Scarlet and David: Part 1

Written by Fitzgerald (December 2000)

You were meeting a man in a hotel room, a man you never met before. You were nervous, but excited. As you enter the lobby, you look at your watch. "I'm right on time, you think, as you look around. It's a nice hotel, not the most posh, but very nice and close to downtown. You go to the front desk, give them the name "Mulvaney", and as arranged, there is a note for you, with a room key. You take it, turn quickly, and scan the lobby for the elevators.

You unlock the door of the hotel room. There is a scent of freshly extinguished candle. The lights are low, the room is empty. You see an envelope with your name written on it in firm but hurried letters. You open it. "Run a bath." it says, "The bath things are ready for you in the bathroom, you have half an hour. Then look in the dresser drawer at 3:00."

In the bathroom, you find soaps and lotions, awaiting you. They smell unfamiliar, but you linger, smelling them, wondering who, wondering why.

At 3:00, you walk across the floor with a towel wrapped around you and tucked between your breasts. Nervously, but curiously you open the top drawer. A note on top of a shopping bag. You remove the tissue paper and hold up a red satin bra and matching panties. They are lacy and revealing, not your style you think, but they are subtle and soft. You hold them up, you put them on. Then you reach into the bottom of the package and lift out a white satin bed jacket. You look at yourself in the mirror. The jacket is comfortable, but not warm, it reaches just the tops of your thighs. Remembering the note, you tear it open. "Expect a guest at 3:15." Five minutes to spare. "Is he coming? Am I ready for him?" you wonder.

Quickly, you fix your hair, check your lingerie, pull the bed jacket tight and brush your teeth. A knock on the door. Your heart is pounding in your throat. "Oh, god what am I doing? Settle down, answer the door," you tell yourself. You open the door, a woman is standing there, she is carrying a massage table. Your cheeks blush red, remembering your scented body and scarlet underthings. "Would you like it on the table or on the bed? she asks in a calm, rough voice. "The bed," you quickly answer. You notice strength in her shoulders, veins in her neck, a boy's clipped haircut and feel the blood rushing to your cheeks again.

You turn your back to her and take off your bedcoat, feeling her eyes watching you. You lie face-down on the bed and feel her fingers lightly trace a line across your shoulders. Her hands are light but firm, soothing the muscles in your neck and back. You turn your head to one side, feel your hair brushing your cheek and you close your eyes. Her hands pause, you hear warm oil being rubbed into them, then they touch you again with the same firm but light touch along your sides, starting at your armpits, curving downward and inward along your waist and flaring out over your hips.

As she works your body with a trained and soothing confidence, you try to relax. "Focus on the touch," you tell yourself, but your mind wanders, full of thoughts. You know he sent her, but why? Where is he? You remember arriving in the room, nervous, expecting him any minute. You had planned this weekend together for months. Together you resisted the urge to meet earlier, at a coffee shop or in a restaurant, like you know you should have.

"Oh God, what am I doing?" raced through your mind in moments of panic on the three-hour drive to the city that morning. "Relax", you told yourself, "We’ve emailed each other for what seems like forever, in some ways I know him better than I know my husband." You smile to yourself remembering how your heart beat in your chest every time you logged on and found an email waiting from him. And you remember how you carried his words, your thoughts of what he said, around with you for hours afterward searching for clues about the man and what he was really like.

Your mind flips back to the hands working on your back, you hear her breathing stronger now and steady. You sense her presence above you. You feel your body relaxing, you feel yourself submitting to her. You exhale deeply and feel yourself sinking softly into the mattress.

"Turn over," she whispers. Your mind jolts back to reality as you roll over on your back. Your body is slow and heavy, sedated by her touch, it does not want to move. As you lay back with your head on the pillow and look at her with half-closed eyes, you become aware again of your scarlet lingerie. You remember how in the mirror just before she arrived you traced your finger down the edge of the bra along your cleavage.

"Not me, but not bad," you remember thinking as you looked at yourself. Now you feel exposed in your luscious, sexy underwear - but feminine too, a part of you is embarrassed to be exposed like this but a part of you enjoys the feeling too. Your eyes return from your cleavage to the woman above you, her short clipped hair, her strong shoulders, a firm softness in her eyes. Those eyes meet yours now as her fingers lightly begin to touch your collar bones and feather out over your shoulders.

