In the Wild

Woman with corset and black nails.

It was him, definitely; she would have bet the farm on that.

The last time she had seen him he had been shirtless, his torso coated in a thin sheen of sweat both from exertion and the oppressive heat of the club itself; here, he looked neat and respectable – almost bored, in fact – in a business suit that lost some of its composition since leaving the office. His jacket was folded over one arm, his tie was loose at his neck, his sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows.

He carried a basket filled with a few basic staples: a pint of milk, a half-load of bread, a couple of frozen meals-for-one. The last time, he had been holding a fierce-looking cane and the attention of the room.

She caught his eye, trying not to stare, but also eager to check her first instincts. Was it him? Could it be?

He looked back at her. Oh, it was him alright. Without a doubt.

She smiled in the manner of a casual acquaintance, just someone trying to get by with her weekly shop. He smiled back, then went back to deciding between two competing packages of ravioli, trying to figure out if today was a spinach and ricotta day, or if he was in more of a mind to push the boat out and go for the black-packeted prosciutto and goat’s cheese.

He doesn’t have the faintest clue who I am.

Then again, how could he? The theme of the party was Venetian Masquerade – or at least, Venetian Masquerade with a little twist of kink; the great Enrico Dandolo might have gone blind all over again had he seen the outfits (or lack thereof) they had chosen to go along with their masks. At the start of the evening, she had been dressed in a corset over delicate lace panties, but they hadn’t lasted; the corset was new, and a little too restrictive to be entirely fun, but the panties had been sacrificed to a greater goal. She had felt him shimmy them down her legs as he bent her over the leather bench, displaying her ass to everyone assembled. She had watched him take a deep sniff of them – to the playful laughter of the crowd – before wadding them up and stuffing them into his pocket, safe and sound. Her face had burned with embarrassment – but of course, the flush of blood to her cheeks was nothing compared to the feeling of his cane against her flesh.

She still bore the slim, streaked bruises across her buttocks, even four days later.

She wondered if he had kept the panties. She hoped he had. It would have been nice for him to have a souvenir to match her own – something that he would find a day or two after the fact, when the memory of the brief, anonymous connection they had had begun to fade like a dream in the morning. Something he could raise to his nose again in the quiet stillness of the night and use as a way to transport himself back to the club, back to the noise and the sweat and the bustle of it all.

Something to remember her by.

 She had wondered in the past what it would feel like to run into one of her partners outside of the club, out in the real world – whether it would be like seeing a tiger in the wild, as opposed to safely behind glass at the zoo. She had wondered if she’d get the same thrill from seeing one of them in a business suit rather than leather pants, or seeing one of her fellow subs walking around in a summer dress rather than being led by collar and leash into one of the club’s back rooms. Now it had happened, she wished it hadn’t. He wasn’t the tiger in the wild here. This wasn’t his natural environment. It was in the dark, sweaty embrace of the club that he seemed most at home, a predator stalking his prey. She had yielded to him in an instant there, with the trappings of their mutual desire all around them. She couldn’t imagine him doing anything like that here. If he reached across from his basket to take a handful of her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat to him in a way that had been so hot, so fucking hot at the weekend, it would have been horrific, not sexy; if he had barked that same order that she could call him Sir, that she should thank him properly for the strokes of the cane he planted with expert precision across the meat of her ass, she might very well have laughed in his pretty little face.

Same man. Different world. It mattered, somehow.

Then again, had she not benefited from that too? There was a strange thrill to not being recognised. Less than half a week ago, he – anonymous he, nameless he; a perfect stranger in every sense – had had her strung up like a puppet for his amusement. She had watched him lose himself in her, giving himself over to her as she gave herself over to him. Outside of the club, would he have even paid her the slightest attention? She doubted it, somehow; not a man like him. A little too young, a little too handsome, a little too cool. She had sensed it even at the club, but that was a different world; the normal rules didn’t apply, the limitations of the Great Wide Out-There seemed petty and small. She was in her forties now, on an inevitable downhill slalom to the big Five-O, and she had accepted that. In the world, in the wild, she didn’t draw attention. She looked respectable. She looked responsible. She looked mature – and that was she looked like much of anything at all; a first glance was rare on the outside, and a second glance rarer still.

But behind the mask, she could bare herself. In the dark of the club, all eyes were on her. The sag, the wrinkles, the tiger-stripe stretchmarks that covered her thighs and belly (stomach, she chided herself; be kind to yourself, even if it isn’t strictly true)… none of it mattered. All that people cared about was her willingness to present herself freely, unashamed – even temporarily – about the impact of the years on her body. All they cared about were the moans as a finger or a strap-on or a cock slid inside her, or the whimpered moans as she debased herself happily for their entertainment.

Yes, it might not have been much – but it was hers.

And for a little while, for a few brief moments, he had been hers. It had been her body that had driven him to the edge, had made him positively insensible with pleasure as he had thrusted himself to an orgasm inside of her. Still got it, she thought. Maybe it was rarer now, but she could still perform when needed. Maybe she wouldn’t draw a stare in a supermarket aisle (Oh, for another swing at her twenties…), but what did that matter?

The bruises ached behind her, and she smiled as she passed him. He didn’t turn to see, but that was OK.

Perhaps the club was her natural habitat too.

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First Taste

Two glasses of champagne.

The bubbles tickled at her nose as she tipped the thin flute upwards, the crystal so delicate that she thought for a moment that even the simple act of raising it the glass to her lips would be enough to shatter it into a million tiny, piercing shards. She snorted a little at the sensation – so embarrassing – then somehow managed to compose herself.

He was sitting across the table, smiling at her, watching for her reaction. His glass remained untouched. ‘First time?’ he asked.

For a lot of things, she thought. Instead she just nodded.

