Dirty Secrets. Jane O'ReillyЧитать онлайн книгу.
few scribbled words. Candles line the shelves, hang from sconces in the ceiling, creating slashes of shadow and light and plenty of places to hide. There is no bed, only a beautiful velvet sofa and a vintage dressing screen embroidered with a red dragon. The room is otherwise empty. I take a moment to get my bearings, to calm myself, to breathe in the scent of beeswax and jasmine. I requested an hour with a man, a beautiful man, one who couldn’t see me or hear me or speak to me.
He’s waiting for me. I can hear him breathing, deep and slow. I don’t look at him, not yet. Instead, I move over to the little table next to the sofa, where a bottle of champagne sits cooling in a bucket of ice. I pop the cork, pour myself a glass, take a small sip and savour it.
I can already feel heat building between my legs, and I press my thighs more closely together, putting pressure on my pussy lips and my clit. I’m nervous, too. My palms are damp and my stomach is twitching. But it’s all right, because he doesn’t know.
I walk behind the screen and slip out of my clothes, draping them carefully over the top. It was very thoughtful of whoever set the room to think to include this for me. Although I know the man can’t see me, getting undressed directly in front of him is a step too far.
I leave my bra and knickers on. Then I walk out from behind the screen, pick up the candelabra from the table next to the champagne, and carry it over to him.
He’s sat on a chair that matches the sofa, worn velvet the colour of old roses, with gilded arms and curving feet. A black leather hood moulds the shape of his head, obscuring his face, his ears. I wave my hand in front of his face. He shows no discernible reaction. I whisper ‘hello’ and he doesn’t react to that either. Blind and deaf, just as I had requested.
His wrists are bound to the chair with silk ribbon, and he’s completely naked. I move the candelabra closer, examine his body. Faintly tanned, masculine, hair in all the right places. I can’t tell his age, other than that he’s neither old nor young, and he’s really quite beautiful. Muscular but not bulky, in a strong, fit kind of way. His shoulders are broad, and his upper arms have a nice curve to them, as does his chest. The dark hair that dusts that and his belly and thighs stops him from looking too preened, too vain.
I look at his penis, which hangs between his spread thighs, the tip touching the velvet. It looks clean and healthy. Not erect, but…heavy.
The same feeling echoes between my thighs.
I reach out and touch it, the tips of my fingers to his soft, vulnerable flesh. He jerks in his seat, then goes still. He spreads his thighs a little wider, as if he wants to make sure that I can touch him, that he’s not impeding me in any way.
I set down the candelabra on the floor at the side of the chair.
Then I kneel in front of him, and fondle his cock. He gets hard almost immediately, thickening, lengthening, until the tip of his penis is no longer grazing the velvet but lying close to his navel. There’s a slight curve to his prick, and I follow it with my finger, curious, fascinated by this new plaything.
He can’t tell me that I’m doing it wrong. He can’t tell me I’m doing it right while his expression tells a different story. He can’t bat my hands away and tell me that his previous girlfriend could get him off, so why can’t I?
He can’t do anything but submit to me.
It’s a strange feeling, the power. But still the doubts are creeping in, prickling at my insides like I’ve swallowed a handful of pins. I take my hand away. If he knew it was me, if he could see me, would I still have this effect on him?
No. I won’t think about that. I won’t. There’s no one here to criticise me now. No one to tell me that if only I could lose a few pounds, if only my hair was a slightly different colour, if only I wasn’t so selfish all the time, everything would be fine.
This man doesn’t know me. He’s never going to know me.
I go back to the table that holds the champagne and I drink it, swallowing it down like it’s supermarket white wine instead of Bollinger. I refill my glass, take it with me back over to where the man is sat. This time, I stand between his legs. His knees press against my thighs, warm and firm, and I sip a little more of the champagne, letting the delicious bubbles coat my tongue, and suddenly I know what I want. What I need.
I reach down to the ribbon that binds his right hand to the arm of the chair, and slowly tug it loose. He flexes his fingers. I keep pulling on the ribbon, pulling and pulling until it slides free. I drop it to the floor.
Then I take his wrist, and lift his hand to my tits. His fingers meet my flesh, and instantly began to squeeze, the automatic male reaction. I let him grope me for a moment or so, let him find his way.
His fingertips find the edge of my bra and try to make their way inside, but the angle is awkward and he can’t quite manage it. I take his wrist, hold his hand steady as I drain the rest of the champagne from my glass and set it aside.
Then I slowly, slowly free my right breast from the tight satin that hides it. The flesh swells up over the top of my bra, exposing my nipple, which has already become a tight little nub. When I put his hand back in place, his fingers find it immediately.
He pinches it, hard.
I gasp, my knees trembling, and spit out an offensive word. But I don’t smack his hand away. Instead, I reach forward and pinch his small, flat, brown nipple in return. He flinches. He softens his grip, stroking me with his fingertips as if he’s trying to soothe the hurt he caused. Then his fingers slide slowly upwards, over the top of my breast, finding my collarbone, my neck. I’ve clipped my hair up out of the way, leaving him no loose strands to play with, though he explores the curve of my ear, my jawline.
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