Actions

Work Header

Kinkmeme Stories

Chapter Text

I was enjoying some much-needed beauty sleep after a late night out with Ben and Mssrs. Grey Goose and Noilly Prat when the agency rang.

"Three pm, Ritz-Carlton, a little bondage and dress-up, darling."

"Mmph."

"Is that a 'yes'?"

"It's 'I'm still asleep.'"

"He won't take anyone else."

"His loss, then, isn't it?"

I was about to ring off when I heard, "He's offered triple your usual rate."

I needed my beauty sleep, but I also needed new lingerie. I needed some frilly knickers, that pair of pink and turquoise kitten heels I tried on last week, the slinky black frock from the boutique I can never afford ... let's just say a girl has needs.

"Make it 4pm," I said, and snapped my mobile shut.

* * *

I've often thought that if only Chanel or Louis Vuitton designed bags to hold bondage gear, they'd make a fortune from working girls who need a stylish way to smuggle awkwardly shaped items into posh hotels without arousing suspicion. Something that folds open with neat pouches for your preferred paddles and favourite floggers, but looks like you'd had to knife three supermodels to move up the waiting list to buy one.

In the meantime, I rely on an oversized calfskin tote that's just big enough to hold my adjustable spreader bar, several sets of suede-lined leather cuffs, and a few other choice accessories. I'm hardly a dungeon-mistress, but I like to come prepared, so to speak.

I wasn't prepared for Tim on the other side of the hotel room door.

"Oh. Tim. Um, hello." Ooh, smooth. Time for a quick recovery. "I must have the wrong room," I said. "Sorry. I'll just be going now ... off to visit ... my friend. In another room."

He furrowed his brow. To be honest, you could hardly miss the brow-furrowing on a forehead like that.

"If this is the wrong room, then it really is a remarkable coincidence that I'm expecting someone else who looks just like you," Tim said.

"Life is full of surprises, isn't it?" I gave him a polite but sheepish chuckle while I backed away, stumbling briefly as I snagged a heel on the carpet. I am elegance and grace personified.

"Constantly. Why, you could be a Zygon in disguise. Although I think it's much more likely you're Belle, from the agency I rang."

"I could be a whatsis now?"

"Nothing. The point is, I think you're in the right place."

I smiled politely again. "Look, Tim, I think I'd better go."

"You keep calling me that," he said, looking bemused. "Would it change your mind if I told you I'm not Tim, whoever he is?" He reached into the inside pocket of his tweed jacket — 1940s Literature Professor was an odd fashion choice, though I am generally an unabashed fan of bow ties — and flipped open a billfold to show me an ID reading "Dr. John Smith."

I suppose it could have been a pseudonym, but Tim hadn't struck me as the sort who'd go stalkery, and even if he had, he'd have done it long before now. I looked into his eyes as if they'd really tell me the truth, and he stared back at me, face open and honest.

A lot of this business is instinct, and sometimes you have to trust your gut. Mine was telling me Smith was okay. Also, that I really needed a drink.

* * *

After all that business in the doorway, Smith was adorably shy and awkward when he got me inside the room. He fumbled the envelope of money, nearly dropping it on the floor, and a few moments after I left him to open the champagne while I checked in with the agency, I heard the cork pop, followed by a low "Ow."

I took the glass he offered, kissed the red mark on his forehead, and patted the bed to convince him to sit down next to me. "No need to be nervous," I said. "We've got plenty of time, so just relax and think about what you'd like to do while I'm here."

He sipped the wine, but wouldn't look at me at first. "I don't normally do this," he said. "Not in this galaxy, anyway."

"Which galaxy would that be, then?"

"Oh, it's rather far from here. Ring-shaped, which is a little unusual but quite pretty to look at. There's this gas giant in a system near the edge, most intense canary yellow you've ever seen ... ." He stopped midway. "Sorry. Got carried away for a moment ... bit of an astronomy fiend, you see."

"If talking about astronomy relaxes you, we can talk for as long as you like."

"No," he said, and downed the rest of his wine. "That's not why I'm here. And that's not why you're here."

I do love that look men get when they are so desperately horny for you they can barely see straight. He had that look now, only with this hint of sadness that threw me for a moment.

"Here's the most important thing," he said. "And it's important that I say this now, because I don't want to ... I can't hear the wrong answer."

He took my hands in his, and I noticed they were cool and shaky. "No matter what we're doing, no matter what I say while we're doing it, if I ask you if you're happy with someone else ... you need to tell me 'yes.'"

I smiled at him. "For a minute there, I thought you were going to ask me to do something weird."

He didn't smile back. "I'm afraid I just did," he said.

* * *

I had my usual bet going with myself on what outfit he'd ask me to wear. French maid and naughty nurse were the perennial leaders, but every now and then I got something more unusual — policewoman, Playboy bunny, pirate wench, and on one unforgettable occasion, Scary Spice, complete with fright wig. Smith, however, seemed like the classic French maid type: uptight but not the old money sort who actually had household staff; thus, an obsession with Mademoiselle Trixie keeping his banister well-waxed.

Instead, he presented me with black trousers, a purplish top, and a leather jacket in a shade of blue most definitely not found in nature. When I emerged from the bathroom with everything on and my hair down around my face the way he'd asked, his jaw dropped open the tiniest bit.

"You look perfect," he said. "May I ... is it okay if I kiss you? Is that allowed?"

I nodded, and he bent his head towards me, so tentative, as if he didn't know where to begin. His lips were soft and tasted of champagne, and I gently caressed them with my tongue until he opened his mouth and dived deeper into the kiss.

