Happy Birthday Goddess Pt1-by T.Monk.

DEDICATED TO MY GODDESS on the divine occasion of her birthday!!
Brijesh wasn’t sure why he was at the party. For one thing, he disliked the host, a loud-mouth Wall Street attorney who enjoyed exhibiting his affluence. Secondly, there were too many people in the rooms, the huge Upper East Side apartment filled to capacity with bodies of one sort or another, male, female, and various intermediates of uncertain sexuality, a collection of outre fashions mixed with a range of conservative blue suits and white party dresses. Brijesh knew enough people to keep occupied if he wanted to talk, but he had no desire to talk this evening, no desire to be sociable at all. Instead, he decided to drink. The red wine was good, and despite the prospect of a bad morning from it tomorrow, he started to work seriously on the two bottles he’d found.
Suddenly, his drinking was interrupted. Harry, the host, waddled into Brijesh’s corner and held out his hand. “So there you are. Having fun?”
Brijesh shrugged. “I can’t stay too long.” He mumbled something about another appointment, one that did not exist at all.
“I want you to meet someone,” Harry said. “You’re still working the cameras, aren’t you?”
“She might have something for you.”
She? Brijesh shrugged and tagged along behind Harry, making sure to carry a half-filled glass of red wine in one hand and a half- empty bottle in the other hand.
Harry brought him up to a woman. She was British, Lisa adkins something; he did not catch the complicated last name. Harry made the introduction, said Brijesh might be the photographer Lisa wanted, and left abruptly when he spotted someone in the crowd.
The British woman was about forty, maybe more; Brijesh was never any good at judging the age of women. Of course, if they had grey hair that was a clue, but this woman’s hair was fiery red without any sign of grey at all. She was of middle height, with an oval blank face, unreadable, and a plump looking figure in a black and white dress. The dress looked rather tight around her hips, and as they talked about his photographic commissions, he stepped back and took in more of her, particularly her plump calves and strong ankles in black high-heeled pumps. Definitely past forty, he thought. Her face was unlined, heavily made up with a pale beige tone in contrast to the bright red lipstick on her full lips. Her cheekbones were high, her nose huge, and from each ear hung a huge teardrop pearl earring. The red wine had rapidly clouded his brain and he felt quite mellow.
Her English was good, with not much of the usual clipped British accent. He learned she ran the New York office of a British investment firm, and that she needed a photographer to photograph a dozen or so buildings in Manhattan. Would he be interested in such an undertaking?
“Only tiresome architectural photographs,” she said without expression. And then she added: “Have you ever visited London?
Brijesh shook his head. “Never” he said. Both the bottle and his wine glass were empty and he wanted more of the red. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your last name.”
She put her champagne glass down on the table beside her and carefully wiped her fingers with a napkin. “Dabrowsky.”
“no miss.”
Under the influence of the red wine, he managed a short bow. “Well, Miss. Dabrowsky, I would be honored to do the photographs for you. Definitely honored.”
She nodded. “Why that’s quite British, Mr. Prasad. Very good.”
“Would you like something more to drink?”
“No, not here. Why don’t we go to my apartment and discuss our business arrangement further? If you like red wine, I have an old Bordeaux you might favor.”
Just like that. Did she really want to discuss business arrangements? For the first time Brijesh realized there might be possibilities here beyond a mere photographic assignment. He was doing fine these days and he did not really need any dull real estate contracts, but Miss. Dabrowsky definitely intrigued him. What did an invitation to her apartment mean? He had never slept with a British, and there was something about her, something indefinable, an aura of some kind, maybe the enigmatic face, so that each time she gazed at him he felt as though she could read every nerve cell in his brain. The inscrutable British. A stereotype, of course, but at the moment she was indeed inscrutable.
As they walked out of Harry Cline’s apartment, Brijesh remained behind Miss. Dabrowsky long enough to admire her buttocks and legs. Her breasts were huge,& from the back she looked definitely enticing. Never mind the Bordeaux, all he could think of now was fucking her. If that was in the offing. How could one really tell these days? Maybe the invitation to her apartment would produce nothing more than an extended conversation about his assignment. Polite, of course. The excruciating politeness of the British had always fascinated him. How far did the politeness extend in the bedroom? His imagination continued to inflate his prospects. He wouldn’t mind it; he wouldn’t mind it at all. She was a bit older than what he was used to, but he was experienced enough to know women in their forties could be volcanoes once their passions were aroused & this one seemed a safe bet.
In the taxi they said nothing to each other. He wanted to look at her legs again, but it was too dark to see anything. She lived in the East Sixties, and before long he found himself following her once more, this time through the cool lobby of her apartment building. Yes, the legs were definitely interesting And the buttocks superb; her haunches seemed to roll with invitation as she preceded him into the elevator. Or was it his fevered wine- sotted imagination?
Just inside her apartment, she removed her shoes and asked him to do the same. “I hope you don’t mind. You can use these slippers.” The slippers were open-work sandals. There were several pairs against the wall, and she used one pair herself.
She lived in a lovely apartment with high ceilings and artfully arranged modern furniture. There was nothing British about the place, except maybe the spare decorative style. When she offered him the red wine, he declined.
“I’d like tea if you have it.”
“British tea.”
She nodded. “Yes, of course. And what else?”
He hesitated. He was seated on a sofa, his face flushed from the wine he’d had at the party. She sat opposite him in an armchair with her legs crossed. What should he say? Should he lie to her? He realized how much the wine clouded his judgment. “I’d like to go to bed with you,” he blurted. He felt foolish immediately.
She sighed. “Ah.”
“What does that mean?”
