Who's on Top? A Twisted Romance Ch. 03

Chapter Three: On the Road...to Ruin?

Before long we'd left the city and begun cruising up a tree-lined highway. She leaned her seat back, kicked off her sandals, and put her distractingly pretty feet -- freshly pedicured -- onto the dash. I grumbled a bit, but complaining would've given her the win. I did my best to keep my eyes on the road.

She engaged the Bluetooth on her phone with the car's audio and poked a crimson-nailed finger at her screen. A weird yet somehow familiar cacophony filled the cab. Musical, undeniably, but it sounded like the instruments included feral cats clawing at each other's throats.

She leaned back, Aviator sunglasses on, cool as fuck. The screeching and banging harrowed my eardrums. I was about to give in and ask her to turn it off.

Then I recognized it. And smiled.

I thumbed the volume control on the steering wheel down to where I could speak. "You aren't intending to be a brat, are you? Daring me to drive safely while waving your spicy toes and filling my head with the sweet sound of death metal."

She removed the dark glasses and looked at me, eyes projecting the innocence of a young lamb. "I thought you loved this band. And my...." She finished by wiggling her toes.

"Know what, babe?" I asked. "You're right." I reached over with my right hand and pulled her left foot over to where I could plant a sloppy kiss on the sole. She didn't react, so I licked it. That make her squeal before I let it go back onto the dash. "And this music. What a great gift. I can't believe you found it the Shitlicker bootleg from the Berlin concert. This shit's legendary. Which is their motto, y' know. I can't imagine who you had to blow to get it, and I'm not asking. Trust me, you'll get your reward at the hotel." I thumbed the volume up to max.

She grunted and slipped the sunglasses back over her eyes. She clearly didn't want to give in any more than I did. After a bit, I feared for our eardrums, so I opened all four windows to give the aural vibrations somewhere to go.

An hour later we pulled into the small, upstate town where I'd booked us a room. Pedestrians we passed gave us dirty looks, so I closed the windows and lowered the volume to a dull roar. The GPS guided me to the town center, around a traffic circle, and into the parking lot of a big, boxy, nondescript Holiday Inn. Or maybe it was a Marriott. Who knows? That was the point. I drove around the lot, having scouted the location on Google Earth. I knew exactly where to park.

I turned the key, killing the engine and shutting down the music. She sat up and lowered her dark glasses. Her eyes, already shooting daggers, came to rest on the clunky building before us. The kind of place she hated with a purple passion.

Where I'd booked our special weekend that she had to literally beg and demean herself to her boss in order to be available.

I could feel her safe word vibrating on the tip of her tongue. It didn't come. Just a cold glare. "Why don't you tell me what you love about this place?" I said.

Now, according to the rules, she had to answer me. (Not that we had written rules -- an oversight I'd come to regret -- but the expectations were pretty clear.) "Well..." she said, looking thoughtful, "it's not the kind of place anybody would ever think to look for us. Ever. Never. Not in a million years." (Could she have been more emphatic?) "So, we'll have a relaxing weekend, with nobody to bother us."

My blood started pumping like crazy, but I restrained myself and simply gave her a pat on the head before I opened my door. She looked on the floor for her Birkenstocks. "Forget the sandals," I said. "I so admired your pedicure all the way up, I think everybody needs to see it." She took it in stride and got out of the car. "Don't forget the bag," I said.

She got the case from the back seat and closed the car door. Her face went pale when she saw, stretched out maybe fifty yards between us and the hotel entrance, a field of variously colored stones, ranging from pebbles to rocks an inch or two in diameter, some smooth, others pointy or sharp-edged. I strode out in my thick-soled sneakers but stopped after ten feet to look back. She stood stock still, staring after me. "Come on," I said. "If we're late for check-in we won't get the complimentary glass of wine."

Her eyes flashed with rage, but she got control and took a first, careful step onto the rocks. Letting her weight come to rest on her right heel without wincing, she stepped out further with her left, carefully moving from toe to heel, seeking out the gaps and safe spots among the stones. She was navigating with disappointing ease, until her foot came down on a pointy end of a rock. She spluttered, "Shit!" and dropped the suitcase. She looked at me, eyes pleading.

But -- and this is a big "but" -- she didn't use the safe word.

