Ms. Dawn Davis ended the six months of negotiations with a new business trajectory. She and her team of company managers shook hands with a group of government officials. They had come to an agreement on a $20 million engineering contract that would conduct work across the eastern half of the United States. Her company had competed against top interested firms and turned out to have the best value and experience in civil engineering. Ms. Davis’s company topped many other firms for the work.
Over the next months, Ms. Davis worked in the office late and many days in a row. She developed procedures and prospectuses. She listened to numerous presentations and strategies from her project managers. They worked on approaches on how to proceed with a swath of important efforts happening concurrently across eight states. She probed the managers on possible hiccups and potential snags and directed managers in revising game plans. They left her office to revise those plans.
As the initial project met its first milestone successfully, Ms. Davis exhaled and realized a break was necessary.
Dawn sat down for lunch with Megan Myer, a friend and top executive in a competing engineering firm.
“Congrats on your contract. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to say it in person until now,” Megan said.
They lifted their glasses of Sauvignon Blanc and chinged them in honor of the win.
“We fought hard for that work,” Dawn said after her sip of the dry wine. “Our profit margin and annual revenue increased drastically. If it goes forward smoothly, we will have made a name for ourselves and carved a niche in this field.”
“‘If it goes forward smoothly’?” Megan waved off the comment with her hand. “Dawn, there is no other way the contract is going to go with you as the chief. It will go forward smoothly. You’ve developed a top-notch team that really pays attention to what you say. Down to the detail.”
“You’re so nice.” Dawn flashed a smile briefly. She swished the white wine in her glass and watched the legs slide down the stemmed glass. She was quiet, her gaze went elsewhere.
“All right,” Megan said, “Out with it. Tell me what’s going on.”
Dawn took another sip and then set down the glass. Her eyes remained on the remaining wine. She inhaled deeply, her shoulders rising and then sinking with her exhale.
“There are times when I don’t want to be leading the charge.” She looked up to Megan. “This contract has forced me into a tougher position. The tension is high. The stakes are greater. I’ve got to make this a success. I fear one mistake may cause big problems down the road. There’s just so much going on. I want a break. Even a one-day break.”
Megan nodded. “I’ve been there before. You and I are unique. Strong women in powerful positions. Positions where men listen closely to what we say. And then do it.”
“So you know where I am.”
“Been there before, yes.”
“You’re not there now? How did you get through it?”
Megan paused for a moment. Her wine glass stayed at her lips. Her eyes stared through Dawn, beyond her. Dawn noticed.
“Megan, hello. Where did you go?” She waved her hand through Megan’s stare.
Megan blinked as her mind rekindled. “Oh nothing. Nowhere,” she said. Then she added, “I just remembered an email I need to send this afternoon. I have a client who needed some intel on a coming project. Was supposed to be done already. Damn.”
“Send the email now, if the intel is handy. I’ll order more drinks and a light lunch.”
“I don’t have it. Anyway, I’m here to relax with you. To take a break.” Megan took a long drink from her wine glass. She then set it down empty and looked at Dawn. “I need to make a phone call though. Order me the grilled avocado salad.”
She scooted away from the table and went to the lobby with her phone. Dawn swished the last drops of wine lethargically in her glass. As Megan’s did, her thoughts went back to the office. The pressure and tasks multiplied by the moment. Her mantra: “Tackle it now, it sucks to deal with it later.” That approach had its downside. She struggled to enjoy the here-and-now. Worse, she never enjoyed the here-and-now.
A tall, twenty-something man approached Dawn’s table. “Would you like another glass of wine, ma’am?”
He had a glistening smile, lean, strong arms covered in tattoo sleeves, and dark eyes. Dawn noticed his youthfulness and his willingness, as a waiter, to do as she pleased. She began to speak, but he stopped her.
“Sauvignon Blanc.”
“Very good.”
“I know a woman’s taste for wine.”
“Oh, do you now?” Dawn raised her eyebrows in skepticism. He was young, playful. Maybe too young.
He flashed a smile, left and returned with a moist bottle. He filled her glass. She noticed the name Ozzy tattooed across his fingers. He was about to speak, but Megan returned, interrupting them.
“Got that done. Whew! One more thing off my to-do list today. Put in the order?”
“No.” Dawn followed the guy’s tight ass until it was hidden behind the bar.
