She was a nice girl,. That’s what they called her to her face. Maybe she was, or used to be. There was a time when doing good mattered and made a difference, and being good mattered and made a difference.
Her wrists chafed. The ties weren’t budging, and he’d been out of the room for what seemed like forever. She was suddenly cold, and the dim lighting and draft from some unknown source weren’t helping.
Nice girls didn’t go home with strangers. Didn’t let themselves be stripped naked and tied spread-eagle to a bed bare of all but the fitted sheet. Didn’t allow men without last names to touch their skin with their hands and tongues… she shivered. It felt good.
A stronger draft swept over her, and her eyes strained as though she might be able to see through the blindfold if she tried hard enough.
Each time the darkness closed in, because the blindfold was the one compulsory thing, she thought about losing them. Not just this one here tonight. He was handsome in a strong chinned Errol Flynn sort of way. They all looked similar; in age, in carriage and countenance, all bordering on the unreachable with silver hair in varying degrees of retreat, all with facial hair but always groomed, all with the bearing of powerful businessmen even when dressed down. Even when naked. They carried their successes and failures similarly. Each time the darkness was sealed by the snugness around her head she thought of the moment they would leave, when she was finally fucked senseless, trembling on the brink of oblivion…
Each one she initially spoke to in the bar, or at a table, or once standing by the trunk of his Lincoln; she instructed there was to be no aftercare. Leave me where I am, leave me unbound and in relative security, but leave.
None had ever argued. She wondered if it was a test. If one of them did argue, perhaps he had something for her. Something she could keep.
She felt something like pain but not quite against her left nipple, and his breath over her face. Then it ran, like the touch of a feather, skating over the quivering mound of her soft breast, running between, then racing away over her ribcage. Ice. His tongue touched her lips and she reached for it. He tasted good, like charcoal and bourbon and mints. He teased, licked, bit, then devoured her mouth, and she arched against his restraints and felt the arousal spike, swell and run. The ice cube touched her lower lip. She wished she could see him.
Her mind began to float as it moved over her chin, her throat, dissecting her undulating body down the center. He alternated with his heated kisses, and the juxtaposition left her trembling and aching and not knowing what would come next.
She barely heard when, well into their session with her body trembling on the brink of yet another climax and the cooling sweat peaking her nipples and making her crave his warmth, he asked if he could remove the blindfold.
When she didn’t answer, he asked again. His voice was deep and smooth, and indicated he was near her head, though his hand was on her cunt… or in it. She wondered why he would ask, but shook her head in the negative.
His cock painted the outline of her lips and she moaned as she strained for it. “Why not, little girl?” He asked softly. He pulled back, allowing her only the smallest taste. Her pussy throbbed as he fingered her, pushing her higher.
She couldn’t answer with words. The sounds being torn from her were not ones of rationale. They were the sounds of primal hunger and need. He drove his thumb against her clit, left, then spanked her cunt, a sharp unexpected slap. She screamed and crested. He slapped again and she tipped over. Then his mouth was on her, sucking and biting, and with each sensation she crested and dropped lower. Her limbs were heavy and numb, her body convulsing; she was far past any control she may have had. Her voice grew hoarse until the only sounds she made were raspy pants. She lost track of him. Lost track of everything…
When she woke, her body felt both light and ached. Her limbs were free, she was covered with a thick soft fleece, and the blindfold was still in place. Her fingers found it and peeled it away. She tested herself, stretched, sighed, noted the guttering light of a candle almost burned to its death on the table beneath the window.
A noise drew her eyes to the dark corner behind the halo cast by the candle. She made out the outline of black trousers, ankle over knee, the light gleaming off a shined shoe.
“What the fuck!” She hissed, pulling the fleece to cover herself. Her heart pounded. “We talked about this!”
He cleared his throat. “Yes. But you were in no state to be left.”
“Not your call.”
“Entirely my call.”
She sat up and scooted her body back against the headboard. “Well I’m fine, as you can see. So you can go. Please.”
“I see no such thing. That was an intense session, little one.”
She cast about in her mind for his name. Joshua? James? Johnathon? Fuck. “They’re all intense. That’s the point.”
“I’m aware. And do men actually agree to just leave?”
“No, I agreed to no aftercare.”
“And what do you call this?” She indicated the blanket.
“Not aftercare. Care, maybe. But a bare minimum.”
“Please go. I’m fine.”
“I paid for the room. It’s my right to occupy it until eleven tomorrow morning. Or this morning, rather,” he amended, looking at his watch.
“Fine,” she scooted off the bed and began looking for her clothes, struggling and failing to keep the fleece wrapped around her naked body. “Then I’ll go.”
