Resolution

Content Advisory: male/female with light BDSM and oral sex

I open the door to the hotel room with a smile on my face and mischief on my mind. Revelry and laughter tinkles its way into the space, up from the function hall downstairs. The curtains are drawn, the lights are dim and I’m dressed for a private party.

A party for two. New Year’s—a time for celebration. Out with the old and in with the new. A time for promises and resolutions.

This is it... A New Year, a new start.

Pete strides into the room in a cloud of self-assured ego and Hugo Boss aftershave. He plants a perfunctory kiss on my cheek as he pulls impatiently at the bow tie around his neck, then throws his keys, phone and wallet on to the bedside table.

As always, I cannot prevent blinking at the sheer beauty of the man. From the start of our relationship, his utter splendor hypnotized me; rendered me helpless under his spell. In the beginning, I needed him just as much as I needed oxygen, or water... or the money my job provided.

“I only have an hour,” he says, shrugging out of his dinner jacket, “and then I have to get to the office party.”

“I know—I arranged the office party, remember?”

“And have I told you recently just what a phenomenal P.A. you are?”

“Not today you haven’t.”

His voice deepens and he crooks a finger in my direction. “C’mon over here, Sweetheart t, I knew he was married. I knew it was wrong. I knew screwing the boss was the stupidest thing in the world to do. I’d love to report he pursued me, chased me and hunted me down. Or he had been relentless in his attention... like a voracious predator, which could not be stopped nor denied.

But my tortured conscience knows the truth. No pursuit, no chase, no hunt—merely the brush of fingers on a desktop, a jolt of static, an inhale of breath, an eyebrow raised in question, the licking of a lip in reply. Nothing vocalized, but everything said.

Our first kiss went deep, almost bruising, and tasted of coffee and yearning. Paper clips and legal files scattered as hands fumbled and groped. We pushed aside moral dilemmas and clothing, stroking flesh and fanning the fires of lust.

Right now, Pete’s finger is still crooked in my direction but I don’t walk toward him. I dip my eyes and gaze back at him under my lashes. I hope he can’t see the tremor in my hands that threatens to expose my nerves. This man has seen my most primitive and base being. I’m sure there is nothing I can say or do that will shock him. Perhaps I’m worried about shocking myself? I take a deep breath.

“I brought some toys and have a fantasy I’d like to try.” The lump in my throat makes my voice sound hollow and strained. Dear God, do I look sultry or silly? My stomach lurches as I gather courage to continue.

“My oh my, toys and a fantasy?” His smile turns feral and his hands drop immediately to the remainder of his clothing. He sheds his suit in record time, completing his metamorphosis from lawyer to lover.

My treacherous body liquefies at the sight and I can feel my hormones humming in happy expectation.

“What do you need me to do, Sweetheart?” His voice sounds as excited as his cock looks. Just the hint of kink and his evident arousal screams to be attended to.

Saliva pools in my mouth. I mentally slap myself to bring my attention back to the purpose of today’s rendevous; My New Year’s resolution—to take control.

“I plan to tie you down, blind fold you and tease you mercilessly.” I sound confident. Like I want to be in charge.

Pete reaches out and pulls me against his broad chest. The masculine scent of him fills my senses while the thud of his heart beats against my cheek. A hand languidly strokes my hair. My nipples chafe against the lace of my bra, responding to the heat of his erection nudging against my stomach.

“Sweetheart, I can think of nothing sexier than being at your mercy. Although, I would like you to promise me one thing.” His hazel gaze meets my own and he kisses the end of my nose.

“Yes?” I’m curious.

“Please don't just tease—there are parts of my anatomy that need... more.”

I smile. But the smile gets stuck at my lips. I avert my eyes before he sees the lack of laughter in them.

In the beginning, I loved his jokes and witty conversation. I thought him sophisticated, educated, even clever. I’m still shocked at how quickly a viewpoint can change.

One wonders, how could something so obvious be concealed in plain sight?

