Being With Mistress

Not clear for the reason meeting at this exact location. I was a little early as was expected. She was explicit to wait for her in the corner of the concourse of RSW by the Thomas Edison statue next to the electric car which he invented in 1903. Still runs it says.

And there she was walking briskly to me with not much of a carry-on. A red suitcase with wheels. I stared. Hair a little bit long and a little bit red now. Very business like. I haven't seen her since right around the Christmas holiday when we spent a glorious day together in and out of her pool and walking around the small downtown area where she lives. My condo in Naples is a lazy 45 minutes from her home on the island. A few chats on Facetime with my new Mac but that's a poor excuse. EP and gmail messages, phone calls, whatever, the time didn't pass quick enough.

"K, am i glad to see you. You're looking ......" She shusshed me with a single finger to her mouth, put her arms around me, her head jammed into my upper chest and hugged me. Tight. Looked me in the eye. Smiled. Silently she grabbed my hand in hers, the other maneuvering her luggage and we walked with a purpose to Terminal C and silently eased through security.

Mistress and I were headed to Savannah for four days, a short flight from Fort Myers to Atlanta and a hopper across the state.

On the plane we couldn't stop talking about every single subject, from our jobs, to our relationships to the purple power tie she bought me. When I would overtalk she would listen with interest . . . I like that so much about her . . .and make little circles on the back of my palm with a single, red finger nail.

Typical of her, she casually described with no hesitation her waxing from two days earlier in her regular speaking voice as I tried not to peek around to see who was listening. And when I made the 'guy mistake' of telling her how gorgeous and professional she looked, Mistress launched into unedited detail about the black, strappy sandals with the three-inch something or other heels from Sigorson-Morrison, the fold-over sleeveless and collarless blouse from Caroline Herrera and the dark Miu Miu slacks from NeimannMarcus that were marked down from something ridiculous to something just slightly less ridiculous.

Honestly, I have no clue what she said, although the thought crossed my mind that I paid $40 for my Docker khakis at Macy's, but it was getting me hot.

"I wanted to look appropriate and proper in case we run into any of your colleagues," K more than said. She directed. "You will introduce me simply as 'K'. Let them think I'm your wife, girlfriend, lover, paid escort, whatever. " We were here under the auspices of a yearly business conference I attend. A users' conference to determine industry direction. I hadn't thought about introducing her but all in stride. No one here had ever met my wife. Let them think "trophy wife nearly half my age." Or if the drinks start flowing and the question arises I'll tell them what my EP chum once said, "Got her at the Niece Store on Ebay."

The room at the "Inn at Palmetto Bluff" (in Bluffton, S.C., a short ride to downtown Savannah) wasn't a room. It was a full-blown luxury cottage tucked away in privacy on gorgeous wooded grounds near the foot of a river. Two bicycles outside. A four-post bed. A working fireplace. Bathrooms and closets with square footage. Roomy. Southern hospitality on the upper end.

K was as thrilled as a little girl with truly widened eyes. Her carry-on bag? There was a bigger one that she checked in, also in matching red. What do women pack for for three and a half days that could take up so much cubic space and, wow, so much weight. I would soon find out.

It was mid afternoon. I didn't have to be anywhere 'till the 8pm welcome dinner and it was time to relax and maybe a little more. So I thought. K didn't even unpack and was out of her clothes, nearly naked as a baby, in a minute. Those brand-name clothes? On a chair, tossed into a corner and bra flipped over a lamp. She was dancing around the room in just her tiny g-string (peony she says of the color), strawberry nipples bouncing in unison.

She shoved me without reluctance onto the bed and was on top of me. Playful K, her darling made up face now somewhat fierce.

"R, this is what is going to happen over the next few days." Her naked body straddled me and she leaned over so her face to nose to nose with me. Her hair pouring over me. "I know you're thinking fuck-fest like last time but it will be different. Much different."

The original intent of our relationship soon after we met on EP was that she would be the keeper of my orgasms. Somewhat fetishist but fun. She had and has the power to determine when I cum and how I cum. That power spills over to all aspects of my personal and business life.

I've written about those times on EP, some terribly arousing, humiliating and down right nerve racking, always unexpected. Oh those months with Mistress. I guess she's not a Mistress in the traditional sense of leather boots and whips cracking but it's Mistress with a capital 'M'. Or else. Over the months we've become great friends . . . more than great friends . . . but we don't, well we try damn hard, let it interfere with our personal lives.

