She takes my hand and pulls me toward the empty foyer of the complex, like a child dragging her mother to see her new want in the window for the umpteenth time. Just like the mother I stumble somewhat unwillingly behind, but I can’t help being caught up in her excitement. We pass our waiter friend Brad, and I see him smirk and I imagine my expression matches his from earlier this evening; deer in the headlights with a hint of anticipation. He waves goodbye, and calls “Goodnight Liz, Ladies” as she finally lets go of my hand and digs down the front of her dress.
My mouth falls open and I ask “What are you doing!?”
“I thought we’d get started right here, c’mon, take your clothes off.” She winks at me indicating a joke, but I can’t help but feel she might be serious. I glance nervously around the glass-walled entryway and look back at her questioningly. “I’m getting my elevator key card. I didn’t bring anything down with me but it, so I kept it in my bra.”
How charming. I’m sure it works wonders on your poor gentlemen callers. Of course, when was the last time a man was allowed in her room? We haven’t talked at all about her recent relations, the group romps and threesomes that inadvertently introduced us, only those long buried in the past. I find myself tapping my heel on the cold stone tiles of the foyer as a flood of unanswered questions and new worries fills my mind.
She looks back at me as she pulls the elevator key out of her dress, like some sick sexual magic trick. I half expect her to say some magic word. Instead for her next trick, it seems, she reads my mind.
“Samantha, don’t think. That brain of yours is on overload. How long has it been since you just relaxed?”
“Twenty-Four years, two months, 3 days and…” I count the hours and seconds back to what would be my birth on the oversized clock above the elevator doors, “two hours, 45…6 seconds.”
She laughs at me, and slides her key card into the slot by the elevator door. The building has 20 stories, and her apartment is just below the penthouse. While we wait for the elevator, she pulls me over beside her.
“Sam, you really are very beautiful, even if you are a bit uptight.” She leans down and kisses the side of my neck to emphasize her point. The pulse point right below and behind my ear lobe, the sensitive spot I’ve often touched myself when nervous or lonely but not one of my lovers or friends has managed to find. The touch of her soft, wet lips on the sensitive skin sends electricity shooting through me, concentrating a building charge low in my abdomen. Like a light switch, my brain is off and I’m hers for the morning, or what remains of it.
She buries her nose in the spot again. “Is that jasmine oil? I love it.” I can’t speak, for fear I’ll lose this blissful, thoughtless feeling my brain and body have been aching for for years. She kisses my jaw just as the elevator dings its arrival in the foyer. I let her drag me into the elevator and settle myself into a back corner opposite the buttons for the floors. I watch her push 19, and scurry back along the rather spacious and comfortable elevator. It’s dark, lit by the track lighting made familiar by Elizabeth’s picture that I remind myself to make my new desktop wallpaper when I get home. It’s modernly and overly furnished, as far as elevators go, and I inch over to the cushioned bench along the rear wall. The top of the elevator is mirrored, and I look up giving myself a quick once-over before I realize my mirror image is seated next to Elizabeth’s reflection as well.
I turn to her, and before I can say a word her lips are on mine. I close my eyes and allow the upward movement of the elevator to push me back into the corner, totally unaware of myself. Elizabeth is on top of me, our positions from the coffee house couch now reversed. Her tongue slips in and out of my lips, exploring the moisture and heat of my mouth that my pussy is now beginning to emulate. As the elevator dimly ticks off the floors, her hands work their way over my sore torso. I wince and jump each time her fingers force the boning of the corset into a fresh bruise, and each time she traces around it, committing the map of my beaten flesh to memory. I try desperately to do the same, focusing on the pain so as not to get lost in the night, but I’m already long gone. I slide my arms up over her hips, and slip my hands around her bare back, letting my fingers settle on the thin line of a g-sting just under the scooping back of her green silk dress. My chest heaves up with my breathing, each gulp of air more ragged and wanting than the one before it. Each time I inhale, I feel the weight of her tits settle on mine, the firm points of her nipples pressing into the taut skin of my cleavage. My fingers trace the dip in her flesh made by her underwear, and I feel her skin grow gradually hotter with mine. She brings her hands up my back and to my shoulders, resting her palms against my exposed shoulder blades and tickling my neck with her slender fingers. Her mouth pushes away from mine and down along my jaw, licking a slick trail to my ear. She latches onto my earlobe, biting and sucking the soft flesh with intensity. I let my head loll back into the corner, and feel the chopsticks in my hair stab at my scalp. I moan softly with the combined pain and pleasure being afforded me, and pull my hands up her bare back, digging my nails lightly into her pale flesh. I look up to the mirror and watch her twist under my touch, and see the dark red of ten evenly spaced scratches crawl up her ivory white back behind my fingers. I see her deep pink lips part, letting her tongue probe my neck and jaw. I shudder as I see and feel her suck down just behind my jaw. I push her to me, my palms flat on her shoulders. Her breasts squeeze against mine and the weight of her collapses onto me just as the elevator announces its arrival on the 19th floor with a sharp ‘ding’.
