9 comments/ 31929 views/ 4 favorites Richard's New Mistress By: tanyachrs Richard sat on the concrete bench outside the restaurant waiting for her. He was supposed to get there before she did and stand up when he saw her coming. She had told him that much. Only she hadn't said what she looked like and he'd been afraid to ask, so every passing woman made him jump. He looked like an idiot and it was starting to get old. Another woman came around the corner--chubby and dressed in too-tight jeans. He got to his feet and tried to smile but when she walked past him with a quick, questioning glance he sat back down with relief. It was a crazy idea anyway. Every time he'd tried before it hadn't worked. He'd either been scared or bored. What kind of a nut would want a mistress anyway? It wasn't like he had a hard time getting laid. Women were meant to be used not . . . well, whatever she was planning to do to him. Thinking about her doing things to him made his heart beat faster and he wasn't bored anymore. He had a feeling she could be the one. Her voice on the phone was so strong and certain. He ran a hand across his forehead. What was left of the sun was making him sweat. It doesn't matter what she looks like, he told himself. Best not to expect too much. Just please let her be what I need. Or let me stop looking. There was a picture of her in his mind; he couldn't help it. Not all of her, but her legs, her feet, the wide hips and narrow waist. He never dared raise his imagination above her waist but he could see shapely calves drawing his eye down to sharply pointed black heels. Like those. Not in his imagination but directly in front of him. Shit. Richard jumped to his feet, tripping over them so that he had to put one hand back on the bench to catch himself. He stood up again, carefully, and raised his eyes until they abruptly met hers. Hers were green and very still. He tried to smile but she wasn't smiling back and the impulse died. "I'm sorry," he said. His voice squeaked. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I didn't see--" "No excuses." She put a hand under his chin and raised it until he could see only the edge of the roof and the cloudless sky dimming to twilight above it. A deep shuddering breath came out of him and for a moment he thought he might cry, that this might already be too much. She took his wrist and he let her move it behind his head. Without being told he moved his other arm to mirror it. He felt her foot between his and shifted so that his legs were spread. Parade rest, he thought, trying to make it familiar. Except for how arched his neck was, how high his chin. She lifted it even higher until the roof disappeared and there was only sky. He could hear people passing. She ran her hands over his shoulders and down his back, then cupped his butt and pinched where it met his thigh. His cock shifted lazily. He felt the head grow hot, the shaft thicken slightly. He'd jerked off before he came to meet her, but it was too little, too long ago now. Her hand moved across his stomach, palm spread. He held his abs tight, realized his whole body was tight for her, and the realization sent more blood to his cock. It was growing slowly, undecided but interested. She released him abruptly, moving away, making his heart thump painfully towards where she'd been. He lowered his chin and saw her standing by the door: quick flash of a trim figure in black; short hair, short skirt. He scrambled to open the door for her, held it open with his head down (scarlet toenails peeping through stiletto sandals), noticed too late that there was a second, inner door and collided with her trying to reach it. Just another girl, Richard tried to tell himself. Woman. Mistress. He followed her to a table at the bar and was quick to pull out her stool. He felt momentarily adequate, until he moved to sit across from her and her hand caught his wrist. "Over here." She used his wrist to move him, directing him to the stool between her and the wall. "I want to be able to touch you." She leaned into him, blocking his view of the bar and the bar's view of him. Richard tugged at his pants. He should have found a way to shift his cock before sitting down. It was trapped against his leg, nearly at full hardness and still growing, now pressed uncomfortably against his boxers. She put her hand on his chest and smiled at the beat bouncing back. She was examining him, inspecting him. He wasn't sure he'd be able to pick her out of a crowd but he couldn't bring himself to look back. He dipped his head and caught a glimpse of her legs, her thighs full and white beneath the short skirt. He itched to touch them, to slide his hand between them. Cock fully hard now, starting to get greedy. He wished she'd say something or do something or tell him to do something. His body felt uncomfortably obvious, awkwardly sexual. He put his hands in his lap, brushed his cock accidentally, and startled from the sudden rush of sensation. His arm jumped back and he nearly elbowed her in the stomach. He put his hands together. They were shaking. "Mistress." "You can call me Tanya." "Tanya." He didn't know what he was going to say. "Yes, Richard?" She laughed and moved