Sydian - Angela

bysydian©

The first notion that was placed in Angela's head was this: 'one can be a slut and be elegant.' Sydian. Sydd went on: 'It—slutting; sluttish behavior—is something that one can put on or take off like clothes. Elegance is an enduring trait. Having said that, this one thing remains about being a slut—becoming one...requires work. Sluttish behavior is intellectual, particularly if it is to be exciting. Being a slut—for a person like you—is an acquired state of mind. And frankly, darling, that is exactly how I prefer a bitch...'

Her instructions had been quite explicit: take a long, hot, luxurious bath—yes, they began that way—shave: no pubic hair, legs, under arms, the works. Oil the body—something that had been left in the hotel room on her arrival—the slight scent of almond. Perfume—already selected; a complement to the oil, a natural fragrance again. Rest.

The room had an aura; as if someone had been there before her. The scents and fragrances she applied to herself had a lingering presence here. She was here...

Round Two. An hour and a half before rendezvous, make-up. Again, the instructions were specific. They were in strict accordance with the philosophy—being a slut is a condition of mind. The essential for tonight's experience was not necessarily to look the part, but to be it—'Angela, can you be it?,' a voice in the back of her head asked. Sydian, always addressed her as 'Angela'; always insisted on a certain formality and decorum for their public personas...Sydian, always gently controlled. She dominated. But then, 'Sydian' was 'Sydd' too—playful, witty, kind beyond belief, super intellectual; artistic in her way. That was why Angela gravitated to her sphere...

Angela had a somewhat Goth, Pagan sensibility about her. It was a sensibility that Sydian could work with... In fact, the contrast between the two of them could be striking: Angela, pale and dark; Sydian, black and blond. Both quite fit. Sydd, an inch or two taller. Angela, slender, boyish, feminine. Sydian, slim, feminine, hung...

Angela was an artist; a sensibility that Sydian not only cherished, but nurtured. When Angela had inquired of how Sydian wanted her to present herself publicly—and she assumed privately, as well—really how Sydian wanted her to look, Sydian's response was in two parts: 'Look at me, Angela. What do you see?' The answer was almost obvious—almost: elegance with sensuality, almost lethal, seething beneath the surface. 'Now, after you've answered that question, how should you appear when you're with me—one, to complement me to that world outside, and two, to draw me into the world inside—to seduce me, Sweets. After you've made that assessment, I leave it to your formidable talents—with a little guidance every now and then,' she chuckled...

So the 'guidance; came from time to time like this evening... Her make-up had been laid out for her before hand. She and Sydian had even discussed hairstyle and color before hand. Sydian had suggested a wig or a stylist... The stylist knew Sydian and would do whatever they wanted. Angela opted for an asymmetrical, 'oriental' cut, completely cropped on one side, dyed a bluish-black; playing up the contrast of her pale skin...

The make-up on the counter top was a range of the colors Angela normally used: blacks, grays; Sydian had suggested a kabuki white, blues, and one or two purples. She had, however, insisted that Angela's lipstick and gloss be a violent, bright shade of red. Sydian had murmured something about wanting to be 'marked'...Angela knew exactly where she desired to place her 'mark...'

Angela's talent got the best of her: her face was exquisite. One need imagine a Kabuki/Goth, or one of Michael Manning's graphics come to life. That was Angela on this night...Sydian had sent the clothes over. Something for an early fall night in the city...something to match Angela's Pagan sensibilities: black. The dress was a short, short, tight, tight, sleeveless turtleneck. There was a black knit duster to match, ankle-length. Black, Cuban-heeled, seamed, thigh highs... And the shoes, both she and Sydian's weakness—soft, black kid; five inch stilettos with a broad ankle-band that tied in the front...

Angela gazed at her face in the full-length mirror. She felt the slight rise in temperature in her thighs... She loved these occasions—being with Sydian, of course—but what being with Sydian allowed her to become. She was mirroring one of Sydian's quintessential lines: 'I'm simply an illusion.' She loved becoming.

She glided into the stockings. Slid her feet into the stilettos and tied them. Then she stood in the mirror again and let her ego have its way. The heat that had started in her thighs now collected in her pussy...what had been damp, now became wet as she stared at her reflection... She glanced at the clock; there was time. There was the voice—Sydian's—'Always indulge yourself...'

Naked in the mirror, stockings and heels, she spread her legs and became her own lover...anticipating the lover to come... Her left hand rose to her hard, apple breast; cupped it, kneaded it—hard—then slid up to the pencil eraser nipple. She twisted it in the mirror and the electricity slid from her arch to the back of her pussy. The familiar jolt was always unexpected.

