Best Served Cold

"Why won't you tie me up, dammit?"

Hmm...I know she thinks I can be a bit, well, reserved sometimes. But I think near-shouting that in a restaurant might be a bit much. Especially considering that it took two months to get a reservation in this place. And considering that she always complains I don't want to go anywhere.

I take another piece of the, frankly, divine fois gras before I answer.

"Do you really want to know?"

She nods, her eyes blazing. Windows to the soul, they say. With her, it's true. All the maelstrom of emotions in her headstrong brain just ooze out of those eyes. Pain, impatience, lust...yes, lust. I've seen it from her a couple of times, but frankly not as often as I should, for a couple who've dated for six months. My friends are all insanely jealous. She's a drop-dead gorgeous brunette, who dresses to entice, and just moves with that ex-professional-dancer feline grace. The vertical motions point to horizontal ecstasy. And they're right. Occasionally.

And yet, for all that, I can't say that I'm that happy being with her. It started out as an ego thing – something I'm not proud to confess, but honest enough to admit. And it squares with her attitude of going with the guy who had the most expensive Porsche. So we're both dammed by our own cynicism, I suppose. She's very demanding, in the look-at-me, be-amazed-by-me, kind of way. And she has low expectations of both me and our relationship. I feel like a rung on a ladder.

"Because, my dear, that would be too easy. And it wouldn't teach you a lesson."

Boy, that got her attention, in all sorts of ways. She moves back in her chair, wide-eyed. She's so damn – what's the word – impressive to look at, I don't think she's used to anything but fawning. I'm supposed to fall at her feet. An average-looking, albeit rich guy, I'm supposed to be so grateful she's wasting her beauty on me for a while.

Looking at her half-feigned astonishment that I would dare to suggest she needed to be taught a lesson, I realise something significant. She pisses me off. It's as simple as that. She has no interest in who I am, what I am, what I aspire to be. She's interested in those isolated points where the curve of her life touches the curve of mine. We met by accident, got together by accident. The parting – and I know it's going to come – will be very deliberate. On her side, naturally. Mr Right won't be waiting for her (because he doesn't exist), but Mr Next will have the engine of his more-expensive-than-mine car running on my driveway. That's how I'll know. Before she even invents some spurious reason why it's no longer working.

So...I've decided to try to have some fun. And maybe, just maybe, put a little dent in that supreme arrogance of hers. The indifference to others' feelings that only comes from being told you're beautiful, every day, from your first sentient moment.

It's showtime.

"You heard me, baby. Teach you a lesson. Frankly, honey, you're boring me in bed."

She's almost choking now. I can hear her internal voice. Nobody, nobody has ever spoken to me like that. Nobody. Nobody has ever dared. It's disgraceful. Who does he think he is? With that crappy haircut. He didn't know his Armani from his fucking elbow when I met him. Does he even realise how many men want me? How many fucks I turn down each week? Does he have a clue?

"Yeah, bored would be the right word. You see, you don't know how to please a guy. Beauty doesn't do it, you see. Hell, I can go on the 'Net and see a hundred women as good looking as you. You lack a basic technique."

My words are measured. I'd expected to be breathless by now, as her agitation rises and rises. Or just expected that I couldn't carry it off at all. I think the realisation of my indifference has given me an edge. It's all in the balance now. Time to go for the jugular.

"I could show you how to please a man. But I doubt you could actually pay attention long enough to learn. I think you're doomed to fail on that score. Just go through life, being a bit of a disappointment to each successive boyfriend. Of course, when the looks go, and the surgery and botox can't hold your face up, the boyfriends will go too. I hope you bank the money you steal from my account, 'cos you're going to have a long old age to spend it in. That age starts in about ten years."

Her crystal champagne flute hit the floor, and I swear the obsequious little asshole waiter had it swept up and into the oh-so-trendy recycle box before it had time to shatter. Fifty bucks for a starter, but the service was shit hot.

Her mind was ticking over the alternatives. I'd known she was stealing money from a joint account she'd suggested we set up. It was into six figures by now. I didn't mind too much at first. I was smart enough to keep most of my investments well away from it. I was intrigued. She fell into that classic embezzler's trap of starting small, and getting bigger. Either because she got over-confident, or because the amount wasn't looking big enough, early enough. She wasn't especially clever about it. She didn't invent very plausible reasons why the amount ebbed and flowed as it did. What irked me – and still does – is that she thought so little of my intelligence that I wouldn't notice, and so little of my integrity that I wouldn't care. Hence tonight.

