Fantasy Monday- The Outfit

“Stupid, bloody, ridiculous, bloody fancy dress party.”

She slammed her hair brush down and glared at her own reflection in the mirror.

“I am thirty fricking two and I do not see why people can’t just throw a regular party where we dress like adults in our very own clothes.”

She waited for his comment.

“I look like a hooker, a bloody hooker. I hate this.”

He was sitting behind her on the bed, still saying nothing. His dark hair falling forward over his eyes prevented her from seeing what he was thinking.

“Tom, I am pissed off.” She stressed the last word in case he had missed the point. She did not say, “I want a reaction” but she may as well have done.

He smiled, his tired ‘I am just in from work smile’ and a smile that she thought could have meant something else, but there was nothing else he said. Still in his suit, his jacket hung up, a Benedictine monk’s outfit laid out on the bed awaiting his attention, Tom just sat and smiled.

“Well?” she demanded, “Well?” Hearing no reply was all she needed. “Oh for God’s sake, I am getting a drink. You are driving.”

She flung the last comment out in her wake as she left the room and stomped down the stairs to pour a gin and tonic

‘Bloody, enigmatic man! I don’t want bloody enigmatic. If I wanted enigmatic I would have married Zorro.’

These words she spat out to herself as she mixed her drink with no small degree of violence.

The sound of the gentle fizz of tonic and the plink, plink of ice cubes was a soothing meditation. She stared out the window and watched dusk settle the day down as she stroked the lip of the glass and let her sulk settle down a little as well.

She heard Tom behind her. She wondered if maybe he would spank her. It was most unlike him to do nothing. She wanted the confrontation, the clash, the inevitable loss that would be both her undoing and her making. Still looking out the window, she felt the glass leave her hand and assumed that he would take her up the stairs and there lay her out like his monk’s robe on the bed. She did not know what then, but she imagined it might involve his belt, the one he was wearing. She shuddered.

But instead she felt him kiss her neck, a gentle, silent, searching kiss that made her lean to one side, to offer herself to him as though he were a vampire. She felt equal parts loss and victory because she knew that he was soothing her, placating her, and loving her out of her bad mood.

“He can’t get it right all the time,” she thought. “And if he has to get me wrong …” she gave a little moan as his kisses sent messages down her body to its core, “then at least he should get it wrong …” and then her thoughts got lost in the sensation of him.

She felt him unzip her dress and a small prickle of irritation crossed her forehead. She wanted him to at least bend her over and lift her skirt; she wanted him to assert himself. She needed him to be in charge.

She asked softly, “Honey, can’t you …?”

The question hung in the air. It was part shame and part passive aggression that left the request unfinished and him free to screw it up, to get her wrong and confirm her bad mood.

Her dress fell forward, limp against her middle, and his left hand pulled her away from her position by the window and against him. She wanted to move away, irked that he had not read her mind, her night’s hostile position confirmed. But Tom would not let her go and instead, without a gentle or tentative movement, he slipped his hand into the soft fabric of her bra and squeezed her right nipple.

“Oh for God’s sake, Tom, not so hard.”

She started to pulled with more meaning but could not get any leverage, tipped as she was, against him. She started to lose her bearings, her place in her mood. Her nipple had responded to him, his fingers pulling and turning it in a way that should have made her mad with him, and she was. But her nipple spoke of her greed for him and her lust. She had lost the ability to say what she wanted but she thought it was not this.

She wanted to say that when she felt his right hand swerve over her hip and lift up her skirt at the side. Her brows knotted in confusion and  her eyes widened when his fingers curled over her mound and slipped into her folds. She would have said she was embarrassed if she could, she would have asked him to stop, but if she could have strung a thought together she would have known that he could feel how her body was reacting.

She still did not want this and silently wriggled against him, pushing her bottom from side to side to wriggle a way out.

But her body spoke for itself, and sent her hands down to her skirt to lift it out of his way. That made it easier for his hand to move, to build on its inquisitive, exquisite exploration, a gentle but assertive to and fro, a fondling, like teenagers with no place to go and all the time in the world.

Somewhere inside she knew that she was mad, although she did not know why. She knew that she was in his hands, all of her, every part of her that mattered. She knew that she wanted him to keep her tight against him; she knew that she wanted him to whisper in her ear and make her come; and she knew that when she did,  it would be loud and she would buckle, and she was afraid that she would fall over. She knew his hands. She knew that she was his and nothing more.

When she called out, it was with that sensation of her ownership. The physical sensation was perfect but it was the realisation of how he had walked up to her and taken her like this, dismissed her, ignored her, and made her come because he wanted to, that made her legs shake so hard he had to hold her up. It was the knowledge that there was not one part of herself that she could deny him that made her throw up her hands and hold onto his neck and arch back into him.

Afterwards she wanted to turn around, to hide in his neck, to kiss, to be kissed, but he held her steady. Awkward, shy, embarrassed, with his hand still firmly against her throbbing, sensitive pussy she stayed as still as a cub in a trap, waiting to see what he wanted.

He let her wait. Goosebumps formed on her arms, her breasts called for his return. Her mind was silent and still except for a plea to know what he wanted.

He leaned down and whispered in her ear …

XXXXX

I published this picture by mistake a month or so ago and when I did Scarlet was kind enough to send me her delectable take on it.

Scarlet wrote:

His touch is not gentle

Which might surprise those of you who think you know him.

His wise words and calm demeanor

Belie the fury of the storm I know within him.

His hands demand things of me.

I can refuse, but that is my only choice.

If I acquiesce, I agree to everything.

He knows that I struggle with this, but he gives me no room.

I am his, or I am nothing.

I move to his side, dropping my eyes before his steady gaze.

He knows me for what I am, and I cannot take it all in.

I agree without words.

It is who I am, to be his, to submit to what he makes of me.

He knows this, and in that way, he is kind.

And yet.

When he chooses, he will lay me down.

He will put his hands on me, until I am half mad with longing

And he will not stop until I am beyond the desire for stopping

Beyond the desire for leniency

Beyond the desire for anything

But the touch of him and his mouth on mine.

Would you like another?