Turning the Tables

She stepped onto the train platform and looked around expectantly. Where was he, the tall man in the American-cut suit? A porter made eye contact and made a beeline for her bag. "No, I'm waiting for someone," she protested as he reached forward.

"Nein, fraulein, he's waiting for you. Follow me."

She followed the porter through the terminal, out through the throng of busy people on their way to business meetings and reunions with family and holidays and she felt lost and out of control. She was used to being in charge. She was used to calling the shots. But the train ticket had arrived at her flat with a one word note attached--"Come", and she had. Unquestioningly.

The porter led her to a black S-Class waiting at the curb, and the driver opened the door for her as the porter placed her bag in the trunk. At last she would meet the tall man, the one who had summoned her. The one who thought he could tame her. She felt control returning. She would show him. Face to face at last she could laugh at him.

But the back seat was empty. And the driver closed the door behind her and the uncertainty came back with a vengeance. What was she doing here? Why had she come? Who was this man who dared to think she was at his beck and call? She thought of her tools in the trunk. The ones she had brought to put him in his place, and they calmed her. She would leave him beaten and unsatisfied. She would show him.

She played all the things she would do to him--and things she would make him do to her--through her mind as the dreary industrial city rolled silently past her window. She drew strength planning her torture, and stepped out of the car with confidence as the doorman at the grand hotel opened her door. His eyes took in her red hair, her milky white skin, and all her curves that curved exactly in the right places and she drew even more strength from his naked want.

The doorman closed the car door and gestured to a bellman. He whispered into the man's ear, and a look of understanding crossed the man's face. "This way, ma'am" the bellman said, taking her bag and leading her past the desk and through the wood paneling and crystal and plaster and mirrors of the lobby to the elevator.

She was growing tired of being led around. She was of half a mind to turn around, climb back into the S-Class and demand to be returned to the train station. Still...she was intrigued. Intrigued in a way she had not been in a long time. She would allow this bellman to lead her around. But he would be the last man to lead her this day.

The door at the end of the hall was cracked, and the bellman pushed it open and led her into the suite. There were two doors in the room. One was closed, and from the other side she could hear voices. And although she could not hear the words they were saying, one voice was clearly giving directions and two were clearly acknowledging their assent. The bellman led her to the other door, beckoning her inside.

A bed. A tasteful blue suit jacket carefully folded at the end, a conservative silk tie--some sort of regimental stripe, she thought--carelessly tossed on top. On the bedside table gold cufflinks and a battered Rolex DateJust--much older than her or its current owner. The watch of a man who wore a watch to tell time, not to make a statement.

Somehow, as she was taking in the room, the bellman had quietly disappeared and silently pulled the door shut behind him. On the back of the door was a post-it note, incongruous in its lurid yellow. She stepped forward to read it. In a careless script was one word: "Undress".

She laughed, but her laughter was forced. Undress? He summons her, sends surrogates to collect her and direct her, and he expects her to just...follow his terse instructions? Not a chance.

She sat on the bed and crossed her legs and arms. She would wait for him like that, and when he came she would laugh at him and she would leave. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. Her anger grew. No, she wouldn't leave. She would stay, and she would tease him and she would deny him and when he reached the point where he would do anything for release, anything at all, THEN she would leave.

She heard the other door open, and she steeled herself for what was about to come. He was going to be so sorry he had ever even considered summoning her. Then a soft knock at the door, and it opened a fraction and he leaned in. Tall, with dark curly hair greying at the temples just so. A pair of fashionably unfashionable horn rim glasses. A starched white dress shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled up. Tired. Stern. But...kind. Stern, but kind. Even though that made no sense that was what went through her mind as she took him in for the first time.

He smiled at her, and she could see the smile extend to his eyes, see them crinkle slightly with warmth. "So, so sorry," he said. "One more call. Ten more minutes. Not a minute more. I promise." He began to withdraw. She started to say something--anything--to let him know his words meant nothing. That he did not get to dictate the schedule. That she was angry with him, so angry, and she was going to make him pay for making her angry. Angry at him, angry at herself.