Megan now had to wave her hand through Dawn’s stare. “Dawn, hello. Where did you go?”
When Dawn still didn’t come to, Megan glanced over her shoulder. The twenty-something sommelier was flirting with Dawn with his eyes from across the bar.
Megan patted Dawn’s hand. Dawn then came to.
“Forget him,” Megan said. “He’s too young.”
“What, he’s cute.”
“He’s not what you need to cure your need. Trust me. He’s too … too obedient.”
“Obedient?”
“Yes, way too subservient. He would do anything you tell him. Would walk on his hands and knees if you told him. He wants to please you, to show you he can and will do whatever makes you happy. He wants to woo you.” She fluttered her hands lightly. “It’s a pride thing on his part, in an era in which ‘cougars’ are out en masse. We are like a prize with no relationship ties.”
Dawn giggled at the label of cougar.
“But you don’t want a guy to, you know, do it right?” Dawn asked.
“At times. Well, most of the time actually. But remember, you and I have dozens of men—and women, mind you—doing what we say, seeking our approval, hoping we like their ideas, their proposals, smiling at us even when they hate us. They’re waiting for our decisions, to tell them what to do next. It gets tiresome. I mean, I get tired of it, and it seems you’re feeling the same. Listen, I have no doubt that Cleopatra, Nefertiti, Boudica got sick of making decisions for underlings. I bet they all had men who would control them, at least out of sight of the people. Maybe at night or with curtains closed.”
“Same troubles as the strong women of old, huh.”
“Yes, and some twenty something sommelier with a cute butt and wanting a cougar won’t do it right.”
“You think Cleopatra was a ‘cougar’?”
“Like the first cougar, the mother of all cougars, the ‘Eve’ of us all.”
The two laughed and drank their wine. The conversation quieted as Dawn thought about what Megan had said. No young man would solve her problem.
Dawn spoke up. “So how did you come to know all of this?”
“Young sommeliers.”
“Him?” Dawn asked surprised.
“No, not him. But other youngsters. Young bucks, bad boys, boys just out of their mother’s reach. Guys who want quick sex with no relationship. Guys who are out for themselves. Guys who have no idea what we want or who actually care to find out. Movies, porn and erotica tell them one thing, but they’re falsehoods. Disinformation and misinformation in one.”
Dawn nodded. She had had one or two young guys since her divorce several years ago.
“So you learned all this by trial and error?” Dawn asked.
“Not so much trial and error. But I might say by trial.”
Dawn looked confused. “By trial?”
“I found out about BDSM.”
“What, that stuff is crazy. Black latex suits, whips, dog collars, insults!” Dawn straightened up in surprise.
“I’m not into the crazy stuff. I’ve never been whipped. You know I like leather, not latex suits. Shiny latex … meh.” She scrunched her nose and then the pair laughed.
“You’ve got the figure for tight latex.”
“I know.” She flipped her chestnut hair over her shoulder flamboyantly. She laughed again and lifted her glass to confirm the comment. She was feeling her wine. “But BDSM doesn’t have to be mean or angry. It may be just what you need. Can I set you up with a guy?”
“No way! I’m not sex-crazed or ‘sex crazy’.”
Megan shushed Dawn to avoid drawing attention. “Let’s not make a scene. The ‘S-word’ will draw attention fast.”
“Sorry but I’m not madcap, especially when it comes to s-e-x.” She whispered her spelling. “I don’t want to be humiliated. No ball gag thing. I can feel my throat closing already right now.”
Megan shook her head and rolled her eyes.
Dawn squinted, as if chiding her friend. “I have a teenage son too, and I have a reputation to uphold, especially in my own sphere and even in his. Really, what would one of Brandon’s friends think if he knew that his mom did BDSM?”
“They would be horny every single time they saw you, every time they thought of you in their bedrooms!”
“Hey, don’t say the ‘H-word’ out loud. It could cause a scene.” Dawn teased Megan repeating her own words.
“Listen, this isn’t so much BDSM, in terms of its reputation in society.”
Dawn cut her off. “You really want me to do this, don’t you?”
“You need it. Just let yourself go. They didn’t touch me, they didn’t yell at me, they didn’t say anything about being a slave or servant. No ball gag.”
“What was it all about then?”
“Not making decisions. Letting someone else make them. Release.”
