I am his beck and call girl.
I spend my days quietly waiting, hoping, for his text. When it arrives, it is a place and a time to meet.
Most often, he sends a hotel name. “The Hyatt downtown, 5pm.” There is always time to shower, shave, and show up smelling sweet and clean.
Sometimes he tells me a restaurant or a bar. On those nights, my moans might be muffled by his hand or the crook of his neck, or drowned out by loud thumping music, or ignored by a driver behind a partition. I know which restaurants in the city have the cleanest restrooms, most spacious supply closets, and filthiest allies.
Occasionally, we meet at an apartment in an unassuming brownstone filled with beautiful barely used furniture and a citrus scent that permeates my clothes after I’ve left. When we meet at the Brownstone, I know I won’t be back home until the next day. I fall asleep in his arms, wake up to breakfast ready with him fully dressed and a kiss on the forehead before he’s off to work. He pays the rent for the place and has offered for me to move in. For now, I politely decline, instead enjoying our times together and not blurring the separation between my time with him and my life without him.
Sometimes, he tells me what he wants me to wear. The tight gray dress, no underwear and no bra. The black skirt with the red top and the black bra. The booty shorts and burgundy tank top and the grey hoodie but unzipped so he can see my tits. On special nights, he directs me to the Brownstone to get ready, a tailored outfit waiting for me. I never know what those nights will bring (an opera, a play, a soirée) but they always end in the fabric ripped off me and delicious teeth marks in delicate places.
He loves it when I strip for him. He asked me to do it once and I’ve done it ever since. In restaurant bathrooms, he simply wants me to hike up my skirt and tease down my top. In the apartment, I do a full show ending on my knees, arms in the air, presenting myself for his pleasure.
When I am brave, I ask him if I might undress him. More often than not, he says yes. I think he likes the attention as much as I do. I slowly unbuttoned his dress shirts, kissing and nipping at his skin, until he can take the flirtation no longer, ripping off his garments and ramming into me. The best is when he orders me to undress him. Never mean but always stern.
“Unbuckle my belt, unzip my pants, and pull out my cock.”
“Run your nails down my chest, then up my back.”
“Slowly massage my thighs up towards my crotch, but stop before touching my dick.”
He loves to call me his good girl when he fucks me. I love to call him Daddy when I fuck him. He always cums. I always cum. Multiple times. He lets me bite and scratch and nip him. He leaves me pretty bruises by which to remember our time. I see them in the mirror each morning and night as I get ready for my day and get ready for bed. All reminders, all little memories. As they fade, I begin to miss him more, and anticipate the next time I’ll get his text.
Once, he told me he’d come over to my place. It was the only time I refused him. He changed the location to the Brownstone and fucked me in the most gentle tender way I had ever experienced all night long. We finished sweaty and exhausted, passing out curdled up into one another.
He is my fantasy made flesh, my spoiler, my comfort in cuming, my Daddy. He never makes me feel like a whore. He never gives me money, nor do I ever ask for it, even when I need it, but he drops his card for the check every time, sends me gifts just because, pays bills without my knowing, and takes me whenever he pleases.
He is mine and I am his, one moment at a time.