But no words came out. The door began to close. Then it openede again and he ducked back in. "Oh. Be naked when I get back. I'm going to make you feel just fine." And then he was gone.

She sat there, unsure of what had just happened. Unsure of what to do next. But when the door opened again in ten minutes on the dot, she offered her naked body to him and said "come make me feel fine."

"Come make me feel fine." She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. Why had she said them? Why had she used his words? Why was she nakedw on this stranger's hotel room bed, in a strange city? How exactly had she gotten to this point? The last thing she remembered clearly was the door closing, ten minutes ago and those words--"Oh. Be naked when I get back. I'm going to make you feel just fine." And now she was, and she had just asked him to do just that. This was not going as she had planned at all. She had to get herself back under control. She had to take control of the moment.

He closed the door gently behind him and sank heavily into an armchair, facing her. He smiled a weary smile at her, and leaned over to untie his black, oh-so-serious Allen Edmonds wingtips. He kicked them off to reveal light blue and black striped socks, with red toes and heels. They looked like something Dr. Seuss would have drawn, and she giggled in surprise at their incongruity. She could feel herself being charmed. By his socks, of all things. Must regain control, she told herself again.

"You gotta have a little flair," he smiled, looking up and meeting her eyes. "I'm glad you came, you know." A thought occurred to him--she watched it flit across his face--and he stood up in a quick fluid motion. "Sorry. Be right back. It'll be worth it." The door closed behind him.

What happens when two strong wills meet? she asked herself as she listened to him moving around in the outer room. Someone has to give. Clearly he thinks it will be me. He believes he has the upper hand. I will take it back. How do I take it back? What do I do first? What do I NOW? Why am I so wet? Ohmygod why is my hand between my legs? She pulled it away rapidly, shocked by its presence.

The door opened and he came back in, bearing tall-stemmed crystal champagne flutes and a bottle of good French champagne. Not one of the "name" labels that loud nouveau riche Russians showily order in the trendiest restaurants on the boulevards of Paris, but a champagne that the sommelier at the small bistro around the corner would quietly recommend to a regular customer. She smiled approvingly at his choice, but quickly stifled it. Must not cede any more ground to this man. Must not be charmed by him.

"Champagne?" he asked, placing the glasses on the dresser and peeling the foil from the top of the green bottle.

"Take off your pants," she demanded, taking the offensive.

"Soon enough, princess," he laughed, swatting her demand away effortlessly as he untwisted the wire guard. Dammit. Nobody brushed her off that easily.

"Mine are off," she said, immediately regretting it. SHE didn't whine or cajole or wheedle. SHE demanded.

"But you're so much prettier to look at than I am," he smiled, twisting out the cork with a satisfying pop. "Champagne first."

She needed to win a point badly. For herself, if nothing else. "No," she said firmly. "Pants off. Then champagne."

He put the bottle down with a laugh. "So be it, princess." Dammit again. He was humoring her, not obeying her. But the bottle was down, and he was fiddling with the silver buckle of his soft black leather belt. This is a win, she told herself. A small win, yes, but a win nonetheless. The tide could be turned. She began to feel more confident.

He stepped out of his pants, and carefully folded them over the back of a chair. "Now your shirt." He doffed an imaginary cap with a smile and complied, unbuttoning the crisp white shirt and dropping it to the floor. His chest was hairy...it had been so long since she had been with a man with chest hair and it was threaded with silver and it was manly and sexy and ohmygod I need to focus let's focus on those ridiculous socks and ohmygod they're so cute look away, look away and whatever you do don't look at those tight boxer briefs look away!

"Told you you were prettier to look at," he smiled, turning his attention back to the champagne.

"Your briefs, if you please," she said thickly, knowing as she said it he could hear the thickness in her voice and hating herself for it.

"A gentleman always takes his socks off first," he laughed, leaning over and pulling them off. "But the briefs wait until after champagne." Firmly. She decided to let him win this one. Besides, she wanted a glass of that good French champagne.

