Opening Her Up

She stood at the front entrance of an old industrial brick warehouse, having been converted to posh flats in a now gentrified former slum. A small bulb lit the door and intercom. Behind her, darkness engulfed the visitor parking lot, occasionally lit amber by a few dim street lamps. Beyond, an empty sidewalk and wharf looked over the bay. It had rained, leaving everything slick and wet, with small puddles scattered about the tarmac. A light fog still hung, musky in the air.

Years ago her parents had warned about this part of town. That's not a suitable place for a proper young woman, her father had said. Especially at night, her mother added, with a nod in agreement. But now they're retired and off to Portugal. Development happens, prices rise, the rich move in. So she didn't think they'd be surprised by how the place had changed. On a fixed income, it's why they'd left town to begin with. No, they'd be surprised - dismayed, even - by why she'd come here.

To meet a man who'd posted one of those ads. The kind of thing any sane girl would click shut and never think twice of again. The words hadn't been salacious or pornographic or crass, but its ideas and imagery had been. The man had left no doubt to just what kind of relationship he sought. Kinky is the word. Strange, to be kind. Downright sick and perverse is how everyone else thought it. Something her parents would turn away from in disgust.

He'd written a tantalizing anonymous solicitation in an Internet nether region she perused only in the deepest privacy of home, late at night, in bed, when lonely and needful. Something indiscreet and shameful, sent out to the world like a message in a bottle thrown to sea. It had been written for anyone and everyone, but seemed to have been meant just for her. His words stirred such deep cravings she'd had to respond.

Yet the universe sometimes plays cruel tricks. This anonymous man wasn't some anonymous after all. And had she known that at the time, she'd never have responded. For that anyone she knew might learn the wicked desires she felt brought terror to her heart. She'd sought out an anonymous rendezvous, not one with an acquaintance.

So when they'd first met at that cafe, after a slew of salacious messages establishing lewd intent, it had been a total shock. You? You! Oh my, it's you.

Yet here she stood, breath rasping, her finger wavering by his door buzzer. What the hell was she doing? Turn around and she could walk away now. It's not like she's obliged. And nothing's happened yet. There's nothing to report. Nothing to make public. Nothing she's already guilty of. Except for the excitement and arousal and those damnable butterflies that continued fluttering within her. The shame of her own compulsions and needs.

Before she could decide, the security door buzzed unlocked. "Come in," said his voice through the intercom. And without hesitation, utterly mesmerized and unable to resist, she opened the door and stepped inside.

His flat was on the fourth floor. There was a lift, but for some reason she took the stairs. Click-clack went the heels of her boots as she climbed, echoing through the stairwell like life in slow motion. For some reason she wanted to savor the moment. This before-time. As if it was the minutes right before losing her teenage virginity.

He stood looking down into the stairwell by his doorway, appraising her with a steady gaze.

"Hi," she whispered, with an hesitant wave.

He merely raised an eyebrow. Then, as she approached, he held open his door for her and said softly confident, "Please come in."

Through the door, his flat was one of those open area modern designs. A kitchen with steel sink and gas stove, granite countertops, and all the appliances. A tall counter with a few high bar stools separated the kitchen from the main room. To her left, an oak table with four chairs and behind that sliding glass doors out to a balcony. To her right, a matching fabric sofa and love seat, and single plush chair surrounded a tasteful minimalist square coffee table. Track lighting lit a few paintings hung on the walls. There was a bookcase, with some books and a few knick knacks. A hallway beyond that, presumably to more private rooms.

It all looked so normal. She didn't know what she'd expected. Meat hooks hanging from the ceiling? Still, this didn't seem the kind of place a sick sexual pervert would own. Was it?

"May I take your coat?" He held out a hand.

His voice startled her and she quickly turned to face him. He crooked his head with an expression of bemusement, hand still out for her coat. "Oh, yes," she said, trying to find words that didn't sound idiotic. She lowered the hood of her tartan wool cape, undid a light knot at her neck and slipped out, handing it over along with an umbrella. He hung them on a standing coat rack by the door.

"Would you like a glass of wine?" He asked, stepping toward the kitchen.

