I am not usually a fan of Las Vegas; I find it gauche and coarse, hedonistic and selfish. It offers promise without fulfillment, lust without passion. I was visiting the city to attend a charity event, rubbing shoulders with celebrities, talking vacuously to strangers.
The marquee event was a ball in Caesars Palace, a night for the beautiful people to flaunt themselves, strut and be recognized. When I walked into the lobby, I was stunned at the transition, blown away by the setting. I could have been walking onto a film set in wonderful Rome; I half expected Grace Kelly or Omar Sharif to walk down those incredible stairs. My senses were overcome as I was drawn into that wonderful world that had been created; reality erased and a romantic and dreamy universe born.
Men in tuxes, straight backed and sleek; women in sheer gowns twirling in a rainbow of color. Elegantly they glided around and around, their feet barely touching the glossy marble floors, a benevolent yet invisible force guiding their every move. I recognized the waltz at once; Chopin’s beautiful “Grande Valse Brilliante” must have been composed with the help of angels, this precise setting in mind.
I leaned against a marble column, savoring its cool texture, its hardness against my back, its virile tumescence. I could hear the faint notes from an orchestra in a gallery nearby. Bars of “Three coins in the fountain” drifted in and out of hearing; I could picture in my mind’s eye the string quartet at the side of the Trevi Fountain, couples holding hands, looking at the glittering pennies nestled on the fountain floor, wishing that they too had a coin to toss in.
I focused on the scene in front of me; around and around the dancers swirled in each others’ arms, chaos without collision, elegance and grace without pretension.
It was the unmistakable scent of Guerlain L’Instant Magic that first made me aware of her presence at my side. The scent was intoxicating, sultry and voluptuous, yet it washed over me with the freshness of a cool summer breeze. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting my senses take over, feeling and experiencing, savoring the subtle fragrance, affording myself the luxury of appreciating the harmonious blend.
An iridescent ruby-red satin ballroom gown sheathed her sylph-like figure, chic and glamorous, stylish with class. It hugged her figure, caressing her curves, molding to her form. I was smitten with her image: sensual, smoldering with sensuality, slightly impertinent, bursting with confidence, yet at once intense and delicate. She flaunted her curves, her hips swelling gently beneath the form-fitting dress, her breasts voluptuous and enchanting, coquettish yet chaste.
With one hand, she dexterously held both a wine glass and a plate. The champagne bubbled effervescently in the delicate flute, pale yet golden, a promise of the subtle yet vibrant, purity with persistence. A few grapes rolled gently around the delicate plate; the gold rim seeming to magically steer away those that got perilously close to the edge.
She stared right into my eyes, unabashedly sexual, uncompromising of my privacy. A sip of her champagne, and the wine had barely passed her lips before she plucked up a grape and held it up.
My eyes were trapped by the vision: her fingers, graceful and slender, her manicured nails smooth and tapered, painted in a brilliant, glossy red hue; her incredibly beautiful lips, luscious, the expression of her tantalizing yet indefinable femininity, so intimate and yet so visible. In front of these lips she dangled a plump, red grape which had been drizzled with swirling strands of wispy chocolate, combining the exotic and tropical, the worldly with the ethereal; so refined, yet so exquisitely decadent.
The tip of her tongue darted out, moistening her parted lips, a gesture that was at once an expression of light-heartedness and sophistication, a hint of tantalizing sexuality, a promise of the erotic, a special indulgence, an assertion of her ability to turn my decadent dreams to reality. I experienced the most bizarre jealousy as I watched the fruit being kissed by her lips, savored in her mouth, the juices delighting her taste. My disquiet passed in a flash; how could I be envious of an inanimate object or have expectations of someone on whom I had never before laid eyes?
My eyes were drawn to her plunging neckline, the valley between her breasts offering a bed for an exquisite black oyster. Its lovely high luster glowed, setting off the peacock magic of the colors it imbued. Shades of green and purple, aubergine, blue, grey and silver promised to escape, tantalizingly disappearing, trapped by the shifting light. It setting was elegant yet simple, understated yet provocative.
She observed me closely as my eyes rested on it and I felt a flush of color rise to my cheeks as recognition dawned. It looked like more than the oyster I had recognized on my first glance. My eyes widened, my chest seemed to constrict. There was no doubt then, in my mind, it was a vulva, its lips made of gold, the lines curving in perfect swirls, harmonious, crafted with elegant finesse. Cradled in the luscious top lids was the black oyster, vibrant with passion, aroused and on display.
Refreshment for the soul
I have no idea how that contract was made; no words were spoken, no tokens exchanged. The grapes and wine were handed off to a passing waiter, and she took my hand and led me off. Her suite was on the sixteenth floor and the elevator ride seemed to last a lifetime. It was surreal, yet I felt that at last I was truly alive and I had entered a world where illusion and reality became melded into one. Her hand which clasped mine felt soothing to my soul, comforting to touch. She didn’t have to speak as her presence communicated all I needed to know.
She left me in the main room of the suite to undress, and I heard her voice for the first time on the house-phone from her room. As if in a trance, I slipped out of my clothes, folded them carefully, then folded myself over the back of the couch. I didn’t hear her coming back into the room again, but her perfume enveloped me again, reassuring me, confirming my choice.
The whip of the cane against my bottom was more than I thought I could endure. I felt it cutting into my flesh, igniting every nerve on its way. My moan was one of satisfaction more than one of distress. I could sense that I was putting on a show for her, my bottom swaying, my legs kicking up uncontrollably. With every swish that she whistled into my flesh, I responded more theatrically, more volubly, less inhibited. I sensed that this is what she wanted and needed; the searing strokes cauterizing my internal wounds, bonding us in pain and in my submission.
