So you read part 1 of this evening. Most of it, really, was well before the night of this particular evening. On this particular evening….
Charlotte had expressed the desire that our next date be a full-on, full-length date. We’d had a few too many too-quick dates in a row. Charlotte likes a full night. And so do I. So on this particular evening, we planned to meet at 7:30. And, I told her, we’d finish by 1 or so.
“It’s a weeknight!” she protested. “That’s too late!”
Of course, she was right. But. My life is complicated. Weeknights are generally not date nights for me. Not never, but generally. So the Venn diagram of late nights and weekend nights is, for me, vanishingly small.
I had planned a full evening. Her request that we call it a night a bit earlier led me to truncate things somewhat, to swap out my original first-half-of-the-evening plans for something a little quicker, easier to execute.
A few hours before the date, Charlotte sent me a photo of her pretty face. Hanging below it? That lock-and-key necklace I described in Part 1. Nowhere to be seen? My collar. Was she really, really, wearing the lock-and-key to me? It’s one thing for her to wear it when we’re not together. A second, to send me photos of her wearing it. But to wear it to a date with me?
I had planned to beat Charlotte out of joy, out of reward, for how good she’d been. But now, she was activating some of that wrath in me.
When I saw her, waiting outside the appointed sort-of-takeaway restaurant I’d selected, I walked up to her. Kissed her hello. And snatched the key out of her lock.
“You can have this back at the end of the evening,” I said.
“Seriously?” she said.
“Seriously,” I said. And turned on my heels and entered the restaurant.
I tried to order for her, but she was picky. “I only like lobster rolls if they’re hot!”
A couple more attempts – I wasn’t going to force food she didn’t like down her throat – and we settled in, her with shrimp cocktail and oysters, me with a (cold) lobster roll. Her with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, me with a beer.
The food was delicious; the ambience, less so. Too brightly lit. An industrial feel. And not in an industrial chic way. Just industrial. We had our usual good conversation, finished up, and headed out.
I had had a bit of a surreal experience earlier in the day: my plan had been to take Charlotte to the Liberty Inn – the “perfect romantic short-stay hotel in New York City,” according to their web site. Charlotte had, I thought, told me she’d never been there. But as the time of our visit approached, I became overwhelmed with doubt – with the sense that a) I had been to the Liberty Inn quite recently, and b) it had to have been with Charlotte that I was there. I knew – knew – that, in fact, it had been several years since I’d been to the Liberty Inn. But even as I knew that, I couldn’t shake the sense that I was, somehow, wrong – that I’d been there recently, that I’d been there with Charlotte, and that I was mis-remembering her having told me otherwise. I was left in a surreal kind of inverse deja vu – remembering something that never happened as if it had happened – but in the absence of its actually happening.
My faulty memory was, indeed, faulty: Charlotte and I hadn’t been to the Liberty Inn. Yet. But we were about to go, and, as we approached, as she revealed to me she had no idea where we were headed, that she’d never been there before, I canceled my backup.
We rang the buzzer of the hotel. The clerk at the desk, behind bulletproof glass, buzzed us in. “N!” he said, as if he knew me. Using my real name. Not knowing me. But, I suppose, expecting me because reservation. I filled in the comic check-in card (asking, among other things, for the make and model of my vehicle – as if there were a parking lot for this hotel). He handed me the key, and it was only around now that Charlotte figured out where we were, what was about to happen. (I think she thought it might be some sort of a sex club up until this point.)
I led her to the back of the hallway on the first floor – Room 106. A room I believe I had been in before. Twice. Once, with L. Once, with another L who has disappeared from this blog at her request. Or maybe not: the rooms there all do look somewhat alike.
Anyway: we entered, and I commented, “Can you smell the hooker perfume?” I could. It did, in fact, smell as if a hooker wearing cheap perfume had been in the room. Not too recently. But not too long ago. (Charlotte later found what she termed “hooker’s hair” on the sink.) These two facts belie the cleanliness of the place: they really do do a pretty good job of making a place that could feel gross feel – well, gross, yes, but not dirty gross – clean gross.
