Saturday, September 25, 2010

Number 9 (Part I)

She gives me a long glance from the second step of the stairs. Her left toes point down, dragging the bottom step, and she is swinging her weight against the banister. There’s a playful look in her eyes, and they linger on me, just a second too long. I want to yank her long, dark hair back, and bite right under her jaw line.

But I’m sitting on the couch, holding my beer, and trying to figure out what the hell this look means.

Do I follow her up the stairs? Do I stay on the couch and knot my eyebrows together? Do I pretend like this visual exchange didn’t just happen, and go back to the conversation with her roommate? I take another sip of my beer. I wish sometimes I was better at this game. Damn it. Looks aren’t a credible substitute for communication.

I down the rest of my beer. Here goes nothing. At least it’s a good excuse to leave if there’s nothing at the top of the stairs worth staying for.

I’d love to say that I hate being right, but that’s a big fat lie. The door to her room is cracked open, letting out a soft light into the dark hallway. Downstairs I can hear the echoes of our friends still talking about the game. 

It’s the season after the Saints won the Superbowl, and yet, those boys can still put me on the edge of a heart attack. Last two minutes of the game… and it was anyone’s guess. If Hartley hadn’t pulled it together and kicked a winning field goal in the last two SECONDS of the game, we would have bit the dust to the 49ers in San Francisco. But we didn’t. A thousand miles from home, 35 mile-an-hour winds, and those boys…

My hand falls on the door, and I push it away. She’s standing by her dresser, trying to unclasp her silver necklace, and staring at herself into an oval mirror. She’s wearing nothing but her Saints jersey, black with the gold “9” on the back, and a pair of black strappy heels. I can see the lacy edge of her panties peeking out from underneath her jersey, right where her thighs meet her ass.

I’ve forgotten about the whole game.

She can’t get her necklace to unclasp. I walk up behind her, and she flips her hair to the left side, away from me.

“Can you help me…?” She asks, staring into my eyes again. I can’t even meet them; I’m too focused on the curve of her ass.

“Um. Of course.” I unclasp her necklace, and she pulls the hair tie down, letting her dark curls fall. I step in, an inch too close, and I can feel my hips against her ass. I can’t help myself. I run my fingers over her skin at mid-thigh, sliding both hands just underneath her jersey. I’ve got a firm grip on the high arch of her panties, where the lace falls across her hip bones. I look up and meet her eyes in the mirror. She’s standing strong, watching my hands while hers still clutch her thin silver chain and fleur-de-lis charm.  

“So tell me…” She tilts her head even more to the left, and I run the tip of my nose up from her collarbone to just below her earlobe, and finish off by biting deeply into her earlobe. Her eyes roll back, but she hasn’t moved any other inch of her body.

“So tell me,” I continue, “What is it that you like?” She looks down, pulls open the drawer of a large jewelry box, and trades her silver necklace for a pair of steel handcuffs. I’m not sure if she’s going to cuff me or ask me to cuff her at this moment, but I’m definitely intrigued. She pushes me back with her hips, bends over a dresser to her left, and pulls out a gorgeous glass handle leather whip, a pinwheel, some condoms, a box of gloves, and a bottle of lube. She clicks off the only lamp in the room. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but the streetlights outside her window are just enough to illuminate her silhouette in the dark of the room.

This is getting more interesting every second.

She’s setting up everything, neatly, on her bedside table. And she still hasn’t said a word while I watched. She finishes and turns back to me.

“Hi.” Her voice is low and sultry.

“Hello?” I’m still not sure what she’s looking for.

She puts her hands on my hips and pushes me toward the bed gently, until I’m falling backward onto  the mattress. She climbs on top of me, resting her hips on mine, and I can feel the four-inch heel of her shoe brush against my legs. She could dig it into my thigh, if she chose, but she doesn’t. She leans over, bracing herself with her arms, until the gold “9” on her jersey has fallen against my chest and her nose is inches from mine.


