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January 6, 2011

Five O'Clock (Part III)

Click here for Part I.

Click here for Part II.

She looked at the bedside table alarm clock once more and at her phone, the times did not match. She quickly turned her phone off and then back on, it came back the three minutes off from the time on the alarm clock. What did she think she was doing? Synchronizing her watch for some sort of countdown? This was unbelievable.

She decided to go with the time on the phone. It was linked to something important, a satellite or something, somewhere and would be more precise. She noticed herself trying to concentrate on the smallest details so she wouldn’t lose her nerve. She had chosen to go with the time on the phone and that gave her less time to back out on what she had decided to do. The less time she had to worry about “what ifs” and what the consequences of her actions would be the better.

With her little trip to insanity with the phone and the time synchronizing tactic she had left herself five minutes to make the phone call. Using these last few minutes to her advantage, she walked to the bathroom removing the clip from her hair. She gave her head a gentle shake and the thick, dark hair slid over her shoulders and down past the middle of her back. Her hair was her crowning glory, so dark it was almost black. Her hair held a gloss that made other woman want to ask who her stylist was. Cut in long layers to frame her face, her dark hair contrasted with her porcelain skin and her dark green eyes fringed with lashes so lush and black she didn’t have to wear mascara. She was truly a classic beauty. Lush and ripe in her physique with a full mouth and lips that looked as if she had been eating a plum.

The most remarkable thing about her appearance was that she had no idea that she was beautiful. Being raised with a pageant mother who had been their home town’s greatest achievement she always felt as though she lived her life in her mother’s shadow. Her mother, petite and willow thin still cast a shadow as large as a sequoia over her taller, fuller figure. She had no clue that her curves were what drove men to distraction and her tailor to fits of pulling out his hair when she needed pants cut down in the waist but left long in the leg.

She swiped a hint of tinted lip balm across her upper and lower lips, pressed them together then ran a comb through her glorious mane. She brushed a bit of mascara on her upper lashes and pinched her cheeks. She thought she looked like a clown and she knew that she would have hair all over the back of her top since she brushed her hair. She removed the top and plucked a few stray hairs from the cloth, slipped it back on and padded back to the bed. She picked up her phone and watched as the clock turned to five p.m.. She lifted the card and dialed the number written in black ink on the front.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. She felt her face flush and grow red. What the hell was she doing? She swore if he didn’t answer on the next ring she would hang up immediately. It rang a fourth time. She pulled the phone from her ear, her thumb hovered over the disconnect button she heard a faint, but very distinctly male, “Hello?” She put the phone back to her ear and said, “Yes?”

He asked her, “What is your name?” She fell silent. She wanted to tell him, but was so afraid. She had his information but did not want to share hers. He continued as if there was not an emotional turmoil raging on the other end of the phone. “Quiet little girl, little lamb, that is fine. You don’t have to speak. I will tell you what to do.” His rich baritone filled her head, filled her with desire, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the desk. Her eyes were too wide, with most of the whites showing like a horse about to bolt. Her mouth was open in a little surprised “o” and she forced herself to close her mouth, take a deep breath and close her eyes. Concentrate on his voice, she said to herself.

“Little lamb,” he continued. “I have something for you. I want you to come up to the 19th floor and turn left when you step off the elevator. My room number is 1904, I will be waiting. Do not keep me waiting long.” He hung up.

She made herself blank out her mind. She grabbed her small purse out of the tote, put the lip balm, the phone and her hotel keys inside of it and took the sweater out of the closet. Stepping into her sling backs and out of her room, she slipped the sweater on and went to the elevator. When it came she pushed the button for 19 and waited. The elevator cab was empty and she caught glimpses of herself in the brushed brass of the closed elevator doors. At the 19th floor she stepped off the elevator and turned left. She walked quickly to 1904 before she could lose her nerve.

She arrived and rapped twice, quickly, on the door with her right knuckle. She backed away from the door a few steps without realizing that she was about to run away. She lifted her chin and stepped back into the portico of the door. Sensing him on the other side of the door, looking at her through the peep hole she gave the peep hole the best blank face she could summon. She wanted her face to look bored, arrogant and cold. Not the shaky, hot fleshed, nervous person that she was. She just hoped that the look came across as, “I’m here on my own terms.” And not, “Please… just… please?”

