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RamayanaThis story was written last year. it's not about swinging, and has a 'flavor' of light bdsm. Don't let that turn you off. i had fun writing it and i like the story. i hope you like it too.
~~~ ramayana ~~~
I met a guy I found on the Internet.
This isn't of course, something I do very often. In fact, I'd never done it before at all, but I'd just moved to town for my new job as a graphic artist for a publishing company, and I didn't know anyone. Worse, I was the only girl in my department. It's hard enough to make friends, but my co-workers were mostly gamer-geeks and the few girls who did work there were assistants to the executives, and they all seemed so vapid. I ate lunch alone every day. My apartment complex seemed to house a large number of elderly people. If I was up for a rousing night of pinochle, I'd have been fine. I'm not shy, but it's daunting to go out and meet people through dating clubs and cocktail parties. I've got to do something, I told myself. I had to muster up the courage to find someone to hang out with and start having a social life. I was getting bored with microwaving my frozen dinner-for-one, going to movies alone, and falling asleep in front of the TV. I was so lonely.
One Saturday afternoon, after I got home from my solitary jog, I flung a plastic-encased iceberg of sweet and sour chicken in the microwave and punched a couple of buttons. While I waited for my "feast", I popped open my laptop to look and see what movies were playing at the art theatre down the street. I'd seen nearly all of them, but an independent production with a foreign-sounding name caught my eye. "Ramayana" I highlighted and copied the words, and pasted it into Google in order to figure out what it meant. I'm not above judging a book by it's cover, or a film by its title, but I do have to at least know what that title means before making the choice.
The top Google hit was a CraigsList ad. "Partner in crime needed to impersonate girlfriend,... the title read. "That's odd", I thought, but I clicked on it anyway.
Partner in crime needed to impersonate my girlfriend.
Seeking someone to go to clubs with me to pick up women.
We go out as friends, and help each other find dates.
In order to be desirable, you have to be desired, so
I'll flirt wildly with you and all the guys will find you irresistible.
You'll flirt with me and the other girls won't think I'm such a loser.
We will be each other's wingman, in a matter of speaking.
Reply by instant messenger - my screenname is Ramayana
That's an interesting way of approaching the situation. A covert operation. I couldn't decide if it was clever or pathetic. Nevertheless, it sure would be fun to have someone flirt with me. Before I thought about it too much, and forgetting all about the indie flick, I logged into my Instant Messenger account. I entered my username: "GrafxGrrl", which was clever at the time but now seemed cliché. I added the screenname of "Ramayana" to my buddies list and when he popped up online, I clicked on his name. "I'm responding to your ad. I could be your partner in crime. Not sure what you're looking for though. Can you provide a job description for this fake girlfriend you seek?"
Within seconds, a reply came back: "Job description? I hadn't thought about it in those terms. You are obviously a woman of action. I can't chat for long now, but why don't we meet in person to discuss. Tonight, if you like. You pick the place, I'll be there."
A woman of action? Only if the action is dragging myself through my boring life. But here was a situation presenting itself. Could I do this? Could I meet a strange guy in public, with the ultimate goal of pretending to be his girlfriend? Well, a fake boyfriend had to be better than no boyfriend at all. I chose a place not far from my house, a cute little cyber café that's always bustling with people, so it would be safe, and it would be easy to make a getaway if I felt uncomfortable. What do I have to lose?
"Meet me at Counter Offer", I wrote, identifying the cafe. "I'll be wearing a black hoodie and blue jeans and carrying a pink purse. Shall we say 7pm?"
After what seemed like an eternity, his reply came back. "Seven is fine. I will find you. See you there. AFK"
AFK. Away From Keyboard. It's the IM equivalent of "over and out". What? That's it? No description of him? No other information? Yikes. What should I do? What if he's an ax murderer? What if he's a dirty old man? What if he's just a dork?
I decided to go, but I figured that I would change the plan a little bit. I wore my green and white track jacket, zipped up over a white tank top, a navy blue skirt that swayed when I walked, little white Keds without socks, and I carried my sky-blue laptop bag with the butterfly embroidered on it. That way, if I saw someone sitting alone, and he wasn't too creepy, I'd introduce myself. No harm in giving myself the upper hand, right?
I showed up at five minutes to seven, and scoped the room. Every table was occupied by a guy sitting alone, and each guy had a steaming cup of something and was tapping away at a laptop. "Great, that really narrows it down," I muttered to myself, as I walked up to the counter to get myself a vanilla chai. I surveyed the room while I waited for my drink, wondering which of these men wanted a Partner in Crime.
