Owning Pita Ch. 01bySoftouch911©
She didn't say anything. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir," she said.
"Does thinking of the next week excite you?"
"Yes," she breathed, "Sir."
"Check with your fingers, pita. Are your nipples hard?"
She looked quickly around the room and raised her free hand to one breast and then to the other. From the mezzanine he could see the green silk momentarily wrinkle. He could hear her inhale through the phone.
"Do you want me to come to you?"
"Oh, yes Sir, I do."
"Do you have any questions, pita?"
There was a pause. "Where am I going?"
"With me, pita." He closed his phone and went down the escalator so he could follow her.
Pita's body relaxed as she walked. She touched the choker, and he could feel his pulse throb with hers. She looked for him in the crowd as she drew glances from men. At gate B5, sunlight flooded the waiting area, and her auburn hair glowed in the late-morning sun through the windows.
He still was not at all sure pita would come with him – or, if she did, that she would stay. Joe felt his heart steel. He wanted her to come, but without promises, without softening the magnitude of what they were doing and what he wanted of her. He wanted her to come, not because she thought she was in love with him but because she wanted to find out about herself, and him, and if she had the heart of a slave.
He stood across the concourse. She looked over her shoulder, right and left. A teenage boy maneuvered behind her, transparently adjusting his angle for a close-up glimpse of her breast pressing against the side of her dress.
When the boarding began, she moved toward the entrance, and he felt his heart leap. He hadn't realized how uncertain he had been. He went to a kiosk and bought a pink rose, then moved forward to board at the end of the line.
He had to bend to keep from hitting his head. When he got close to her seat, he first saw the auburn sheen of her hair and a glint of sun off her choker. His hands felt clammy gripping the flower. He smiled grimly and whispered, "Here we go, pita." She had been looking down sadly at the ground crew, but she glanced up and knew him immediately. Her face went momentarily pale, tears came to her eyes, and she staggered to get out of her seat.
"Oh Sir, I thought you weren't coming." He reached down, put the rose in her outstretched hand, closed his fingers over hers tightly, and gently pressed her back into her seat. She didn't look at the flower.
"Let me put my bag up and I'll hold you." She was smiling and on the verge of tears. Joe folded his jacket to fit in the overhead and took a blanket. He lifted the chair arm between their seats and put his arm around her. She tilted her head eagerly and kissed him.
The energy he felt in her lips was her tension letting go: fear, joy, waiting, fantasy, and planning came together in her kiss. He tasted the salt of her tears. Gradually her lips relaxed, and her cool palm, damp from nerves, came up against his cheek.
When he drew back, she looked down at the rose and unclenched her fingers; she had been gripping it tightly, and the thorns had punctured her fingers. Three tiny drops of blood were gathered. "It's pretty," she said.
Joe plucked a petal from the flower to wipe away the specks of blood.
"Even the thorns," he said.
She began to babble, embarrassed, gesturing with her hands. Her eyes were full. The stewardess stopped beside them: "Are you alright, Ma'am?"
Pita looked up, surprised to see someone there. "Yes, she's fine," Joe reassured the stewardess. "We're just excited."
Pita began to giggle, then said "May I have something, Sir?" He nodded and placed a drink order. The stewardess gave her professional smile. Joe unfolded the blanket and spread it across pita, pulling it up to her breasts. She was chattering, replaying everything as if he hadn't been watching.
Beneath the blanket he held the inside of her wrist. "Hush, pita," he said in her ear. Then, "Be quiet, pita," as she continued to babble, and finally he gripped firmly and said "Shut up." She jumped but was quiet. He took the rose and inserted it in the seatback pouch in front of her.
"Put your head on my shoulder, pita. Whisper your mantra."
He heard her recite with her soft, southern lilt close to his ear. He felt her breath settle against his cheek and felt a familiar, direct connection between her voice and his sex, but for the first time in person.
"When you're calm, tell me anything you'd like. But since you haven't flown lately, maybe you'd like to look out for the takeoff." He rotated his thumb slowly over the quick pulse in her wrist, then down into the palm of her hand, continuing the slow stroke that would calm her.
When she was breathing evenly against the side of his throat, he moved his hand onto her leg beneath the blanket and began to stroke her stocking. He moved his fingertips in small, slow circles.
When the plane taxied and lunged into the air, they were pressed back into their seats, but he continued to demand her attention and moved his hand up her leg. Joe felt her thigh twitch, as if she was surprised. But her eyes were shut and she was focused on his touch.
"You didn't get to see the take off," he said.
"Your hand is cold," she whispered. "Put it between my legs." He felt the lace on her stocking and the garter. She didn't move her head from his shoulder but went back to slowly whispering the mantra, her hot breath on his skin, sometimes repeating a line as her mind got lost.
When he lifted the hem of her skirt and drew it up, she tensed. He took it to her waist. Beneath the blanket, her sex was bare, and she must have felt vulnerable, but pita did not question him and settled against his arm. He felt the hardness between his legs.
The stewardess returned with iced tea and rum in Pepsi for her. Only his tray was lowered, so pita filled his cup while he continued to stroke her. He let his hand wander, trailing light touches from the inside of her knee over her smooth stocking and her taut garter to the softness of skin he couldn't see. The occasional spasm of muscles continued; he decided it was a sexual response.