“I thought we came here to discuss business.”
“There might be time for both.”
“And you invited me here.”
“How old are you?”
“You’re impetuous. At your age, you should be less impetuous.”
He detected no emotion in her face and it rattled him. Again, he had the impression she knew his innermost secrets. She was like a sphinx, unreadable, enigmatic, an British mystery dressed in Western clothes. She rocked her lifted slippered foot, the leg with its plump calf, her ankle turning, her toes visible through the nylon of her stocking.
“If I’m too bold, it’s the wine,” he said. “Have I offended you? Maybe I should go.”
“All right, I won’t go.”
“What do you know about British women?”
“Almost nothing.”
“The British favor patience.”
“I’m sorry.”
“In London most women are very subservient to men. Subservient like servants. They serve men, devote themselves to the man’s pleasure.”
“I think I’ve heard that.”
“And yet not all British women are like that. Some are different.”
Her gaze was fixed on him, her eyes unblinking. That she was interested in him was clear now. She had not invited him to her apartment to discuss architectural photographs or to offer him wine. Or to offer him British tea.
Still gazing at him, she said: “Can you be patient?”
“Do you find me attractive?”
“Yes, very much.”
She studied him a long moment and then nodded. “Come to the kitchen and talk to me while I prepare the tea.”
He followed her, and in the sparkling kitchen he stood behind her and watched her adjust the kettle. Without heels, she was much shorter than he was.
“I find you very exotic,” he said.
“Yes, of course, I’m British.”
“No, it’s more than that. Something special.”
She said nothing, and finally he could stand it no longer and he approached her from behind, leaned against her as she stood at the stove, and gently kissed her neck.
A quiver seemed to pass through her body. “Ah yes, that’s pleasant,” she said.
He felt her buttocks push back at his belly. Could she feel his erection?
Then she finished adjusting the tea kettle and she turned to face him. “Kiss me,” she said.
He bent his head to kiss her, pressed his mouth against her full red lips and drew her against his body until he could feel her huge breasts pushing against his chest through his jacket and shirt.
It was she who broke the kiss. She pulled back, put her hands on his shoulders and pushed downward. “Now there,” she said.
He was puzzled at first, uncertain what she wanted. But then she removed her hands from his shoulders and dropped them to her sides to pull her skirt upward.
Now he understood. He was stunned, staring at the lower half of her body as she unveiled it.
She wore beige pantyhose, her skin glowing through the nylon, her pubic bush visible as a dark patch.
His desire inflamed by her directness, he lowered himself to his knees and faced her sloping belly. He imagined he could smell her, a captivating mixture of incense and sex. Was it her cunt? Incense? No, it couldn’t be incense, it had to be perfume. As if to punctuate his thoughts, she arched her pelvis forward to press her nylon-covered mound against his face. “Do it,” she said quietly. “Do it through my panties.”
He had never actually done it before, not through a nylon covering. He had started doing it once to his ex-wife, but she had forced him to wait until she stripped away her pantyhose.
“Do it!” Miss. Dabrowsky hissed.
She held his head with both hands as he pressed his mouth against her mound and starting nibbling at it. He found the position difficult, but the doing of it excited him tremendously. He could find no purchase with his lips, and he could not get low enough to feel her slit with his tongue.
Then she seemed to understand the difficulty and she moved her legs apart and squatted a bit. “Move down,” she said, a hint of irritation evident in her voice.
He wanted it. He decided he wanted more than anything to please her. He lowered his body further, and this time he was able to get his mouth fully on her. She pushed down as she squatted over his face, and she started muttering in British as she worked her cunt and the damp crotch of her pantyhose over his nose and lips.
He went on with it. He had no desire to stop it. On the contrary, he hoped it would last forever, just this, in her kitchen, her thighs arched around his head as his mouth sucked at her through the nylon.
She finally pulled away from him and tugged her skirt down. “Get up,” she said. No softness in her voice, her face turned away as though she did not want to look at him.
“I think I’m a little drunk,” he said, groaning as he rose to his feet.
She nodded. “More than a little, I should think. You drank too much at the party. You shouldn’t drink so much.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
“Why don’t you go to the living room and get comfortable? I’ll find one of my robes for you.”
Now it was all politeness again, a distance between them, as if just a few moments ago he hadn’t been doing anything to her, hadn’t had his mouth on her cunt, her heat against his lips. Had he imagined it? Had he actually sucked her like that through her pantyhose? She hadn’t come, anyway; he was certain of that and it made him feel inadequate. He thought he ought to at least have been able to give her an orgasm. You’re bewitched, he thought; the woman has bewitched you. He stumbled on the rug as he entered the living room, and with a curse he started loosening his tie.
When Miss. Dabrowsky arrived in the living room with one of her Daughter’s robes, she was surprised to find Brijesh still dressed. “Take your clothes off while I bring the tea,” she said.
Not a request, but an order. He didn’t mind it. He realized how much he enjoyed it, how much it excited him when she commanded him like that. He’d never been this way with other women and his excitement was unexpectedly intense. He was sweating. The room was extremely warm and he decided the robe was unnecessary. He sat down on the sofa.
When she brought the tea from the kitchen, she found him wearing only his shorts. He had his legs crossed to diminish the visibility of his erection, but she hardly looked at him.
“You should wear the robe,” she said. “For heaven’s sake take the shorts off. It’s better to be naked under a robe. Come here and I’ll help you.”
He felt absurd because she was still fully dressed, but he did what she wanted. He rose and stepped forward, and when he reached her she calmly unsnapped his boxer shorts and made them drop to his ankles.
