It would be a very special night, an unforgettable night, but it would take some time for it to all play out…
She told him she liked German food.
"I spent a year in Germany doing research," she explained. "All that heavy stuff was appealing. But I don’t like dark beer."
"I haven’t met a woman who does. How about wine?"
"Lovely," she replied. Her diaphanous black dress was splashed with bold, cream colored flowers, and when he saw her from the backside, he could see the tempting outline of her rear, even the hint of a crack between her round cheeks. He wondered if she was wearing anything underneath, almost certain seeing the way her flesh jiggled inside the dress and her nipples poked through the fabric that there nothing covering her breasts. She fashioned her hair in some odd creation, held together by chopsticks and a little magic. "What are you looking at?" she asked him curiously.
"Your hair, it’s different."
"You don’t like it?"
"No, I was just wondering if those things might not get in the way."
"In the way of what?" she asked as if she didn’t already know what Michael was speaking about.
"Sex."
"You think we’re ready for that?" she asked.
"You haven’t refused me."
"Not yet anyway." She smiled warmly, not closing any doors.
"And since I have Guillaume’s permission."
"Oh?" Her face darkened subtly as she thought of her lover.
"He sent me a letter. You know about that?"
"He sent me one too," she replied.
"And what did he tell you?"
"To behave myself with you."
Michael cocked his head wondering how to interpret that remark.
"To do as you ask," she explained further when she saw the question in his expression.
Michael smiled, realizing that this evening would be exactly as he wanted it. Even so he was daunted by the possibilities before him.
"I suppose you plan on using the . . ." she was momentarily gripped by inordinate fear that strangled her speech. "... the paddle and cane?"
"I put them in the back of my closet. I’m more interested in making love to you."
"If it’s Guillaume’s wishes, I’ll do anything," she reminded him.
Michael stared at her without speaking, for a long time trying to get a real fix on the inconstant woman. "You know . . ." he finally decided on what he was going to say . . . "I don’t think I understand you. For such an independent woman, you’re unbelievably moldable. Sometimes I think of you as a sailboat without a rudder, moving with whatever breeze takes your sails. And then at other times you’re a powerful ship staying your course against the strongest winds."
"What an interesting description." She cocked her head and pursed her lips, as though she was thinking a lot and had lots to say, but she didn’t give her thoughts words.
"You’re dominated by a man you’ve hardly ever seen, if you’ve seen him at all," Michael continued. "And aroused by some very dark passions and a degree of exhibitionist frenzy that I’ve rarely seen in any woman." He smirked as though her true nature was dawning on him. "You’re like a chameleon the way you change, turning a different color as your life moves you on to something else." He shook his head amazed by his observations.
"It’s the actress in me," she explained. "The moldable part."
"You ever act?"
"I do it all the time."
"Are you acting now?"
"I’m playing one of my roles, yes. But it’s vintage me. I’m not pretending to be something I’m not. I’m just a lot of different people in one. I think that fascinates men," she said very sure of herself. Savannah was half vamp, half pretending to be in control. It was for Michael to find out if she’d be relinquishing that control to him.
"Have you heard me complain?" he asked, still gauging the Savannah he dined with. He viewed her symmetry and her inconstancy as something to study, as though she was a work of art in progress. His trained eye basked in the way her facial expression could be so different and still remain wholly Savannah. The pale pink glossing her lips made him want to focus on them as she spoke, but then her eyes danced and paled, and looked warmly at him, then became so enigmatic he couldn’t fathom her thoughts. She toyed with him so deliberately she should be ashamed. But then that was the prerogative of women. He intended to have her that night, and they both knew it. "Drink your wine," he suggested in a tone of voice that was akin to a demand. He finished off his beer and ordered another.
Their booth was small, arranged so that they were almost sitting side by side, so that it was perfectly reasonable that his hand would find her thigh half way through dinner. He felt her cringe slightly, and then shudder as though a bolt of electricity shot through her and into him. It produced a welcome effect on his penis.
"Draw your skirt up," he suggested, moving his hand aside.
She smiled at him. "You like being in control, don’t you? It must be the photographer in you."
"You don’t have a problem with that Savannah. I’ve known you long enough to observe that much."
She raised the skirt ever so slowly, pulling it to her knees and then above so her bare thigh showed.
"No stockings?" he whispered when his hand returned to that place.
"I was thinking lots of bare flesh tonight."
She’d turned up her seductive allure so high, he was hopelessly infatuated even while he tried holding back. "Are you going to be as fickle with me as you are with Guillaume, as you are with, who’s that guy? Mack?"
"You think I’m fickle."
"You’re in love with Guillaume, but you’re going to make love to me tonight."