"You're here to work and concentrate on the results and success of your meeting," she said. "I'm here to relax, do some sightseeing and, frankly, pamper myself. You will also pamper me. I expect you to treat Mistress very well and with respect. Any tasks should be done without hesitation."

"But of course, Mistress," I said with true sincerity. "That is exactly what I hoped for. I'm so happy that you found the time to come along." We shared a smirk and then a smile.

The rest of the afternoon and early evening were spent relaxing. Well, sort of. She had me light the five lavender candles she had brought, strip naked and massage her back, shoulders, neck, butt and legs with a mysterious, invigorating oil she also packed. When room service came with a large bottle of Diet Coke, lime and ice for her, she had me retrieve the tray stark naked.

Tremendously embarrassing! It was a fellow in his mid-20s.

I had protested as Mistress explained what I was to say and do while I was rubbing her down and the familiar, "Room service" and knock-on-the-door took place, but her scowl quickly ended that. I told the room service guy, stammering, "My Mistress insisted I retrieve her drink without any clothes on." Only a slight, telling smile and a quick glance to my near naked Mistress lying on the bed revealed any thought. I hope the 20 dollar tip worked. It was a forever indeliable 20 seconds.

She told me to remove her g-string, me face to face with her succulent tush, then flipped over. This was all done very casual and happenstance. I massaged her temples, neck, carefully around and on her chest, um, pectoral muscles, her upper thighs and stretched out her legs and calves. Her nipples, little strawberries, seemed to follow my every move and, in my mind, begged for attention. And damn, so too did her slightly parted pussy lips.

I was dying and she brushed off my throbbing erection which "accidently" touched her several times with a simple, "Control yourself, R." It was the only time she opened her eyes. Sure, I thought my actions would get her into a lustful mood but she remained passive as a statue and concentrated on the massage and, probably, what it was doing to me.

After nearly an hour of me pawing and kneading her delicious flesh and a drink break, I was invited to bed with her for a nap. She didn't say a thing as we spooned and she quickly fell asleep as I gently stroked her breasts, lower back and tush. Gently. I too dozed off feeling comfortable, alive and somewhat sated just being where I was. My cock was disagreeing.

We were up at five, dressed comfortably in shorts and sneakers, and walked the ample grounds. Perfectly manicured. She raced ahead, called me slow poke, then allowed me to catch her. She's a toucher, even with people around, and when I stopped to ask for directions and nod hello it was an opportunity for K to put her hand around my shoulder or a finger poke to where the back ends and cushion begins. She engaged strangers.

In the room and at her instruction we finished unpacking and she inspected my clothes, told me the second suit I brought simply "won't do" and insisted I buy a different style of underwear when I get home. She picked the pants and shirt I would wear to the welcoming dinner. She was not attending. Room service, a walk, a late swim and work "catch up." We showered together and got my hand roughly slapped along with a dark-eyed "Mistress Glare" when I attempted to kiss her. This was not the holidays in Florida.

Mistress did smooth my shirt and accompanied me to the door of our cottage. I said goodbye, walked a few steps and was summoned back. She pecked me on the cheek and sent me off with a "Be back at a decent hour."

I felt like Cinderella . . . thought of her every minute and battled the urge to loiter longer at the bar to get back before the stroke of midnight. I jogged the final quarter mile.

"Did you shine?" she asked from across the room as I opened the door. Not sure what she meant but I was taken aback by the sight. The room was very dark accept for lit candles. Mistress sat on the chest of drawers in a terribly sexy outfit which she describes here as a sleeveless, black fishnet cami and black thong. Her hair glistened. Her red toes and finger nails were practically beacons. "Did you shine? Did you stand out? Did you make your mark?"

"Yes," I said. "I did what I do best. People trust me and like me and I already discussed the points I need to make during the meetings over the next two days. I think they're comfortable with me and my point of view."

"Well, bravo," Mistress complimented. "That's what I like about you. It's a good feeling. I also like that you desire me and need me and I plan on rewarding you over the next couple of hours. But first, a reminder.

"Now get undressed. Yes. Come here and stand by the side of the bed. Bend over. I need to make a point that's been simmering for three months. You took advantage of me in December during a weak moment. You've attempted to turn the tables on me several times. You've been hesitant in the tasks I've demanded of you. I'm not your girlfriend and you tend to forget that all of the time. Pawing and pushing me in the shower is indicative of your behavior and it must stop if we are to continue. Is that what you want? Do you need to think about it?"