Dawn thought about her office full of work, her email inbox with hundreds of unread emails, stacks of papers needing reviews and approvals. Sitting with Megan, being eyed by a young sommelier, and on her second glass of Sauvignon Blanc, tension was still able to rise up to stiffen her back at the thought of it. She exhaled.
“Ok. Connect me. But if I am treated like a piece of shit by some ugly weirdo, then I’ll hold it against you forever. Forever-ever.”
A week later at midday, Dawn knocked on the door of Apartment 77. The place was high in a newly built tower. The chic hallway where she stood smelled fresh, like lilacs and newly laid carpet. The silver sevens just above the peephole on the non-descriptive door actually made her feel better. She was glad she wasn’t in a damp basement of a worn-down Craftsman-style house in a crummy part of town. She thought of the movie Pulp Fiction. “Send in the gimp.” And shivered.
The door unlocked and eased open.
A bright-eyed man welcomed her. “Come in, come in!” he said.
The apartment was as bright as his hello. Plush couch, matching lounge chairs. A large-screen television hung over a modern fireplace. Wood floors covered by large ornate throw rugs that contrasted the minimalistic design of the place.
He had a kind air with maturity and a definite power to decide.
“Please let me take your coat,” he said. “And leave your shoes by the door.”
Dawn unbuttoned her coat, and he pulled it from her arms. He opened a closet door and put it on a velvet-covered hanger. She slipped off her black flats. They were left by a small sign that read “Daddy knows best.” She took a deep breath. The phrase resurrected the concerns of what might be. Whips and coarse ropes.
“Have a seat, Ms. Davis. I will call you Ms. Davis. I dislike first names.” He had a smooth, deep tone.
Dawn settled on the edge of a simply designed lounge chair, across of him.
“What do you preferred to be called?” Dawn’s voice cracked in the middle of her question.
“Sir.”
“Sir, what would you preferred to be called?”
“No, I mean ‘Sir.’ You will call me ‘Sir.’” He smiled, but his bright welcome had already dimmed. His power remained, albeit constrained.
“Ah, sorry. I am a little nervous.”
He paused for a moment and then ended her statement correctly, “Sir.”
“Sir, sorry again, Sir.”
“It is all right,” he answered coolly.
She had not been nervous to this degree for a long time. Even major contract proposals and competing against other major firms for huge contracts didn’t phase her like this. She had trouble keeping her shoulders still.
The Sir kept his eyes directed at Dawn for some time. “Wine,” he said, “can ease one’s nerves.”
The Sir went to the kitchen, which was only a few feet from Dawn’s lounge chair.
She squeezed her hands as she pressed her knees together, hoping the pressure might keep her mind off this whole afternoon. She almost cursed Megan for getting her to do this.
She heard the pop of the released cork, a high-pitched cling of delicate wine glasses, and the tinkle of the pouring wine.
He returned. “Sauvignon Blanc, I believe, is your preferred taste.”
“Yes, Sir.”
She realized how nervous she was still when the wine in the glass was quivering.
The Sir sat causally on the couch away from Dawn. She felt his eyes studying her. She wondered what he was thinking. No ball gag, please is what she was thinking. But Megan had assured her none of that. Her vision scanned the room. The wide windows, the crisp white curtains. Looking up she saw a circular wrought iron chandelier. Her mind conjured an image of long coarse ropes hanging from the chandelier and tied to a bound woman, slumped down, too abused to move. She shifted her sight away from the chandelier.
Dawn sat, knees together, ankles crossed, in a prim position. She couldn’t stop sipping the wine, continually taking it through her lips.
The Sir remained distant and aloof. He settled in the corner of the long couch, set one of his arms on the back of the couch, the other on the armrest. He wore a gold bracelet, which contrasted with his tanned skin.
He slowly crossed his legs. The cuff of his lightweight chinos raised, showing off the blue backless slip-ons.
“Relax,” he said, “everything is fine.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I will refill your wine. I have plenty. Let it ease you.” But he remained stoic, stiff and potent, despite his relaxed position.
“But I don’t want too much. I need to be careful,” she said, then abruptly added, “Sir.”
He grinned finally. “Very good, you remembered.”
“Yes,” she said sheepishly, “but I am concerned about what all this is, Sir.”
“It is safer than any sexual dalliance out there. Here, you are safe. This is a place of trust, enjoyment.”
