“I’m being punished,” she said stoically.
She was sitting on a white, leather sofa, straight spine, head held high with an air of wounded dignity and a faint hint of annoyance in her eyes. Dorn raised a questioning brow.
“Inappropriate dress for a business function,” she explained.
He nodded, understanding, faint smile.
“I see,” he said. “I thought it was a party for Dwyer.”
Her blonde hair was pulled back into a tight twist. It would probably reach halfway down her spine. Her makeup was moderate but skillful, giving a calculated air of austere sensuality.
“You do have a way of standing out,” Dorn said with a judicious lack of commitment. “Even in exile.”
In the position she was sitting, her tight, black dress rode her hips daringly close to the apex of her crossed thighs. Her legs were long and slender, shapely in sheer black hose that gave her skin a dusky quality. Black boots came above her knees, fitting tightly around her calves with spike heels that elongated her legs enough to force her to angle her shins to the side.
The dress was too elegant and tailored for typical club attire, but it was far too revealing to blend with the lavish surroundings at a retirement party for a prominent attorney. It was her legs that led Dorn to pause in the doorway to the quiet salon in the first place. It was the look of submissive disobedience on her softly chiseled face that drew him inside to ask why she would be sitting by herself.
It didn’t take long to surmise she was the host’s trophy. Dorn had never met either of them, though he knew the name. He was only there because Dwyer Gemstone, the honoree, had been Dorn’s lawyer for the past twelve years.
At the moment, she appeared none too happy about being anyone’s trophy, and Dorn passed on the opportunity to estimate how deep it ran.
“I’m a little out of uniform myself,” he said, referring to his lack of a tie. He was wearing a black suit – Italian cashmere – with a burgundy jersey. And sandals. She glanced at his feet and he couldn’t decide if the roll of her glacier blue eyes was boredom or mild disgust.
Off in the main room, a piano was tinkling with offensive mediocrity while the murmur of people pretending to enjoy themselves threatened to drown it out.
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll miss being seen by someone important if you hide out here with the errant bitch of the manor?” the trophy asked.
Dorn paused and regarded her. She looked off at the bookshelves along the wall and sat patiently while he appraised her. Her quiet acceptance of his scrutiny led him to believe she was used to it.
“The important people aren’t always in the middle of everything,” he suggested. “Sometimes they sit off quietly to the side.”
She almost looked back at him, and she waited a few too many beats before turning her head to focus on a spot three feet behind him. Dorn looked at her thighs again. The sight of them made him hungry. She made him think of an aristocratic biker wench. He almost wanted to paint her, but erotic glamour wasn’t his thing. The critics would say he’d taken a dive for the tawdry, but as the image of her sheathed thighs dug a pair of holes in his memory, he felt a flash of pity for the walking zombies who never saw the sublime all around them.
It didn’t last long, though.
“You’re that guy,” she said blandly. “That painter guy with all the lawsuits.”
“Yeah, I’m that guy.”
Her hand moved onto her thigh, resting near the rim of her boot. He wanted to ask her first name, but he hesitated.
“Ilsa,” she said anyway.
He was supposed to say his name now, but he knew she already knew what it was, that she knew more about him than his merely being “that painter guy”.
“They all talk about you, you know,” she said. “All your lawyers.”
“They should. I put every one of the motherfuckers in a higher tax bracket.”
She almost started to laugh but caught herself in time. Dorn was becoming all but obsessed with her thighs, but he would’ve given his index finger to see her face break open the way it had threatened.
“You don’t like lawyers, do you? For someone who depends on them so much,” she said.
“I like Dwyer just fine. I’m going to miss him. But the rest…lawyers are like toxic dump sites. The further away they are from the general population the less harm they seem to do.”
Her foot began to sway ever so slightly, causing a faint flexing of the muscle in her thigh. Dorn forgot what they were talking about and stepped closer, just shy of breaking the barrier to her bubble of personal space.
“I don’t like being punished,” he said.
“Neither do I,” she said. “But then we wouldn’t be having this scintillating conversation now, would we?”
This time she did smile. Part way, at least. It was the first time she looked openly at his face, but he was focused on her thighs.
“A minute ago I thought about painting you,” he said. He paced a slow crescent around the sofa, looking at her from each successive angle.
“So that’s why you’ve been looking at me like something hanging in the window of a butcher shop,” she said, sounding bored.
“No,” he shook his head. “I’ve already decided I could never paint anything as obscene as you. The establishment would accuse me of profanity. I’m only staring at you because it’s the kind of selfish pleasure I’ll enjoy long after I leave this room.”
She looked away, hiding her face. He patiently circled behind the couch and leaned uncomfortably close.
“Something tells me being errant is among your good qualities,” he stage whispered, giving her a dose of warm breath against her slender neck.
By the time he circled back to the front of the couch she’d uncrossed her legs. The hem of her dress was riding her hips without a prayer of coming close to doing its job. He stood back far enough to see between her thighs. There were no panties concealing the bald pussy under her hose. She was looking at his face now. Defiant satisfaction glittered in her eyes as he gazed at her thinly veiled slit like he had the right. Heat swarmed through his cock.
“Nature was especially generous in your case,” he pointed out. “You have an idyllic shape.”
“Is that the famous painter talking? Making an aesthetic appraisal?”
“No,” Dorn leered openly. “Just a man who thinks you have a perfect cunt.”
Ilsa bristled. For a moment, Dorn thought her face was going to turn red. It was as if the color in her cheeks kept changing its mind over which way to turn. She held her thighs widely spaced and placed her hand over her mound.
“That’s a filthy word,” she said icily.
