A new ick. June 2022.
A bit different this one, probably not nailing third person present, but you can help me out.
Listening Notes:
“‘Til I Gain Control Again’ by This Mortal Coil
The story
You know what you want her to do, later, when you’re alone, with the taste of this awful French roast coffee is a long forgotten memory. You know exactly what you need her to do, but you know for certain that what you want has been subcontracted; long since, your desires, your needs have been subordinate to the things she enjoys. And everything today is subordinate to the warmth of the day.
You consider, carefully, almost ruefully, if this is what it’s like to be one of those animals overtaken by some parasite, forced to do its willing even when the end result is your collapse, your demise or worse, whatever the fuck that is. You stir the coffee again and she returns to the table, and you look into her eyes and she seems happy, pleased even, to see you, and you can’t quite believe it. You’re a simp. You’re so happy to be allowed in the same room as her, if you were a puppy you’d be out of breath and wagging your tail.
But there she is. She lifts the fork and plunges it deeply into the rich moist crumb of the Victoria sponge; she is careful to gather a little cream and a little raspberry on the fork; she lifts it to her beautiful mouth, rimmed in the most luscious damson lipstick, and savours the taste; she isn’t watching you watch her, but you know she knows you can’t take your eyes off anything she does with that mouth. She sits back a little in her chair, looks at you and nods.
“This place is so good. Thank you for bringing me here.”
As if you brought her here. As if she doesn’t have full command over her actions. As if she didn’t put the idea of cake and coffee in your head through whatever subliminal communications method she uses to take possession of you at will. As if that were her will. You sip your coffee and pretend it’s good.
You talk about work, except that’s a lie; you make up things that might or might not have happened to keep conversation going, following her cues and her laughter and her interest. It’s a pathetic trait you picked up years before; it makes you either a brilliant conversationalist or a sociopath and you haven’t decided which one yet. Maybe she’ll tell you later.
She tells you all about what her husband has been doing, and how she’s got so much stuff on, and how the next few weeks are going to be critical for her career, and about her hobbies and her family, and she makes it clear that you were lucky to get her today, there was a thing that so-and-so was begging her to come to; she would have to keep her phone on the table just in case something came up. You nodded, you told another story about how busy your work gets sometimes. You finish the coffee and eat the lemon torte slice you ordered, and you make small talk. When she’s finished her americano and cake, she licks the little fork clean, gives you the look, stands up and walks away.
Suddenly, it’s like there’s fear of this unwanted freedom. You finish your torte, you pay for the table and you walk out into the warm sunny day.
Your phone beeps; you check it. Of course you do. You know what it is.
’214’. Your heart thumps, you begin the stroll up the street and around the corner to the hotel. Like some mental cross between a spy and street meat, you stroll past reception with you little bag and into the lift to the second floor. This is elation and joy and fear and everything you do this for. Almost.
You push the door which you knew she’d have left open, and you see her, standing by the window, easing off her black patent high heels. She knows you have come in, but she doesn’t acknowledge you. You place you bag on the floor beside the bed and approach her.
She spins towards you.
“You’re such a fucking tease,” she says. This is the sort of thing she says. She is very kind.
She kisses you on your lips; she’s not tall; she had to stretch for that. She brushes her hair from her face. You keep kissing, and you turn her around so she has her back to the bed; a flash of whatever electricity there was between you takes your mind and you guide her to the corner; she prepares to simply sit down on it, but you’re not having that today; you lift her slightly by her ass and place her on the bed, fairly far back. She rests on her arms and looks at you.
“That’s different,” she says. “Can you back it up?”
You don’t for a moment consider the ambiguity of the request; you’re not backing down now. You have your safe words; she can use one if she wants. You won’t be.
“I can back it up,” you say, and you find yourself fighting the urge to laugh. You win that battle.
“What do you want me to do?” She asks, teasing. You subvert the panic, as you so often do, with the best wordplay you can muster in the moment.
“You’ll get the picture. Now. Let’s start with something familiar. Open your legs.”
She smiles up at you. “Really? You think you can talk to me like that?”
“I have a hundred thousand things I could do instead of what I’m about to do to you, honey. You should count yourself lucky you’re the top of the list. Now, sweetie, darling: I won’t ask you twice.”
There is a momentary pause; then she lays back, and spreads her legs; she hitches up the skirt just enough to show off the pretty underwear she was going to make you worship when she had walked out past her husband this morning. You glance at the taut mesh and lace and then back at her face; you’ve never considered the possibility of her being self conscious before; you wonder, momentarily, then drop to your knees, pull her closer and kiss quickly up the inside of her thighs; what joy. You need to pay attention to this.