Dawn wasn’t fully in agreement. Safe, when she wasn’t in control, was questionable. Safe, when being with a strange new man who hadn’t even given his first name, was questionable. Safe, when demanded he be referred to as Sir and didn’t want her first name, was questionable. Safe, when she didn’t know what she wanted and didn’t know how to begin losing control, was questionable too.
The two sat quietly. Ms. Davis sipped the last of her wine. The Sir went directly to the open bottle. He poured more for her.
“That will be the last of the wine,” he said.
She nodded, agreeing.
The Sir raised his hand to reprove. “I require an answer aloud. Always ‘yes, Sir’ or ‘no, Sir.’”
“Yes, Sir.” She bowed her head slightly.
He returned to the topic of wine. “I won’t let someone get beyond a buzz. It’s not helpful or as enjoyable.” He set down the half-full bottle on a table by him.
After a short sip, Dawn asked, “How long have you been with Megan Myer, Sir? She is the one who told me about you.”
The Sir raised his hand quickly. He shook his head and pursed his mouth.
“I will ask the questions. None from you. It’s inappropriate for you to ask.”
“Uh, sorry, Sir, I, I didn’t realize. I’m new.” She slightly twisted herself and looked at the floor in embarrassment, like a scolded little girl.
“I give passes for errors, up to a point. I decide when you should have learned the etiquette of my home and act by it.”
“When will—” She stopped her question before finishing and apologized.
She wished to know the boundaries, the decorum, so she wouldn’t flub them. She wanted input on what rules were appropriate and which ones she thought were not. For instance, she would like to know his first name. “Sir” was foreign and, maybe, antagonistic. Who wouldn’t share their name in a friendly, one-on-one meeting, especially of this kind? Or maybe this was particularly the intimate meeting in which names were best unused, like school teachers not using their first names before students—in and out of the classroom. But that was adult to child, instructor to pupil. She then understood she had become a pupil in the short time since she had entered the apartment. No longer an executive of a successful engineering firm that was making a name for itself, building its brand, in the community. In this apartment, she was her fourth-grade self in front of a feared and revered teacher who was at the blackboard or looking over her desk. The Sir was sitting across from her, barely moving. His persona was looming though, domineering, mature. His smile eased her discomfort. And it was a minuscule grin, barely a break in a straight face. Yet that grin was obvious to her.
She calmed and breathed lighter. She enjoyed his straight-faced tenderness. He knew her already. He could sense her shifts from tension to embarrassment to child-like excitement. Knew her taste for wine.
“Seems you have calmed,” he said, still in a straight but gentle tone.
“I believe I have, Sir. Was there something … I mean, there must have been something nice in the wine. Sauvignon Blanc is really a taste I enjoy. It’s dry. I have—”
He raised his hand again in reproof. “No meandering talk from you. Although I can say the alcohol in wine takes pressure off people. I can tell it has helped you.”
“Yes, Sir.”
They again sat quietly.
Her urge was to get this whole thing started, and this urge was beginning to boil. Instead of a nervously bouncing leg, it became a jump of fecklessness. To her, they were wasting the afternoon. She checked her watch. She had arrived forty-five minutes earlier. The Sir remained stoic though. He didn’t seem to think these forty-five minutes were a waste in any way. Another hour of sitting would not seem to be a waste either to him.
“Do—” She stopped her question to avoid a faux pas and raised both hands to concede her error. “Sorry … Sir.”
He moved, finally, uncrossing his legs and putting his elbows on his knees. “Ms. Davis, you are on thin ice with the gaffes.”
“I don’t know them all. I am confused. I can’t follow the rules if I don’t know them.”
He allowed a short pause. “‘Sir’. I require that I be referred to as—”
“‘Sir.’ I apologize.” Seeing his reaction, she knew her apology was too flippant.
“Ms. Davis, go to the bedroom and sit on the end of the bed. Repeat aloud: ‘I will always say ‘Sir’. Say it one hundred times. And I want to hear you say it, no mumbling.” He pointed to an open door.
Dawn walked into the bedroom. There was a queen-sized bed covered with a gray blanket. It had a 1960s style upholstered headboard. She thought about what may have happened on that bed. Clothespins clasped tight to nipples and shackled ankles.
“I cannot hear you, Ms. Davis.”
