The Stand-In

"Hmmmm? Let me think on that?"

"Need some help with the answer?" and I reached for myself to tap at her Y. "My, Lord! Already? Is the bad girl getting wet?"

"I think so." She was playing with her voice and I loved it.

"If you're not sure, would you like me to make you very wet, bad girl?"

"Yes."

"Be yourself, bad girl. I know you speak in complete sentences."

"Yes, please. Make me wet."

"I'd love to do that. I'll move so you can turn over for me."

I slid my legs, slowly across and over her thighs one-at-a-time and up her sides until my knees were just below her armpits, and I straightened my body over her.

"Turn over."

"I don't have room!" she said with urgency.

"You do if you squirm," was my simple reply. "I hope you like the view."

I could feel her begin to turn herself. The pressure of her shoulders tingled against my thighs. When her face began to appear, she saw me straddled over her, my full erection waiting. She smiled and I watched the bad girl trying to decide: Do I take him deep in my mouth right now, or do I push him down to my cunt to make me wet with his mouth and mix with my own juices?

Once I had managed to wiggle and squirm my way onto my back, my mind replayed a part of the foodie show that had been on as background noise as I had dressed earlier. The chef's words, "It's all about presentation," ran through my mind as I gazed up at his meaty member. I licked my lips and thought, "Indeed," as I gave him a wicked smile.

Snared between his thighs, his hard knees buttressed against my armpits, I laid my head back on the pillow and watched his face as I ran my hands the length of his inner thighs, and when my hands converged at the base of his scrotum I could see his deep breathed inhalation. "Ladies Choice" was no choice at all with all of that maleness draped in my face like grapes on the vine. I wanted the full fuck of course, but the greedy me wanted the appetizer too. We had plenty of time before the banquet, and there was tomorrow.

Like a found treasure I cradled his scrotum in my hands and my thumbs traced the shape of each testicle. I raised my head and my tongue tip began to trace the veins that ran in distended rivulets all along his shaft. I needed my head to be higher off the bed. My neck muscles were not adequate to the task at hand. I stopped my tongue's travels to give voice to a request.

"Don, sweetie, raise my head a little higher please."

He smiled.

"I applaud your choice," and he adjusted the pillow underneath my head.

I looked him in the eyes and my eyebrow arched in amusement at his 'Lord of the Manner' tone. I used my left hand like a rudder to steer his maleness toward my mouth. I tasted him before I tasted him and my mouth watered in anticipation. I closed in and guided the tip of my tongue in feathered strokes of wetness across the surface of the little mind's helmet, circling the corona, beginning and ending at its cleft. I used my teeth to nip all along the coronal ridge. I felt his body shudder. I watched his facial changes as my fingers played upon his silky sac, finding and tracing the outline of the oblong pebbly protuberances. I applied a bit of pressure to each with my thumb as I cradled his scrotum in the palm of my hand.

I took his penis between the fingers and thumb of my unbusy hand and admired the scarlet red of my nail tips against the white flesh of his cock. Having satisfied some of my tactile and visual needs, I levered his magnificence into my mouth again and paid homage with my tongue in long flat-tongued strokes on the descent closing my lips in a tight tight "O" and employing my suck reflex on the ascent. The repetition of my ministrations was causing tiredness of my neck muscles, and even with pushing a little further toward his root each time my progress was being hindered by my fatigue. I wanted, no I needed, my mouth to be his vessel of pleasure to nurture my desired moments of submissive surrender.

I was caught up in my primal appetites and in a husky voice, I asked "Is the bad, bad, boy in the room, Don?"

"He certainly can be. Is that what you want?"

"Yes."

"Well as before, speak in a complete sentence, please."

"My bad girl needs a visit from her bad, bad boy."

I shuddered.

I could tell he knew what I wanted, and on some plane I suspected given his foreknowledge of me he knew my desire even before I did and had arranged for it to be so.

"I want some rough, some pain. I want you to purge in my throat when I ready you. I want you to uncage the animal. I paused and coyly smiled, "Are my sentences complete enough, doll?"

My nipples hard beads, my cunt pooling, my clit in spontaneous spasm in anticipation of the next few minutes flooded my nerve endings with erotic zings and zaps.

I took his phallus into my mouth again and as before I was not able to reach the base where it grows from his pelvis. I pulled my mouth in another tight "O" and drew back in a long suck up the shaft to the tip. I pressed the cap into the roof of my mouth with the flat of my tongue and sucked pushing my tongue back and forth in a quick seamless motion, then as I released suction my lips fed your length into my pleasure cavern as far as my neck muscles allowed. Saltiness assailed my tongue from the tears of precum signaling my assault's effectiveness. I groaned my pleasure and continued my ministrations, but again my neck was tiring.