"Because he wants that," she said.
"And there’s no conflict in you?"
"None," she said.
His hand moved high enough on her thigh so that she had to part her legs in order for him to travel to the place of his planned destination. He felt the softness of her shaved pubis and let his fingers rest there. She shivered at his touch, although so imperceptibly that he could only feel the tremor because they were sitting so close.
"That amazes me, no conflict," Michael replied to her statement.
"It doesn’t amaze me at all. I’ve always managed to be in love with several men at one time."
"And you’re in love with me?" he asked.
"I won’t know until we’ve had sex," she said.
"Must mean your heart’s between your legs."
She smiled, pursed her lips again in a coy pout. "You guess well."
They remained in the restaurant just long enough to pay the bill. Riding in Michael’s Mustang to his apartment, sparks of electric sexuality flashed erratically between them. They shared the tight space in an uneasy silence that was about to explode from the tension of suppressing their attraction. Feeling like a thief stealing a prize from a rich man, Michael was bringing the spoils of war home to his lair. While he mused on his new acquisition, Savannah let her mind wander to images of medieval maidens captured for sexual purposes.
"I thought you’d take me to my loft," Savannah said, "or to the studio."
"Not if it would put you in control," he answered easily.
Michael’s apartment was three flights up in an old building with a slow moving elevator, the kind with the black gate across the doorway to keep the passengers in. It was hardly large enough for two people.
"I haven’t taken pictures of you in an elevator, have I?" he asked.
"I thought there would be no cameras tonight," she said.
"And if there were, would that bother you?" he asked. He pulled her close so they were chest to chest, her warm fluid breasts touching him, their hands meeting at their sides so their fingers intertwined without thinking. It was a delicate beginning.
"I love the camera trained on me," she replied. "Since I’m an exhibitionist at heart."
He chuckled. "Then you’ll have to suffer tonight. My eyes are the only ones that are going to feast on you." They kissed, small kisses, delicate ones, ones that began at her lips and then, as Michael’s lips moved, found the fragrant crook of her neck and the delicious taste of her shoulder. "I want you to take off the dress."
"Right here?"
"Right here," he nodded.
"I’d be naked," she said. "Completely."
"Not a stitch on underneath?"
"Not even a whisper of cloth," she confirmed.
If he hadn’t heard the sound of someone on his floor moving outside the elevator before it opened, he might have drawn the dress over her head. Even he wasn’t that bold.
The hallway was the dark kind, with half paneled walls, crown molding high on the ceiling, and ancient light fixtures that only glowed dimly when lit. Passing a man getting on the elevator, they were alone again, stepping into the short corridor where there were just six doors, five apartments and one storeroom. Michael’s apartment was in the front of the building, the furthest from the elevator. From another apartment along the way, they could hear the sound of Madame Butterfly coming from a phonograph. This was no CD recording, but vinyl, where scratches and tiny blimps in the perfection only added to the mellifluous sounds that impregnated the air with the pure energy of rich-hued color, in the shades of an earthy countryside in autumn as the season loses its prime. Into the atmosphere of that sensuous background music, their kisses were focused. The short journey down the hallway became a long one, the two lingering between real life and fantasy, in some other world that was only sexual, where being sexual was the only thing that mattered, where intertwining with a lover’s limbs was a natural act, naturally enacted any hour of the day in any place where desire appeared.
He played with her through her dress, running his hands as far as they could reach on her thighs, along her sides, to her waist, and breasts and back and shoulders. She placed her hand on his crotch. For a while, she rested her foot on the edge of a planter. And while the aria moved them within its melody, as if they were the notes themselves, Michael’s hand found the warm home of her pubis and she gave it up to him.
"You smell dark," he whispered, pulling his hand away from where he’d played with her wet opening. He licked one side of his fingers then put them to her mouth, the pink lips sucking the two until the juice moved into her mouth.
"The taste of sex," she whispered back to him.
A door opened down the hall, and they remained clenched together; but as Michael’s neighbor waited for the elevator, they finished their way to the apartment and let themselves inside.
In the doorway, Savannah’s dress finally disappeared. By the light of a small lamp in the living room Michael removed his shirt while Savannah watched from a reclining position on his overstuffed couch. To the tune of an old recording of a black jazz singer tripping through a lazy blues, he had his pants at his feet and was descending on his lounging lover. They groveled their way through the preliminary seduction, and moved briskly to his erection in her vagina. Her body seemed to swallow his aching member, while at the same times, she whimpered at the sharpness of his attack. And yet, the harder he pushed, the more she opened, the less she hurt. She hadn’t had sex like this in a long time—Guillaume was far too remote to suit her.