He opened the door and stood to the side, “Won’t you please come in?” She raised an eyebrow at his hand gesture indicating that she should step inside. In turn her raised eyebrow pulled his together into a furrow. She wanted to touch that furrow, to smooth it out to do anything that would keep him from being displeased. She stepped across the threshold and into his room, repainting her facial features with a blank look. She passed by him and kept her eyes to the floor about four feet in front of her.

She walked halfway into the room and that is where he told her to stop and turn around. His voice even and low. She did as he had requested, stopping at the foot of the standard hotel bed and turning on her sensible little sling backs to face him. She could feel the back of her neck heating up and her chest flushing as she felt him looking her over. She wished she had left the sweater off, then rethinking it, was glad she had it on. With that little button fastened at the throat she felt more comfortable, less… vulnerable.

With her hands clasping the small purse in front of her, her eyes on the floor, her hair started to fall around her face in heavy waves and she realized that she was bowing her head. The man walked towards her and she stiffened. She felt like she could flee at any minute… he had not locked or dead bolted the door when she came inside. So she kept her head down and tried to listen to his approach over the roaring of her own blood in her head. Her heart racing was making all other noises sound muffled and underwater.

She saw the rich leather of his shoes in her vision before he reached her; he cupped her chin in his right hand and lifted her head. She kept her eyes down, focused somewhere around his throat, when he spoke she stared at his mouth. “Quiet little lamb, I’ve been waiting for you for such a long time.” She startled as she thought she had been fairly efficient with the time between the phone call, his request and her appearance at his door. “No, no, my little lamb. You were right on-time today. You called me exactly at five o’clock; you made haste but did not unnecessarily hurry to my room when I told you that you were expected. And here you are. No doubt questioning why you are here in a stranger’s room when he doesn’t even know your name.”

She felt the heat of tears prickling the backs of her eyes and she got mad with herself for being moved by this man’s small speech. But as he was speaking, something inside her broke free. She didn’t feel like she needed to take control of this situation. This was one of those rare times in life that she would just go along with what was handed to her. She didn’t have to be in the driver’s seat, she could just enjoy the ride. She felt relief, she felt exhausted and as she widened her eyes as not to let the tears fall, one betrayed her and slid down her cheek.

He bent forward and murmured in French then in English, “No need to cry my little lamb, I will take the utmost care of you.” He slid his thumb up and caught the errant tear on her cheek then raised it to his mouth and licked it from his thumb as if it were something precious. She watched his mouth and his hands and tried to process everything that was happening to her.

*This is Part Three of a series. If you are interested in having it continue, please leave a comment below.

January 13, 2011

Five O'Clock (Part IV)


Click here for Part I.

Click here for Part II.

Click here for Part III.

He kissed her fingertips, “Mon petit agneau,” he whispered. She blinked and another tear fell. She cleared her throat gently and looked away from his mouth, “What? … What is that you are calling me? What are you saying?”

“Ah,” he smiled against her knuckles as his goatee tickled her cupped hand in his. “She speaks.” He said to himself. “I am calling you ‘my little lamb’ in French.” Her eyebrow betrayed her and rose towards her hairline. The furrow returned to his brow. She shook her head gently and tried to pull her hand from his tender grasp. “Why ‘lamb’?” she asked. “That makes me think of Hannibal Lecter and being led to slaughter.” The furrow deepened between his eyebrows. “My apologies if I have frightened you or made you feel … vulnerable.” The last word was raised in pitch at the end like a question.

He let go of her hand and wiped the tears from her cheeks. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead and widened his gaze. “You would prefer something different?” She felt it. That wall. That need to be in control. It was pawing the dirt at the back of her mind, ready to charge. She shoved it into a mental steel reinforced box, shutting the lid tightly and answered him, “No. It is fine. I am sorry.” He brushed his hands over her shoulder and down her arms so he was cupping her elbows. “Do not be sorry, if the term of endearment makes you uncomfortable we will find something else.”

He was so diplomatic. So sure of himself. So, calm. She struggled for calm. She took a deep breath and settled herself in front of him; still clutching her little purse in front, his warm hands cupping her elbows, his inquisitive eyes watching her face. She met his gaze with comfort and even let her rigid posture relax a little. He noticed her ease and his smile was open and made him look years younger. It lit up his face and she felt pride at making him smile.

