tagBDSMThe Iron Lady

The Iron Lady

byJocelynJoyce©

One

Alec wasn't sure why he was at the party. For one thing, he disliked the host, a loud-mouth Wall Street attorney who enjoyed exhibiting his affluence. Secondly, there were too many people in the rooms, the small Upper East Side apartment filled to capacity with bodies of one sort or another, male, female, and various intermediates of uncertain sexuality, a collection of outre fashions mixed with a range of conservative blue suits and white party dresses. Alec knew enough people to keep occupied if he wanted to talk, but he had no desire to talk this evening, no desire to be sociable at all. Instead, he decided to drink. The red wine was good, and despite the prospect of a bad morning from it tomorrow, he started to work seriously on the two bottles he'd found.

Suddenly, his drinking was interrupted. Harry Cline, the host, waddled into Alec's corner and held out his hand. "So there you are. Having fun?"

Alec shrugged. "I can't stay too long." He mumbled something about another appointment, one that did not exist at all.

"I want you to meet someone," Harry said. "You're still working the cameras, aren't you?"

"Sure."

"She might have something for you."

She? Alec shrugged and tagged along behind Harry, making sure to carry a half-filled glass of red wine in one hand and a half- empty bottle in the other hand.

Harry brought him up to a woman. She was Japanese, Mariko something; he did not catch the complicated last name. Harry made the introduction, said Alec might be the photographer Mariko wanted, and left abruptly when he spotted someone in the crowd.

The Japanese woman was about forty, maybe more; Alec was never any good at judging the age of Asian women. Of course, if they had grey hair that was a clue, but this woman's hair was jet black without any sign of grey at all. She was of middle height, with an oval blank face, unreadable, and a supple looking figure in a black and white dress. The dress looked rather tight around her hips, and as they talked about his photographic commissions, he stepped back and took in more of her, particularly her plump calves and strong ankles in black high-heeled pumps. Definitely past forty, he thought. Her face was unlined, heavily made up with a pale beige tone in contrast to the bright red lipstick on her full lips. Her cheekbones were high, her nose small, and from each ear hung a small teardrop pearl earring. The red wine had rapidly clouded his brain and he felt quite mellow.

Her English was good, with not much of the usual clipped Japanese accent. He learned she ran the New York office of a Japanese investment firm, and that she needed a photographer to photograph a dozen or so buildings in Manhattan. Would he be interested in such an undertaking?

"Only tiresome architectural photographs," she said without expression. And then she added: "Have you ever visited Japan?"

Alec shook his head. "Never got past Hawaii," he said. Both the bottle and his wine glass were empty and he wanted more of the red. "I'm afraid I didn't catch your last name."

She put her champagne glass down on the table beside her and carefully wiped her fingers with a napkin. "Kitazawa."

"Mrs.?"

"Yes."

"Is your husband here?"

"Oh no, my husband is in London at the moment."

Under the influence of the red wine, he managed a short bow. "Well, Mrs. Kitazawa, I would be honored to do the photographs for you. Definitely honored."

She nodded. "Why that's quite Japanese, Mr. Loomer. Very good."

"Would you like something more to drink?"

"No, not here. Why don't we go to my apartment and discuss our business arrangement further? If you like red wine, I have an old Bordeaux you might favor."

Just like that. Did she really want to discuss business arrangements? For the first time Alec realized there might be possibilities here beyond a mere photographic assignment. He was doing fine these days and he did not really need any dull real estate contracts, but Mrs. Kitazawa definitely intrigued him. What did an invitation to her apartment mean? He had never slept with a Japanese, and there was something about her, something indefinable, an aura of some kind, maybe the enigmatic face, so that each time she gazed at him he felt as though she could read every nerve cell in his brain. The inscrutable Asian. A stereotype, of course, but at the moment she was indeed inscrutable.

As they walked out of Harry Cline's apartment, Alec remained behind Mrs. Kitazawa long enough to admire her buttocks and legs. Her breasts might be small, but from the back she looked definitely enticing. Never mind the Bordeaux, all he could think of now was fucking her. If that was in the offing. How could one really tell these days? Maybe the invitation to her apartment would produce nothing more than an extended conversation about his assignment. Polite, of course. The excruciating politeness of the Japanese had always fascinated him. How far did the politeness extend in the bedroom? His imagination continued to inflate his prospects. He wouldn't mind it; he wouldn't mind it at all. She was a bit older than what he was used to, but he was experienced enough to know married women in their forties could be volcanoes once their passions were aroused.

