The Iron Lady

"Now you're ready again," she said, her fingers delicately drawing his foreskin down to expose his swollen glans.

"Why don't we go to a bed?"

"No, lie down on the rug. Without your kimono, of course. And without the sandals."

He shrugged and did what she wanted. He slipped out of the kimono and sandals, and he lay down on the white shag rug wearing only his socks. He lay on his side, his head supported by one hand as he looked at her.

"On your back," she said as she rose.

He rolled over onto his back, his penis standing out, bobbing over his belly, sinking down, then jerking up again.

She removed her kimono, and for the first time he had a view of her naked body. Naked except for the white socks. Her breasts were like small pears, her nipples dark and prominent. Her waist showed a slight middle age thickening, and her hips and thighs looked strong but at the same time feminine. Womanly, he thought; she looked womanly. The white socks somehow suited her body.

She came forward, straddled him and did a squat over his loins. An actual squat, only her feet on the rug, her knees folded, her buttocks suspended over his belly, her cunt spreading open so that as he looked at it over his chest he could see the red and pink flesh glistening between the brown lips. Seeming to effortlessly maintain her balance, she grasped his cock with her right hand, fit the knob into the opening of her cunt, and slowly engulfed him.

She gave a short grunt of pleasure as she took the whole length of his cock. The room was almost unbearably warm, and the nearby lamp caused the sweat on her forehead to glint. Slowly, she rose up and down on his pole, balancing herself with her fingertips on the rug, her feet flat, her thighs flexing and rippling with her muscular efforts. Apart from her interest in his organ, she seemed disconnected from him. He could see her opening stretched around the girth of his penis, her vagina clutching it, sliding up and down, up and down. Then after a while she reached behind her to grab hold of his balls, and as she squeezed them he suddenly felt the sperm boiling out of him in great spurts. She murmured something in Japanese, squeezed his testicles again, and then sat down squarely on his cock and wriggled her hips in a wild rhythm until she climaxed.

He was in a fog of exhaustion now, both mentally and physically depleted, but instead of dismounting and allowing him to rest, she climbed forward to get her cunt on his face. "Use your tongue," she said.

He sucked at her, ran his tongue over the outside of her cunt and then inside the opening where his sperm was now oozing out in a steady stream. He caught most of it, sucked her juices mixed with his sperm, kept sucking her until she rolled her hips and had another orgasm.

After that she finally climbed off him and allowed him to rest. He fell asleep almost immediately, and when he opened his eyes again it was morning and he was still on the rug.

She was already gone. He found a note in the kitchen propped against a sugar bowl: PLEASE DON'T FORGET OUR APPOINTMENT AT MY OFFICE. K.M. Kitazawa Mariko. Her last name first, in the Japanese style.

Two

At eleven o'clock that morning, Alec travelled to the midtown offices of the Otani Saiku Company. The receptionist was a Caucasian girl, but it seemed everyone else in the place was Japanese. Alec was immediately escorted by the receptionist to Mrs. Kitazawa's office. The girl knocked on the door, announced Mr. Loomer, and then left after Alec entered.

Mariko stood behind a large desk with her back to a wide window. "Ah, Mr. Loomer. Please sit down and I'll be with you in a moment." She indicated a chair that faced the desk.

Alec sat down as she busied herself with some papers on her desk. He thought she looked lovely this morning, even more lovely in daylight than the night before. She wore a tailored suit, a white blouse, and small silver earrings.

Finally she put the papers aside and she began talking about his photographic assignment. "I have a list of the buildings," she said.

They discussed the photographs, the kinds of pictures she wanted. She seemed distant, almost cold, considering the intimacy they'd shared the previous evening. He wanted to see more of her body, but unfortunately the large desk made that impossible.

When their discussion of his photographic assignment was completed, he asked her to lunch. "I know a Thai place with the best food in New York."

But Mariko declined. "Oh no, Mr. Loomer, it's not possible."

She sent him away, called for the receptionist to usher him out. In a state of mild confusion, he soon found himself in the elevator wondering what it all meant, what she meant by that performance. Did she expect him to completely forget last night?