She shifted her body down in the seat and spread her legs. She spoke rarely, and slowly, and when his hand neared her sex, she shifted her body toward his touch. She moaned softly with almost every stroke and pushed herself to his fingers.
He turned his head and whispered into her forehead. "Tell me, pita."
"Sir," she said, haltingly, "I want you."
He continued the maddening strokes. She was trying to move onto his fingers. She cooed, "Sir ... Sir ... Sir, please." Her muscles jumped again.
"Tell me, pita."
"Sir, touch me. Please, I'm so turned on."
His voice was a growl: "Tell me what you want."
Her breath was choppy in his ear. For a few seconds she didn't answer. Her thigh flinched again. Then finally in a rush she said: "Touch me ... my clit, o god, my, everywhere, go inside. Make me come."
"Sir, for god's sake, please, Sir."
He breathed passionately into her mouth. "When I touch my pussy, I want you to come. I'm going to fuck you with my fingers right now and for the next week with my cock. We will see if you can learn to be Mine."
He touched her intimate, slick flesh, and her entire body jerked and pressed against his hand. He pushed, and his finger slid easily between her wet lips and found moisture. Her clit was small, slick, and rigid. As it passed beneath his touch, pita jerked. He approached her entrance and placed the tip of his finger just inside.
Joe adjusted his posture. He drifted his fingers over her perineum and stroked the soft, damp skin. He wondered if her skirt would be wet when she stood.
He took a handkerchief from his pocket and moved it beneath the blanket and gently wiped her sex. Even the soft cloth seemed to shock her into greater arousal. He relished her eager sexuality. He pressed the piece of cloth between her legs and slowly swirled his finger back up her slit.
She laid her hand on his thigh, then tightened her grip. Her other hand clenched the armrest of her seat. The bright light of the sky outside the plane fell across her wrist and showed her knuckles white from her tight grip.
He returned to her clitoris and rested his finger on it for a slow count of ten. Pita turned to whisper in his ear: "Sir, please. Let me come. Touch me, Sir." And he began to tap, maddeningly, against her clit, bringing her lust up another level. Each time his finger tapped, she mewled softly "oh, ohh, ohhh, oh...." and her muscles clenched.
She pressed her pussy forward again, and this time he pressed down on her mound. He wanted her to come to relax her, if he could, but he had heard her abandonment before, and he didn't want her to be embarrassed.
The pressure was enough, and when he slowly rotated his finger over her clit, her orgasm released, intense but silent. He watched her bite down on her lower lip, heard her inhale hard, and watched her breasts lift as she swallowed air to stay on top of her come. When she let it out, she slumped against him; he lifted his finger. Joe took the handkerchief from between her legs.
In a moment she said, "Sir..."
She stopped. "Yes?" he asked.
"You're already training me, aren't you?"
"The week will be short," he said.
"I'm thinking," she paused, "that was very public and I've never done that. I'm wondering how hard you'll beat me. And if you'll decide to give me to a Dom."
"You mean you wonder if I'll respect the limits we talked about?"
"Yes, Sir," she said quietly.
"Changing from online to real life opens everything up, doesn't it?" he said. "When limits are online, they are like fantasy. In life it's all real.
"It's my job," he whispered, "to challenge you and your limits ... to see if you want to grow and submit, not just in fantasies. Listen," Joe said, turning so he could look into her eyes and hold her hands, "in a sense we're starting over, but I remember what you said.
"I remember that exhibitionism was a soft limit, something you would accept because it pleases me," he said. "And I love to share your beauty, so I will challenge you with it.
"But you said giving you to another dominant was a hard limit, and so that is simply not possible under any circumstances – not necessarily because I wouldn't want it but because it is a limit – until you change your mind. As for flogging, each scene is different, and I have to decide each time how much is enough."
"What if I can't handle it?" she asked.
"You find it hard to believe me, don't you? If you safeword, I will stop whatever we are doing. We will deal with the problem."
She was quiet, looking in his eyes for what was ahead.
He continued, "I won't tell you everything. I won't ask for permission."
"What if I don't like it?" she asked quietly.
"Depends on what you mean by 'it.' We'll deal with it then."
"How do you know what to do?" she asked.
He settled back into his seat and closed his eyes. "It's in the Dom's Manual," he smiled. "It's all there. Now relax, pita. Get some sleep."
Pita rested her head on Joe's shoulder. He wondered if her orgasm had stirred her up so much she wouldn't be able to relax. But a moment later he felt her head grow heavy, and her breath lengthened. The stress of getting here had been intense, and she had done well. He reminded himself not to hope for too much too soon.
Masturbation on a plane isn't BDSM, and a little exhibitionism under the drive of passion isn't submission, no matter how shy she thought she was.
Pita wanted love; Joe couldn't trust it. The challenge of D/s was enough. When he thought of love, images of Mattie flooded his mind, ghastly and frozen, saying "I love you" over breakfast ... then darkness with blue lights and radios rasping and chill night air settling on his sweating skin.
He closed his eyes and put his head back. He put the handkerchief to his face. If the woman in the blue hat were still across the aisle, she would have thought he was wiping his nose. He inhaled pita's scent. He knew that before they landed he had to settle the turmoil that rippled through his body. His breath was shaky, and he put the handkerchief back in his pocket. He felt the plane enter its long descent.