Christines Emancipation

Author's Note: This is an apology to readers of my story 'Hotel Amour', which was written in successive 'his & her sections'. In the submitted version, the sections were delineated, but the formatting did not survive when the story appeared on the site. Absent the formatting, it is a bit difficult to decide who 'I' is at any one time. Sorry. One lives and learns,

*

Chapter 1

:

Invitation accepted

When Harvey told me he was on travel, I groaned,

"Again?"

"I

am

VP of Marketing."

"And for two weeks?"

"It is a World Sales Meeting. Lot of ground to cover."

He wasn't lying. I went with him once. Just the once! Hawaii was nice, but if I have to be on my own then better at home, where at least I have a job to go to. Harvey's 'life' consisted mainly of 'office politics' and when he was not doing them, which was most of the time, he was talking about them, moaning about this or that sob, plotting to get even.

At least I wouldn't have to listen to his diatribes for two weeks.

Which was nice. I enjoyed the peaceful evenings, but after a week I began to feel lonely. I missed Harvey. Not that he was great company, or even good company, or – hell – even company! But I was used to him being there and now he was not.

My job was in a publishing house, Assistant Editor by title. Sounds great, doesn't it. There were three of us and we 'assisted the Editors' by opening and sorting mail. You wouldn't believe how much mail Literary Agencies get. Our job was to sort it into hate mail from authors whose books were not doing well -- straight in the trash – unsolicited manuscripts – straight in the trash – submissals – in the trash or on the sludge pile depending whether they conformed with the criteria -- and the very occasional nugget from a Publishing House, which was placed reverently in the appropriate Editor's mail pile.

That week one of our authors paid a quick visit. I'd seen him around before. Ten years my senior – make him about forty – a tinge of grey round the edges, handsome but not striking. I'd 'noticed' him, shall we say, but he had given no sign of having noticed me until the evening he caught me in the doorway, wrap draped over an arm.

"Doing anything tonight? he said.

It took a while to sink in. He had blue eyes.

"Er – Well, No! Not really."

"Dinner?"

"Well, it's a bit early."

"Yes, it is. Shall we say 7.30. I'll pick you up. How do you like 'La Chaumière?'"

"That would be nice." Upmarket. I'd never been. "There's no need to pick me up, though. I have a car."

"I'd like to."

"But you don't know where I live," I said.

"Yes I do! 7.30."

And he was gone leaving me standing on the sidewalk, wondering.

He knew where I lived? I suppose I should have been warned. Perhaps I was and didn't notice. It was Monday and I was tired of lonely evenings.

Chapter 2

:

Before the soup

"Harvey, that's my husband," I found myself saying, "is away."

"I know."

The waiter arrived to take our orders. He disappeared with the menus. I looked directly into those blue eyes. They were piercing, but not cold. They expressed something. I could not put my finger on it.

"You seem to know a lot about me," I said.

"I do."

"How? -- Why?"

"Because you're attractive, just my type."

"How do you know that? You've hardly spoken ten words to me."

"There are many forms of communication."

I was about to say something about hoping not to have given him encouragement when, out of the blue, he said in a clear commanding voice,

"Go to the Rest Room. Remove your bra, stockings, garter belt and panties, and return."

I stared at him, unable to believe he had said what I had heard.

"I beg your pardon!?"

"I don't repeat myself."

"You can't seriously think I'm going to do that."

"Yes, you will."

"But why should I?"

"Because I asked you too. And because you know that when you have done it you will feel different."

Two pairs of eyes affixed. God knows what jumble of thoughts and emotions were going through my head. Had he really said that?

He remained quite still, eyes engaging mine, unblinking.

"You have to be kidding! You know I'm not going to do that."

"I know you will."

"Why? Whyever should I do something like that?"

"Because you know you will feel better when you have done what I ask."

"Why? In what way?"

"You know this."

I made no move.

"You're stalling. You know you are going to do it."

Jesus Christ! Was I, Christine, the girl-next-door, who married her high-school sweetheart in a white dress, with confetti and all the trimmings: was I really going to do something that had never even occurred to me any girl would ever do?

Chapter 3. Silence is golden.

