You pull in to the parking garage in the middle of the city. The ambient heat settling in through your car's window is stifling almost suffocating. Your nerves are the only thing making you shiver through your chilled skin almost as if your heart was pumping ice water through your veins. You check the mirror one last time making sure your black eye liner and soft maroon lipstick and the long black hair are settled in to perfect place. You can still hear his voice booming in your ear. His confidence dripping from the demand he gave you. Commanding that you come over to his place that evening. Telling you to wear your tight, curve-hugging dress, the one he picked out and gave you the day before.
You saw yourself in the mirror before you left for his loft, you were almost ashamed, almost. The hem coming three and a half to four inches above your knees and the top exposing your deep cleavage and bust. You thought the thin silk might have been too small for your broad hips and large chest. Allowing your self-consciousness to seep in you wanted to strip out of it. You needed to wear something a proper woman would. You thought of his deep steel blue eyes that hint of danger and potency in them.
"You'd hate to disappoint him. He did buy it after all. God he is sexy." Your thoughts echo in your head.
You look again in the mirror and feel like such a slut. You feel exposed and vulnerable. It's how he wants you.
You open the door and begin the walk to the elevator. Every step causes a breeze to gently waft over your uncovered sex. Your bare nipples recieve jolts of electricity pushing against the silky fabric of your dress. Finally reaching the elevator you feel the heat stifling once more. You try to regain composure, deep breaths in, slow exhales out. Finally the elevator bell dings and lights up the floor as the doors slide open, you step out,
You find yourself with butterflies in your stomach and your head swirling. Walking down the cramped corridor to his front door and knock. The lock slides open and you see his eyes and a big smile on his face.
"Oh good, you're here, you look even better then I imagined in that dress. Come on in and have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?"
He leads you to a couch in the living room, the air conditioned room feels worlds better then the heat outside but makes it harder to steady your nerves. The large flat screen mounted to the wall above a steel and glass case displaying the home theater set up. A picture hangs on the wall, myriad of colors in concentric shapes almost dizzying.
He reaches out to you a glass of white wine. You take a sip and curl your hand around at the wrist holding it close. You jerk and stiffen as you accidentally touch the chilled stem against your nipple.
You look over and see him smiling, his white T-shirt pulled to his body revealing the swells and bulges of muscles on muscles. The black jeans loose around the hips to his bare feet.
"I'm glad you wore my dress. It makes you look like a woman is supposed to look." That smile is on his face again the one that hides the mischief behind a thin veil. "And how is that?" You smile back, waiting for the answer to make you swoon. "It makes you look like a naughty little slut who needs to be taken and fucked." His smile and eyes turning from mischief to malice.
Dumbfounded, you want to slap him. You want to throw the drink in his face and storm out of there. But the word "slut" makes your loins ache, it makes you want to hear it again from him. "Yes, I suppose it does, what about it?" you test him. Trying to ignore the tingling in your pussy.
In a flash his hand snakes out and grabs the back of your hair tight, yanking your head back. "It makes me want to treat you like a slut, make you beg me to call you a cock sucking whore."
You freeze, every muscle in your body tense, this powerful man is going to take you. Nothing you can do could possibly stop him.
He relaxes his grip and lets go of your hair. He rises and stands in front of you.
"Or you could use the door and never see me again." He starts to walk away and sits in his arm chair in front of the 22nd floor window. He turns on the light and picks up a magazine. Ignoring you.
Your anger flashes, you want to slap him, kick him, beat him. You make way for the door, determined to show him the kind of woman you are. You place your hand on the knob and look back. He takes another sip of wine ignoring you. Despite your pride, despite your prim and propper upbringing, in this dress you are a slut. You are, as he put it, a cock sucking whore. You are raging with anger and pride, but you want nothing more then to kneel before him and suck his cock dry. Needing to feel how big and hard it is against your cheeks and lips. How hot he feels in the palm of your hand. Nothing more then to feel his cock erupt in to the back of your throat and drink every last salty-sweet drop.