I long to push the ‘close door’ button, to keep her trapped with me and myself trapped beneath her for the duration. But as the thought is forming, she’s already up and off me, laughing, smiling and beckoning me out towards her doorway.
I push myself off the couch and as I stand the full weight of the wine I gulped downstairs hits me. My knees buckle under me, and I sprawl out of the elevator onto the cool marbled tile hallway floor.
Forcibly loosening up a bit, I proclaim “C’mon Liz, do me right here!” and slap my hand on the marble next to my now aching ass.
She laughs again and unlocks and pushes open her door before coming over to me and dragging me up. We tumble together inside the doorway, and land as a single laughing heap of excited, nervous female energy on her hardwood floor.
She’s on top of me, and attempts to pick herself up first. I’ve long ago surrendered my formalities for the night, and I pull her back down on top of me. Her bare knees rest on either side of my full hips and the length of her thighs is stretched, pressing her ass tightly down into my pelvic region. The pressure inside me throbs against her weight, and I run my hands up her stomach and cup her breasts in my hands. She must be a full D cup, and I’m enthralled by the stiff perky heaviness. I can never get my own tits to spring up like that, and I’m only a C, maybe a D on a good day in the right bra.
She tosses her long wavy hair to one side, letting the mass of it fall down over my left hand. It’s incredibly thick and soft, the deep reds and soft strawberry blondes mix awkwardly with the darkened tint of my tan hand. She leaves her head cocked to the side and gives me a mischievous smile, simultaneously forcing herself down hard onto my thighs and tender, swollen mound. A forced groan escapes me, and she traces a finger up and down my cleavage while I recover.
“Shall I show you around?” She asks formally, far too formally for our current position.
I laugh at her and press her tits together and up, allowing little pale pink half circles to peek above the neckline of her dress. I feel my own nipples strain and grate against the constricting fabric of the corset. She drags her hands down my stomach to her bare thighs, and traces her fingers in front of her legs, along the hard bottom edge of the corset. She brings her finger tips back along her exposed inner thighs, simultaneously slipping them over my covered hips and thighs. The dark green fabric of her dress falls in a concealing drape between her legs, and she pushes it back against her own hot mound, digging her finger tips into middle of the gentle ‘V’ made by my skirt between my legs, teasing my already swollen clit. She presses her thighs together over the outside of mine and I feel the familiar warm squish between my legs as I soak my thong with anticipation. The muscles of my cunt spasm lightly under the pressure and I feel the intense heat against my lips. Her fingers have wandered back out to my hips now, and she presses her hands into the floor on either side of me. I force my hips up against her, and she bounces her ass down against me driving my already tender ass into the floor. I release my grasp on her and instinctively rub my hips to soothe the sore flesh as she climbs off me.
“Get up!” She squeals happily, “I want to show you my place!” She pads up to my shoulders, and I look up to a perfect up-skirt view. I lie still for a minute and allow my consoling hands to move from my hips over my thighs and between my legs. I smooth the folds of my skirt against myself, rubbing my slit enough to comfort the long building ache through the layers of fabric. The light of her loft shines through the silk dress, casting a soft green tint over her upper thighs, which appear as muscular and inviting as they did from under the dress. I can see the rich white curves of her ass, and make out the dark line of the g-string I felt earlier along her hips. I knead my own swollen, bare lips through my clothing as I notice the neatly kept red fuzz peek out around the very small triangle covering her, and the thin line of the g-string slipping along her bare lips. She’s very wet too; I can see the glistening of moisture coating her by the light through her skirt. A single drip inches down her right thigh, and I push my fingers hard against my clit, forcing my underwear and skirt between my swollen lips. I sit up quickly to avoid poking my head up her dress to taste it.
“Well, then, what’s to see?” I say, attempting to distract myself and swiveling on the hardwood to look out into her apartment.
I realize then that graduate school might not have been the wise career move I thought it was. Apparently, there is an untapped market in nanny-ing I was unaware of. She has the full half-floor of the level for her ‘apartment’, and three of the four walls are made up of pane glass windows minus perhaps four feet of bare brick wall at the top. On the right side, perched above a dining room and bar, there is a spacious sleeping loft with a wrought iron spiral staircase spilling into the living room area. There are leather couches and the newest, hippest furniture hangs around the room like artwork rather than anything functional. On the left wall, another loft that leads up to what appears to be her studio, with a matching staircase. It’s overrun with scraps of colorful paper, brushes, easels, and various other beautiful, artistic trash. Below is a slightly sunken office area, and I see the workstation and desktop she was no doubt using to talk to me earlier tonight. I pull myself up to a standing position using what turns out to be a stool for the breakfast bar of a large, well equipped kitchen. Opposite us on the red brick entryway wall, a huge painting of wilting flowers jumps to life. The blues and purples melt onto the canvas, and the yellows and oranges scream for attention. I’m riveted, glued to the mysterious aura of the painting.