Without any visible emotion, she gazed down at his jutting prick. “You’re well-made,” she said after a long moment. She studied his genitals leisurely, and then she moved her hand forward and ran her fingertips lightly over his bulging balls. “Yes, it’s quite nice.”
Quite nice, he thought. Everything is quite nice. It seemed remarkable that he was actually standing naked in front of her. How had all this happened? He stepped out of his shorts and reached for the silk robe, holding it in front of him to cover his belly and genitals.
When he looked at her face, she seemed on the verge of laughing at him. Or maybe he was imagining it.
“Let me suck you again,” he said.
“You’re not very good at it.”
“Then teach me.”
She gazed at him with a fixed stare. “Do you mean that?”
“Yes, definitely.”
“All right, I will. I’ll teach you. Put the robe on. Have some tea and wait for me.”
He slipped into the brown silk robe and tied the sash. Then he sat down and he sipped his tea. He looked around the room, at the delicately colored paintings on the walls, at the wide windows covered by drawn blinds. It was a typical New York apartment, and yet the furnishings had a definite British simplicity.
When Miss. Dabrowsky returned, she wore a pale blue robe, white socks and sandals identical to his own. “You’ve done your robe wrong,” she said. “Always the left part over the right part.”
He opened the sash and followed her directions. “This way?”
“Yes, that’s much better. And the tea? Is the tea all right, Brijesh?”
Or shoud I say “Mr. Prasad.”
“My first name is Brijesh.”
“All right, Brijesh.”
“And you’re Lisa.”
“Yes. Lisa or Dabrowsky. When you want to be more formal, you can call me Dabrowsky.”
“Or Miss. Dabrowsky.”
“I like this apartment. The paintings and the furniture.”
“Finish the tea in your cup and then you can suck me again.”
Her gaze was direct, her eyes half-closed as she studied him. Again he felt awkward — but with a keen excitement. He drained the tea in his cup and put the cup down. She was seated near him on the sofa and he expected her to lie back and part her robe. But instead she rose, undid the sash at the back, slipped one foot out of its sandal, parted the robe in front and raised her leg to plant her foot on the sofa cushion.
“There,” she said. “Now you can kneel again and do what you did in the kitchen. This time I’ll instruct you.”
The dark hair on her mound was straight, a prominent tuft that dwindled further down to leave her cleft exposed. He could see only the top part of her slit, the dark lips still closed like a thin vertical mouth. She moved her folded left leg further to the left, and he thought the lips parted a bit, but he wasn’t certain.
“Hurry,” she said. “Don’t make me wait.”
He went down on his knees. The long robe he wore made it a bit difficult, but he managed it, and then he lifted his face and angled it between her thighs to get his mouth on her cunt. This was certainly easier than in the kitchen.
For the next ten minutes or so she taught him how to do what she liked. She wanted her clitoris lapped slowly and then rubbed by his nose. Then he had to twist his head further down to get his tongue in her vaginal opening. Of course the position was wrong for that, but she made him do it anyway. Her fluids were copious by now and his mouth and chin were wet and slippery. It occurred to him he was almost drinking from her. Without her asking for it, he lapped his tongue beyond her vagina to reach her anus. She seemed to like that — at least the sound she made indicated she liked it — and he kept at it for a while, thoroughly wetting the ring of muscle and more than once penetrating it briefly with his tongue-tip with his face pressed against the cool undersides of her buttocks. He’d hardly ever done this to the women he’d known, but doing it to this woman excited him tremendously.
Finally, she brought him back to her clitoris and she told him to rub it hard with his nose. He did that, masturbating her with the tip and the bridge of his nose, until at last she closed her thighs around his face and shuddered through an orgasm. He was unable to see her trembling, but he certainly felt it.
“That was better than what you did in the kitchen,” she said. She pulled away from him, rearranged the folds of her robe to cover her body and retied the sash at her back. “Oh, look how wet your are! I flowed like a river, didn’t I? Come to the bathroom with me and I’ll dry you.”
Shuffling behind her in his sandals, he followed her out of the living room and down a long corridor to a bathroom.
“Bathrooms here are not like in London,” she said. “In London everything is different.”
In the bathroom, he found himself standing opposite her while she carefully wiped his face with a short towel. “There, that’s much better,” she said. “Now you don’t look so drenched.” She reached into the folds of his robe to fondle his penis and stroke his balls. “We need to look after this now, don’t we? Why don’t you remove your robe?”
When he did that, she made him turn and she stood behind him to reach around his body with one arm and take hold of his rearing prick with her hand. “In the sink,” she said.
He could feel her pressing against his back, the silk of her robe rubbing his buttocks as her fist began stroking the shaft of his cock with a steady and skillful pumping rhythm that produced the inevitable result after no more than a dozen strokes. He groaned as he came, gazing down at her moving fist as the jets of sperm struck the white porcelain of the bathroom sink.
“That’s good,” she said, patting his buttocks as if to commend him, then taking hold of his balls and lightly squeezing them. She wiped the tip of his prick with a tissue, tossed the tissue in a waste-basket and patted his ass again. “Put your robe on and we’ll sit in the living room.”
Covered by his robe again, he shuffled out in a daze. What the hell, he thought; what the hell difference does it make?
In the living room, for the first time, they discussed the architectural photographs. There would be seven buildings and she accepted two weeks as the time frame. They agreed on a price, and she invited him to visit her office the next day to receive the contract and an advance. “Can you do that tomorrow?”
“Yes,” he said.”
He sipped the fresh tea she’d made. The heat in the room was up and he was sweating. She sat beside him on the sofa, and as they chatted about the assignment, she occasionally clutched at his genitals through his robe. Each time she touched him, she found him more erect, and finally she exposed his stiff prick and looked down at it.
