The first thing I noticed on arrival in Tampa, Florida, was the ubiquitous presence of ladies’ bare legs! Coming down from Canada, where the snow still lay thick on the ground and where jeans seemed to have been been standard uniform for the last six months, the sight of the bare skin sent a tingle down my spine. It was not that all the legs were perfect, in fact far from it! The fact is that there were legs on display: bronzes and whites and browns, shaven and lasered and depilated, sporting sandals and courts, flats and heels. Golden chain bracelets circled the ankles of the sophisticated women, the tiny links glinting in the sun; beads and plastic braids, leather and colored string ties circled those of the carefree.
My flight had arrived late, so it was a quick meal in my room and straight to bed; room service has rarely been tipped as badly as by me! I got up early the next morning, bathed and dressed. I sat at a table by myself in the breakfast room, then caught a taxi to the offices where the sales meeting was to be held. What a pity, I thought, to be locked inside on a day where the sun shone and temperatures were above zero, in a climate where naked skin is the best form of dress.
Sales meetings are notoriously dull; hours of enablement, account planning sessions that go no-where, coffee breaks shared with people with whom you have little in common. By the afternoon of the first day I was exhausted and bored. The presenters droned on listlessly, barely making any effort to inject energy into an event that seemed to have already run its course. Side conversations drowned out the presenters, the presenters retreated even deeper into their charts. For those in the room that survived, death by PowerPoint seemed to be a likely outcome.
The meeting room was set up with nine or ten rows of tables. The rows were separated in the middle to form an aisle. I sat in the aisle seat towards the back of the room; I never was a front-of-the-class type of girl!
My head was propped up on my hand and my eyes scanned around the room. I was looking for some visual stimulation, anything to catch my interest and keep me awake, but my eyelids were feeling ever so heavy, as if they were weighted down with lead. My brain was slowly shutting down with the delicious prospect of falling asleep, allowing me to catch up with some desperately needed rest.
I recall that she had introduced herself as Tess during the interminably long and boring set of introductions that kicked off the day. I make it a priority to remember certain name/face combinations when the chemistry looks right! She was sitting towards the front of the room, on the opposite side of the aisle. Dressed for business, she had a dancer’s body that belied her middle aged years. Tess’s business jacket was worn over a silky floral blouse, her skirt was tight and rode above her knee, just long enough to be modest.
Her legs were like a mirage in the desert; a touch of the unexpected, the promise of the exotic, something to slake my imagination’s thirst. Her skirt rode high on her thigh, framing the top of a perfectly shaped leg. She had it bent back slightly to the side of the chair; it was the only thing visible in that aisle between the tables. It was a dancer’s leg; long and slender, perfectly toned.
The angle and tenseness of the muscle in her calf was accentuated by her heels. Some might have characterized them as ‘Fuck-Me-Shoes’, but they bordered on the elegant and were evidently worn by someone of discerning choice. They were stiletto heels with delicate straps, alternating pastel shades of marine blue and white; the package was Tumblr worthy, erotic to the max.
I am a selective admirer of tattoos, my attraction dependent on where they are placed, how delicate the work, how they enhance. As sexy as her feet were, it was her ankle on display that set my heart racing and woke me from my dream. She showcased a delicate rose bud and stem that while simple and elegant, was drawn to perfection. Ostensibly tying the stem to her skin, a narrow rainbow telegraphed which way she swung. To top it all off, a gold chain looped around in a delicate swoon.
Her legs made a dramatic statement; they said: “I am toned and in control, I have class and taste. I have creativity and passion, self confidence and flair. I have it, I flaunt it, I wear it with pride.”
There was the inevitable team dinner that followed that interminable day. The venue was in Ybor City, a funky neighborhood in Tampa that featured wall-to-wall bars (many with outdoor patios and most with music), cigar lounges and other small businesses that you could imagine would thrive in a neighborhood like that.
The meal dragged on, and after the main course, I excused myself and went outside to breathe in some fresh air. My head was heavy from too much wine; perhaps the marguerittes contributed to that state as well! I was standing outside the restaurant, watching the activity in a tattoo parlor, when I felt a presence at my side. Her perfume, unmistakably Black Opium, mixed with the wonderful aroma of cigars that drifted across the streets, to create an intoxicating blend that at last, brought pleasure to the day.
The heady scent combined with the Caribbean music from the bars and my own state of light inebriation to create a wonderful space where any dream was within reach. I had been speculating, in my own head, what the customer in that parlor was asking for: a delicate tattoo to be placed on the top swell of her breast, or perhaps a rose for the bare shoulder on which her tank-top straps trailed down. Or, perhaps a piecing? Would that be for her face, her torso, or perhaps even lower down?
I had become obsessed recently with those more intimate forms of piercings, reading the blogs and looking at Tumblr sites.
“Do you know that a clitoral piercing can you more sensitive, make it easier to cum?”
Tess’s comment hit me like a sledgehammer; how had she know that I had been thinking about that? She couldn’t have seen my flush; it was too dark, wasn’t it?
“Come, let’s go back inside! I want you to sit beside me for dessert.”
She took hold of my upper arm, and led me back into the restaurant; as happens in these types of dinners, people had mingled and we could sit wherever there were two empty chairs.
It is an extremely intimate experience to share a dessert: eating off the same plate, intimate glances, intimate conversation. Watching lips wrap themselves around nibbles of cake, jointly delighting in the exotic sweetness of the creamy, chocolate liqueur sauce. Her thighs burnt like the blazes when they pushed against mine; it became apparent very soon that this was by design rather than accident. Tiny little rubs of her calf against mine, a surreptitious squeeze of my hand under the white table cloth.
