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City Lights
by Kathleen Bradean © 2004



My man needed a lot of attention.

That wasn't meant as a complaint. It was an observation.

The first time we met I sensed that hunger in him. Other Doms couldn't understand my reluctance to touch him. After all, who could resist that tight, muscled butt, bared and served up for a good paddling? Very few people did. Everyone passing by at the club touched him. Yet they moved on.

If I felt the warmth of his skin, I knew I'd be tempted to comfort him. Someone had bound his arms high and forced that arch into his back, but no one attended him. The agony of abandonment was probably as difficult to bear as the pains that had to have been shooting across his back. I let my eyes sense the strain in the muscles across his shoulders because my fingertips might have caressed rather than tested. I stood close enough to smell his lavender soap, his shampoo, his perspiration, but didn't taste them.

He was too good to be true. Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful, and sulking because no one was interested in him. He was too well known in our little world for being higher maintenance than most people were willing to take on. He hungered for attention, craved it, which was probably why he let someone leave him far too long in that position.

I wasn't sure I wanted to get involved.

Slaves were always a huge commitment, more than I wanted to make for the past several years. It took too much work, too much focus. There were too many exhibitionists masquerading as submissives, demanding to be taken around to clubs every night and put on display. I wanted to move beyond theatrical costuming and sex as performance art.

Despite my impatience with what I privately thought of as the attendant bullshit of the D/s scene, I still went to the clubs. It was comfortable there. I held myself distant though. Observation became my cold habit. Unless I could build a relationship that was the distilled essence of power exchange, something subtle on the outside yet intense inside, I decided that I wasn't interested.

When his chin dropped to his chest, heavy with private despair, I took a cautious step. I moved where he could see the toes of my boots. His head and cock bobbed up with instant hope.

"Here. We'll meet. We'll talk. Nothing more." I placed my business card between his slightly skewed teeth and left the club. All the way home my blood pounded in my ears. My heart lightened. The anticipation was heady.

Two days later we met for dinner at a tiny restaurant where the sound of traffic leaked through the windows. Under the table, he twisted the pocket flap of his jacket. I ordered him to place his hands flat on the table.

We negotiated leisurely through our salads and the main course. The topic meandered but always came back to his need. When we lapsed into silence it wasn't strained.

I still remember my dizzying rush of desire. He averted his eyes and spoke words of pure obedience. Instantly I was shivery, skin prickling. Tight heat hit my groin. I waved away the plastic coated dessert menu and even coffee. He insisted on paying for dinner. I threw down cash.

Holding his hand, where the sidewalks were too crowded to walk side by side, I led. No one noticed my urgent steps. We blended with the city.

Hope held him mute on the long elevator ride from the lobby. Each passing floor was announced with a discreet ping.

Inside my apartment, the open curtains made him shy. My front room was floor to ceiling glass on two sides. Far below, triple trails of red and yellow lights marked the streets. In the far distance, treetops marked the edge of the park. Buildings from different eras of city expansion stood shoulder to shoulder across the street. The domes of pre-Depression skyscrapers curved below. An inexcusably ugly office building circa 1970 blighted my view, but at night, when the workers were gone, it receded into darkness. Artful residential buildings along the boulevard glowed with inner life.

For his hesitation, I gave him his first punishment. He hid his face in the couch cushions and arched to offer his hard ass. I spanked him until his caramel skin mottled pink. He trembled as I tested his commitment to serve, but he refused to fail.

His reward was permission to serve me.

He could be a bit of a romantic. He was allowed to masturbate once a month, as long as he confessed his fantasies. Every time he told me that it was the memory of his first punishment that sent him over the edge.

Other than our careers, we had nothing except each other. No hobbies, no very close friends. There was nothing to distract me from him. That was a blessing because he needed everything I could give him. Even then he took me to the limits of my energy.

Life became very—well—difficult. I traveled more than ever for work. We didn't spend much time together. He didn't have my attention and he resented it.

Last week I came home from a business trip ready to lavish three days of unrelenting focus on him—as long as those three days started the following morning. He met me at the airport with a reminder about his bosses' party.

That was my mistake. It was entered in my PDA.

I was exhausted. Stale air, jet lag, and bad food weren't doing my body a lot of favors.

At my apartment, I spritzed perfume through my hair and added another layer of deodorant under my arms before pulling on a dress. If I set one foot in the shower I knew I'd be a goner.

He was always the last dressed. Handsome devil. It was one vanity I allowed him. As I waited for him I shut my eyes for a moment of rest, and immediately knew that was a mistake. I sank into a lower level of exhaustion.

"You don't want to go. You're too tired."