He thought about nothing else all afternoon and into the evening. The next day he was too keyed up to start working. He realized he had to find out what this business with Mariko Kitazawa meant, find out about himself. What was it about her that excited him so? But of course he knew the answer to that -- the excitement was produced by the way she so effortlessly dominated their relationship, the way she dominated him without any question, as if it was understood, a matter of course, a premise. She could order him to kneel and he would do it. She could have him lie on his back so she could sit on his face, and he would do that too. He would do anything she asked of him. If she wanted to whip him, he would enjoy it. A shudder passed through him as he imagined her whipping him. Was he a masochist? He had never actually seriously considered it. He had no idea what he was. All he knew was that this Japanese woman had awakened something inside him, provoked in his soul a turmoil he had never known before, a turmoil and a question.

He bought a newspaper that carried sex ads, and he sat down with it in a restaurant booth. Go on, do it, he thought; it was something he had never before thought of doing, not really, and now he wanted it because this experience with Mrs. Kitazawa seemed to point to something that he had to unravel.

He spotted an ad in the newspaper by a woman who advertised herself as "Mistress Olga". The ad touted her as a dominatrix. Complete satisfaction, it said. His mind started generating one fantasy after another, and soon his excitement was intense. Never before had it happened this way; it had to be the effect of Mrs. Kitazawa.

He called Mistress Olga.

She seemed pleasant enough, a rather soothing cultured voice, a hint of a foreign accent. Yes, she could see him in a few hours. She gave him an address in the Village. Three o'clock sharp, she said: "Please be punctual."

During the early afternoon he wandered along 57th Street, stopped at intervals in a gallery, looked at paintings and photographs, looked occasionally at well-dressed women who drifted alone from one room to another. In the rooms the women come and go, he thought. Anything to avoid thinking about Mistress Olga. The women come and go with or without Michelangelo. What was she like, this Mistress Olga? One of those apparitions in black leather, with boots and a whip and filed teeth? If that was what she was, he'd bolt. He had no desire to be strung up. Or did he? You don't know, he thought; you're at the abyss and you don't know if you want to jump in or crawl back shaking.

At precisely three o'clock, he rang a bell on Charles Street. Olga Bergmann. After some delay the door opened, and there stood a tall Nordic looking blonde between forty-five and fifty.

"Yes?"

"I'm Alec Loomer. I spoke to you on the telephone."

She nodded, opened the door wide and stepped aside to admit him. He entered, and after she closed the door, she led him down the hall to a small living room cluttered with books and papers and fat comfortable-looking furniture.

"Please sit down," she said. "Would you like some coffee? Or something to drink?" The slight accent was definitely German. She had an attractive face, good bone structure, hardly any makeup.

"Some coffee would be fine."

He was surprised. He hadn't expected any gentility. She was conservatively dressed, a beige sweater, a grey calf-length pleated skirt, shoes with low heels. She looked, in fact, like a college professor, and the contrast with what he'd expected astonished him.

She returned with two cups of coffee on a tray and she sat down opposite him. She kept her legs straight, the grey skirt modestly covering her nylon-clad knees.

"So," she said. "And what brings you to me?"

He named the newspaper he'd been reading. "I saw the ad."

"And you decided to call me."

"Yes."

"Good. You haven't done this very often, have you?"

"Never, actually. How can you tell?"

"Intuition, I suppose. What is it you're looking for?"

Alec shrugged. "I don't know. That's one reason I'm here."

She smiled. "Very good. That's honest and it's good to be honest. So you're experimenting, investigating yourself. Yes, that's good. Too many people think they understand all about themselves. But they don't, do they? You, on the other hand, have decided you want to experiment with submission. It appeals to you. The idea appeals to you, doesn't it?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any experience at all?"

"I met a woman recently..."

"Tell me about her."

He told her about Mariko Kitazawa, told her what had happened without mentioning Mariko's name or any details about where they'd met. He did say that Mariko was Japanese. Olga listened, nodded, her eyes fixed on him as he talked. When he finished, she said. "I think I understand everything. Would you like one hour or two hours? The price is two hundred for the first hour and one hundred for the second hour. If we do the second hour, we'll have time for, shall we say, certain elaborations?"