“Yeah,” he smiled. “Really filthy.”
“Fucking nasty,” she nearly spat.
“But your cunt is sublime.” He gripped his cock through his trousers and gave himself an offhand squeeze. It was as much for her benefit as his, but his shaft was beginning to swell.
“You’re a pig,” she said, calmly as if she were telling him what time it was. The hand over her pussy balled into a fist, except for her long, middle finger, which snaked downward, tapping against the snug sheath of nylon across her slit.
“You have no idea what kind of pig lives inside me,” he said, patiently closing the gap between them. “But I’ve been thinking about introducing you since the moment I stepped in here.
He knelt down on the carpet between her boots, leaning forward to push his face toward her pussy. Her finger began to grind circles against the nylon while Dorn inhaled deeply several times.
“That fucking perfume slays me,” he muttered, growling low in his throat.
“What do you think of the errant bitch now?” She pushed her finger toward his mouth but he caught her wrist and gripped her hard enough to hold back her blood.
“Who the fuck taught you to use words like that about yourself?”
“Just forget what I said,” he told her, letting go of her wrist. “As far as I’m concerned you could be a slut, tramp and gold-digging whore all rolled into one, stunningly deceptive package, but bitch is off limits.”
Between her rising smell and body heat, his cock was pulsing and rising fast. He stood up, the early stage of his erection already showing in the front of his trousers. She noticed the bulge with interest but no surprise.
“Cross your legs like before,” he went on. “You look like a fucking slut wide open like that.”
“Ok,” she said meekly, a thread of confusion dangling in her tone. She braced her palms to her sides on the couch and crossed her legs as instructed. “Better?” she looked up, her eyes convincing him she really craved his approval.
“Just different,” Dorn smiled. “Now you look like the prim little blue-blooded tramp who was sitting here quietly taking her undeserved punishment when I first walked in.”
“I don’t like being punished,” she said.
He touched her face and considered whether or not to believe her. After a moment, he pulled his hand away from her cheek and unzipped his trousers.
“Touch me before I fucking die.”
“Yes, sir, ok.”
She reached inside his pants with one hand, worming her way until she had his growing cock in her grasp. She pulled his meat into the open air and fondled him, studying the steady swell of his flesh. He liked the way her palm felt clammy with sweat. There was grace in her fingers as she tugged and stroked him. It was a profane grace, but the vacuous glaze passing over her eyes cast a shroud of angelic fire all around them.
Dorn was fully aware of the wide open doorway behind him. Ilsa never so much as glanced at it, keeping her eyes trained upward on his face, only looking down to study his cock as it began to drip sap all over her fingers.
“Everyone tells you how beautiful you are,” he assumed aloud.
She avoided his face then, gazing at the prodigious knob jutting through the grip of her stroking fist. Dorn’s breath grew laced with guttural moans.
“Most,” she conceded. “A lot of people just don’t know how to talk to a woman like me.”
“Yeah, I’m one of them,” he grunted.
For the first time since Dorn entered the room, Ilsa laughed, but it there was no humor in it.
“It’s not that fucking complicated,” she said.
“Do you know there’s as much anger as perfection in your face? ….fffuck!”
Her face was beginning to show the strain of the hard acceleration of her jerking hand. Dorn briefly imagined the sound her ass would make if he smacked it with an open palm.
“I’m afraid half the time,” she hissed.
“Are you afraid now?”
He was dying to fuck her mouth. She shook her head and closed her eyes a moment. When she opened them again, she opened her hand and spat in her palm, despite the profusion of precum leaking from Dorn’s aching cock.
“What do you think?” she sneered.
“Me, too,” he growled.
Ilsa had to brace herself with one hand beside her on the sofa as she pounded Dorn’s cock like a dirty carpet hung on a barnyard fence. His cock was slathered in precum and saliva. Her hand felt like a tight mouth. His body started to lift while his spirit sank to her feet.
“What the fuck have you got to be afraid of?” Her voice had that brittle, glassy tone. She grimaced with the strain of her effort.
He put his hand on her neck and stared at her face.
“…is so fucking terrifying…”
She started to groan as hard as he was.
“…as sublimely inspiring beauty…”
The statement descended into a strangled growl of release as Dorn’s cock rained thick spatters of cum across Ilsa’s Teflon thighs. She stroked and wrenched his rock hard shaft until there was nothing left but a slow, oozing drab lacquering her knuckles.
When Dorn’s sight returned, she was looking up at his face, her eyes silently begging the question: had she been nothing more than a wicked secret, or had they shared something there wasn’t a name for yet.
She had a thin streak of cum across her cheek. The rest sat in conspicuous dollops along her finely clad thigh. His hand moved off her neck and fingered the spatter from her cheek. When he put the finger against her lips, she opened her mouth and sucked it like a cock.
She let go and he put himself back in his trousers, neatly zipping himself back up. He touched her face once more. He didn’t know how he felt about her seeing the tender admiration on his face. He finally steeled himself with a deep breath and reached into his jacket pocket, laying a card on the empty cushion beside her.
“I want you to pose for me,” he announced softly. It wasn’t a question. “Be there by eleven tomorrow. Fuck ‘em all.”
He turned to go.
“I have lunch with a group of friends tomorrow,” she told his back.
“Cancel,” he said without turning. Then he was out the door and gone.
Ilsa sat for a long time. The cum still felt warm on her thigh as it seeped against her skin, no longer from the heat of Dorn’s body, but from hers now. She palmed the card off the cushion and stood up. Instead of turning down the hallway toward the party, she quietly walked upstairs to change.