“Sorry, Sir,” she answered and began, “I will always say ‘Sir’. I will always say ‘Sir’. I will always say ‘Sir’.”
“Let the words sink into your brain, Ms. Davis. They are key to our relationship.”
Dawn sat there, repeating the statement, alone in the bedroom, while the Sir was outside of the room, doing something else.
“What am I doing?” she mumbled under her breath. “This is idiotic. I’ve got to leave.”
“I don’t hear you, Ms. Davis.” His voice raised in exasperation, almost to the brink of anger. “And I won’t tell you again.”
She began. “I will always say ‘Sir’. I will always say ‘Sir’.”
A cabinet closed somewhere, and a moment later, the Sir stood in the doorway.
“A camera, Sir?” She attempted to turn her question into a declarative sentence but couldn’t.
He set it on a tripod and directed it at her. He then stood in front of her. “Are you ready?”
Her urge to leave rushed away when he spoke stoically. She only nodded. She bit her lip shyly. “Sir,” she added in a whisper.
The Sir slid his hand to the back of her neck, cupping her head in fatherly strength. He then bent over and kissed her hard and long.
Dawn had kissed many men in her lifetime, but the Sir was best, especially because his lips came with a domineering guise. In their twirl of make-out, she fell back onto the bed. His body covered her. He remained in a plank position, so he was keeping a distance. Her hands tried to bring him closer, stroking his back, feeling the strength in his core. She tried to slide her hands under his shirt, but the Sir stopped her.
“Slow down.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He kissed her twice quickly, and then raised up. He walked to the camera. Dawn sat up. There was a mix of disappointment and confusion. Even frustration.
She had an urge to ask him about his intent with the camera and leaving her for it. She held her tongue. She didn’t want to upset him.
The Sir aimed the camera at Dawn. She smiled as a model and gave a half-hearted pose. She flung her hair over her shoulder. She angled her chin and filled her eyes with desire. Next, she pushed out her chest and shook out her hair. The Sir kept snapping pictures.
“You are doing well. Take off your shirt.”
She thought about objecting, believing it may be too soon, but his influence and fatherhood made her unfasten the first button. She unbuttoned the whole shirt. Before exposing her bra and stomach, she held the shirt between her thumb and forefinger. Finally, she inhaled and dropped it to the floor.
“Yes, have you done this before?”
She gave an intriguing grin and cupped her lovely breasts. He complimented at the right times. She reached behind her back and unlocked the bra. It fell loose, releasing her breasts.
She held each of her tits, squeezed them and fiddled with her brown nipples. The Sir kept taking pictures. She put her hands behind her head to let her breasts become the sole attention-grabber. She arched her back and straightened her neck, pointing her chin toward the ceiling.
“Ms. Davis, off with your skirt.”
She didn’t pause, or question if she should. Dawn stood and took down the zipper in the back of the skirt. The skirt fell loose. She took a moment’s pause before exposure, then let it dropped to her bare feet.
The Sir raised up from the camera viewfinder. “Classic briefs, plain. But they are a nice color.”
Dawn wanted to tell him soft blue looked best against her body tone. She resisted though, restraining her mouth.
“It complements your lovely skin tone,” the Sir said.
Her mouth opened, but she again restrained herself. She was getting acquainted with the rules of the Sir. Knowing that made her feel better, freer.
She ran her fingers along the elastic waist band, pulling and tugging and stretching sexily. She ran her hand down the front of her lower belly to her pussy masked by the tiny layer of feminine fabric.
She had been heating up by the whole afternoon. She liked the attention, she liked his attention, she liked a man’s complete attention, she liked the freedom to move without having to think and strategize, she liked that her body was the centerpiece, she liked that her mind—her business mind—was secondary to her body, she liked how he was in charge.
The Sir had not returned to the camera but remained standing there. More so, now he was smiling. A radiation over his face, not a hidden light. She called him over with her finger and salacious lips.
“No,” he responded abruptly. That radiance vanished. “You do not call me. I call you.”
She felt chapfallen. A young girl caught by her teacher. “Sorry, Sir,” she whispered.
“That was the breaking point, Ms. Davis. Stand up and face the wall.”
She walked there, shoulders slightly slumped, her breasts wobbling. A moment later, she realized the Sir was behind her. And then a rough baton ran the length of her back. It rubbed the base of her neck, down between her shoulder blades, to her lower back and finally the band of her panties. The Sir then patted her butt.