We lay down on the bed, and I pushed his jacket from his shoulders while he kept kissing me. The bow tie came unknotted with ease — good man, wearing the real thing instead of a clip-on — and I slid the silk across the back of his neck. He made a quiet little moan and started bunching up my top, slipping a hand beneath to cup my breast.

"Rose," he sighed, his lips cool on my neck.

Rose? He hadn't mentioned role-play names, but if I can be Belle, I can be Rose, too.

"John," I murmured.

His lips moved higher, and he sucked my earlobe into his mouth. When he released it, he whispered, "Not John. Doctor. Call me 'Doctor.'"

I shifted one leg up to hold his thigh in place. He was starting to harden, and the way his erection rubbed against me felt lovely. "Doctor," I said, and his touches suddenly grew much firmer.

"Say it again," he said.

I ran my nails down his back, loosing his shirt from his trousers, and let my fingers dip briefly below his waistband. "Doctor," I repeated, in as breathy a voice as I could manage.

It was obviously the right word, based on the way his mouth started roving down my body, over the blouse, onto the fine hairs on my abdomen and the lacy top of my black knickers. He unzipped the trousers and slipped them and my knickers off me with a few quick jerks. He'd gone from timid to frenzied in less than a minute, and though I didn't know what fantasy he had going in that head of his, it must have been awfully good.

Just before he lowered his head for that first lick, he stopped to look up at me, and suddenly broke out into a dazzling, joyful smile, bigger and happier than any I'd seen in a long time. "It's you," he said. "It's really you."

"Yeah," I replied, smiling back and ruffling his hair, and then he went down on me.

* * *

I tried to tell him in the middle of it that I don't always come with clients.

"Don't worry," he said, and reached up to touch my temple, smoothing down my hair. For one absolutely mad instant, I flashed back to every time I'd let someone lick me out, every time I'd fucked myself with my own two hands: two fingers in my cunt, two holding my pussy lips apart, one flicking slowly over my clit.

He brought his hand back between my legs, and then did exactly what had been in my head, only with his tongue and his fingers instead of my own. Exactly.

I came, and then I came again when he worked me more gently afterwards, and midway towards a third orgasm I realised that whoever Smith was, he was a hell of a lot more experienced than he let on.

* * *

Later, I bent him naked over the bed to secure his hands behind his back and attach the spreader bar to his ankle cuffs.

"Is that wide enough?" I asked.

"You decide, Rose," he answered, and I extended the bar a little bit at a time until I saw his legs start to tremble. I ran a finger down the crack of his bottom, stopping to circle the rim of his arsehole, and he gasped.

"You want me to fuck you," I said.

"This ... this isn't about what I want."

"Is that so?" I carefully unrolled a condom onto my strap-on and applied lube to it, then inserted one slippery finger into his arse and wiggled it until he whimpered in pleasure. "Sounds to me like this is exactly what you want."

I pulled the finger out and pushed it in again, harder this time, then did it once more. From the way he rocked backwards into the motion, and how loose he felt inside, I could tell this wasn't the first time he'd had it up the arse, as well as how desperate he was for it now, for whatever mysterious narrative he was running through his head to accompany the shagging.

I replaced my finger with the tip of the dildo, entering him shallowly at first, then sliding in further with great care, all the way to the hilt. Smith closed his eyes and made a satisfied groan.

The first couple of times I used a strap-on, I couldn't quite get the rhythm right. What can I say — I don't come with that equipment standard, so learning to use it took practice. But once you get going, it's terrific fun having a temporary penis and watching your lover squirm and writhe under your command. (It's also a nice ab workout.)

I kept one hand on Smith's back and the other below to lightly squeeze his balls and stroke his increasingly hard cock. He was starting to sweat from the exertion and the strain of having his legs held apart for so long, but I knew better than to let up on him. If he'd wanted things easy, he wouldn't have asked for restraints in the first place; instead, he wanted control taken completely out of his hands.

Except he didn't, did he? One advantage of bum-fucking a guy is that other than the pleasant slap of arse against thighs, and the pressure of a dildo base against your pussy, there are fewer distracting physical sensations than if the guy is fucking you. This gave me plenty of time to think about how meticulous Smith had been, from the perfectly tied bow-tie, to the outfit he'd brought me, to the attention he'd lavished on my cunt, and now to his precise instructions about how he'd wanted to be trussed-up ... followed by that passive "you decide."

Sneaky bugger. Whatever fantasy he had, it involved giving someone the illusion of control, while he got what he wanted in the end. Literally, in this case.

Smith was panting now, his face flushed and contorted, his cock rock-solid in my hand. I kept thrusting into him, pounding hard in time with the strokes of my fingers.

"Rose," he gasped, then called again, louder. "Rose."

"Yes?"

"I need to know, Rose. Do you love him? As much as you ... ." His voice trailed off into a long groan as I adjusted my stance to hit a different angle inside of him.

I hadn't forgotten his original instructions to me, and I realised now that they should have been my very first clue.

"Yes, I love him," I answered. "As much as I ever loved you, Doctor."

When he came, he shuddered and stumbled against the bed, his knees giving way as his orgasm rushed through him. It only took a moment to withdraw and hold him steady on the bed, stroking the wet strands of his hair while I unlocked the wrist cuffs and then knelt down to detach the bar.

I let him hold me, silently, for the rest of the time we had together.

* * *

Smith was gone, of course, by the time I finished cleaning myself up in the bathroom. No surprise there — some clients prefer not to deal with any potentially awkward goodbyes.

He left behind the leather jacket, blouse, and trousers he'd asked me to wear, along with two fifty-pound notes. I pocketed the tip and considered whether it was worth taking the clothes as well, which despite their perfect fit, weren't really my style.

In the end, I walked out without the extra deadweight.

After all, so had he.