Prologue ...

A Study in Seduction

 

A night not fit for man nor beast...driving rain, a fickle wind, and lies that chase her down the street. Looking for a place to hide, she stumbles into the close confines of teeming patrons in the neighborhood bar, swallowed whole by its anonymous humanity. She breathes a sigh of relief, just briefly, before being jostled toward the back, through the sweat, the smoke, the beer and booze, the loud talk and louder laughter. Everything clouds her senses, everything fogs her brain.

No place to stand or sit or find a drink, until spotting an empty seat in the last booth, she finally lands with a thud on the hard wood seat.

"A double Scotch, no ice, please," she calls to an indifferent waitress, three feet off. The saucy redhead turns around flipping her ponytail and glaring.

"There's an extra twenty if I can get it now, right now..." she looks up smiling meekly. Her body is slender, but womanly. Desire clings to it like the rain clinging to her dress and coat.

The waitress eyes her critically through her scraggly bangs, finally shrugging, "What the heck," she turns around and disappears.

"Ahem."

The sound of a man purposefully clearing his throat makes the windblown blonde turn toward the wall. She is not alone!

"Oh, my. I'm sorry!" Her eyebrows furrow miserably. "There just wasn't anywhere else to go, and my feet are killing me...I thought the booth was empty..." she rattles on, flustered and annoyed.

"Well then, you can stay," he calmly allays the anxious woman. Maybe a tad condescending, but his smile is genuine. "I'm Martin."

"Thanks, really. Thanks. I'm Sarah." She settles in a bit. But after quickly apprising her host, she almost rather he kick her out. The smooth-talking darkly handsome type make her nervous, and though she's used to men like this, she has reason to be frightened of their motives. The fact that he speaks with a British accent only complicates the issue.

Reaching into her purse, she pulls out her last Marlboro Light. But before the lighter reaches the tip of her cigarette, the man reaches out and plucks it from between her fingers.

"What?"

"Can't stand the smoke," he explains.

But the bar is filled with smoke, which she would hasten to point out, but she's too aghast to think of anything to say.

"My table, my rules," he adds.

Something about the authority behind the comment makes her blush, chagrinned now. She sits back in awe, while that first flutter of desire calls up feelings she hadn't expected to feel, not here, not now. How easily captured. How easily charmed. She observes him more carefully. He's all about precision. A starched shirt, neat manicure, even a simple gold pinky ring with a black stone on his right hand. He wears no tie, obviously having dressed down for the early evening.

"So what is Sarah hiding from on a night like this?" he asks, just casual banter.

"Hiding?" Her blush deepens.

"Ah, so, I'm right." He looks amused.

"Right about what?"

"Sorry, if I sound presumptuous, but you look like a woman with a lot of regret."

"Yes. Well. Am I all that different from any other woman?"

The waitress appears and slaps the double Scotch on the table successfully killing his reply. She takes a sip of her drink, then a generous gulp, feeling the liquor burn all the way down her throat. The alcohol works fast. Within a minute's time, the last hard edges of reality slip away. Even the stranger's cold clear eyes begin to blur before her and she sees little but the warm smile on his lips below.

"So, what else do I look like to you?" she asks. The liquor starts to speak, giving rise to a natural compulsion for toying with men like this one. Her flustered fright and lost look have been replaced by something more sultry, even a little wicked.

"I see a flirt, an unrepentant tease who likes to pay for the privilege."

Her mind swims a little too much. "I have no idea what that means."

"Sure you do." He laughs easily, then bluntly says: "You look like you want to get laid."

"Geez." She shakes her head, embarrassed but titillated. "You sure don't waste any time. Are you always so blunt when you're on the prowl?"

"I'm sorry. It's just an observation, that's all. As pleasant as that idea might be, when I finish my beer, I'm going home to bed, to sleep. The table's yours."

"Ah! So I can smoke all I want," she teases.

"Yes, you can smoke all you want."

The teasing twinkle in his eye makes her want him. But he is too cool, too pretty to be what she needs. She likes her men as rough as she likes her sex.

Light-headed and horny, she keeps probing for the fun of it, because she can't help herself. Freedom like this is hard to come by in her life. "But if you were available..."

"You want an honest answer?"

She likes the way he looks at her; the way he paints every expression with untainted sincerity. He's the worst kind of man, the most dangerous, the kind that can have her heart tidily wrapped up with a bow before she understands that he's just stringing her along.

"Why not? I'm tired and lonely and all ears," she says with a heavy sigh. "I mean, this is all just hypothetical anyway, since you've ruled out a sordid tryst. So, if you were available...?"

He sits back looking amused. "You'd have to be a special kind of woman to interest me."

"And...what kind of woman is that?"

"I was divorced fifteen years ago and have been a bachelor ever since. I'm not an easy man to love, nor is sex particularly easy for the women I bed. I'm not sure you want to pry any further."

