Jessica and Sharon (Songs of Submission #3.5)(5)

“Jesus, really?” I’d said.

“It’s been eighteen months since I had sex. It might be another eighteen months before I do it again. I’m stocking up.”

I’d laughed. I did that a lot with her. I pulled her up, sitting her on my lap, her back to me and my fingers between her legs and on her breast. Since she was stocking up and I thought I’d never see her again, I f**ked her hard, bouncing her on top of me while our hands met between our legs. We connected, feeling each other sliding together. When her back arched, she lost her balance, and we wound up on the floor, laughing, her on her stomach and me coming at her from behind. She turned her head, and I saw the pleasure in her face, her eyes rolling up. She was a gasping, moaning mess, crying and begging for release without being asked.

In the tiny closet of a bathroom on my six-seater plane, my imagination replayed her brown eyes looking up at me while she took my c**k in her mouth, then her lips saying please please, don’t stop from underneath me… My use for the bathroom concluded soon after.

I texted Monica a few times, just a couple of pokes to let her know I wasn’t running off and to let myself know I was really doing it.

***

Sharon had been exquisite. Attractive, willing, discreet and far away, she’d do what I told her without question, talk to me about anything, and never open her mouth about who she screwed four or five days a month. Exactly what I needed, when I needed it, and I had been the same for her, but in the end, she needed to make a lifestyle out of her sexuality, and I was just a tourist.

I’d texted her when I landed, but I was two hours early thanks to Jacques answering calls during his morning jog and my desire to clean up business before returning to Los Angeles. She didn’t expect me until after my meeting, so I figured she wouldn’t be in ready position, and we could talk.

She lived on a high floor of one of my buildings by the Embarcadero. When we’d started screwing, she was a wreck from a string of abusive, boundary-free masters who beat or f**ked her confidence away, and I was broken from Jessica’s complete rejection of my needs. We were two complete disasters trying to teach each other the meaning of safe, sane, consensual kink. Putting her in one of my apartments seemed like the kindest thing to do, considering she was teaching me as much as I was disciplining her.

The lobby was spare, in dark woods and chrome, with an Italian stone tile floor. I nodded to the doorman and went upstairs.

My phone dinged. It was Sharon.

—I’m ready for you, Sir.—

Shit.

Sharon had three ready positions. That confused her initially. I liked a little surprise. I wanted her to choose, and she was used to being told what to do from how she brushed her teeth, to what she wore, to which route she took to the grocery store. Having a choice of ready position was unheard of in her sexual life, which was why Debbie had set us up in the first place.

But I didn’t want her in a ready position. I wanted her clothed and ready to talk.

I opened the door. The place was impeccably clean, every inch made of glass and steel. I could never live in such a space. The apartment was too cold and impersonal, but it was easy to rent or sell, and it was just fine for f**king.

The living room was a big open area with a leather sectional and a shag rectangle under a teak coffee table. Sharon had both hands on the low table, palms spread, arms straight. Her ass was in the air, perched on top of a pair of beautiful legs planted in heels high enough to make a lesser woman fall over. Her blond hair hung over her face, and I knew she was watching me in the mirrors and chrome all over the apartment. Besides the stilettos, she was naked. Naked or underwear was her call, unless I stated otherwise. She was a lovely creature, with curves in the right places and smooth skin she carefully maintained.

Normally, depending on my mood and demeanor after travelling, I’d taunt and touch her until she begged, or I’d slap her ass and f**k her without a word.

I held my hand over her ass, because touching it was the first thing I’d usually do, then I stopped myself. I couldn’t tease her because I wouldn’t finish what that touch would start. Or worse, I would finish it and make the whole thing a hell of a lot worse.

“You can get up, Sharon.”

“I’m sorry, Sir?”

“Get dressed.”

“Have I displeased you?”

Fuck. Her voice squeaked with nerves. Bad start. I should have told her to be dressed when I texted her. Total miss on my part.

“No, baby. You’re fine. We have to talk, and it’s hard to do that with your beautiful ass in my face.”

I held out my hand and helped her up. Her face was a blank slate of fear. She had no reason to look scared with me. When we met, any implication of my displeasure was greeted by her acceptance of punishment I had no intention of meting out. It wasn’t my thing, but history was hard to shake. She held onto my hand, then pulled it toward her mouth. I twisted away and cupped her cheek. Her grey-blue eyes were full of questions, and her lips were pressed tight, not a position I was used to seeing them in.

“Where do you want to go for breakfast?”

“Wherever you like, Sir.”

“Can we not play right now?”

Her posture changed from erect to relaxed. “So,” she said, “who is she? Or did the wife come to her senses?”

I smiled. She couldn’t have dropped character like that two years ago. “Are you going to get dressed or is the whole town getting a look at you?”