I almost admitted he was right. Then I saw that flash of need in his eyes. And worse, I saw hurt. "No. It's okay. You said this was important and that you truly couldn't afford to skip it, so we'll go. Just don't expect me to be great company." I kissed him.

He loved to kiss. His hands caressed my face. At first it was just a friendly touch of the lips. As his warmth energized me, I pressed into him. I invaded his mouth.

"Maybe we shouldn't go," he pulled away, suddenly petulant. "It doesn't matter. You just want to get into bed. Never mind that you weren't here last time either and I had to go alone."

A simple tilt of my chin was enough to cow him into silence. My unblinking gaze became too hard for him to meet. He looked at his shoes.

I unbuckled his belt. It jerked through the belt loops of his pants until I pulled it free. I nodded to the back of the couch. "Pants down."

He tried not to look at me, tried not to seem eager. I saw the spark in his eyes. He pushed his summer weight wool trousers and silk boxers just below his knees. Feet planted on the carpet, he bent over the back side of the couch. Palms went flat against the seat cushions.

He startled when he heard the electric motor of our curtains.

I put a hand on the small of his back as a reminder I expected him to remain in position. Twenty-seven stories below our home, the city glittered in its nighttime glory.

"I love this view."

He couldn't see it. As always, he buried his face into the cushions. Because of his height, his knees were slightly parted so that the flat plane of his stomach could rest against the top of the couch. His bared bottom was five feet away from the glass.

I leaned against the back of the couch and took in the beauty of the city. In the sky overhead helicopters and planes dashed along their paths. At street level a million individual lives dodged, collided, and flowed. But there, right there, my man and I were still, quiet, and at peace.

I folded his belt into a strap and laid down the first of twenty dark pink marks on him. Tired as I was, the sight of him with his pants around his knees and his ass glowing warmly sent a tight squeeze of interest between my legs.

He arched for penetration, presenting like a bitch in heat.

I bent to run my tongue against the goose-pimpled flesh near his hip. Then I raised the belt again and brought it down on the sensitive area just under the cup of his buttocks.

He grunted.

I adored his grunt. It came as the layers of pain from his punishment reached a crescendo. If I had reached between his legs then he would have been hard. That wasn't the point though. He needed just enough attention to get him through the evening. It was a promise of the weekend to come.

When his punishment was over and I was satisfied by his apology, we went to the party.

His co-workers were smart, interesting people, and the food was probably great, but I was oblivious. My last reserves of energy flickered warnings of a coming shutdown. From my reflection in the mirror in the powder room, it showed. My eyes drooped.

Every time I hit a wall I somehow managed to gather just enough will to keep going for another ten minutes. There was a limit though. There had to be a limit.

I knew that I wasn't up to further banter, so I slipped into his bosses' home office with a plan to fall asleep on the buttery brown leather couch. I experimented with several of the switches on the wall until I got subdued amber lighting from wall sconces.

The office was nice, the reflection of good taste and lots of money. In a corner there was the obligatory telescope. Everyone in the city was a voyeur.

Unable to pass a chance at a peek, I checked the focus. I didn't see anything interesting, so I moved the scope around. I found three nearly identical parties in other penthouses. I didn't see copies of me staring back. Maybe in alternate lives I was already asleep on the couch behind me, or I was gamely sitting at our host's dinner table trying to make interesting small talk, or I was selfishly asleep back home in bed.

A sweeping scan of the dark office buildings down the street brought me eye to eye with another searcher. I wriggled fingers in a wave to the man with his telescope pointed at me. Guilt spread over his face. He quickly receded into the darkness of his room. The watchers don't like to be seen.

I searched further distances. With a laugh of exhausted triumph, I found my apartment. The corner of the living room was the only part I could see though. The spire of a gothic graystone building blocked the rest of the view. We'd left our kitchen light on. His belt sat coiled on the floor behind the couch.

"There you are." My man turned on the brighter lights in the office. "Everyone was wondering."

His boss followed him in, highball glass in hand. "He should get you home," his boss told me. "You look beat."

A huge yawn escaped from my mouth to confirm his suspicions. I nodded to the telescope. "Anything interesting?"

"You wouldn't believe the things I've seen," his boss chuckled.

"Have a look," I told my man. "Tell me if you see anything." I turned back to his boss. "Lots of wicked people in this big city."

"It's amazing the types of things people get up to."

My man looked up from the sight on the scope. He was pale. I pretended to try my luck at the sites, moving the scope and the focus far off our place.

The first thing he tried to do when we got home was close the curtains.

I didn't let him. "Prepare yourself for me," I whispered in his ear.