Most of the guys were unremarkable, wearing a t-shirt & jeans, sporting that cookie-cutter haircut with the few locks longer in front coaxed to a point with gel. Four guys stood out from the crowd of Abercrombie and Fitch clones, however, so I entertained myself by checking them out.
The first had huge eyes, dark stubble, broad shoulders and impossibly red lips. He seemed tall, even though he was sitting down. He wore a dark blue denim shirt on top of a yellow t-shirt, which accentuated his dark eyes and those red lips. He wasn't stereotypically attractive, but he was appealing in an odd way. He looked like he might be Russian, and he was hunched over his keyboard working furiously. I was certain that when he spoke he'd have an accent, but suddenly his phone rang, and he answered it in clear Midwestern English. He was angry at whoever called, and swore like a sailor in pain. This was nobody I wanted to hang out with.
The second boy wasn't as big as the Russian, but he wasn't exactly small. He was wearing a thick green sweater and dark gray corduroys. He had hair like the Big Boy Burgers icon: dark, short in the back but long on top, and parted on the side. He had a full face - rosy cheeks bloomed from pale skin, and his hazel eyes glowed gold in the reflected light of his laptop. He was very expressive as he worked, making faces at the screen, sighing deeply as he paused to reread what he typed, furrowing his brow as he read, and rolling his eyes as he dramatically pounded the delete key, shaking his head at what he must have deemed horrible, horrible writing. Theatre geek? Probably, and I wasn't going to be into nursing someone's drama ego.
The third guy was average, in most respects. Average height, average build, white button down shirt that was open at the neck, new-looking black jeans and black dress shoes. Attractive, but not intimidating. He had a laptop open in front of him, but instead of using it, he was reading a book. I could see that it was a hardcover, but there was no dust jacket and I couldn't make out the title stamped in gold foil on the spine. Every so often, he'd look up and glance around the room. I could see his bright blue eyes from the counter where I waited. He took a sip from his cup, and licked his lips. Intent on his book, he paused, biting on his lower lip. He looked like a casually dressed lawyer except for one thing - his hair. He had golden blond hair that fell in tight little ringlets, down to his shoulders. Hair like that would be a nightmare, I thought, smoothing my hand over my own auburn hair, which is thick, wavy and still a bit damp from my post-jog shower. His hair wasn't frizzy at all, and it sure did look sexy in contradiction to the rest of his appearance. As I pondered his curly locks, he caught me looking at him. He smiled a kind of a half smile, and without waiting for a reaction went back to his book. Enigmatic. This guy's got potential.
Then I saw Bachelor Number Four.
He seemed to be the most out of place in this crowded, yet surprisingly quiet little cafe. He was a little too skinny, a little too Goth, and way too hot. His hair was jet black, and was so straight it looked ironed. His skin was perfectly smooth and clear, not even a trace of stubble. Long dark lashes shaded his eyes. Beautiful black eyes, to be sure, but I'd kill for those lashes! I couldn't nail down his nationality - maybe Filipino? Maybe Cuban? Native American? Yet, none of those seemed to fit. He was in black from the ground up: doc martens, black jeans, a long sleeved black shirt, --which he wore unbuttoned, as if it were a jacket-- and oh my god, was he wearing a fishnet t-shirt underneath? Except for that last detail, which I admit rather startled me, he was gorgeous. Stunning. He had long, slim fingers that danced over his keyboard. He typed fast, blindingly fast - how could anyone type so fast and actually create words? - but then he'd sit back and read what he wrote, pensive, thoughtful and suddenly he'd leap forward again to attack the keyboard with a fit of speed.
I figured it had to be him. But could this guy actually have trouble finding dates? Could it be that other girls, even the Goth girls, were freaked out by his fishnet shirt? I finally got my drink, worked up my courage and headed over to his table. Just as I was about to reach for the chair to pull it out and sit down, another Goth boy, just as beautiful and dressed almost identically, came up behind Mr. Eyelashes. He put his hand on Eyelashes' right shoulder, and leaned down to whisper something in the seated boy's left ear. Eyelashes smiled, murmured something low, and the second Goth boy gave him a peck on the cheek. I stood there stunned. Obviously, Eyelashes didn't need a partner in crime, that position was already filled. And suddenly, so was the chair that I nearly plopped into. Goth #2 nudged me gently out of the way, as he smiled coyly.
