Breakfast in Stilettos (25 page)

I picked up the blindfold and slipped it over his eyes, snapping the elastic. “Now I can see you, but you can’t see me. I like it better that way. Don’t you?”

“Yes Mistress.”

I brushed his lips with my finger. “I want to taste those lips.” And I did.

I kissed him lightly. A slow, soft caress. He tasted just like I remembered. We just breathed together, lips almost touching for another long moment. A thrill of sensation made my heart race.

But I couldn’t indulge myself. There would be time for that later. Again I circled him, touching him lightly. His upper thighs, his chest, his lower back. I flicked his butt with the crop—three brisk snaps.

“I’m tired now and need to rest. You’ll stand here to hold my wine glass. Hands out. Palms up.”

“Yes Mistress Em.” Frank complied. He struggled to catch his breath.

He wore thin black gloves. I flicked the crop on each palm. “You don’t need these.” Bare skin would provide better traction for the wine glass. I slowly peeled the gloves off and tossed them aside. Then I held up his hands as though inspecting them, sucking on each finger in turn. He tasted salty.

I could hear the audience whispering in the background, but my attention was focused entirely on Frank. We never moved this slowly when we had sex, never lingered on each other. We were always in a rush. This felt luxurious.

I picked up the wine glass and took several long drinks. I was worried he’d slop it about. Hell, I could
see
it and I worried I’d spill. So I drank it down to less than half full. Or was it more than half empty?

I dipped my finger into the wine and spread it onto his lips. He licked them slowly.

“Good?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

Swat. “Wrong.” He twitched, his palms moving enough that the wine should have definitely spilled. It was a little like horse training. Swat when bad. Pet when good.

“Now be
perfectly
still.”

“Yes, Mistress Em.”

Finally I balanced the wine glass on his outstretched palm. Slowly I let go. It stayed put.

“Now don’t you dare drop it.”

“No Mistress Em.” Frank’s voice was faint and his body shuddered.

I slowly
circled him
, ru
nning one hand down his stomach, ever so near
his
verge en érection
, all the while snapping the crop lightly on the thick of his butt. “That’s good. Very good.” I whispered into his neck. I could feel the hair on his neck standing on end. I nuzzled him a little longer, wanting to see if he would flinch. But I didn’t want to be mean. Or make a mess.

With a final soft flick of the crop, I sat down to let Ryan and Pixie take over. I sank into the chair next to Frank and watched as he stood as still as possible to keep the wine glass stable. It felt crazy sexy. I was tingling from head to toe and everywhere in between. Every inch of me had been raged through, and I felt a cathartic release that had been a whole lifetime in the making.

I heard Ryan and Pixie begin, but tuned them out. I had planned to watch, but the interaction with Frank kept me completed engaged. I watched his every quiver and twitch. I heard his every steadying breath, even over Pixie’s shuddering moans. He smelled like nervousness mixed with the woodsy soap he preferred.

At lulls in Pixie and Ryan’s performance, I would lift the glass off Frank’s palms, take a sip, and work another small scene, each time feeling more aroused and more connected to my sub.

When he seemed to be getting tired, I finally had Frank move to all fours, helping him into position in front of my chair. I kept the wine glass for myself, and instead propped my feet up on his lower back, letting the Scarlet Girls claim the limelight at last. Tonight they had proved themselves worthy.

It was only then that I really registered all the people watching. I locked eyes with Mistress Maven, who gave me a sly smile and a nod of approval. Not that I needed it at that moment. The experience had been wholly satisfying in its own right.

Ryan and Pixie were in the final stage of their scene. Pixie was down to only a thong and Ryan had her on all fours over the footstool—hands, feet and body bound to the stool. She was blindfolded and gagged, and he was using a thin cane on her red-striped derriere to elicit all manner of muffled responses.

The spectators looked mesmerized. They were actually more intriguing to me than Ryan and Pixie. The vibe in this place was very different from
T
he Slutterati Salon
. All pretenses at art were gone. Here couples watched other couples play out titillating scenes. Who would go after us? Maybe this was like Open Mic night at a club. Anybody could get up and do anything. Did it count as therapy? ’Cause I could think of a few people who’d be more likely to go to therapy if it looked like this.

Despite my nerves, the experience was liberating. The audience kept you focused. You stayed in character. If Frank and I had tried this at home, I would have just giggled. Here I
wanted
to perform. Maybe that was a part of it. Getting into character and staying that way through the scene. It actually made me feel closer to Frank.

It was over. Would people scurry off to the various bedrooms to enjoy a little sexual activity of their own? What about the rooms with two beds? Apparently you could cohabitate.

Group action held no attraction for me. I wanted to grab Frank and find someplace private, just us two. I wasn’t ready for sex yet. We had too much to discuss about what we wanted and needed to just jump in the sack and try to fumble our way through. I wanted to clear the air first.

When Ryan finished with Pixie,
s
everal people got up and sat around
her
, stroking her hair and back as Ryan undid the restraints. It was apparently time for me to free Frank from his ottoman duty. I downed the last of my wine, set the glass to one side, and squatted as best I could to undo the restraints.

