Finally, once enough time has passed to have me pacing the floor of our suite like a caged carnivore, one that’s been promised sirloin steak and fed none, you find yourself gliding on a cushion of air, ascending the stone steps, striding across the familiar marble lobby of our now fabled Corinthia, and heading for the elevators.
Your heels click-clack against the cool, clean, Carrara marble. your heart now hammering with anticipation and your skin feeling utterly erotic. A flush of heat on the back of your neck and between your breasts raises fine little beads of perspiration while your insides flutter with the beating wings of wild butterflies.
You’re anxious and excited. You have no idea what I’m going to do to you. You’ve never purposely pissed me off quite like this before, but you’re certain I have to know what you want? And why you’re doing this? After all you are my incorrigible feisty fox, who no Hound can ever catch or control, and you can’t help wanting to be punished. Hard.
You make your way along the carpeted corridors, recalling the many black and white photographs adorning these Corinthian walls. Each print a seduction, a chromatic collection, chronicling the chic fashions of classical evenings spent dressed for cocktails, with diamonds and pearls and candlelit dinners.
There’s something labyrinthian about the interior of our Corinthia. You begin to count the room numbers as you make your way down another long stretch. 310, 311, 312. Finally, you knock on our door and wait, still sucking the lollipop, taking a step back to casually lounge your head and shoulders against the corridor wall, willing your expression to pretend you’re cool, calm and collected. Unapologetic and thoroughly unconcerned with my reaction.
When the door opens, the first thing that strikes you is my smile. It’s powerful, predatory and unamused, and then you find my eyes, focused, intense and all over you.
My torso is naked, muscularly mounted above my low cut jeans, and as you step inside, you immediately notice the intimate mood of the soft room lighting, and how it seems to sheen with a warm patina of essential oils glowing on my skin.
Your eyes casually ramble cross the open fields of my well-defined frame, my broad chest, back and shoulders. you realize I’ve probably just returned from a long massage, you’re that late!
Our suite seems unusually warm, the air conditioning overpowered by the sticky humidity of the outdoors, and that’s when you notice I’ve left the interior balcony doors open, those familiar white chiffon curtains billowing gently in the sultry breeze.
“The air feels so close it could storm” I offer, my voice deep set with measured, emotional control.
You feel your skin flush in response, the thought of making love with the thunder, and then the steam of the rain. The wetness between your weakening thighs feels ever more present as you fall back, letting the thick and heavy, solid wood door to our suite take your slender weight, feeling it close firmly behind you.