Don bunched the pillow up further aiding the elevation of my head further and taking some stress from my neck, but then his hands laid hold of my head, bits of my hair were trapped in the fingers that gripped me tightly. Here was my bad, bad boy to the rescue. His cock came alive and brought itself slamming into the back of my throat. His hips thrust him in deep, as his hands supported my head allowing my mouth its performance as scabbard to sword, his hands forcing the sheathing and unsheathing hard and quick. I struggled to reach myself. His position made the length of my arm come up short. I twisted my upper torso frustrated and he shifted the position of his knee to the outside of my struggling arm. My fingers dipped into my center, into the wet pool, then traced a path to my burgeoning orchid. Pleasure and its counterpart, pain, melded together and I was taken to Elysium as his ejaculate ran down my throat and coated my mouth with its saltiness. I was drunk on his seed. When he was done, he gently smoothed my hair against the pillow and took note of the white milky display of his power threaded on my lips. He took my mouth in a tender kiss only to leave there and roughly bite my shoulder once more. His body now lay its weight against my torso, his legs between mine. This had been a new edginess, a new path for us both. I brought my legs over his and tucked my heels on the inside of his thighs and we slept.

Waking a short time later, his body still a cover to mine, I wriggled against him.

"What, want more?"

I laughed, "Always, but not now. You have to leave and get dressed. We have the banquet in just over an hour."

"We could skip it."

"It's why we're here."

"Is It?"

"Among other things."

I gave him a quick kiss and a shove. He climbed off me, then bent from the side of the bed and his hand covered mine as I fingered the places on my shoulder where he had bitten me. He started to say something. I placed a finger to his lips.

"Shh. It's unnecessary" and I drew in a deep breath of satisfaction.

He winked and stood erect. It was habit now how we crossed these bridges of the unknown. It was why we kept coming back. It was why there was trust in our lustful play.

While dressing getting ready to go to his own room, Don chatted about the evening's affair. He quizzed me on the time of my arrival. He said he wanted to get there early so if a change in our seating was necessary, he could take care of it without calling attention to us. He said he would meet me there, glass of wine in hand, and then he was gone.

From that moment eight years ago, when my hand had first touched his and the electric surge had robbed me of breath, I'd been his willing accomplice in this annual sexual adventure. For all of his confidence and take charge abilities, he would not have made the first move, but when I made the move on him, he willingly engaged.

Our early ground rules after our first encounter were still the same now. We had kept them. The Lyn and Don we knew were the ones that existed at this annual event. The ones that lived in our bodies the rest the year were strangers. I knew that he was married as he knew I was, our rings were brands that never left our fingers. We chose to leave the gold tethers but did not allow these outsiders in our world. I thought to Google him once and then decided against it because knowing Don from that outside place would break the rules. Besides there was nothing I wanted to know or needed to know for which I was willing to forfeit the Don that belonged to me.

As I dressed, in my mind's eye I could see him, how he used my body for his pleasure, how he gave my body its due. I had played slut to his pimp, Cleopatra to his Anthony, slave to his master, Amazon to his slave. We were willing to venture into the gray if not the dark to feed the spirit of pleasure. He was my aphrodisiac, my spear for impalement for deliverance upon the altar of pleasure. Quieting my thoughts, I finished my makeup, patted the last stray hairs in place. I did one of those hip swings a model does which allowed my skirt slit to reveal the long silk-covered gam beneath. The dress was cardinal red, body hugging bodice, almost pencil skirt with that strategic slit. It invited and held at bay at the same time. I stepped into my heels, red three-inch lethal weapons, did a 360, then back kicked my right leg and winked at the woman in the mirror.

When I arrived at the entrance of the banquet room, Don was standing across from me, sipping wine. On seeing me, I could see the appreciation in his eyes. I did a little pivot shift which showed my leg's muscled beauty through the peep show curtain of my dress. He smiled, and shook his head as if agreeing to a thought in his head. I walked in his direction as he turned and ordered another glass of wine.

Handing me the wine, he said, "Hello Lyn. It's so nice to see you made it again this year."

"Likewise, Don."

We mingled, saying our hellos to folks we had met in past years and introducing ourselves to newcomers. When it came time to be seated for the meal, with a gentle guiding hand to my back, Don directed me to a table. He pulled out my chair and when I was seated, he went to the opposite side and seated himself. It was just as he promised. We liked to sit across from each other, to have a full view of the others face as conversation ensued around the table with others. We deliberately parried questions of a personal nature by others.