Naked in the mirror, her right had slid up the course of her thigh, following the electric trail, instinctively causing her legs to part further... 'Why waste time?' her inner voice said. The hand sensed the slickness of her pussy from the slickness of her thigh...it was a three-finger slickness...

The three fingers parted the lips of her pussy and plunged in as she twisted the nipple again...no time for niceties. She stared at the beauty in the mirror finger-fucking herself until her eyes began to glaze. Her legs began to tremble as she pistoned herself, and she fell back on the bed. Her hand didn't stop. The one that had punished the nipple found its way to the rose of her ass... Another jolt; she shuddered and howled. The last word on her lips before sleep claimed her was 'Sydian'...

***



Seven O'clock. She rose toweled her thighs but did not wash her hands—she knew that at first scent, Sydd would lick them. And her pussy would turn slick all over again... She wondered if she would have cause to lick Sydd's fingers...

She pulled the turtleneck over her head and asked herself wherever did Sydd find these treasures, and where the hell did she find the time? This one was way tight—made the 'apples' look like 'D's'...especially with the black lace 'shelf' she had put on...not that she needed a bra; this one—like so many recently acquired—was just so damn sexy. And tonight was going to be full of sex...

'Way tight' and 'way short'...the dress barely got to the tops of the thigh highs. If she had to bend, or stoop, or even sit—except with legs crossed—she was fully exposed—Sydd, again: an intellectual proposition... Angela was anticipating this evening more and more.

7:15.The phone rang. Familiar voice. Husky, low, throaty, soft jazz diva timber; the kind you wish would sing to you while you were fucked... 'See you there...' Click. The restaurant was literally around the corner from the hotel, ten minutes or less... She took the elevator down; got looks all around—men and women...smiles and whispers for beauty...and one or two leers for good measure—she needed those. She strode up the Avenue; the heels devouring blocks. The three or four guys who tried to hit on her between the hotel and the restaurant got the same reply: 'You'll have to ask my girlfriend.' Then she would glance back wickedly as they stood there with that 'No shit!!!' look on their faces...Yes, she loved these outings...

7:25. She peered through the window. Their booth was empty. The cell chirped. 'I see you. Turn around.' Across the street, Sydd waved. Angela started to tremble all over again. It was like this at every meeting. Sydd, the older sister—'hmmmm...something a little incestuous in that?'—the older friend, mentor, confidant, lover. This stunning black creature crossing the Boulevard—the one who made the 'no panties' request—was making her weak and wet...

'Stunning.' That was the word. It has a number of meanings; all applicable: 'to stun—to stop in one's tracks; to arrest, as in to stop—traffic was stopping at this very moment—'stunning' as in incredibly beautiful; best of all, 'unconventionally' beautiful... Yep, that one fit best...

From the ground up: the five inch, stilettoed, ankle boots were a soft, soft butter color; the legs poured up in sheer, soft, pastel sunrise tint stockings whose tops barely caught the top of the tight, hugging mini—a duplicate of the one Angela wore, just soft butter in color. The broad, broad brimmed fedora, snapped up in the front to reveal the most amazing ebony face, matched perfectly; as did the huge wrap that draped her shoulders...a big sling bag and gloves the tone of the boots—and 'Voila!' as the French would say, 'un ensemble' ... And people did stop and stare. None of them, however, picked up the one aspect of Sydd's dress that always amazed and delighted Angela. Like Angela, Sydd was panty-less too. And the result was much more obvious to the trained eye...tucked into the top of Sydd's thigh high, and then 'banded,' was a bit more than eleven inches of beautiful black cock... Angela knew this; she watched for it on every encounter. She had seen others who knew do the damnedest things just for a peek, a glance—a look? In some ways, it was the hallmark of Sydd's appeal—it was the sum total—the sum of all her parts: this exquisitely feminine and beautiful creature with ten plus equally beautiful inches that she cared little of hiding on occasions like this. And Angela knew it was precisely because she had come to meet her lover. It was the ultimate sign of love—and lust...

***



On the sidewalk, at the restaurant door, the two embraced the way close friends do...the hug, the kiss, the peck on each cheek—the 'you look absolutely gorgeous' 'Kid, you've outdone yourself this time'—all lovingly and sincerely meant. And then the movement—the gesture, so subtle that even on a busy metropolitan street, it goes undetected... In that o so brief embrace, Angela's hand slides up the inner thigh of Sydd's leg, raising an already short hem even higher... 'am I Mae West, and are you happy to see, me?' She squeezes; Sydd's cock responds just as anticipated...'No, 'Skinni-Minnie,' you are not Mae West. But I am delighted to see you. Can't you tell, Silli?' They both giggle; an 'innocent' exchange of less than a minute on a busy sidewalk in front of a trendy restaurant in a very busy city... 'Bad Girl!' Sydd calls after Angela, swatting her tight athletic ass and ushering her through the door...

