SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

The flight was a little over two and a half hours. We were upgraded to first class because the company was paying and spouses had been invited, which meant a real seat and a real lunch instead of a tiny bag of pretzels and a can of mini-coke. I liked the quiet of it. Steve had his laptop open for twenty minutes and then gave up. I had a book in my lap that I never opened. I could sense the white ruffled thong was already doing the work I wanted it to. Steve sat a little forward, keeping his jacket in his lap longer than he needed to. Each time someone walked past us in the aisle, he would glance at the people across from us as they might suddenly develop X-ray vision.

Lunch came sooner than I expected. I chose the three small burgers. Sliders, the menu card said. Pretzel buns with American cheese melted over the sides—a handful of crinkle-cut fries that had somehow stayed crisp. I had never had sliders on a plane. I had never had sliders this small that still felt like a meal. I picked one up with two fingers. It fit. No balancing act. No whole-hand grip the way you need with a regular burger.

“I didn’t think something this little would fill me up,” I said, quiet enough for him. I took a bite. It was surprisingly good. Tender and juicy in a way airplane food has no right to be. “I always assumed you needed something more substantial. Something you had to use a whole hand for.” He looked at the slider. Then at me. I held it up between my index and middle fingers so he could see its size.

“Turns out I was wrong. It doesn’t have to be huge. It just has to be tender and juicy. It fits so easily in my hand, and if I wanted, I think I could fit the entire thing in my mouth.” I smiled like we were talking about lunch. “I’ve got something packed in my bag that is more of a handful. We’ll see which one I actually need this weekend.” His ears went pink the same way they had in the lounge. He ate his sliders without looking at the flight attendant as she returned with the trays.

I asked her for a blanket and made a show of being cold, which I was not. When she was a row behind us, I slipped my hand under it and covered his legs. It’s not a check this time; I needed a minute. I found his belt and worked the buckle open under the blanket, then the button, then the zipper. He went very still as I slid my hand inside and found his panties. Soft little ruffles at the waist. I traced them across the front and down one side, then the other, the way I used to when the panties were the whole point of the evening. He was hard. The thin mesh fabric made that obvious. I rubbed him through the panties. The front was already damp. An obvious wet spot at the tip, sticky through the sheer front panel about an inch lower than the waistband. This was definitely bigger than the one in his lounge photo.

Two fingers. The same two I had used on the slider. I stroked the length of him, and I felt him jump. I leaned over towards him, speaking softly, “Same as lunch, I only need two fingers.” He inhaled like he had been bumped. I kept going. A couple of minutes, not enough to finish him, maybe. Enough that the wet spot spread under my fingers and the ruffles shifted every time he tried not to move. I zipped him back up. Then I took my hand out. The tips of my two fingers were sticky. Clear. I held them where he could see them and licked them clean, slow, like I was getting salt off after the fries.

“Your panties are wet,” I said. “I want you like this all weekend. If you’re a good boy, I’ll share the rest with you later.” I ate a cold fry. I did not look at him again until his breathing evened out.

Twenty minutes later, I nodded toward the lavatory. “Go.” I unlocked my phone and set it on his tray for a second so he would understand. “Picture. Same as the lounge. I want to see what two hours in those has done.” He hesitated the way he always hesitates when there are other people and a thin door. Then he took the phone and walked up the aisle too carefully, jacket still in front of him.

Steve came back flushed, sat down as the seat might bite him, and handed me my phone. I opened up the photos. The same white ruffles. The same almost-sheer front with his head shiny against the fabric, a wet mark that had certainly spread since the last picture. I locked the screen and put it in my bag before the man across the aisle decided he needed to stretch. He had to bend to get his bag out from under the seat in front of him. That was when I saw it.

The ruffles. Just a hint of them through the slacks when he folded forward, a little scalloped shadow at the top of his ass that should not have been there under work pants. If you were looking, you would know. I was looking. “Leave that,” I said. “Sit up.” I waited until he was settled, then leaned in as if I were pointing at the window. “I can see them,” I said. “When you bend over. The ruffles. Through your pants.”