“A woman with such business acumen should pick up on rules and then stick to them. Or—” he patted her butt a little harder—“business acumen teaches one to learn the rules and skirt those rules. If that is the case, then you had better leave your business acumen outside. There is no acumen here.”
Dawn nodded.
Then she felt a razor-sharp sting. The Sir had spanked her butt.
“Will you leave your ‘business acumen’ outside of here?”
She waited before answering because her mouth was still trying to console the pain.
“Will you, Ms. Davis?”
“Yes, yes, Sir, yes, I will.”
“Very glad to hear it. You are forgiven.”
Strange to her but an easiness settled over her when he forgave her.
“Since that is cleared up, then I think we should get to your modeling. Back to the bed.”
She sat again on the edge, hands in her lap, between her knees.
“I like your ass. It is just the right size.”
Her hands immediately went to her butt, feeling the soft fabric of her slick panties. “It was tighter before I had my … Sorry, Sir. I’m just talking without permission.”
“Thank you for acknowledging. But tell me more. I give you permission.”
Dawn brightened inside, happy that he wanted to hear about her. He was willing to let her speak and listen.
“I thought my booty was tighter and a little smaller when I was a twenty-something—pre-motherhood. Then it ballooned. My god, did it balloon! Woosh! I’ve been disappointed with it since then. It switches when I walk. Jiggles.”
“Let me see it. I will determine.”
“I don’t know how you’ll see otherwise—damn! Sir,” she corrected herself. She shuffled her underwear down her thighs, passed her knees. She stepped out of them.
“Turn around.” He tapped her bare ass with his baton. Not as hard but Dawn winced nonetheless. She knew she needed to close her mouth. This was not a mutual conversation.
“Bend over, squeeze your ass. Dig your nails into the flesh.”
She did as was told. She gripped and tugged, wiggled and slapped her flesh.
“Motherhood has rounded you out nicely. Do not be disappointed in anyway with yourself.”
She remained silent but nodded at the compliment. She looked over her shoulder. The camera captured a picture.
The Sir then directed her to stand and face him.
When she saw his face, that radiance of his was there once more. His eyes had glided from her breasts to her lovely bush of dark black hair. His radiance made her radiate too. She stood up proudly.
Ms. Davis was fully naked, her hands behind her head, her breasts hanging separately with large, dark areolas, her wide hips and thick thighs giving her body the shape of a perfect hookah, all centered by that dark bush of hair, au naturel. With the stance, she had the confidence of a central figure in classical art. She was not hiding anything, not embarrassed or conveying awkwardness.
The modeling was exciting for her. She enjoyed intriguing a man. A man was paying attention to her, so she had this urge to get closer to him. He had not touched her in a while. The command, please come to me, continued to run through her mind. Dawn tried to make it obvious, while not using her words or her fingers like she had before. She had to use her eyes, her aura.
She moaned deeply, closed her eyes, let her hands slide across her body. Her internal temperature jumped. Her pulse sped. A warmth centered in her middle. During all this, a guttural moan escaped from her mouth. She opened her eyes suddenly, fearing she was in trouble. But she gasped when she saw his full-sized cock. He had dropped his pants while she was in her heat. She locked her sights onto it. Still, she didn’t impose. She waited. She waited. She waited.
“Tell me you want this dick, Ms. Davis, tell me how much you want it.”
“Good god, Sir! Give it to me, Sir. I want it so bad, you’ve got me overheated. I love the look of it. I want to feel it.”
He stepped forward. Ravenously, she reached out for it, taking the long dick in her hand. She gripped it and stroked the hardness in pure lust. She pulled it into her mouth. She bobbed back and forth on the length. She licked the underside, let her tongue fiddle with its tip. She circled the sensitive rim of the head. With all her built-up yearning, her mouth was wet for him. Soon his dick was covered in her saliva, from its base to head and over hear mouth from nose to chin, dripping onto her chest. She could not get enough. She moved wildly. The time of waiting, of scolding, of hoping to please the Sir, had made her crazy for him.
She released the cock from her mouth, so she could stroke it fast and admire it.
“I haven’t seen one in so long,” she rasped.
Then there was a smack on her cheek. His dick had scolded her abrupt interruption without permission. But she began to stroke it again in as much fury as ever.