It was then she'd stopped appraising his things and looked the man over instead. He wore a simple pair of trousers and slip-on leather shoes. A light wool sleeveless pullover and button down shirt. A basic short haircut with a bit of pepper gray showing. Wire framed glasses. He was trim. Entirely respectable looking. It should set her at ease and yet seemed to make everything all the more strange.

He gave her a quizzical look, two empty wine glasses by the stem.

"Oh. Um. Yes," she said, with a little nervous laugh. "Please."

"Red or white?"

"Whatever's best."

"Definitely red then," he said, reaching past a stool for a bottle on the counter. He poured two glasses and handed her one.

It was a light wine with a fruity aroma and when she put the glass to her lips an aftertaste of black currant lingered on her palate. "Mmmm," she said with a nod. "Very good."

"Shall we sit?" He motioned to the couch and love seat.

She nodded and when he led the way he lightly touched the small of her back and it sent a shock along her spine. She chose the love seat and set down her glass at the table. Then, as he sat at the chair facing her, she smoothed down her dress, straightened her back, and clasped her hands together in her lap. The room grew uncomfortably quiet.

He was being so damned polite. Of course, she hadn't known what to expect. Would he rip her clothes off and drag her to his room to violently ravish her as soon as she'd arrived? A part of her wanted that. Wanted it badly. But she supposed that wasn't his plan. So then would he at least make some kind of ham-fisted pass at her? Something - anything - to indicate interest?

He sat there looking her over with a seemingly indifferent gaze, evaluating without leering. The air got thick and her nerves began to fray until she wanted to scream.

"Elaine," he said.

His speech cut through the air like a knife and she glanced up into his eyes. She bit her lip.

"Elaine," he repeated. "You know why you're here." He paused for a moment in thought. "Don't you?"

She couldn't answer and just quickly nodded.

"So then, why are you here?"

The discomfort and nervousness became unbearable. She wished he'd just strip her and do whatever sick thing he'd planned. To relinquish everything and be used like a rag doll. She wouldn't have to face such questions then. "I, umm," she stammered, digging nails into her clasped hands. "To be your..." she looked up with a pained expression.

"Slave?" He answered for her.

She glanced away at the word and her cheeks burned in shame.

"You're not ready for that," he said, gently.

A knot formed in her belly and she feared he might throw her out. Had she displeased him? Done something wrong?

"You're here," he continued, "asking for my help in exploring these inner needs you've discovered you have."

She furrowed her brow.

"I could drag you into my bedroom right now. Fuck you silly. And you'd let me." He said it all matter of factly and she frowned at the truth of his words. "But that's not what you really need."

Something welled up deep within her and she gave a stern eye. "So you think you know what I need?" It came out angry and petulant, though when the words had formed in her mind she'd just wanted to ask. But somehow, it had become a challenge. And as soon as the words came out mean she felt embarrassed, which only made her more insolent.

He smiled and leaned forward. "Would you be here if you thought I didn't?"

Everything turned upside down and she immediately stood, defiant, crossing her arms. "Maybe I should just go."

"You're always free to leave," he replied with a shrug, standing as well. "But hear me out for a moment."

"I'm listening," she said, but it came out like a sneer.

"Close your eyes," he said.

She rolled her eyes instead.

"Trust me," he implored.

She sighed, cleared her throat, and finally closed her eyes as though it was the stupidest thing she'd ever been asked to do.

"Give it a few," he said.

In darkness, her anger slowly faded. In its place, those butterflies started fluttering in earnest again. And her nipples hardened, irritatingly stiff against the light caress of her soft dress. It was a nice piece, she thought, seeking distraction. A chic double-strap below-the-knee all cotton blue and white block print with a super-high thread count from Missoni. It had been all the rage last year. Back then the thing had sold off the rack for a cool £800 new, but she'd bought it used off ebay for £120 a few months back. Because scoring crumbs off bored stupid-rich Londoners is the only way an average girl can afford the good stuff.

And she'd only worn it at his request. Though he did just ask for something that would accentuate her lovely figure. But what did that mean? Be not a slutty cocktail nor some old prudish marm thing, of course. Elegant but not too expensive, which since she'd paid so little going upscale should be a big win with the man. And she'd spent simply hours getting ready. Bathing, teasing her hair, applying makeup and perfume, trying damn near every dress in her ward-

"Elaine," he said.