He went still. “Nobody else is going to notice unless they are sitting where I am. But I am sitting where I am. And that is not the only thing I can see.” I glanced over towards his lap. There was a dark spot. Not ketchup. Not a drip of condensation from the drink he had been nursing. A tiny dark spot on the front of the gray wool, right where his head sat. Precum. It had come through his panties and through his pants and made a spot the size of a pencil eraser. If you did not know what you were looking at, you would think he had been careless with lunch. I knew. I touched the spot with one fingertip, light, like I was brushing lint. “That didn’t come from the sliders,” I said. “That’s you. That’s how badly you like your new panties.”

He put his jacket back over his lap. “Leave it,” I said. “I like knowing it’s there. The people behind us don’t get to know, but I do.” He swallowed and looked at the seatback screen like it had become very interesting. I sat back and watched Colorado start to come up under the wing. Two and a half hours. A good lunch. A wet mark that would stay in my head until we got to the hotel.

“When we land,” I said, still looking out the window, “you are going to walk through the airport just the way you are. Ruffles and all. And then I am going to show you why I made you start this before we left the ground.”

We landed on time. Denver was bright and dry in that way it always is when you have just come from somewhere that still has humidity. We got our bags and stepped out to the curb for our Uber—forty minutes to Downtown. The company had put everyone at the Magnolia, the old bank building on 17th Street, boutique enough that it did not feel like a convention barn and big enough to hold two hundred regional managers and whoever they had brought with them. It’s the kind of place that looks historic in the lobby and ordinary once you close the door to the room.

Steve kept his jacket in front of him the whole ride. I did not mention the spot on his slacks. I did not have to, as he certainly knew it was there. By the time we got the key, the elevator, and the door shut behind us, he had about an hour. He had registration first, then a quick afternoon meeting. He set his bag on the luggage rack and already had his belt open.

“I need to change,” he said. “If I sit wrong, someone is going to notice these ruffles. ”

“No.” He looked at me like I might be kidding. “They stay on,” I said. “You wore them through an airport. You can wear them through your meeting. If anyone sees anything, it will be because you bend over the way you did on the plane, and you are not going to bend over.” He stood there with his slacks half-open and the white ruffles showing, the front still a little darker than they should have been. He did not like it. He also did not take them off. I watched his face work through that, and I liked both halves of it.

“You’ll be back around six-thirty,” I said. “Don’t be early. Don’t be late. And don’t you dare take those off in a bathroom downstairs.”

“Jenny.”

“Go register.”

He rearranged himself in his panties as well as his erection would allow, which was not well, fastened his belt, put the jacket back on, and left looking like a man who was thinking about his underwear instead of his quarterly numbers. I waited until the door clicked, then sat on the edge of the bed for a minute and let my heart come down. The room was nice and quiet. A large floor-to-ceiling picture window faced another building across the street, and the pool sat four floors below. I unpacked the way I unpack when I do not want to think yet. I hung my clothes on hangers. Toiletries in the bathroom. His slacks folded. Then the part I had been waiting for.

I took everything I had bought out of the suitcase and put it away where I hoped he would not find it. The sealed tubes in the bottom of my empty toiletry bag, zipped, under the sink. The Lily in its pouch in the same place. The little milky-white bottle with my lotions, so it just looked like another thing I used on my skin. His four new pairs of Victoria’s Secret panties still in the pink tissue, pushed to the back of the closet drawer under my sweaters. The Trashy bag, bustier, crotchless panties, the teasing panty pack I had not opened, the wooden ruler were all wrapped in my robe and set on the high shelf.

I held the black Shine Strap set last. Bra. Thong. Garter. The thigh-highs rolled neatly. I already knew it was for tonight. The black dress I had packed would sit over it as if nothing were happening, then it would come off, and he would see the rhinestones, the straps, and the fact that I had done all of this on purpose—the first time in a very long time. I laid my dress out next to the sparkling set. I stood there longer than I needed to with the thong in my hands and felt that same low sexual pull I had felt in the fitting room at home. There were too many other choices in the room. The red chemise. The teddy with the snaps. The Mustang still in its tube. The Spur. The pack I had not even opened. I was excited and nervous, and both of those things felt the same, if I was honest. I knew what I was going to wear. I did not yet know the order of the rest of it. I put the extra pieces away before I talked myself into changing the plan.

At six, I started getting ready. A hot shower. Hair. The kind of makeup I do not bother with at home, but still very little compared to most women. I was still in the bathroom with the water running when I heard the key card, the door, and him setting something down.

“I’m back,” he said.

