Face Down, Pants Up

Cadillac is an ass man.

He made that clear from the moment he pulled his Escalade in my garage.  That isn’t a poorly constructed euphemism… the man is paranoid.  He owns one of the most successful hedge funds in Fairfield County and is married to a waspy blonde from a political family with a name that sounds like something that got caught in the drain. 

           

“Take off your clothes, I’ve only got 40 minutes,” he loosened his cobalt brooks brother’s tie, hiking one hip up on my kitchen counter. 

“You’ve booked me for the weekend...?”

Subtext, douche bag: I could have booked 3 other clients, so you better pay me in full.

“Your money’s all here, Stella,” he pulled a roll of cash from his back pocket tucked in a Tiffany & Co. money clip, engraved with an S. 

I gave an approving nod.  It’s a rule of mine never to say thank you to a client.  It’s their job to praise me.  Unless, you know, we’re doing a role-play thing. 

He grabbed my hand roughly “You are all mine. All weekend.  I just stopped by for an appetizer.”

I leaned in to kiss him, stopped by his hand over my mouth and socked foot rising up between my legs in the same motion. 

“Turn around and take off all your clothes.”

I did as he said, facing out the picture window in my eat-in kitchen.  I live atop a hill on four acres, which is a privacy draw for big shots like Cadillac, according to S. 

He was behind me the second my panties hit the floor, his hands and tongue caressing my ass.  I melted back in his arms and he lifted me and placed me ass up on the table. 

“Do you want me?” he asked.

“Right now,” I told him, eying his pants from the corner of my eye.  It would have been my response regardless of the client, but In this case it was the truth.  Cadillac is powerful, handsome and the sex is unbelievable.  "Why are your pants still on?"

He ran his hands over my skin, standing above me, fully clothed, ignoring my question.  

“You know what I’m going to do to you?” 

“Ah?”  Images of being bent over his wife’s outdoor flowerbed, twisted inside trunk of his Escalade, and on his office desk all during our last engagement came to mind. 

“Yeah.  All of that,” he laughed, as if he could read my thoughts.  “But…harder, faster, and much, much more.” 

His breath was close to my ear as he ran his tongue along the ridge.  His hands seemed to wander the length of my body for the full 40 minutes. 

“Not now,” Cadillac said, finally.

He left through the garage, anonymously gliding back into town, and the waving passerby’s oblivious that I remained face down on my kitchen table choking on the taste of pine sol. 

Come back soon for more Bliss…