Her reverie interrupted, his voice flowed silky smooth and alluring. Those butterflies did a little somersault. Her nipples, still stiff despite her efforts, became a minor cheerleading squad for descent into lasciviousness. And so she sucked in a little breath unable to stem the tide.

"There is something missing in your life, a hole deep in your heart you hope to fill."

She shifted weight from one foot to the next and tossed her hair.

"In your fantasies," he continued, "you know what you crave. But you don't know how to achieve it in reality. And I promise you, simply taking you to bed for a romp won't fill that need. But if you'll trust me right now, even just a little bit, and give us time to work through this awkward beginning stage... if you just let yourself open up to explore," he said with a pause. "Well, I think you'd learn something valuable about me and whether what I offer can work to search your inner needs."

As she'd listened her arms relaxed, slowly unfurling to her side. The rebellious stance faded and her shoulders drooped. She really had come here wanting what he offered. Perhaps she even needed it. Hell, she just plain wanted him to do... whatever. Take her. Use her. Teach her. Those things dominant men do.

She'd just been a silly girl trying to rush away not from him but herself. And that realization slammed into her like a tackling rugby forward, dragging her down where emotions lay unchecked. Her belly knotted and a pained expression came to her face. Those butterflies no longer just fluttered, they became flapping griffins screaming the banshee call. She squeezed her thighs and clenched. Christ she wished he'd just bend her over right there and fuck her silly like the whore-

"Elaine," he said.

She opened her eyes. He stood there, entirely composed.

"Yes," she croaked.

He stepped over to her and took her hands. As their fingers intercrossed, she looked into his eyes and her lips quivered.

"May I?" He asked.

So it would be the ham-fisted pass approach, she thought for a half second. But she nodded and said, "yes." Then her heart skipped a beat.

He pulled her close, she closed her eyes, and felt him press against her as their lips met and in his arms she tumbled down into an abyss.

When their kiss finished he spoke. "Do what I say," he whispered in her ear. "No complaints, just experience it."

"OK," she whispered.

He took the wine glasses and set them on the counter. Reaching to the wall, he turned down the lights with a dimmer. And then he moved the coffee table over a bit out into the open. She had no idea what that was for. But the thought occurred that while her loins hoped he meant one thing by it, her head supposed if her pussy was right she'd be momentarily happy at first, but then later just a bit disappointed in the man for such lack of imagination.

As if seeing that train of thought play out on her face, he spoke. "You will kneel."

She would kneel on the table. Did he want that instead? Also unoriginal. She hoped she wouldn't need her fancy dress cleaned afterward. She bit her lip and let out an offhand shrug to appear agreeable.

"Your boots," he said, pointing to her feet.

She sat back down on the edge of the love seat and began unzipping her black leather knee-high boots, another rich-girl's eBay score.

"Kneeling goes back to antiquity," he said. "The experience has a profound effect. It's more important than you realize." He went to the couch, took two side pillows, and set them on the coffee table.

Her eyebrows raised, perplexed by the scene. That table's large size did present problems. How was she supposed to reach him? Perhaps he'd climb onto it too. No, that didn't make sense. Maybe it was all just nonsense. So she simply nodded, pretending to understand, going with the flow.

"Pay close attention to how it makes you feel," he said, fluffing the pillows and separating them.

She'd finished pulling off her boots. He took her hand as she rose and lead her to face the table, standing behind with hands on her bare shoulders. She started forward, to get on the table as she thought he expected, but he stopped her.

"Not yet," he said. "First, your knickers." He held out a hand to take them.

Her eyes bulged, her head whipped around, and she glanced at him over her shoulder with alarm. Worries raced by. What if they're damp? What if he smelled it? What if he makes some snide comment? A pit in her belly sank like an anchor. She stood utterly astonished by it all, cheeks burning and mouth agape.

"Your knickers," he repeated, this time sternly.

Of course, she thought. My knickers. As if that was the most usual thing in the world. She certainly hadn't expected that. How strange.