In the taxi they said nothing to each other. He wanted to look at her legs again, but it was too dark to see anything. She lived in the East Sixties, and before long he found himself following her once more, this time through the cool lobby of her apartment building. Yes, the legs were definitely interesting And the buttocks superb; her haunches seemed to roll with invitation as she preceded him into the elevator. Or was it his fevered wine- sotted imagination?

Just inside her apartment, she removed her shoes and asked him to do the same. "I hope you don't mind. You can use these slippers." The slippers were open-work sandals. There were several pairs against the wall, and she used one pair herself.

She lived in a lovely apartment with high ceilings and artfully arranged modern furniture. There was nothing Japanese about the place, except maybe the spare decorative style. When she offered him the red wine, he declined.

"I'd like tea if you have it."

"Tea?"

"Japanese tea."

She nodded. "Yes, of course. And what else?"

He hesitated. He was seated on a sofa, his face flushed from the wine he'd had at the party. She sat opposite him in an armchair with her legs crossed. What should he say? Should he lie to her? He realized how much the wine clouded his judgment. "I'd like to go to bed with you," he blurted. He felt foolish immediately.

She sighed. "Ah."

"What does that mean?"

"I thought we came here to discuss business."

"There might be time for both."

"I told you I have a husband."

"And you invited me here."

"Yes."

"And?"

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-six."

"You're impetuous. At your age, you should be less impetuous."

He detected no emotion in her face and it rattled him. Again, he had the impression she knew his innermost secrets. She was like a sphinx, unreadable, enigmatic, an Asian mystery dressed in Western clothes. She rocked her lifted slippered foot, the leg with its plump calf, her ankle turning, her toes visible through the nylon of her stocking.

"If I'm too bold, it's the wine," he said. "Have I offended you? Maybe I should go."

"No."

"All right, I won't go."

"What do you know about Japanese women?"

"Almost nothing."

"The Japanese favor patience."

"I'm sorry."

"In Japan most women are very subservient to men. Subservient like servants. They serve men, devote themselves to the man's pleasure."

"I think I've heard that."

"And yet not all Japanese women are like that. Some are different."

Her gaze was fixed on him, her eyes unblinking. That she was interested in him was clear now. She had not invited him to her apartment to discuss architectural photographs or to offer him wine. Or to offer him Japanese tea.

Still gazing at him, she said: "Can you be patient?"

"Yes."

"Do you find me attractive?"

"Yes, very much."

She studied him a long moment and then nodded. "Come to the kitchen and talk to me while I prepare the tea."

He followed her, and in the sparkling kitchen he stood behind her and watched her adjust the kettle. Without heels, she was much shorter than he was.

"I find you very exotic," he said.

"Yes, of course, I'm Japanese."

"No, it's more than that. Something special."

She said nothing, and finally he could stand it no longer and he approached her from behind, leaned against her as she stood at the stove, and gently kissed her neck.

A quiver seemed to pass through her body. "Ah yes, that's pleasant," she said.

He felt her buttocks push back at his belly. Could she feel his erection?

Then she finished adjusting the tea kettle and she turned to face him. "Kiss me," she said.

He bent his head to kiss her, pressed his mouth against her full red lips and drew her against his body until he could feel her small breasts pushing against his chest through his jacket and shirt.

It was she who broke the kiss. She pulled back, put her hands on his shoulders and pushed downward. "Now there," she said.

He was puzzled at first, uncertain what she wanted. But then she removed her hands from his shoulders and dropped them to her sides to pull her skirt upward.

Now he understood. He was stunned, staring at the lower half of her body as she unveiled it.

She wore beige pantyhose, her skin glowing through the nylon, her pubic bush visible as a dark patch.

His desire inflamed by her directness, he lowered himself to his knees and faced her sloping belly. He imagined he could smell her, a captivating mixture of incense and sex. Was it her cunt? Incense? No, it couldn't be incense, it had to be perfume. As if to punctuate his thoughts, she arched her pelvis forward to press her nylon-covered mound against his face. "Do it," she said quietly. "Do it through my panties."

