Kimono

Author's note: Yes, there are no quotation marks in this story. It's a style decision on my part, and not an error by a Literotica editor.

*

She opened the closet, and there was the kimono. The first thing she thought of was the funky used clothing store in the West Village where she had found it, stuffed on a rack in the back between a peasant blouse and a couple of midi-skirts her mother might have worn. Then she thought of Michael, and almost closed the closet door.

Instead, she took the kimono out, still on the hangar, and put it on the bracket hanging over the bedroom door. She had not heard from Michael in how long? Nine months? She felt her stomach start to do what it always did when she thought of him, and took a deep breath, running her hand over the kimono's sleeve. Just the silkiness made her feel better -- although it also made her think about the first time she had worn the kimono for Michael.

*

It was zero and snowing, but neither one of them really cared. After all, when you're in a suite in the Ritz-Carlton in Montreal, you have other things on your mind. And this was the first time the two of them had been away for a weekend, really been away for a weekend, since they had met. She brought the kimono for no particular reason, other than she liked to wear it, feel the silk against her skin. And she had a feeling Michael would like her in it, like the way her long black hair hung on the shoulders and the way the kimono wrapped around her body. He would watch her walk around his apartment, wearing the silk pajamas he had bought her to keep there, and she knew how much he liked the way she looked in them. He often said: Tell me what the silk feels like against your breasts, against your nipples. She would blush, and then tell him -- stammering at first, but lately in long, confident sentences that excited him even more than the sight of her in the pajamas did.

They had dinner in Vieux-Montreal, the old city, at a marvelous and cheap Italian restaurant, where they drank bad Canadian wine that the waitress at first refused to bring them, and ate lentil soup with chunks of sausage and a polenta lasagna that tasted too good to be true. How do you know about places like this, she asked, and he just smiled and said anyone can spend a lot of money. What's more fun is finding a place like this, and being here with you. He reached for her hand as he said it, and stroked it slowly. She saw the waitress watching, felt herself start to feel something that almost scared her. She looked at his face, just starting to show the lines and creases around the eyes that a man his age should have, and squeezed his hand back, moving her fingers on his palm. The waitress turned away, went into the kitchen.

In the cab on the way back, they sat next to each other, as close as their winter coats would allow. Michael kept nibbling on her ear, calling her the pet names she loved -- princess, my little girl, and she could have sworn she was swooning. She was wet, at least, and she wanted Michael to take his hand and somehow find a way to touch her there, and then feed her his fingers.

In the Ritz lobby, Michael asked her if she wanted to get a drink in the bar. She kissed him lightly on the lips, doing it slowly, and shaking her head no. She took his hand and led him to the elevator. I have something I want to put on for you. He grinned. Did you bring something special, princess? Yes, but not what you're thinking, and slapped him on the shoulder.

Upstairs, he opened the door, and she jumped in, just out of his grasp. Order some champagne from room service while I get ready, she said, and ran into the bedroom. She threw her coat on the bed, walked to the closet, took the kimono out. She thought briefly about trying to put her hair up, but decided against it. She didn't want to wait that long -- it was all she could do at that minute to undress, shed her bra and panties, get the kimono on and obi wrapped around her, without touching herself, making herself cum in anticipation of what Michael would do.

She opened the door. Michael was standing across the room, pouring the champagne. He looked at her, and his eyes lit up. You're exquisite, angel, he said. You like it, daddy? She almost never called him that, sometimes still felt uncomfortable calling him that, but knew, in that moment, it was what she should do. Yes, princess, daddy loves it. He walked over, took her face in his hands and kissed her. He took his time, kissing her lower lip and her upper lip, sucking on them and finding her tongue and sucking on that, all the while holding her face in his hands. She started to moan.

He let go of her face and brought his hands to her hips, moving them over her ass as his mouth moved to her neck. Daddy loves his little girl, he said, and kissed her neck, moving his mouth up and down, pushing her hair out of the way to find the spot in the back of her ear that made her shake. Her hands were on his, clasping them. She could feel his rhythm increasing, knew he was getting more excited, and she felt herself almost drip in anticipation.

Instead, he stopped, took a step back, a deep breath. I'm not going to waste a minute of this, he said. I've never seen anyone as lovely as you are right now, sweetheart. Loosen the obi so I can see your shoulders. She paused, confused, but did as she was told. He gasped, literally gasped, as the kimono slipped down and he saw her shoulders, framed by her hair and the blue silk. My God, he said, moving behind her, his hands at her waist and his mouth at her neck and shoulders and ears, kissing and biting and sucking and pushing into her as she pushed back against his cock and she kept pushing, so happy she could do something besides stand there and get even more wet and more desperate to have him inside her.

It was if she was there, with him, but also in the room, watching what he did to her. When he undid the obi and moved his hands under the kimono, first seeing how wet she was and then moving a hand to one breast and then the other, pinching each nipple, she almost screamed. When he took his two fingers and touched her clit, played with it, squeezed it, flicked it, she did scream. He was short of breath, gasping: Not yet, princess, not yet, and he took his wet fingers and painted her lips with them and then let her suck them, which made him moan. She kept sucking, moving her mouth back and forth, first both fingers, and then one finger and then the other, slurping and sucking, doing it loudly, knowing what that did to him and glad -- thrilled -- she could do that to him, that she could please Michael.

The obi was on the floor. He led her to a chair, the kimono hanging open, showing her breasts as she moved. He undressed, pushing his pants and shorts to the side and she saw his cock and she could already feel it inside her. Come here, princess, and he guided her down to where he sat, the kimono wide open now and her breasts and nipples and pussy in plain view. She lowered herself, and his mouth reached for a nipple and he bit it. She stifled a shout, pushing herself down on his cock and feeling it fill her and she started to pant, still pushing and pushing again.

Fuck daddy, baby, he said, and his breath was getting shorter and he had found her rhythm and was letting her ride him, moving in time with her as she pushed down and pushed down again, trying to push harder each time. Fuck daddy, angel, he said. Show daddy what a good little girl you are. Make me cum inside you, and she kept pushing and pushing, her arms around him and his mouth kissing her breasts and her nipples and his cock full inside her and he was moaning now, and she loved that and pushed harder and felt the tingling get stronger and pushed even harder, because she wanted to cum with her daddy, to share it with him, because she was his good little girl.

*

In her apartment, the kimono on the bracket on the back of the door, she thought about calling him. She knew, though, that if she waited, the moment would pass, and her life would go on without him. Which, she supposed, was the best thing for everyone. Instead, she walked to the dresser, picked up her phone, punched the buttons. His voice mail answered. Michael? It's me. I was going through the closet, and I saw the kimono. I miss you, Michael.

She broke the connection, turned the phone off. As she did, something occurred to her, and it scared her: What if this moment didn't pass?