He felt his heartbeat increase. "Two hours." He looked around the room, at the scattered books and magazines, the books in the high bookshelves. And yet the room somehow seemed artificial.

Olga said: "You're wondering about me?"

"Yes."

"I don't do this every day. I have other interests. As a matter of fact, I don't live here and my name isn't Olga Bergmann. When we spoke on the telephone, I was somewhere else. I only use this apartment when I'm Mistress Olga. Be discreet and don't try to learn anything about me."

"All right, I won't."

"Do you have a credit card?"

She left with the card, and then returned a few minutes later with the card and a slip to sign.

Alec said: "What do you do when someone would rather not use a card?"

"I use my judgment about a check."

"You must have trouble sometimes."

"Trouble?"

"The way you invited me here so easily."

"I use my judgment about that too."

"I see."

"All right, come with me now."

He followed her out of the small living room to another room. This one was as small as the living room, but with hardly any furniture. A large vinyl-covered mat took up most of the floor, and beside that stood a long table with a cushioned surface that looked like something a masseuse might use. There were two small bureaus with drawers, some ordinary chairs, and nothing else. The one window was papered over with brown wrapping paper.

Olga said: "Take all your clothes off and put them on one of the chairs. I'll be back in a few minutes." She left without another word, without looking at him.

He removed his clothing piece by piece, took everything off and piled it on one of the chairs. The room was warm enough. Naked, he felt less awkward than he expected. The trouble was there was nothing to look at, nothing but the almost barren room. He thought of sitting, and then he decided no, he would stand. He thought of opening some of the bureau drawers, but that seemed foolish. The walls were completely empty, a dull grey, neutral to the point of banality. Banal furniture in a banal room. No, the vinyl mats were not banal, and neither was the table. What did she use the table for? A massage? He suddenly felt stupid. At three hundred dollars, a massage would be definitely overpriced.

Olga returned wearing a new set of clothes. She had lipstick on her lips. She wore a white blouse with a high neck and long sleeves, a black skirt shorter than the previous one, black net stockings and high heels.

In her right hand she held a riding crop. Alec stared at it. Yes, it fit her. For some reason, she looked quite natural with a riding crop.

Olga said: "Are you cold?"

He looked at her face. "No." Then he blushed when he noticed her eyes on his genitals. He was limp, but the tension was there and he expected he'd soon have an erection.

She gave him a rather tight smile. "Let me look at you." She gazed first at his front, and then she walked behind him to look at him from the rear. Then she moved in front of him again, standing four feet away with her eyes on his genitals again. "Men understand less about submission than women," she said. "But after they learn, it's fine. The point is obedience, isn't it? If you remember that, everything will be perfect." She continued talking quietly, and as she talked she extended the riding crop and used the tip of it to lift his penis. The leather tip caught his prick just beneath the glans, jerking it upward, bouncing it lightly, toying with it. Then she dropped the tip of the riding crop down to do the same with his scrotum. She moved a bit to the side and tilted her head as she lifted both his scrotum and penis at the same time. As she continued talking with an almost soothing tone, his penis gradually stiffened and became erect. She helped it along with the riding crop, tapping the underside of his prick, tapping it upward until the organ jutted out from his loins.

"There, that's better," she said. She pulled the riding crop away and moved behind him, and in a moment he felt the length of the riding crop between his buttocks, rubbing in the crack, then angling underneath as she slid it forward to protrude the tip under his balls. She slid the riding crop back and forth, tilting it to rub the leather against his anus until his body jerked and he clenched his buttocks. "Do you like that?"

"It's an unusual feeling."

He heard her chuckle. "Not so unusual. Have you ever had sex with a man?"

"Definitely not."

"That's a pity. You might enjoy it, you know."

He felt the flush in his face. He could not see her, could not look at her because she was behind him.

Olga said: "Do you find me attractive?"

"Yes."

Finally, she removed the riding crop from between his thighs and she came around to face him again. She tapped his erect penis with the tip of the riding crop and said: "I like it when my legs are kissed. Do you want to kiss them?"

His voice caught in his throat. "Yes."

"All right, do it. Kneel on the floor and do it."