He had never actually done it before, not through a nylon covering. He had started doing it once to his ex-wife, but she had forced him to wait until she stripped away her pantyhose.

"Do it!" Mrs. Kitazawa hissed.

She held his head with both hands as he pressed his mouth against her mound and starting nibbling at it. He found the position difficult, but the doing of it excited him tremendously. He could find no purchase with his lips, and he could not get low enough to feel her slit with his tongue.

Then she seemed to understand the difficulty and she moved her legs apart and squatted a bit. "Move down," she said, a hint of irritation evident in her voice.

He wanted it. He decided he wanted more than anything to please her. He lowered his body further, and this time he was able to get his mouth fully on her. She pushed down as she squatted over his face, and she started muttering in Japanese as she worked her cunt and the damp crotch of her pantyhose over his nose and lips.

He went on with it. He had no desire to stop it. On the contrary, he hoped it would last forever, just this, in her kitchen, her thighs arched around his head as his mouth sucked at her through the nylon.

She finally pulled away from him and tugged her skirt down. "Get up," she said. No softness in her voice, her face turned away as though she did not want to look at him.

"I think I'm a little drunk," he said, groaning as he rose to his feet.

She nodded. "More than a little, I should think. You drank too much at the party. You shouldn't drink so much."

"Yes, you're right."

"Why don't you go to the living room and get comfortable? I'll find one of my husband's robes for you."

Now it was all politeness again, a distance between them, as if just a few moments ago he hadn't been doing anything to her, hadn't had his mouth on her cunt, her heat against his lips. Had he imagined it? Had he actually sucked her like that through her pantyhose? She hadn't come, anyway; he was certain of that and it made him feel inadequate. He thought he ought to at least have been able to give her an orgasm. You're bewitched, he thought; the woman has bewitched you. He stumbled on the rug as he entered the living room, and with a curse he started loosening his tie.

When Mrs. Kitazawa arrived in the living room with one of her husband's robes, she was surprised to find Alec still dressed. "Take your clothes off while I bring the tea," she said.

Not a request, but an order. He didn't mind it. He realized how much he enjoyed it, how much it excited him when she commanded him like that. He'd never been this way with other women and his excitement was unexpectedly intense. He was sweating. The room was extremely warm and he decided the robe was unnecessary. He sat down on the sofa.

When she brought the tea from the kitchen, she found him wearing only his shorts. He had his legs crossed to diminish the visibility of his erection, but she hardly looked at him.

"You should wear the yukata," she said. "For heaven's sake take the shorts off. It's better to be naked under a yukata. Come here and I'll help you."

He felt absurd because she was still fully dressed, but he did what she wanted. He rose and stepped forward, and when he reached her she calmly unsnapped his boxer shorts and made them drop to his ankles.

Without any visible emotion, she gazed down at his jutting prick. "You're well-made," she said after a long moment. She studied his genitals leisurely, and then she moved her hand forward and ran her fingertips lightly over his bulging balls. "Yes, it's quite nice."

Quite nice, he thought. Everything is quite nice. It seemed remarkable that he was actually standing naked in front of her. How had all this happened? He stepped out of his shorts and reached for the silk robe, holding it in front of him to cover his belly and genitals.

When he looked at her face, she seemed on the verge of laughing at him. Or maybe he was imagining it.

"Let me suck you again," he said.

"You're not very good at it."

"Then teach me."

She gazed at him with a fixed stare. "Do you mean that?"

"Yes, definitely."

"All right, I will. I'll teach you. Put the robe on. Have some tea and wait for me."

He slipped into the brown silk kimono and tied the sash. Then he sat down and he sipped his tea. He looked around the room, at the delicately colored paintings on the walls, at the wide windows covered by drawn blinds. It was a typical New York apartment, and yet the furnishings had a definite Japanese simplicity.

When Mrs. Kitazawa returned, she wore a pale blue robe, white socks and sandals identical to his own. "You've done your kimono wrong," she said. "Always the left part over the right part."

He opened the sash and followed her directions. "This way?"

"Yes, that's much better. And the tea? Is the tea all right, Loomer-san?"

"Loomer-san?"

"Mr. Loomer."

"My first name is Alec."

"All right, Alec."