I honestly felt fear. There was steel in her voice. She meant it. I told her that I was new to the game and that I apologize for my behavior, now and then . . . won't happen again . . . I needed her . . . I was blubbering. Desperate in fact.

She explained to me that she did not spell out the consequences before but that I needed to be reminded and punished for my behavior. She sternly said it could not happen again. The consequence for that action was self-evident and final.

With that she had me lean over the bed, rest my head in my hands, legs on the ground, and took out something out of her suitcase off the ground. She showed it to me and explained it was a flogger that she researched and bought online made from kangaroo leather. Why that was important I was soon to find out. Oh my God did I. Cute little kangeroo? Not. I didn't like the looks of this.

The leather from that Aussie varmint can be processed and cured fine and it's of light weight. Stinging light weight. Bee stinging light weight. She hit me tremendously hard with a brushing blow to my left butt cheek. It felt sliced off. She came close to me, to my face, and asked, "Do I need to tie you?" She ran a hand lovingly down the side of my face. I shook my head no. She seemed flush and I sensed urgency to the task at hand.

Then a more steady blow to the right cheek and upper thigh. I made some sort of noise. Several more blows, no, not blows but more like flicks. Her tactics seem to quickly evolve to a snapping motion.

She stopped for a moment. A brief moment. "Gotta tell you R. This is hard work getting it right. I'm getting off on it too." Another furtive glance. No I was not tied or blindfolded. I was being punished. Her eyes seemed to sparkle. WTF?

More whacks. The ones on the upper thigh hurt the most. "Do you feel like crying?" she asked. She teased. She taunted. Should I cut this off? A wasps' nest for sure, but....

Several more in a few groups of two stung my lower and mid back. "Fuck," I thought. "Will I ever sit again?" "Fuck, I thought, kind of confused. I've got a boner like steel."

I moaned. It was searing and hot. I sensed she enjoyed it. I enjoyed it. Then she let up.

"Point made I take it," she said.

"Point made."

"You know R," said purred in my ear as she reached between my legs. "I bet I liked that even more than you."

I didn't move. Frankly more stunned than stung. And boy can she hit hard. She certainly mastered the learning curve of maximizing pain in about five minutes.Mistress returned with a moisturizer and gently massaged it in. "You're kind of pink. Hmm, and red. It's going to hurt tomorrow." She giggled. Thought to myself, "No shit!" We hugged. It was an important episode of discovery for both of us.

The next hour was also a surprise but I found my own pleasure steadily mounting. Pleasing her was what I now craved. It was uncontrollable.

And I did.

She gently had me turn over onto my back on the bed ("Ouch!") and with two long strips of tan leather fastened my wrists to the bed post. It was done silently and lovingly with random kisses and licks to my face, chest and stomach. Mistress inspected my cock for ever-brief seconds and, even more briefly, softly and than with a strong grasp, an up and down motion. It was not to be and my cock was quickly abandoned pointing to heaven.

She was careful to position pillows under my head. We both agreed that the spanking was highly erotic to both of us. Really worked us both up. Mistress said she was "charged and horny". My "me too" was answered only with a very slight, wry smile.

Mistress slipped out of her lingerie, backed up over my prone body and positioned her spread pussy over my face . .. inches from it. "I want this real bad, R." Lowered and rubbed.

She used me for the next half hour. Seemed like far more. It was a workout. My lips, my tongue, my chin were all, well, tools. It was a nice lady-like rhythm as my tongue seems to ski from one end of her slit to the other but than the movement became agitated and more urgent, far more urgent, until she was thrusting up and down putting more and more weight on my face. The only words from her, a panting "Don't you dare fucking cum!"

Mistress was loud and all of her weight seemed to be concentrated with her first orgasm. Two more quickly came. Loud and wet.

What was I thinking? Each second seemed to be a building crescendo of her pleasure and little seemingly desperate moans that got progressively louder. I realized this and realized I was its architect. Incredible. I was her source for pleasure. I was giving to her. For me, that was the ultimate pleasure. Yeah, there were several times where I thought I would suffocate or have my nose broken. But otherwise I concentrated on her wet recesses and folds and thought of the elusive prize of her button which I captured and tasted for precious seconds.