Michael’s first orgasm was brusque, without regard for Savannah’s pleasure. Hers would take more finesse to produce and he would save finesse until later, until after he’d punished her for ignoring him too long. With the first explosion over however, he backed off and the two lay side by side naked, petting each other like lazy cats. Minds wandered. Michael’s was empty for a while until his physical need moved beyond his need to rest.
"Did you bring the spanker with you?" he asked her as his hands ran their way through her tangled hair.
"You didn’t ask for it," she answered in a soft vacant way.
"Humm. That’s too bad then," he replied, giving her cheek a tender kiss. "I’ll have to use the other things."
"What other things?" she wondered, still a little too dreamy to make any sense of words and meaning.
"Don’t play coy, my dear, I already told you."
She was waking slowly. "But I thought you wanted to make love to me? You said you wanted to be gentle."
"And that I’ve done," he reminded her. "Now I want to punish you. It’s at my discretion, you know." His loving gestures laced with caressing tones, did little to convey his meaning, though the words sufficed. She squirmed against him trying to love him more.
"Have I done something?" she asked in innocence.
"Oh, yes," he replied gladly. "You’ve pissed me off a dozen times, and I’ll get it all back."
"But you said . . ."
"I’ve changed my mind. That’s my prerogative as a man, just as yours as a woman is to be as puzzling as a spring breeze."
Michael moved away from her, watching her all the way to his bedroom door, as the reclining figure of ribald sexual glamour teased him from the couch. Legs open, she appeared to be luring him away from his purpose, but he wasn’t moved enough to change his mind.
Leaving the wrappings from the parcel of implements strewn on the bedroom floor, he brought the paddle and baton with him back to the living room.
"On you’re belly," he ordered her, "unless of course, you want it on your puss."
Hastily scooting about, Savannah complied without a second thought, anxious to bury her tender skinned limbs and chest into the comfort of Michael’s thick couch. But her ass end shamelessly bared took a bevy of smacks from the black lacquered paddle as Michael knelt at her side on one knee, and used it for more than mere love pats. Even in the dim light, he could see the color of her bottom change. The milk-white hue of her skin went from a faint blush, to pink, to a second shade of rose, the color of an old tea-rose past its prime. Though she was hardly wilting like a flower.
Savannah didn’t like the strike of the paddle as well as she’d liked the leather spanker. This so unforgiving made her think more of being punished than having sex. But Michael was unabashedly ruthless laying the thing against her cheeks. She rocked back and forth, though that was a foolish move when she was suddenly struck in places that weren’t as amply padded as her ass.
"You must really be angry with me," she sobbed, when he stopped.
"Something I’m only beginning to admit," he said. "But that’s only half of it."
"The other half? " she asked peeking out through her muddied eyes.
He handed her a handkerchief. "No mascara on the couch," he informed her. "The other half, I’m thoroughly enjoying it as much as you are." He watched her wipe away the messy make-up.
She wouldn’t deny the pleasure, the fact that at that instant, after having cried for him to stop because it hurt so badly, she was feeling the distinguishing warmth of her hot ass begin to radiate outward in such a pleasant way that in secret she was wanting more. Either Michael read her mind or simply desired to continue for himself. This time, lifting her from the couch, he sat himself down. In an old fashioned gesture he then drew his crying brat over his lap so he’d have easier access to her lush punished mounds and the passionate heat they gave off. He spanked her more. The black paddle took her fading cheeks and raised the rosy glow again to its most vibrant color. Then, exchanging the paddle for the baton, he let the thin reed fly against the red, leaving marks with each nasty crack.
"Michael nooooo," she roared from her gut.
The cane struck again. "These are for Guillaume. (her other lover). I’m sure he’d approve," he remarked, before he let the second one land. That cut hotly on both cheeks, leaving a burn to linger when the blush died off.
"Oh gawd," the low mellow protest filled him with woe, but it wasn’t enough to deter the third, the fourth or the fifth sharp cut. "Oh, noooooooo," were the final forlorn words before the last strike hit.
"Just one more, for Guillaume," Michael announced.
Savannah knew it wasn’t for Guillaume at all, but himself. At least it was the last one. And because he turned her over and held her close to him, as soon as he was finished, she allowed the hurt and even the pain to die quickly away. The punishment over, Savannah drifted passionately in his Michael’s arms enjoying what his ferocity created in erotic heat.
Michael discovered the ripe wet folds of her vagina as he fondled her aching behind, rubbing the engorged place at the center, fingering that sensitive opening. Savannah rode a rolling erotic wave to her bliss-filled end and remained in his arms, with her eyes fixed on his face, as she recuperated from the sharp climactic spasm.


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