Sydian: Dinner

bysydian©

Sydian / Who came at Dinner? / Ch 1. Afternoon Delight—a Hot Tub



‘You'll dress appropriately'….the line stayed in her head all day long. Luckily, the two o'clock had been perfunctory….they wanted to settle; and good for them! They were the one outfit that Sydd had relished tearing a new asshole for—and not as an act of pleasure, either—but their day would come….

‘Evening ' to all as she left the office; took the elevator down, the descent causing her balls to rise in her thong…not exactly pleasant, that….she smoothed the front of the white shift, checked her seams—yes, white shift, white-seamed, Cuban-heeled thigh-highs—uhm huh—there were two places that ordered them just for her—one in the Village, the other in G'town. And, of course, her famous stilettos—these, white—how could they not be?.... She stepped from the elevator, turned onto the street and strode up the avenue….

Perfect spring evening. ‘What to wear….' ‘Appropriate' for what? She passed the flower stand….the smell of fresh lilies caused her to pause….So beautiful…. ‘Could I have two dozen please? A dozen white Callas, and the rest mixed Tigers….' She thought of Rivera's ‘Calla Lilies'….could see herself nude, kneeling, that apple-ass of hers exposed, exposing her thick ‘tail,' as she gathered her lilies a la Rivera…The short, Asian woman handed Sydd the bundle and smiled, ‘Almost as pretty as you….' Sydd would have blushed, if she could…She just bent and pecked the old one on the cheek, paid her, and waved goodbye….

‘What to wear?' it still played in Sydd's head as the doorman opened the door. She crossed the atrium of the condo for the glass elevators; she didn't bother to check her mail….he held the elevator for her….absent-mindedly she said thank you, and just as nonplussed, she untied her thong and whipped it from beneath her hem without flourish—sighed—freedom….he wasn't there; at least not for her he wasn't; though his reaction was quite readable: somewhere between shock and the wish to see more….

The air felt too good kissing her crotch….She had been ‘good' all day….well, at least since her ‘workout'….The air made her cock twitch…he may have noticed…but it was his stop…Sydd smirked…blew a kiss at the back of his bald head and continued her ascent….She was swollen by the time the door open a floor below the penthouse…..



***



She really didn't want sex…at least not yet….What she really wanted was the tub—deep, hot, luxurious….and enough time for a nap….and what to wear….

The tub steamed. A fragrant mist hung above the scented, oiled waters. Flowers were arranged all around the huge bathing space; candles flickered against the smoked mirrors, making the space even larger. They reflected walls tiled from ceiling to floor, completely black, matched by a black pedestal sink, toilet, and bidet, a corner shower, and a deep black whirlpool tub. The blackness was only broken by strings of minimalist copper sheathed lamps, suspended from the ceiling; above them, the skylight.

The skylight was wondrous. It consumed the center of the room; the tub took up half of its lighted space. Sydd stepped into its light, candles flitting against the mirrored backdrop. The metallic black silk robe fell from her shoulders like a slow-motion movie pan….The evening sun had its chance to kiss and bathe her before the water would….Light cascaded off the slope of her brow, was cradled in hollows of the her finely sculpted shoulders, caught the tips of her erect nipples, glossed the cheeks of her ass, glanced off the head of that flaccid wonder between her thighs, and stopped to dance between her toes….black, polished sculpture in the center of this black mirrored space; naturally lit. Lemons. Lemonade. Sydian was in love with life—no doubt about it as the big toe tested the waters…..She knew how to manage it, even the hot water….

She stepped into the tub. Slid beneath the surface. The waters enclosed her like a blanket—a comforter….the jets began to hum. Below the surface, water swirled, caressing and pricking her flesh all at the same time. She closed her eyes; in her nakedness, settled back….

She knew it would happen. It always did. The body is a curious thing. Especially for those ‘curious things' blessed with certain portions of the male anatomy. Here, water—hot or cold—is supposed to have the same effect; both cause the organ to ‘retreat.' It shrinks in self defense. But in hot water, once acclimated and with the proper mindset, the relaxed body flexes its own ‘muscle.' The jets of the whirlpool help. Sydd was totally amazed—‘undone'—when she first realized the carnal benefits of the whirlpool. Of course, they were ‘carnal'; after all, it was the body. But the whirlpool's jets, properly positioned, were ultimately decadent—the very proper reference to the carnality that could be experienced in the tub.

Sydd knew what water could do. She had experienced the faucet as a kid….jacking in the shower was a serious adolescent pleasure. But they held nothing in comparison to the tub and its jets. Sydd's tub was custom. The jets had been positioned according to various anatomical specs—some therapeutic; some even more so….

