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We eat in restaurants with people dressed in dark suits, cold dresses. Under the table you hold my wrist captive, pressing a silver fork into my clean white skin. The tines leave marks like tiny bites, thin scratches if I move to eat, reach for water.
I am trying to follow conversation, but the fork drops, I feel it bounce off my knee and your hand is free to slide under my skirt, push the gusset of my panties aside. You tease me. Tap my clit, pinch my lips till I squirm and squeak just a little, just enough that you notice. This is not allowed. You excuse us from the table and march me to the phone cubicle. I get my face slapped and you make me look you in the eyes when you tell me that if I cannot behave quietly, you will slice my fucking tongue out.
"Do you understand me?" You demand.
"Yes sir." I answer, feeling cool air chill my wet panties.
We return to the table. I want you desperately. I want you to touch me, but you seem engrossed in other things. I want to please you. Prove I am your good girl. I touch you, undoing your pants under the white linen napkin in your lap, and though you grow thick and firm under my fingers, you appear to ignore me. I love the feel of it in my hand, the way it responds when you won't, a twitch, the bit of sticky dampness I discreetly taste off my fingers. You will not look at me and it is crushing my heart.
I am taken by your hand quite suddenly and as I am stretched by your fingers, I almost gasp. You shoot me a look and I stop, remembering your threat and the sting of your palm on my cheek. I squeeze you rhythmically, like the contractions of my muscles when you fuck me. You take your hand away and when it appears above the table to lift a glass, your fingers glisten. They return to me cold and I am trying so hard to be quiet like you insist. You are so much better at this than I am, you hardly flinch when I feel the splatter of your come staining the underside of the tablecloth, the white linen napkin, filling my hand with delicious warmth.
I, conversely, jump when I feel the sliver of ice against my thigh, trailing drops of water as you move it slowly up. I cannot stay quiet, I know I am going to break and anger you, so I politely remove myself to the ladies' room where I try to compose myself so I can return to you, a good girl.
As I am correcting my lipstick at the row of black marble sinks, I hear the swish-click of the door and a woman enters, leaves. Swish-click. I search my bag for a better color. Swish-click. I am grabbed from behind, a hand over my mouth muffles my startled scream. You kick open a door and drag me backwards inside, push your hands under my dress, hard against the strain of my tight bound corset, making me gasp when I hit the cold steel stall with my back. You lift one leg by the calf, yanking my panties off one ankle, then another, rubbing your bulge against me till I come. I howl into your palm.
Swish-click. And more clicks of high heeled shoes over tile, I climb up and onto you, my shoes balancing my weight against the wall behind you. You enter me while I am still shaking. We hear another stall slam. The trickle of water. We don't move but you can feel me grab you inside.
My pussy is impatient, far less subject to your discipline than I am, and when you bite my collarbone it only makes it grow tighter.
Swish-click. She is gone. And the torture has only begun. You reach under me. I think you are putting yourself back into your pants and beg you not to.
"Please", I say, "I need you," but your right hand emerges, holding a silver pistol. The heavy, polished, long-nosed cowboy kind like the one my college roommate inherited from her grandfather, the one she would use to navigate dark parking lots and alleys. It starts in my mouth, between my teeth and you tell me to listen carefully and I do. I feel the muzzle move across my lips, over my breasts and down my stomach. Your left hand forces my pussy open and there is cold metal against my clit, bruising my labia, sliding into my cunt. You fuck me with it, ramming it into my hungry pussy and taking it away, and my heart jumps when you whisper that you'll blow my fucking uterus out if I don't touch myself, now. I know you're watching, so I do, feeling the weight of steel against my soft wet flesh, my shaking fingers just above. I fuck it in return and you can hear me begging you not to stop, please, I say, repeating your name again and again. You remove it before I can come. I'm not allowed such delicacies because I've been so very bad, and I can't help but squeal when I feel it reappear at my temple, slick with my juices and the smell of my own blood. Swish-click another comes. We freeze like paused video images. Swish-click and motion resumes.
You tell me to get on my hands and knees and push the muzzle into the back of my neck to show you mean it, and I know what you want me to do before you can tell me. My tongue slides over your boots and above I hear you rub your perfect curved cock with one hand, the gun held hard against me with the other. I want to see you but you push the nose against me harder, tell me to keep my goddamn head down, and I know I'll have a dark purple quarter-sized bruise on the nape of my neck tomorrow that will be impossible to explain.
Click. And I know that's not the door, but the cocking of a pistol.
I lick your boots and ankles like the dog I am for you, and they are delicious like your cock. I hear those small throaty squeaks I love and feel warm drops of your come slide over me, down my spine, over my neck, splattering the gun with the salty warm I can taste when I swallow the drops that fall to the saliva-clean toes of your shoes. You say my name and tell me I'm your good girl and it's everything I need to hear.
Copyright © 2002 Roxanne Sabastien
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