“Now you’re ready again,” she said, her fingers delicately drawing his foreskin down to expose his swollen glans.
“Why don’t we go to a bed?”
“No, lie down on the rug. Without your robe, of course. And without the sandals.”
He shrugged and did what she wanted. He slipped out of the robe and sandals, and he lay down on the white shag rug wearing only his socks. He lay on his side, his head supported by one hand as he looked at her.
“On your back,” she said as she rose.
He rolled over onto his back, his penis standing out, bobbing over his belly, sinking down, then jerking up again.
She removed her robe, and for the first time he had a view of her naked body. Naked except for the white socks. Her breasts were like huge water melons, her nipples light and prominent. Her waist showed a middle age thickening, and her hips and thighs looked strong but at the same time feminine. Womanly, he thought; she looked womanly. The white socks somehow suited her body.
She came forward, straddled him and did a squat over his loins. An actual squat, only her feet on the rug, her knees folded, her buttocks suspended over his belly, her cunt spreading open so that as he looked at it over his chest he could see the red and pink flesh glistening between the brown lips. Seeming to effortlessly maintain her balance, she grasped his cock with her right hand, fit the knob into the opening of her cunt, and slowly engulfed him.
She gave a short grunt of pleasure as she took the whole length of his cock. The room was almost unbearably warm, and the nearby lamp caused the sweat on her forehead to glint. Slowly, she rose up and down on his pole, balancing herself with her fingertips on the rug, her feet flat, her thighs flexing and rippling with her muscular efforts. Apart from her interest in his organ, she seemed disconnected from him. He could see her opening stretched around the girth of his penis, her vagina clutching it, sliding up and down, up and down. Then after a while she reached behind her to grab hold of his balls, and as she squeezed them he suddenly felt the sperm boiling out of him in great spurts. She murmured something in British, squeezed his testicles again, and then sat down squarely on his cock and wriggled her hips in a wild rhythm until she climaxed.
He was in a fog of exhaustion now, both mentally and physically depleted, but instead of dismounting and allowing him to rest, she climbed forward to get her cunt on his face. “Use your tongue,” she said.
He sucked at her, ran his tongue over the outside of her cunt and then inside the opening where his sperm was now oozing out in a steady stream. He caught most of it, sucked her juices mixed with his sperm, kept sucking her until she rolled her hips and had another orgasm.
After that she finally climbed off him and allowed him to rest. He fell asleep almost immediately, and when he opened his eyes again it was morning and he was still on the rug.
She was already gone. He found a note in the kitchen propped against a sugar bowl: PLEASE DON’T FORGET OUR APPOINTMENT AT MY OFFICE. Dabrowsky Lisa. Her last name first, in the British style.
At eleven o’clock that morning, Brijesh travelled to the midtown offices of the Otani Saiku Company. The receptionist was a Caucbritish girl, but it seemed everyone else in the place was British. Brijesh was immediately escorted by the receptionist to Miss. Dabrowsky’s office. The girl knocked on the door, announced Mr. Prasad, and then left after Brijesh entered.
Lisa stood behind a large desk with her back to a wide window. “Ah, Mr. Prasad. Please sit down and I’ll be with you in a moment.” She indicated a chair that faced the desk.
Brijesh sat down as she busied herself with some papers on her desk. He thought she looked lovely this morning, even more lovely in daylight than the night before. She wore a tailored suit, a white blouse, and huge silver earrings.
Finally she put the papers aside and she began talking about his photographic assignment. “I have a list of the buildings,” she said.
They discussed the photographs, the kinds of pictures she wanted. She seemed distant, almost cold, considering the intimacy they’d shared the previous evening. He wanted to see more of her body, but unfortunately the large desk made that impossible.
When their discussion of his photographic assignment was completed, he asked her to lunch. “I know a Thai place with the best food in New York.”
But Lisa declined. “Oh no, Mr. Prasad, it’s not possible.”
She sent him away, called for the receptionist to usher him out. In a state of mild confusion, he soon found himself in the elevator wondering what it all meant, what she meant by that performance. Did she expect him to completely forget last night?
He thought about nothing else all afternoon and into the evening. The next day he was too keyed up to start working. He realized he had to find out what this business with Lisa Dabrowsky meant, find out about himself. What was it about her that excited him so? But of course he knew the answer to that — the excitement was produced by the way she so effortlessly dominated their relationship, the way she dominated him without any question, as if it was understood, a matter of course, a premise. She could order him to kneel and he would do it. She could have him lie on his back so she could sit on his face, and he would do that too. He would do anything she asked of him. If she wanted to whip him, he would enjoy it. A shudder passed through him as he imagined her whipping him. Was he a masochist? He had never actually seriously considered it. He had no idea what he was. All he knew was that this British woman had awakened something inside him, provoked in his soul a turmoil he had never known before, a turmoil and a question.
He bought a newspaper that carried sex ads, and he sat down with it in a restaurant booth. Go on, do it, he thought; it was something he had never before thought of doing, not really, and now he wanted it because this experience with Miss. Dabrowsky seemed to point to something that he had to unravel.
He spotted an ad in the newspaper by a woman who advertised herself as “Mistress Rosie”. The ad touted her as a dominatrix. Complete satisfaction, it said. His mind started generating one fantasy after another, and soon his excitement was intense. Never before had it happened this way; it had to be the effect of Miss. Dabrowsky.
He called Mistress Rosie.