"And you're Mariko."

"Yes. Mariko or Kitazawa-san. When you want to be more formal, you can call me Kitazawa-san."

"Or Mrs. Kitazawa."

"Yes."

"I like this apartment. The paintings and the furniture."

"Finish the tea in your cup and then you can suck me again."

Her gaze was direct, her eyes half-closed as she studied him. Again he felt awkward -- but with a keen excitement. He drained the tea in his cup and put the cup down. She was seated near him on the sofa and he expected her to lie back and part her kimono. But instead she rose, undid the sash at the back, slipped one foot out of its sandal, parted the kimono in front and raised her leg to plant her foot on the sofa cushion.

"There," she said. "Now you can kneel again and do what you did in the kitchen. This time I'll instruct you."

The dark hair on her mound was straight, a prominent tuft that dwindled further down to leave her cleft exposed. He could see only the top part of her slit, the dark lips still closed like a thin vertical mouth. She moved her folded left leg further to the left, and he thought the lips parted a bit, but he wasn't certain.

"Hurry," she said. "Don't make me wait."

He went down on his knees. The long kimono he wore made it a bit difficult, but he managed it, and then he lifted his face and angled it between her thighs to get his mouth on her cunt. This was certainly easier than in the kitchen.

For the next ten minutes or so she taught him how to do what she liked. She wanted her clitoris lapped slowly and then rubbed by his nose. Then he had to twist his head further down to get his tongue in her vaginal opening. Of course the position was wrong for that, but she made him do it anyway. Her fluids were copious by now and his mouth and chin were wet and slippery. It occurred to him he was almost drinking from her. Without her asking for it, he lapped his tongue beyond her vagina to reach her anus. She seemed to like that -- at least the sound she made indicated she liked it -- and he kept at it for a while, thoroughly wetting the ring of muscle and more than once penetrating it briefly with his tongue-tip with his face pressed against the cool undersides of her buttocks. He'd hardly ever done this to the women he'd known, but doing it to this woman excited him tremendously.

Finally, she brought him back to her clitoris and she told him to rub it hard with his nose. He did that, masturbating her with the tip and the bridge of his nose, until at last she closed her thighs around his face and shuddered through an orgasm. He was unable to see her trembling, but he certainly felt it.

"That was better than what you did in the kitchen," she said. She pulled away from him, rearranged the folds of her kimono to cover her body and retied the sash at her back. "Oh, look how wet your are! I flowed like a river, didn't I? Come to the bathroom with me and I'll dry you."

Shuffling behind her in his sandals, he followed her out of the living room and down a long corridor to a bathroom.

"Bathrooms here are not like in Japan," she said. "In Japan everything is different."

In the bathroom, he found himself standing opposite her while she carefully wiped his face with a short towel. "There, that's much better," she said. "Now you don't look so drenched." She reached into the folds of his kimono to fondle his penis and stroke his balls. "We need to look after this now, don't we? Why don't you remove your robe?"

When he did that, she made him turn and she stood behind him to reach around his body with one arm and take hold of his rearing prick with her hand. "In the sink," she said.

He could feel her pressing against his back, the silk of her kimono rubbing his buttocks as her fist began stroking the shaft of his cock with a steady and skillful pumping rhythm that produced the inevitable result after no more than a dozen strokes. He groaned as he came, gazing down at her moving fist as the jets of sperm struck the white porcelain of the bathroom sink.

"That's good," she said, patting his buttocks as if to commend him, then taking hold of his balls and lightly squeezing them. She wiped the tip of his prick with a tissue, tossed the tissue in a waste-basket and patted his ass again. "Put your robe on and we'll sit in the living room."

Covered by his kimono again, he shuffled out in a daze. What the hell, he thought; what the hell difference does it make?

In the living room, for the first time, they discussed the architectural photographs. There would be seven buildings and she accepted two weeks as the time frame. They agreed on a price, and she invited him to visit her office the next day to receive the contract and an advance. "Can you do that tomorrow?"

"Yes," he said."

He sipped the fresh tea she'd made. The heat in the room was up and he was sweating. She sat beside him on the sofa, and as they chatted about the assignment, she occasionally clutched at his genitals through his kimono. Each time she touched him, she found him more erect, and finally she exposed his stiff prick and looked down at it.

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