She sat up against the backboard and accepted the proffered glass. He sat on one leg at the end of the bed and turned toward her. "God, you are a lovely thing," he said, casually reaching out and lightly caressing her shin with his free hand, touching her for the first time. She shivered at his touch, aware of his nearness, aware of his smell--peppermint and eucalyptus and sandalwood--and oh so aware of his want. The champagne was cold and dry and perfect and despite that shiver she began to feel in charge again.

They sat in silence drinking their champagne, he massaging her shin and calf, she pretending to not notice, pretending not to notice the warmth and the wet growing between her legs. "I haven't decided if I'm going to let you come tonight" she said matter-of-factly between sips, breaking the silence.

He laughed. "You will. The more important question is how many times I'm going to make you come first." She met his gaze. Alright, boy. Challenge accepted.

She turned her empty glass upside down triumphantly. "All gone. Show me."

"Fair enough," he said, standing up and setting his untouched glass down on the dresser by the bottle. With a smooth tug his briefs were at his ankles, and he quickly stepped out. He was semi-erect and ohmygod he had pubic hair. Neatly trimmed pubic hair, but pubic hair nonetheless. The pretty boys she was used to were always clean shaven. She insisted on that. Much neater, and it caused no interference with the chastity cages she liked to make them wear to remind them who was in charge.

"You have hair," she said, surprised but not surprised. Of course he had hair. Not wanting to admit she liked its manliness.

"Grown men usually do," he laughed.

"No. That's not going to work for me." Yes, it did. Of course it did.

"Well, then we have a problem," he said, the laugh gone.

"It seems we do," she replied with a finality she did not believe or want. And then, yes! There it was! A moment of uncertainty in his eyes. Things had taken a turn. They weren't going as HE had planned it. She almost had him where she wanted him. But she had to tread carefully...NOW. She had to make HIM do want what SHE wanted him to do...no, she had to make him WANT to do what she wanted him to. The next step was crucial. If she pushed too hard she could push him away. Steel his resolve. Push him away and she...lost? She wasn't certain any more. But she knew she wanted this man in front of her now, but on her terms. Not his.

She made her play, crawling forward along the bed towards him, taking him in her hand, pulling him towards her, feeling him stiffen in her hand as hard as her small pink nipples, wanting to taste him wanting him in her now but no no put that thought away put it away focus, focus...almost there, almost right where I want him, just a quick taste just a quick taste to put him right where I want him never mind that I want him in my mouth I'm doing this to put him where I want him and then he was in her mouth and he moaned slightly and so did she and she smiled.

After a long moment--longer than she had originally intended--she pulled away. Reluctantly. He exhaled heavily. Had he drawn a single breath while he was in her mouth? She didn't think so. Oh yes, she had him where she wanted him. "Lay down," she said, and he did. "You have a shaving kit in the bathroom?" He nodded wordlessly. "I will get it." He nodded. She had won.

She padded happily to the bathroom. Perhaps she would not get to use the toys she had brought with her, the toys designed to chasten and hurt and humiliate, but she was in control and that was fine and he was going to make her feel good and that was fine and she was wet and she was happy and it was all fine.

She turned on the tap to warm up a face cloth and rummaged through his Dopp kit to find the tools she needed. A small pair of scissors, a razor, a bowl and a brush--of course he had a bowl and brush, she smiled to herself. She wet the brush and began to build a lather just for the simple satisfaction of doing so--she would not need it yet and would have to start over when it was time but for now it was satisfying to build a lather as she waited for the water to run hot so she could take a hot face cloth back into the bedroom and soften his hair so she could shave him and mark him as hers.

He was still lying on the bed as she came back with all the things she needed to assert her control. He leaned up on one elbow to watch her as she gently caressed him with the warm face cloth, unable to tell which was warmer--the face cloth or him--then tucking it firmly in place to hold in the heat. My god he was hard.

