The Alpha Gender Ch. 14

You're in a sort of daze. You stand there staring unfocused at the closed elevator doors, thinking about how her muscular, curvy body felt, how she smelled, and how her lips and tongue tasted. Your cock is still semi-erect of course, as it always is when you've been in contact with her. Her voice is almost hypnotic; the accent of course that you now recognize as mostly French, but there are signs of other European influences too. You've detected German and Italian sounds: a German guttural effect on occasion, and she often adds a slight extra "uh" vowel sound at the ends of words ending in consonants, characteristic of Italian. But there seem to be others too, some Greek, and Eastern European sounds... maybe Russian, but you aren't exactly expert at identifying accents. Her speech is very elegant and sophisticated.

You drift over to the big mirror and continue ruminating on Mistress Olivia. You touch your lips where she kissed you. There's a trace of deep red from her lipstick, and you can still taste her tongue and lips on your mouth, a melon-like sweetness mixed with saltiness from traces of blood in your mouth from her thunderous slap. You examine your mouth to see where your teeth scraped the inside of your cheek when she hit you, a small amount of blood seeping from the wet tissue. The side of your face is sore and hot, with a little swelling. It's still red, but closer to pink rather than the crimson it turned right after the slap. Your mind drifts.

Beyond the accent, her voice still has a somewhat girlish sound, but with a beautiful, pure, melodic tone. You wonder if she sings, and imagine she'd have a beautiful singing voice. When she is stern or angry though, it's almost terrifying. There's a depth and hardness to her timbre and words that's chilling. Recalling those times though, you realize you've never heard her actually angry. Your guts clench when that hardness enters her voice, but anger is a loss of control she's never shown when chastising you... she seems to always be in control. Maybe annoyance. The perception of anger is more a feeling you get inside rather than a sound in her voice, or even her facial expression...

Your phone chirps, shaking you from your daydream state. Pulling it from your pants pocket, you see an email just came in from a new address: chloe.dankworth@odlr.com. It includes a very business-like introduction. She was instructed to send you the attached list by Madmoiselle De La Renta. It includes her title "Executive Assistant", and company name of ODLR Corporation, with a Chicago address. It's 7:15 now, so she's still working at 9:15 Chicago time. Seven fifteen? Shit, you've been daydreaming for fifteen or twenty minutes! You were worried about getting all Mistress's instructions completed in time, now you've got to move. You open the email attachment. It's a long list of requirements concerning the tidiness and cleanliness of the hotel suite, and they are very detailed. That's a lot to check in the short time you have. Fortunately, the place already looks very tidy, so hopefully there's not much out of place. But beyond this list, you worry you won't remember all the instructions Mistress rattled off.

A little panicked, you open a note on your phone, and begin listing her instructions as you recall them. Damn those pheromones. They creep into your mind and turn it into a badly managed doughnut shop! After five minutes of typing and searching your memory for what she said, you think you have it all down.

First, you remove the new suit and carefully hang it on the hangers left by Annika. You don't understand all the protocol of the new gender hierarchy, partially because it's not standardized, but you guess you'd probably be expected to call her "Miss" Annika or something if you addressed or referred to her in front of Mistress Olivia. You gather up all your discarded clothing and head to your temporary bedroom. Switching on the light, you see that it's a very posh room, better than the room you checked out of a couple days ago in this same hotel. It has its own bathroom, and an elegant marble shower!

Hanging up the suit in the closet and setting the dress shoes aside, you quickly dress in your casuals and sneakers while thinking about how to prioritize your task list for maximum efficiency. To make sure you don't forget the food, you pick up the nightstand phone right away and dial the room service extension. The order is taken without a hitch, and you add a big Caesar salad with chicken for yourself.

You call the front desk to request some first aid stuff for your wrists, then start going through Chloe's list on your phone, room by room to straighten up things as best you can. You waste a lot of time trying to find where Mistress's dirty laundry is supposed to go, but finally locate a door behind the kitchen that has a large white cloth hamper full of her clothing items. You're very worried you'll run out of time, and are moving with so much energy and speed that you're sweating. As you're putting dishes away in the kitchen, you hear the door chime. You jog to the bottom of the stairs and are momentarily confused: is there a door on the downstairs level aside from the elevator, or was the chime from the door at the top level? It's a big suite. You start looking around for a door on the lower level when the chime rings again. Sounds like it's upstairs. You climb the steps rapidly, and peer through the peephole viewer: there's a male valet standing there. You open the door, and he looks startled to see you. He's young and thin, with a Latin appearance. He's holding a full first aid kit. He smiles uneasily, nods, and extends it toward you. You realize you're very sweaty and out of breath, so it's no wonder he's taken aback. You smile and say thank you, accepting it.