"Well, that settles that", I nearly said out loud, and looked at my watch. 7:05. I wished I hadn't decided to change from what I told "Ramayana" I would wear. Now he would never find me, and I certainly wasn't going to go up to each guy in the place and ask, "Are you looking for a pretend girlfriend?"
I sighed, and decided to pull out my laptop and drink my chai. Goldilocks the Attorney was sitting at a table for four, so there was plenty of room for two laptops on the table. I asked him if I could join him, and without looking up, he said, "I'm waiting for someone..." His voice was tinged with a slight southern drawl I couldn't place.
"Oh," I said, and started to turn away.
...But I think it's you," he continued.
I smiled, "I'm sure that's a great pickup line, but it's not going to work on me tonight."
"Please, sit down." He still hadn't looked up from his reading. "You're ''grafxgrrl'. But you're not wearing what you said you'd wear."
I gasped, "What? How... How did you know, then?"
"You're the only girl in here besides the cashier, and since she looks about 16, that eliminates her." He finally looked up and met my wide eyes with his twinkling blue gaze. Wow, he was even more attractive close up. Like a god, with those eyes and that hair.
"Very scientific," I said, feeling very awkward. Had I been working around guys so much that I forgot I wasn't one?
"Please, sit," he said again, gently. So I did. "Tell me, why did you change?"
"I was nervous," I confessed, "I can't believe I'm even here, to tell you the truth."
"I like your alternate choice of attire. Still, you came. Perhaps you're braver than you think you are." One eyebrow arched over flashing blue.
I laughed, "Oh yeah, that's me," I said sarcastically, "As long as by 'brave' you mean crazy, irrational and impetuous."
"I didn't", he said, more seriously than I'd have expected, "but those are traits I enjoy very much." He looked directly into my eyes, smiled enigmatically, and looked into his book again. I lost my breath. He leaned back in his chair. Without looking up, he said, "Drink your tea."
It wasn't a request, it was a command. Before I knew what I was doing, my cup was at my lips. The chai was sweet, spicy and rich. I was startled by a sudden rush of thoughts. Who was this guy? Who did he think he was, telling me to drink my tea like some child needing instruction? And why was he reading his book, instead of talking to me? He just said he liked me. Well, he kind of said that. Didn't he? Am I so desperate to be liked that I'm putting words in his mouth? He had such a look of control about him: His posture was both intently upright and somehow relaxed. That crisp white shirt, elegant but still casual. He looked almost corporate, in fact. Except for that curly blond hair. I wanted to touch it.
I snapped back to reality as he snapped his book closed. "So you want a job description? Are we conducting an interview, then?" He spoke softly and evenly.
"Aren't we?" I replied coquettishly.
"Would that make you more comfortable?" he drawled. Something about the way he spoke reminded me of a hypnotist.
"I am comfortable!" I countered, a little too quickly.
"Yes, I can see that. You look like you're about to doze off you're so at ease. You have a death grip on that paper cup and you're on the edge of your seat." Not a touch of sarcasm in his voice, but that last sentence gave me goosebumps. Was he watching me that intently? "Drop your shoulders," he said. Obviously, he WAS watching me that intently. I dropped them. "Breathe," he said. I took a deep breath. He smiled. "Good. That's better. So, let's talk." He smiled warmly and leaned in close. "The premise for my idea changed slightly. For example, I know you noticed those two," he said, gesturing towards the Goth boys. My breath caught in my throat. He gave a gentle laugh. "As I said, you were the only girl in here so I noticed you. In your shoes, I'd have done the same thing, I suppose. Luckily you gave up and sat with me," he said, blue eyes twinkling. "But look. Don't they look like they're enjoying themselves? What if they came over to you and included you in their conversation?" He took a deep breath and sighed. "Well, except that they're guys. And as a guy myself, I wouldn't approach two women. And that's my point. I think that having a girl for a wingman would be my segue into meeting more women. You'd break the ice with the women, and later, introduce me as 'just' your friend. That way I'm not some horny guy hitting on two women at once. And I'd do the same for you, introducing you to guys as 'just' my friend. You wouldn't have to worry about coming across as slutty," he paused dramatically, "unless you wanted to."
I have to admit, he had me until that last line. Unless I wanted to? He read my face, and said, "Gotcha, didn't I?"
I laughed nervously. "Yeah, yeah you did." I smiled. Phew, he's only teasing. Isn't he?