her hand to his throat, running her fingers up under his hair to cup the back of his neck. "You're very nervous, aren't you?" He nodded. "It's OK, baby. All you need to do right now is sit here and look pretty." One at a time she took his hands and placed them on the table, crossing them at the wrist, turning his palms up. It was uncomfortable and somehow obscene. A surge of helplessness ran through him, loosening his shoulders and tightening his throat. "Better?" She went back to stroking him without waiting for an answer. He closed his eyes and concentrated on her hands running through his hair. "I like long hair. Gives me something to grab on to." She tangled her fingers through it and tugged. He let his head fall back. "You ready to order?" Richard jerked his head upright. The waitress was young and plump, dressed in a low-cut white blouse and black slacks bulging at the zipper from the strain of her stomach. She had round, hard breasts and heavily glossed lips and her name tag said Marnie. He smiled at her, trying to make it seem casual. She smiled back and leaned her elbows on the table so that her blouse puckered. "What can I get for you?" To Richard directly, voice lower, obvious. He wondered what to order. He was of age but didn't look it. If he ordered a drink he'd get carded and look stupid in front of them both. But Tanya liked that he was younger. Maybe it would turn her on to see him carded. He could really use the drink. "A glass of chardonnay," Tanya said. "Whatever the house is." She didn't turn to the waitress, didn't take her hand out of his hair, was still pulling lightly but insistently. "And for you?" "He doesn't need anything." Richard's heart lurched, seemed almost to stop, then beat again. Sweat broke out on his chest and his smile twitched and grew heavy on his face. He became aware again of his hands on the table, their upturned vulnerability, their uncomfortable stillness. "Are you sure?" Tanya turned from him, smiled at the waitress, smiled at him, waited. He shook his head no, watched Marnie shrug and walk away. He tried to regain the sense he had had of judging her. She was his age, overweight, superficially hot. He had a sudden vision of fucking her, of holding her legs up high and wide and driving into her until she screamed oh god, oh yes. And then suddenly it was Tanya beneath him and her voice saying harder, fuck me harder and it felt so real his hips moved. "Good boy," Tanya said and the fantasy vanished beneath her hand on his neck, lost to the way her fingers curled around him, almost applying pressure. His cock was hugely hard now. It hurt and it hungered. This was crazy. Sitting here like this, his hands voluntarily manacled, her hands crawling all over him, causing rushes of pleasure and little nips of pain. She tweaked his nipple and he choked back a moan. "Nice." She circled the nipple with her thumb. It was impossible that she was doing this in a public place: playing with him like this, making him crazy like this. The waitress threw a coaster onto the table, put a glass of wine on top of it. "Anything else tonight?" She didn't even look at Richard. Knew what he was now, didn't want him, Richard thought, sweat beading up on his chest again. The whole room was probably watching. He didn't want to know. "Why don't you just bring the check and we'll take care of it when we're ready." Tanya's voice was politely sweet. She took a sip of wine and waited for the waitress to leave. "Now we're going to get to know each other," she said. She put her hand, cool from the glass, onto his thigh. With hideous accuracy it lay just beyond where the head of his cock was pulsing, not close enough to touch. He willed it to grow just a fraction harder and thought it did. "You're going to tell me what you like." Anything. "Be honest. This is your chance to be honest." Behind her words lurked the threat of future silence, submission without recourse. "Yes, OK," he said. But he didn't mean yes, he would be honest. He meant yes to whatever you want; yes to whatever you will do to me, take from me, only take it, do it. Don't ask. "Do you enjoy being touched, Richard?" "Yes." That was easy. Her fingernail tracing the edge of his ear was a torment. Her hand on his thigh was a bidding. "Fondled, manipulated, used, toyed with? Displayed, restrained, naked, open, for me to touch and take at my will?" Images of himself naked and helpless before her, writhing to her touch. Her hands as they were now, tugging, pinching, stroking and nipping, without the clothes, the people, the restrictions. "Yes." "Tell me where you're most sensitive." "My ears and . . . " She was tracing a fingernail down his neck. Did she sharpen them? He looked at the hand on his thigh and his dick saw how close it was and throbbed with anticipation. Her fingernails didn't look unusually sharp, only . . . he shivered, helpless against the almost-pain as she spread her hand and all five points pressed against his throat. "Everywhere." "Are you hard now?" She knew this. She had to. Her hand was only millimeters from his cock. She must feel the extra pulse every time she touched him, the ache of it being trapped head down against a tight crease of