"Thank you, sir." He replies with a nod. "You can just leave it out here next to the door when finished. Best to you, sir." He turns and steps back toward the elevator.

After you bring it back downstairs, you duck into 'your' bathroom and open it, finding some disinfectant and antibiotic cream to apply. You decide to lightly bandage your wrists with gauze too, since you assume Mistress doesn't want to see your bruised and lacerated wrists. Checking your phone, you see that it's 8:05. Not much time left. You head back to the kitchen to finish up. When done, you find the oils and towels Mistress mentioned and arrange them carefully at her bed. Nothing left but to strip, maybe brush your hair and fix her drink. You hope your cleaning will be acceptable but you're out of time. You remove all your clothes, setting your phone on the floor next to Mistress's bed, check your appearance in the mirror and head to the bar. As you head back to her bedroom with the drink, you see from a wall clock that it's 8:28. You got this. Just as you pass into her bedroom you hear the elevator doors open. "Just in time." You think, relieved, as you smooth out the white towel on the bed. You try to arrange yourself next to it in a way that would please Mistress, holding the martini glass out to her and feeling very self-conscious.

She doesn't walk to the bedroom immediately. You hear her athletic shoes padding around, but she says nothing, and it sounds like she first visits the living room, then the kitchen. Your nervousness increases. A few moments pass, and she appears in the doorway, skin gleaming with sweat, a white towel over one shoulder. Her long black hair is tied back in a loose ponytail and she stares straight at you, though without expression. She reaches up and rests her hands on the doorframe, leaning against it and exposing her dark armpit hairs to you.

After a few seconds of silence, you decide you should speak. "Did you have a good workout, Mistress?"

Her eyes glance around the room as she takes a breath. "Your heart is racing boy, and you're sweating. Did you complete everything?"

"I think so Mistress. Did you... did you see something out of place?"

She smiles and drops her hands to her sides, slowly walking toward the bed. Blood drains back into her arms and you see thick veins in her hands and forearms swell with blood.

She notices you staring at her arms and cocks her head. "Ça a l'air un peu pressé... it looks a little rushed... though it's not too bad for a first time. But you are nervous Pétunia... non?"

You shrug. She sits on the edge of the bed across from you. "I promise not to hit you again tonight, mon cher."

You hand the drink to Mistress with a smile. She accepts it, but her brow lowers as it nears her mouth. She sniffs briefly, then rolls her eyes and subtly shakes her head.

"This is a vodka martini." Her hand jerks, you flinch, and your face is suddenly doused with liquid.

You blink against the slight stinging sensation, and the shock. You feel the olive resting on your leg, and pick it up. It occurs to you that she never even tasted the drink, but recalling when you mixed the drink, you're pretty sure the bottle you grabbed was Absolut... and it probably doesn't pay to doubt Mistress. You never knew martinis could be identified by odor.

"I drink dry gin martinis boy." She says calmly, after a few seconds. "Go rinse yourself off, fix me another drink... properly... and replace the towel on the bed." She hands you the empty glass and rises, heading toward the bathroom.

"You must listen to every detail boy. If you are unable to do that, you'll have to wear a pad of paper around your neck with a pen at all times, like a mute beggar." She calls from the bathroom.

"Please forgive me Mistress. I won't make this mistake again." You head off to the wet bar, wiping your face with your forearm. You look down at your hands, which are shaking.

At the bar, you clean yourself up and take a deep, calming breath. Then you fix the correct drink. You remember her specifically saying 'gin' now and feel stupid. You were rushing, and got sloppy. Her reaction was humiliating, but you're thankful it wasn't another slap. She hits very hard.

When you return, she's still in the bathroom. You hear her humming. Setting the drink on the nightstand, you replace the wet towel with another, smoothing it out carefully. You grab the martini and step around the bed, positioning yourself on your knees on the side closest to the bathroom, holding the drink up, head lowered.