"Your husband said you wouldn't mind," she says in a voice that is direct and authoritative. It’s not a question and she doesn't wait for an answer. You make no sound. Your body is still except for a tiny parting of your lips, a slight movement of your tongue against the back of your teeth. Your stillness hides the shock reverberating through you, your heart thumping, your body suddenly awake, every nerve sensitized. Your eyes dart from her shoulders, breasts and arms to her fingers, which are unfastening the clasp between your breasts. As she lifts off the bra your breasts settle on your chest, white and exposed. You feel the cool air against them, you see a faint tan line running from the scarlet strap of the bra still over your shoulder, to your cleavage. Exposed to the air, you feel your nipples begin to contract.

She pauses, rubs some more massage oil onto her hands. You watch her hands and her neck, see her eyes looking into yours, penetrating. You take a quick deep, involuntary breath.

Two hands cup your breasts softly, squeeze them upward, fingers moving toward and around your nipples. Her hands are firm as a man’s hands, but her touch is gentle and sure. She is deliberate and confident. Your breasts are hers now, the pleasure is hers to give. Her hands move back down the outside of your breasts, pushing inward, now underneath and around, that firm, now familiar, pressure upwards, closer this time to the light brown puckered skin of your nipples.

Your chest feels flushed, you breath deeper, raising your chest up to meet her caress.

She continues the motion, her body straddling yours, her hands caressing your breasts, squeezing underneath your nipple, swirling her fingers. "Oh, please squeeze them," you think as your legs part slightly and your hips tilt forward.

As if on cue, as she moves her hands up and around your breasts this time her thumbs and forefingers pause at either side of your nipples and apply a firm excruciatingly soft pressure that makes your eyes close and your head tilt to one side.

You open your eyes quickly as you feel the momentum of her body moving forward, her thumbs and forefingers still on either side of your nipples, but one hand replaced now by lips and warm breath. Her hair feels sharp and crisp against your chest, her lips like her hands, firm, steady but so soft. Her tongue circles your nipple, her lips pressed in a soft sucking motion. You gasp, grab sheets in your hands and press your thighs outwards against hers.

The tension in your breasts is creating even more tension in your pelvis. Your hips rock up slightly, tense and fall. Your fingers long for the touch of flesh.

She leaves your breasts, deliberately and suddenly. Your breasts crave more. You can still almost feel her mouth and hands on them. Your nipples are wet. She moves down to your feet, touches the insides of your calves and parts your legs. She kneels above you and slides her hands up the insides of your knees and thighs, then down again caressing your soft flesh. Her hands move up again like a wave but pause as fingers run along your panty line, then down again. The third time, her fingers glide along the panty line and she pauses and takes the thin waistband between her fingers. You lift your hips instinctively. As she slides the panties off and down your legs you see the wet stain that makes the crotch a darker, more crimson red.

You smell your musky fresh scent. Your heart pounds as she slides her fingers up over your tender thighs and brushes your pubic hair. She circles your mound and back down the outer edge of your vagina. You are breathing harder, your body aroused, your whole world the tips of her fingers. No thoughts, just want, sensation, then want again.

Her fingers move up over the sides of the lips of your vagina and you tense, shudder and exhale as the tips of her fingers deliberately skim either side of your swollen clitoris. She does it again, you tense, shudder and exhale again. Your being centres on your clitoris, but your arousal radiates like shock waves down your legs to your ankles and toes, and up through your heaving chest, neck and breaking out in a sweat on your brow.

One palm covers your pussy with a constant pressure, and then arks backwards, one finger pressing against your vagina, swirling, teasing the opening. You raise and tilt your hips, rocking into the finger - and obliging, she penetrates you. You want to fuck it, to bear down on it wildly, but at the same time she presses her other palm lightly down against your pubic bone and you relent, your hips sinking back into the mattress.

With one finger inside you, she probes the roof of your vagina, massaging, and rocking firmly, in her style, in and out and around. With the first three fingers of her other hand she works your clit, two fingers on either side pressing and releasing, the middle one applying a light pressure as the other two come together. You growl, you moan, you grab your hair then the sides of the bed, arching your back and heaving your breasts upward. You want to come, your whole body needs to come, your is heart pounding, your pussy is peaking with energy. The tidal wave begins to rush over you and suddenly she takes her hands away. You look at her like a frightened animal, your body shocked, your world rocked.