Acclimated; physically relaxed; calm and cocooned, Sydd let the water have its way. She let it works its magic….The strangest of the jets—three of them—were situated on the floor of the tub, less than six inches apart, in the immediate proximity of where she would rest her bum….and of course her cock….on the tile wall was the control-panel. Sydd knew its braille by heart.

The one beneath her ass began a slow rhythmic pulse….almost as if it had a life of its own…it was programmed—they all were; water temp and timing….The jet pulsed up her ass. She snuggled; eyes closed; buoyant, she swiveled her hips in the water, found its rhythm. Just then the jet in front of her cock switched on. Its gentle force pushed her cock flat against her belly. A thousand bubbles attacked her asshole and balls, then washed up the shaft of her cock and over its head…..

Two side jets kicked in and forced her cock to stand straight in the churning water…straight and hard….water swirled around the barely submerged head, nipping and biting it…Sydd moaned…thrashed lightly as her grip on the sides of the tub grew tighter and tighter….it always happened this way….She was a prisoner in her own tub. The sensation of the water and the jets suspended and immobilized her. Her cock rose from the water without her ever having to touch it, licked and whipped by the froth….

It was excruciating. Her knuckles ached gripping the tub. Her hips gently pumped the water….The jet angled at her prostate jammed it with a hard, thick spray. She jumped and cream leaped from the slit of her cock. Some splattered her bottom lip. More spurts of cum jumped from her slit as the jet punched the fragile space between her balls and asshole….they hit the foam, the cream churning, creating a milk bath….

Sydd's moan was muffled as the assault ended…She turned her face sidewise in the neck cradle that prevented her from slipping below the surface, and slipped below the surface of a light sleep….

The water lapped above her lip, she caught the scent of her own cum, roused herself, and stepped from the tub to the rug. What had been sunlight was now moonlight, and the slick, water-beaded onyx sculpture was awash in light once again….


Sydian/Who came at Dinner?/Ch 2. Dressed Appropriately



Naked. Sydd moved slowly from the black of the bath to the white of the bedroom. Cool, crisp, white cotton sheets beckoned. Freshly laundered, smelling of nothing but clean, she collapsed—clocked for twenty minutes of repose. The proverbial power nap—smooth, black body on crisp, white, cool cotton.

Amazing. Twenty minutes and all new. Re-energized. The power nap…. ‘hmmmmm…..power. What to wear?' Sydd rose, walked into the closet. ‘Power,' she mused, ‘power.' And there it was—the central piece. New; she hadn't had the chance to wear this one: black, leather corset, front-clasped, and boned. It beckoned; it pointed her to the crotch-less jodhurs—‘Sure,' she laughed, ‘now the clothes are talkin' to me.' But, the intuition was right. There was the supple leather cod-piece, and finally, the five-inch, black thighboots—stiletto only, please.

She brought the gear back to the bed, dumped it there. She grabbed a bottle of body-oil, lavished her body from head to toe. The sheen she obtained made her ‘reflective'….she toweled to a soft, soft glow…. ‘better,' she cooed. She buffed her nails. Ruffled, then brushed that nappy, blond head—winked at herself: ‘hey, pretty, black girl….Mmmmmm, you're naked….' Yeah, Sydd could be a fool…big fun, but you didn't want to get on her bad side….

Yep. She was naked. In the full-length, she started her face. Some would argue that there wasn't much to do. She was—the word is—‘striking.' No two ways about it: either so ‘odd' that you stared; or so stunning you were forced to look twice. She had been known to take the breath away. The genetic material showed right through. And rather than try to hide it, she capitalized on it. On the narrow face everything was accentuated—wide. Wide, almond-shaped eyes; high cheek bones; long, wide nose. And that wide, full mouth. And the color! In a jealous hiss, she had once been called ‘purple'—she wasn't quite all that, but there was no mistaking that she was black. Then against that, the ‘opposites' of those short blond napps, and those cobalt lenses….And ‘voila!', as the marketers would say, ‘Totally ethnic.' Yep. A real, black ‘girl.' A queen of the African diaspora….a ‘queen,' literally, she laughed….

Eyes and lips done, she felt the rush. A tingle, a slight stirring in the loins. She glanced in the mirror, smiled: ‘Hello.' ‘Sydd, you're such a little bitch,' she thought. ‘Keep it up and you'll never be able to tie that codpiece….'



