behind her, stroked the underside of her breasts, nipples remaining against the wall. She gasped and seemed for a second uncertain on her feet. I pushed in harder behind her, unrelenting fingertips, using my weight to cleave her right into the wall.

I reached up her skirts, ran my hand across her arse. She made a grab at my head again. "Hands against the walls, please," gently. Insistent. There was a groan of petulant desire. Her hands returned to the wall. My hand explored her arse, pressure on her coccyx and for the first time I grabbed. I pulled one half of her arse sideways. She grunted. She panted. I let my hand go round her, felt her hip, lurked around her pubic hair and I could feel the wet heat from her cunt; my hand warmed from it. She was wet and how I liked her that way. I remembered my thumb inside her one afternoon as we played pool in a gay bar and I remembered her literally dripping down my hand, down her leg. Her face wanton but surprised at her own desire.

Her face.

"Turn around. Keep your hands against the wall."

She did. I saw her face and chest bright red, her nipples hard, breasts pert. Looked her right in the eye as I toyed with her right breast, grazing it, slanting my thumb over her nipple. Eyes closed and stomach tensed. Hands down the stomach, a whimper again. I stroked her torso, watching her face, listening to her. I got closer and put my hands down her skirt, down her pants and touched her cunt. She exhaled everything she had in her lungs. I placed my finger between her labia and felt her clit. Thicker than it had been during our nights, harder too. Bigger. A large blistering thimble and I wrapped my fingers around it for a second, watched her face explode into the contradiction wide-eyed shock while the eyes remained closed and then ran my hand down the rest of her lips. I leaned into her face and licked her lips there while stroking her lips around her cunt. My left hand on her hips, keeping her against the wall.

My right hand explored, non specific exploration, my eyes fixed on her face, but her pants were limiting the movements. They had to go. "Take your knickers off. Just your pants." She managed this. "Give them to me." Drenched.

I crouched again, pushed her against the wall again, and reached up her skirt. I'd been tender throughout. I intended to finish tenderly. Her clit was simply begging for attention, it was if anything, getting bigger. I was able to place my fore and middle fingers around it on one side and stroke its length with my thumb. She cried out and ran her fingers down my back. This was her reward, not mine and the pleasure was to be only hers. "Hands on my shoulders, please. To support yourself."

I knelt before her, massaging her clit, her hands on my shoulders, I knew she would obey, my head against her hip, my left arm around her waist, grabbing her arse, holding her into me. Holding her up. I traced circles, I tugged, I was stunned by her clitoris' size despite the previous nights spent together. This, she, was something different altogether.

Her cunt pulsated, the thick clit twitched, she moaned, her arms buckled, her legs buckled, she collapsed onto my back, crying out rhythmically, unable to catch her breath, shuddering, my left arm holding onto her, my body supporting her up, my fingers destroying her.

I held her until she was able again to stand against the wall, legs shaking but a strong woman. A strong personality. I looked up. Red in the face and panting. She could come again soon.

But my alarm sounded. We needed to be back in the office in fifteen minutes. We'd been in her flat for half an hour. She wanted a kiss: "Come here." She said. I leaned in but pulled her hair back, kissed her neck. Kissed her forehead. Moved into her ear. Said: "I love the size of you. Magnificent. Big breasts, big thighs and most importantly a big brain. I want you to write me 500 words on what's happened here today. I'll see you back at work."

I left. She was ten minutes late in returning. I watched her walk in, uncertain stride.

The next day she wrote the words. They are below:

----

Where to start? I hadn't quite anticipated the lengths to which you would go to reward me for doing as bidden. The effort, the planning and the sheer skill involved is impressive. Not that I ever underestimated how good you are, you'll understand, just how focused you can be. Nor had I anticipated just how much you could achieve in thirty minutes. I'm certainly a lucky girl.

I've been thinking and I've never come that quickly, that hard, with another person. You were right when you said that had we had but five more minutes, a second would have been inevitable. Regardless, there's something incredibly delicious about me literally not being able to keep myself upright and having to collapse completely onto you, in being so broken but in the most desirable way. Indeed, something so delicious in the fact that you're able to support me, seemingly with ease, when you've brought me to the point whereby my legs simply won't hold me upright.

Related to this strength and this power is what knocked me for six about today's reward: the gentility of it all. Whilst we were undeniably playing by your rules (more on this further on down) and not withstanding the brutality of this in itself, you were incredibly tender. I expected to be physically pinned and punished for attempting to circumnavigate the rules by reaching around and pulling your head closer to my neck, or clawing at your back when you were kneeling in front of me, but this apparently wasn't necessary. That it wasn't necessary is most interesting of all. All it took was to feel you behind me, feel how hard you were as you stroked my neck, arms and back; how you pressed that little closer as my breath became shorter and my whimpering became louder. I suppose what I'm getting at is my surprise at how readily I fell apart when the control was first and foremost intellectual rather than physical. That you recognise this in us and that we're able to exploit it is incredibly exciting, no?

I think this afternoon's activities would be a good starting point for our definition of complex pleasures. I acquiesced to your authority and yet you were on your knees in front of me, working those magnificent hands of yours inside me, hell-bent on making me come with no allowance made for me to go to town on you. I know we were working to a tight deadline today, but I'm not convinced that had it not been a lunch hour, the first reward would have gone any other way. The thing which knocks me sideways about you is your enjoyment of getting me outrageously wet. You played me intelligently today: knowing that I can barely stand to be have my stomach stroked as it makes destroys me; knowing that your lips grazing my neck as your hands wandered to the underside of my breasts would kill me. You responded so deftly to each snatch of my breath, to each slight quiver of my thighs, it's ridiculous.

I assume you'll be employing the 10% rule to this, so will end with the admission that I'm thrilled that I trust you implicitly to do as you see fit in the name of filth, sir. Now to crack on with my other tasks so the rewards can continue.