"Now you lie still," she said, straddling his chest. She would let him pleasure her while the heat did its work, and then she would shave him and then...well, she wasn't sure what came after that but she knew it would come to her in good time and that now she was slowly inching up his chest and she was going to sit on his face and he was going to pleasure her until she was satisfied and later would take care of later.

And then she was leaning down and grabbing his hair and pulling him up to her and now there were lips and tongue and light nips and ohmygod he was good at this and she was holding his head in place and guiding him with her fingertips more of that yes more of that and then she was rocking back and forth and the gentle darts of his tongue were replaced by the frantic lapping of a thirsty dog and he wasn't fighting it at all not at all no matter how hard she grinded away at him and he was right there with her he was meeting her evenly and then and then and then ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod and he pulled away as she screamed and she shook and she flushed red all over and she couldn't breathe and everything was so sensitive even his breath on her hurt and ohmygod was he good at this.

And then after a moment she could start to breathe again and she looked down at his smiling, shiny face. She smiled at him, pleased at how well he had performed, but when she began to climb off his arms were suddenly there tight around her thighs, holding her in place, pulling her back onto his face and no no no she wasn't ready yet, she still couldn't really breathe, and this was NOT the plan but he was holding her down and he was stronger than her and oh his tongue was on her and oh she was in his mouth and then none of that mattered at all.

And oh, he had learned how to read her, had learned what worked and had learned how to take her to the edge and stay right there right fucking there and she groaned in frustration as he denied her that last inch, and she ground her face into him in anger at his denial and her legs were beginning to quiver and she had to hold herself up with the headboard and her arms were shaking while she did and all she wanted all she fucking wanted was for him to push her over the edge for the love of god this was torture god she was going to pass out, and then he did and everything was warmth.

And then she collapsed on his chest in a heap. A sweaty sticky panting heap and she was so angry and she was so happy and she was numb and she couldn't breathe and she couldn't think and she didn't even think to protest when he flipped her off his chest and onto her back and he knelt between her legs and threw her calves up onto his shoulders and with one quick thrust he was inside her and she moaned.

And he propped himself up on his arms with her legs still on his shoulders and he looked down at her and he didn't move an inch, just paused there, inside her, and she could feel him inside her and he was warm and she was warm and he was hard and she was full and it was so good and he didn't move and she wondered why and she wiggled her hips to encourage him and she felt herself move up and down on him and it felt so good but he didn't move and she wiggled again and oh it felt good and he was just looking at her, smiling, his face still wet with her and he still didn't move and she looked at him with pleading eyes and he looked back and kept smiling and not moving and she wiggled some more and she whimpered a bit and he looked at her and said "say it".

And of course she knew what he wanted her to say but no, she would not say it. He may have completely turned the tables on her but she would not give him this, she would not give him what he wanted now, she would lay there and wiggle some more and he would respond, he would have to respond and it would be a small victory but it would be a victory nonetheless and that seemed so important and she looked at him as he looked at her and smiled and did not move and she thought I will not say it I will not say it and she looked at him and she said "fuck me" and he did.

And when they were done, when they had both been satisfied and after he had put his head between her legs one final time and she had held it there as he cleaned the mess they had made and she had cried out one final time as he did, and after she had in turn cleaned the mess they had made off his mouth and face, they lay there entangled with their combined taste on their tongues warm and sated and content.

He rolled over to face her. "Ready to shave me now?" he asked with a crooked grin. She leaned over and bit him hard on the arm.

"Ow!" he yelped, surprised. She left a perfect circle in his arm that he would imagine he could still see for the next week.

She laughed. "You are such an asshole."

He laughed back. "I have been told that before." He propped himself up on one arm to look at her, lazily tracing her right nipple with his forefinger. "I'll play nicer next time."

"Next time, eh?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"I'm going to be in Germany a lot over the next several months..." he trailed off. She did not respond. "I'll play nicer next time, I promise."

"Next time I will not. And you will bring me more of that yummy champagne and pretty things to wear."