A Dirty Little Deal (2 page)

I remain a paragon of good manners, elegance, and conservatism.

This Halloween dress is made possible only by the black domino that lives in a satin-lined box in my antique vanity. I open the top drawer and slip it out. I found the box discarded by the trash at my complex after Cara Mia’s adventure in the parking garage, and picked it up. The flat wooden box was old and a little scuffed, but I sanded it in the garage and then painted it with a glossy black acrylic. Afterward, I carefully added a design of golden swirling lines and dots of paint that are reminiscent of the bead pattern on the mask.

The domino lies on the faded pale blue satin like a treasure. Mr. Twist spent some money on it. It could be Venetian for the care that went into the construction. What feels like raw silk is accented with graceful lines of fine, jet-black seed beads. The edge is lined with short, black, fluffy feathers that remind me of the baby chicks I held in my hands at my grandmother’s farm when I was a little girl.

I stroke the mask and sigh. The refuge it represents allows me, Tasha Carlson, to become Mr. Twist’s Cara Mia, who can, so far, brave any embarrassment, rise above any indignation, and revel in every naughtiness that he has thought of.

Lifting it, I hold it up to my face, let it cover my pale skin. My doe-brown eyes shine through the eyeholes. I wink and smile, thinking of the party and the little surprise Cara Mia has for Mr. Twist.

So far, he has been the instigator of every game, new position, and dirty word that she has enjoyed, that has made her blush even as she cries out in pleasure. But it is time for Cara Mia to step up to the naughty plate with a serving of something tasty and fun.

I sit on the vanity bench, settle the mask on my face, and tie the mask ribbons before opening the bottom drawer.

Cara Mia moved a pile of scarves to reveal a large brown leather bag. After she pulled it out, she unzipped the bag and rummaged around, enjoying the silkiness of the ropes coiled inside it.

She caught hold of one and lifted it out. The climbing rope was three-eighths of an inch thick, black with orange dots speckling the length of it. She was amazed at how many colors the rope comes in. She was also amazed at the number of philosophies and systems that abounded in bondage circles.

After reading a bit and exploring various systems, I have settled on Japanese bondage as one that I wish Cara Mia to explore. Leave it to that culture to develop bondage that is as visually beautiful and sensual as it is effective.

The Big Book of Japanese Bondage lies at the bottom of the bag. Kinbaku, the Japanese art of using ropes for artistic, sensual, and sexual purposes, suits Cara Mia’s new hedonistic exploration without banging on the BD/sm drum that I had so far found inelegant.

If I pull the book out and open it, the pages will fall open at three places. I have spent a great deal of time looking them.

They all three move me in different ways. First, the sheer aesthetic beauty of the design is astounding. Second, the care the rope master takes to place the ropes on the body of the woman suits my precise nature. And third, the pleasure the bound woman received from the artfully placed knot on her genitals titillates me.

I read a blog about a woman who, by dint of careful and orchestrated squirming, could produce a volcanic orgasm. I don’t believe that the orgasm truly erupted with a quantity of fluid, but I like to think of how pleased Mr. Twist would be to witness such a thing and how very surprised he would be that his Cara Mia would be able and willing to produce one.

The idea excited Cara Mia and, carrying the coil of rope, she lay down on the bed, rucked her skirt up over her belly and pulled her panties down, slipping one leg out while allowing the panties to rest on her other leg.

The idea recreated every naughty schoolgirl fantasy she had ever heard about that. That made her shiver, and she felt her pussy swelling. Then, with a bit of lube, which smelled of tropical flowers, on her fingers, she laid them between her pussy lips and over her clit, allowing the oil to cover the flesh. Yes, a good dollop there, to make the skating as smooth and exciting as possible. The heat of her skin warmed the oil and she was surrounded in a cloud of musk and floral sweetness.

Masturbation, yes. Having no boyfriend did not preclude a tide of desire that must be satisfied. And all the rules that had created a safe place for Tasha Carlson to live and thrive allowed for a basic understanding of self-pleasuring, which Cara Mia had now waved off as boring and pedestrian.

So Cara Mia had taken over all aspects of pleasure. After all, it was Mr. Twist who made it clear that donning the mask was not the same as Tasha wearing the mask. Instead, the act created Cara Mia, who kept Tasha safe from embarrassment and humiliation, and released Tasha from the strictures of all her rules. This had opened a world of pleasures undreamt and now regularly realized.

At first even Cara Mia was embarrassed to explore the intimate joys to be found with one’s own body, but, she reminded herself, Mr. Twist had pointed out that if the heart of the pleasurable experience remained a hidden mystery, then a vital component of their fun was lost.

Practicing had become a time she looked forward to as a way to increase the possibilities of the fun they enjoyed.

It had been hard, but she always started out by imagining Mr. Twist standing at the foot of the bed, his black jeans bulging with his excitement at her practice.

He was so handsome, especially when he didn’t shave for a day before their dates. Cara Mia loved the raw, wicked look the dark growth gave him and the tactile sensation of that rough beard against her tender flesh.

She imagined his mouth on her breast, his warm, wet tongue tickling her nipple as his whiskers brushed over her breast. He always flicked the hard little peg with his tongue, and she groaned, knowing that his teeth would follow, nipping sharply.

Her finger delved between her lips and she wasn’t surprised to find a moist heat there already. The little button of her clit surfaced, eager to greet the fingertip that would skim over its surface, bringing waves of pleasure.

She could smell the musk that wafted up, thicker now, nearly overwhelming the flowery lube, and she spread her legs wider. Mr. Twist liked the shape of them, especially the muscles on the backs of her calves. She had been exercising to increase their size and enhance their shape. He had commented one night a few weeks ago and she was pleased to have effected such a reaction by dint of a little effort.