"Your husband said to wait," she says as she stands up and begins to pack up her things. "He’s not…" you begin but stop, your breathing still heavy, the sweat now cold on your face. Without another word she leaves and you watch her, wondering.



At long last there is another knock on the door. It has only been ten minutes since the massage brought you to the brink of desire and then left you there. The nerve of him to tell the masseuse he was your husband and that you would wait. For him!

"Who does he think he is?" you mutter to yourself. You were tempted to finish it yourself. Your hands reached as far as your hip bones, the comforting softness of your belly, the tips of your fingers longingly teasing your public hair. But you waited. Was it out of obedience, curiosity or just frustration at letting yourself be played with like this that made you wait? Instead, with one movement you pulled the sheet up over you and clutching it in your fist, rolled over onto your side and stared at the wall. Your body still, your mind racing now instead, remembering your nervous excitement this morning, your second thoughts and how it all seemed so far away now - laying here naked in a strange bed in a strange hotel room waiting for who? Waiting for who?

"I should have known better." you say to yourself remembering your doubts. This relationship is so unlike you. You who are always in control, who thinks before she speaks, who lets her mind run wild with fantasy but always acts with precision, with forethought, always knowing, always sure.

And it all started frivolously, playfully — exchanging email, a diversion for both of you. But a tempting diversion. "And I tempted him." you smile to yourself and remember, too, how he tempted you. And it was a tasty diversion. And each taste, sometimes sweet, sometimes salt mixed with the sweet, left you wanting more. And so you went down that road together. You could have stopped any time you wanted, couldn't you? But part of you always wanted to go on.

"Knock." "Knock."

You jump up, startled. You run to the bathroom, grab a towel and tuck it between your breasts.

"Who is it?"

No answer. You peek through the eye hole. No one. You open the door slightly. On the floor outside the door a bottle of champagne in ice, two glasses and a small gift-wrapped box.

You squat down to pick them up. A door down the hall opens. A middle-aged man appears, his eyes widen, fixed on you calves and knees exposed through the slit in the towel. You pick up the things quickly and go in, shuddering at the thought of the old man staring at you and muttering to yourself, "Another fucking note. What is this shit?" You sit down and open the note.

"Pour two glasses of champagne. Have one. In five minutes open your present."

You open the bottle. The cork pops, hits the ceiling and rolls under the bed. You put your lips around the bottle and catch the froth. Licking your lips and wiping your chin you pour the champagne into the glasses. "Fuck this," you say out loud and slam the bottle down on the table.

"Who does he think he is?" you think to yourself as you pick up the gift-wrapped box. It is unlike you to sit back and wait for anyone. If you think something, you say it. If you want something, you take it. You are not the kind of person who takes a back seat to anyone. You’re proud of yourself about that.

You rip open the package. Inside is a pair of shackles — two handcuffs held together with about three feet of chain — and a blindfold. You look at the shackles, pick up your glass of champagne and, shaking slightly, gulp it down.

The note — of course there is a note — says, "Put the chain around the centre post of the headboard. Put on the handcuffs and blindfold and wait for me."

You feel the dizziness in your head from the champagne. Your hear pounds nervously. You gulp down the second glass of champagne. You glance around the room. You see your scarlet bra and panties on the floor. "Fuck him," you think. Then your eyes move again to the note, to the shackles and to the bed. Your mind is telling you one thing, but your senses are telling you another. Your stomach flutters, your eyes open a little wider, your mind flips back to a fantasy you’ve played out in your mind many times before, alone in the darkness of your bedroom. Part of you wants to say no, but in your gut you know that is not a choice you can make. You have to go forward. You have to find out.

You stand up, go over to the bed, put one of the cuffs around the centre post of the headboard, lay on your back and pull the sheet up to your shoulders.

"Click" on one wrist.

"Click" on the other wrist.

You lower the blindfold over your eyes and wait.

It seems like only moments until you hear voices outside the door. First a faint woman’s voice, and then a man’s — soft, deep and pleasant "Yes, a good day shopping. Bye," he says. The key is inserted into the lock, and the door swings open. A rustle of bags, a coat hanger clinks against the metal clothes rack. The flick of a switch, a shaft of bright light peeks in around the edge of the blindfold.

