Little Black Dress

Part 3 of 9

You can start here with Part 1 and Part 2 in this nine-part serialized erotic fiction.

"Sir." My voice was a whisper in the dark.

We moved in the shadows of the little walkway, his fingers intertwined with mine, my heels ringing against the stone underfoot. He moved forward, as if he'd been this way every day of his life. I followed, my eyes searching the emptiness for our destination, his firm grip, confident walk propelling me forward. Overhead there was nothing but stars, the city far behind.

Somewhere ahead was "The Cottage".

"We're going to a friend's house tonight, Princess, and you're going to be a very good girl," he'd said when we'd gotten out of the car. His body pressing against mine, the unyielding form of his car at my back.

"Yes, Sir."

I felt more than saw his face dip down, his lips brushing against mine. "A very good girl, do you understand, Princess?"

"Yes, Sir," I breathed just as his mouth devoured mine.

Tongues danced, a whimper escaping the tight space between us as I felt his hand slip under my dress. Then he was inside me, fingers driving into my desperation. His hand on the back of my neck, crushing our lips together as he fingered my pussy.

I pushed back against the car, grinding my hips, fucking his fingers, the heat between us radiating into the night. I moaned into his mouth, my body an inferno. I melted into him, trapped, held helpless in the moment and on the edge as he finger fucked me, leaving me wanting.

He'd taken me to the edge over and over the last few weeks, each time leaving me in need until every moment of the day was filled with thoughts of him. His voice, his words. The way he looked at me, touched me, tasted me. I'd sucked the cum from his cock, tasted my desperation on his fingers, begged for the words that would drive me over that edge, but he'd held back, always with a promise that a special night was coming, and so then would I.

I’d taken time off from work, spent it all at his home, at his beck and call. He was home all evening, but gone during the day, leaving me with one task - just one: “Edge for me, Princess,” he said, his fingers around my throat. He was dressed in the suit I adored; me in nothing but heels, the ones he liked best on me. I stood at the door enthralled, door of his penthouse open, unconcerned who might see us or what his neighbors thought. One hand on his briefcase, one hand on my throat, he pulled me in, pressing his lips to mine. “Edge for me, Princess. Every hour on the hour. And Princess, no hands. No fingers. No toys. Find a place to make yours. Spend your day finding that place that speaks to you, that fills you with need, then edge for me and text me each time.”

With that he left me standing there in the doorway, his kiss still warm on my lips, the pressure around my throat fading even as the heat in my pussy climbed. Edge, he’d said. Edge as he’d edged me all weekend with his fingers, his tongue, his toys. Even his cock. He slid it out of my pussy, slick and slippery over my clit to keep bringing me almost to orgasm, almost to that place that I craved. And then he pulled away, leaving me shaking, groaning as the moment passed, as the need faded only to be replaced by a low, burning ache, a throb that seated itself in the back of my mind, always present, always calling me. Edge every hour. No hands, no toys, no fingers. I shut the door and my eyes flashed to the clock on the wall. I had ten minutes!

Hour after hour I searched the apartment, finding my need, my task, my desire to please him everywhere. In the bedroom, I grinded against my pillow, trying to find the friction there I needed. In the kitchen, I lifted my leg high against the barstool, more desperate to comply, more desperate to feel something against my clit and not at all ashamed as I stood there for ten minutes fucking the smooth lacquered wood. With every edge, I let go just a little more, less aware of myself, more detached, as if Sir’s commands overruled my own sense of self. I fucked the arm of the couch at noon after feverishly searching for something, anything that seemed right, that seemed like my own place. Where did he want me? Would he watch? Would he be disappointed if I couldn’t find a place that pleased him?

At 3pm, I took a deep breath, my legs shaking, my eyes on the clock as the second hand ticked around, my clit pressed firmly against the door handle to the balcony. The second hand swept around. It was three o’clock, time for Princess to edge, to make Sir proud, to present him with a breathless, needy, aching pussy that he would find slick, throbbing and tender to the touch. I pressed my breasts to the glass, leaning into it with my full body weight, and moaned as my clit found the handle. Could anyone see me? Is that what he wanted? Me on display, fucking myself? The glass fogged up in front of my face as I edged, and then ten minutes was up, and I pulled away, shuddering, my legs trembling from the exertion, my clit begging for more and me realizing I would edge however and whenever he wanted, no matter the circumstances, the audience, the environment, if only he asked. If he would be the one edging me…

What had only been weeks seemed like so long ago. The party was tonight. Our moment, my moment was here. The cottage. My introduction.

When he pulled away, I gasped, let out a cry like a bird in the night. His fingers gone, his hands on my shoulders suddenly, spinning me in the darkness and pushing me down over the hood. My dress flew up before I understood what was happening, the cool rush of night air hit the burning need of my pussy. But before I could protest, speak, ask what was happening, beg for his fingers again, I felt the sting of the first blow. Sharp, hot cracks from the palm of his hand on one cheek, then the next.

His fingers wrapped around the back of my neck, pressing me against the warm metal of the car while he spanked me. I couldn't have moved a muscle if he'd let go. The spankings were as familiar as the unfed need between my legs. And even the thought of moving would bring his growl and my surrender. I could hear his voice in my ears.

"Maintain position, Princess," he'd said each and every time, and with each spanking, the urge to move, even to squirm had subsided. I simply looked up at him, my eyes locked in on the grim determination that formed his lips. Face buried in the sheets, ass presented for him in the air. After a few blows, he would stroke my clit, teasing until I groaned and my hips searched for his body to grind against.

Now my pussy clinched against nothing, his fingers gone as the blows landed again and again and tears swelled in my eyes.

"Please, Sir!" I cried, and the night went still. I trembled, feeling the burning flesh of my air rivaling the fire between my legs.

"Now, Princess, once again. We're going to walk from here to my friend's cottage, and you're going to be a very good girl. Do we understand each other?"

I tried to answer, to make a sound that wasn't a cry, a moan, a plea for his cock, his fingers, his cum. I took a deep breath, feeling the night air cool and welcome on my hot flesh.

"Up, Princess. Let me see you," he growled.

I swallowed, pushed myself up. He cupped my chin and turned me around, bringing me in close until I inhaled him and felt a sudden sense of calm.

"A very good girl tonight, Princess. Do we understand?"

"Yes, Sir," I whispered. He pushed a lock of blonde hair out of my face and leaned in, pressing his lips against mine. Yes, Sir. A very good girl for you.

More to come…