Tess left the restaurant alone; I followed ten minutes later, convincing myself that none of the others had noticed the relationship that had just blossomed right there. I had her address in an SMS though, and I knew she would be waiting for me; the hotel she was staying at was just a short cab ride away.
The Hotel Room
I felt very self conscious standing at the door and waiting for her to answer my knock. What on earth was I doing here, what was I expecting, what good could come of a meeting like this?
It seemed like an eternity had passed before Tess opened the door. With every second that I had waited, my resolve had waned, and a hurried retreat was at the top of my plans. When she did open it, she just stood there and eyed me up and down, assessing me, undressing me with her eyes.
“Well come on then,” she chided me, “don’t just stand there!”
She took me by the wrist and led me in; once the door closed behind us, her inhibitions dropped. Her arms wrapped around me, me clutching me in a tight embrace. The wonderful fragrance of her perfume drew me instantly back into the bubble of femininity that enclosed her, secure in her presence, submitting to her control.
Her lips found mine, and I was swallowed up by her passion, trying hard to control myself, but being swept away on her tide. I was in a daze of lust, submitting to my submission, overwhelmed by her control.
I don’t recall us shedding our clothes or getting ready to have sex, but I strongly recall those strong fingers of hers once again wrapping around my wrist and steering me towards the bed, using delicate pressure to make me lie down. It flashed through my mind that the covers had been pulled back, that I was lying face down on crisp white linen, my breasts bunching beneath me, my face turned to it’s side.
“You like tattoos, do you?” her voice was husky with lust, her hand rested heavily o the small of my back.
I had lost my voice; I didn’t know what to say.
“Well, I am going to tattoo your bottom; fulfill your dreams, give you what you need.”
I was suddenly awake and in control of my senses; surely she couldn’t really mean that! I made a move to push myself up, but her hand remained heavily on my back, pushing me down and back into place. I felt a rush between my legs, the floodgates had opened. Submission does that to me; in a set-up like this, I really had no control.
Her free hand started to massage my bottom; it felt warm and loving. I wanted to respond to show how much I loved her soft touch. I mewed with pleasure, parting my thighs, willing her to let her hands wander in between.
Her barrage of smacks brought me back to reality. They hurt and I had to protect myself somehow! I whipped my hands back to cover my bottom, twisting aside to avoid the blows. The weight on the bed next to me shifted, and felt Tess straddling my legs and pinning me down. She must have done this before, she was so strong and nimble; a white terry-cloth dressing gown belt was wrapped around my wrists, tying my hands behind me, leaving my bottom unprotected, my legs immobile beneath her weight.
It wasn’t her hands that stung my rear this time, it was the leather sole of a slipper. Firm yet somewhat pliant, it stung like the blazes, driving heat into every nerve of my skin; yet at the same time, she had a hand in between my thighs, feeling and palpitating my swollen labia, squeezing them together, pummeling my clit.
At last the slippering stopped and a delicious warmth spread across my backside, burrowing it’s way down to join up with my cunt. Her hands never let up, massaging my rump and my sex, driving me ever deeper into a wonderful state of arousal. It felt so wonderful to be restrained, helpless to defend myself, helpless to respond. I was at liberty to enjoy her attentions and bask in my submission.
I groaned in frustration when Tess climbed off me, leaving me hanging, my juices flooding the sheets below.
“Roll over, now!”
I felt clumsy rolling over, my hands tied behind my back. They felt uncomfortable beneath me; I was even more helpless than before.
Tess straddled my legs again, her dancers body looking lithe and taut, her breasts perfectly round, perfectly proportioned. She settled back, her weight resting on my lower thighs. As if by magic, a pair of nipple clips separated by a two foot silver chain, materialised in one hand.
“You want to feel what it likes to be pieced?” she asked, “well try this for size first!”
My nipples were erect, aroused and waiting. She opened what looked to be an elaborate clip, and gently released it onto my left nip. I felt my eyes close and my entire focus transferred to that little nub, as the pain rocked through it, unleashing an incredible flash that I thought would never die and never be eclipsed.
A second clip on it’s own chain was dangled in front of my eyes, and before I could realise what had happened, my other nipple was trapped in that vice of pain.
I was still struggling to understand what had just transpired, when Tess raised the chains and fastened the clips on the other side of the chains to her own nipples. We were joined in a chain of pain, my left nipple to her right, my right to her left.
The look of pain on her face excited me, her gasps aroused me. I watched enthralled as her eyes screwed up and her forehead furrowed, as she welcomed the exquisite agony that flowed through her body and fueled the fires of her lust.
With her one hand stimulating herself and her other finger fucking me, we performed in an exhilarating choreography of pain and pleasure. With every sway of her torso, with every swing of her breasts, our nipples were tweaked into paroxysms of sweet torture. When my sex was probed, I knew that her other fingers were deep into her own, and when my nipples were afflicted, I knew that she was suffering the same torment as I.
She cuddled me afterwards and gently rubbed out all of the sore; the release of the clips brought a whole new wave of pain of its own. She was surprisingly tender and dried my eyes, holding me tight until my sobs had died down. She knew instinctively though, that they were not just sobs of pain; they were tears of release brought on by the devilish concoction of the kink of her ways.
My hands were not released until it was time for us to get up, to prepare for another session of sales planning and teaming. We knew our bodies would once again be imprisoned for the day, but it was a day where our spirits soared, for we knew that we had both found an unlikely match. Drinks in the evening would not be with the team that night; something more intimate was bound to take place!