Golden girl #8

It was after one in the morning when I stopped outside Debs’s apartment. The path to her door led through narrow, unlit brick walkways with lots of corners and alcoves. It was a good place for junkie fundraisers to wait for business. Their business model consisted of braining people with bottles (if you use a bottle you’re not carrying a weapon) and robbing them while they were down. Debs’s isn’t the best neighborhood.

Schroedinger's Emma #1

Debs could ask me to walk her to her door, therefore, without either of us having to acknowledge any other reasons we might have for not wanting the night to end yet. Right now, Emma would be with Therese, with that little ass of hers as whipped as cream and as warm as toast, waggling in the air because she was lapping busily at Therese’s cunt, or else because Therese was busy punishing her for having failed to seduce either of us.

Schroedinger's Emma #2

Either way, Emma would be happy, and so would Therese. And either way, Emma’s ass was much on my mind. I expect it was bopping about in Debs’s sexual imagination too. So we didn’t speak of it. But as I walked Debs to her door, I put my hand lightly round her waist, letting my fingers rest on the upper slope of her left buttock. It wasn’t a grope, but it indicated interest. Debs accepted it, and didn’t wriggle away till we reached her front door. 

She paused with the door half open, not sure whether to thank me and send me on my way, or to let me in and deal with what would probably be a fairly determined effort, on my part, to get her into bed. Though “get her into bed” isn’t really the term, in bdsm. I wanted to get her naked and obedient. If she’d surrender then the kitchen table or the carpet would be just as good as bed. Or better.

Debs’s moment of decision at the front door passed, then another moment, and then another, and still she hadn’t moved or spoken. So I kissed her, not quite sexually, though I had my hand in her hair to remind her I was a dom, and said, “cup of tea.”

In the kitchen Debs boiled water and got down green tea. I walked behind her, and lightly bit and then kissed her ear, and when she accepted that I moved my hands under her blouse, and stroked up her belly to the undersides of her breasts, and then to cup and lift them a little, touching her nipples lightly through her bra. She was tense for a moment, but then she turned around and leaned against me. So I smiled at her, and began to undo buttons on that blouse. Debs has extraordinary breasts, and men who want her naturally start at the top. So I found myself with Debs in my arms, her blouse off, her breasts upheld by something lacy and white, and her lower body pressed against me and not avoiding my reviving erection.

So I told her to put the blouse of the kitchen table, a simple and non-scary order to obey. She did so. Now she was pressed against a full erection, and a man breathing harshly. We kissed, with my hand in her hair while we kissed so her head went where I directed, and we walked her backwards until she was pushed back hard against the wall. And, still kissing, I reached behind her for the catch of her bra.

Debs stiffened again. She said, “Oh god, sorry. No.”

“Ok, okay.” So I went back to kissing her without working on her bra strap.

She wriggled away. “No. Sorry, I mean, stop.”

“Stop … kissing you?”

“No. Stop. Completely stop. Sorry, I shouldn’t have … Sorry.”

“Oh? But … Oh. Well. Okay.” I was puzzled. I hadn’t known what had ended our last flirtation, and now I had no idea what had ended this one. “Ah, then how about a cup of tea, in the sense of it being an actual cup with tea in it?”

“I can do that.” 

Not better than sex. Really.

In a couple of minutes we had hot cups in our hands, and talked about films and work and stupid politicians, and so on. And, because Debs didn’t desire me, and the evening’s events were on my mind,  I said, “But she looked beautiful, didn’t she, little Emma? When she was coming.” 

But Debs was furious with Emma. “That slut. That fucking little slut.” 


[The end.] 

2 thoughts on “Golden girl #8

  1. Yes, I agree. That fucking little slut.

    You have understood the workings of a woman’s mind so well, and yet I wonder if you really have. We are twisted sistahs!

    This is a very good story, Mr Mortimer. Quite particular, beautifully crafted, carefully sly; intelligent with a clever build-up of anticipation, and a pretty twist in the tail (sic).


  2. Thank you! I was a bit worried that it would lose readers at the point it appeared that it was just about to head off into pornotopia. The sort of story where the hero accepts Therese’s offer, and takes Emma to realms of pleasure she’d never touched before, and finishes up in bed with Emma, her mistress and Debs too, for good measure. And so forth.

    Well, if anything like that ever actually happens to me, I’ll be sure to tell my blog about it.

    As for understanding women, I’ve been amazed by women from, well, forever, and you do observe what you really like and need. So I’d claim to have observed. But understood? Only sometimes.

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