She turned on the lamp to aid her search, and he was revealed. He was very handsome, very hard in the set of his face. He watched without apology. His suit jacket and tie were over the back of a chair, and his white cuffed sleeves were loosed and rolled up his forearms, his collar open but his shirt tucked into his creased pants.
She found her odds and ends, a little alarmed at the quiver in her thighs. She wanted to sit, but didn’t care to show any weakness. “Excuse me, do you mind?”
He smiled. “No.” But he didn’t move. “How often do you do this?”
“That’s none of your business.”
He finally moved, rose and crossed the space between them. He knelt on the old shag and took the thong from her, studied it, turned it; it looked flimsy in his large hands. He held it out for her to step into, and she automatically put her hands on his shoulders. He pulled it up slowly, carefully, his fingers grazing her skin. He eased her back and she sat on the bed.
He picked up a stocking. “My fingers might run it,” he murmured, but he gathered it, then set her foot on his knee. He rolled the black silk up her leg, over her knee, and smoothed the lace top against her thigh. He repeated with the other.
She couldn’t believe she was allowing him.
“Did you drive?”
“I’ll drive you home.”
“You most certainly will not.” She’d put her arms through the straps of her bra. He stood and leaned over her so his shirt brushed her face and fastened it behind her back. Then he picked up the little black number he’d earlier watched her wriggle out of.
She raised them without thinking. He slipped it over her head, urged her to stand and turn, and slid the zipper up.
She wanted to say his name, but it wouldn’t come to her. Her mouth moved like that of a fish while her brain tried to form an argument.
“Or, we can stay right here until I’m satisfied that you’re okay to leave.”
Fuck it. She had no intention of telling him where she lived. No intention of including him in any reality she had to face when the day arrived. “Fine.” She sat back on the bed. “And when will that be?”
He returned to the chair in the corner. “I don’t know. How long does it usually take before you’re ready to go home?”
She usually stumbled up her front walk just before first light. “It depends.”
“I suppose we’ll know it when we see it.”
She looked at him, reclaiming the woman who had brought him here. Because she brought him here. And he was more than willing to follow, like a bull on the scent. Her scent. “Did touching me turn you on?”
“Just now?” She clarified.
“It did. I don’t make a habit of putting women’s clothes on.”
“You wouldn’t let me taste you. Earlier.”
He said nothing. His fingers curled into his palms on the arms of the chair.
“I wanted to see your eyes. Why the blindfold?”
“I like being blindfolded. Surely that’s not uncommon.”
“No. But you seemed a little – anal – about it.” There was a wicked glimmer in his grey eyes.
She laid back. Allowed the short skirt on the dress to inch up her thighs. “You want to fuck me?”
She opened her legs then, and slipped her fingers beneath the lace thong, pulling it aside so he could see.
He rose and crossed the distance again. As he did, he removed the trousers and his white briefs. He was fully erect, waving and dripping.
She held out the blindfold.
“No.” he grabbed her by the ankles and pulled her to him, quickly, roughly. He took the blindfold from her hand and flung it across the room, then flipped her over, his fingers gouging the generous flesh of her hips. He penetrated in a single brutal movement that made her cry out.
She put her head down, covered her eyes with her hands.
He pounded her. Used her, she felt it. And she thought she should feel fear, but she didn’t. As long as her eyes were closed against it, as long as she didn’t see him… His hand smacked her ass hard enough she felt the heat from the reddening. He drove over and over, hitting the end of her, bruising her. She pressed her palms into her eye sockets till the lights exploded.
He flipped her to her back and shoved her thighs into her breasts. He plunged again, deeper, harder, and she felt her palms grow wet. “What are you doing?” He demanded. “Look at me.”
She ignored him.
He grabbed her wrists and tried to pull her hands away but she pushed back with her knees. He came at her again, and this time succeeded. It made no difference. She kept her lids squeezed shut. “Fucking slut,” he murmured. But his movements gentled. He pulled back a bit, began to use his cock to pleasure her. But she was numb. She didn’t even feel him come, simply knew by his change in breath, in pace, his withdrawing.
The mattress gave as he laid down beside her. Stretched his body along hers, still wearing his shirt. The fabric caressed her as he gathered her against his chest, his breath still coming hard. He held her close, and she listened to the pound of his heart. “I’m sorry,” he said.
It didn’t matter. She would never see him again.
After a little while, he left her. Rose and covered her. She listened to him dress, and listened to the door lock behind him. She heard his car start, and listened to it pull away. She thought if she opened her eyes she might be blind, that it felt more like blood than tears. She sank into the darkness and waited for morning.