(Story, Fiction, Erotica)
Arms criss-crossed over my chest; we sat in the car outside of the restaurant. Raindrops pearl on the windshield, spotting the streetlight across my knees and thighs. Sitting down, my skirt is almost too short, just meeting the tops of the pretty sheer stockings and garters I dressed in earlier.
Earlier, when everything was going right.
I don’t know where it went wrong. Not really. I’d anticipated going out to dinner with Sir and his friends all day long. We hadn’t been on an outing for weeks, and this restaurant was so high-class that you had to know someone to get a table.
Sir knew someone, and I was thrilled.
I’d perfumed and glossed myself to a high shine in preparation for the evening, getting everything just so and just right. Before we left, I twirled for Sir, showing off the gauze and silk of the skirt I wore, giving him a peek of the white milk skin between my thighs and my sex.
I’d bought the skirt at a discount. It was nothing special. After fifteen years of hiding in my closet, I considered it precious, precocious, and vintage. I loved it and loved that I had a place to visit worthy of its gossamer layers, full swing, and delicate black-on-black embroidery.
Feeling cheeky, I slid a hand under my skirt, shimmied out of the fine, thin panties that went with the black lace and lingerie set Sir had bought me for my birthday, and offered them to him.
“Very good, Pet, but make sure no one sees what is mine,” he took them, kissed the little bow, and tucked them in his pocket.
We stepped out into the wind and rain of early evening. I held my skirt down, minding the flare, and I laughed. The storm kissed my cheeks and played with my hair, and I basked in my beloved’s indulgent smile.
During the forty-minute drive, we talked mostly of what we would eat. The restaurant was known to have an eclectic menu, and I had it called up on my phone so I could discuss some of the combinations. Cinnamon and cayenne. Oysters and apple, black cherry, browned butter, and buffalo. Things that would melt in my mouth and stay in my memory for years to come.
I gasped as we stepped into the round, fruit-shaped mouth of black and red that was La Grenade, my short heels tapping the onyx floor of the entryway. Juicy, sensual aromas assaulted me, dared me to adventure. I inhaled like a child welcoming a Christmas feast, basking in the steam of it, forgetting that we were surrounded by posh and pricey.
Then we turned and greeted the most perfect couple I’d ever seen.
A man and a woman. The man was younger, early forties, with a close shave that gave him a baby face, and the woman was my age or older. Thinner. Smaller. They appeared so pressed and refined that not even the weather dared muss a single fiber of their expensive, designer clothing.
The sight of them startled me into sudden awkwardness, an errant leather strike against my cheek. I tried to fill the sudden, ugly space with noise, with anything but comparisons, and interrupted Sir’s greeting while I was doing it.
The woman saw my error. Her sparkling green-granite eyes flicked to my titanium O-ring collar and back to me as her sensuous lips lifted at one corner and a paint-stroke single eyebrow curved up with feline and superior grace.
Next to me, Sir corrected me. Gently but deservedly so.
But it all fell apart from there. Until we now sat in the car after dinner, and the invisible strike I’d received when I saw them now burned like an obvious red welt.
"I have never seen such behavior," Sir said between his teeth. "That was not bratting. That was rude. Obnoxious. And. Ungrateful."
I hung my head with shame. He was not wrong. I’d wanted to smear that woman’s perfect lipstick and erase the high arch of her perfect eyebrow. Arabella was her name. She’d had the daring to reach out while my Sir told a story of a work event and playfully tap the top of his hand.
I kept seeing the lacquer of her manicure as it mirrored my insecurities.
The raisin, cinnamon, and goat cheese of the spread I’d chosen for my pre-dinner bread turned sour and old in my mouth as I watched her building until I was spewing the pig shit from the stye of my life experiences out onto the table for my Sir’s friends to see.
I could still smell it, overriding other, better smells, still misting from my breath as I held back my tears.
“Look at me,” Sir commanded. “You are mine. I want you. You are smart and beautiful and fun, and even though we are both closing in on sixty, you are as alive and sexy to me as a girl of eighteen. Open your legs now. Show me your pussy.”
