Take Me; I'm Yours

Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me-he. Happy birthday to me. Jesus! What a way to spend a birthday! I pour myself another glass of duty-free Lagavulin, and resume my position on the bed of my hotel room: propped against the headboard, whisky in one hand, remote control in the other. Thirty-five years old. How is that possible?! As of tomorrow, I will be on the slippery slope to 40, and what have I got to show for it?

Oh yeah. I have an interesting job that allows me to travel some. I have a lovely house, with character, in a desirable part of town, that is worth 30 percent more than I paid for it a few years ago. Although I'm not extravagant, I buy what I want when I want, have the social life I desire, and I have retirement savings, a rainy-day fund and everything else. I should count my blessings.

So what am I missing? Ask my mother and she'll say, "a man". It's not that she believes that one's life is incomplete without a husband and children. Definitely not -- she was burning her bra and indulging in 'free love' until my father 'swept her off her feet' and got her pregnant. No. She'll say that I need a man for the sex. And she might be right.

Honestly, why else would I want one? I can put up my own shelves, thank you very much. I have a nifty little gadget for undoing jars of pickles. I like a sock-free floor and a whisker-free bathroom sink. I know, I know. That's stereotypical and it sounds like I'm bitter and twisted. I'm not. I get that there's more to a committed permanent relationship than that. It's just that most of the time it seems more hassle than it's worth. I've never been consumed with the need to have children (call me egocentric or a coward, I can take it), so I don't need someone to share in creating and raising a family. Having a man around just always seems like extra work -- not necessarily because he creates it, probably more because I'm just too much of a control freak. I can't help it; I'm just always thinking about what needs to be done.

Sometimes though, I think it would be SOOO nice to just NOT have to think once in a while. To just let go. To let someone else make the decisions, and only do whatever comes naturally.

******

I don't know what it is about birthdays that changes the way we view things. Two months ago, I was quite happy with my lot. Then I had my birthday. And now I'm sitting in a trendy bar that's buzzing with people drinking light beer and ready-made cocktails from bottles, with a guy I've been chatting with over the Internet for the last month.

He's an interesting kind of guy. I mean that in the sense that I can't quite work him out. He exudes a quiet kind of confidence. Not over-confidence, not at all full of himself; but someone who seems comfortable in his skin, accepting of the less-than-perfect parts of his character, as well as being aware of the limits of the good aspects. I like that. But at the same time, I detect a vulnerability under the surface. Not an instability, (although you never know), but someone who has not always been confident, and remembers that.

It's...endearing, I suppose. No. It makes me trust him -- even more than the daily conversations we've had over the last few weeks. I can say to myself that this man is where he's at today because he's learned lessons in life; he has grown. He's not cocky or over-privileged. (And he's quite softly spoken too, so I'm glad this is a somewhat quieter corner of the bar.) In fact, he's a real gentleman. Not a patronising, holds-doors-open-for-show 'gentleman', but a considerate and attentive man.

He has something else too. He has a twinkle in his eye. And it's odd, because the twinkle seems to contrast with the rest of him. His calm exterior definitely belies something else. I'm just not sure what it is. I've been trying to work it out over the hours we've spent together this evening -- is he laughing at me or is he reaching out to me?

I do know that it's exciting, and I also know that I want to find out. So much so that I've just realised that my foot is on the crossbar of his stool, my knee very close to his. I am hoping...no, daring him to touch me, to just gently caress my knee with his fingers.

Ha ha! He just pointedly looked down at my knee and then back into my eyes. How can he keep a straight face? I'm having a very difficult time. Now he's leaning towards me. Is he going to kiss me? Oh God! I just parted my lips! I couldn't help it! Nnnnn! No! He's moving towards my ear!

"You have a very attractive knee and I can see it's begging to be touched. But I will touch it when I choose to, and I'm going to make you wait a little longer."

Oh my God!!! I cannot believe he just said that. I feel I should be asking him who the hell he thinks he is. I would normally. But right now, I don't want to. I can't. My heart is pounding and...I think my panties are wet. And I don't really know why!

To regain my self-control, I've shifted back in to animated mode, talking about my job (neutral territory), and some of the places I've visited.