She seemed pleasant enough, a rather soothing cultured voice, a hint of a foreign accent. Yes, she could see him in a few hours. She gave him an address in the Village. Three o’clock sharp, she said: “Please be punctual.”
During the early afternoon he wandered along 57th Street, stopped at intervals in a gallery, looked at paintings and photographs, looked occasionally at well-dressed women who drifted alone from one room to another. In the rooms the women come and go, he thought. Anything to avoid thinking about Mistress Rosie. The women come and go with or without Michelangelo. What was she like, this Mistress Rosie? One of those apparitions in black leather, with boots and a whip and filed teeth? If that was what she was, he’d bolt. He had no desire to be strung up. Or did he? You don’t know, he thought; you’re at the abyss and you don’t know if you want to jump in or crawl back shaking.
At precisely three o’clock, he rang a bell on Charles Street. Mistress Rosie. After some delay the door opened, and there stood a tall Nordic looking blonde between forty-five and fifty.
“I’m Brijesh Prasad. I spoke to you on the telephone.”
She nodded, opened the door wide and stepped aside to admit him. He entered, and after she closed the door, she led him down the hall to a huge living room cluttered with books and papers and fat comfortable-looking furniture.
“Please sit down,” she said. “Would you like some coffee? Or something to drink?” The slight accent was definitely British. She had an attractive face, good bone structure, hardly any makeup.
“Some coffee would be fine.”
He was surprised. He hadn’t expected any gentility. She was conservatively dressed, a beige sweater, a grey calf-length pleated skirt, shoes with low heels. She looked, in fact, like a college professor, and the contrast with what he’d expected astonished him.
She returned with two cups of coffee on a tray and she sat down opposite him. She kept her legs straight, the grey skirt modestly covering her nylon-clad knees.
“So,” she said. “And what brings you to me?”
He named the newspaper he’d been reading. “I saw the ad.”
“And you decided to call me.”
“Good. You haven’t done this very often, have you?”
“Never, actually. How can you tell?”
“Intuition, I suppose. What is it you’re looking for?”
Brijesh shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s one reason I’m here.”
She smiled. “Very good. That’s honest and it’s good to be honest. So you’re experimenting, investigating yourself. Yes, that’s good. Too many people think they understand all about themselves. But they don’t, do they? You, on the other hand, have decided you want to experiment with submission. It appeals to you. The idea appeals to you, doesn’t it?”
“Do you have any experience at all?”
“I met a woman recently…”
“Tell me about her.”
He told her about Lisa Dabrowsky, told her what had happened without mentioning Lisa’s name or any details about where they’d met. He did say that Lisa was British. Rosie listened, nodded, her eyes fixed on him as he talked. When he finished, she said. “I think I understand everything. Would you like one hour or two hours? The price is two hundred for the first hour and one hundred for the second hour. If we do the second hour, we’ll have time for, shall we say, certain elaborations?”
He felt his heartbeat increase. “Two hours.” He looked around the room, at the scattered books and magazines, the books in the high bookshelves. And yet the room somehow seemed artificial.
Rosie said: “You’re wondering about me?”
“I don’t do this every day. I have other interests. As a matter of fact, I don’t live here and my name isn’t Rosie. When we spoke on the telephone, I was somewhere else. I only use this apartment when I’m Mistress Rosie. Be discreet and don’t try to learn anything about me.”
“All right, I won’t.”
“Do you have a credit card?”
She left with the card, and then returned a few minutes later with the card and a slip to sign.
Brijesh said: “What do you do when someone would rather not use a card?”
“I use my judgment about a check.”
“You must have trouble sometimes.”
“The way you invited me here so easily.”
“I use my judgment about that too.”
“I see.”
“All right, come with me now.”
He followed her out of the huge living room to another room. This one was as huge as the living room, but with hardly any furniture. A large vinyl-covered mat took up most of the floor, and beside that stood a long table with a cushioned surface that looked like something a masseuse might use. There were two huge bureaus with drawers, some ordinary chairs, and nothing else. The one window was papered over with brown wrapping paper.
Rosie said: “Take all your clothes off and put them on one of the chairs. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She left without another word, without looking at him.
He removed his clothing piece by piece, took everything off and piled it on one of the chairs. The room was warm enough. Naked, he felt less awkward than he expected. The trouble was there was nothing to look at, nothing but the almost barren room. He thought of sitting, and then he decided no, he would stand. He thought of opening some of the bureau drawers, but that seemed foolish. The walls were completely empty, a dull grey, neutral to the point of banality. Banal furniture in a banal room. No, the vinyl mats were not banal, and neither was the table. What did she use the table for? A massage? He suddenly felt stupid. At three hundred dollars, a massage would be definitely overpriced.
Rosie returned wearing a new set of clothes. She had lipstick on her lips. She wore a white blouse with a high neck and long sleeves, a black skirt shorter than the previous one, black net stockings and high heels.
In her right hand she held a riding crop. Brijesh stared at it. Yes, it fit her. For some reason, she looked quite natural with a riding crop.
Rosie said: “Are you cold?”
He looked at her face. “No.” Then he blushed when he noticed her eyes on his genitals. He was limp, but the tension was there and he expected he’d soon have an erection.
She gave him a rather tight smile. “Let me look at you.” She gazed first at his front, and then she walked behind him to look at him from the rear. Then she moved in front of him again, standing four feet away with her eyes on his genitals again. “Men understand less about submission than women,” she said. “But after they learn, it’s fine. The point is obedience, isn’t it? If you remember that, everything will be perfect.” She continued talking quietly, and as she talked she extended the riding crop and used the tip of it to lift his penis. The leather tip caught his prick just beneath the glans, jerking it upward, bouncing it lightly, toying with it. Then she dropped the tip of the riding crop down to do the same with his scrotum. She moved a bit to the side and tilted her head as she lifted both his scrotum and penis at the same time. As she continued talking with an almost soothing tone, his penis gradually stiffened and became erect. She helped it along with the riding crop, tapping the underside of his prick, tapping it upward until the organ jutted out from his loins.