You hear him walking over to the table, picking up a glass, pausing, setting it back down. More champagne is poured into it and he drinks — not a sip — he drinks like he is quenching a thirst. He swallows twice, then refills both glasses.

Silence now except for your own breathing. You try to breath quietly so you can hear his movements, pick up clues - but your racing heart betrays you, pumping hard in your chest, throat and ears.

You needn't strain to hear him, however. His movements are deliberate. He walks over to the bed and pulls the sheet down off your shoulders, breasts, belly, legs and toes. His movement is steady, calm and sure. You remember this being one of the things you sensed about him from that first email — firm but somehow, soft.

But it is not softness you are anticipating. You feel his penetrating eyes looking at you. The lights bright. Your body naked on the bed. Your arms resting above your head with cuffs at the wrists. Your auburn curls on the pillow and on your shoulders. Your legs flat on the bed, and thighs slightly parted. As often happens, you are surprised at your emotions. You’re not conscious of your flaws, instead you feel strangely proud as if to say, "This is me. This is wonderful me."

You hear material rustling. "He’s unbuttoning his shirt." you think. Then the unmistakable sounds of the belt buckle, zipper and pants being thrown aside. Two bodies, both naked now, how you wish you could see him. Six foot two, slim build is all you know. You want to see him, but even more, you want to feel him.

You sense him close now. You take a slow breath, focusing, anticipating. "Ooh," you body says, reacting now to the sudden touch of his fingers and palms on your sides and belly, the soft touch on soft flesh, but deep, burning into you and spreading throughout your body.

His hands move softly up your sides, over your exposed underarms, the undersides of your arms and up to your chained wrists and palms. His touch is gentle, yet firm. He grasps your palm, and squeezes slightly. It’s different from the masseuse’s touch, it’s gentle but masculine. It’s not the practiced controlled massage touch, it’s insisting, an invitation calling out for a response.

Your body responds, your nerve ends sensitized, each wanting their share of the eternal touch. Your hand squeezes his and feels small and feminine, longing to feel the power of his body.

His hands move back down your arms and pause at your sides, you feel him leaning over toward you, his warm breath on your cheek and then - his lips. His lips on your lips, not a kiss at first but a pressure, his lips soft but not full, firm and insisting. They release their touch and return, as if unable to resist. He circles the insides of your lips with his tongue. Your lips part, tongues meet, then recoil. Your upper lip between his, your tongue on the underside of his, teasing and tasting. He brushes the underside of your nose, and you inhale his scent, male and fresh.

You feel his control begin to loosen as he returns to your lips. Open mouthed teasing, your tongues enticing and being enticed, withdrawing and wanting more.

His hands in your hair, fingertips over your cheeks and along your neck as you kiss. You both become aware again of bodies beyond lips, and his lips follow his fingers along your neck. Your arms stretch, pulling the chain taunt, the cuffs leaving small red marks on your wrists.

Your chest heaves as you feel his hands circling your breasts. Your nipples are puckered and engorged for the second time today. You crave that touch and he responds, nuzzling the outside of your breast, caressing and lightly milking the outsides of your nipples. You are relieved and you moan lowly when his tongue finally stops teasing and his lips surround your nipple with that familiar warm wet pressure.

You want him now, you begin to need him as the sensation from your nipples travels directly to you loins, engorging your pussy, swelling your centre. You feel his passion smouldering, a groan of pleasure as he takes your nipple between his lips and tongue.

You feel his hair brush against your chest. The hair is short and full.

A hand now — it rests on your pubic bone and curls underneath, covering your hot moistness. You rock against it, stealing a shock of sensation for your clit. He pulls away, as if to say, "Not yet."

"Roll over," he says in a voice that is not an order but not admitting of doubt. You comply.

As you turn over onto your tummy he directs your legs forward and under you so you are on your knees, facing the headboard, your forehead on the pillow. You feel his body move behind you on the bed. His hands caress your hips and he leans forward over your cheeks and back, his hands exploring, cupping and milking your breasts, seemingly unable to resist another touch, another feel. You close your eyes and enjoy the sensation, more comforting than stimulating, feeling his hairy chest and stomach against your bum and lower back.