I keep my eyes downcast and let my hands do the talking. Steering him backward to the bed, I gently shove him on to the cushioned comforter. I open the bedside drawer to pull out the cuffs hidden there earlier. Without preamble, I grab his wrist and encircle it with steel, then secure the attached circlet to the bed post. He grins at me.

“Do you like the thought of being in control, baby?” He offers me his other hand, and before he can think better of it, I cuff the wrist and lock it to the other bed post. Not waiting for objections, I slide a sleep mask over his eyes. Shutting out the light. Cutting his vision - forcing him to rely on his other senses.

Now I smile and this time the smile reaches my eyes.

“I love the thought of being in control,” I purr, tracing an idle fingernail down the center of his chest, skimming his navel and gliding over the slick head of his cock. Pete jerks his pelvis upward with a groan. “Tonight, I want to be the boss.”

Once, we fucked frantic and frenzied. He felt like a drug I couldn’t get enough of. Like all addicts, I came back for more, not realizing the price of addiction nor the toll it would take. I believed his endearments and his justifications. I felt special, flattered. Like I was helping his wife by revelling in the sex she was so revolted by.

I swallowed his explanations and platitudes hook, line and sinker... the same way I swallowed his come. In my orgasm soaked euphoria, oblivious to morality or ethics, I thought if a little was good, more was better—therefore too much would be just enough. I could barely breathe through the ecstasy of our relationship. Until the day I came back early from lunch.

I forgot to take in my dry-cleaning and popped back to grab a skirt that became a spattered victim in one of our sexual exploits. I overheard him talking to a fellow partner of the firm—another family man. Another fine, upstanding pillar of the legal community.

“I can’t believe you are screwing this one too. Doesn’t Maggie have anything to say about it?”

“Maggie and I have an agreement – as long as I am discreet, she won’t feel the need to… kick up a fuss.” At this point Pete chuckled, as I stood unseen in my office, my knuckles whitening, clutching a stained skirt. “You just gotta know how to pick ‘em,” he continued. “I’m an expert at it now. Let me know when you’re next interviewing for a P.A. and I’ll sit in. We’ll pick you a good one too.”

I slunk out of the office and ran down the corridor, the sound of their laughter, barking and snapping at my fleeing feet.

In the weeks that passed, I wanted to scream at my stupidity. I wanted to shriek at him for his selfishness. I wanted to wallow in self-pity and drown in despair. But I did none of these things.

Like all good Personal Assistants in the face of chaos, I kept calm and carried on. Never a victim in this scenario, but a willing participant, it still galled to be played the fool. 

Now it was my turn to blow some minds.

“I have some paint.” I said to my hand-cuffed boss.

“Paint?”

“Yeah, chocolate body-paint.”

“Were you thinking of painting bits of me and sucking them afterward?” The feral grin returned. His pulse leapt at the base of his throat.

“No, I want to write filthy words all over you,” I pause for effect, “and then I want to lick them off.”

His breathing becomes ragged. A flush colors his cheeks and I know if I could see his eyes, they would be feverish with desire. The mushroom flared head of his cock shines with pre-come and his hips undulate in a silent plea for satisfaction.

“What sort of words?” His voice sounds guttural.

I bring my lips close to his ear and whisper, “You choose. Something dirty. Words that make you so horny you could explode.”

His lungs labor, as if from physical exertion. He opens his mouth and closes it again. His lips curve into a smile.

“‘Cunt’. I want you to write ‘cunt’,” he sighs. “I love your pussy. The way it tastes, the way it smells... the way it grips my cock. I’m a slave to your slick snatch”.

“Perfect,” I say.

In the dim light of the hotel room with the stench of stimulation and provocation weighing heavy in the air, my traitorous body responds to his words and I want nothing more than to rub the musk of my pussy all over his lips or sheathe his organ and grind myself brutally to fulfillment.