I knew my duty. "Ah, babe, that's too bad. Cause when you do that, you have to go back and start again."

She glared at me as she backed off the stone onto the smooth macadam. She lifted each foot in turn and brushed off detritus that clung to her soles. Then she started again, placing her feet cautiously. She picked up the bag as she passed. I could've told her she had to carry it again from the car, but I allowed it. (That may have disappointed her, I realize now.) I studied her face as she moved forward.

Every step obviously inflicted pain, but no way would she show it. Soon she was panting with the effort. (I was panting, too, but for a different reason,) Then her heel came down on a big sharp stone. She screamed "Fuck" and threw the suitcase.

When she realized what she'd done, she looked at me, turned her head back toward the starting point, and looked at me again. She'd made it ninety percent of the way across. I could've given her a pass on doing it again. Her pleading eyes said, "You won't make me go back, will you?" But her lips said nothing of fruit, so I nodded, grim-faced, toward the car. She picked her way through the obstacles, doing nothing to hide her whimpers and cries.

At the car, she turned to face me, stood and steeled herself, expression blank, and then stepped out like she was in a marching band parading down Main Street. She kept her eyes locked on mine, ignoring the rocks and the torture they inflicted on her tender soles, and arrived at my side in half a minute, having scooped up the suitcase as she passed.

Close up, I saw the tears she'd been holding back. She maintained an amazing serenity in her face and ignored the wetness rolling down her flushed cheeks.

Oh, my fucking God. I'd never loved her more.

I gently kissed her lips, then sat her down on the upright suitcase. Kneeling, I lifted her right foot. I saw the sole pocked with nasty indentations, clinging pebbles, dirt, and even a thorn. I brushed it off gently. A dot of blood beaded up in the one spot where the skin had been broken. I tongued the wound clean. Then I lowered her soft, pink foot into the damp grass (must've felt nice) and repeated the process with her left. That one had two cuts, which I sucked spotless.

I stood and drew her up in front of me. There were no more tears in her eyes. I hugged her tightly and whispered into her ear, "You're amazing. Beyond incredible. I love you so much. If you'd like, we can bag my plans. There's a deluxe resort about ten miles up the road. The kind of place you love. I made us a reservation."

She went silent, so I leaned back to study her face. She looked... not pissed off, exactly. Betrayed, more like. A look I might've expected if I'd told her I'd screwed her best friend or stolen her promotion -- or even murdered her parents.

I was surprised, to say the least.

Finally, she spoke, her voice low and icy. "Did you make us a goddamn reservation here?" Her tone made me feel like I'd been called into the principal's office.

"I... I did," I stammered.

"Then get your ass in there," she said, a general giving orders and expecting obedience. She wiped her hands across her face and revealed a totally different expression, calm and submissive. "I mean, I'm ready to go in if you are...sir."

I nodded. She picked up the bag and led the way to the door, her bruised feet landing softly in the damp grass. "Damn," I thought as I watched her go. That's when it hit me. The secret to her success -- in business, life, and sex -- came down to one word. Commitment.

Could I match it?

In the lobby I told her to stand in the corner while I registered. She slouched by the unlit fireplace (it was summer). Waiting my turn, I saw a steady line of people come through. Most gave her the side-eye, only noticing a slovenly femme who looked more dressed for a flop house than a solidly middle-class hotel foyer. A few looked more closely and appeared surprised by her beauty. I loved both reactions.

After finishing with the desk clerk, I crossed over and handed her the folder holding the key card. "The room he put us in is unacceptable," I said. "You have to get him give us an upgrade. At least two levels. However, I've already prepaid, and you can't offer him money. Not now, not later. You'll have to use other forms of persuasion. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," she said, and took a step toward the counter. Then she turned back to me and spoke confidentially, sounding fearful. "I'll have to flirt a bit, sir."

"Of course," I said reassuringly. "I trust you to use your judgement."

"I'll be self-conscious if you're watching."

I looked at her appraisingly, then back at him. I nodded. "I won't be far."

"Thank you, sir." She padded over to the guy and leaned over the counter, which would've given him a good look at her cleavage through the ragged collar of her braless t-shirt. I couldn't see her smile, but I could witness the effect it had on him. I strolled to the back of the lobby, taking in the chintzy furnishings and predictable art on the walls.

