Caroline and Andrew — The Fifth Meeting
I got his message the night before, Can you meet me tomorrow afternoon at 3?
I would need to sneak off from work early but agreed, excited to see him again. He directed me to his racquetball club in midtown instructed me to tell the receptionist that I would be his guest.
I arrived at the club on time and gave his surname to the receptionist who welcomed me and handed me a note in a sealed envelope. Once I was seated in the locker room I opened the note; I recognized Sarah’s handwriting:
There’s a towel for you in locker 63, the lock combination is 16–24–16–24.
Undress, have a shower and then wait for Andrew in the steam room, it will be empty.
I do as the note says and follow the signs to the steam room while still wringing water from my hair. As the note promised the room is empty and I sit down on the wooden benches. At first I have the towel wrapped around my torso but then decide to undo it and to let it fall onto the bench exposing my breasts. The room is hot and the walls damp with condensed steam; the clean scent of cedar permeates the air.
The room remains silent and empty for an eternity and I start to succumb to a gentle slumber as the steam and heat opens the pores on my skin. But then I hear the door open.
Andrew walks in, dressed in a button shirt and tailored slacks. I immediately straighten my spine and pull my shoulders back, presenting my breasts.
“Hello Caroline. I see you got Sarah’s note.”
“Thank you Andrew — yes,” I know to address him by his name and to not leave any questions unanswered.
“Sarah and I thought that it would be good for you and I to have a session by ourselves. I haven’t had as much time to work with you as she has.”
We walks over to where I am seated and reaches out with his right hand. I tilt my head backwards to let him touch the skin at the side of my face.
“I like your haircut,” he states. I haven’t had a haircut since the previous time we played but don’t want to contradict him, “Thank you,” I say, “I’m glad that it pleases you.”
We won’t be disturbed so you can relax and enjoy our time together.”
I remain silent as I wait for him to guide me to the next step but can already feel that my heart rate has become elevated from the combination of the steam, the feel of his masculine fingers against my face and the controlled sound of his voice.
“I was thinking that maybe I’ll restrain you and then you can have an orgasm,” his statement is not quite a question but I know that I should answer, “Yes, please Andrew.”
He tilts his head to the side and prods me on with a wry smile so I continue, “I want to have an orgasm.” This seems to satisfy him.
“I don’t have much in the way of restraints, but we’ll make do.”
I feel a trickle of sweat run down my inner arm but dare not move until he instructs me to. My mind is preoccupied with thoughts of what he might do next but I make sure to focus my attention on him.
He takes a step away from me, removes his leather belt, and surveys my unmoving body.
“Here, we’ll use this,” he says and absentmindedly loops the belt around his hand as if by muscle memory. Certainly that belt has a history of use in situations like ours and I wonder how many other men and women have seen him present it to them as the tool of their forthcoming pleasure.
“Do you want it around your arms or neck?” he asks.
Is say, “Whichever would please you most,” but that is a mistake and his tone becomes stern, “That’s not a answer, Caroline. Answer my question please.”
“Around my arms.”
The smile returns to his face and a sigh of relief runs through my belly. “Very good,” he continues and takes a step forward again.
He puts my arms against my sides with my hands facing backwards, flat on the wooden bench for support. He then wraps the belt around my arms and midriff just below my breasts and fastens the buckle; the leather bites lightly into my skin and pushes at my breasts so that my nipples tilt upward.
He pauses for a moment to feel the tension on the belt and then says, “There’s a little more room here. Can I tighten it one more notch?”
He does this and now the belt is pulling my arms tightly against my sides and pushes against my ribcage, forcing me to control my breath.
He talks me through where I am, “Your circulation should be fine as the belt isn’t pushing up against any of your arteries, but tell me immediately if you feel any of numbness.” He holds my gaze and I nod. I feel a slight trembling in my arms as I wait expectantly for what comes next; I know that I want to orgasm for him but also for myself — I want the release.
Next he helps me lean back against the wall, my hands by my sides for support, and pulls my legs up onto the bench to expose my clit and pussy. I want a blindfold and ask him for one. There is a wicker basket with fresh white hand towels in the corner from which he gets one, folds it, and covers my eyes with it. And then I am completely alone in the dark; my sense of touch becomes my only focus.
“Open your mouth,” he says, and I do. He places three fingers on my tongue and tells me to wet them, which I do. I feel his left hand push open my inner thigh and then, finally, his wetted hand finds my clit and presses down on it. A wave of relief washes over me as he strokes my clit and the opening to my cunt while squeezing my thigh.
“Very good,” he states, “Do you want me to put my fingers in you now?”
“Yes, please Andrew. I want your fingers inside me.”
He does so — one at first, then a second. I make sure to gasp each time he adds a finger so that he knows that it feels good. He fucks me gently with his hand and then puts his free hand flat against my chest to push me up against the wall, “You need to relax your pussy more if you want a third finger inside you.” I want him to fuck me harder so open my legs wider but he stops me, “No, not your legs — open your pussy.” The leather belt bites into my skin as I focus my blind attention on relaxing my abdominal muscles to his satisfaction. After a minute he praises me gently (another wave of relief) and inserts his third finger which causes my cunt to stretch, painfully at first but then more and more willingly.
He fucks me harder and harder over the course of a few minutes and I start to squirm around as a trickle of fluid runs down from my vagina and onto my anus. I squirm and moan and gasp each time his fingers push into me and his palm hits my clit.
And then he stops; his fingers still deep inside me.
“Good. You’re almost ready to come.”
I’m out of breath and am unable to answer; my skin flushed and covered in beads of sweat.
“But you’re going to make yourself come,” he says. I find myself wanting to protest but know that it would be pointless.
He removes the blindfold and, returning from the darkness, my eyes pop and fizz in the light.
“Fuck yourself,” he says as he pulls me upright and readjusts my arms (the belt still bites) so that my hands can reach my pussy. I do as he commands while holding his forceful gaze. He reaches for my face and tells me to open my mouth before inserting his wet hand into my mouth to let me taste and suck at his fingers. His fingers work their way to the back of my throat until I’m just about to gag while I fuck myself with my one hand — the other on my clit — with escalating abandon.
Finally, finally, finally I orgasm and feel my vaginal muscles tighten around my fingers as a shuddering spasm rolls through my body and I accidentally bite down on his hand — he doesn’t wince or cry out. His fingers remain firmly in my mouth as I squirm and pant and struggle to regain my equilibrium while squeezing the last drop of pleasure from my clit.
And then he pulls his fingers out of my mouth and takes a step back. I slump down onto my side and squeeze my thighs together. He works quickly to undo the belt and cover me from head to toe with towels.
He leaves me like this — my eyes shut while his hands and arms gently hold me against the bench — for several minutes until I drift off into unplanned sleep.
When I wake up he is gone, his black leather belt still pinned under my body. I sit up, carefully gather up the belt and then find warm, welcome tears rolling down my face.