“Meet me in the boiler room.”
The text comes through, per expectation, in the evening. Some nights she receives it. Sometimes she does not. She never knows, nor is it her place to know. It is His. She is thankful for the time He allows her.
Her eyes sparkle, true emerald glint, when the text pops up on her phone. She had an especially rough day at work– she needs the release.
She knows what to do. Bring the freshly cleaned comforter downstairs to the basement, avoiding her roommates. Her oh so proper roommates- one is engaged with an absurdly enormous cubic zirconia, one is single and shoots you a shy glance when admitting she is dating on Match.com- would hardly approve of her “fling” with this man. A man with a family at home and an unconventional, open arrangement outside of it. A man with a girlfriend in “every city.” Of course this isn’t true- what man has the time for the fantasies society places on him– but it turns her on to imagine his dozens, hundreds of other girlfriends. Her humiliation at being one of thousands of pretty bodies makes her drip, even before he arrives.
It isn’t a fling to her. It is her escape.
It’s her fortitude.
Sometimes she wonders if this is his escape, too, but, no, he has never shown his is anything less than happy in his life. She appreciates a man that can be honest and still take his desires. Can allow “his” women the same freedom he demands for himself. Besides, hers isn’t unpleasant. Simply– a bit incomplete. But after all, she is much younger. She has time.
She waits for him with closed lids. She could be anywhere at this moment. His soon to be felt presence is all that matters. Prepares herself for Him. Snuggles on the soft, enveloping comforter, as she traces her fingertips down the hollow of her throat, down to her wetness….she brings herself to orgasm exactly once, again per command. She utters a sharp sound— and it is almost as if it is a call to him, because right then
Footsteps echo from the basement stairs. Her eyes obediently closed, she listens to the door creak open. “Open your eyes.” The dark command in his voice breaks her reverie. He walks in, nodding initial approval of her position. He examines her body for final approval. It is to his standards, smoothly shaven and completely open to his gaze. No lingerie or sheets to hide a single inch of his toy.
He lowers himself to her and —
“Mine,” he growls, as he grabs her hair roughly and yanks her backward, forcing her to arch her back (and pussy) in just the way he craves.
She loses herself in his thrusts, over and over, she does not know how long. All she feels is waves of pleasure, a tidal wave that threatens to drown her. Vaguely, she is aware of the growing puddle beneath her legs that soaks the mattress on the cold, hard concrete.
“Yes,” she manages, finally, “I am yours, utterly and wholly yours. Please just use me the way I need to be used.”
He smiles at her perfect response. Thrusts harder, faster, until finally he groans loudly and collapses on his property.
—immediately afterwards, he dresses himself, adjusts his cufflinks (of course, she just realizes, he arrived in a suit), and informs her, “Until next time.” As if she needed the reminder. She remains silent, on her knees. She nods understanding.
When she hears the door slam rather unceremoniously shut, she picks herself up, free for a night dancing with the girls- her two best friends since high school. She applies a fresh coat of dusky red lipstick before walking out the door. Crimson lips twitch mischievous.
Who needs a boyfriend on a night like this?