***



All done up, Sydd pulled the corset round her back, sucked in and began snapping the ‘fireman's' clasps. Done, she spilled over the top, her roseates half moons; her nipples barely covered, ‘squirming' to leap the breach. ‘Yep. That works,' she breathed, as she clamped a ‘JJ' on her left nipple. The twitching of her cock told her so too….

After a bit of well-deserved narcissism, she pulled on a pair of expensive thigh-highs—seamed, but who would know in this get-up? Then came the jodhpurs. The oil served its purpose….the leather pants—or what there was of them given they had no crotch or ass—slid over her thighs with no difficulty at all. She snapped them and, once again marveled at herself. This time, the way the pants made her ass stand out—not that it didn't anyway….But this, this was something else….she smirked….

Sydd loved looking at herself. Now, how should this be explained? Vanity? Narcissism? Egocentrism and self-centeredness? Sure. But possibly not in the ways these ideas are usually understood. Sydd's love of self could only be understood in terms of the idea that Sydd truly marveled at what she had become. For her, each pass by a mirror; each reflection, registered on something incredible—someone she didn't fully recognize, and could hardly ever come to know, unless she took the time to ‘meet and greet' this creature on every possible occasion. Sydd was not only an anomaly in a shaky world that thought itself dominated by the ‘great, white straight,' and by the femmes with obsessions for Monroe or Cher; she was also a rebel in a world in which black girls fell under the sway of ‘long' hair and Beyonce-like looks. Dark, short, and nappy, Sydd was the odd-girl out for more than one reason. She had nothing against these girls—some of them—many—were her lovers and best friends. In this context, Sydd's glass-gazing was witness to a rather healthy sense of amazement and perspective-gathering when she caught her own reflection. This was accompanied by the requisite amount of ‘cheerleading' as well….The corset and jodhpurs were ‘you go, girl! Werk!' moments!

Now for ‘les pieces de resistance'….what Sydd lived for; one of the main reasons she dressed. They stood in the corner, and like the corset, they had a siren song all their own: five-inch, stilettoed, kid-leather, black thigh boots….Sydd wondered why she didn't just cum looking at them—well that would be a bit much, even for her…..

Certainly, she had cum getting into them….She remembered her first pair; how, sitting on the edge of the bed, in front of the mirror, she came, pulling them over her thighs….Her thighs clenched on her cock as she pulled on the second one; her cock, trapped between leather and nylon, just exploded. All of its own accord. A jet of cum leaped from the cock-slit and thudded heavily and thickly on the leather and slowly began its descent….She would remember that it could be worked into the boot—the sheen was nice….

She also came to understand the pleasure that others might have from coming on her boots—provided they cleaned them up, of course. And the pleasure she derived herself from the very same act….

Now, she was well beyond that kind of auto-cum, but her boots still excited her to no end….so much so, that she always had to wait a bit before she could finish dressing. This time was no different….

‘Things' gradually subsided….at least to the point where she could tie on her codpiece….One last thing, before the black cape….The ‘implements' were kept in an umbrella stand at one end of the walk-in….She knew exactly what met this ‘occasion.' Not the cat, or the whip, which was purely ceremonial—she deftly pulled out the quirt—about a foot long, a braided handle with a loop, a narrow, limber shaft that ended in a small, flat leather ‘tag.' She slid it into her right boot, outside, a finger's distance from the boot-cuff….

She grabbed the long, light, black, crepe cape, threw it round her shoulders. It was ample enough to drape like a gown at its hem and to afford enough fabric to serve as a cowl if she wished…..in it, she was totally discrete….

She called the doorman and asked for a cab…it wasn't far but she preferred not to drive….one more glance in the mirror—of course!....

‘what to wear?'…..that had been settled….the question of dressing ‘appropriately,' well, Sydd had decided that too…


Sydian/Who came at Dinner?/Ch 3 Bell-Ringer



Sydd found herself on the stoop of a very nice brownstone. The cabbie had been a regular; he recognized her immediately and accorded her the proper dignity and respect: ‘Good evening, Ms. Black. Where to? Shall I wait, Ma'am? Would you like me to be available for your return?' Sydd absolutely loved it….a sense of familiarity—not to be confused with intimacy—that came with bearing and ‘power.' Sydd had worked hard to cultivate the former; and equally hard to secure and nurture the latter…. ‘Sure, Jimmy…though I may be a bit late—‘girl's night,' you know….' ‘No problem, Ms. Black; never a problem for you….' ‘Tell you what, James, one way or another, I'll phone before one. O.K.?' ‘Sure thing, Ms. Black….' She pressed the fare and a twenty into his palm as she stepped from the car. He tipped his cap as he pulled slowly from the curb….,

Sydd tapped the lit button and the bell was deep and sonorous. She imagined that it could be heard through the lengths and depths of the solid structure…. The door was a magnificent, old oak, double job—wide, sturdy and imposing; looking a bit too heavy for the sprite who opened it….