"At that sort of level in the hierarchy, and with the travelling, you must have to be pretty self-sufficient," he remarks. I don't think anyone's ever said that to me before. Not in those terms. I ponder it for a moment.

"Yes, I suppose so. It's what I've always known, really," I reply. It's strange but this is the second time he's disarmed me in the last fifteen minutes.

"I like that," he smiles. "I like a strong, self-sufficient and self-assured woman. I find it arousing." He pauses, and my breath catches. His eyes seem to be twinkling even more brightly. He leans forward, to be sure, I assume, that I don't miss his words due to the babble surrounding us. "Especially when she's begging me to make her cum."

I press my lips together to stifle a moan. I want to be that woman. I want to beg him. I withdraw my knee from between his. I'm not sure why. I think it's that I'm not challenging him anymore; I'm not daring him. I'm waiting. I'm wanting.

We stare into each other's eyes for what seems like minutes, though I guess it can only be seconds. My lungs are filled with air; I hardly dare breathe. He leans towards me and, this time, he kisses me very chastely on the lips, his fingertips seductively brushing the inside of my knee, tickling my skin. I feel a little light-headed. His tongue slides across my upper lip. His lips gently caress my cheek as his mouth finds its way to my ear.

"You are an extremely attractive, very smart and sexy woman." My breath is still bated. "You do things to me that make me want to grab your hand and drag you to my place right this minute." I am pressing the tops of my thighs together tightly. "But I'm not the kind of guy who assumes anything on a first date."

"Oh God! You could assume!!" I want to scream as my lungs deflate abruptly. But I can't say anything. There is a firmness in his voice and a confidence in his manner that brook no arguments.

"I will, however, meet you here tomorrow at nine...if you would like." He pulls away enough to look me in the eyes once more. His face is very close to mine, and the twinkle is almost dazzling. I nod gently and he smiles and kisses me lightly again. "Tomorrow, eat beforehand and wear a skirt again. Now, can I walk you to your car?"

******

I have been useless all day at work. I haven't been able to think about anything other than yesterday evening and the evening to come. Of course, I spent most of the morning fielding calls from my mother, sister and best friends. I kept things to the bare minimum of descriptions with my mother and sister, but I gave the girls the blow-by-blow.

K. laughed. She thinks I must be pretty desperate to fall for the 'masterful' routine -- that's what she called it. She asked me where I'd left my self-respect and suggested we take a trip to the sex shop instead. L., on the other hand, moaned in all the places I did. She tells me she's jealous, that she would love her man to be a little more forceful.

It's 8:50 as I cross the threshold of the bar. I thread my way through the crowd, finding the place where we were the night before, keeping an eye out on all sides. He isn't here. I feel a strange mix of relief and disappointment, but know that I am early. I move back towards the entrance and perch myself on a barstool that, thankfully, has just been vacated. My back is to the door. I'm visible, but not eager. It's perfect.

I feel him approaching before I hear him, since he doesn't call my name. I look up and see he is smiling. He doesn't bare teeth and his mouth is only slightly turned up at the corners, but his whole face is obviously smiling. He seems pleased. No...satisfied. I realise my heart is beating faster already.

When he reaches me, I feel one hand on the small of my back, the other on my thigh, the fingers slipping beneath the hem of my skirt, as his lips caress my cheek. His touch enlivens my skin, sending tingles rippling through my body, converging on my core.

"It's lovely to see you again. You don't have a drink?"

"No, I haven't had time to order."

"Would you like one or would you like to leave?"

The twinkle is like a beacon again, steering my ship to shore. Decorum dictates that we should at least have one drink, but honestly I can't wait to feel his hands on my bare skin. I don't want to appear a slut, though. If I say what I want it's tantamount to 'talking dirty'. I'd stand up and lead the way, but I can't because his hands are on me. Perhaps he knows that.

"Leave," I murmur, because I have no choice.

"Sorry? I couldn't hear you."

I can't believe he's doing this. I'm not getting any free passes. I want to laugh at his audacity but, at the same time, it's exciting, the way he is making me do what he wants. I feel confused. My brain is advising me to tell him where to get off. My...body...spirit...soul...what?...is telling me to give in, to go with it, because he isn't going to hurt me, because I trust him, because my pussy is swelling, and because he might take me places I haven't been before.