***



'Mme. Sydian,' the maître d'. The accent is thick—affected—'How are you this evening? And you, Mlle ?' The proffered hand, the cheek kisses; Sydd loves the French thing—the 'non-American' thing—fake or otherwise—at least they got her name right—'Seeed-djahn'—slight lisp. Arched eye-brow and an internal chuckle. 'Your booth is waiting...'

'Jeeez! Is there anyone you don't know? Angela, wide-eyed. 'When you 'perpetrate a fraud' on the scale of this one, you make sure that you're known; and that those who don't know you wish to; and that you make sure that they don't. Got that, Kiddo?' And they both fell out laughing. But it was true... They slid into the booth from either side, ending up on the same side of the table, very close—close enough to breathe one another. The heavy damask of cloth draped the table and cascaded to the floor...the setting was perfect; the ambiance, intimate...

In this little corner, waiting for drinks—'Only one—pleasure is best had and achieved when one is conscious and in control'—they took each other in...

***



Damask table cloth...folds and folds of heavy material over the table to the floor on all sides...tight, muscular, stockinged legs extend in all directions towards each other, twining and vining beneath the rich cloth that covers the table... They are very close...very close. But their physical proximity, their intimacy is hardly noticeable in this day and age; in this busy city... Angela's thigh crossed Sydd's beneath the table, the heat from her cunt radiating like a mini-blast furnace seeking the metal-hard ingot between Sydd's thighs... They clasped hands. Sydd caught the scent of pussy still fresh on Angela's fingers and pulled her closer...their hips were aligned—above the table, their torsos were straight and centered—two women at dinner, chatting amiably even, intimately—beneath the table, the damask was steaming...

Sydd brought Angela's fingertips to her nose and breathed in the scent of her pussy, and got a jolt...she nuzzled the back of her knuckles, kissing them lightly... Sydd's long lashes fluttered above the scented hand as she nipped its back... 'Is this my cunt I smell?' she murmured? Angela had trouble with her breath...the answer, more huskily than ever, 'Yesssss...' Then one by one, each digit disappeared into Sydd's mouth. She sucked each finger down to the fist-knuckle, and then collectively took in the three 'offenders' and sucked hard, long, and greedily...Angela, who never took her eyes from Sydd, came beneath the heavy damask of the table, the leather of the booth beneath her growing increasingly slick...

The cum was duly noted... Angela gripped Sydd's hand tighter; brought her own mouth closer to Sydd's ear...her moans were for her ear alone; hot breath flushed over it with the slight shudder that took Angela's body... She blinked two, three times, smiled and whispered 'Thank you...' Then, in slow-motioned elegance, she fell on Sydd's full lips opened mouthed...without missing a beat, as tongues untwined and lips parted, the damask-covered hand slid up Sydd's thigh and over the head of her heavily leaking cock drawing the slickness of the pre-cum over it, covering her palm with it...

Sydd's turn to shudder now... Angela leaned back in, her grip firm on the thickness beneath the cloth...her whisper was throaty: 'You know I'm going to take it, don't you?...' slickness and thickness filling her hand as she milked Sydd's hard cock...

Sydd could only nod. 'You're not going to be difficult are you?' Angela whispered. Sydd shook her head 'No.' 'Then give it up...give your pretty, little bitch what she works so hard for... Give me the cream...'

Under the table, Sydd erupts... The hot cream that Angela covets falls heavily on heavy damask folds. She is quick to scoop up this caviar; three-fingers full she raises the thick cream to her mouth and sucks the digits clean. Once more she leans toward Sydd with an offering. Her creamy tongue twines with the other. The nectar of the moment is shared. Sydd forces her to hold the kiss longer than anticipated. An act of control and appreciation.

Drinks arrive. No one in this room seems the wiser...

***



'So...what shall we do tonight, Boobi?' 'Hmmmm,' Angela's eyes light up, 'go back to the room and fuck—furiously?!' 'Too mundane. Exactly to be expected. Where's all that creativity; that spontaneity—all the craziness of youth?' Angela screwed up her face at Sydd, and Sydd laughs... Then, Sydd begins, 'There's a new place I've heard of—within walking distance—rumor has it that it's just the place for people like us...' 'People like us?' Angela teases... 'Now just what is that supposed to mean?' 'You know. Beautiful, intellectual, sophisticated. Hot. Omnisexual.' 'O. those kind of people like us...' Angela laughed...