"So when do we start?" he said, whispering conspiratorially
"Wait! I don't know anything about you. I don't even know your name." Then, to myself: I want to know a lot about you. I want to know why I don't feel like I can breathe when you're looking at me.
"You're right. We never did introduce ourselves properly. He extended his hand, saying, "My name is Dean Meyer. I'm a photographer. I'm on an assignment to document the building of the new hospital. It's rather boring work, but I find other ways to use my skills to keep myself entertained."
"Pleased to meet you, Dean. I'm Katie Kirkpatrick, I'm a graphic designer. So, you're only on assignment? How long are you here for?" My voice betrayed what I intended to be a polite question; I sounded disappointed at the prospect of losing a friend I hadn't even made yet.... How pathetic. If Dean caught on, though, he didn't express it.
"I'm pleased to meet you, too, Katie. Very pleased," he purred. "I'll be here for a while. It takes a long time to build a building as complex as this one is going to be, and I'm supposed to photograph all the stages for both legal and artistic purposes. After all, it's not very often that an architect like Craig Beckman designs a hospital. I hope you don't think I'm rude, but I suppose we can stop shaking hands now."
I felt my face flush, and snatched my hand back. He laughed. "Don't worry. You can have your hands all over me later." Certainly, he could feel the heat radiating from my face. I grabbed my chai and held the cup to my mouth, trying to hide behind it. "Finish that and let's get out of here." I gulped down my tepid chai and thought to myself, God, he's bossy. But then I realized that I didn't mind if he took control.
I gathered my things, and he slipped his book into an expensive-looking black briefcase. As we walked out, he placed a hand on the small of my back, guiding me out. I liked his touch. I even liked the goosebumps he raised on my skin.
The air was clean and cool outside. It was refreshing to finally be free of the smell of coffee. Instead, I smelled a mixture of the night air and his cologne: something warm, earthy and manly. I breathed deeply. "What was that book you reading?" I asked.
"It's a book of Hindu Mythology."
"Oh, really? Gods and Goddesses and that kind of thing? Ganesha and Vishnu and all of them?"
"Yeah!" he said, surprised. Then, resuming his cool, "It seemed to be a natural progression from the Kama Sutra." He paused suddenly, as if he misspoke, but he continued, "I became interested in all things Indian. I wanted to know what kind of culture would embrace such a thing to such an extent. I'm glad to see you're interested in it too."
"The Kama Sutra?" I gasped
"Well, perhaps, but I was referring to Indian culture, as reflected in your choice of beverage. The chai?"
"Oh, yes. Sure, you're right. Chai, Kama Sutra, natural progression.... I can see how you'd follow my train of though there." This was fun. I really enjoyed bantering with him. I saw that we were at the end of the block.
"Uh, hey...Where are we going?" I asked. How is it that this man makes me lose track of space and time? Dean had led me out of that cafe, and into the darkness of an autumn evening, with barely so much as a suggestion.
Without answering me, he asked, "Have you eaten yet?" but before I could answer, he took my hand and put his fingers along my wrist "You're cold, so the answer to that is no. So the answer to YOUR question is, 'We are going to dinner.'"
I thought of the by-now defrosted glob of chicken and rice that I'd abandoned in the microwave and recalled that I hadn't eaten. Dean had awakened other appetites that seemed more pressing.
Dean continued, "Shall we continue the theme of the night?"
A flash of surprise crossed my face. Is he still talking about the Kama Sutra?
He noticed, and shook his head while he smiled. "I was suggesting going for Indian food, but I like where your mind is going."
If Dean touched my wrists now, I'm sure the heat of my blush would be palpable all over my body.
We came upon a dark gray Acura with sleek lines "Here's my car." Again, with his hand placed firmly above my ass, guided me to the passenger side. He took my blue computer bag from me, put our things in the trunk, got in. He smiled at me, put his key in the ignition, and we were off. A few minutes later, we went to a place called Nadir, quietly tucked away in a mini mall. He obviously wasn't trying to impress me, I debated with myself, but the restaurant's facade hid a sumptuous burgundy and gold decor.
"Welcome, Dean, Miss." said the handsome Indian man at the podium, as he looked me over briefly, then smiled at Dean. He picked up menus and took us to a booth. He looked to be the same age as us, and obviously knew my mysterious dining partner. He looked directly into my eyes, deeply, as he handed me a menu. "Enjoy yourself". Barely above a whisper, and said only to me. He handed Dean a menu, then wordlessly returned to the podium.