"I...want to leave," I say, making sure to speak loudly enough so he doesn't make me repeat it again.

"Good." He smiles more broadly. "So do I." He steps back and allows me to descend the barstool, holding his hand out to me. I clasp it and we leave the bar.

******

"I'm so very glad you decided to come out this evening," he tells me as we walk down the street. I'm starting to feel a little apprehensive because I don't know where we're going. "I've really enjoyed our communications this last month. It's such a pleasure to meet someone who has interests, who thinks about things -- other than work."

I smile at him and murmur some reciprocation. I'm trying to figure out what I'm feeling. I know I'm somewhat surprised -- disarmed once again. Of course men have seemed to appreciate my IQ before, but rarely, if ever, have they made it seem so sexy.

We arrive at a main road and pause at the red crossing light. I am looking up and down the street, wondering where he is taking me. I am not worried but, as usual, I am anxious to know. I need to prepare myself -- to know how to act. He squeezes the hand he is already holding, then takes my other one, pulling me gently to face him.

"I can tell you're uneasy," he remarks. I deny and reassure, though I am not certain whether this is for his benefit or mine. He smiles. "I want you to be okay with this. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable or pressured or unsure."

That very utterance calms me somewhat. I can't say why. But my focus is on him now, not on where we're going, or on what will happen when we get there.

"So, I'm giving you a choice: my apartment is a ten-minute walk from here in this direction," he indicates behind him with a flick if his head, "or we could get a room at the Plaza round the corner. Which would you prefer?"

He is not wrestling control from me. He is not trying to subjugate me. The choice is mine. I am suddenly struck by the realisation that I no longer care where we are going. I feel calm. I believe he has my best interests at heart. "Really," I respond, "it's up to you."

He smiles his no-teeth, whole-face smile and leans forward to press his lips against mine. His sparkling eyes look deep inside me. "I'm going to opt for the hotel -- because I can't wait to pin you against the wall and let my fingers discover every curve and crevice of your body." My body spasms and my eyes close involuntarily; and now I cannot wait either.

As we approach the steps of the hotel, he suggests I take a seat in the foyer while he secures a room. Did I mention he was a gentleman? Actually, it's more than that. His actions show a command of the situation, and they inspire confidence. Perched on the edge of my seat, (I am eager for his return), I smile to myself. Will I finally be able to let go?

We are the only ones waiting for the elevator, but once we are in and the doors are about to close, two couples run up and slide inside. They are chatting animatedly about their day visiting the city. He has pulled me in front of him and I can feel his erection pressing into the small of my back. I try to slightly wiggle my hips against it. His breath is hot against my ear, whispering to me.

"Mmmm, I love the feel of your buttocks against me... I can't wait to feel your skin against my skin... You do know if they weren't here I might have lifted your skirt and let my hands roam over your ass... Or unbuttoned your top and traced my tongue across your breast... But soon... Soon I'll be able to touch you...to feel you...to taste you..."

I gasp. At least one of our elevator companions gives me a curious look and I clear my throat loudly to try and cover up. There is a ping and, thankfully, they all get out. As soon as the doors close again, leaving us alone, I feel my skirt rising up my legs. Before I can react, his fingers have slipped under my thong and between my thighs. My stomach muscles clench and he groans into my ear.

"God, you're so wet, so sticky." I become aware that he is right. "Shall I taste you now?" My head turns to the side and I watch as his hand rises towards his mouth. "Taste it with me," he whispers, and our tongues meet around his middle finger, feeling the smoothness of the mucus, registering the slight saltiness, the almost-lemon flavour.

My breathing accelerates again. Pins and needles are starting to invade my body. Never before have I been this aroused. I am almost in a daze when the elevator pings again and we exit at our floor. He takes my hand and leads the way to a door down the corridor and round the corner. I wait patiently as he pats his pockets looking for the key. He seems not to be able to locate it.

"What if...," he says, walking towards me, slipping his arm around my waist and pulling me into him, "I couldn't find the key?" He kisses my neck and runs his tongue down it. "Should I fuck you here in the hallway?"

I don't have time to reply before he abruptly lets go of me and produces the key. I feel like some corseted heroine about to be ravished by a pirate king and in dire need of smelling salts. If the motor part of my brain were in gear, I'd be screaming, "Yes!!! God, YES!!!"