“There, that’s better,” she said. She pulled the riding crop away and moved behind him, and in a moment he felt the length of the riding crop between his buttocks, rubbing in the crack, then angling underneath as she slid it forward to protrude the tip under his balls. She slid the riding crop back and forth, tilting it to rub the leather against his anus until his body jerked and he clenched his buttocks. “Do you like that?”
“It’s an unusual feeling.”
He heard her chuckle. “Not so unusual. Have you ever had sex with a man?”
“Definitely not.”
“That’s a pity. You might enjoy it, you know.”
He felt the flush in his face. He could not see her, could not look at her because she was behind him.
Rosie said: “Do you find me attractive?”
Finally, she removed the riding crop from between his thighs and she came around to face him again. She tapped his erect penis with the tip of the riding crop and said: “I like it when my legs are kissed. Do you want to kiss them?”
His voice caught in his throat. “Yes.”
“All right, do it. Kneel on the floor and do it.”
He went to his knees on the carpet. Part of him felt ridiculous, but the excitement in the other part of him caused his heart to pound. He bent forward and pressed his lips against her left instep, feeling the mesh of her stocking, then slid his mouth upward to kiss first the front of her ankle and then one ankle bone.
“The other one,” she said.
At once he moved to the right foot to repeat the performance. He kissed the ankle, and then of his own volition he slid his mouth upward to kiss her shin and then her calf, and then her knee itself. As if to encourage him, she moved her legs further apart, and in response he kissed his way higher, beyond her knees, until to his great delight his lips made contact with the bare skin above the top of her net stockings. Garter straps held up her stockings, something he’d not expected. As he kissed both her thighs with her skirt pushed up by his head, he imagined he caught the scent of her cunt. Would she mind his hands on her legs? Still pushing her skirt upward with his face and head, he felt a momentary shock when he discovered she wore no underwear under the skirt. With a grunt of admiration, he pushed his face against the bush of hair, and then almost toppled forward as she abruptly pulled away from him.
“No, you don’t get that just yet,” she said. She retreated a few steps. “Stay down there. Look how stiff you are. Take it in your hand and stroke it, if you want. But don’t you dare come. When you’re with me, you don’t come unless I allow it.”
His head bowed as he gazed down at his cock, he curled his fingers around it and slowly stroked it. When he looked at her again, he found her with her legs apart and one hand toying with the lips of her cunt.
“That’s enough,” she said. She calmly unzipped her skirt, dropped it to the floor and stepped out of it. She was a true blonde, with a dark blonde bush half concealed by the bottom of her blouse and framed by the black garter belt straps and the black net stockings. Her long thighs looked muscular, as did her legs. Her hips were plumper than he expected, and he imagined her waist would show a slight bulge. She pointed at the skirt on the floor. “Pick it up and hand it to me,” she said.
He crawled forward, gathered the skirt and offered it to her.
“So far you’re doing fine,” she said as she folded the skirt and placed it on the nearby massage table. After she did that, she dropped a hand down to her bush and she toyed with it. “Do you want this?”
His voice cracked when he spoke. “Yes.”
“Lie down on the mat. On your back.”
He remembered Lisa, how she’d squatted over him. When he did what Rosie wanted, she walked forward and straddled him, stood with her legs on either side of his chest, her high heels digging into the vinyl, smiling down at him. She opened her cunt with her fingers, teased him as she watched his face, and then she lowered herself to her knees and pushed her sex at his mouth. “There’s your trough,” she said. “Let’s find out how good you are at sucking it.”
He kept his eyes closed as his tongue and lips worked over her flesh. She had a strong natural scent, the aroma of an aroused cunt mixed with the perfume she had dabbed on her bush and on the insides of her thighs. His excitement grew as she started lubricating heavily. The warm juice seemed to pour out of her, wetting his face completely. She moved her hips, wriggling her crotch against his face, fucking his mouth with a persistent rhythm. When she climaxed, she wriggled faster, pressed down on his face more firmly and groaned. She went on with it after that, moving more slowly, then more rapidly as she approached the second orgasm. Finally she climbed off his face and turned, straddled him again and squatted down. This time it was her ass that came down on him, but he had no time to look at it as she pressed her crack on his mouth and covered his face with her buttocks. First she wanted his tongue in her cunt, and he did that with his nose pushing at her anus. Then she shifted her body forward to give him a bit more room. “Do my ass,” she said calmly.
He hesitated a moment, then did what she wanted. When she felt his tongue on her anus, she pushed down to get more of it. Before long he had his tongue working deep inside her rectum, her hips squirming as she rode his face, her buttocks like two huge pillows shutting the world out completely.
He had no idea how many times she came. He heard her grunting and mewling, and then with a shock he felt the new wetness on his face, on his chin and on his neck, a deluge drenching him as she pissed without restraint. Before she finished, she angled her buttocks backward to get some of the piss in his mouth, sweet- talking him, coaxing him, churning her smooth ass over his forehead and eyes as he took the last drops.
At last she climbed off him. She walked to one of the bureaus, opened a drawer and removed a towel. She returned to him, threw the towel at him and said: “Wipe yourself, you’re a mess. I’ll be back soon.”
She picked up her skirt. As she left the room, he lay there as if paralyzed.