As I walked back to our table, four and twenty pairs of eyes seemed to follow my passage. They could not see up my skirt, could they? And my breasts were firm – pert, I believe is the right expression. If they bobbed up and down slightly as I walked, this would not be out of line with the modern fashion. And if my nipples showed through -- they had stiffened remarkably, pressing against the fabric of my blouse -- they could just as well be the points of a bra, couldn't they.

But He knew. It was our secret.

The soup arrived. We ate in silence. Our eyes did the talking.

'You will feel different', he had said, 'better'. Different, for sure! Better? Better than what? I had certainly never felt this way before. Vulnerable. I felt his eyes bore through my blouse and skirt. To Him I was already naked.

Just before the main course arrived, he said, in the same commanding tone,

"Kick off your shoes."

Casually, I shed my slip-ons. Bare feet joined bare legs, bare thighs, bare stomach, bare breasts and – I was not usually conscious of myself 'down there' -- but it was not my imagination: my vagina, unencumbered, had begun to moisten.

We ate without speaking, bathed in muted conversations from the surrounding tables.

The entreé was gone. Before the dessert arrived, I said,

"I don't even know your name."

"You may call me Morgan," he replied.

"Is that your name?"

"It is my name when we are together."

"And what is my name, when we are together."

"Your name is Melanie."

"But you know my real name. I don't know yours. That's not fair."

"You will be Melanie for me. I will be Morgan for you. 'Fair' is not a concept of significance."

"But you made me do something I didn't want to do. Not the reverse. That's an unfair advantage."

"Not so. I did not make you do anything. You did what you did freely and willingly."

"But you asked me to do it."

"Yes. And I will ask you to do other things. And you will do them, of your own free will."

"I don't get this," I said, at length. "What kind of a game is this? I'm not sure I like it."

"Sure you like it," he said, nonchalantly. "Ask your body whether it likes it."

Again the penetrating look of those blue, unblinking eyes. He knew: that my nipples were straining to penetrate the cloth of my blouse. And he sensed that my vagina had moistened up so thoroughly I was afraid my skirt would be stained.

Coffee arrived. I was in such a state of agitation I could hardly hold the cup.

"Look," I said, "I'm going back to the Rest Room. And I'm going to put on my things. I've had enough of this game."

"My dear, you are not going to put your things back on. The game has scarcely begun. Think how your body has already been freed, how it has responded. It will not allow you to stop now."

I went to the Rest Room, but godammit! I did not put my underclothes back on. It was not fear. I was not afraid of defying Morgan. But something in me did not want to. This 'something' was certainly not my head. I had left my head behind long before.

Chapter 4. In the car.

He was waiting for me at the door as I came out of the Ladies. He did not ask. He had not questioned. He knew.

He guided me out of the restaurant and across the lot to the Lincoln Town Car. He held the door as I entered, tucking my skirt against my thighs as I always had. The door closed with a muted clunk.

He was next to me but made no attempt to start the engine.

"Shed your shoes," he said, sitting back in his seat, eyes forward.

No problem with that. I had been going around bare-foot since I was a child.

"Now unbutton your blouse, one button at a time and take it off."

"No way!" I spluttered.

"Do it."

"People will see …" I stammered (why was I even thinking of obeying?)

"The windows are tinted. It's dark. No one will see."

"You will see," I said, with emphasis on the 'You'.

"I will see anyway, sooner or later," He replied.

He made no move. Just sat there as though cast in stone.

"You know you are going to do it. Cover your shoulders with your wrap if your feel self-conscious."

Godammit! What was I doing? No-one except me, Harvey and my doctor had seen my breasts. And I was about to expose them to a strange man in his car in a parking lot?

But my fingers evolved a will of their own. One by one, exactly as instructed, they unfastened the buttons of my blouse. Like an automaton I pulled the garment free of my skirt and slipped it over my shoulders and down my arms. Then I pulled the thin wrap and held it tight about me.

"You have wonderful breasts, Melanie. Why are you ashamed of them?"

"I'm not ashamed of them." Hell, I was proud that my breasts had survived my thirtieth birthday firm, supple and soft.

"Then why hide them. Release the wrap. Let it hang loosely. You will need your hands for another purpose."

I glanced at Him then, brief eye-contact. He averted his eyes and turned the key. The Lincoln's engine sighed into life. We began to roll.

On the street he said,

"Pull your skirt up above your waist. All of it, front and back."

"Like hell!"

Jesus Christ! The nerve of the guy!