I turned the water off and reached for a towel. “Give me a minute,” I said. “Don’t come in yet.” I wrapped the hotel towel around myself. It was one of those oversized terry ones that actually feels like something you paid for. Soft. Too big. It covered me from chest to mid-thigh and still had room to tuck. I opened the door.

He was already reaching. His hands were on the towel, and it looked like he had spent the last four hours thinking about this exact moment. I caught his wrists.

“No. Shower.” He actually pouted. I had not seen that in years. “Steve. Shower.”

He sat on the edge of the bed to take off his shoes and bent forward, and there they were again. The ruffles. A scalloped line visible through the back of his slacks, unmistakable if you knew what you were looking at.

“Stop,” I said. “Stay like that a second.” He froze with one shoe in his hand. “I can see your panties again just like on the plane. When you bend over, there is a little ruffle shadow right across the top of your ass, and with the better lighting, they are much more obvious. I told you nobody would notice unless they were sitting where I was. I am wondering now if anyone downstairs was sitting where I was. I can see the whole line. Little ruffles on both sides. If I can see them from here, I am wondering who else did.”

He straightened too fast. “Registration. That table is well lit. Did you lean over to sign in? Did you sit and then stand up? Because if you did, the person across from you would have a better view than I did on the plane. I told you nobody would notice unless they were sitting where I was. I am not so sure about that now.”

He did not answer. That was fine. I wanted him wondering. “Stand up. In front of me.”

He stood while I stayed on the bed so I was at the right height and looked at the front of his slacks. The wool was gray. The light caught it. “There,” I said. I put two fingers on him and traced a faint scallop just under the belt line. “I can make out the front ruffles. Barely. You have to know what you’re looking at. I know.” The outline under my fingers was not only the ruffles. He was hard. I rubbed him through his slacks with the same two fingers.

“This is just as obvious as the ruffles,” I said. “The lighting has to be right. If someone was looking for it, they could see it. A little shape, almost a bulge. Right here.” I pressed once, over the wet spot I already knew was under the wool. “I hope the woman at registration wasn’t looking. Did anyone look at you twice?” I asked. “Think about it while you undress.”

He stripped the way he strips when he is half embarrassed and hard. His jacket, shirt, then the slacks, finally. His bright white thong was a mess. Damp at the front. The ruffles a little flatter from a day of sitting. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband, and I shook my head. “Those stay on.” I stood up, put my hand through the mesh on him, and felt him jump. Two minutes. That was all I was going to give him. I rubbed slowly along the shaft and watched the fabric move.

I made a note I did not say out loud. There was about an inch of sheer fabric left above the head before it would have touched the waistband. Not a lot. The pairs I had bought him sat lower than this. Maybe a little narrower in the front. When he got fully erect in the new black satin Brazilian, there was a possible chance the head would push up over the waistband. The thought should have made me pick a different pair. It did not.

“These have been working on you all day,” I said. “The ruffles. The picture. That little spot on your slacks. You walked around a hotel full of people you work with like this. And you are still this hard. That is not nothing.” At the tip of him, a clear drop had pushed through the mesh and was sitting there, shiny. I caught it on my finger and held it up so he had to see it.

“Open.” He did. I put my finger in his mouth. “If you are a good boy tonight,” I said, “there is going to be a lot more where that came from. Shower. Now.” He went.

I dressed faster than I wanted to, but I wanted to be covered before he came back out. My panties first. The black Shine Strap thong. Then the bra. I stood in front of the full-length mirror resting against the bedroom wall and looked at myself the way I had in the fitting room. I still had it. Five-six. A hundred and thirty pounds that I actually work for now. Thirty-two D, which the new bra was doing exactly what I had bought it to do, pushing them together without turning me into a costume. Waist still small enough that the thong sat in a clean V. Legs that look longer in black. The rhinestones on the straps threw little points of light every time I breathed. I turned sideways. Then around. The thong disappeared between my cheeks the way it was supposed to.

The garter belt was another story. I had not put one on in years. I stepped into it and had to look down to find the hooks. It sat at my waist, sparkling, and I felt ridiculous and wet at the same time. I pulled the first thigh-high up and had it almost clipped before I remembered.

The old trick.