Was it real? He lifted the towel and wiped his face and chest. He lay there in a daze. A long time passed without her return. He thought of looking at his watch, but he’d put it in his trousers and he lacked the will to get it. He tried to guess the time. How long had it been since he’d arrived? The silence in the room seemed heavy, broken only by an occasional muted sound of traffic somewhere outside. The world out there seemed distant, remote, irrelevant.
Finally Rosie returned to him.
She was dressed as before, wearing her skirt again, her body covered. She sat on one of the chairs, gazing at him as he crouched on the vinyl mat. She had the riding crop in her hand again.
At last she spoke. “Do you want more?”
He nodded. “Yes, I think so.”
“Be definite.”
“Turn around and bend over. Put your hands on your knees.”
He did that, and he heard her rise behind him. Then an instant later she whacked the riding crop against his buttocks.
He gasped with surprise. She whacked him again. The burning pain started after a few more strokes.
But she stopped. “Stand up,” she said. When he straightened his back, she reached between his thighs, clutched his balls and said=: “The whipping excited you, didn’t it?”
“Maybe you’ll come back here sometime and I’ll make you bleed. But for now it’s enough.”
She went to a drawer, pulled out a chain dog collar and a chain leash. He trembled now. She walked over to him and put the collar around his neck. She attached the leash and tugged it. “Come on,” she said.
She led him out of the room to a huge bathroom.
“Clean it,” she said. “Do the floor, the sink, the toilet. Use that sponge under the sink.”
After that she left him.
He looked at his face in the mirror over the sink. There was no change: the face was the same, the same face he looked at every morning when he shaved.
He started cleaning the bathroom, first the sink, then the toilet bowl, and finally the floor. He did his best, wiping the tile floor with the wet sponge, rinsing the sponge, wiping the floor again.
After twenty minutes or so, Rosie returned and inspected the bathroom. “That’s good,” she said. “Now you’ll get your reward.” Holding the leash, she led him out of the bathroom to the living room, the room where everything had started. Now he was naked on a leash. He had a fierce erection, his penis rearing, his balls bloated.
Rosie dropped the leash and sat down on one of the armchairs. She pulled her skirt back to uncover her thighs. She spread her legs and said, “All right, here’s your reward. Come to it on your knees.”
He crawled to her, crawled on the carpet to bury his face in her cunt.
Before long she patted his head and said: “That’s good. That’s quite good.”
He sucked her cunt until she came twice. Then she pushed him away, pulled her skirt down and rose. “Up,” she said. When he climbed to his feet, she took hold of the leash and led him out of the living room to the bathroom.
“Your time is up,” she said. “Do it in the toilet. Use your hand and show me how you squirt when you come.”
He thought of Lisa again, how she’d emptied him into her bathroom sink.
He started masturbating. Of course he reached a crisis in no time. Rosie laughed and pinched his buttocks as his sperm jetted into the toilet bowl. “That’s lovely,” she said. “You’ll do fine with your British lady.”
He spent the evening drinking alone, thinking about what Rosie had told him before he’d left her. She’d said she could be rougher with him, she could definitely hurt him. If he wanted that, he should return to her. But it wasn’t her he wanted, it was Lisa he wanted. Did he want Lisa to hurt him? He wasn’t sure. He drank himself into a stupor, fell asleep on the sofa with a newspaper covering his face to shut out the glare of the lamp.
* * *
The photographic assignment took about a week to complete. By then he was eager to see Lisa again. But at the same time he partially dreaded it as he recalled how cold she’d been the last time he’d seen her. Was she through with him? He couldn’t bear the idea of that. Finally he telephoned her office to tell her the photos were ready. He’d bring them in. She agreed, and when he put the phone down he felt buoyant again, hopeful. Hopeful about what? He trembled with anticipation.
* * *
In her office, Lisa looked at the photos in silence. She seemed bored with them. “Yes,” she said, “I think these will do.” She handed him a check and then gathered the photos to put them in a folder.
Brijesh screwed up his nerve. “How about lunch? Do you have time?”
She looked at him, a long look, her eyes never wavering. Finally she nodded. “All right, Mr. Prasad, we’ll have lunch at my apartment. Is that acceptable?”
He felt his heart pounding as he watched her gather her purse and attache case.
* * *
Daylight in Lisa’s living room. The blinds were open, the sun angling in from the west to burnish the edges of chrome and enamelled wood. Brijesh gazed at Lisa as she in turn gazed at the windows. His shoes were parked in the foyer, and he felt pleasantly relaxed. Lisa’s British maid, a woman of thirty, was in the kitchen preparing their lunch. The maid apparently spoke nothing to me — or at least Lisa and the maid spoke only British to each other.
Finally the maid entered, said something to Lisa in British. Lisa nodded and looked at Brijesh. “Lunch is ready.”
They walked into the dining room and sat at the table. After the lunch was served, the maid put on her coat and left the apartment. Brijesh was pleased; he’d felt uncomfortable with the maid in the apartment. Now he and Lisa were alone. They ate their lunch and drank the white wine without much conversation.
Then Lisa said: “I think you expect something from me.”
Brijesh looked at her. “I do?”
“I enjoy men, Brijesh. And I find you interesting. But my pleasure is quite important to me.”
He was unnerved. “If I haven’t pleased you, I’m sorry.”
“Are you really sorry?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you want to please me now?”
He nodded and spoke in a quiet voice. “Yes.”
“Under the table then. Get under the table.”