"You know you're going to do it. Why delay?"

I made no move. I sat with the wrap held tightly around my upper body, thighs clenched beneath my skirt. That my vagina was oozing juice I did not want to admit even to myself.

"I am going to drive around the block," Morgan said. "If I get right around without your compliance, the game is over."

"And what is the 'game'?" I asked hotly. "What happens next?"

"One step at a time. Pull your skirt above your waist, front and back, so that your body is free."

Goddamn the man! I almost held out. Almost.

"You have very enticing thighs, Melanie. I don't know why you are ashamed of them."

"I'm not!" As I was proud of my breasts, I was proud of my legs, long and slender, and thighs with not the slightest hint of cellulite. How many women could say that at, well, all right, thirty-three.

"Part your thighs a little. Slide a hand down and begin to masturbate. Very slowly, very tenderly."

Jesus H. Christ!

But I was into it now. It seemed inevitable. My body was in control. And it knew what it wanted. Especially, it knew what it wanted then. Damn the car to hell with 'Morgan', whoever He was…

I always masturbate right-handed. And my left hand stimulates my right nipple. Automatically, my hands slid into position, the right one between my thighs stroking drenched pussy lips. The left one headed straight for my right nipple. The wrap parted, held loosely around my shoulders.

Hell, I was nine-tenths there. And He had not so much as touched me.

As the Lincoln purred along the freeway 'Morgan' said nothing. He drove carefully, eyes on the road. The only sound in the car was soft music emanating from the DVD player, and the occasional moan that I could not suppress. My thighs had opened wider. My clit-tip had emerged from its hood, a sure sign. I slid a forefinger up and down the side of the hood. One good flick on the tip and I would be away. The temptation to finish myself off was all but irresistible.

"Bring yourself off, Melanie. You're so close. I can sense it." His voice had an ethereal quality, as though out of a dream

"If I do that," I panted, "the 'game' is over, well and truly. I shut down."

It was quite true. On the rare – well, all right, not all that rare – occasions that I brought myself off, I went numb 'down there'. That was it, until the next time.

Through my irregular breathing, I could have sworn I heard Him chuckle.

My finger found the tip, pressed on it. My body went rigid. I let out a massive exhalation of breath and there I was, over the top, writhing, thighs closed tight, trapping my hand and pressing it harder into me…..

Chapter 5. Entre Act.

When I read this through in the cold light of day it seems like madness. There I was, sprawled in the passenger seat of a car next to a man I did not know, cruising along an LA freeway, as close to naked as you can be without being it, frigging myself to orgasm!

If someone had told me before the fact I would do this, or even be capable of contemplating it, I would have declared them insane on the spot. I was the 'girl-next-door'. Girls next door did not do things like this. I was married to my high-school sweetheart. Girls who married their high-school sweethearts were not supposed to frig themselves off at all, let alone in front of strange men in cars! What on earth would my mother say?

The odd thing is, at the time it did not seem mad at all. Quite the contrary, it seemed right, inevitable, wonderful. If I declare that was the best orgasm I had ever had, it's no more than God's truth. And He had made it so, without laying a finger on me, without seeming unduly curious.

When He said,

"Don't stop. Leave your clit alone for a while. Slide a finger in and out of your vagina, slowly, gently, rhythmically,"

I obeyed without thinking, as I obeyed the next command, and the next.

My second orgasm broke over me as the Lincoln entered the driveway of my home in Pasadena. It was beyond belief and I was beyond all redemption. I lay back in the passenger seat panting as the car drew to a halt beside my front door.

Chapter 6. The game moves indoors

He opened the passenger door like a gentleman does. I stumbled out, the opposite from lady-like. I had pulled my blouse half-heartedly around me, covered it with the wrap, struggled into my shoes, and staggered towards the front door. Still shaking from my second orgasm, I let myself into the house.

He stood on the threshold. He did not thrust himself on me. Hell, I practically dragged him in.

"Would you like a drink?" I needed one!

He accepted a vodka martini and sipped on it while I slurped down two.

He asked me to lower the lights. Fumbling fingers worked the rheostat.

He did not comment as I swallowed down my third martini.

He sat in an overstuffed chair in the corner, in the dim light, a shadow.

"Take off your clothes and stand before me."