I took the thong back off. Fastened both stockings to the garter, front and back, until the lines were straight. Then I stepped into the thong again and pulled it up over the sparkling belt’s waistband. That was the point. When he took the panties off later, the garter and the hose would stay. I was planning on putting his mouth to work. And I did not want to stop and renegotiate my lingerie in the middle of it.

I looked again. Black bra. Black thong over black garter. Shine straps catching every hotel light in the room. Thigh-highs. The whole thing looked like I had done it on purpose, which I had. I was turned on just from getting dressed; I could feel it. The dress next. Slim and black. The kind that looks simple on a hanger and is not simple once it is on. It followed my waist and stopped mid-thigh. The neckline sat low enough that the bra’s Shine Strap showed when I leaned forward and stayed hidden when I did not. I leaned forward in front of the mirror on purpose. Then I stood up straight and watched the dress settle. I looked like a woman going to dinner. I looked like a woman who was going to take the dress off after dinner and watch her husband’s mouth open.

I went to the closet drawer, reached under the sweaters, and pulled out his matching black Brazilian with its rhinestone logo shine straps. Minimal back, the kind that meant lots of cheek. I held them up. The white ruffled thong he had worn all day was still in my head. Sheer. More fabric in the front than these had. When I had my hand on him in the room, there was about an inch of mesh left above his head before it met the waistband. Not a lot. Enough. These sat lower. The front was narrower—Satin instead of that sheer mesh. I turned them and looked at the rise and felt the worry come back. I had bought a Large. I was not sure Large would be enough of a rise.

 

 

I ran my thumb over the front. The fabric, like my set, was softer than I expected. The satin slid over my fingers, not the scratch of the ruffles. Something that would feel like nothing, then like too much, once he was in them. The straps sparkled in the light in my hand. The logo sat on rhinestones on each hip and sparkled every time I moved.

I tried to picture his bulge—black satin instead of white mesh. The shape of him outlined and the wet spot I already knew he was going to make sitting dark on a fabric. I wanted to see that. I also wanted the waistband to hold him. I laid them on the still-made bed. Black on the white duvet. Then his shirt. Slacks. Socks. Shoes. All of it arranged the ordinary way so the panties were the one thing that did not belong.

I heard the water shut off. He was finishing. Towel around his waist, hair wet, the bathroom still thick with steam. I plugged in the dryer and did my hair the way I do it when I am not trying to look like I tried—a little makeup. I rarely wear it. I do not really need it. Just enough that the dress did not look like I had thrown it on over a school-counselor face. “I laid your clothes out,” I said over the dryer. “Get dressed. Exactly what is on the bed.” He nodded. The towel was already slightly tenting in front. I kept my eyes on the mirror.

I listened from the bathroom. The familiar pop. That little plastic crack of a Victoria’s Secret tag coming off. I smiled at myself and did not go out. I wanted to see how the Brazilian fit. I wanted to tuck him in and check the rise to see if the head did what I was afraid it would. I saved it. Later. After dinner. When I could take my time.

We finished at about the same time. He looked good. He always does in the custom shirts. The slacks sat the way they were supposed to. The sport coat was the last piece, and it pulled the whole thing together, Friday-night version of the man who had been in a meeting all afternoon. I could see a small bulge at the front of his slacks. Not a full tent. Just enough. The Shine Strap was doing work under wool, and he was trying not to think about it and failing. I thought, why don’t we do this more often?

“Does everything fit okay?” I asked.

“Perfectly.”

I smiled. “Everything?”

He glanced down, then at me, and did not answer, which was an answer.

ChoLon is eight minutes from the Magnolia if you do not hurry. Blake Street. The company dinner reservations had been impossible; this one I had made myself three weeks out and still taken what they had. Small plates. A chef who had come up in Michelin kitchens and then Jean-Georges and then decided Denver was the place. The reviews said the food was the reason you put up with how long it took to get a table. I wanted that. I wanted to sit across from him in a room that required a reservation and feel the stockings on my legs the whole time.

I had forgotten how thigh-highs feel when you walk. I could not remember the last time I had worn them out. Years. My legs were shaved smooth, and the nylon made that obvious every time my thighs brushed. The garters tugged when I stepped off a curb. I felt dressed under the dress.

The hostess was dressed a lot like I was. Black. Slim. Makeup done the way I do not bother with. About twenty years younger. She smiled and picked up two menus and turned to walk us back, and I saw Steve’s eyes go to her ass for half a second.