The pause is only momentary, as one of his hands moves from your breasts under, down between your legs and the other around behind, meeting up at your pussy. Two fingers in a "V" around your clit from the front, fingers on the other hand trickling up the outer edges of your tender lips. You feel contained, wanting to get out, wanting those fingers on it and in it. Your body moves through the cycle from sensation to desire to urgency and raw sex as his fingers rise up the edges of your vagina to the verge of your clit and then back down and surging upward again and again. Your body is beginning to feel wracked, pressure building in your clit. He bends over, and continuing the motion, slides two fingers inside you. The fingers probe, around and up over your g-spot. You shudder, you tense your stomach, overloaded from the fingers on your clit and the fingers massaging your sweet spot, aching for release.

But his hands leave you. In one movement he is behind you, his hands on your hips and his hips behind yours. You feel his cock for the first time pressing along your wetness and against your clit. It pauses there, hesitates and then brushes your clit again. You tip your hips back toward him to increase the stimulation on your clit, at the same time making your vagina more accessible and open to him. He takes the second invitation, and with one short involuntary smooth thrust buries the head of his cock into your wet vagina. The intense stimulation of your clit is replaced now with a more diffuse, expectant, fullness. Your vagina holding him, your hips tilting back to him, urging him to fill you fully with his hardness. He pauses, savouring the sensation, then gasping, rocks back and thrusts deep inside you.

He is much taller than you, his legs are longer. It feels as though he is high above you, fucking downward, inside the roof of your pussy and then deep into your womb. "Oh, that’s good." you think. He’s almost where you want him and you maneouver a little so now he’s hitting it, your g spot, like mini electric shocks — shocking and dissipating outward numbing, sensitizing, vibrating your entire cunt until you can't stand it anymore. You bite your arm, rub your cunt up and along that cock and shudder and moan, then screech out as waves of your orgasm wash over you.

He feels your coming as spasms contracting and surrounding his cock. His breathing is heavy, the tension in his loins rising with each thrust. When you come he rides the crest of your orgasm like a rider atop a bucking mare. He wants to join you, to fuck hard and fast and over the edge, but you are in control now, he can only ride out the climax, until your orgasm subsides.

He slows as you slow. He withdraws and you roll back onto your back and spread your legs for him. He enters you again and you feel his masculine body above you, his pelvis pressing against yours. You want to hold him, to touch him, to be one body fucking. His head is above yours, almost at the headboard now. You reach up. There is just enough chain, with his help, to allow you to touch his face and run your fingers through his hair. His face is angular, cheekbones high, chin strong and freshly shaven. His hair is short, thick and full.

His head bends forward, he kisses your temple and growls. His hips thrust again with more insistence. You lean your body back, tilt your hips to meet his, grab his hair in your hands and kiss him full on the mouth. Your bodies are rocking together, not starting slowly, but insistently and irresistibly, knowing now exactly where you are going, and not letting any distractions get in your way. Each movement seems a response to another - in tune, not just a fuck but a call and an answer, his thrust answered by your rocking devouring his penis, stimulating it so that he feels it not just along the shaft or on the head but in his guts and his toes.

His body wracked now with that delerium, wanting to fuck forever and at the same time, wanting it more intense, more wild and more delicious. You feel him pressing, not in control now but driven, possessed, his body taunt, his breathing fast. You respond and increase the pressure, your hips grinding and rising with his thrusts, letting his pubic bone linger against your clit, driving you onward. And the cock, oh the cock inside you, fucking you, again, again. Losing yourself, not thinking, focusing only on the rhythm and the passion coursing through your bodies.

You scream, pull his hair again, hard this time, drive your pussy up to meet him. He thrusts, feels something letting go, washing over him in spurts, in waves of pleasure and release, emptying himself inside you as you come together, furiously at first, then subsiding back to pleasure and to quietness.

He lays down beside you, picks up a key off the bedside table and removes the cuffs from your wrists. You remove the blindfold and look at him for the first time. His brown hair is disheveled and damp with sweat, his face is red, his large brown eyes are wide with afterglow. You don't recognize him. He looks like a stranger. But you sense something within you. A oneness not explained but understood instinctively.

"I don't care who he is." you think to yourself as you wrap your arms around him.