I leaned against the doorjamb to our bedroom while I watched him slide first two, then three, well lubricated fingers into his rectum. He worked plenty of the slick gel inside, knowing that I expected him to be ready for full, hard penetration when I parted his ass cheeks.

He knew I'd punish him if he dared cup his balls or stroke himself. Sometimes he did it anyway. I didn't watch because of that. I watched because he was so damn sexy.

It was a major test of wills to get him back out into the living room. He pleaded that he'd give me anything I wanted as long as I didn't make him go on display. I reminded him that he could obey me or he could pack his bags.

He cautiously got on hands and knees near the kitchen. I curled my fingers into his hair and dragged him behind the couch. He pressed his nose to the carpet.

I slicked the big purple dildo and carefully pressed into him. As I crooned encouragement he rocked back onto it. The marks from his earlier punishment were almost faded.

He moved his hips in circles, looking to find the best angle for penetration.

His ball sack bounced as I grabbed his hips and thrust deep into him. His head hung down. I dug my fingers into his hair and forced his face towards the window. In the glass, I saw his reflection. A tear tumbled down his face.

I dripped lubricant on my palm and wrapped my hand around his cock. Sounds of slick thrusts joined the quiet intensity of our deeply drawn breaths. My penetrating strokes were timed with my sliding grip on his shaft.

His mumbled curses and tears gave way to moans. Soon he set the rhythm. His buttocks slapped against my pelvis.

I loved to watch that muscled ass get fucked. My fingernails ran down the backs of his thighs. Gently scraping his testicles made his back muscles shimmy. He thrust his butt high, begging for a good, hard ride.

I slipped my fingers inside me. For a tired girl I was very wet. My clit was swollen and enjoyed every stroke I brushed against it with my fingertips. Once they were well coated with my juices, I put my fingers under his nose.

He suckled every drop, stopping only to breathe in my scent as it rose in the air around us.

I bent down to lick the beaded sweat off his spine. He tasted of home.

My thumb pressed against the span between his anus and his scrotum. He hummed his moan, the sound he made when he fought back climax. The reflection of his face in the window showed his deep concentration.

I worked my hand over the head of his cock. Forming small circles with my fingers, I slid over his glans and stroked his full length.

He turned his face the floor and huffed every time the swollen head of his cock pushed through that tight ring.

I jerked on his hair. "Let them see how you like it," I told him, turning him once again to face the city.

His balls contracted. I saw his sphincter tighten around the dildo. He cried out once and spurted into my hand. I held the week's load of come on my palm in front of his face. He licked it off.

He crawled behind me into the bedroom. He bumped his head against my thighs, nuzzling his way between my legs. I braced one foot on the nightstand and spread my outer lips for him. He lapped at me like a man denied water too long.

The air of the room was heavy with the scent of him. His discarded suit draped across the foot of the bed. My suitcases sat unpacked near the bathroom door. I was becoming a visitor to my own home, I told myself.

I pressed against him. His nose tweaked high on my clit, giving me something of substance to ride. I closed my eyes, closed out everything but him and me, shut out every thought outside of sensation. His teeth pulled lightly at my clit. My claves trembled. I touched his shoulder for stability. He stiffened his tongue and darted it into me. Swooping, pulsing, rushing—orgasmic waves coursed through my body.

I bent to kiss his face, anointed with my juices.

I should have spent time some planning a harsh regimen for Saturday morning, something that would exhaust him by the end of the day, something that would sate his endless need, but I rolled over and went to sleep against his chest instead.


I'm on the road again.

I called him tonight and gave him permission to masturbate while we talked. He told me that he got off on the idea of being watched. It was the thrill, the danger, of getting caught doing something dirty.

I didn't admit that his boss had no view of that part of the apartment. The graystone building between blocked all but the last two feet of the room.

There were limits to how far I'd go to humiliate someone, even if they loved every second of it.

In a way, it didn't matter. A thousand other people could have seen us. The drapes were wide open, welcoming the watchers. There were so many telescopes out there, and far more dark windows than city lights.

He was sweetly subservient on the phone.

Eventually, however, I know that the effects of our latest session will wear away. He'll grow petulant. I'll come home from a trip and I'll have to draw on the last reserves of my energy for him. Without having time to myself, I'll kiss him hello, put him over my lap, paddle him until he grunts, and then some more. And it will be fine. I'll be exhausted, but it will be okay. I'm willing to lavish everything I have on him. That man of mine needs a lot of attention.


© 2004 Kathleen Bradean. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

_______
Kathleen Bradean's story "Grit" appears in The Best Women's Erotica 2004.


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