I watched the change sweep across her face like a storm front. She'd taken the bait. She'd worked out that the loathsome pained expression on her face, as if she had any innocence to be injured, wasn't going to hack it. She couldn't deny it. I could go to the cops and sort it out really easily. You don't make a fortune in the security business, especially in Vegas, without knowing a lot of cops. And a lot about some of them. I knew she already had rap sheets. Prostitution, blackmail. All a few years ago, but a leopard...She just got better at it, that's all.

She was going to try the sweet thing instead. The oh, honey, I'll do anything you want honey, anything you wanna do to me, I just hate fighting, honey. It wouldn't work either, but her flimsy opinion of my mind (and whether it was in my head or my dick) meant she'd give it the ol' college try anyway.

It's a strange smile she has, now that I look at it. Too perfect. Not crooked enough. And never moving above the lower half of her face. It's dazzling in the abstract, across a crowded room, on the dance floor. Simply because it's directed at you, and not some other guy. When you're a true recipient, you see how empty it is. My indifference is starting to turn towards contempt.

She takes my hand in hers.

"Let's skip the meal, babe. Take me home and show me how to please a man like you."

I didn't miss the double meaning. She laughed at my dick the first time she saw it. I mean, outright laughed. Collapsed back onto the bed. I mean, there's surprise, and then there's cruelty. At first, I was grateful she'd gone through with fucking me, considering I'm only four inches at best. And even with my limited experience, I knew a badly-faked cum when I heard it. But each time we fucked, I got a little replay tape of that laugh, somewhere in the back of my head.

In the limo she moves to suck me off as we drive, but I push her head away. She does a fake – and annoying - pout. Fuck, how could I ever have found her attractive? I realise what a low ebb I was truly at, when I met her. Six weeks after Ellie left. Cute, smart, funny, wonderful Ellie. Yeah, maybe it was only right that I would fuck up, trying to replace that. And me, with my heart ripped out and beating in an apartment somewhere in Florida. In Ellie's hands, as always.

So beautiful, shallow Roberta was the rebound bimbo par excellence. God, I was such a cliché. Rich, ugly bald guy loses true love, dates a bimbette who rips off his money when she thinks he isn't looking. Christ, I was a caricature of myself.

The limo glides to a halt, and as Roberta clicks her stilettos towards the house, I tell Danny, the driver, to wait. He will. Even if I don't say anything for a week, he'll sit outside. His brother's into me for ninety thousand and counting. I only loaned him ten as a favour to Danny. The rest is debts to every crappy casino in West Vegas, which I've paid off without telling. Danny thinks his brother is in Reno, but he's actually holed up in New Mexico while I dry him out. Danny is a childhood friend. But hey, don't expect me to be a nice guy tonight, because I'm not. As Roberta is about to find out.

She's kicked off her shoes, shed the dress, and draped herself into what she thinks is the most erotic position I can imagine. It's not. She's sat in a large easy chair, legs spread, licking her lips. Sooooo porn star. I'm not averse to fucking like a porn movie – love it, in fact – but I'm disappointed that she thinks this is the only way to be really sexy. Besides, I know she doesn't mean it. She's not into it, not like Ellie was. She's doing it because it's her idea of what a guy like me will find sexy. It's an obligation, and no thought has gone into it at all.

I smile at her. It's the smile of someone who knows they control the situation. But to her, it's a middle aged man smiling at his oh-so-foxy young girlfriend's pussy.

I bend towards her and whisper.

"Grab hold of the back of the chair, close your eyes, and listen."

She smiles and does this. She's expecting a little pin-prick from a little pin prick, her going ooh and aah in the right places, and all will be forgiven.

She's a great looking woman, to the uninitiated. A photograph of this would be good fuck fantasy material to most guys. Her body is lean and smooth, tanned to perfection in a golden honey colour. Her tits are still pert, thanks to a slight but well-judged touch of silicone a few years ago. Her stomach is flat, and her legs are well toned. Her pussy is shaved, although I've never insisted or even asked. She has a nice, firm round ass that begs some attention.

