“No.”
He groaned and poked at it anyway.
I shivered. “Not the ass. And don't look at me. Just f**k my pu**y. And do a good job of it, will you?”
He muttered, “So demanding.”
I felt him unfastening the thin belt I wore over my blue dress, and then he pulled the dress up. I stretched out my arms to help him get the garment off, but he only removed it partway, leaving it over my arms and face like a hood.
“Stay like that,” he said, his voice commanding.
I could no longer see anything except shadow and blue fabric.
“Stay,” he repeated.
“Yes, sir.” I held my position, essentially blindfolded by my own dress. Without sight, my other senses picked up.
Touch. I could feel his c**k still teasing me, gliding back and forth, side to side, but not plunging deep into me. My whole body was tingling with sexual excitement, and the cheeks of my ass were hot from where I'd been spanked. I imagined my pale skin was strawberry-red, possibly showing hand prints.
Smell. Trapped in my fabric cloak, against the bed, I couldn't smell his musk over the fabric detergents and my own perfume. The scent of cherries and sandalwood lingered on my skin.
Sound. The television was still on in the other room, set to a sports channel. I could hear my own breaths, but when I slowed my breathing down, I could just barely hear Smith. Every few breaths, he'd make a low mmm sound that sent fire through my core.
Taste. My bicep was next to my mouth, and I licked my skin, imagining I was tasting his skin. I'd been out, and the city had settled on me—all cigarette smoke and sunshine.
He wasn't inside me yet, and my mind escaped the sensations for an instant. Where was this going? What would happen at the end of my typing contract? I pulled my focus back to the heat between my legs, so I didn't have to think about the future.
Was he ever going to f**k me, or was it all a tease? I moaned in frustration, and he chuckled.
From within my cloak, I said, “Smith, what's your ex-wife's name? I want you to call me by her name. I want you to f**k me like I'm her.” I spread my legs wider and arched my back to tilt myself up. “Do it. I'm your dirty, f**king ex-wife, and I'm nagging you.”
He paused, adjusted his c**k so it was lined up, and slammed into me. I gasped, my eyes flying open, but still seeing nothing. His hands were everywhere. Holding me steady as he pounded into me, and then all over my body. Rough hands. Grabbing. Pinching. Squeezing.
He reached under and found my cl*t with rough fingers, but I was already coming, moaning and crying out in pleasure from within the confines of the fabric.
Rough hands moved around again, cupping my br**sts and pinching my ni**les, then finding their duty on my h*ps as he thrust into me, again and again, harder and faster.
Stars winked before my eyes as I cascaded into another orgasm.
I heard him gasp as he pulled out. He let out a sound like an angry growl.
Hot like candle wax, his fluid landed on my bare back.
I bit my lower lip and smiled to myself.
He lost, and I won.
His palm slapped my back and he rubbed the fluid around and around.
I paused, unsure of what was coming next. I held absolutely still, my pulse rushing in my ears.
My skin tightened as he dragged one slippery finger down the center of my back, and all the way down to my pu**y. He stuck one wet finger straight into my pu**y, and then two fingers. The other hand went to my back, smeared around in the fluid, then dragged down and around my stomach to my clit, which was so sensitive now. He burrowed his fingertips roughly into my folds and stroked in rhythm with the movement of his fingers penetrating me.
I didn't want to, but I came again. My inner walls clutched at his fingers, and before I'd even stopped shaking, he abruptly withdrew.
Without a word, he walked away, his bare feet slapping the wood floor, on the way to the bathroom.
I heard him urinate and then turn on the shower.
What the hell was that?
After a moment, when I was sure he wasn't coming right back, I carefully extracted myself from the dress, then took some deep breaths of air-conditioned air.
Smith was showering in the main bathroom, connected to the room, but something told me not to go in there.
Had I changed the game, or played right into his hand?
I went to the other bathroom and cleaned myself off with a good, long shower. I couldn't wipe the smug smile off my face, but three orgasms will do that to you.
Part 3: Going Out to a Show
For the next few days, Smith and I fell into a routine.
He said we weren't going back to Vermont until the book was finished, so I unpacked all my things and set them up in the bedroom.
At night, he slept in the second, smaller bedroom, while I sprawled out in the master bedroom of the penthouse like a lazy housecat.
After the time he'd f**ked me with my dress pulled up over my head, he wouldn't touch me. I could tell by the way he looked at my body that he still wanted me, so I practiced being patient, and didn't make any demands.
We worked on the novel for several hours each day, making good progress. This bothered me, because when he didn't need me as his typist anymore, what would happen? I asked him a few times, at first casually and then, after a few days, less casually.
He simply said, “Tori, I'm not thinking about anything beyond the story. You know I like you as more than a typist. We'll take things one day at a time.”
One day at a time.
I'd been hired for a two-week contract, and we'd spent five days together in Vermont before coming to Montreal.
By day ten, I stopped being hopeful about us having a future, and resigned myself to enjoying the present.
My requests for sex became almost perfunctory.
He refused, saying he was conserving his creative energy for the writing, and that plenty of people in various fields did the same thing.
“Sounds superstitious to me,” I said, trying to play it off with humor, but I was heartbroken that he wouldn't touch me. I even tried picking a fight with him, but he blocked me by becoming The Most Reasonable Man.
“Where would you like to go for dinner, dear?” he'd ask. I'd say something crazy and he'd agree. We had the concierge send out for McDonalds Big Macs one night, and Smith ate his burger and fries with nary a complaint.
I hadn't seen him na**d in far too long, and everything he did turned me on. He'd scratch the bottom of his chin with a single finger, flicking at his light blond stubble as he thought about a plot point in the story, and his sexy lips would twitch with hints of words. I wanted to crush his lips under mine, envelop his sex in mine. He offered only chaste hugs and polite kisses.
On the evening of day ten, I broke out the new sex toys I'd bought at the boutique, and used them on myself. All of them. I thought of Smith as I pleasured myself, but he was on the other side of the wall in his own room, and my orgasms were sudden and empty, like the echo of a slamming door.