The Dom's Diary: Lace & Whiskey

After leaving us perched precariously on the razor's edge of divine pleasure,  Thorne  engages Clavis Tand's full attention.  Will he get everything he's been hoping for?

Lace & Whiskey

by

Abyrne Mostyn

 

                “We’ll take our drinks in the lower tilt please Ellis.”

                “Yes Pallaca.  One scotch neat and an Applejack, I’ll deliver them shortly.”

                “Right this way Thorne.”

                She gave orders like the Grande Dame of the place as though there was no doubt as to them being followed.  By the reaction of the barkeep, I’d guess there wasn’t.  I followed her as she sashayed down a hallway beyond the lower common room to one I didn’t remember seeing when I had first toured.  I wondered how many other rooms I hadn’t seen.  Walking in, the name made perfect sense as the centerpiece was a tilt table covered in black.  Not the shiny black of leather but a softer brushed looking suede.  All I could think was that must be a bitch to clean.

                She stopped in front of the table and promptly disrobed.  My eyes nearly bled as I watched her remove the chaps via zippers hidden in the outside leg and waist seams.  They fit so well, I had imagined watching her peal them like stockings down her legs while bent over a chair with each foot kicked up in turn.  This image was so much hotter.  One minute she had been standing in skin hugging leather chaps and a cross-back bustier, the next she was standing in a lace thong and a demi-cup bra that barely contained her generous assets.  Everything else cut away quick and was off like warm ups off a basketball player at game time and she hadn’t needed to remove her shoes.  It was inspirational.

                She had cocked her hip out, hand rested on the generous curve, waiting.  Watching me, her face was a chorus of ‘your turn’ but she had said nothing.  Walking further into the room, I was late to notice this one had no door.  It was not that I minded an audience, I hadn’t paid attention to the others to know if this was common or not.  I debated a moment too long and her hips straightened up as she crossed her arms.

                “Surely you don’t expect me to wait all day.”

                “No Pallaca, I was thinking that I’m worth the wait.”

                “You might be.  I’ve already waited though, since Maxim told me you were joining us.”

                It didn’t hurt my ego to know she’d been waiting.  I couldn’t help but wonder if that had her wet as she stood there.  Pacing the room, I walked purposefully around her knowing without knowing that she would not turn as I did so.

                “If I’m to disrobe, you’ll have to match me.”

                “As I’ve already disrobed, I believe it is you who needs to match me.”

                “Darling Cla’vis…Pallaca, I did not come in costume, and I daresay sweetness that I would not look as appealing in lace as you do.”

                A derisive snort was her only reply.  She still had not turned, so I turned her to face me.  Kicking aside my dock shoes, slowly unbuttoning the oxford, and shrugging out of it before I laid it across a nearby chair, I felt her appraisal and saw the question she didn’t voice.  Stepping in closer to her, I reached up and slipped the tiny straps from her shoulders until the fabric fell nearer to her elbows.  The slight demi-cups flipped upside down without the guide ropes to hold them up and in place, her breasts spilling over the fabric.  The cool air in the room was a stark contrast to the warm flesh.   It was my turn to watch as the cobbled buttons at the tips rose like braille.  Skimming them, I ran my fingers slowly around to the simple clasp and freed her, dropping the wisp of fabric down her arms, off, and into one hand, pulling her closer with the other.

                “Now isn’t that better?  We match.”

                Her eyes betrayed the fire I was building, but her lips were set in dissent.  She did not speak, did not sway, only stood there waiting.  I brought her hands up to my chest before setting mine on hers.  Cupping the weight of her breasts, I couldn’t resist the urge to thumb the straining tips.  Nor could I help but notice the soft hitch of her breath as I repeated the movement.  Leaning in I could smell her, clean linen and fresh cotton…crisp, clean, and something else.  I could hardly wait and let my hands slide down to remove the scrap of flesh that barred the last of her from my sight.

                “Ah, ah, ah Thorne…matching, remember?”

                Tracing fingers up her back, I leaned in, whispering to her what I wanted to know…

“Dites-moi je te fais mouiller…”

“Do you make me wet?  You know you do.”

I had hoped she understood the question.  I was pleased to know she did.  I knew she was wet, I could smell it.  I wondered how far she was willing to go.

“Montrez-moi.”

“Fair is fair.  Show me.”

Taking the scrap of lace and elastic that I still held, I took her hands in mine, leading them behind her as I embraced her and leaned in.

“Que vous le souhaitez…my command.”

Seizing the moment, gently, I wrapped the straps of fabric around her wrists, leaving them behind her back as I withdrew a step.   Slowly again, I moved to undo the fly of my jeans letting her watch each movement.  I had not lied.  I was not costumed, nor was I wearing underclothes.  She noticed well before I removed my pants and looked up to my face.  Her eyes had dilated and I caught her tongue dart to wet her lips more than once as she watched me disrobe without watching directly.  Setting the denim over the broadcloth shirt on the chair, I moved back to her, kneeling down.

“Now you need to match me don’t you.”

Again she was mute.  As I knelt, I nipped.  I slid my thumbs under the lace at her hip, marking her flesh with the short nails of the other four fingers down each side as I withdrew the flimsy piece of fabric.  I watched the microdots of goose-flesh dance and chase along her belly, across her hips and down her thighs as I slowly tugged the material away leaving it to pool at the sole of her shoes.  Biting at her thighs, up, over and across the soft line of hair to her hip and biting down harder, her control finally slipped a notch as she let out a soft moan.  Soft, but not soft enough.  I knew she was wet.  I didn’t need to ask again.  I could see it now as it glistened off the thatch of short curls between her thighs.  I had the globes of her ass in my hands and I wanted to spank her.  I wanted to tongue the continents across them as I had when I had first seen her in the community room.  I wanted again to drop her here and now and take her on the floor, but I would not.  I was going to play, and she was going to know I was worth the wait.

“Pallaca?”

Her response was throaty and sounded like soft alto over rough gravel, but she cleared her throat and repeated.

“Yes.”

“You wanted to see me cum.”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember me telling you that I am a gentleman?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what that means?”

“What does it mean?”

“It means Pallaca…ladies first.”