Joining her in the elevator, I ask, “So what’s your real name, Ms. White?” I move within inches of her body, staring down and eliminating any doubt she may have of my objective. The tension is unbearable — the sexual tension is unbelievable.
Lena returns my concentrated gaze, but her full lips twitch into a smile. “My name is Lena. Do you want the drink or not?” she asks, enunciating every word.
Ready to challenge her smart, ruby-stained mouth, I’m interrupted by the opening of the elevator doors. She quickly exits the elevator, looking over her shoulder at me just once. But goddamn, that look she gives me … I’m in way over my head.
Lena leads me into her apartment, or rather, a temptress’ bachelorette lair. The first things I notice are the chill in the room and the multitude of closed doors. It’s cold and mysterious, like an elegant catacomb with secrets — possibly a dungeon or two as well. Every wall is painted charcoal gray, except for the one wallpapered in gray and black plaid. The lighting is minimal, seeing as how the chandeliers are candles and the lamp shades are red silk. Black velvet furniture, gray carpet, red pillows, and an entire wall that resembles an ancient library. The only lightness in the apartment is a large white canvas above the sofa — but even that has what appears to be a blood spatter.
“So, Adam told me you were researching a case.”
Pouring cognac into tiny black glasses, she says, “Mr. Ford shouldn’t have told you that. Shall we toast?”
I’m a dude, and I take masculine pride in never saying omigod in public — I even avoid it internally for fear it could slip out, but … Oh. My. God! Somehow, I just walked onto the set of American Psycho, cue Huey Lewis and the News.
I take the glass from her hand and casually sniff the liquid. “To new friends,” I declare in a scratchy voice.
Lena smiles and taps her glass against mine. “Yes, to new friends and new experiences.”
I take a drink, letting the cognac swirl around my mouth before swallowing. It’s pretty good, and it’s fucking sexy that this woman drinks like a man. “Shall we retreat to the parlor for a cigar?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.
Lena places her glass on the bar cart and then takes mine, her red nails scraping against my hand as she transfers the glass. She removes my hat and tosses it on a chair with a tiny smirk. Her hands then glide over my chest, teasing and mocking my thrift store shirt.
“These clothes won’t do,” she scorns. Lena unlatches my stubborn belt buckle, the difficulty of the task forcing her tits to press together and spill over her dress. After noticing the name engraved on my rodeo buckle, Lena’s mouth curls into a genuine smile. Then with her smile disappearing, she rips it off and throws the belt to the floor, the tacky gold contrasting against the chic gray carpet.
I place my hands on her hips but she viciously slaps them away. All right, Lena — take control. My shirt comes next. Lena traces each button with her finger before finally setting it free. Her cool hands reach inside my shirt, caressing my sides and delicately massaging my shoulders. She shakes the shirt off and kisses my chest. One, two, three pecks. Red stains from her lips form a trail of feminine seduction along my chest. I inhale and hold my breath as her hand slides inside the waistband of my jeans.
“Lena,” I moan.
“Shh,” she commands.
Unbuttoning my jeans and pulling them over my hips, she follows them to the floor. Her hands squeeze my thighs, holding her weight as she positions herself on her knees. More kissing. She kisses every inch of my legs, leaving me covered in red lipstick. When her mouth nears my briefs, I nearly lose it, especially when she grabs my ass. I stay still and give her what she wants. After her hand grazes my nuts and then slowly glides along Big Tex, I smile — this blow job is going to be amazing.
Looking up at me, she says, “Wait here.” With a gentle squeeze of my crotch and tiny bite on my stomach, Lena stands and walks away. She opens one of the many doors and closes it behind her.
This is definitely different, but there’s nothing wrong with changing things up. Kicking off my boots and removing my jeans, I contemplate this new experience. What harm is there in a little candle wax or rope? She might be a little dominating, but I find it extremely sensual. It’s decided. I will let her do whatever freaky shit she wants as long as …
“What the hell is that?” I shout as she walks toward me.
Draped across her arms is what looks like a tweed jacket and a bowtie. Oh shit, and a pipe. This just went from an erotic fantasy to an awkward role-playing game. I’ve read about fetishes and sex games that involve a reversal of power and the occasional props, but I just want a blow job — not dress like some creepy old dude and be bossed around. Reaching for my jeans, Lena approaches me with a frown.
“Chris, this isn’t what you think. But if you do something for me, a favor that would require one hour of your time, I promise to bring you back here and do whatever you want.” Lena places the jacket and tie on the chair with my Stetson, and then tosses me a black T-shirt.
As odd as all this seems, the promise of having her bent over the sofa in an hour decides my fate. I pull the T-shirt over my head, stopping midway to watch as Lena unzips her dress. The black fabric falls to the curve of her hips, revealing her ripe, plump breasts in a black lace bra.
“Put on the shirt,” she instructs.
Obliging, I pull the t-shirt over my chest. Lena arches her eyebrow as she observes the tightness of the shirt against my frame. Taking a step closer, she runs her hand across the small section of my stomach that the cotton fails to cover. Her fingers graze the waistband of my briefs — damn, that drives me crazy.
“Now your jeans,” she orders.
Taking a step back, Lena unfastens her bra. Fuck, it’s one of those bras with the hook in the front — like a package concealing a wonderful present. The tightness of my jeans against my erection is infuriating, knowing I have to wait an hour before I can play with her tits.
“Jacket,” Lena instructs.
As I reach for the tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, Lena fondles her nipples. Her skin is so flawless and delectable — I want to nibble and suck every inch until she moans in pleasure.
Pulling on the jacket and exhaling in agony, I ask, “One hour?”
Lena smiles. “Yes, Professor.”
9:40 p.m.
We stop in front of a walkup somewhere in SoHo. I pay the driver and then help Lena out of the cab. She pauses on the sidewalk to reapply her red lipstick — slowly and methodically, just to torment me.
“Is this a costume party?” I ask, still unsure of what I’m about to encounter.
“I suppose.” Lena takes my hand and earnestly adds, “Don’t be afraid to let your inhibitions go. It’s more enjoyable for everyone involved when guests are comfortable and open to new things. Role-play can be liberating, especially when encountered with people that share the same objective.”
No way. No fucking way — I’m on the cusp of my first swinger party! I shake my shoulders and roll my neck. “I’m ready, Lena.”
The palm of her hand moves to my cheek. Her thumb glides over my scruffy stubble, grazing the edge of my mouth, as she whispers, “Don’t forget your pipe.” Lena’s other hand slides into my jacket pocket to remove the smoking pipe. I smile as she tries to position it between my lips. “Hurry along, Professor,” she instructs.
If she wants me to act like a professor, I’ll do it. I know a lot about military history, and I can fake my way through a few conversations before the orgies commence. I need a back story — I’m a professor at a college on Long Island. I teach four graduate classes, and I’m currently writing a book on the JFK assassination. This is good!