"Oh, but now you have me really interested..." She bats her lashes. It's the drink talking now, and she knows this. Otherwise she'd never be so bold with a stranger.

"Interested? I'm not so sure," he's still smiling, but now in a cagey sort of way. "When it comes to women and sex, I don't compromise on what I want. I can be rude, abusive, bordering on sadistic. The woman who wants me better be prepared to surrender. If I have to work through her resistance, I will. But I've never backed down from a good battle, and I've never lost a battle that I wanted to win...." Seeing how her eyes widen, he stops. "You look surprised."

"I am." But not in the way he figures.

"Oh, it gets worse," he warns. "I've been known to slap a woman if she's earned it. I've spanked, humiliated, and hogtied petulant bitches until they are ready to behave. But I expect the woman I sleep with to want that, and love me for my unyielding demands. Relationships are on my terms; they fit into my schedule to suit my needs. I wouldn't bother with anything else."

By the time he gets to the slapping part, she's as uneasy as a leaf clinging to its branch in an autumn breeze. He's not so sweet now, so perfect, so polished. But a man with harder edges emerging from inside the carefully starched clothes.

"What, cat got your tongue?"

"You're not much of a romantic, are you?" she says a little dazedly. She's practically panting, breathless, hungry with desire. All this is unspoken, though he certainly knows this turns her on.

"It's all in the eye of the beholder, Sarah. If I get my needs met, well, then I can be tender." His voice, his face, his delivery softens now. "I can hold a woman when she needs to cry, I can listen for hours to her tall tales. And I'm more than willing to sit down to candlelight dinners." He lets that sink in, and adds at last: "Well, now that you know who I am and what I want, maybe it's time you moved on to the real conquest of your night."

She jumps on that. "Conquest? You think that's the reason I'm here?"

"You deny it? It's what you planned in the back of your mind. You've had a bad day, and right now you've got a look on your beautiful face that takes men to bed."

She smiles, clearly befuddled. "Well, just certain men," she needs to clarify, though she denies nothing. Her ears are burning, her heart strained like a bowstring.

"Certain men? What does that mean? Men like me, perhaps?"

He drills her so hard with that remark that her cheeks redden instantly. "Maybe," she flirts back. Her voice is soft, appealing and seductive. "But you're unavailable, and if I were a sensible woman I'd go home and snuggle in with a good book." All she can do now is snuggle into the hardwood seat, her body billowing beyond its skin, breasts jiggling under cashmere, cleavage drawing the eye of men who slyly watch from the sidelines, even as Martin, the sexy stranger, keeps his eyes firmly fixated on her face.

"But you won't go home. Because you're not about doing the sensible thing."

Now his voice has lowered to that mysterious baritone that turns her pussy wet. Men have dropped that veil of darkness over her too many times not to feel it coming and welcome the sensuous feeling it engenders.

"But this is all still hypothetical, isn't it?" she reminds him.

"That's right. Nothing's changed."

"But if, hypothetically," her mind wanders on, "you wanted me, and you were available...how would you seduce me?"

He thinks deliberately with only a hint of a smirk, his eyes pressing their advantage as he speaks slowly, vibrating now from a lower rhythm and sounding not nearly as dismissive as he did before. "I wouldn't bother with a seduction, Sarah. I'd be more direct than that. I'd tell you to go to the ladies room. If you want to give yourself up to me for a few hours, you take off your clothes, everything...then put your coat back on, letting it slide slowly over your naked skin so you feel it moving against your flesh."

She's trembling as he speaks, imagining her coat sliding over her naked shoulders.

"You could pretend you belong to me and that I'll punish you soundly if you disobey. By the time you left the ladies room with your clothes stuffed in your purse, wearing nothing but the coat, you'd be wild with need, your desire unbridled. As you move back to the table, your knees would be knocking in fear, your breath would be short. You'd be biting your lip, nervous and terrified. But you would be conquered long before I laid a hand on you. If you wanted me, Sarah, that's what you'd do."

He finishes talking and she can barely feel a thing except her anxious heart. Everything collides together: his voice, the clinking glassware, the laughter rising through the bar, her raw emotions and all her lies. They've chased her down and caught her, yanking on her shoulder like a spoiled child...but in this man's company, it's easy to shrug them off. The lies drift from her thoughts with the alluring Martin whoever-he-is too inviting to disregard.

"That's a very tempting fantasy, Martin."

"Is it?" He feigns surprise. "Turn you on?"

"I suppose."

"Where?"

"Where?"

"Between your thighs?" he asks.

"Of course." She's mesmerized by his every nuanced move.

"Where else?"

"My mouth...I taste it," comes out in no more than a whisper.

"You smell your own juices, too?"

She shakes her head, glancing around, "Too much smoke, but I can imagine them."

"You're imagining them how?"

