Roseann Discovers Dominance Pt 22

The alarm beeped in the back as I entered Harley Moss' shop. He minced out from the back to meet me, taking my hand and kissing it like a Frenchman.

"Miss Perez! What a surprise! It's so nice to see you. But Dr. Warburton didn't tell me you were coming."

"That's because he doesn't know I'm here."

"Well, what can I do for you?" he lilted.

"Well, he plans to take me to the opera again in a week, but he assumes I'd wear the same dress you made for me last time."

He smiled indulgently. "I'm afraid Dr. Warburton is like most men. He doesn't understand that a woman just can't wear the same dress twice in a row. Do you want me to make you a new one for the next performance?

La Traviata

, isn't it?"

I nodded. "Unfortunately, Craig only has an assistant professor's salary. He can't really afford to keep me dressed like a millionaire's wife every time we go out."

"But I already gave him a rock-bottom deal. Do you know the fabric alone for that black showstopper you wore was over four hundred dollars? It was real Chinese silk, very rare. And I can't just order it from a supplier. I have to go get it through the black market in Chinatown and pay cash to some very scary people. But don't tell anyone I did that."

"I wanted to find out what else we can work out."

A trace of a leer flashed for an instant across his face, but he apparently thought better of it. "What do you suggest?"

"Do you rent dresses?"

"Sometimes, but I'd still have to make alterations. They take hours and can run into the hundreds of dollars. And you can only do that two or three times, and only with women the right size. After that, the dress is useless to me. I have to sell it at a loss to some inferior store."

I shrugged. "Okay, then. I'm sorry I took your time. I'd hoped we could work something out."

"Tell Professor Warburton I said hello."

But as I was about to open the door, he called, "Wait!" I turned back.

"Have you ever modeled?"

I shook my head.

"But you have such a confident bearing and a gorgeous, seductive smile. It's like you've been trained at a real modeling school." Suddenly, he blurted, "Now! Just freeze the way you're standing. Don't move a muscle while I get a mirror."

I stood stock still while he ran to get a portable, full-length mirror and fiddled with the angle for a moment so I could see my whole height.

"See? Look at the way you stand, knees bent and one foot slightly forward. Your pelvis is tilted ever so little, and one arm is held up with the palm thrown back. You could have stepped out of an advertisement in

Vogue

or

Modern Fashion

."

I had to agree that I did look pretty good, and I hadn't been trying.

"You're a natural model. Those long legs and long neck just cry out, 'dress me up and put me in a full-page ad in

Chicago

magazine'."

"You mean you'd have me work for you?"

"Not as an employee. Better than that. I'll fit the dresses and have you pose for my professional photographer. The pictures will go in my catalog and in newspaper and magazine ads. You'll be perfect." He was dancing from one foot to another with excitement.

"Tell me more. I'm interested."

"Well, since the dresses would be fitted already, you could borrow them to wear to the opera, or any other occasion. All you have to do is promise that when people comment on them, you'll tell them who made them. You could even carry some of my business cards."

I pursed my lips for a moment in thought. Moss looked about to split like an overheated sausage.

"What do you say?" he prompted.

"I'll do it, on one condition."

He raised an eyebrow. "Which is...?"

"You take that dress you made me before and make it in into a nice short one with lots of cleavage. Up top, as you like to say."

He nodded eagerly. "I'll do better. I'll make you one from scratch, for free. Six inches above the knee, and a plunging neckline front and back. Is that what you're thinking?"

"Mr. Moss, make it eight inches above, and I think we have a deal."

"Call me Harley, please."

* * *

Friday was the day Craig expected to come inside me. It'd been two weeks since his last orgasm, and I'd promised him at the time I'd let him come in two weeks, although nothing had been said since. From the time he got home from work, he was jumpy and excited, though he knew better than to hint or try to hurry things along. I'd already decided on his punishment if he pestered me about it—I'd make him wait another two weeks. But I hadn't warned him of that, half hoping he'd fall into my trap. Whatever happened, I'd already made up my mind that he wasn't going to come tonight. The prospect of keeping him on the edge and then frustrating him was far too exciting to resist. But he wasn't going to discover that until quite late in the evening.

While supper was in the oven, I sat and watched the TV while he knelt naked on the floor and rubbed my feet. I'd become addicted to his foot rubs. After a long day of classes and labs, his tireless hands were just what I needed to relax. In fact, I'd almost fallen asleep when the timer went off, announcing that supper was ready.

When we finished the meal, he gathered the dishes and prepared to wash them.

"Leave the dishes for now. Come over and rub my neck and shoulders." I took off my shirt and brassiere and tossed them onto a chair. Craig almost danced around behind me in his eagerness, and soon his large hands were kneading my tired muscles. We moved to the bedroom, where I could stretch out naked on the bed while he massaged my entire body from knees to neck. I could sense the nervousness in his movements, but he was careful not to try to rush things along. By now, he knew that after an initial state of relaxation, his touch would arouse me and sex would inevitably follow.

At least, sex on my terms.