As the meal was eaten and before the speeches began, I placed my foot on Don's then allowed it to travel up his leg past his knee to the inside of his thigh. When at his crotch I rubbed the sole of my shoe against his bulge and then very carefully allowed my spike to run up under the point where his trousers met his chair. I saw his raised brow, and I smiled as I peered at him through half-lidded eyes. I wiggled my foot and pressed again before I allowed my foot to descend. I giggled out loud as a voice in my head said, "Danger, danger, Will Robinson."

In my attentive inattentiveness, I missed the fact that dessert was being served. The man sitting next to me queried if I wanted my dessert.

"Indeed," and I looked at Don straight on and smiled my loveliest smile.

After the ladies at our table had been served, the waiter brought me my cherry pie with vanilla ice cream. I'm sure I smiled as I thought that when things were right and comfortable, there was irony, humor, and meaning in just about everything. I didn't need to look at Lyn to know that she had noticed the chef's simple, but appropriate, desert choice for his diners. But I did anyway. She had tilted her head down and dabbed her lips with a napkin behind which I knew a smile was hidden. I enjoyed my combination dessert/entrée/appetizer and again drifted back.

This Mixed Member Guest was a big event at her club. Our first year, I had been a last-minute substitute for her husband who had been called away on some business matter. It had been arranged by a golf-friend of mine who asked me if I might stand-in for a friend of his. Now, whenever I played with Barry, I always said a silent "Thank you" to him.

He had described her as a very good player, competitive, but not overly serious about her game. He had also gone on to fill-in some guy-to-guy details: pretty, built, stylish, social, good sense of humor. But Barry, a bachelor, said she always seemed so self-assured and self-confident that he knew of no men who had ever made a move on her—or had even tried to approach her to assess the possibility. We had won the event that first year by hanging onto a healthy lead as we both seemed to have lost some of our focus on the second day.

She had made the initial move after the first round's dinner, this very event we were celebrating tonight. As her last minute sub, I had been dutiful in remaining close to her as I met new people, made the small talk, and served as the drink-runner for the various group's we entered and exited during cocktail hour. At dinner, I had sat beside her as her playing-partner. I remembered Barry's thumbnail of her. All of it was true but understated.

Not far into dinner, I realized I was talking to Lyn more than I was talking to the other players at the table. She was better at sharing her attentions with our table-mates, but through the meal, I was very much aware that more of her attention was shifting to me. Our conversation shifted quickly from the tournament to personal situations. By dessert, each of us was comfortable with who we were, how we lived our lives, and that we were happy and satisfied people. Before coffee was served, I had asked her to dance.

When she took my hand to follow my lead, I knew within our first steps together that Barry had been right and wrong at the same time. Lyn was self-assured and self-confident as she molded to follow me. She accepted the press of my right hand to her back. When I drew my left hand to my shoulder, she offered no resistance. There was no delay in her breasts as my shoulders and chest guided her. The contact of our thighs was never broken. Her head had found a comfortable spot on my shoulder from which it never moved. Unlike our table behavior, we said nothing.

Retaking our seats, we were congratulated on our performance. Lyn handled the praise well; I tried to be accepting of it, but I was embarrassed inside. Along with coffee, I had ordered a drink and retreated to it. As others rose to their own dances, we remained seated. The conversation was still, eight years later, burned into my brain where it would live forever.

"Don, the dance was lovely. Thank you."

"You are more than welcome, Lyn." My eyes were down, focused instead on the ice-cubes.

"I want you as much as you want me."

My eyes crept up to that smile. "I'm glad you know, Lyn." I had pushed the glass aside and drawn the coffee cup closer. "We should finish the evening's festivities."

But her shoe was at my ankle again tapping my door to bring me back to the present. My annual recollection went back to its special space. Dessert was being cleared and the music was beginning.

"Care to dance, Lyn?" I asked already rising from my chair with her answer not necessary.

"I'd love that," she smiled.

I pulled the red dress to its now customary place and followed the music. I had learned over the years how to talk and lead at the same time.

"Partner," I explained, "as bad as we both were on the course today, I have come to the conclusion that we have no chance to win this thing tomorrow. But we were very, very good this afternoon. What do you say we abandon the tournament chances and do what we do so well together after this shindig is over?"

The slit in Lyn's shirt allowed her to answer as she shifted her thigh more to the inside of mine. This year, she was the one who said nothing as we danced.