I'd had Indian food before, but none of these dishes looked familiar. I asked Dean, "What are you having?" and he said, "I'll order for both of us." Well, that wasn't what I asked, but I felt safer knowing that I didn't have to negotiate the menu. We talked about photography and graphic design until the food and beers came, and then we both dived in. It was some of the best Indian food I'd ever had. Dean watched me while I ate, and nodded. "You're enjoying yourself?" he inquired.
"Yes, very much.", I smiled
"Good. I want you to enjoy yourself." he replied. Something about the way he said it, though, made me want to touch myself. I wondered how much of his speech was intended as innuendo, and how much was just my perception. I was a bundle of nerves, but I was so excited, so turned on by Dean that I wasn't uncomfortable. We ate a bit more, and when the dishes were being cleared, I excused myself, and sought the ladies' room. I lifted my skirt and realized my panties felt cold. My god, I was wet! What's going on here? When I was finished with the toilet, and went to wash my hands. I glanced up in the mirror and stared in shock. I was glowing. My eyes were shiny, my cheeks flushed, and my lips seemed more full than usual. My whole body was aroused. Even my nipples were hard. I fluffed my hair, and returned to the table. I had to consciously keep from breaking into a jog.
Dean had ordered us tea and it came with some small glistening puffy dessert. The chai was ten times better than the chai I had in the cafe. He slid closer to me in the booth. I caught a whiff of him again. "How do you feel?"
My thoughts swam: amazing, sexy, alive, and more than a little horny. "Great," I replied, but groaned internally: I sounded like a perky cheerleader.
"Wonderful. Try the kulkuls."
"There's no fork"
He picked one up with his fingers and held it to my mouth. It's hard to open your mouth and smile at the same time, but I did, and as he put the sweet in my mouth, his finger trailed on my lower lip. He licked that finger while I chewed. The kulkuls was sweet, like a glazed donut, and tasted like roses. My eyebrows went up in wonder.
"Good, huh? That's my favorite way to give a girl roses." He chuckled. I swallowed. Smiled. Blushed.
"May I have one?" he said. I looked at the plate. Oh! He wanted me to feed HIM one of these treats! I reached for the plate, and picked up a sticky ball. As I lifted it to his mouth, it slipped from my fingers, and fell down his shirt, onto his pants, leaving a silvery trail of oily sugar wherever it touched. "Oh! I'm so sorry!" I dabbed at his shirt with his napkin, but it only smeared. I reached over to retrieve the lost kulkuls, and found my hand hovering over the bulge in his pants. I looked at him and he held my gaze with those twinkling blue eyes of his. He opened his mouth, but otherwise didn't move. I held my breath as I retrieved the treat from his crotch and put it in his mouth. Unable to break eye contact, I was absentmindedly licking sticky sweetness from my own finger when he spoke.
"This changes my plans a little, but it's no big deal. Shall we go?" and without waiting for an answer, he took my hand and pulled me from the booth. Hand above my ass, I was steered from the restaurant and into his car.
He didn't speak for several minutes. Oh no, was he angry? I'm sure he's upset with me. I felt like a child around a furious parent. He didn't do anything to express that he was mad. His eyes never darkened and his brow wasn't furrowed, but the silence was killing me. I spoke up. "I'm really very sorry about making a mess of your clothes, Dean. I'll pay for the dry cleaning."
"Oh, you'll pay." he said flatly. I was horrorstruck. My eyes widened and I gasped. What had I gotten myself into?
Dean laughed, "I'm just kidding! Katie, you don't know me that well, I realize that, but you can't take everything so seriously. We're not going to have any fun if you don't relax. Now, please. Breathe. As much as I'd love to give you mouth to mouth, I don't want you passing out in my car."
I unclenched my hands, which I'd discovered I'd balled into fists. His southern drawl soothed me. He'd been nothing but kind, and I really had no reason to be so uptight. Anyway, getting CPR actually sounded fun. I was aching for his mouth on my mouth.
We'd only gone a couple of miles when he stopped the car. "I'll have to change clothes. I don't want to go out looking like this. It'll only take a minute. Come upstairs." He got out. Again, I noted that he didn't offer, suggest or recommend. He came around to my side and offered his hand to help me out of the car. After he closed the door, he replaced his hand above my ass. I started to believe it belonged there. He guided me to the front door of his building. I felt a gentle push from behind as we entered the elevator, and after he depressed the 7 button, his hand slid over from my tailbone to rest on my hip. It was casual. Natural. And it felt good. I found that I'd held my breath again, and let it out in a sigh of contentment.
