Take Two

I'd only ever had two one-night stands, and he was the second one. It was the real thing—meet for a drink, talk turned to sex, kissing in the cab, back to his hotel. I walked through the lobby at eight the next morning in my sky-high heels and back-seam stockings and was sure the middle-aged guys clustered at the checkout desk took me for a call girl.

He was traveling on business and lived far from me in another state. We'd set it up online and both gotten what we'd wanted, presumably. Goodbye, good luck. I certainly never expected to hear from him again. But now it was eight months later and he was calling me.

"I'm coming through New York next week. I'd like to see you."

"I didn't know you still had my number, Samir."

"Of course I do. I've thought about you."

I wasn't seeing anyone. There had been a man, beginning right after my night with Samir last spring, but it was ultimately a short-lived relationship—one that had left me shaken and sad. I'd been unusually celibate recently. "Okay," I said.

A few days before he was due to arrive, on impulse, I invited him to stay at my place. Didn't that make sense, since we'd evidently progressed beyond a one-night stand? Hotels felt so cheap and anonymous. That had been part of the thrill and the arousal for me last time, but now we knew each other, kind of.

I had misgivings, though, and started to wish I could take back my offer. We texted all week leading up to Samir's visit and he never said anything about sex. I'd like to get to know you better, he wrote. I hope I can cheer you up some. Was I crazy to assume he wanted to hook up again?

I recalled our encounter from the year before. In the bar, I'd told him I was submissive, but not a masochist. He was a tall, muscular man, and I hoped he wouldn't be tender. When he kissed me in the cab and inside the hotel room it was too gentle, though, and I'd let the alcohol fuel my recklessness before I could feel disappointment too keenly. I stripped for him, bending over in my stockings; I remembered prancing naked on top of the bed and daring him to come get me.

The sex was better than the foreplay. I'd been genuinely intimidated by his cock, which was so thick my hand didn't close around it. When he pulled my thighs way up and aimed that massive club at my pussy I looked at him and said, "I'm scared." He hadn't hesitated for a second; just replied firmly, "You can take it," and persevered. In that determined moment I thought I saw him at his best.

I knew he'd been very well satisfied, and pleased, that night—and the next morning. He'd touched me a lot; kissed me goodbye. But now he wasn't flirting, and this platonic behavior was making me feel insecure. The day before he flew in, I finally broke down and sent him a message saying, "So are you looking forward to fucking me again?"

Hours later, I finally got a response: Of course.

Oh. Well. But for some reason I didn't feel totally reassured.

We went to dinner in my neighborhood and he told me about where his job had taken him that summer and fall. I explained a bit more about the demise of my last relationship, but left out many of the pertinent facts. I could have said, Well, he was a Dom, which in this case meant he gave great spankings, but believed it was his right to spank a lot of other girls on the side, but I wasn't ready to open this can of worms with Samir. We had dessert and our second drink when he casually remarked, "You know, Emma, I finally looked at that website you told me about."

"What?"

"You know, the social media for kinky people."

I had talked about that on our date last year? How drunk had I been? "Oh? Did you join?"

I kept my tone light, unsure where this was going.

"No. I found you, though."

I swallowed some more rum and Coke.

"I read your stories."

"Oh." I stared at the ice and the anemic lime slice in the bottom of my glass. Maybe he would just drop it.

"Then I Googled your profile name and found your other stories."

Shit! Startled, I looked swiftly at Samir's face, but his expression gave nothing away. He was just gazing back at me calmly, although I had the impression he had moved closer—I felt pinned, trapped between him and the wall of the booth behind me. I clearly had to say something, but I didn't know what he was thinking. Was he disgusted? Freaked out? Aroused?

"Uh, you know, those stories. They're, uh..." I knew I was fidgeting and I felt my face heat. Change tactics, Em. Go on offense. I drained what was left of my drink and met his eyes. "Did you like them?"

"Yeah," he said easily. "You're a great writer."