Her skin is just slightly on the glowing side of clammy; it’s a warm day; it makes running your face up along her legs a little more difficult, so, fuck it; you’ll just have to lick the whole way up to the fabric of her panties; as you approach, you detect the scent you haven’t been able to get out of your mind; a freshness laced delicately with the musk of her sex; you get to the fabric and you place kisses dead centre; you extend a hand and place it firmly over her crotch and emerge from between her legs.
“These are nice panties. I hope they weren’t too expensive. They’re going to get very wet.”
You undulate your fingers and palm on her as you stand up; you lean down and kiss her mouth, and she looks you right in the eye for a moment.
“Undo your blouse.”
She nods, and slowly unbuttons the cotton, revealing the bra as a match for the panties.
“Oh, you dressed up for me,” you say. Your voice is low and composed. You’re getting into this. “How thoughtful.”
You run your fingers along the centre of the panties from her mound to her ass; she closes her eyes a moment as you do so; she can feel that, though not enough; she’s trying to amplify it; seems reasonable.
Her blouse now open, you lean down, still stroking her pussy through her underwear, and place short kisses on the flesh of her breasts. They are soft, pliant, and, you think you detect, slightly shaking. Good. She deserves it. You kiss her forehead and enjoy the slight perspiration; you lick your lips and taste foundation and the slight salt of sweat; you really ought not to be so orally fixated, you simp. Nah, fuck that.
You lean down and kiss her hard; maybe a little too hard, but she seems to enjoy it and you know you do. When you’ve had enough, you stand back up.
“You need to take all this off. All of it. Slowly.”
She sits up; there is a look of either puzzlement or anxiousness on her face; she is still having trouble computing the change in pace here; she is trying to work out whether she would be more comfortable dominating you, or whether this is okay for her; she is trying to work out if you have it in you. You guess you’re both about to find out. She throws off her blouse and pauses before removing the bra; she wants you to see the ensemble she put together to wow you with today. She wants you to witness her, you decide. She stands to throw down the skirt, and now she’s right before you; all five foot three of her, and she looks lost. She is about to speak in protest.
In a moment of madness, you place your finger on her lips.
“I see you. You are beautiful. You look gorgeous in these. But you know I need these on the floor, honey, because, try as I might, I can’t fuck you through lace, and I can’t suck your tits through satin. And you do want me to suck your tits, Darlin’, don’t you?”
She nods.
“Good girl. And my tongue can’t push past your panties; and you know how eagerly I like to drive my tongue inside you, right?”
She kisses your finger. You have your answer. You let her kiss the tip, and you reach forward to slip down the panties over her thighs, down to the knees. They fall to the ground, and you let your hand stroke up her leg, over her mound, never losing contact with her skin until it meets your other hand behind her back; you release the bra in a pleasingly simple manoeuvre and remove it from around her shoulders, revealing her breasts. Creases and pressure points from the ribs guide you in to place kisses on her tits. You know exactly what you want from her now; you are totally aware of her body and her breathing and your touch, and you kiss and lick and suck her nipples; taking each one in turn into your mouth and sucking hard, making sure she’s watching, seeking certainty she’s onboard. She is. Her hands find your shoulders and your neck, and she tries to kiss your head and your ears as you drag your tongue across her much-too-sensitive breasts. You run your left hand down to her crotch; she puts one foot on tiptoes to create space for you to slip your hand between the tops of her thighs; she is hot and wet there, and you know this is going to get hectic fairly soon. You stop kissing her, you take your hands off her, and you push her again down to the bed.
“Your fingers,” you snap. “On yourself, now. Show me how you finger yourself when we’re talking on the phone.”
She protests.
“You can either show me or not. But I think you’ll enjoy the afternoon more if I stay here.”
Hark at billy big balls. An ultimatum. Big gamble. Huge risk. Not so:
She licks her fingertips and brings two of them to her clit, and you watch as she applies enough pressure to make her fingertips white; you watch close up for some time, and then, without announcement, you begin to kiss her fingers; she whimpers. You lick her fingers and kiss her lips, and she goes harder. Her breath is beginning to respond. You lick your own fingers and run them along the sickening crown of her vulva, and you feel her shifting towards you at the edge of the bed, inviting you to touch her deeper; inviting you to slip your fingers inside her; you nudge her fingers out of the way and plunge your tongue deep inside her, spreading the soft wisps of her labia and driving into her; she tastes sharp, the way she should taste; the way you have needed her to. She responds with a gasp and she grasps the back of her head. You grasp her shins with each hand and hold her legs in tension as you begin to rhythmically tongue fuck her.
She might not need this (you think) but you sure as hell do.
/ end of part one. Feed me some feedback, below. Be anonymous, in the NAME OF ALL THINGS HOLY.
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