‘What did you think?’

‘It’s nice. I like it.’ In truth, she found it a little too dry, a little too sharp to be entirely pleasurable. She would have been happier with the taste of her usual bottle of wine, whatever was sweet and light and on sale at the local corner shop on a Friday night – but of course, the company was much better here. She wondered if, perhaps, champagne was a drink that people only pretended to like when they were trying to impress someone important to them, when they were trying to appear worldly, sophisticated, and utterly grown up.

Three dates in, and she hadn’t quite shaken that feeling. Twenty-five years old, and he made her feel like a teenager again. He was older, yes, but not that much older; twelve years, if you rounded down. So how was it that she made her feel like a dumb kid crushing on her teacher? Was it the slight peppering grey in his hair? The cut of his suit: stylish, confident? The way people seemed to listen when he talked, as if by instinct?

‘Well, that’s more than I could say the first time I tried it,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t stand it.’

‘How old were you, your first time?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘And when you tried champagne?’

He laughed at that, and she felt a thrill of pride; it felt good to know she could surprise him still. ‘Also eighteen,’ he said. ‘The same night, in fact. Apparently the two things go together a little better than I thought.’

He knew, of course. He hadn’t pushed her, hadn’t pressured her at all. He had wanted it to be special – hence the dinner in his apartment, the champagne chilled to perfection, the music playing lightly in the background – and it was. She couldn’t have pictured a more perfect moment.

He had joked once about her not wearing panties on a date with him, and she was shocked at how she had considered it. She had always wondered if she would be the kind of girl who’d lean into that if the opportunity ever arose; if, given a man with whom she felt safe enough, she’d sit through dinner or a movie, knowing that there was nothing but air between her pussy and her lover…

When the taxi arrived to pick her up, she had shimmied them down her legs and thrown them into the laundry basket, smoothing down her skirt. She felt daring, free. It would be a surprise for him later, she had thought. Well, later was here now.

Tonight’s the night. Twenty-five years of waiting, and here it was. Worth every second.

He could read her excitement at a distance; it was a different kind of nervousness than he was used to with her. She had started to grow used to him over the past few weeks, to settle into herself in his company, to sound out the first glorious syllables of what the future might hold. She had become… comfortable, and he felt pride in that. He liked that he could put her at ease.

He knelt in front of her, and she felt the touch of his fingers at her ankle – a tap, a gesture, an indication to uncross her legs. She did so.

He was looking up at her, imploringly. Say the word, he seemed to be saying. Say the word and this all stops. We can go back to chatting, to the champagne, to dessert. We can be as we were, for as long as it takes you to be comfortable. A day, a week, a lifetime if necessary. There’s no rush.

There was never a rush; not with him. Everything seemed to happen at just the right pace.

She said nothing. There was nothing to be said.

She parted her knees and, like a groom reveal his bride’s face from beneath a bridal gown, he lifted the hem of her dress.

It’s time.

His gaze was fixed on the smooth skin of her thighs as he pulled the fabric up, up, up, giving her every chance to stop him; he wanted it to be perfect. He paused only when he realised that there was nothing stopping him, no panties in the way to slow his inexorable progress, and she felt him take a deep breath of appreciation.

It was nice, to be looked at that way. To be admired. To be wanted.

He kissed her thigh, parting her legs gently with his hand, and she could feel a cool breeze at her cunt, her wetness impossible to ignore. She wanted nothing more than to be touched there, to be teased

to be fucked

– but he steadfastly took his time; she was his, brand new, and he was going to savour these first moments.

His kisses drew near, his breath warm against her skin – and then, unexpected, the electric first-touch of his tongue. She gripped at the table, worried for an instant that in her ecstasy her nails might carve deep grooves into the varnish, and then steadied herself. She gave a long, slow exhalation, willing her body back under control. Not now, she thought. Fuck, so close… but not now. Not yet. Not so soon. That comes later.

The champagne glass sat just inches from her hand. She watched a thin stream of bubbles rising from the edge, hurtling to the surface and disappearing forever. It felt apt: a momentary lifting, and then nothing.

She hoped there would be more than nothing waiting for her.

He kissed her, down there, and every kiss promised a thousand more; he alternated his kisses with soft, gentle licks that pushed her towards a sensation she had never shared with anyone. He was familiar with her, as experienced as she was innocent. What she suspected, he knew; his reverence was new and strange, but no less comforting for it. She was safe in the hands of an expert.

Fuck…

Her body tightened, and he looked up, concerned.

‘No… please,’ she said, surprised at how weak her voice sounded. ‘Don’t stop.’ Don’t ever stop.

And there was that smile again. ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘Have a drink. Enjoy it. It’s OK.’

Enjoy it. As if she were capable of anything but. And why shouldn’t she?

She let him guide her, his tongue carving out fresh, new pathways of pleasure that she had never considered before, had never been able to reach herself. She felt it rise up out of her, spreading out from his kisses up through her body, separate quanta of joy and lust and longing made just for her, teased out of her one by one…

When it came, it came in waves: no crashing tsunami but a steady, glorious lapping of pleasure that she felt could go on forever. She let out a moan – no embarrassment, not now – and felt her body shiver and shake; her hand reached down, not to pull him close or grasp at his hair but just to touch him, to feel his presence, to remind herself that this man – this beautiful, wonderful man – was the one making her feel this way.

He looked up at her, his brow dappled with exertive sweat, his perfect hair mussed. She leaned down to kiss him and detected the faintest trace of herself on his lips; another unfamiliar taste, but not unpleasant for it. ‘The bedroom?’ he asked.

‘The bedroom,’ she replied.

The drinks could wait.

If you enjoyed this story, please check out my Patreon page or my available books. Patreons get access to these stories before anyone else, and any support helps me to continue doing what I do.