by William Dean
(04/26/06)

The law of the concrete jungle: hit 'em when they're vulnerable.

You know how it is; you're sitting still dazed from the bright winter morning and trying not to stir yourself too deeply into that first cup of coffee, when the Imp of the Perverse personifying one the Seven Deadlies -- frequently Lust -- bends your ear a little hard and whispers, check it out, bitch...

T.4 had, it must be said, an average body. She expressed her sensuality and high desirability factor, however, in adornment. Multiple multicolor tattoos sprang across her shoulders and mid-way down her arms: swirls and wreathlike tendrils of sigil and symbol. When she stretched and her goth-black T-shirt rode up, it revealed her pale skin and further designs inscribed upon her: more unidentifiable forms and whirling maelstroms of vine and tendril. Behind her left ear, there was inked a large pentagram star in fading indigo. Beneath her clear blue eyes, lower than most, the lines of mascara to make her eyes look huge and comely. Her dark hair, highlighted with brassy red, was ratted with dark feathers in a coxcomb that defied and drew the eye. Her breasts, large enough to please, were also average sized or slightly less as they rode like inviting spheres beneath the darkness of her shirt; hinting, as did the rest of her slim, covered body, with the promise of erotic piercing in places only lovers might see. When she moved, there was a casual grace. When she stood, her eyes were always leveled straight forward as if her eyelids were never weary or demure.

She moved with the precise, balanced, efficient ballet of generations of waitresses, as if her great grandmother had slung hash, her grandmother had tossed down baskets of burgers and fries, and her mother had poured countless cups of java down the throats of the late decade swingers of the '80s. In short, she was bred and born to serve. To men, she represented maternalism, if of an edgy variety, and more ultimately, she represented food.

To women, she was an exoticism, to be watched warily and studied until dismissed for the very averageness of her body and personal style. To the hunting Mistress, prowling panther of the Domme sect, steeped in spell and sexual Magick, she was a delicacy to be savored, eaten, pawed, toyed with, captured, and married in the rite of Sappho.

Yeah, right, Imp, I told him. You're as full of it as usual. True, I dawdled over my simple breakfast of hashes, scrambled, and Portuguese sausage; threw down a few more cups of coffee and watched T.4 -- not too slyly -- slip around the little diner, bending to grab up plates from the counter and scooping tips off the tables. I left a healthy tip. Tats are expensive and it didn't hurt my purse any to make a contribution to her personal art gallery.

I unlocked the doors, but stood by my car in the postage-stamp-sized parking lot, trying to push the more absurd fantasies back where they belonged -- in LalaLand -- and lit up a cigarette.

After a few drags, T.4 came out of the back door of restaurant, looked around, and then slowly made that goth shuffle-stride in my direction. She stopped an arm's reach away and looked to the left, then back at me.

"Can I bum one of those? I smoked mine all up on my breaks."

I offered her one with a slight tilt of my head. She briefly touched the back of my hand to guide the lighter.

"Thanks," she said, looking to the right and then down as she puffed.

"Sure. You on break now or done with the shift?"

I picked up on the pattern of her. She always looked to one side or the other before or while she spoke. "Done. Guess I'll go home and get some rest." She ended with a half-question mark and a sharp puff of smoke.

I swallowed, expecting the Imp to make a crack. "Would you rather do something else?" I asked, surprised it was my own voice I heard.

Again, she performed her ritual, looking away, then up at me, and then shifted her gaze to the asphalt between us. "Like what?"

Such are the moments of truth that hurtle down on you on a bright morning in winter, behind a local diner. You have to come out with it or push it down into your belly where it sits like too much bad coffee.

I tried a shake of the head and a smile. "You want my real answer or one I make up?"

For once, she looked straight at me. "I like real."

Whew! I wished the Imp had appeared suddenly. Someone I could blame things on when it all turned to crap. "Come back with me to my hotel room." The words hung in the air so long I could almost see them drifting away.

T.4 looked left. Took another deep drag on the cigarette. "And do what?"

She'd said she liked real. The phrase that bubbled up from me couldn't have gotten more real. "Make love." My tongue stumbled over itself trying to cram its seemingly impossible length and width back into my too small mouth.

She made that thoughtful pout. You know the kind. Like great philosophers use when they're puzzling out the meaning of it all. She looked down at her feet, up at me, left, then right. Then pinned me sharply in a wide-eyed stare.

"You look at me and see a freak, right?"

"I look at you and think you're beautiful," I managed to squeeze out between my teeth.

She did a little head bob backward. "Thanks. No, I mean, you think I'm a freak. Way I dress and my tats and...I've got other stuff going on."

I couldn't help myself. My eyes took a dive to her black t-shirt and I could see -- or imagine I saw -- the faint outlines of rings just below her nipples. Something stabbed me between the shoulder blades and trickled wetly down my spine.

"But, uh..." she looked down at the ground, "I've never...with a woman, I mean. Not actually the whole thing. Just girl kissing and that."

Fire burned down my legs. The moments of truth were just crashing into each other like kids in bumper cars. I took a final drag off my cigarette and dropped it between us. Stepped on the glowing red ember.

"Do you want to?"

There was the head turn again. The level look away, the thousand-yard blank gaze. "Yeah."

Crazy. Peggy Lee began serenading me inside my head with all the poignance of a lonely jukebox, a shadowed dance floor, and a woman suddenly no longer dancing by herself. I was a longing, yearning muddle of Jell-O inside while wanting to be the sophisticated, in control, successful seductress on the outside. What do you say? What's the one short powerful phrase that makes it memorable, unforgettable? "Come on."