"One hundred and twelve thousand, seven hundred and two dollars."

Her eyes snap open.

"I SAID FUCKING CLOSE YOUR EYES"

Her eyes snap shut.

"That's a lot of money. Did you think I wouldn't fucking notice? Don't answer that. Don't answer anything, in fact. I know what you were thinking. That anytime you fucked my pencil-dick you deserved some cash. Hmmmm...what should I do about it? Turn you in and let the cops add to your record? I said...fucking...keep ...your...eyes...shut. Of course I know. Do you think I'm stupid? I had your rap sheet before our first date. And I'm sure as fuck not stupid enough to let you get pregnant. Of course my tubes are fucking tied. I wouldn't run the risk with a blackmailer like you, now would I? So let's get it clear, because it's the opposite of what you thought. I'm smart, you're not. You got played, I didn't."

She's stayed in position, but she looks deflated. Ironically, she looks like a half-deflated blow-up doll. Like the morning after a frat house party, draped over the chair but not doing anything.

"So here's what we're going to do. As it runs out, I'm a nice guy. I'm going to leave you with the hundred grand. Minus what you're pissing away with that boyfriend, who, incidentally, is nailing your best friend Alison. On the hood of the car you bought him, a seventy one Mustang I think it was."

A small tear fell across her cheek. It wasn't the boyfriend. He was just a fuck on the side. Hung like a stallion according to my male private investigator, who was now fucking the guy as well. It was the humiliation of defeat, the realisation that she was actually less beautiful, and about half as smart, as she thought she was. Good. It was a lesson she needed to learn and, let's face it, this was relatively painless. She was keeping the money, and I'd even kept Danny outside to drive her.

"Don't cry, my little blackmailer. Your tiny cock sugar daddy is going to help you. I'm going to show you what it takes to please a man."

Her body froze, and she tensed herself for what was coming. I could see her muscles reflex, rippling her stomach as she braced herself for some kind of onslaught. Maybe she thought she was about to be thrown back to the bad old days, before she got all upmarket and started fucking easy, badly hung marks like me. Fuck knows what she thought it was. Maybe violence, maybe more humiliation. But it wasn't. I knelt down and slurped on her pussy lips.

She gasped in surprise, and leant forward. I moved away and stood up.

"What did I tell you to do? Grab the fucking chair, close your eyes. So do it, and keep doing it no matter what."

She does it, but more with unknowing compliance than true understanding. I wanted her to understand, to truly comprehend, the importance of thinking about the other person. I wasn't entirely sure why it mattered to me. Maybe some form of vindication for me. I waited, to see if she cheated. She did, of course. When I didn't return to her pussy, she peeked. And then pretended she hadn't. More fucking lies.

"Thank you, dear, for making my point for me. You see, you just fucking cheated again. Even though, when you did what I asked, you got your pussy licked, and when you cheated, you got nothing. You cheated yourself, and you knew that was the outcome, but you still did it. Solely because you felt like looking, so you did. There was no fucking thought going through that head, was there? No fucking thought at all. Not even for your own pleasure, let alone mine.

"This is what you don't get. You don't get the connection between thought and pleasure. You don't get the link between thinking about what you're doing, what I'm doing, why we're doing it, how it makes us feel, and how good it feels. That whole thing is totally shut off from you and that, I'm afraid, is why you bore me in bed. Why, once they get over fucking someone who looks good, you'll bore every man you screw.

"Now, we'll try one last time, and I mean one last time. You do not, even if the cops burst in here with the fucking President, open your eyes. You do not make a sound, no matter how much you want to, unless I say you can. You do not move. If I want you moved, well shit baby, all that vomiting in the bathroom means I can fucking pick you up in one hand. I'll do it myself. So let's see if you can deny yourself the fucking obvious, the immediate, the readily apparent, and learn something about yourself."

I wait to see if she has absorbed anything I've said. Personally, I doubt it. I think she has the memory of a goldfish. Round and round the bowl, each time she sees the little castle it's a new surprise...I think the only thing she's taken in is the fact that she has to keep her eyes closed, and stay still. Because that was an obvious instruction. I'm sure she'd prefer it if I actually tied and blindfolded her, no matter how roughly I did it. Because that would take away any real involvement from her. How fucking depressing.