Sensing my inability to move, he grabs my hand once again and pulls me through the open door. Some practical, thinking... yes, controlling, part of me is watching extra-corporeally, shouting at me to come to my senses, as I let him take my bag, kiss me and back me against the wall, all the while raising my hands above my head. The pressure against my wrists is very firm but not painful. I know he will not let me get away. But I have dismissed that intellectual harridan anyway; I don't want to flee.

My chest heaves as the fingertips of his hand trace the contour of my cheek and chin, then glide slowly down my neck. My lungs inflate once more and hold as his caress defines the visible flesh of my breast and the roundness of my bra through my top. I breathe out and contract my abdominal and vaginal muscles as his fingers tease down my side, my hip and my thigh. His knee thrusts between mine, forcing my legs slightly apart. At the same time I feel his touch more firmly: his palm flat against my thigh beneath my skirt, pushing upwards. My breathing is shallower and faster now, anticipating, hoping, praying for his touch within my folds -- or perhaps deeper still.

I gasp. His nails, digging into the soft flesh where my thigh meets my buttock, cause more blood to rush to the area.

"Nnnnnnn," I moan, my eyes closing and my brow furrowing with frustration.

"Yes?" he murmurs. My eyes open and I see he is looking expectantly into them. The twinkle seems even brighter now.

Little spasms ripple through my body. He has me wound so tight I feel like I may snap. I am momentarily confused. What is he waiting for? Then, suddenly, I have clarity: "Please," I whisper.

"Sorry? I can't hear you."

"Please," I say more loudly.

I take in breath sharply as his finger slides easily into my wetness. I am panting, and then gasping again as he withdraws. Suddenly, my own aroma wafts beneath my nose; his finger slides lightly across my bottom lip and firmly into my mouth. My tongue savours the taste. My knees begin to tremble.

Releasing my wrists, he brings my right hand down. I am so enthralled that my left hand remains above my head against the wall.

"Touch my cock," he commands quietly. I stare into his eyes as my hand fumbles between us, not knowing where to search, until...until my fingertips alight on an unmistakeable firmness pressing against the front of his pants. Its warmth radiates through the fabric. It shifts slightly beneath my palm. My focus is now on trying to see it in my mind's eye, to imagine it in all its glory. "That's enough," he says, shattering the image. "Unbutton my shirt now."

I'm blinking hard, trying to regain my senses, to realign my neural pathways or whatever. I bring my left hand to join my right and find myself struggling with the buttons. I feel the smooth plastic beneath the tips of my fingers, and the slight roughness of the buttonhole stitching. My hands get lower until they touch the metal of his belt.

"Tongue my nipples," he tells me as he pulls the shirt from the waistband of his pants. My hands roam across his chest, each locating a target. I bend my knees and slide a little down the wall, my mouth zeroing in on the first objective. As the tip of my tongue circles around, I realise how calm I feel. How amazing it is to not even have to think about what to do. How liberating it is to just obey. I trail my tongue across to the other nipple.

"Run your hands across my back." I gladly oblige. How could I refuse? Why would I refuse?

"Unfasten my pants." My fingers feel the warm leather, the smooth metal, the textured fabric, and I see them in my mind's eye. Before I have quite finished, his next instruction comes. "Take my cock out."

At last. My hands push down beneath the waistbands of his trousers and his underwear, feeling the smooth skin of his hips. My left hand reaches to the front, brushing over the silken hairs, my fingertips feeling for his hardness. There. My middle finger traces over the rounded smoothness -- Oh! Oh yes! Oh God! His lower abdomen is coated in pre-cum. His cock is so hard. Clutching the proof of his desire for me with one hand, I push his clothing down with the other to extricate it.

His hands suddenly encircle my wrists and he pulls them gently upwards. I look at him expectantly. I am unsure now what will happen.

"Take your clothes off," he tells me, "but leave your underwear on." He releases my hands and steps back to remove the rest of his clothes and toss them on the chair. I pull my top over my head and fling it towards the same piece of furniture, then unzip my skirt and let it fall to the floor. I wonder absent-mindedly if he appreciates the cinnamon-red lace ensemble I am wearing, but he is talking again, instructing me to lie across the bed, face down, eyes closed.