I caught myself doing the same thing. I filed that away for later. She sat us at a table that was actually good. Not a two-top shoved against the kitchen. We could see the door. We could see the room. The window had the early evening on Blake Street in it, people passing, the kind of light that makes a black dress look like a decision. Water hit the glasses almost immediately. The waitress introduced herself, walked the menu, named the specials, and waited. Steve ordered a bottle of red wine. While it was coming, I leaned in just enough for it to still be a restaurant voice.

“So,” I said. “How do they feel?”

He knew what I meant. Not the shirt. “They’re a little smaller than the ones from this morning.”

“That’s the point.” I took a sip of water. “The rise is lower. The front is narrower. I stood in the store and thought about exactly that. Are you comfortable, or are you thinking about them?” He looked at the tablecloth. “Both,” he said. “Good.” I sat back.

The waitress came back. She was as pretty as the hostess and in almost the same dress, black and slim, and when she turned to walk away the lines of her panties showed through it. Brazilian. The angle of the seams on her ass was unmistakable. Sexier than a bikini. Not quite a thong. The same cut I had put on Steve. She recommended the French onion soup dumplings. The kitchen’s thing. Small. Four of them. She said they were delicious and that they would not fill us up if we split an order and ruin our appetites for the entrees, which was the point of starting there.

“That’s perfect,” I said, looking at Steve. “I’m used to little things that don’t fill me up.” He picked it up. The waitress may have too. She smiled the professional smile and wrote it down. I had the crab cakes. He had the swordfish. The wine disappeared the way a bottle disappears when you are not paying attention to the glass. When she asked if we had left room for dessert, I shook my head. “Dessert’s waiting on him in the hotel room,” I said.

She heard it. There was a half-second when her eyes flicked to Steve, then back to me, and then she was professional again. Check. Smile. Have a good night. We walked back the same eight minutes. I could feel the stockings. I could feel the wine. In the elevator, he kissed me like we did not have a floor button to press. His hand went under the dress, found me through the thong, then the garter, and I felt him register it. The fact that I had dressed for this on purpose.

We stumbled into the room. I pushed him onto the bed before the door had even latched and took the dress off slowly. Not a performance. Just slow enough. Bra. Thong over the garter. Thigh-highs. It did what I had bought it to do. His mouth opened. I switched with him. I lay back on the bed.

“Jacket, shirt, then the shoes and pants last.” He did it in that order. His slacks finally came down, and the rhinestone waistband caught the lamp. They were lower in the front, high on the leg, almost nothing in the back. The straps sat on his hips, casting little points of light every time he shifted his weight. This was definitely not a pair from his drawer at home. His everyday panties were bikinis. Soft cotton or modal blends. These were much smaller than that. Smaller than the white ruffled panties he had worn all day. Smaller than anything I had put on him in years. And he was fully hard in them. I had been sure the head would be up against the waistband. I had pictured it poking over the rhinestones before we even left the room. It was not; there was still space. A finger width at least, maybe a little more, of black satin between the tip of his penis and the top of the panties. I could have laid my finger there without touching him. The low-cut front I had worried about was holding. The shape of him sitting in the middle of the satin, outlined perfectly. The fabric had a sheen to it under the lamp,

I had stood in the store and almost put them back. I was glad I didn’t, though. I thought I could have bought an even smaller pair with less front coverage. They probably still would have fit. I sat up and took him in my hand through the panties and stroked. The satin was wet at the tip. I had missed the spot because the fabric was black. It was a large one.

“Do you like them?” I kept my hand moving. “How they feel. How they feel against your cock. You actually fit in them nicely. I wasn’t sure you would.” I stood up and pulled him with me to the full-length mirror. I kept stroking him and turned us so he could see both of us. Then I pointed at the front of my own thong.

“Pay attention to that. That’s not from walking.”

He went to his knees and kissed me through the panties. At first I felt his warm breath and then his tongue. The silk clung, and he pushed it into me with each pass, deeper every time. I shifted so I could see him in the mirror. The Brazilian hugged his ass the way it was cut to. No ruffles this time; the lines were clean.

I watched him while he licked me. The rhinestones on his hips. The way the satin sat. Same angle I had watched him walk away from our table. “Your panty lines match the waitress,” I said. “Same cut. Brazilian. Sexier than a bikini, not quite a thong. That’s what she had on under that dress. I could see the seams when she turned around. You’re wearing the same style she was.” He made a sound against me. I kept my eyes on the mirror.

