Hotel Meeting

Softly curled unfamiliar blanket round my slut's stocking covered limbs and corseted torso, I waited for my love to come back once more. Sleep overtaking, after phone call making, he said he would be coming to my door.

My love comes with the morning’s blue light, the magic of anticipated meeting dissipated with sleep, I’m no longer able to convey my immense gratitude at our finally meeting, fearful now at what he’s wanting, this something he is demanding, bringing black leather bags of unknown things, zippered up in store. Ass up face down on round coffee table, I don’t understand but I’m obeying, then it’s too sudden it hurts not like before, not that shuddering and return to the core, not that vivid and renewed something. Things slow with mind and I don’t know what he has in store. I see us from outside, him wrapped robed in black, pointed golden slipper-shod, scholar, fucker of a million daughters, businessman and oracle, anarchist and father. Me, plump and primped in sheer black stockings and vinyl, clunky strapped heels and crying, yet even so my soul’s resplendent, glowing gleeful aching to kiss his feet.

He bade me to be still and not to move, laid me down on the hotel room bed, mock-quilted and feigning quaintness, after it was finished. He blindfolded me with a cloth that smelt heavily of his sweat and of foreign herbs or perfumes. It reminded me of his cock. He left, and I lay there for a while, disregarding his instructions, not understanding, and because I did not understand I did not care. I laid there as long as my comfort and anxiety permitted, then my reamed bowels demanded I used the toilet, and demanded I return there often. I tried to calm my nerves and normalize my body with hot baths. I removed the pungent blindfold. He called me after some time, and scolded me for not following his instructions, told me I was working against him, (like a spy I thought. I still did not understand.) I was eager for him to return and dispel my confusion, I gave little thought to the enigmatic chastisement I had just received, it seemed pointless and resisted demystification. Nothing mattered to me other than my immediate material responsibilities (my belongings across the border in the hotel room) and my longing to see my love, and my distress at the way this unconventional pairing was working out.

He returned after some time, in the afternoon. It was a very hot day, sweat soaked through his grey-blue T-shirt at the chest and armpits, he wore baggy khaki shorts with lots of pockets and a baseball cap, and sandals. I lounged on the bed in something tight and filmy and black.
“You’re a lazy slut.” He said, not looking at me.

I felt a surge of arousal.

“Here put this on maybe this will shut you up.”

He tossed me a plastic bag with 'Northbound Leather' written in a black and white block letters. Inside was a strange contraption that seemed a cross between a medical feeding device and a horse’s bridle. A little roughly, he arranged it to contain my face and open my mouth. I wondered if he would force his cock through the smallish black plastic hole that was now my mouth. (It turned out to be too small, though he tried.) With some effort I could stick the tip of my tongue through the orifice and be of use in that way. He sat in an armchair several feet away from the bed, I reclined awkwardly with the corset and stockings on again, but underneath the clingy black dress.

“Give me a show.” He ordered in a voice I was not likely to disobey at this stage. I wanted to ask what he wanted me to do but the gag made this impossible. So I crouched on all fours on the bed, like a filly in training, swayed tentatively and put my face into the pillow, hiked up my skirt and began to touch myself through my thong. I’d explored a bit of kinky play before, with other partners, but never with anyone thus able to command my heart and my cunt by his mere presence, if not my unruly mind.

“Not dirty enough.”