He signaled for the check.

Wait—we were done talking about this? I had about a dozen questions. Did he look up my kinky online profile right after we hooked up? Or not until recently—after he planned to see me again? Or was that why he wanted to see me again? Did this change anything?

"You want to walk back?"

I realized I'd been spaced out, frowning in thought, and Samir was holding my coat for me. He put his arm around me as we walked back to my apartment, perfectly sweetly. But something was different. Before, I'd felt like I was seducing him, and other than the period of time where he was actively fucking me, I'd controlled the pace and the nature of everything we'd done together. That's how it normally was with the middle-class, educated men I was used to dating. Now, I felt vulnerable. The balance of power had definitely shifted in his favor. He knew my fantasies. Hell, he even knew the dirty ones that I posted anonymously to story sites but didn't claim in any kinky dating site profile. I knew I should have posted under two unique pseudonyms.

Damn it, why hadn't I thought to Google him? I clearly couldn't fight fire with fire. "What did you like best about last time—when we hooked up?" I murmured, cuddling close to Samir's side and gazing up at him under the streetlights.

"I'll show you—when we get inside," he answered.

He was far from discomfited, or effectively seduced, from the looks of it, and I was becoming apprehensive.

Back at my place I ducked into the bathroom. My nose was red from the cold and I had a sudden, insane urge to run back into the bedroom completely naked, or crawl back in on all fours—something crazy, just to force a climax to this agonizing, slow buildup of tension. But instead, after a couple of minutes, I just walked out again, and Samir was sitting up straight in the soft old armchair where I normally curled up to read.

"Take off your clothes," he said.

Oh, God. He was going to be dominant. Because he read my stories and knew that's what I wanted? Was he going to play a role, or was this what he wanted, too? But if he did, then why hadn't he expressed more dominance when we were together before? I'd told him I was submissive. If he was just doing this to please me, this could be so bad... Maybe I could still save it—best play along for now...

He had raised his eyebrows at my hesitation. I gave him a smile and started to do a striptease like I had in his hotel, months ago. I had turned my back and was sliding my bra straps slowly over my shoulders, like a burlesque dancer, when he said, "Hurry up."

"Sorry!" My voice was light. My tone said, Oho, someone's impatient! I smirked at him as I stepped out of my panties. If he wanted true submission he'd have to work for it.

I expected the command to "Come here" but instead he just lunged. I barely got out a squeak of surprise as he leaned forward and grabbed my wrists, then sat on the edge of the seat and pulled me up against the chair. I was hauled bodily over his lap an instant later.

My left arm was pinned against the arm of the chair as Samir hooked his arm around my waist and dragged my ass over his knees. The floor was inches from my face as I gripped his trousers with my right hand, trying to keep from being tipped upside-down. As I struggled to free my other hand and tried to shake my hair out of my face, I felt him stroke his hand over my naked buttocks and I froze. "Samir, I—"

"Shut up."

He laid his hand on me again. It felt huge and hot. The surprise of his attack was wearing off but my heart was still pounding, my breath coming shallow and fast. I couldn't believe it. He was really going to spank me! Thank God he couldn't see my face, because I'd started to grin like a fool.

Slap! Slap!

I jerked and cried out. "Ow!" Wow, no warm-up? Those were seriously hard spanks. "Wait—"

"Spread your legs."

"But—"

"I said, spread your legs, Emma."

I felt myself getting wet at the sound of his voice, saying that to me. It was awkward, but I shuffled my thighs apart where they rested on his.

"More."

My toes scrabbled for the floor. Finally he said, "Good."

There was a pause, while he enjoyed the view, presumably, and I tried not to squirm.

"Now, what kind of girl invites a man she barely knows to spend the night with her, and offers herself to him straight away, no questions asked? Hmm? What kind of girl, Emma?" His hand rested menacingly on my vulnerable butt.

"Um, a hospitable one? --Ow!" Two more hard spanks.

"Keep your legs open. Try again."