"Strong. Very strong."

"And what IF I were available now?" he leans in closer.

She snuggles further back in the seat. The heat of the liquor and his probing eyes make her flesh hot. Her answer comes out in the same breathy whisper. "Well then, I suppose I'd go to the ladies room and take off my clothes...and return to you in nothing but my coat."

Heart thudding. Loud. Obnoxiously loud...Inside her head and eyes, her chest, her randy, juice-soaked cunt.

"You look very ready, Miss Anonymous Sarah. You really think you're all that brave?"

"So, going home to bed no longer suits you?" she coyly asks.

"I think a change in plans would suit me just fine," he replies.

"Woah! You are serious." If she could back up further she would.

But his commanding eyes drill her to the back of the seat. She can feel their power taking her beyond this place. Her body seems to lift right off the chair, while he leans back against the high-backed booth and casually finishes his beer.

"You will be here when I return?"

"I am trustworthy to a fault. Of course, you won't know that until you try me."

Foolish. Foolhardy. Flustered. Frightened. She makes her way through the crowd again, toward the back hall this time, staggering dazedly into the ladies room and into the stall, shedding her clothes down to nothing but her panties before her mind computes what she's doing. A slick red fingernail slips under the waistband of her panty, but she stops there, against his orders, deciding she's done enough. She can't make herself go further. Is it rebellion or just fear that makes her falter? But the faltering only lasts a second. She quickly threads her arms through the camelhair coat, remembering to feel the smooth silk lining against her skin. The crotch of her panties is soaked now. She cinches the belt like a corset, tight and unyielding, then, after stuffing her clothes into her purse, she makes her way back through the crowded bar toward the table and a moment of reckless possibilities, deviant promiscuity.

Her head is down as she pushes her way through the bodies, clutching her coat so it doesn't open. Her eyes are almost closed, although she can see the tops of her red high heels when she walks: the rounded toes, the inlaid leather, straight from Paris. Feeling her way more by intuition than sight, she finally looks up ready to smile at her handsome stranger. Instead, her smile abruptly fades and she turns a ghastly white, the spell broken just that fast.

The blue-eyed smooth-talking stranger is gone, in his place a sea of alien faces peering out from the depths of the booth, their booth now, wondering with smirking defiance what the hell she wants.

"I'm right here."

She hears his whisper and her attention is abruptly deflected. But is this just her imagination? When she tries to turn around, a determined hand pushes her forward through the crowd and the merriment, right past the fear, the guilt and her better judgment, into the street. She looks both ways seeing no sign of danger anywhere on that boulevard.

 

The hotel is old, smelling of roses past their prime and fine woodwork. Distinguished. Elite. A little shabby, it too is past its prime, but pleasingly quaint, and to her relief, dimly, erotically lit.

The walls absorb the lies she carries with her. They allow her secrets and will bury them with the secrets of all the late night rendezvous that have gone before hers.

The lights are low in the fourth floor room. The carpet is plush, the chairs deep and the mattress high and welcoming.

He sinks down in the comfort of an old armchair and unbuttons another button on his shirt.

"How rough do you want it, Sarah?" he asks.

She stands before him mesmerized, and without batting an eye says: "Sometimes very rough, sir." She regrets calling him sir; it conveys too much, but it's out of her mouth before she thinks.

But he moves on swiftly. "Take off the coat."

She gulps visibly, nervous but driven. It's just a sash, a simple sash, and with it untied, the coat easily falls away to disclose the sinful revelation of her errant panties and everything that is Sarah plainly exposed.

He stares at her crotch, deliberately, his eyes gliding right over the wealth of her generous breasts and the lovely curve of her slim waist and shapely hips.

"I don't remember making an exception for your panties," he says coldly. "I suppose I should just walk out the door and assume that you were toying with me. I thought I was clear as glass."

"You were, sir. I'm sorry."

"But you refuse me?"

"No, sir, I was petrified."

"And you're petrified now?"

She hesitates. "Sort of, maybe, but not as much."

"Come closer, Sarah."

He's stern and gentle and unwavering, and she trembles at the sound of his curt voice. She obeys him, inching forward until she's right in front of him, so close that she can smell his breath and feel the drum beat of energy he exudes.

She feels his hands on her hips, his fingers sliding deftly under the waistband of her panties, and the firm assurance he uses to draw them down to uncover the last of her secrets. Her trembling deepens as he gazes at the neatly shaped 'V' with its soft curls and the pink valley between, shining now with juices seeping onto her flushed skin.

Her panties fall to the floor.

"Pick them up," the stranger says.

She backs up a step, feeling wobbly and faint, but manages to bend down and pluck the featherweight lace from the floor. She holds out her hand to show him what she found, and with her apprehensions mounting, she relinquishes the bit of fabric and watches as the stranger pockets them in his pants.

"Now on your knees and crawl," he orders.