Cara Mia draped the rope over the thigh that had been released from the panties, allowing a length to fall to the inner side of her leg. She blushed as the soft coils caressed her flesh so close to her pussy. It was a shocking intimacy, and she imagined Mr. Twist on his knees in front of her, tenderly wrapping a coil around her thigh, his hands brushing her glossy brown, clipped bush. She imagined watching as he busily adjusted the design he was creating.

Cara Mia felt her blood flow hotter, quicker, and felt the sudden shift as her belly warmed. The pleasure she felt under her pirouetting finger deepened, grinding into a lower gear that felt as if it intended to climb a far more rugged peak than she was used to.

This was novel, and her pussy seemed even more swollen and hot than usual beneath the close-cropped curls, and she pulled her finger out to pat the firm mound, pinching her lips together as Mr. Twist did.

The pleasure flared, pulling a groan from her throat as her hips ground and pumped against that pressure. The blood between her fingers pounded like a herd of horses racing across a grassy plain. Everything felt squishy, but her rhythm had broken when she stopped rubbing, and she had to start over, skating and pirouetting over the button before dipping lower, delving deeply, two fingers slipping into her tight sheath.

She imagined she was languidly calling for pleasure to come for Mr. Twist with her crooked fingers as they stroked the inside wall.

Her pussy swelled even tighter around her fingers, pulsing as it squeezed her fingers, and she pretended it was Mr. Twist’s cock she hugged so tightly. She gasped as the pleasure rose, teetered on the peak, urging herself on to the glorious fall that would follow.

But suddenly she felt as though she must pee, and she tried to put it off, to ignore it, but the feeling was insistent and she knew that when she let go to come, the rest would follow.

Cursing, Cara Mia got up and went to the bathroom. Once she was done, she returned to bed, but irritation at the interruption had made the moment recede past where she could recall it. She grumpily gave up and put everything away, smoothing the bed, and cleaned up with a towel.

But as she laid the rope carefully in its bag, she stroked a silky coil over her chest and her upper lip, rubbing it with damp fingers, thinking of Mr. Twist holding it in front of her as he contemplated her body as a canvas that he would decorate with the colorful, smooth loops.

Chapter 2

I could hear the doorbell ring in the depths of the house when I pushed the button. A breeze rushed across the bushes lining the front, carrying the smell of someone's barbecue.

Summer was in the air, and the weather had been spectacular. The evening was still warm. That made me think of her nipples again. They were super sensitive and I groaned at the thought of them bared to the lightest breath of air.

Down, down. Save it for later.

Her sensible shoes clicked faintly over the marble floor as she came to the door, and I saw her reflection in the antique mirror that hung on one wall of the foyer.

Her eyes lit up when she opened the door and saw me. Good sign. I believed she has the same feelings for me that I did for her. We hadn't talked about it, but I watched her nipples rise through the mauve silk shell, and thought my chances were better than fuck all. I gave her a kiss that told her I was just as glad to see her.

"Come in," she said, gesturing me in. "Everyone will see."

Like we were a secret or that it was somehow bad that I kissed her hello. I'd been to her company weekend outing in Breckenridge last month. The best I could hope for in public, though, was her hand around my elbow, or a subtle touch as I handed her a fresh glass of wine. Because public displays of affection offended her sense of propriety and she is concerned about appearances.

She thought of herself as modest, upright, conservative, proper. I pictured her lost in pleasure, hair mussed, her mouth swollen from hard kisses, her legs spread, begging me to--

"Luiz?" Tasha pulled me past the door and closed it. "What's this?" She pointed to the bags.

I held them out. "We are going to have a little adventure tonight."

One eyebrow arched and she cocked her chin at me. That was a good sign coming from her. It meant she would keep listening and she wasn't going to deny me immediately.

"I can't wait to hear about it," she said wryly.

I followed her into the living room, watching her ass sway under the black A-line skirt. She had a fine ass, high, twin mounds that the skirt hugged. Just right for spanking. I'd use a bunny fur paddle and give her the soft and then the sharp, then soft again, just so I could watch them redden and her wiggle them at me. I wanted to cup them now, but knew that such kinky action wouldn't do anything to help my case.

"Wine?" She asked as we entered her perfectly arranged living room. I set the bags on the glass coffee table.

"No." That was one of the strictures for the convention I was taking her to. No drinking, no drugs. The experience was supposed to be the high.

There was no wine glass on the coffee table yet, so she had waited for me. That was good. She turned to go to the bar at the far end of the room as I sat on the cream-colored leather couch.

"Tasha."

She turned back to me and my heart thumped hard as I looked into her face. Her brunette hair was pulled back into a loose bun, with tendrils falling to frame her narrow face, accentuating her shocking pale skin. I loved that contrast against my darker Latino complexion. Her eyes were a soft, dark brown that for some reason always made me think about her snatch.

Before I got her into bed, I used to wonder whether her hair was the same color top and bottom. I was delighted to discover that her neatly clipped bush was the same beautiful glossy brown.

"What?" she asked.

"Don't have a glass. Please wait."

Her mouth quirked as she considered the request and then she nodded, returning to where I had sat.

"What are these?" She pointed at the bags again. Curiosity about what I had planned was playing cat and mouse with her interest in what the bags held.

Here we go. "A costume."

"Isn't it a little early for Halloween?"

"It's not for Halloween."

She pulled out the dress and inspected it. "No, I guess not. It's beautiful, though."

I nodded, my dick getting hard as I thought how I hoped it would look by the end of the night, scuffed, maybe torn, hanging off one shoulder, hiked up over her hips.

She fingered the hosiery as she pulled them out of the bag.

"These are very nice. Not my style at all, but very pretty. Where are we going?"