"Here we are,... he said, as we exited the elevator. He pulled a key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock. He flipped a switch, which illuminated a lamp on the far end of the room. The decor was plain, like a hotel. It was one of those furnished short-term rentals. He pulled his shirt from his pants, and started to unbutton it, revealing a hairy chest and a flat stomach. He caught me staring, and smiled. He picked up the remote and tossed it to me. "Here, watch this instead." and went into the bedroom.
I turned on the TV, but I wasn't looking at it. My head was swimming. My mouth was dry. I went into the kitchen to get myself a glass of water, and noticed three rows of photographs laid out on the dining table. One row was of the hospital construction. Another was of local landscapes. I recognized the park, the view of the mountain, and the sun setting over the lake. Beautiful compositions. The last batch was different. There were gorgeous, artistic photos of almond-eyed, dark haired women wearing next to nothing. A few hands designed with mendhi in henna, and a beautiful painting of a blue-faced goddess, with wild black hair and red lips. There was a hair on it. I lifted the photo closer, and tried to blow the hair from it, when I heard Dean's voice from the doorway. "You won't be able to do that." I jumped. How long had he been watching me this time?
"What?" I asked.
"I'm sorry I startled you. It's part of the photo. You're not the first person who's tried to get the hair off it. It's a tattoo."
" This is a tattoo? It's beautiful. I thought it was a painting."
"Yes. I consider it a compliment, though, that the photo is so sharp that the hair looks real"
"It does." I'd noticed he'd changed into a black cotton t-shirt and faded blue jeans. His eyes looked a deeper shade of blue, but his hair, and those curls, seemed to shine more brightly in this dim light. "These are beautiful. Were these taken in India?"
"No, Little India. Like a Chinatown, but an Indian community. As I said, I'm fascinated by the culture." He walked over and took the photo from my hands, studied it a moment, and set it back on the table. "I'm fascinated by you, too, Katie." Once again, I blushed. His voice lowered and he leaned in. His hair brushed against my lips as he whispered in my ear. "I confess that I didn't expect anyone so attractive to answer my ad. That's why I didn't approach you at the cafe. You were alone, and you seemed to be waiting for someone. When I watched you go up to that guy in all black, and your retreat when his lover came back from the men's room, that's when I put two and two together."
I lifted my eyes to meet his. I felt heat rising from him. Reflexively I licked my lips. He continued, "I was confused by your clothes. You weren't wearing what you said you'd wear. But I willed you to come to me. When you sat at my table, I may have seemed rude, but I had to make sure that you were attracted to me. Part of my fascination with Indian culture is the concept of karma. If it was supposed to happen, it would. It did. After all, you're here now."
I noticed that this was the first time he was this close, but wasn't touching me. Having to listen to someone talk about his spiritual commitments would be distracting in another circumstance. Disturbing, actually. But here with him, in this impersonally decorated apartment, I wanted to know more. I didn't know what to say. He didn't offer any more conversation. I picked up the rest of the Indian photos. The second in the stack was a hennaed hand but the wrist was encircled by coarse twine. A few pictures later, two hands embellished with mendhi were bound together, resting above a naked female ass. Following that, another photo, seemingly the same shot from a more distant perspective, included pair of henna-decorated feet, below the ass, with that same twine around the ankles. The rest of the pictures were suggestive as well. Captured curves of flesh, some were hard to discern, but very erotic. My breath came in shallow pants as my heartbeat quickened. I came to the end of the stack. He took them from me, and set them down again. He reached up to my face, and put the palm of his right hand on my cheek, fingertips caressing my earlobe. With the other, he put his thumb on the corner of my mouth, and brushed it over my lips. His eyes bored into mine as he spoke. "If you tell me to stop I will," then he closed lids over smoldering blue and leaned in for a kiss. Tender and gentle at first. Then more firmly. His left hand left my face and found its spot above my ass, while his right hand slipped around to the back of my head, entwining fingers in my red tresses. My lips parted, and his tongue tentatively licked my lower lip once, twice. If he hadn't been holding me so tightly, I'm sure I'd have melted to the floor. My arms went around him, as well, and my right arm lifted and found a home on the back of his neck. I was finally touching his gorgeous hair, while his tongue danced with mine. His hair was soft, I toyed with his springy curls. He tasted spicy, and the faint trace of Indian beer on his breath was all the more arousing. He finally came up for air, and I realized his hand had moved lower and was cupping my ass. He gave it a squeeze, and said, "Oh, that reminds me... You still need to be punished for ruining my clothes."