He went to his knees on the carpet. Part of him felt ridiculous, but the excitement in the other part of him caused his heart to pound. He bent forward and pressed his lips against her left instep, feeling the mesh of her stocking, then slid his mouth upward to kiss first the front of her ankle and then one ankle bone.

"The other one," she said.

At once he moved to the right foot to repeat the performance. He kissed the ankle, and then of his own volition he slid his mouth upward to kiss her shin and then her calf, and then her knee itself. As if to encourage him, she moved her legs further apart, and in response he kissed his way higher, beyond her knees, until to his great delight his lips made contact with the bare skin above the top of her net stockings. Garter straps held up her stockings, something he'd not expected. As he kissed both her thighs with her skirt pushed up by his head, he imagined he caught the scent of her cunt. Would she mind his hands on her legs? Still pushing her skirt upward with his face and head, he felt a momentary shock when he discovered she wore no underwear under the skirt. With a grunt of admiration, he pushed his face against the bush of hair, and then almost toppled forward as she abruptly pulled away from him.

"No, you don't get that just yet," she said. She retreated a few steps. "Stay down there. Look how stiff you are. Take it in your hand and stroke it, if you want. But don't you dare come. When you're with me, you don't come unless I allow it."

His head bowed as he gazed down at his cock, he curled his fingers around it and slowly stroked it. When he looked at her again, he found her with her legs apart and one hand toying with the lips of her cunt.

"That's enough," she said. She calmly unzipped her skirt, dropped it to the floor and stepped out of it. She was a true blonde, with a dark blonde bush half concealed by the bottom of her blouse and framed by the black garter belt straps and the black net stockings. Her long thighs looked muscular, as did her legs. Her hips were plumper than he expected, and he imagined her waist would show a slight bulge. She pointed at the skirt on the floor. "Pick it up and hand it to me," she said.

He crawled forward, gathered the skirt and offered it to her.

"So far you're doing fine," she said as she folded the skirt and placed it on the nearby massage table. After she did that, she dropped a hand down to her bush and she toyed with it. "Do you want this?"

His voice cracked when he spoke. "Yes."

"Lie down on the mat. On your back."

He remembered Mariko, how she'd squatted over him. When he did what Olga wanted, she walked forward and straddled him, stood with her legs on either side of his chest, her high heels digging into the vinyl, smiling down at him. She opened her cunt with her fingers, teased him as she watched his face, and then she lowered herself to her knees and pushed her sex at his mouth. "There's your trough," she said. "Let's find out how good you are at sucking it."

He kept his eyes closed as his tongue and lips worked over her flesh. She had a strong natural scent, the aroma of an aroused cunt mixed with the perfume she had dabbed on her bush and on the insides of her thighs. His excitement grew as she started lubricating heavily. The warm juice seemed to pour out of her, wetting his face completely. She moved her hips, wriggling her crotch against his face, fucking his mouth with a persistent rhythm. When she climaxed, she wriggled faster, pressed down on his face more firmly and groaned. She went on with it after that, moving more slowly, then more rapidly as she approached the second orgasm. Finally she climbed off his face and turned, straddled him again and squatted down. This time it was her ass that came down on him, but he had no time to look at it as she pressed her crack on his mouth and covered his face with her buttocks. First she wanted his tongue in her cunt, and he did that with his nose pushing at her anus. Then she shifted her body forward to give him a bit more room. "Do my ass," she said calmly.

He hesitated a moment, then did what she wanted. When she felt his tongue on her anus, she pushed down to get more of it. Before long he had his tongue working deep inside her rectum, her hips squirming as she rode his face, her buttocks like two huge pillows shutting the world out completely.

He had no idea how many times she came. He heard her grunting and mewling, and then with a shock he felt the new wetness on his face, on his chin and on his neck, a deluge drenching him as she pissed without restraint. Before she finished, she angled her buttocks backward to get some of the piss in his mouth, sweet- talking him, coaxing him, churning her smooth ass over his forehead and eyes as he took the last drops.

At last she climbed off him. She walked to one of the bureaus, opened a drawer and removed a towel. She returned to him, threw the towel at him and said: "Wipe yourself, you're a mess. I'll be back soon."

She picked up her skirt. As she left the room, he lay there as if paralyzed.