I was rewarded with a respite, one in which she transformed pain into pleasure. Her soothing hands caressed my inflamed skin, traced the welts, probed my wetness. Bent over the back of that couch, I was as responsive as before, my mews were cries of pleasure rather than pain, my shaking was of lust rather than seeking release.
A persistent knock at the door put this all on hold; I remained folded over the seat while she went to open the door. It was the room service she had ordered from her room phone in what seemed like an eternity but just minutes ago. A simple ‘Stay!” compelled me to leave myself on display.
The waiter wheeled in the trolley with the refreshments on top but my back was towards him so I couldn’t see him react. I felt flushed with shame, dripping with arousal, elated with lust.
My dominant’s voice was silky and smooth, sultry and calm and somewhat deeper than I had imagined it would be. She had a European accent, one that I couldn’t quite place; perhaps a touch of Slavic, maybe a hint of Polish roots? For some strange reason, it made me think of her in the province, walking through the sun warmed fields, searching for butterflies, picking flowers.
I felt like I was in a trance, bent over, naked and striped, waiting patiently while she conversed with the waiter.
“Leave it over here, won’t you?” She was polite and courteous, considerate and gracious. “As you can see, I am a bit tied up right now!” she went on: “…well, metaphorically speaking, she is, rather than I!”
I could imagine the waiter looking my way, lapping up my form, salivating at my predicament. Had he ever seen anything like this in the rooms before? Was this just another salacious scene he was witnessing? Was he aroused….was his cock straining in his shorts? Did he think I was a slut or did he feel my pain?
“I would love to give you a tip,” my dominant carried on, “would you mind waiting a few minutes until we are all wrapped up?”
I could imagine his nod, his leery smile. Perhaps he was deadpan while emotion boiled inside.
I had never imagined myself to be an exhibitionist before, but level of lust and her whippy cane left me no choice. I performed again for my lady as she whipped them in tight. My gyrations and cries were genuine, no theatre required this time. I did not count the strokes, why should I bother; when my dominant had had enough, they were sure to stop. She found new places to fan in to flames; I would never have guessed the difference in sensitivity between the various spots. A low cut into the crease between my thigh and my bottom, a wrap around that caught my hips on the side. A tip that flicked into the crack of my bum, a stinger that created a new welt on the back of my thigh.
When the waiter was paid off, I was allowed to get up. With her gown hitched up and her panties dropped, my new found lover lay back on the bed. Her head was propped up on downy pillows, her back nestled in to the crisp, fresh linen. She exhibited no shame as she spread her legs, and as I knelt between them, she guided my head down.
It was not the perfect form that caused me to pause; her depilated pubis was a delight to behold. Glistening with arousal, fragrant with her sex, her state belied her exterior calm. It was the perfect black pearl that arrested my movement, captivated my stare. It was nestled in her folds, lying next to her clit. A delicate gold mounting surrounded her labia lips, holding it snugly in place, secure without discomfort.
It was like looking at two pearls in a single shell, one dark and one pink, both standing proud with arousal, their luster polished to a sheen, glistening with her sweet juices. I did not need much further persuasion. With my fingers working my own clit, I tended to her needs to provide the relief she so desperately desired. She was as passionate and uninhibited as I had been earlier, writhing in pleasure, moaning with lust. Her passion was contagious, her wildness drove me on and somehow I managed to please both her needs and my own.
In a remarkable sign of our compatibility, we climaxed together. Her shudders of pleasure tipped me right over the edge. I have never known such bliss before; our frantic actions led to sleep so deep. As she cuddled me tight, I breathed in her soft, sweat breath. Chocolate and vanilla, mingled with musk and almonds from her Guerlain perfume; the scents were intoxicating, leaving me feeling blissful and soothed.
Flight of fancy
She was gone in the morning without saying goodbye. I felt a curious mixed emotion of sorrow and elation. My whip marks were there to prove it had not all been a dream, but she had vanished without trace, without saying goodbye. I didn’t know her name, didn’t even know where she lived. Like lovers passing in the night, we had achieved something that could never be repeated; nothing would ever be the same.
I walked through the lobby to catch a cab to the airport. I was distressed to see the waiter who had witnessed my performance standing at the bellhops desk. He offered me a friendly smile and tipped his cap. There was no sign from him that he recognized me, but I am certain that his discretion did him proud.
I hate trans-Atlantic flights; the seats are cramped, the food is not worthy of eating, a lech in the seat next to me promised to make it an ordeal without an end. The doors had just closed when a hostess came through from the upfront sections.
“First class always seems to get the loveliest of the hostesses” I thought. To be quite honest, I was not yet back in the mood to flirt. I longed for the dominant who had mysteriously entered my life and left without so much as hint as to who she really was; a new relationship with a hostess was simply not on the cards.
She parted the curtains and seemed to look my way. The note she handed me was not sealed and the smile on her lips told me that she had read it right through.
“There’s a seat for you in First Class, someone’s waiting for you there!”
I was stunned and at a loss, for I knew no-one traveling back to Europe that day.
The text on the note was written in a flowing feminine hand; simple and to the point, refusal not an option.
“Please grace me with your presence; we never got to eat our room service last night. Champagne and smoked salmon waiting for you here.”
It was the motif on the paper that got me all in a sweat. There, embossed into the fiber and picked out in silver, lay the image of a black pearl nestled in an oyster…or could it have been in a set of labia lips?