I was in a dry spell.

Between beaus, between jobs, between a rock and a hard cock. No, I mean place. I needed a hard cock. It had been far too long.

My friend Joan invited me to her office because she was hoping to set me up with a coworker named Bruce. We met, shook hands and sized each other up. Bruce, like me, was fresh out of college. He looked fresh out of everything, actually, a little too crisp in his recently purchased suit. His tie had a shine to it. Everything about him, in fact, seemed to be mint condition. I felt no sparks, and I did my best to small-talk my way out of the situation. I didn’t want to get coffee or see a band play. I wanted to escape.

Joan, unfortunately, was not picking up on my desperate clues. The workday was done, so she suggested a tour of her office. Bruce and I trailed behind her, and I heard myself answering his various questions. Yes, I had a job in the city. No, I didn’t live with my parents. Yes, I was 24. No, I wasn’t a Libra.

Blithely, Joan led us to the main conference room, where there was a spectacular view. Bruce, finally seeming to catch on, said it had been nice to meet me and took his leave. Joan gave me a withering stare. This was her fourth attempt to set me up. What was wrong with me? She told me to wait while she got her coat; we’d leave together. She was shaking her head. I was a lost cause to her.

That’s when a man with silver-tipped black hair and what I can only describe as a hungry smile entered the room.

“Not a Libra?” he asked.

I looked at him. Who was this guy? He was so different from young Bruce. He had on a suit, too, and a tie. But nothing looked fresh out of the box. He appeared comfortable in his clothing — not constrained, not inexperienced.

“Not a Libra,” I agreed.

“And you don’t live with your parents?”

He was eyeing me with the look of a predator. But I didn’t get the feeling he wanted to eat me.

“Got my own place and everything,” I said. “I’m a big girl.”

“I can see that.”

“And you are?” I asked when the curiosity was killing me.

“George,” he said as Joan entered the room again.

“Oh, Mr.… ”

“George,” he said, cutting her off and leaving her looking flustered.

“This is my boss,” she said, and she seemed to have a difficult time wrapping her mouth around his first name, as if she’d never said it before. She looked from me, to George, to me again. Then she said, “I was just leaving. Are you coming, Kitty?”

“I think I’ll stay for a second,” I said, going off script. “The view is so beautiful. I want to take it in.”

Again that look. Me to him. Him to me. Then she nodded and hurried away. I felt elated. Bruce was nothing, a plaything, a party favor. Maybe that was too extreme. I’d only known him for about six minutes. But George was something special. This man, who had at least two decades on me, was making my heart flip over and my pussy clench.

“Kitty, is it?” he asked.

“Katherine” I said quickly, and then I hoped I didn’t sound too aggressive.

“She called you Kitty,” he said. “Do you purr, or do you scratch?”

What I wanted to do was roll over and show him my belly. But I turned so I was facing him fully and said that Joan and I had been roommates in college; there’d been two Katherines in our dorm, so I was Kitty.

“I like that,” he said. “Let’s see you crawl toward me.”

I couldn’t believe he’d actually said those words. This man was so sexy; I could feel every bit of my body aching to react to him.

I thought to myself that nothing like this had ever happened to me before. And that’s why I did what he said, why I started to crawl across the floor to him. I didn’t care if I was going to have a run in my stockings. I didn’t care if I looked like a hussy. He said “crawl.” I crawled.

“Good girl,” he said, and he pulled me to standing once more. “Let’s go somewhere else… somewhere more private. Then we can try all sorts of games.”

We brushed past Bruce and Joan on our way out of the building. I didn’t even bother to stop and explain. She’d know. George told me about himself on the drive to his place. But I didn’t hear much, because his hand was between my thighs, and he was stroking my slit the entire ride.

When we reached his home, he said, “Do you have a safeword?”

I’d heard of safewords, of course, but I’d never run into a college boy who’d known how to use one. I said, “Meow,” and he grinned. “I like that.” Then he led me into his place, and he had me strip for him. There was no question that we were going to have sex — and kinky sex — so why bother pretending? I took off my heels, my hose, my skirt and blouse. He stopped me then, and he stroked my ass through my panties before pulling down the cups of my bra to reveal my breasts.

“You have perfect tits,” he said, “just the right size.” Surprising me, he kissed each one. Then he pinched my nipples hard, and I groaned. “I’ll bet that made your pussy wet, didn’t it?” he asked.

I nodded.

His eyes glared at me.

“Yes, Sir,” I tried next.

“That’s right, Kitten,” he said. “You got it.”

I was put on my knees once more, and he had me carawl after him to his bedroom. I could feel how squishy-wet my pussy was. I wondered what he’d do to me once we reached his bed. My mind was rushing with what seemed like a thousand questions. But I kept my mouth shut until he told me to open it.

Which happened fairly quickly.

“Let’s play a game,” he said. “You suck me off exactly as I tell you to, and then I will reward you in the most delicious way.”

Like what, I wondered, but I simply obeyed. My pussy positively throbbed as I started to deep-throat George’s cock. I wanted whatever reward he might bestow — pain or pleasure or some form combined. I worked to pay attention to the rhythm he set with his body, sliding his cock forward and back between my parted lips. His skin was warm, and his dick was thick and long. I found myself almost in an altered state — semi-nude in that heated room, the lamps on low, the scent of fresh-cut flowers from a bouquet on the bedside table perfuming the air. This man was so refined. And there I was, slutty and hungry on my knees in front of him, sucking him to the root. He seemed to like that. He pet my hair and promised to make me purr as soon as I got him off.

I tricked my tongue underneath his balls. He cried out and then pulled me back to the proper position, so he could come all over my outstretched tongue, stray drops of his cream coating my lips and chin. I wiped my face with the back of my hand and then gazed up at him, waiting. Already, I knew somehow not to make a request. He would take care of me. He’d promised that. I trusted him.

He seemed to focus immediately on our next position. He pulled me over the edge of the bed, shoved a pillow under my hips, and said, “Here’s the next game.” I watched as he walked around the bed and pulled a paddle from a drawer in his dresser. “I’ll give you a spanking, and then I’ll let you come.”

Oh, Christ. This man had access to all of my fantasies. He was so serious, so stern, and standing there with a paddle in his hand made him ever-the-more-so. I quickly bobbed my head up and down, realized my mistake as soon as I did so, and squeaked, “Yes, Sir.”

“It will get easier,” he promised, standing next to me. “The words will just slip off your lips. You’ll say, ‘Yes, Sir’ when you want me to put anal beads up your ass. You’ll say ‘Yes, Sir’ when you want a clamp on your clit or a pair of cuffs on your wrists. It will be your favourite phrase, I think. Or one of them.”

Then he started to spank me. I had never been with a dominant lover before. My pussy was a lake unto itself. I was embarrassed by how wet I was getting. If he touched me between my legs, he’d find out, and I’d be mortified. Then why did I want him to do exactly that?

When he was done spanking me, he made me come. His fingers danced over my clit and then pressed hard, and the orgasm was suddenly, blindingly there, robbing me of speech and overpowering me. I panted as pleasure raced through me, and then I slid back to the floor and looked up at him, awaiting his next command.

“Are you ready for more?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir.

Check out the Full Gallery