She doesn’t give me time to respond, but leans in and kisses me so deeply that I lose my breath. My hands grope for her thighs in the dark, sliding up and up. Under her jersey I can feel the rounded curve of her ass slide into the depth of her lower back and the arch of her shoulders. I can feel the power, the strength in her upper back. She’s got me locked down, and even though I’m a good thirty pounds heavier than her, I’m not going anywhere. Her hair is falling in my face, tickling. Her lips are so soft, almost too soft -- sugar sweet kisses. I can feel the sharp edge of her shoulder blades, and I dig in, deep, fingernails almost to the bone. I don’t want sweet, gentle kisses. I want to do this the hard way.

She lets out a low moan as I finish dragging my fingernails through her skin. Without warning, she grabs both of my arms and pins them above my head. Will she cuff me? But she doesn’t. What does this girl want?
She leans down and bites my neck instead, still pinning my arms. She shifts her hips so she’s holding me down even tighter; I’ve got nowhere to go. Her teeth move up my neck, latch onto my earlobe, and bite down. And then she whispers… “take me.”

So that’s where this is going.

As fast as she clamped down on me, she releases my hands, and I rock my hips up, flipping her deftly onto her back. Her wrought iron headboard provides the perfect hold for cuffing her hands above her head, and I’ve got her pinned and cuffed securely before she can take back her request.

“What do you use for a safeword?” I ask.


I can’t help but laugh. Seriously? “All right.” I giggle. “Bacon it is.” It will do the job, I suppose.

I lean back on the bed, lifting my weight off her. I sit back and spread her legs, pushing the tender insides of her thighs apart, until I can see where the lace meets.

I look into her eyes, and my gaze turns hard, taunting. I have my hands on her calves, holding them to the bed. The rest of her body is taunt with expectation. Her jersey has hiked up around her stomach, and her hair has fallen across the pillow. But even in a fully submissive position, her eyes still sparkle; she’s given freely of her body for me to take, but she’ll enjoy every second of it.

“Don’t move. Don’t talk. Don’t moan. If you say a word, I’ll stop. Do you understand?” It’s my turn to give orders.

She opens her mouth to speak, hesitates, and nods.

“You can say ‘more’ or ‘less.’ Those are your choices. But that’s all you get.” She nods again, and her eyes widen.

I pull the pinwheel out, and start at the ankle strap of her heels. The forced curve of her foot accentuates off the muscles in her calves. I’m looking forward to pounding her as she kicks those heels up in the air. But not just yet.

The pinwheel has a diameter of spikes, sharp enough to break skin with some serious pressure. I roll it, up, beginning at her ankle and slowly making my way up to the soft inside of her thighs. When the spikes hit her tender skin, she sucks in a huge breath and arches her back, and I think I can hear a soft “more” escape between breaths.

I slide her jersey up across her breasts. She’s left her bra somewhere, though I’m surprised it took this long for me to notice. I can’t stop myself from sliding my mouth onto her left nipple, catching my teeth on the barbell, and pulling gently as I scrap my teeth over the silk skin. This time I’m not imagining things; she bucks her hips against me and moans loudly.

I let go immediately. “I told you to be quiet.” There’s no joking tone in my voice. “Do you understand? I will stop if you moan or move.”

She lies perfectly still; all I can see is the faint rise and fall of her chest as she breathes.

I run the pinwheel up the side of her body, digging in softly, and roll the spikes underneath the curve of her heavy breasts, across the soft flesh of her stomach. The metal of barbell through her belly button piercing glints in the light, and I catch my teeth on it, biting and twisting. The skin here is less sensitive, and I’m not afraid to apply enough pressure to make the barbell tug on her skin. I’m sure she can feel the nerves firing, a thin line between pleasure and pain.

This is all just a slow build up. 

If you can't tell, I'm a Saints fan. Who dat. :)

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