***



It was a light dinner, and though the air was laced with anticipation, Sydd imposed a disciplined pace of leisure...she wanted them to take their time; to savor each moment together...

'God...you look absolutely gorgeous. I love the make up. Didn't notice, did you? You gave that cute waiter a hard-on...Hmmmmm, maybe you should give him a 'tip'...Sydd scandalized...

'You'd love that wouldn't you?' Angela shot back. Sydd nodded. 'You know me. You and sex are a winner—always.' 'Particularly when you're anywhere in the picture,' Angela reminded her. 'Now where could I accomplish the task?' 'What task?' 'Tipping the waiter...give him a blowjob... You know—somewhere discrete where you can watch...' 'Why not ask him?' Sydd laughed. Angela's eyes widened, as Sydd slid the check and credit card to her side of the table. 'Let's see you handle this...literally...'

The waiter was cute. The color of bronze; well-cut; nicely hung...Angela made her move as he approached the table... She placed her manicured hand on his as he reached for the check folio... 'I'd like to 'augment' your tip...' Her nails trailed to his thigh... She glanced toward a secluded exit as she squeezed the hard flesh... 'Is there somewhere...?' He regained his composure, hesitated a moment, then murmured, 'the rooftop garden'... 'The rooftop garden?' Sydd said softly...he anxiously shot her a glance, 'Yes, Ma'am. It's closed for a party tomorrow.' 'Excellent,' Sydd hissed... The bewildered waiter looked from Sydd to Angela. 'My partner likes to watch,' Angela replied licking her lips. He swelled a bit more...

Sydd and Angela made their way up the stairs. The door opened onto the crispness of the garden, a story up. A moment later they were joined by the waiter. Sydd and Angela sat. Angela motioned the waiter to them. Again, Angela stroked the inside of his thigh; milked him. The moan was almost inaudible. 'You should feel this,' Angela glanced at Sydd, taking her hand... 'Mmmmmm,' Sydd's grip was strong and firm. Her technique was expert—how could it not be? He began to pump in her fist. She smiled at Angela. 'Very nice. I think he's ready for you, Babi...'

Angela unbuckled and unzipped him. His pants fell to his ankles. His boxers tented and glistened with the slickness of precum... She pushed the shorts down over his hips and eight inches of thick, pretty cock 'stared' at her through its single, teary eye... 'Mmmmmm...Very nice, indeed...'

Sydd passed Angela a tube of lipstick—bright, bright red... One hand stroking and pumping the cock, the other applying the lipstick, thick and creamy. All the while looking directly at the waiter... Sydd shifted slightly in her seat. The scene was having its intended effect. She crossed her thighs; leaned forward in her seat as her cock slid from beneath her short shift, rubbing against the fabric of the chair... She began to leak as well...

Angela warmed to her task, glancing at Sydd's fidgeting...she loved this—all of it—cock in her hand; her lover responding exactly as she hoped... This was all for her...he was incidental—a prop...

Angela looked directly at her prey, creaming her lips: 'My lover is a very special woman—a very special woman...Show him, Babi...' Sydd uncrossed her legs. The 11+ inches snapped from between her thighs, pushing back the hem of her dress. He was even more disconcerted. Angela gripped him harder. He responded jerking his hips, his eyes fixed on Sydd's crotch. 'I think he likes you, Girlfriend. She's beautiful, isn't she?' He nodded, forced to pump into her fist—the 'voluntary involuntary.'

She ovalled her richly polished lips, then tightened them as she pushed the head of his cock through them, forcing him into the heat of her mouth. Sydd gripped the arms of her seat forcing herself not to touch her cock... She took in the entire scene, her eyes moving from Angela's beautiful mouth, full of cock to his face... From moment to moment he would make eye contact with her—she would smile wickedly, and lick her on lips as she settled back in the chair... His gaze became bolder as it moved from Sydd's beautiful face to her beautiful cock... Then, Angela commanded all of his attention...

Report Story

bysydian© 0 comments/ 19350 views/ 2 favorites

Share the love

Report a Bug

Next
2 Pages:12

Forgot your password?

Please wait

Change picture

Your current user avatar, all sizes:

Default size User Picture  Medium size User Picture  Small size User Picture  Tiny size User Picture

You have a new user avatar waiting for moderation.

Select new user avatar:

   Cancel