She steps out of the bathroom fully naked, her hair brushed out. "I like that posture boy!" She accepts the drink from you and lifts it to her mouth for a sip.

"Mmmm, much better."

You look up as she drains the glass and chews the olive. Her beautiful trimmed dark bush is inches from your face, her big, protruding clit visible through the hair. Your cock lurches upward. The fragrance of roses is strong, but accompanied by a strong musky scent you noticed before, after she returned from a workout. She hands you the empty glass with an impish smile and pushes your face into her crotch with her other hand.

"Give us a kiss, mon petite pétunia, then go open the coconut oil. Mistress needs a deep massage."

You kiss her clit tenderly. She holds your head in place for a few moments, forcing you to breathe her scent in deeply, then releases you.

You stand and cross to the other side of the bed. Opening the coconut oil, you squirt some onto your palms, and rub them together to warm it up. Mistress stretches and rotates her shoulders, and you watch her big muscles ripple and bulge as you kneel on the bed next to the towel. Her beautiful breasts of course are fully bare, and they sway from side to side as her torso bends. Her dark areolas are huge and mesmerizing. Your cock reaches full erection, and you hope you get to massage her front.

She lowers herself onto the towel, face down. Her triceps bulge and her breasts squish against the mattress, expanding out on either side of her wide back. She pushes her hair to one side and turns her head toward you.

"You may mount me boy. Concentrate on my upper back and neck, especially my right trapezius. It's always tight and tense. This is going to be a workout for your hands - I need as much pressure as you can manage."

You slide onto her, sitting on her buttocks. You are surprised at how firm they are, virtually all muscle. Your erect cock rests in the upper portion of the crease between her cheeks, but extends out over her back by quite a bit.

She sighs and says, "I love to feel your pénis against me, but don't you dare let anything drip onto me from the end. Pay attention to that, and wipe with one of the small towels."

It's a good thing she said that because you feel precum already starting. You grab a towel and wipe immediately, keeping it nearby. "Yes Mistress."

You push your hands into her upper back and begin squeezing and rubbing masses of firm sinew. Her muscular definition is so sharp it's not hard at all to know where to focus. Her skin is very warm, which makes the oil flow smoothly from the start. You find yourself groaning involuntarily as you work your hands against her powerful body. You massaged Nina many times, and a variety of other women through the years, but you've never felt anything like Mistress Olivia's physique. Her skin is so thin, in places it's like rice paper. Ripples, striations and veins under the skin so intricate, discovering her athletic anatomy is a constant surprise.

Mistress turns her head and catches you with her peripheral vision. "You are enjoying yourself, mon pétunia? What do you think of my body? Tell me."

You're almost at a loss for words. "I've never felt anything like it Ma'am. I'm not even sure how to describe... but it's all so... powerful and beautiful. My appreciation for your dedication just overwhelms me. Every muscle... I... I'm sorry Mistress, it's almost an emotional reaction."

"I understand boy. As words come to you, keep trying. Part of what you feel is chemical stimulation... pheromonal and hormonal influences. Your neural receptors are being flooded. Please don't resist expressing how I affect you. But squeeze and push harder. You can't hurt me, no matter how hard you try. I need strength, pressure. Especially where my traps meet my neck."

You spend the next few minutes working her thick traps and neck as hard as you can. You have to wipe your cock several times to keep from dripping on her, but it never goes flaccid. Your hands and arms are feeling sore, exhausted, and almost spent when she turns over beneath you. She is smiling.

"Now this isn't to relieve my tension... mais pour mon plaisir sensuel, and yours. Explore my body boy. No restrictions. Her huge breasts fall away from the middle of her chest, but they are remarkably firm and heavy. You begin exploring them first, squeezing them, hefting them, licking and kissing them. Her thick nipples become erect almost immediately, standing out well over a half inch from the dark, pebbly areolas. You've sometimes wondered about their firmness. They seem to be too perky under clothing to be anything other than implants. After all, she wears no bra! But now that you can explore them fully, you see no scars and they feel quite real, though very firm. You begin exploring her upper chest, as well as closer to the ribcage. She flexes her pectorals, and you can feel how thick and solid the muscles beneath her boobs are. There is a rippling of muscle between her collar bones and breasts that catches your eye - like bundles of steel cable bunching and tensing. When she flexes, a network of veins stands out from the muscle, some running all the way from her breasts up her neck.