"That's not fair. You—"

Slap! Jesus! Did he only have one setting? He hit me four times and I had to swallow against tears that were already threatening.

"I didn't ask you to argue with me, Emma. Just answer."

I knew what he wanted me to say. I closed my mouth and shook my head.

The next volley of swats almost broke my composure. He kept hitting the same spot—low on my cheeks, near the crease with my thighs. It stung horribly. I had started to wriggle crazily and finally flung my right hand back to cover my ass, crying out. He just pinned it against my back with the same arm that held my waist and spanked me twice more, harder than ever. "Open," he said, his spanking-hot hand urging my thighs apart again.

I almost let my sobs go just from humiliation. I hadn't even realized I'd been kicking my legs. "I'm still waiting," he said. I opened my mouth. "Fuck you," is what came out. Oh, shit. "Wait—that's not what I—"

I was crying and apologizing a few seconds later as Samir walloped me. By the time he stopped again I'd begged him to several times. "Okay, okay!" I cried, trying to catch my breath, tears still dripping freely onto the hardwood floor. My ass was on fire but now my whole body started to burn with embarrassment. Samir nudging my thighs apart again made it infinitely worse. "You want me to say I'm a slut, right? Fine. I'm a slut."

"Good girl," he said, and I was briefly furious with myself that I found this so soothing and reassuring. But then his fingers stroked over my pussy and I forgot about everything else. "What do you need, little slut?"

"Ooooooooo," was all I could manage as he rubbed my clit. His thumb pressed into me and I ground my hips against his hand.

"Tell me, or I'll spank you again, tie you down, and you will not be cumming tonight."

Oh, my God, who was this guy? He'd pulled off a complete transformation. I was tempted to call his bluff, but I also wanted to please him now. And his hand felt so good—if I could just get a little more traction to fuck his thumb— "Fuck me!" I cried. "Please, make me cum. Use me. I'm so horny. Make me cum, please, please."

"Like this? Bent over my lap, your punished ass in the air? You want to cum on my hand?"

His thumb pressed against my G-spot and his middle finger slid over my clit. My body clenched hard and wetness poured out of me.

When my orgasm subsided Samir carried me to the bed. I lay draped over his chest, shivering from time to time when he ran his cool hands over my inflamed buttocks. "I have some questions for you, mister!" I muttered, idly admiring the contrast between my pale, blushing skin and his smooth, dark body. He seemed to be waiting. Finally I just blurted, "What the hell?"

He laughed. "What can I say, sweetheart. Your writing inspired me."

"You mean you started spanking women after you read my stories?" He nodded, grinning. "But—" I felt irrationally jealous of these other women who had benefited from my effect on Samir. "You looked me up online right after we met? Then why did you wait so long to get back in touch?" I was insecure again, all at once, and I sat up, looking down at him and biting my lip.

He lounged at his ease, hands behind his head, still smiling. "I was practicing."

Was he joking? This wasn't funny. I started to get up but he caught me, pulling me back down beside him and then rolling on top of me. "Of course I'd thought about this kind of stuff before, Emma," he said, and I almost wished he would stop kissing my neck and jaw so I could focus.

"You mean—"

"Dominance and submission, and, yes, spanking." Unbelievably, I blushed, and he laughed at me. "It wasn't really a focus for me—and I had to work out some issues from my upbringing. But your stories inspired me because you wrote them. When it became about you, it started to be something I really wanted."

"But—but I told you I was submissive in bed—"

"You were trying to shock me, and get the kind of sex you wanted, you brat," he shot back, and I gasped, but shut up. "And then tonight—for a girl who likes to submit, there's a lot of manipulation, pouting, and general brattiness going on. 'Fine, I'm a slut.' That's not genuine obedience. I was very easy on you this time. But I won't be in the future. And you'll learn."

I suppose I should have been acting penitent, but I couldn't. By the end of this marvelous lecture I was beaming. "Samir. Yes. That sounds wonderful."