There she was again….that so, so straight, blue-black asymmetrical cut framing that gorgeous face….and the back-lighting streaming through the long, diaphanous white shift that clung to that sort-of-boy-like body—‘sort of,' not quite….

‘Hi,' like another bell; not quite as deep as the first, but resonant, lyrical, musical—the tinkle of fun…. ‘Glad you could make it. I'm Sable,' as she graciously ushered Sydd inside.

The lighting was soft but not so soft as to obscure ‘detail'….the shift was clinging—purposefully. Sable had deliberately sprayed herself with a soft sheen of oil…the shift had no choice but cling to the thumb-sized nipples of those hard-apple breasts, the firm globes of that tight ass—wedging itself and coming undone with each step; and then clinging in front, across the thighs, draping them as the fabric outlined the pronounced lips of her pussy and provided friction on an already distended clit, that grew larger with each softly, irritating step….

Roan stepped from the kitchen into the living room. ‘Dressed appropriately.' Yet, how might this be described? Roan's spandex tube was as short as she was tall…made shorter because she was made taller yet in five-inch pumps….the tube was a burnt, pastel orange…the pumps matched. her fire-colored hair was swept round to the side and from the bare lobe a large copper hoop hung….As she crossed the flokati, Sydd noticed two things: this was truly a ‘house-dress'—even Sydd wondered if she, herself, would have the nerve to wear one that short. And every step exposed a naked vulva and clit. Interestingly, Roan's entire sex looked at if it had been ‘made up'—as if she had glossed those lips too. And then, there was the matching copper clit-ring—Sydd….a slave to fashion?…nawwwww…..

Roan walked over, kissed Sydd full for what seemed like eternity. The codpiece strained. When they broke, she simply said ‘Welcome'…. She moved to the bar and the lower portion of her ass cheeks played hide-n-seek with her hem. Sable placed her hands on Sydd's shoulders. ‘Let me take your wrap….'

***



The cape fell from Sydd's naked shoulders. This was an unveiling. They were in an ‘art gallery,' so-to-speak, and Sydd was the ‘objet'…. All eyes were on her—including her own. The mantle and fireplace were framed in a smoked mirror that ran from ceiling to floor….

The other two, it seemed, held their breath. Sydd—bad to the bone as always—kept the smirk internal…. ‘Touché' was her silent reposte….from the corner of one eye she could see her outfit register on Roan's face—another ‘O shit!-You-didn't,-Bitch,-did you?' look…. Sable's eyes were wide in the mirror, though Sydd could have been blind and Sable's reaction would have still registered. Subtly, and possibly quite unconsciously, Sable's long fingers had begun their play along the ridge of muscles that stretched from the neck to the shoulders. They fell, with the lowering of the wrap, to Sydd's naked shoulder blades….

Sydd was the first to break the silence. ‘How nice….' To everything and to nothing at all…. ‘Indeed,' Roan, muttered, her eyes locked on the codpiece. ‘Very nice. Very nice, indeed….,' Sable caught herself….staring at the leather thong that saved Sydd' ass from the grace of being deemed naked….

Again, Roan saved the two roommates: ‘Are you hungry?' still staring at Sydd's straining codpiece…. ‘I mean for dinner….'

***




Sydian/ Who Came at Dinner/ Ch 4 Happy Meal



Roan led the way into the dining room. A relatively small round table, draped in white. A size and setting that spoke of intimacy….the sideboard was laid out, the wine was on the table, open and ‘breathing'…. Sable trailed Sydd, her restraint wilting as her fingertips played over the haunch of Sydd's naked ass…. Sydd glanced back knowingly, flashed the ‘killer' smile and sidled closer to Sable making her fingers slide from cheek to hip to the top of the boot. They came to rest on the tab of the crop. The slow-motion of Sydd's profile to Sable's and the eye-to-eye was unmistakable. If one hadn't known the players, it might have been thought that too-much-information had just been exchanged. But the subtlety of the moment wasn't lost on Sydd—after all, she had engineered it. Sydd registered two reactions on the part of Sable. The first was an o-so-faint stroking of the crop. The other, possibly fainter still, was the almost inaudible sound of moist fabric frictioning between thighs, more than likely, purposefully rasping the clit….

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