Read Our Lips! Book Review Blog: Interludes of a Dirty Romantic 8/31/12

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Direction

The day had been slow torture.
A steady stream of texts, calls, and emails had you quietly groaning all morning. At first, they were just subtle comments, sweet words of separation and longing.
But as the morning wore on and the time of his arrival got closer, the intensity of his attention increased. Little electronic words of love and desire, floating through the ether turned into commands and orders.

At his direction for you to play and taste, but not to come, you found yourself, just before lunch, with your fingers deep within your cunt, slowly slipping inside your already greedy flesh. He added a cruel twist that it had to be in the main office rather than hidden away inside your office with the door closed. So you risked all, standing between shelves of filing, praying no one would walk in as you slipped fingers between dripping lips and your willing mouth.
After a whispered update, you could feel your face redden at his next task. Already on edge, needing to come, but denied, his demand seemed even more cruel.
Walking was ecstatic agony; the toy buried deep within your cunt making each step a swirl of orgasmic temptation. Several times, you had to stop and grasp a wall for support as you fought to suppress the urge to come.
Returning to the office to a sea of concerned faces and questions: was everything okay, were you feeling all right, did you need water, did you need to sit down?
You want to scream. ‘No, I just need to come!’ But instead you close the door and sit down at your desk.
The text beeps its next order. You slide the toy from between your swollen lips, shuddering as it finally slips from its fleshy bonds. You pick up the phone, dial his number, and slowly clean up while he silently listens to you. No word follows when you finish, just the dial tone.
Bastard.
As you sit there panting quietly, attempting to regain composure, there is a knock at the door.
Your secretary enters, a quizzical look on her face as she hands you a note.
“This gentleman called while you were at lunch. He wouldn’t leave a name, but said you would understand.”
Now it is clear why she looked confused, or was she poorly hiding jealousy, envy, or contempt? The note held two simple words.
COME. NOW.
You feel your blood drain as you realise he raised his game, beyond your own secret play time.
Your secretary leaves the room, none the wiser, but with instructions to cancel your afternoon appointments.
The trip to his hotel room blurs, a mix of avoiding questioning, stares, and your own wicked thoughts of what is to come.
As you take the key to the room, you are handed a note by the receptionist. More orders, hand written. He has dictated them over the phone. You can feel the eyes burn into your back as you retreat to the lift.
In the quiet of the room you wait. Your thoughts fly between a growing need to be fucked and taken, to end this day of tease, and to round on him as soon as he enters the room, to rip him to shreds for the humiliation he has put you through.
But he knows you too well. He has finely balanced his game, and kept you teetering on the edge. As the door begins to open with a quiet, slow click, you turn around and follow the directions in his last note.
Without looking towards the door, you bend over the desk in the room, slowly pulling your skirt up above your hips, slightly parting your legs. As instructed, you kept your knickers on, but you know the drenched material betrays how much he has controlled you today, how much you need him.
As you place your hands flat on the desk and keep your head low, you feel his fingers slide across your smooth backside. His scent surrounds you as his hands continue to move. He has stayed silent, uttering not a single sound since he entered the room.
As his fingers begin to move between your legs and pull aside the wet material they find there, it hits you sledgehammer hard. You begin to bolt upright as you realise it is not him.
Even as strong hands begin to push you down and hold you in place, the realisation slaps you across the face. The hands are too rough, too many calluses, the aftershave too cheap, the fingers exploring your cunt for the first time rather than knowledgeably, returning to a well-known place.
You struggle against the weight pressing down on you, your voice rising in your throat to scream, when the note, written in his careful script, is dropped in front of you on the desk.
The next move is yours, baby. You have a decision to make. I have chosen your gift carefully. I know you better than you know yourself. I know you will enjoy this more than you would admit to yourself or me. However, I leave this one choice in your hands. Turn and leave, or spread your legs.
Your mind is a whirl of conflicts, an escalation of all of the feelings he has built up in you throughout the day. As you struggle to come to a decision, you feel the continual presence of strong, yet unfamiliar hands. The fingers still inside you hold still, quietly tense, obedient to the rules of a game that neither of you has designed.
You slowly, deliberately spread yourself wide, feeling the stranger’s fingers slip deeper inside you. Unable to resist, you push back against them to gain a small relief from the build up of pressure from the day.
As you stand there waiting, the next note drops in front of you to the sound of a belt buckle unclasping with a heavy metal clank . . .
To be continued…