A small part of me just wants to give the whole thing up, and kick her sorry ass out of my house. But part of me just likes a bit of a challenge. It's not that she lacks intelligence (it's just fucking aimless), and so I have this nagging feeling that she could actually learn something.

After a couple of minutes of silently studying her face, I'm satisfied that she might, just might, play ball for a while. I can see the slight sheen of sweat on her skin, and given that the aircon is on full, I take this to be a good sign. I bend down, careful to be silent and not to touch her, so she won't know where I'm going to touch.

And I slide a finger into her pussy.

Her body tenses slightly, and then I can see her stomach muscles move as she makes herself relax, and stay still. I begin to slide my finger gently in and out of her pussy, and I can feel after a few seconds that she's wet. Her juice begins to slide down my finger, wiping itself onto her pussy lips. Her ass is squirming slightly in the chair, despite her efforts to stay still. She's become more responsive in five minutes of submission, than in the previous six months of laughing to my face.

I reach in with my tongue and lick her. She stiffens and moves. So I stop and withdraw. This time, she keeps her eyes closed and stays still, waiting for my return. Better. I stand there, arms folded, simply looking at her. I think she can sense, even with her eyes closed, whether I'm looking at her. I want her to understand the measure of control I have. I want her to understand why the pleasure goes away. So I wait. Minutes stretch, but this time, she remains quiet and compliant.

After a while, I stroke her pussy lips. The sweat is just a little more pronounced, especially between her tits. I blow on her cunt and she shifts slightly in her chair. A small damp patch has formed on the upholstery. Part sweat, part pussy juice. So she's getting hotter and wetter. But is she getting any smarter? Does she get it yet?

I push one finger gently into her pussy. Every so often, I rub my thumb over her clit as my finger slides back into her glistening cunt. She shakes each time I flick the delicate little bud, which is now red and proud from its sheath. She has to work harder to keep her eyes closed. The temptation to open them is almost too much. She's too visual, too dependent on seeing things happen to believe that they're real. Too literal. She needs to learn the art of just believing.

Her breath starts to get shorter, more hesitant. That little light squirming has become more pronounced. It's pretty close to bucking against my fingers. Her body is starting to glisten with sweat. She's about to come.

So I stop.

She pouts – a real one, this time, but brattish all the same. Someone took her toy away. She almost speaks, but remembers in time. It means she hasn't learned yet. It means she needs to be taught more.

"Tell me what you're feeling, Roberta."

"I'm feeling hot, and wet. I want to cum. I badly want to cum. But I know you're punishing me for the money. So I'm supposed to wait for you, until you want to cum. But I feel so fucking horny. I didn't realise, being so submissive like this, was so fucking hot. I want more."

Not bad, but she was still missing the point. I wasn't tying her up, or actually stopping her from doing anything. If she wanted to reach down and slap her clit until she howled, I hadn't given any indication that I'd stop her. She was stopping herself, she just didn't realise it, and didn't realise why.

"Turn over and show me your ass. Keep your eyes closed, and don't move once you're in position. But you can speak when you want."

She obediently rolls over and onto her knees. It's pretty reluctant though. I push on her back so that her ass sticks up in the air. It's pretty nice, in fact, I have to say. She obviously did actually go to the gym when she said, albeit that she stopped off to fuck her little bi-boyfriend on the way back to the house. It's a shame such a nice ass is attached to such a selfish little bitch.

"Make me cum, baby, I wanna cum. I've learned my lesson. I really have. I'll be good now, baby. I'll pay back the money. You'll see."

"You haven't learned a fucking thing baby." I keep my voice quiet and purposeful, bending to her ear.

"If you'd learned, you wouldn't have said a thing. If you'd learned, you would have scooted into position and waited. So you haven't learned."

I slide a finger into her asshole.

She squeals. I'd only ever done that to her once before, and she'd complained like a mutha for about two weeks after. Christ, you'd have thought I'd put a fucking car up there, or something. I knew perfectly well she could take it. Her boyfriend fucked any ass that came within reach, hers being no exception, and the photos from the investigator showed she enjoyed it. Fuck, she even licked her ass juice off his cock while he filmed her, so my finger was no problem at all really, was it?