She reached down and up under her dress and quickly slid her underwear past each foot. As she'd feared, the crotch was completely soaked and she noticed a dank odor wafting. Crumpling the lacy lingerie into a tight ball, she plopped the sticky mess into his hand attempting nonchalance. But she thought he'd noticed she might die of mortification right there anyway.

He pocketed the underwear without a word, went to his plush chair, and sat facing her. Placing his hands on the armrest, he leaned back. "Kneel," he ordered, and crooked his head to watch. The slightest hint of a smile formed.

This man is a voyeuristic bastard, she thought. But even so, she complied, bending down onto the table on her hands and knees, crawling forward until she set each knee in a soft pillow. She was thankful for that consideration, the table's wood being hard and unforgiving. But the pillows were a bit too far apart. She slid them together for comfort and with a heave brought herself upright. Then she daintily spread the hem of her dress around to cover her thighs and took a deep breath, feeling very silly. She glanced up and saw him watch intently, a knuckle to his pursed lips.

"Close your eyes and do not speak without permission," he said softly.

She closed them.

"Pay attention to your belly," he said. "Think of this as like sexual meditation."

Those ever more boisterous butterflies in her belly were in no mood for meditation. Her heart thumped in her chest. Her breath drew raspy. Her erect nipples begged for mercy.

"You are defiant and petulant," he began. "Always proving your autonomy. Only moments ago you were prepared to simply walk away. But that is something I don't think you really want. At this early stage, it would be downright tragic."

She wanted to tell him she was already his, willing to do anything. I mean, she was kneeling on his coffee table with her knickers in his pocket for christ sakes!

"Yet here you are. Accepting. Trying honestly and with all due sincerity this strange new experience. Offering yourself to it. And for that I'm honored."

With that word, honored, the sense of being humbled broke through snarky defiance. A realization this man was giving to her just as much, if not more, as she gave him. Curious, she thought. She'd always expected submission meant total sexual service. Bend over and take it like a slut. But that was books and movies, she supposed. This was different.

Presently, a light touch came to her tummy. Mildly surprised, she hadn't heard him move. He was apparently by her side and low. From behind, she next felt another hand at her back, just above her pelvis. Belly to back, his hands taking her in a soft vice grip.

"Straighter," he said.

From her lower back he pressed forward to accentuate the curve while his other hand kept her her belly centered. With a bit of adjustment her posture straightened upward, her chest pushed out and her shoulders sat square with elegant poise.

"Palms open."

He turned her hands upright, she relaxed her fingers open, and he set the back of her hands down on her thighs.

"Head down," he added.

She tipped her head forward and he stood and stepped back. There was a moment of still serenity. Her rapidly thumping heart, her raspy short breaths, her lustful need, all came to awareness and she wondered if this is what he'd meant by sexual meditation.

Then, his fingers reached under her dress and grasped her knees.

"Legs apart," he whispered.

A thunderbolt of panic struck her to the core, and she tumbled downward as if thrown off a cliff into a void of dread. She let out a little squeak of rebellion, held her knees taught, and stifled an overpowering urge to bat his hands away.

"Relax," he commanded.

She took a deep breath and tried to collect herself. He was going to do this. She would not resist. She had given him this power, hadn't she? Yes, she had. He was doing something new and different and unexpected that was already turning her world upside down. She would let him take her to this place within her she sought to find. She would submit. As she'd always wanted to do.

Commanding all strength of self-control available, she accepted the situation and relaxed her thighs. In response, he slowly but firmly began pulling apart her knees. The pillows squeaked as they slid across polished wood. She shut her eyes tight and begged for it to end quickly. But he took his sweet time, letting every new sensation assault her awareness.

First, the skin in between her thighs, slick and slippery from arousal, separated with an audible smack. Next, as he continued prying, she felt herself begin to open. That fissure worked its way ever deeper inside, captivating her attention. But then, to her dismay, a little trickle from within dribbled out and her focus was diverted as it meandered a sluggish path down into the slime between her buttocks. It was equally sexy as it was disturbing.

He continued crassly spreading her legs, an unending torment. When, in a final disgrace, just above her now gaping hole, that protective hood gently pulled up and away to expose her free and fully to the elements. The shock of it almost made her orgasm on the spot. But, gritting teeth, she let out a little gasp and contained herself, lips quivering.