“I would never have imagined you’d fit this nicely in a pair that small. If she had bent over the way you are right now, I would have seen the same thing I’m seeing. Little straps. A lot of cheek. A man in the same panties the girl who brought our wine was wearing.” I pressed his head in. “Keep going. I want to watch you lick my pussy in them.” He licked harder.

I needed the fabric gone. I pushed him back an inch. “Take them off.” He slid the thong down my legs and over the garter straps, and I was glad I had put them on the way I had. Easy. The hose stayed. I had taken extra time in the shower. Nothing left. No stubble. Just smooth and wet.

His tongue on skin was better. I put one foot on the bed so he could get to me and so I could watch. The mirror made it a show. I grabbed his hair and pulled him in. Two days of not finishing was working against me now. I could already feel it starting. His hands went under the garter straps and took my ass and pulled me onto his mouth. I pulled his hair harder. I was getting close, watching what he was doing between my legs.

He was good at this. He always had been. He did not just work my clit and hope. He licked the length of me, back to front, then the clit, then started over, and he paid attention when my hips told him he had it. I moved my foot from the mattress to the footboard, so I was open for him. Better angle. He could get to all of me. I was wet enough to hear it. If I let him keep going, I was going to finish standing up in a hotel mirror, and I wanted him inside me first. “Stop,” I said. It came out rougher than I meant. “Up. On the bed. Head toward the foot.”

He looked confused for half a second, and then he did it. I had a reason. I wanted the mirror behind him. I wanted to see myself when I got on him.

I climbed on and straddled his legs. He was still in the Brazilian. The wet spot at the tip, which I had missed earlier because the satin was black, was no longer small. It was a dark, shiny patch, and when I rubbed him through it, my fingers slipped.

I lifted the waistband and looked. The low rise. Almost no front to them once you held them open. Much skimpier than the bikinis he lived in. Even smaller than the white ruffled thong. Smaller with a lower rise, I was pretty sure, than the matching thong I had worn to dinner. Mine had more coverage in the front. I had felt it when I put it on. His sat lower. The panel was narrower. I had been sure a pair this little would not hold his hard cock…… It held.

He was fully hard, and he was not using all of it. They even had a little room to spare. A little over a finger width, maybe more, of black satin between the tip and the waistband. The sheen pulled tight over his girth and still held. I had stood in Victoria’s Secret and worried the head would push past the waistband. I had been wrong in the useful direction. I could have bought a smaller pair, if they had made one. They probably still would have fit.

I thought about the waitress. Definitely the same cut. Suppose this was what she had on under that dress. “These are sexy,” I said. I kept the waistband up so he could see what I was looking at. “I didn’t think you’d fit. My thong had more front than these. I stood there with them in my hand and almost put them back. And look. You fit. You’ve got room.” I ran a finger along the extra satin above him. “The waitress was wearing this cut—this low. I kept picturing it on her. I did not picture it holding you. That’s good. Because I bought smaller, you’ll see. Not tonight. Soon.”

I pulled the waistband down and took him in my mouth.

The precum was covering the tip. Salty. A lot of it. I worked the Brazilian down while I sucked him, over his hips, down his thighs, off around his ankles, and then he was naked, and I had most of him in my mouth on the first pass. That was new too. I had not thought about it that way in years. I could take almost all of him. I only started to feel it in my throat when my nose touched his skin. I wanted the last bit. I did not have it yet. I would work on that.

Five minutes. I watched his face. His head was tipped up off the mattress. His eyes were on me. Behind him, the mirror was a blur of black straps and my hair, with his shoulders in the way. I did not need the mirror for this part. I needed his mouth open and his hands in the duvet. I gave him two slow licks up the shaft and sat back on my knees, reverse cowgirl. Moved toward the foot of the bed. Took him in my hand to put him in.

That was when I saw it again, this time in the mirror. If I wrapped my whole hand around him, the shaft disappeared. Only the head stuck out past my fingers. I had to use one finger to tip him back into place. “Hold on,” I said, and I showed him. My hand. Then just the head. “I can’t use my whole hand, or I cover you. One finger.” I lined him up. “There.”