I felt her breathing hard, leaning forward resting on my thighs, her pussy still in my face, and her breath on my straining cock as she rested for a moment.

"I want more Sweetie and I'm sure you're up for it." It wasn't a question and I didn't have time to answer. She mounted me again and shimmied to a more upright position and without a word I knew I was to explore and probe her ass.

I licked.

She spread her butt cheeks. I licked some more. Deeper. She grabbed my cock. "Don't you dare," she warned yet again and pushed down harder on my straining and stiffened tongue. And harder. She worked herself more gently to some cosmic spot and pushed me to the brink again. My face hurt.

The most difficult part of the evening was yet to come. Without releasing the restraints . . . my thoughts, forgive me Mistress, went to locking my legs around her head and not releasing her until she sucked me dry . . . Mistress bounded silently off my body to the bathroom and returned with a soaked towel and wiped and cleaned my face, now a combination of Mistress odor and wetness.

Again she was on top of me but this time in a more familiar position of riding my cock. "You are my slave tonight and will do exactly what I want to the letter. Don't you dare cum," she warned for the third or fourth time. With her right hand guiding my cock head to her wet pussy lips, rubbing the head against the entrance, and looking up at the ceiling closed eyed and open mouthed (I'll never forget that look of desire, need and bliss), she leaned back with weight and took probably half of me in. Leaned forward and back again for all of me.

Mistress rode me and understood my body better than I could ever. Up and down. Slowly. Slower when she sensed my body tipping. She gripped my shoulders and dug in with her nails. Pushed against me to slide up my cock . . . my greedy, happy cock . . . and pulled to assist gravity. Faster when she came.

My pleasure, again satisfying her, was overwhelming. I truly didn't want to cum, watching her reach her destination several times with moans, shivers, thrashing and several moments of nothing. We both fell asleep, I believe, at the exact same second, her on top and me in her.

She woke me the next day, pushed me in the shower, and picked out my clothes. Casual the next two days. As she told me, I packed for a trip three times as long. She demanded choices and I was resplendent in her selections and with her attention. It was day 1 of a very important industry meeting of company representatives speaking for the entire industry. She was taking the resort shuttle to explore and tour Savannah. Another kiss goodbye. Oh my. Damn, my butt, still very pink and tender, hurt like hell.

The conference: Scrambled eggs, bacon, fruit, introductions, hand shakes, "hmm, there's a pretty gal", new folks, folks from previous years, into the conference room, keynote address, dimmed lights, murmuring, silence, clapping for the keynote personality,

And a text message.

"R, immediately come out the front door and walk about 50 feet to YOUR right. The restrooms. Mens bathroom. The last of four stalls. NOW."

Fuck, good thing I was sitting at the end and the lights are out. Don't want to show disrespect. Fuck, it's Mistress.

I walked double time then tiptoed into the bathroom. Was she here? I knocked on the fourth stall, confused, startled and excited.

"Come on in R," Mistress said like she was answering her home front door.

Inside she pulled me tight against her, kissed me way too hard and licked me chin to bridge of nose. She then leaned back on the closed toilet seat, shimmied quickly out of short white shorts and panties and spread her legs giving me a peek of a sight I knew only far too well. She leaned back, one foot with white sneaker and rolled pink sock against the opening for the toilet paper.

"I missed your tongue. Take care of me."

And with that I leaned forward, her left leg over my right shoulder, kneeled lower, and repeated last night with an abbreviated five-minute tour of Mistress's pussy. She abruptly ended it, pulled up her shorts and calmly opened the stall (it was the friggin men's room!), told me to have a good meeting and "don't you dare wash your face," and walked out. She didn't cum. She marked me.

We met as planned at 4:30 for a swim at the pool,

Mistress her usual 15 minutes late. In the 15th minute I start thinking crazy "what happened?" thoughts. The Palmetto Bluff is not a huge place. There were only a few at the large pool. Mistress took off a wrap wearing a colorful blue print bikini with cute bows (which I hoped to someday chew off!), grabbed my hand and pulled me into the pool. How delightful hugging, chatting, dunking, her swimming between my legs and jumping off my shoulders, and even some freestyle for a minute or two over the next half hour. She told me of her explorations and a square-to-square trolley tour of gentrified Savannah, still haunted by the likes of Beauregard, Confederate soldiers blown to bits by Sherman's grapeshot cannons and the eerie pleadings of slave ghosts. Her delight was my delight.