She had not had a dick in a while. Men were few and men worth her time were fewer. Add the pressures of work, there was no time or men. A bad combination.
She knew she had to thank Megan when next seeing her. She began to suck his dick more vigorously. She then ducked under his dick to lick his balls. There was a gamy scent and a clamminess—just what she wanted. She put one in her mouth, moaning still. She attended to the second, grunting with it between her lips.
She returned to his shaft for attention. He stood solidly, and with his cock still rock hard, she knew he was enjoying her moves. If only she could beg for a fuck! Scream at him to fuck her! She was ready to fall back and spread her legs to tell him something without speaking.
Suddenly, his hands gripped the sides of her head. He rammed his dick into her mouth, pushing against her inner cheek. He shifted to the side, pulled back her hair and held the position for a moment. The quickest pause.
She pulled away. She was willing to take his punishment to beg for a hard fuck.
“Fuck me! Fuck me! I need it so bad … Sir.” Her face was red and smeared with saliva. Her eyes were ravenous though. “Please, Sir!”
She fell back and spread wide. Her hands reached down to spread her lovely lips and reveal her pink.
However, he only stood over her and stroked his dick. “Put your hands on me,” he said stoically.
Disappointed, she sat up. She stroked him. She sucked his dick, massaged it, licked it. There was a jolt in his body.
He pushed her head back. The heel of his palm pressed against her forehead. In a moment he jolted once more, then she felt a warm splat hit high on her right cheek, another immediately on the end of her nose, a third at the corner of her mouth, a saltiness seeping into her mouth. Her tongue reached out for the cum on her lips. It had the suppleness as an oyster. She knew what would be for dinner later.
The Sir backed away and leaned against the opposite wall. Her own ooze covered his cock, dangling off the worn man. They rested in a different type of quiet.
“Sir, may I speak?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you fuck me, Sir? I want you on me. Please, Sir.”
“Our agreement forbids it.”
“Agreement, Sir?”
He didn’t respond. “Clean yourself up. Our afternoon is done.”
In the bathroom, as she wiped his cum off of her face, the mirror reflected a more relaxed woman, a woman who had actually enjoyed herself. Maybe too much.
A little later, she slipped on her flats. She read the sign, “Daddy knows best.”
He did.
“I trust you enjoyed your afternoon,” he said, as he helped her with her coat.
He politely held open the apartment door. “I hope to see you again soon, Ms. Davis.”
She stepped into the hallway. “You will definitely, Sir, definitely.”
She strode down the hallway. A young woman with a tiny dog on a leash was at the elevator.
“Having a good day?” the woman asked.
Dawn paused before speaking. However, she remembered she could now speak when she wanted. “A great day, lovely afternoon.”
The woman grinned at Dawn. “I can tell. Your aura says so.”
A few days later, Dawn sat with Megan at lunch. She explained how amazing the afternoon was.
“Overwhelming is all I can say. Wow!”
“I knew it. You are so much like me,” Megan said.
“But one question. What was this agreement? He mentioned it.”
“It only allowed him to go so far. It’s like a ‘safe word’ but more formal. It gives him guidance in a way. He always suggests a limit for the first time. I concurred.”
A sommelier came to their table. “Sauvignon Blanc.” He flashed the bottle and a white grin. The two women barely noticed him though.
“Next time, I’ve got to have all of him. I could barely control myself,” Dawn said.
“When is next time?” Megan asked.
“He said he would contact me.”
“Contact you.” She nodded. “Check your mailbox.”
“My inbox?”
“No, mailbox. I had him send you a gift. A part of the agreement.”
That afternoon, Dawn found a letter addressed to her. Inside was a small scan disk. She slid the disk into her computer. There were three pictures. She loved the pictures. They reminded her of her release, of her enjoyment, of the Sir. She squeezed her hands at her chest, excited.
She cast them onto her television for a larger view. She basked in all that happened with the Sir, and she dreamed of what would come next.
A ping on her computer brought her back to work, putting her enjoyment on hold.
A half hour later, Dawn heard a knock on the front door. She opened it.
“Steve, how are you?” she said brightly.
“Hi, Ms. Davis. I’m here to get Brandon.”
“He’s not back yet. He was held up at track practice. It shouldn’t be too long though. You can come in to wait if you want.”
He came inside and Dawn returned to her office.
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