I sank in one motion. I was so wet, and he was so wet from my mouth, that there was almost no resistance. He went in to the base, and the first thing I actually felt, the first thing that made me inhale, was my clit barely touching his balls. I looked back over my shoulder at him. His eyes were closed and completely gone. I looked forward again. The mirror had me. The Shine Strap on the bra. The Shine Strap on the garter. Rhinestones every time I moved. I was on his cock in a black garter belt and thigh-highs, and I looked like the woman I had been trying to remember how to be.

I quickly realized I need my clit when we have sex. That is how I cum every time he is not using his mouth or the toys. Facing him, I would have had it, rubbing on his belly every time I moved. Turned around, I had nothing. No contact. I could see myself, and I could not feel the one thing I had counted on but not really thought about until now.

I wanted to fuck him, hard. I lifted, and he slipped out. Once. I laughed under my breath, caught him with one finger, and slid back on. It happened again. Same fix. One finger. Back inside. Easy. I stopped lifting so high because every time I came up, he left me. Grinding on his cock was not going to do it either, not in this position. Nothing was on my clit, and that is how I cum. The toys were under the sink. The vibrator, the dildo. All of it tucked where he would not find it. I was not getting off him to go dig them out. That would kill it.

I licked my finger and put it on myself. My clit was standing. Firm. Easy to find. The angle was perfect. I could see my hand in the mirror. I could see the rhinestones. I could see him disappearing into me and then not, because I was staying low so he would not slip out again. One hand on my clit. The other found my breast and held it, thumb on the nipple through the bra. He was close. I could tell by the way he was breathing. Both of his hands came up and took my ass. He spread me. Cool air on my asshole. I thought for a second about how fast I would finish if he put a finger there. A thumb. That would do it. The thought made me rub harder.

“Remember dinner,” I said. I did not stop. “The waitress. Little black dress. Same panties you’re wearing. She asked if we had room for dessert and I told her dessert would be served to you at the hotel.” I watched myself say it. My hand still moving.

“She knew. Not all of it. She knew I was talking about your mouth. She had a good idea you were going to be eating my pussy tonight. What she did not know is what I actually meant.” I looked back at him. His hands were still on my ass. “If you come before I do, you eat it. All of it. My cream pie. That is the dessert I promised her you were getting.” I rubbed harder. “And that is the rule for this trip. Every time we have sex. You come first, you stay down there until I come. Every time.”

I was not done. “We’re going back tomorrow night after the meeting. Not for dinner, just drinks. You are going to ask for a table at the bar.” I looked back at him in the mirror. “You will request the same waitress, if we’re lucky and she is working—little Brazilian. And I am going to make it very clear why we are not ordering dessert. Because I am serving you a warm cream pie at the hotel.” The talking got me there faster than I expected. I had not talked to him like this in years. I had forgotten how hot it was. It still was. I could feel it in my hand, in how wet I was, in the way he was holding my ass. It was doing the same thing to him. His hips had gone tight. He was trying not to finish while I said it.

“How embarrassed would you be if that hot waitress knew you were wearing a little pair of panties. The same cut she had on. And that you were going to be eating my cream pie?”

His eyes opened.

That was what did it. Not the grinding. The sentence. I watched myself in the mirror while it hit, the sparkle on the straps, my mouth open, and I came on him harder than I had come in a long time. Two days of deliberately stopping myself. The flight. The ruffles. The tag popping off in the other room. All of it at once.

I was surprised he had lasted. He started while I was still finishing. I felt him pulse, and I kept the grind small and tight so he would not slip out, and I stayed on him until I could tell he was done.

Then I collapsed. Satisfied. I could feel him leaking out of me already, warm, down the softening length of him, and it did not take long before he slid out on his own. I had not even moved. Tomorrow. I already knew. I wanted this again. I wanted to last longer than he did next time. I wanted to make him earn the second dessert.

We showered. Quiet. The kind of shower you take when the night has already happened. I put on the T-shirt I sleep in at home and a pair of my own panties, a cute little bikini, nothing with rhinestones. He put on a comfortable pair from the drawer I had left him. We got in bed, and he pulled me in.

I was almost out.

“Thank you,” I said, against his chest. “I hope you enjoyed your evening.”

He made a sound that was a yes.

“Be a good boy tomorrow,” I said. “New day. I have more planned.”

 

The End.

 

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