She realized that she wanted him to be proud of her. Having no idea where that particular thought came from made her a little dizzy. She couldn’t believe how comfortable she was; she looked at the man in front of her and unclenched her hands around her little purse. She was in no danger. She was no lamb being lead to slaughter, this wasn’t some horror movie. This was two consenting adults, with a little time on their hands. That is all. No big deal. Right?

He took her purse from her hand and laid it on the desk to his left. He stepped forward and put his hands into her hair. He rubbed the base of her neck then ran his hands into the thickness of her hair at the crown of her head. Oh, he could really read her; this was one of her favorite things in the world! To have her hair played with, to have it brushed and fingers run through it. She closed her eyes and melted. It felt so good that she found herself leaning into his touch. His touch was gentle but with firm pressure he massaged her scalp and then ran his fingers through the length of her hair, stepping into her personal space to use both hands to pull at the ends a bit where it hit at her back. She let herself feel his hands, the warmth of his body against the front of her own, and when his hands reached the ends of her tresses and he pulled a bit, she let her head fall back so that her neck was exposed.

She could have purred.

He pushed one of his hands up her back between her shoulder blades and kept one hand on the ends of her hair… she felt that openness again. He kept the pressure on the end of her hair, her head being pulled back. He then pulled her against him with that hand high on her back. He lowered his head to her neck and inhaled the scent of her skin. His goatee brushed the sensitive skin below her jaw and she shivered. He opened his mouth to taste her alabaster skin and just the heat of his warm breath on her neck made her moan.

She reached her arms up behind his and gave her full weight to him. Her hands lightly pressed against the backs of his upper arms, her head thrown back with his mouth almost on her neck she could feel her pulse jump at her throat. He opened his mouth wider and closed the distance between his lips and her skin. When he pressed his mouth to her skin, feeling her pulse flutter against his tongue like a small butterfly he encircled her in his arms and crushed her to the front of him. She tasted like sunshine.

She rubbed herself against him like some luxuriating cat. She wanted him to bite her, pull her hair, take her control and for the first time, it didn’t feel wrong or perverse to want these things. He kissed his way from her neck to her jaw to her soft mouth and then kissed her with a possession that bordered on animalistic. She loved that he just took the kiss, that he nibbled at her lips, gave her his tongue to suck on and bringing his hand back up to the base of her skull her moved her head as he pleased. She was compliant and it pleased him. She could feel how much it pleased him pressing against her hip.

He broke the kiss with her nibbling on his bottom lip and with a hand in her hair he made a hard fist. It surprised her so much that her eyes flew open, her mouth opened; freeing his bottom lip; and she made a small sound of protest. It was like having a bucket of water thrown on her as she slept. It was so abrupt. He stepped back from her with a fistful of hair wrapped around his hand and moved her head so that she looked him in the eyes.

“Hmmm mon petit chaton sournois.” She was perplexed. “I do believe I have found something you like, and my first estimation of you was completely incorrect. You are no lamb, my dear; you are a sneaky little kitten. Mon chaton, you almost made me forget my manners. That will never happen. Do you understand me? I want you to reply with a ‘yes Sir’ and I want you to mean it. Do you understand me?” He pulled her head back a little and she felt floaty and weightless. She heard herself reply, “Yes Sir.” Her voice had that same dreamlike and far away quality as when she spoke his name not even an hour before.

“Chaton.” He said as she struggled to focus her eyes on his face. “Chaton?” He asked again. She heard herself question, “Chaton?” “Yes, yes… it means ‘kitten’ in French. Are you quite alright?” He still her head held in a viselike grip with that fistful of hair. She swallowed and tried to nod. That didn’t work. She whispered, “Yes Sir, I am very well.” She felt him nod and he began to release her hair. He said, “Good, then. We can begin.”

Begin!? What did he mean begin?

*This is Part Four of a series. If you are interested in having it continue, please leave a comment below.

About January 2011

This page contains all entries posted to Suzanna Danna in January 2011. They are listed from oldest to newest.

December 2010 is the previous archive.

February 2011 is the next archive.

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