The first time we met. Of course it would be a public place. Someplace with people. Someplace you’d feel safe. The hotel bar was perfect, as it was packed at happy hour. Did it seem like a strange request then when I instructed you to wear a mid-length skirt with no panties? Perhaps. But I was sure you’d be eager to display how obedient you could be. I let you linger alone in the bar for ten minutes, watched you playing with the straw in your drink, eyes continuously scanning the room. Long enough to let your apprehension build, but not so long that you’d think I wasn’t coming. I enjoyed watching as you frequently pulled at and straightened your skirt. So you had left the panties behind.
I finally texted you and told you to meet me by the pool. The evening was a little cool, the pool closed at dark, and as you walked out the door and looked eagerly around it was deserted, though still fairly well lit and open on one side to the parking lot. It was not quite secluded. I could see your confusion when I was still not to be found. Another text. Go to the closed Tiki Bar to your right, and stand at the end of the bar. You hesitated at first, but people came out the same door you’d just come through, though they all headed left to the parking lot. Still, you were not alone here. You walked to the bar and took your place, now facing the hotel and doors. You stood and fumbled with your drink, fumbled with a cigarette. You never heard me approach until you felt my hand on your arm, heard my next instructions from behind.
“You don’t need to turn around just yet. I’d like to make sure that you’ve followed my instructions.” I think you recognized my voice from our calls. It seemed to bring a measure of relief. Until you felt my hand on the back of your leg. Until you realized what making sure you’d followed my instructions meant. You froze at my touch, your breath catching as without fanfare I ran my open hand up the back of your stockinged thigh, past the welt onto bare skin, then let it linger, cupping one of your firm, bare cheeks. I ran my other hand through your hair, just forcefully enough that you knew it was an unspoken command that you were still not to turn around. “I’m pleased”. As quickly as those words allowed you to begin breathing again, you felt my hand slide lower, spreading you slightly and giving my fingers access to your slit, which I stroked lightly a few times before parting your lips. They spread easily, already open, already swollen. You were already aroused. I slid two fingers in you. I took hold of your hair tighter, my lips against the back of your neck. I withdrew my fingers and raised them to your lips, smearing them with your own juices, sliding one between and parting these lips. “You’re wet. Are you always this way for a date? Did you think you might get lucky tonight?” I took my finger from between your lips. They fumbled for a word, and a soft “I” came forth, but my lips were already at your ear. “Shhhhh” I instructed before allowing my tongue to play over it, to suck your earlobe between my lips.
People exited the hotel door again, perhaps some fifty feet away. They lingered, talking, smoking, clearly visible to us as we were to them, except for the bar hiding our lower halves. They distracted you, and my hand was now between your legs again, opening your lips again, two fingers back inside you, slowly starting a rhythm. Your juices began to flow again, my fingers teasing, drawing them from you. As you got wetter, I slid my fingers out and began to massage them into your clit, teasing it to life. You let a sharp gasp escape, loud enough for our friends at the door to hear, freezing you again. “You had better be quiet, my little slut, or this will end long before you want it to.” They were too far away to make out more than a man and woman mostly obscured by the bar, which you were now supporting yourself on.