He was stunned. For a long moment he just looked at her in silence. Then he slowly moved again, slid off the chair to his knees, shifted forward under the table. Her legs and feet were so close to him that if he leaned forward just a bit more he would touch them with his shoulder. When she moved her knees apart, it was obvious what she expected. Carefully, he crawled forward to get his face between her thighs, to rub his cheek against the nylon pantyhose covering her legs. Like the first time, the nylon that covered her crotch made it difficult to get at her cunt, but he did the best he could. He had her scent in his nose, an exotic smell of jasmine mixed with a more ordinary female smell. He pressed his mouth against the bulge of her sex and licked it through the nylon covering. He could feel her seeping wetness on his lips. He chewed and sucked a long time, frustrated because she gave no sign of pleasure, not a sound, not even a slight quiver. But it was better than the first time; he could sense it. He wondered if he ought to rip the nylon with his teeth. Would she disapprove? He tried to gather the nylon with his teeth. Suddenly, she pushed him away and kicked at him with her foot. Bending her body, she reached under the table and slapped his face. “You fool!” She pulled away and rose, leaving him there under the table. As she left the dining room, she said: “Come into the bedroom.”
He heard her sandals slapping on the parquet floor in the hall. His face hot, he crawled out slowly from under the table. Gripping one of the chairs for support, he rose and stood there a moment slightly disoriented. What time was it? His heart pounded as he left the dining room to find the bedroom.
She was in the master bedroom. She was already on the bed and quite naked. He remained at the threshold of the room, staring at her, excited by her body. She was beautiful, the proportions were far from classic, but her naked body excited him. Her huge breasts were flattened by her position, and that emphasized the tuft of black pubic hair.
As if aware of the effect she had on him, she opened her legs slowly to reveal the dark sex between her thighs. “You’re too slow,” she said in a lazy voice.
What he wanted more than anything now was to give her pleasure. The need for that was sharp — to give her pleasure, to secure her approval. He stepped forward and crawled onto the bed between her legs. She raised her knees, opened her thighs wider to make room for him.
“Yes,” she said, her hands pulling at her knees to make herself more available.
With a shudder, he fell forward to bury his face in her sex, his nose and mouth in the dark thatch, his tongue pushing between her labia.
He had her scent again. He started licking her immediately, eager to please her, fearful he would fail again. For some reason, he was afraid to use his hands: he used only his tongue to force the dark lips apart. When he found her clitoris apparently stiff, he was gratified. He licked it slowly, kissed it, sucked at it briefly. After a while he became afraid his licking of her clitoris was too extended. Was the friction more than she could tolerate? He moved his tongue down to the opening of her vagina and licked that awhile. He caught the salty liquor at the opening on his tongue, licked and sucked at the wetness. There was still no sign of pleasure from her, nothing at all, not even a murmur. He licked further down, his tongue lapping below her vaginal opening, still further to the crinkled nut of her anus, over the dark ring, around it, his tongue wetting it. When she pulled her knees further back to her breasts as if to encourage him, he felt victorious. At last! He continued licking the dark anus, pushing at it with his tongue, not succeeding in penetrating at first, but finally she appeared to sigh and he felt the sphincter relax and he drove his tongue as deep inside her as he could manage.
Now came the first sound of pleasure from her, a low moan, then another sound that was almost a grunt. Her response thrilled him. He strained to extend his tongue even further, moving it inside her, sliding it back and forth through the ring of her anus as his nose became half buried in her wet vaginal opening. Before long he felt her fingers under his forehead and he realized she was now manipulating her clitoris as he tongued her. She masturbated as he continued to work his tongue deep in her back passage. He felt her shaking, her knees vibrating as the sounds from her throat became louder. Her fingers worked more rapidly on her clitoris. A long violent shudder passed through her body, and the next instant she jerked her loins upward and then down again.
When the orgasm was finished, she used her hands to push his head away. “My breasts,” she said. “Quick!” What did she want? When he scrambled upward, she grasped at his head to bring his face to her breasts. He found one of the strawberry-like nipples and closed his lips over it, sucked at it and engulfed part of the huge breast in his mouth. As he did this, she slid a hand between her legs and started masturbating again. He watched it, her breast in his mouth, his head turned so he could look down at her belly and open thighs at the hand vibrating the wet sex.
She had another orgasm, her body shaking as it had before. “Suck me again,” she groaned.
He slid downward to find her cunt with his mouth. Her sex was now soft and drenched against his lips. She seemed relaxed after the two orgasms. Would she become aroused again? He continued licking her clitoris until she finally pushed him away with her foot. “Enough,” she said, and pulled away from him. She slid off the bed, walked into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.
Was she angry?
He lay there immobilized, still dressed, a huge erection throbbing under the cloth of his trousers.
The bathroom door opened and she entered the bedroom wearing a robe.
He said: “Lisa–“
“I want you to call me Dabrowsky.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Let me make love to you.”
“No, not now. I must return to the office. But use your hand, if you want. I’ll bring a towel for you.” Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact.
Not knowing what else to do, he waited. In a moment she returned with a towel. She told him to stand, and when he did that she spread the towel near the edge of the bed. “Do it on that,” she said.
“You won’t do it for me?”
“No, do it yourself. I enjoy watching you.”
In a daze, he stood at the edge of the bed, took his penis in his hand and started masturbating.
She watched him and said nothing, and of course after the excitement of the past hour he reached a climax without delay, the sperm jetting out with more force than usual to splatter across the towel on the bed.
“Now you can leave,” she said. “Telephone me tomorrow at the office.”
“What is it?”
“Will you whip me sometime?”
She stared at him a long moment, silent. And then she said: “Yes, of course. But only when I want it.”

One thought on “Happy Birthday Goddess Pt1-by T.Monk.

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