cloth, the way he shifted in his chair trying to free it, the opposite pull in her direction. She knew but she made him say it: "Yes. Very." "I like a man who's hard. Very. Feels good to be hard, doesn't it?" "Yes." "Feel better to cum, wouldn't it?" "Yes." Flash of sensation, vision of relief: shots of cum spurting into the air, his body collapsing, relaxing, Tanya somewhere. "And what if I said not to?" He almost did. His cock leapt forward, made contact with her, startled itself, and jumped again. "I think that answers the question." "Yes," he said anyway. The hardness and heat, the begging and longing and eventual (God please) release. Horrible, glorious. He felt his shuddering breath, the color in his face, knew that he was hopelessly hers. "And do you want me to fuck you, Richard? Do you want me to strap on my cock and take you?" "No!" She inhaled sharply. Her hand curved more tightly around his thigh and her fingernails scored the light fabric of his pants. The images from his earlier fantasy did a nauseating flip-flop so that now it was his legs that were high and wide, his voice screaming fuck me, God, harder. He had to close his eyes, shake his head. His cock strained towards her and when she leaned in closer her hand slid over his leg until her thumb rested against the head. It pulsed madly, oozing pre-cum, giving him away. Her mouth was against his ear, her tongue less than an inch from his ear drum. He could sense its hot wetness waiting to plunge into him. Plunge. He shuddered and she laughed in response. She whispered against his ear: "I'm going to enjoy fucking you, sugar." He tried to say no again but what came out was only oh. The pre-cum was a torrent, a river flowing toward her. His breath was heavy in his chest and all he could see was a hot redness and somewhere, deep inside the redness, he was getting fucked. The waitress threw their check on the table. He could barely see her. Tanya moved away, drawing her hand off his leg, flicking --yes, it must have been intentional--flicking her fingernail against his cock head. Something flashed through him--pleasure or pain, he didn't know. His only coherent thought was: more. But she was standing. He tried to rise, to follow her, but she pressed him back into the seat. "Pay the check, Richard." Of course, the check. He reached for his wallet, saw her start to walk away. She was leaving, not waiting for him. "Then what?" The words broke from him. It can't be over, he told himself, can't, can't, please, please. "Then go home and wait. When I want you, I'll call." He'd see her again. He stood, feeling some of the tension drain away, watching her ass as she walked to the door. Safe to look now, to appreciate the soft outer wrappings that made images of her naked and begging beneath him flash across his eyes replacing the humiliating topsy-turvy picture of his own surrender. When she turned, he wasn't fast enough. "Oh, and Richard?" Her voice was clear and audible in the suddenly silent bar. "No jerking off. When I call you, you'll need to be ready." The flush that had started when she caught him watching grew deeper and another rush of blood pounded into his cock. For a moment he thought he might faint. He grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself, took deep breaths. He kept his eyes on the glass she had drunk from, the inch of wine left in it, her lipstick on the rim. He downed the wine in a hungry gulp. It tasted like her tongue against his ear and he shuddered again. No jerking off, his mind echoed as he carefully opened his wallet. He pulled out a bill at random, had to look twice to make sure it was big enough. No jerking off. Go home and wait for her to call. Think about crimson nails on strong fingers, white thighs below a black skirt, curving calves tapering to spiked heels. Remember her hands on his body: deliberate, strong, demanding. But don't jerk off. Only. Shit. His cock needed to be touched. Here, now. With a desperate throb it freed itself and sprang upright, pushing forcefully towards the front of his pants. His head down, afraid to raise it, Richard could see nothing but his cock. The material of his pants might not be there, so clearly could he see the bulging head outlined through it, the moistness of his arousal forming a wet spot that seemed to turn the fabric translucent. He wanted to sit down, to wait it out, but he couldn't. He needed to get home. She might call. She might call. She would call. He started towards the door, knowing people were watching, feeling their eyes even as he kept his on the floor. Shuffling, shackled, dick pressing against his pants with insistent determination, he tried to imagine that no one noticed. He heard giggling and flinched. Two girls sat at the bar, blonde heads leaning together, blackened lashes fluttering, shining lips parted with laughter. They were beautiful, but they were only girls. They weren't his mistress. They were cruel but not demanding, hard but not firm. Richard lifted his chin and looked at them until they stopped giggling and reached for each other's hands. Then he moved forward, towards home where he would wait for his Mistress to call him: proud; ready; cock pointing the way.