Moving down to her stomach, you feel the thin skin covering the wall of muscle down there. When she sucks her stomach in, though stretched out, you can still feel the muscular ridges between each pair of ab muscles with your fingertips. Then when she tightens her abdominal wall, they become almost like river rocks in shape and hardness. You kiss the skin around her belly button, marveling that there is so little fat that the friction from your lips catches the paper-thin skin enough to slide it across the muscle wall underneath. She has a few skin blemishes and freckles down there, but you find them very sexy. The skin above her navel is stretched tight laterally and forms a concavity in the valley between the hard muscles.

It's very difficult for you to reconcile her obvious strength and physical superiority with the fact that she is a woman. Being a man confronted by a female with muscles so much bigger, harder and stronger than yours, yet still a feminine, gorgeous woman deals your ego quite a blow. Though you're obsessed and smitten with her, self-comparison is almost automatic when looking at and feeling her powerful body, and you obviously come up short. It's a confusing paradox.

You turn your attention to her arms and shoulders, which you have been dying to explore, when the door chimes. You are disappointed by the interruption.

Mistress clucks her tongue and says, "Neuf heures et quart déjà. Food. Put this on." She slides open the bottom nightstand drawer and pulls out a glossy lavender gift bag from Henrikas, an LA lingerie shop you've driven past a few times on the way to the office. Inside is a very risqué pair of men's silk boxers in scarlet with black trim, with fishnet panels on the sides and buttocks. The only real opaque fabric is at the crotch, but it's narrow enough that a package as large as yours would be visible from the sides. There is also a matching tank top in the bag that is completely fishnet. Wearing this, you would look like a poufy male New Orleans streetwalker... or she-male.

You grit your teeth, but you now know better than to question Mistress's decision, or even hesitate. You sit on the edge of the bed and start pulling on the 'clothes' to go and meet room service.

As you stand, she playfully slaps your ass and says, "Let me see... spin for me."

You lower your head and turn to display your new fashion gift for her. She gives you a raised eyebrow, a puckered smile, and some kissy sounds (No French 'Ooh la la'?). "Have them set the food on the dining table, but leave the umm, cloche plate covers to keep our food warm. Then get ton joli fond back here, mon pétunia!" She slaps her own ass when she says 'fond' leaving no doubt what she means.

Your ears are hot as you trot off toward the steps. As you walk briskly, you realize the boxers are much worse than you'd feared. Your large cock, still partially erect, wags back and forth, whipping the loose fabric from side to side. It must look like a horse's tail shooing flies to an observer. You'll have to make sure to walk slowly after you let the hotel people in. You wonder 'What have I become?' This must be what it feels like to be a young starlet auditioning on the casting couch.

You get to the top of the curved staircase and look down at your boxers to see if they need to be adjusted for optimal 'coverage'. They're fine, other than the fact that your now semi-flaccid dong tents the boxers a good four inches out from, and six inches below, your groin. And there's a dark wet pre-cum spot the size of a nickel at center front. Wonderful. No way to fix it, might as well just open the door and pretend everything's normal.

Opening the door with a smile, you're greeted by a young woman and a chubby middle-aged man, dressed in crisp hotel uniforms. The man bends slightly, with his hands on the steel handle of a food trolley draped in white linen. Both are smiling, but their eyes dip down briefly to get a gander at whatever-the-heck you're wearing, then back up. The woman betrays no change of expression, but the man now looks a trifle pained: either disgusted-with, or sorry-for, you: hard to tell. The woman directs the man to show the bottle of cabernet and lift each plate warmer for you, for your approval. You nod and then the man pushes the cart off to the right, while the woman remains in place. You're not sure where he's going, but you quickly realize there's a dumbwaiter over there. You'd never noticed it. Makes sense - they're not exactly going to push that cart down the stairs. He secures it and pushes a button to send it down. The woman moves quickly down the steps to receive the cart. You follow her but slowly, to avoid generating any embarrassing 'cock-oscillation'. Once it reaches the bottom, the man follows you down. He pushes the cart toward the dining area. You realize the woman is mostly there to supervise him. Men apparently can't be trusted to deliver food to wealthy guests by themselves anymore.