I killed time scouting out the elevators and vending machines, nodding at people as they passed. I was looking for something, and I found it. The hallway past the elevators contained several nondescript doors. I watched for a minute or so and bingo, one of them opened. A guy of about fifty came out carrying an armful of folders. He headed to another door marked "Staff Only" without looking either way.

I tested the door to the room he'd vacated and found it unlocked. It opened into a supply closet, just big enough for my purposes. I shut the door and stepped back to wait, pulling out my phone and pretending to text. When the guy came out of the office several minutes later, he headed back to the supply room, came out with more folders, and returned to the staff-only door. He went back and forth a couple times more, leaving several minutes between trips.

By the time I wandered back toward the check-in, I'd been gone for almost twenty minutes. She'd completed her business and stood idly near the counter. As I walked up, the guy finished with another customer. He leaned toward my slovenly dressed partner, and they exchanged words. She laughed at whatever he'd said in a tone I'm sure he took to mean she found him oh so amusing but I recognized as total bullshit. He smiled at her. She did the same and touched his hand. When she turned and saw me, her smile broadened. His turned into an awkward smirk.

"He gave us a great room, sweetie," she chirped for the whole lobby to hear.

I walked over and gave her a kiss. Not a friendly or even romantic gesture; visibly claiming my property. I forced my tongue into her mouth, and when she acquiesced, we took our time and enjoyed the dalliance. When we came up for air, the clerk was noticeably fidgeting. "That's great," I said, speaking as loudly as she had. "I see a five-star review shaping up."

With a curt nod of thanks, I turned away. She followed, but I had to send her back for the bag. When she caught up with me by the elevators, I looked around to be sure we had privacy. "I don't know what you promised him," I said, "but right now I need a blow job."

"My pleasure, sir. Our room has a huge window. You can take in the view while I suck you dry."

"Not up there," I said. "Here."

Her eyes got wide. I took her arm and led her over beside the supply closet. "Wait," I said. We stood there for a minute. The door opened, and the guy came out of the closet carrying a box. He shot up the hall and through the other door. "Now," I said. We scooted into the room.

I shut the door behind us and only then noticed it didn't lock from the inside. Of course. Who wants to keep paper clips from escaping? Oh, well. No guts, no glory. I'd already been unbuttoning the fly on my jeans. I yanked out my cock.

"We don't have much time," I said.

She fell to her knees and took me into her mouth. Her skills were sharp as ever. I wasn't sure whether fear of getting caught would delay my climax or make me spurt quickly. My nerves started racing, but I treated it as a chance to live in the moment. There's a Zen story about a monk who gets chased by a bear, falls off a cliff, grabs a branch, and hangs there. While the bear growls above him, he sees a blossom growing from the cliff side. "What a beautiful flower," he thinks. That was me, then. The guy could've walked in on us any moment. The only thing in my mind was, "God, can she give head."

I heard steps outside the door. I started to lose my Zen, but she stayed focused on the fellatio and gave no sign of noticing. After a moment I realized they came from the direction of the elevators. The wave of the relief triggered my orgasm, and in seconds I was pumping my sperm into her voracious mouth. She swallowed down my cream and smacked her lips.

Then she stood and said sweetly, "Up to the room, now, sir?"

As we got onto the elevator only seconds later, I saw the guy come out of the office and head for the closet we'd just vacated.

The room truly was an upgrade. Spacious, well-appointed, great view. The guy was trying to impress. I was dying to know what she'd promised, but I couldn't give in and ask. I stopped her just inside the door and gave her an open-mouthed kiss. I always loved how she tasted with a fresh mouthful of my jizz.

"You've done well," I said. The praise seemed to make her inordinately happy.

"Now you need to draw me a bath and unpack for us. Lay out the things where I'd like them. You'll be judged later on the temperature of the water and the quality of the unpacking. Reward or punishment will be as appropriate." She headed off excitedly, as if I'd said she'd find her Christmas present waiting in the bathroom.

She went in, and I heard the water start. I stood by the window enjoying the view of the mountains in the distance as I stripped off my clothes and dropped them onto the floor. Soon she came back and announced my bath was ready. I walked past her and shut the door behind me.