We got in the car at the same time. I couldn't take my eyes off her. You can tell so much by how people act once the commitment is made. Some women brace their feet hard on the floor, press themselves against the passenger door, and never move another muscle until you stop the car. Others slip back in the leather chair, let their head loll back, and plaster that grin on their face like they've just won the lottery. T.4 sat kind of crouched, half facing me. Eyes on me.

"What?" I asked, dreading, knowing she was going to change her mind, flee, fly, and that the Imp of the Perverse would take her place laughing his ass off at me.

"Can I?" she said softly.

I had no idea what it meant. But, in for the penny, you know. "Sure," I said.

In one of those slow-motion flashes that you know is really incredibly quick, she leaned over and kissed my mouth. It was over and she was back sitting in the seat again, looking ahead.

Whoa! Sensory overload and deprivation in one instant. It took me awhile before I could remember to turn the ignition and drive out of the parking lot, still trying to bring back the feeling of that kiss, the taste of her lips, the fading echo of her breath on my face.

My hotel was only five minutes away and when we stepped into the room, she just stood looking around, then began walking and touching the furniture. My eyes followed her, but it felt like the rest of my body was already on the bed, despite the fact I'd only taken two steps from the door.

She peeked in the bathroom, walked over to me and gave me another of her lightning kisses, pulling back so quickly it stunned me.

"I'm kind of funky," she said, walking to the bathroom. "From my shift. I smell like greasy fries and yesterday's soup. 'kay?"

I nodded, swallowing. This was all completely wrong. I'm a Domme. I control the pace, set the limits, put her on her knees. I watched the bathroom door shut and thought, well, what the fuck? Maybe, I'm being played here, but...it doesn't feel like it. Not really.

I sat on the edge of the bed, too wrapped up in my pondering. The bathroom door opened and she came out in just a half-bra and black panties.

"Forgot something," she said, and rummaged in her bag a moment, then casually went back in the bathroom. This time the door was left half open.

She'd only been really visible for an instant...less than a minute, but it was long enough to see more of her tattoos. Especially the pink tendrils of vines inked high on the inside of her thighs and something curling down into her bra. I brought the vision back in my mind. It was...just...something else. I looked at the half-open -- inciting? -- door where I heard the water splashing over her. Okay, yes. I did that gross thing we all do. I smelled myself. Did I need a shower, too...could I justify going in there? Did I even have to justify it? Why didn't I just...?

I did.

I undressed fast and padded into the bathroom, slid back the shower door. Oh, fuck. Oh, sweet, sweet fuck. Her body was like a wet jungle or garden or I don't know what. The multicolored spirals, whorls, petals, vines on her deepened and darkened and gleamed in the water. Twin thin gold rings were suspended from her erect nipples...she was shaved clean and a tiny gold barbell glittered and flashed at the hood over her clit. She smiled quickly as I entered the small waterfall, took a half step back, and then looked down.

"There's room," she said softly.

Little eddies of suds, rivulets of soap foam spun down her body in the spray, like Venus rising out of the sea in that old famous painting. It's funny how corny stuff like that pops into your head, groping to put the scene into a recognizable perspective before being splashed away in the moment of the now.

My fingertips trailed over the pink petals over her breasts and grazed over the rings hanging from her nipples. My brain fogged, yet I couldn't stop my mouth from trying to talk trite, stupid things.

"So pretty," I said, rubbing a forefinger over the tips of each nipple, testing the downward tug of the rings. She arched her back. I suddenly feared that some unbelievable eloquence was going to erupt from her lips, dark obscure poetry or lyrics. She moved her head back and forth in the water spray.

"That feels nice," was all she said.

It sounds crazy, but I honestly didn't care if she touched me or not. I was touching her and that was just all right. I tasted her wet tattoos, running my lips and tongue over her shoulders, easing down her arms, and then across to her breasts. They yielded to my mouth and her nipples thrust against my face, swaying slightly until they found my open lips. Oh, it was good. It was so good. I almost lost track of what I was doing and surprised myself when I realized my hands had settled on her hips. My thumbs worked those magic points just below the hip bones, stretching back the skin...and when I glanced down I could see her clit peeking out from its pierced hood. Magical moment. Spellbinding. Intoxicating. The water stream dripping off it drew my tongue down, down, down there. This was sacrament, like taking the holy wafer on your tongue when you believe. I believed. I believed in the wet, hot nub of her sparking across the tip of my moving tongue. I believed so strongly I wanted never to disconnect from it. After a minute, she started breathing fast and with long gasps. After five, she began working her hips harder into my licking. Ten, was it, or fifteen or twenty minutes or a year later, she grabbed my hair and began grinding so hard it hurt...it hurt so good. And then she rose up on her toes, braced her hands against the shower stall walls and came...came on my mouth, on my tongue, with little tremors rippling down her legs. I sucked in a deep breath and threw my head back into the powerful spray of water, now grown cold.

She leaned close and kissed my gaping mouth, letting the water pour out and through and around our lips.

"That was good," she said with a crooked smile. "Really."

I nodded -- the mind too incoherent to find words.

She stepped out of the shower and grabbed up a towel and began drying herself. She tilted her head and looked to the side.

"Do you want me to do that to you now? On the bed? I'd like to."

She finished drying off and padded back into the room dropping the towel in a wet heap on the floor. I shook my head, probably grinning like a complete idiot. I turned my head to my left shoulder and made a flick with my finger. The Imp of the Perverse fell off into the shower and I watched him sink down the drain with a gurgle.

Our permanent collection of erotic stories