“Charlotte?” I said.
“You should be scared,” I said. “I’m going to catch you. I’m going to tie you up. I’m going to tickle you. And I’m going to beat you. Hard.”
“You are?” she said. “I don’t want to be tickled!?!?”
“I don’t care,” I said. “You should be scared.”
She looked scared. She looked excited. She looked slightly doubtful.
I lay out a few coils of rope. I removed my belt from my jeans. Looped it around my hand, menacingly. Now, the doubt started to wash away from her face, and the fear rose.
I took a step or two toward her, and she took a step or two backwards. I chased her, briefly, around the room. She leapt up on the bed, ran to the other side. She didn’t make it far before I grabbed her, tossed her on the bed, and pinned her. “No fair!” she complained. “This room is so tiny! If it were bigger, you’d never catch me!”
I slapped her across the face. Hard. Maybe twice. Maybe three times.
I had to get some rope though. Bad planning.
I stood up, and she stood up. I grabbed the rope, and it took all of three seconds before I’d caught her a second time, pinned her down, and was working the rope around her wrists. I tied it a bit too tight, and as she thrashed, she complained. “Too tight!”
I loosened the rope a bit. Grabbed another coil or two. And went to work on her legs. Hog-tied her. Not her favorite position, I knew, but I didn’t really care. Throughout, I fingered her, licked her clit, spanked her cunt. Brought her, repeatedly, to the edge of orgasm, but didn’t let her come. Once she was fully tied, I walked around behind the bed, grabbed her by the neck, and slid my cock, hard, into her mouth. Fucking it. First gently, then a bit more roughly. Then, more gently.
I grabbed her pink vibrator, and pressed it against her clit. Again, not letting her come. I slid it into her. Pressed it up against her clit. Against her g-spot. As she approached orgasm, I slid it out. This was our routine for a while. Ten minutes? Twenty? I’m not sure. I fucked her, too. Twice. Once for a few minutes. Once for just a minute or so. Neither time well. Both times, my cock giving out earlier than I might have liked. Regardless, she wasn’t coming. That was for sure. At least not yet. No way.
After a bit, I untied her. “Sit on my face,” I commanded her. And here? Here is where I lost a bit of control of the evening. As she settled her cunt on my mouth, pressed her hands against the wall, as she looked up at the (mirrored) ceiling, I couldn’t prevent the orgasms from racing through her, and she convulsed with her first, and her second, and her third, orgasms. “Sit on my cock,” I said.
She did, and we fucked some more. And again, my cock just wouldn’t cooperate – I’m destined, at least for the time being – not to fuck Charlotte the way either of us might like. Though, as she said to me in a note she passed me one night some time ago when she wasn’t permitted to speak, she is confused when I do fuck her, because it’s not what she expects from me.
I tied Charlotte up again. This time, in the position she prefers. On her belly, her hands and feet behind her. Again, with the vibrator. The tongue. The face fucking. More orgasms. More fun. At this point, I could see that Charlotte was flagging. It wasn’t late, but she hadn’t slept well the night before.
“You need to suck my cock some more,” I said, “before we go.”
“I know,” she said. She didn’t sound apprehensive. Or resentful. But she didn’t sound all that excited.
“You’re not excited?” I asked.
“Oh, I am!” she said. Almost convincingly.
I untied her. Lay back, stroked my cock. “Suck my cock, please,” I commanded.
And she did. My eyes rolled to the back of my head, I gripped her by the back of her neck, pulling her face down on to me. “Good girl,” I growled. “Good girl.”
I relaxed into the sensations of her lips, her tongue, and closed my eyes. “FUCCKKKKKKKK,” I let out, as I filled her throat with cum. “Fuckkkkkkkkk.”
We lay around for a few more minutes. We gazed at our naked bodies in the ceiling mirror. We both looked pretty good, I think, though Charlotte was a bit self-conscious. We both were tired.
We tidied up. Got dressed. Checked out. And I waited with her for her Uber.
Yet another fun night on the town with Charlotte…. I can’t wait for our next date.