I slid into the water and laid there, luxuriating in the perfect temperature -- warm enough to sooth, right on the edge of burning, but not too hot. After a few minutes, the land line rang in the main room. She answered, but I couldn't make out what she said. I heard her hang up, then knock lightly on the bathroom door.

"Come in."

She stepped inside and smiled at the sight of me stretched languidly in the bubbly water she'd prepared. "How's the water, sir?"

"Decent," I said. Didn't want her getting smug.

"I've unpacked and laid out our things. I hope you'll be pleased."

"Who called?" I let my impatience come through in my voice.

"Javier, sir."

"Who the fuck is Javier?"

"The registrar from the desk. The one who gave us this lovely room. We chatted quite a bit. He's from Colombia, you know. The country, not the college."

She was trying to get to me, but all I gave her in return was indifference. "How nice for him. But I like the room. What's he want?"

"He needs me to sign a paper. To acknowledge the reassignment. He's on his break and he wants to get taken care of....er, get the signature taken care of."

Her look was all doe-eyed innocence. Mine was long, hard, and skeptical as hell. I blinked first. "Don't be long."

"Enjoy your bath, sir," she said as she stepped out and snapped the door shut.

After five minutes she should've been back. My skin was getting pruney. At the fifteen-minute mark, my mind started conjuring all kinds of crazy shit they might be doing while I roughly dried myself with a big towel. Five minutes later I was sitting in our room wearing the plush robe the hotel provided, drinking a scotch from the mini-bar and wondering where the fuck she was. What were they doing on his "break"? Waiting became sweet torture.

What truly drove me crazy was knowing she had me by the balls. If she came back and started bullshitting -- which I knew she would -- I couldn't let on it bothered me. I took another swig of whiskey, and the solution became obvious.

I made a call.

She came in a minute later, saying everything was taken care of and wasn't the room lovely? And didn't I look handsome in that robe, like Cary Grant? I stared. If it made her nervous, she covered it well. She announced she was going to take a shower because she felt all sweaty, but I knew she wanted to get out of the room and away from my glower.

"No," I said. "Strip."

She looked at me questioningly. I didn't blink. She let out a sigh, then, eyes wandering the room as if her thoughts were a million miles away, she casually opened the fly on her jeans. She slid them down over her thighs and shins to her ankles. She hooked a toe into the waistband and kicked them halfway across the room (slick move, I thought; did she used to play soccer?).

She stood straight up, looking pleased with herself, eyes fixed on mine. Taking the hem of her t-shirt and slowly lifting, exposing her stomach, then her breasts, and pulling it off over her head, she tossed it on top of the jeans. She placed her hands on her hips and glared at me with brazen defiance, her breasts perfect pillows, nipples hard, and lips in a pout.

The fact I didn't throw her on the bed at that moment and fuck her wildly proved I had more self-control than I give myself credit for.

Our eye-lock continued as she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her tiny panties and edged them down, ever so gradually, over her ass, where they slid to the floor. A deft flick of her foot sent them onto the pile. She stood naked, waiting.

Just then we heard a knock on the door.

Her eyes demanded to know what was going on. I held up a finger. "Don't move."

The door was a good distance away (it was a luxury room, after all), so I was able to open it in my robe and not give the person on the other side a view of my nude paramour within. "Room service," said the grey-haired waiter clad in a uniform that had seen better days.

"I'll take it," I said. I rolled the tray into the room, leaving the man in the hallway.

Then I patted the empty pockets of my robe and said, "Just a second." I looked for my pants and wallet. They weren't by the window where I'd dropped them. She must've put them away.

"My jeans?" I said.

"The closet," she replied, sotto voce.

I dug in my pants for cash, then walked past the heavy-laden food cart over to the guy. The door had stood wide open the whole time. If he'd peeked inside, he would've had the view of his life. Nothing in his expression cued me in one way or another. No matter. Like I'd said on that island beach, I'm no prude.

He thanked me and left. I walked over to her and dropped my robe to the floor. The look in her eyes said she was as hungry to grab me as I was her, but our unwritten rules denied her that possibility. She tamped down the exposed lust and stared at me.

I looked over the array of sex toys she'd laid out on the bedside table. Something was missing. "Where are the restraints?" I demanded.

"Sir, they weren't in the suitcase."