"They're not exactly ruined!" I protested, but he wouldn't hear it.
"They ARE ruined, and your punishment awaits." In a smooth movement, he sat down on one of the dining room chairs and twirled me around in such a way that I found myself over his knee.
"What the hell?" I exclaimed
"The shirt was silk, and the pants were linen. Do you think oil comes out of those very easily, Miss Katie?"
I squirmed. He had a tight grip around me.
He pulled my skirt up to expose my panties. I didn't expect anyone to see my underwear this evening, so I had on simple white bikini briefs. "Verrrrrry nice," he said. I tried to wriggle from his grasp, but I could feel myself getting wet. What the hell, indeed.
"You will call me Sir. And you will stop moving around so much."
CRACK. It was louder than it was painful, but it shocked me. I froze.
"That's better. Now I can begin." However, he didn't move. I was perched face down with my belly over his lap, my ass in the air, his left arm around my waist, holding on, and his right hand resting on my panty-clad ass. I craned my neck and looked up at him. He smiled so sweetly, and his glazed eyes reflected the grin. "You don't squirm. I knew you wouldn't ...
"Dean, um, Sir, I, uh..." he massaged my ass with his hand, squeezing one cheek, then the other. My panties were drenched, and there was no way he hadn't noticed. Even I could smell my arousal. How could this be turning me on?
"The pants were from a department store, but the shirt is bespoke. I figure that's four strokes total."
"Four?" I said aloud. I immediately discovered that was a mistake.
CRACK. "Now five, since you feel you need to sass back. Would you like to count them for me, Miss Katie? You may start with 'one'."
I was out of my head.. The spankings stung. I was so turned on. I was sure that if Dean wanted to, he could really lay into it. Yet I was so fucking wet! I didn't know what to do.
He tugged down my panties to expose the flesh of my ass, but not all the way. They were soaked. "You may start with 'one'. Please begin."
"One?" I squeaked. His hand came down on my bare bottom with a smack, but only with a little force. The bark was worse than the bite, but I couldn't help from squealing.
He was massaging me again, rubbing away the slight sting and putting pressure on my flesh in just the right places. "Good. Continue."
"Dean, uh, Sir, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to mess up your clothes..."
"How high do you want to count, Miss Katie?"
I took the hint. "Two?" I gasped at the contact, and I tried not to squirm too much. As soon as the stroke was made, though, he was smoothing it away. I was breaking out into a sweat. If it could be possible, my ass felt like it was getting even hotter.
"Lovely. You may continue."
I took a deep breath and clenched my ass tightly. "Three?"
I waited. I waited some more. My glutes were getting tired. I couldn't hold my breath any more. I relaxed, and SMACK, his hand came down on my ass. I groaned reflexively.
"Yes, Miss Katie," Dean purred, soothing me, "Go on."
I panted to catch my breath. I realized my nipples were hard, and I could feel them rubbing against Dean's thigh. It felt soooooo good. Why did this feel good? I took a really deep breath and with the last whisper of air, I said, "Four!"
CRACK! This time, the spanking actually stung. It wasn't bad, but it shocked me. Tears came to my eyes, and I sobbed once. The hand that was soothing my ass came up to my hair, stroking it gently. "God, baby, you're doing so good. I'm so proud of you." With his hand back on my ass, Dean's voice resumed its authoritative tone. "You may finish, Miss Katie." He resumed his posture and closed his eyes, waiting.
Another sob caught in my throat. I was so confused. Why was he doing this to me? Why did I like it? My blood was coursing through my veins. My pussy was pulsing in anticipation. But of what? What was going on here? Then I remembered what he said when he kissed me: "If you tell me to stop, I will."
I realized that I didn't want it to stop. I wanted to see where this would go. Dean was gorgeous, intelligent, interesting, and apparently, a little kinky. And if my sopping wet pussy was any indication, so was I. I glanced up at him, and he was sitting there with his eyes closed, lips parted, breathing slowly, waiting for me to take the lead.
I cleared my throat. Dean opened his eyes, looked down and met mine. I smiled, let my head fall back down, and said,
End of Story