Once free, Frank leapt up, stripped off his blindfold, and gave me a crushing hug and long delicious kiss. “That was amazing.” His whisper was husky in my ears, and when he pulled back, his eyes were bright and teary. “I love you so very, very much
f
or doing this for me.”

What? No “suckier than suck” comment? Or “our love is like an Oreo wrapped in bologna” sentiment? A tide of emotion broke inside me. I let myself melt into his embrace. His response felt so genuine.

When we pulled apart again, he blinked at the audience gathering around and led me away from the group. “Would you mind if we left?”

I smiled my biggest smile. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“I know you’ll laugh, but I want to go somewhere private. And talk.”

I just about fell over. Could that be true? My sense of surprise must have been visible on my face.

He shook his head. “I know. I know. I haven’t been there for you much. Not that way. I’ve always been too timid to talk about what I really feel. But I
do
feel. Very much. And I want us to share that, the way we did
this
.” He gestured to the group. “Just have a little patience with me.”

Here was exactly what I wanted.
Smart, funny, good-looking. And he finally wanted to talk. I was in heaven.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see Joe standing behind us. He’d apparently just arrived with Lily, the hostess from
the Salon
. She moved past to join Ryan and Pixie.

“So what did I miss?” He had a huge smile on his face.

I gave him a hug and Frank shook his hand. “I was teaching Frank some table manners. You’ll have to ask Pixie over there about it. She can fill you in.” I pulled Frank to me. “We’re heading out.”

“Already?” Joe looked disappointed. “Well, I hope I see you two again.” But he wasn’t talking to Frank and me. He only had eyes for the Scarlet Girls.

Visiting
T
he Slutterati Salon
is a little like slipping down the rabbit hole into Alice
’
s Wonderland. Crossing this threshold presents you with a myriad strange and unusual sights, sounds, smells and savors. Your attitudes may be challenged, your sense of reality altered, your appreciation for the art of the sensual revived. Dare yourself to spend an evening in the world of the slut
t
erati and perhaps you, too, will discover something new about yourself.

I hit the Save button and sat back in my chair. I was still groggy from lack of sleep, but I wanted to finish the story before I
crawled back into
bed for the sleep of the dead.
With Frank.

He looked about sixteen lying there with the blanket nestled about his naked hips. I felt like Psyche viewing Cupid for the first time. Now if only he didn
’
t wake up and
run away, the way Cupid had.

I thought back to the rest of our evening. He
and I
had spent the rest of the night at
13 Coins restaurant,
that
haunt of
Seattle
late
-
night revelers,
snuggling into those famous
high
-
back barstools that
curled
around you like
womb
s.

We talked until the faint golden traces of dawn began to tint the morning sky. I learned about his childhood. How his mother had been so disapproving. How she’d made him stand in the corner while she did housework, dusting the furniture with a lovingness that she never showed him. We’d talked and talked. And promised that this was a new beginning for us.

Tabula rasa.

When we left 13 Coins, Frank followed me home. What fol
lowed was simple, natural, and—for the first time ever—surprisingly
free of baggage. Maybe we were a tad more adventurous than usual. Maybe a blindfold was involved, and a serving spoon the size of a paddle. Maybe our lovemaking involved one or two positions we had never tried. It was all wonderful
and even a little mind-blowing.

Then Frank had promptly fallen asleep.

But I didn’t mind. My brain was awhirl with all that had happened.

I looked outside. The day was taking shape and the Sunday churchgoers were arriving, driving their carloads of family into the parking area behind the church. I knew Asshole Bob would be standing there with his nasty grams, ready to tag errant cars. In fact, I still had a small stack of them on my desk from the last time he and I talked. I hadn’t recycled them yet.

Just then, a big red Suburban pulled up in front of my house, blocking my view of the bright green yard across the street at the church. Out of the SUV spilled a pile of kids in their Sunday best with Mom and Dad in tow. After several aborted attempts to corral the brood, they crossed the street and disappeared into the church. I certainly saw Bob’s point of view. They had a huge parking lot in the back of the church. They didn’t need to park in front of my house. In fact, it would be much safer for the entire family if they had parked in back.

Feeling miffed and self-righteous in my newly found assertiveness, I grabbed one of Asshole Bob’s nasty grams and wrote a short paragraph citing the fact that the Bishop had promised that all his parishioners would park in the back
and
pointing out the safety benefits of said parking alternative. I marched outside in my Scarlet Girls and slipped the note deliberately and with gusto under the Suburban’s windshield wiper.

As I turned, I saw Asshole Bob standing on his porch, taking a drag off the ever-present cigarette he had in his hand. He nodded to me once and gave a thumbs-up.

Sal was
apparently
still out.
I could only imagine what Mom and Kenner had ended up doing
.
No I didn’t want to go there. I knew that eventually they would each have their say about Frank. But I was ready. I had learned something about
him and
myself, and starred in my own little
S
trange and
U
nusual story.

I went back inside and knocked the heater down a notch.
I
placed
the
stilettos
back
on my dresser
and gave them one final inspection
. Cinderella’s glass slippers had nothing on them.

I
crawled back into bed and
snuggled up with Frank, enjoying the luxurious warmth of his skin.
He stirred and pulled me in tight before drifting back to sleep.

I smiled.
“Well, fiddly-dee,” I whispered, knowing that Scarlet would have been very proud indeed.