Instead, I take the brush, dip it into the thick chocolate paint and with a circular stroke paint a large C on his upper chest. Straddling his waist, his thick length rubs against my damp crotch and neither of us can help gyrating, the friction drawing groans from us both. Pulling air deep into my own lungs, I try to keep my mind on task. Sitting up, I take my weight on my knees denying us both the sensations that are so inflaming. Pete grunts his disapproval.

The squishing of the brush repeatedly plunging into the warmed chocolate reminds me of other wet and sweaty encounters with this man. Up against walls, flesh slapping against flesh. In cars with tinted windows, spurts of come dribbling down my chin as he thrusts into my mouth. Again, I have to shake my head to clear it from these unwanted distractions and I finish my painting with artistic flair.

I stand up to survey my handiwork. Pete lays there, his arms pinned wide, his chiselled chest decorated with chocolate profanity and his dick swollen and straining. There is a light sheen of sweat on his limbs.

“Are you gonna start licking it off yet?” His plaintive and needy tone, music to my ears.

“Where would you like me to start?”

“My cock.” The words are a command. Like he is in control.

I can’t stop the derisive snort of air from my nose. His blindfolded eyes miss my sneer of disdain.

But his request suits my purpose, so I lean close, letting my hair drag over the swollen heat of him. His hips jerk upwards seeking more. I allow the tips of my fingers to drift over the sac pulled up taut between his thighs. His pelvis twitches.

“Oh God, please, Sweetheart...I’m begging you…”

Taking him in hand, I slide him into the warmth of my mouth and allow his desperate thrusting, deep into the back of my throat. My rouged lips reach the base of his cock, ringing him in red. My throat objects to his careless lunging. My eyes water, and I gag. Pulling myself off him, I cough and drag the back of my hands over my leaking eyes. Not quite done, I dip my head again and plant three firm kisses up the underside of his shaft, leaving ruby red evidence of my ministrations.

Now I’m finished. No more games. I have him where I want him.

I am in control. I am the boss.

I reach for his phone where he abandoned it earlier on the bedside table, and cradle it in the palm of my hand. I swipe the pads of my fingers over its face with ruthless efficiency until I have found the function I need. Standing upright I survey my boss in all his lewd, painted glory through the camera lens of his phone and press the shutter closed. The moment captured with a with a quiet mechanical click. Pete freezes.

“What the hell was that?” his voice not much more than a whisper.

I can see by his wilting erection and pale features, his predicament and vulnerable position dawns on him

“Just taking a photo. A little something to remember you by.” He pales even more and beads of sweat form on his brow above the blindfold. I remove the mask and his eyes screw up hard against the light. I wait for his face to smooth and his vision to clear. He blinks and I meet his gaze. He looks wary. His nostrils flare.

I step back so he can see what I am doing. My fingers are dancing across the face of his phone. His brow furrows.

“What are you doing?” he snaps. I notice he no longer calls me Sweetheart. With a final flourish of my fingers I give the screen one last tap. Smiling, I replace the phone on the bedside table.

“Texting and e-mailing everyone in your address book a festive photo, wishing them Happy New Year.” I watch the confusion on his face clear, seeing the exact moment when he realizes what I have done. The exact moment he realizes he’s been played for a fool.

I slide into my coat and grab my bag as I head to the door of the room.

“Would you like me to text your wife or your mother to come and get those cuffs off you?” I ask over my shoulder.

“Fuck you, bitch.” Turning, I see his manacled fists are clenched, his face is puce with anger and his stare is pure venom.

They say revenge is sweet but the bile in my throat tastes bitter.

“You may want to look for a little docility in the next P.A. you interview, Pete. Happy New Year.” I open the door and step into the hallway.

Revelry and laughter tinkles its way up from the hotel function room downstairs. New Year's—a time for celebration. Out with the old and in with the new. A time for promises and resolutions.

This is it. A New Year, a new start.

***

Greta is next posting on 18 February 2011 – post a comment suggesting sexy hotel liaisons you’d like to read about.

Copyright © 2010 Greta Goddard

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.