He said it as a car door slammed in the lot behind us. Our windows had fogged some, but anyone who decided to peer in would see. But Sir’s tone, the burr of demand in those naughty little words trilled over my nerve endings and made my breath catch.
He was going to punish me.
I opened my legs and dragged the soft material up, bunching it in my hands. It felt so soft in my hands, butterfly wings and flower petals and youth.
“Turn toward me, legs open as wide as there is space for.”
It was a small car. Our seats close together, with the thin bar of a drive console separating us. Sir adjusted his steering wheel up and turned toward me.
“Lift up. What do you say when I give you a command?”
“Yes, Sir.” I lifted, watching him, not sure what was coming.
“Count to five.”
“One.” The number passed my dry lips before I registered that this meant a spanking. On my pussy.
He slapped me between the legs, sharp and fierce, in spite of the position. The sound made me flinch; the pain hovered, a sizzling, hot coal, right at the top of my slit.
“Two,” I said. I wanted to moan and groan, but we were in a parking lot, and noises like that would mean more spanks and a longer time spent exposed like this.
He smacked me again, right over my mound. A gasp escaped as the sharp, high blow penetrated deeper. As if turning a key, that thing inside my pelvis that lurked like a hungry siren behind my clit woke up and sang.
“Three.”
Smack.
“Four.”
Smack.
“Five.”
Smack.
It burned. My shame and pleasure felt like cream, rising to the top of a bucket of fresh warm milk, thickening where he could see it, where he could touch and taste it. Five spanks to my pussy without a drop of pleasure. All his attention was on me.
The halo of his energy merged with mine, light and dark, until the two touched and rubbed. Caressed in untangle waves of soul against soul. I was wet and aroused from his discipline, my center humming and weeping, and we both knew it.
“Why were you so rude and disgusting?” he asked.
“She was perfect.” The words were a whine of complaint.
“She is $50,000 of plastic and melting from the inside out. Everyone knows this. Why would you compare yourself to that? Did you think I want her? Did I do something to make you think I wanted her instead of you? Whose fucking underwear is in my pocket, pet?”
“Mine.” The answer made me feel small and stupid.
“Whose collar is around your throat?”
“Yours.”
“Did you look at me at all during dinner? Did you ask for help? Did you let me know you were uncomfortable?” He shot out the questions in gun smoke blasts, harsher than any spanking.
“No,” I answered in a small voice.
“No.” He echoed the word, meeting my eyes until I could feel the twist of his disappointment. Reaching out, he traced his pointer finger down the fat seam of my exposed center.
As if to remind me where we were and of my misdeed, a car pulled in next to us. I looked away from him at the noise. There was a space on the window that wasn’t fully fogged. A space where anyone could look in and clearly see the pale glowing swell of my femininity being played with by my Sir.
My legs twitched.
“Don’t you dare.”
I bit my lip to keep from moaning.
His finger played up and down, teasing, aggravating. “Beautiful, sweet. Juicy. Do you think that woman you are comparing yourself to of gets like this so easily? Did she look soft and ripe to you?”
It was hard to think. I knew that was a question that I should be able to answer, but his words were incongruent to his touch. Who was soft and ripe? That other woman? Me?
He played. Touch sinking deeper and deeper toward where I vibrated in frozen need, where my spirit trembled in anticipation.
“Did she?” he asked, starting to tap.
“No.” I pushed out an answer through the building disorientation of carnal desire.
“Who wears my collar?”
“I do.” I said, breathing through my mouth, keeping myself elevated, trying to deepen the touch.
There was more noise outside. Laughter. Exclamations. Did someone see? Did I care?
Sir touched me, teased me, spread my leaking desire all over my clit until the tiny bit of flesh swollen, and stiff with desperation. He touched me carefully, as if he had all the time in the world. Intent, watching my face, the way my thighs trembled, asking the same questions over and over. “Look at me. Who wears my collar, who do I own, who am I touching, who is beautiful to me, who do I go home with?”
The car heated as the humidity of breath and desire changed the temperature. Like perfumed oil under flame, I inhaled leather, Sir’s work cologne, my vanilla perfume, the tang of expensive, creamy cheese spread over bread from dinner then exhaled a mist of sex and pain.