In fact, the massage had me fully aroused in fifteen minutes, instead of the full hour it usually took. I was on fire with my plan to torment him. I would excite him to the point where orgasm seemed inevitable, and then I'd stop him short, and make him wait another two days.

But first, my turn. I rolled over onto my back and gave him my seductive smile, the one that told him it was time. He was red-faced and sweating as he bent down to kiss my neck. I pushed at his shoulders. I was too far gone to wait while he kissed my nipples, so I kept pushing as his lips slid over my breasts, stomach and belly. He arranged himself between my legs and lay down as I drew up my knees.

"So beautiful!" he said, just before dipping his head between my thighs. Yes, my pussy

was

beautiful. Craig's unconditional fascination had finally made me see my body in a whole new way. Rich, dark curls; pink lips; swollen folds; slick moisture—my pussy was a work of art, mine to bestow on men who earned the right.

As he went to work, the muscles of my belly contracted in a wave that spread over my body. A man's tongue is perfectly designed to give pleasure to a woman: mobile, wet, and just the right roughness. I thought of Dr. Simpson's caution about oral sex being illegal. Of course, they'd want to forbid something this wonderful. Maybe they want to put a meter on me and tax it. Maybe they just hated the thought of women gaining so much pleasure from such a simple and intimate act of love.

Love.

There! I'd actually used the word without thinking about it. Did I love Craig? Did we have anything in common besides our quirky sexual relationship? Was that all that love was? The next time he said, 'I love you,' would I be ready to respond that I love him, too?

The sensations from my pussy became harder to ignore, and I decided that the issue of love wasn't important now. What mattered now was the slow, deliberate gliding of his tongue over the lips of my vagina, and the occasional forays into my depths to capture some of the juice that he craved.

My job, for now, was easy—just lay back and absorb the electricity from his clever tongue, until my back began to arch. Soon, my buttocks lifted clear of the mattress, and my hips began to writhe.

This was the best, when the orgasm set in slowly instead of thundering in like a speeding train. I drifted from the bed into the clouds as the waves swelled through my belly, spreading outward from the flat of his tongue, until my hips began to buck. I moaned aloud and shouted his name. My hips thrust savagely against his face, but he held on tight right through the violence. His tongue stayed on target and never missed a stroke.

As the sensation slowly retreated, my hips returned to the bed, still rocking gently. He tucked his face into my pubic nest and caught his breath in loud gasps. I lay there, giving us both time to recover.

"It's time we looked after you," I said. "Stand up."

"I don't need it. Really. I always feel fulfilled after we do this."

"I said, stand up!"

He got to his feet, while I slid to my knees on the carpet. His cock was impressive close up, dark and pulsing with blood. A drop of clear fluid hung from the tip. I slid my mouth over it, licking softly as I looked up into his eyes. His hips began to thrust, slowly, as if he were afraid of choking me, and I let the beautiful thing slide in and out.

"Oh, RoseAnn, I love you!"

I pulled away and said, "Yes, you do." I pushed his cock against his belly so I could lick the underside in long strokes. Mike had once loved it when I licked the underside and drove him quickly to the edge.

"Oh, God! Stop!"

I pulled away and smiled up at him. "Do you like that? Don't you want to come?"

"Oh, yes, but I can't let myself come on your face like that. It would be awful for you."

"Um-m, maybe. But I love what it does for you." I slipped him back in my mouth, and made love to his cock again until he once more had to pull out. Soon, we slipped into a regular rhythm of suck, lick, pull away, and wait, until he was so excited, he could only tolerate the touch of my tongue for a couple of seconds.

Finally, I asked him, "Are you sure you don't want to come?"

"Yes, yes, I do want to. Please. Any way you want me to. Please!"

I laughed at his desperation. "I've decided that I'm going to make you wait a few days after all." I held his cock by the base, rocking it back and forth like a lever, just touching the tip with my tongue as it passed my lips.

A liquid drop fell on my cheek. I looked up, and saw that tears were streaming from his eyes. His face was contorted with pain and need. I was sure he'd begin outright crying in a moment.

"Oh, Craig, have I hurt you?"

"I'm so frustrated. I can't stand any more. I've waited two weeks for this. Please let me come. I can't take it any more. Please?"

These were the difficult times. I wanted to do anything to make those tears stop, even let the hot pulses of semen jet into my throat. But if I gave in to his pleading, he wouldn't get that thrill of submission he craved. It might even affect the relationship between us. I didn't want to be cruel, but I had to be.

"Don't cry, Craig," I said softly. "It won't get you anywhere with me. You know how it turns me on to torture you. I'm your Queen Samara, remember? I'm the woman of your most secret fantasies. I've come to life, for better or worse."

I stood up and folded him in my arms. There were times when it was good to be taller, and this was one of them. I let him cry and snuffle against my shoulder until he'd exhausted his frustration.

I wiped his face with a tissue. "There, that's better. Now get down on your knees and apologize for trying to make me feel guilty."

He slid to the floor at my feet and gripped my thighs. With his face pressed to my pussy, he admitted his guilt and begged my forgiveness. Wetness surged between my legs. Oh my God, was I really going to make him lick me again?

Of course I was.