There were not many clothes to take off. Anyway, He'd seen about everything there was to see. You will understand, I'm sure, the effect three vodka martinis on top of what had already transpired had on my capacity to resist.

"Place your hands at your sides and turn around slowly until you are facing me again."

Meekly I complied.

"You have a superb body, Melanie. I am surprised you have kept the secret so long."

Secret? What secret? Harvey had seen me naked – well, not often. Girls next door do not flaunt their bodies, even to their husbands. I had never, but never, stood buck naked before Harvey as I now stood before this strange man who had the power to make me want to do things I would not have done for my husband.

I began to feel self-conscious. His eyes roamed over my nakedness. Instinctively, hands moved to cover my mound of Venus.

"Keep your hands at your sides, Melanie. Stand straight and still."

"Why should I?"

"Because I asked you to. And because you want to. You want me to admire your exquisite body."

It would seem I did. I stood tall and straight, my breasts thrust out. It seemed like an age, but I did not flinch.

"Part your legs, Melanie," he said, "Just slightly."

I obeyed.

"A little more."

Another age. His eyes roamed from my parted thighs to my breasts, up and down.

"Squeeze your nipples. Make them stiff."

I hesitated, then said,

"Is this your thing? What you get off on? Making women do your bidding, perform for you?"

"Your nipples want to be squeezed. You do only what your body wants you to do."

I had to admit my nipples stiffened fast.

"Pull on them, squeeze harder."

This too my nipples seemed to enjoy. I even dug in my nails.

"Now lower your hand and begin to masturbate."

"You gotta be joking," I said. "Two orgasms like that? I'm done."

"Surprise yourself, Melanie. Part your legs and begin masturbating. Stimulate your vulva, your pussy lips. Slide a finger inside your vagina. If it is dry, we can conclude the game. But it won't be."

It wasn't.

'Morgan', still a shadow, sipped his martini and watched as my right hand slid back and forth around my vulva and in and out of my vagina, while my left hand continued to stimulate my right nipple.

"Remain upright. Maintain control."

Subconsciously, my body had bent at the hip. Upright, my finger could not reach inside my vagina. But I was already on the way. Stroking my clit-hood was working just fine.

"Do not come. Suppress your orgasm. It will be worth the wait."

I was so into pressing onto my clit stem and squeezing my nipple the words scarcely registered.

I registered, though, that the shadow in the corner now had a focus. Elegant fingers stroked a stiff penis! He was still fully dressed, but his penis and balls had emerged from his pants, ready for action?

A voice within me urged me to cross the room and impale myself on Him. If He had commanded it I would have obeyed instantly, and come three seconds later! But He did not command it. He said,

"Approach me and place a foot on the arm of the chair."

I obeyed.

"Continue to masturbate. But do not come."

"If I do that, I will come."

"No you will not. Suppress the urge. Stroke your pussy lips, squeeze them. Avoid your clit. Keep yourself on the edge."

"But I need to come!"

"And in five minutes your need will be greater, in ten, greater still."

Ten minutes? Of this? No way!

Ten minutes, hell, he kept me there at fever pitch for thirty. Placing a foot on the arm of the chair opened out my vaginal lips, new avenues for exploration. My fingers caressed, stroked, squeezed, and I was conscious that every movement I made was watched, every gasp, inhalation of breath, was heard. Conscious too of the penis not a foot away from my vulva. Morgan stroked his penis gently, pumping its shaft. It throbbed when he diverted has hand to squeeze his balls. The urge to impale myself on him grew.

He knew this. He was teasing, challenging. Perhaps that was the reason I resisted the urge.

"Show me your clit. Pull back the hood."

My clit was swollen like never before. I sensed it, and I could even see it, looking down.

Morgan seemed to approve.

"Lower your body and brush the tip of your clit over the tip of my cock."

"If I do that," I panted, "I'll come for sure."

"So be it."

He held his penis by its base. Its head gleamed up at me. My body shook as my groin inched down.

"I want to fuck you," I heard myself say. Was it really me?

"Rub your clit over my cock tip. Hold back the hood, and stroke my cock with your clit."

A bolt of electricity coursed through my body the instant my clit made contact. My head flew back. I gasped.

"Hold position."

The bulb of his cock now caressed my exposed clit. I let out an utterance that words cannot describe.

"Hold position." His voice commanded.