Small Mercies by Katherine English and Steven Whitman
katherine_english@yahoo.com
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Small Mercies
Part I
Her
I'm late...so late...and yet as I hear your key in the lock, I'm still not
ready to go. My sense of time has escaped me tonight. It does that
sometimes...and now with your new boss and his many stuffed minions
awaiting our arrival I've done the inexcusable once again.
I hear you settle heavily on the edge of the bed as I finish pinning my
hair and applying my lipstick...pink and understated. I turn. You are
resplendent in your new suit. Italian. Tailored. Expensive. Ordered by you
just for this event.
I know my role in this delicate dance we are to share. I review as I cross
the room, hastily snatching at the clothing that rests impatiently beside
you...my naked skin prickling at the thought. I am to be your trophy...an
ornament clinging to your arm, a testament to your acceptability among the
powerful men who have tentatively opened their ranks to you. My wardrobe
has been chosen accordingly. Demure. Feminine. "Look, but don't touch," it
says. I want to be what you need.
I feel your eyes on me...worried...impatient, as I grasp my flimsy panties
from the waiting pile. Time is the enemy, I think as I feel the cool, black
lace slide seductively up my legs, over my thighs toward my hips. The
delicious feel of them entices me as they conceal my auburn thatch from
your gaze. Are you still watching? I wonder. Are you still impatient?
Silently, I turn to face you, attempting to read your statement as I slip
my arms through the silken straps of my matching bustier. My nipples
harden, their aureoles dark and dusky...a contrast to the pale contours of
my lips. Quickly I secure the tiny hooks which bind me, feeling the lift as
it molds my breasts, manipulates them...creates a display for your eyes
alone.
I glance nervously towards you...searching your eyes for a sign. Have I
pleased you? Have I erased the impatience from your gaze?
Quietly I place my left foot beside you on the bed and begin to unfurl the
black, silk stocking, so carefully rolled in my palm, upward...over my
calf...my knee...my thigh. I secure it with a satin garter, then turn to
repeat the process. I feel your hand grasp my ankle...stroking suggestively
along my calf. Are you still impatient, I wonder again...or has your focus
wavered...become misdirected?
I cross in front of you...long easy strides...and take the small, crystal
vial of "Tea Rose" from my vanity table. This is the part you like
best...the part you fantasize about. This is worth a pause, a few extra
heartbeats in the pulse of the moment. It's not to be rushed.
I return to face you, insinuating myself between your splayed thighs,
grasping the tiny, tear-shaped flacon between my palms. A "pop"...a small
sucking sound. I hear you swallow... hard...your Adam's apple working
urgently against the pristine knot of your new power tie.
"Hold this for me?" I whisper, thrusting the small, smooth bauble into your
palm. "Be careful...don't spill."
Silently, I withdraw the stopper, its hard crystalline nipple coated with
the muted essence of roses. I place a drop...a single drop on the tip of my
finger. Heavy-lidded, my eyes warming to the task...I arch my neck and dab
it gently in the hollow of my throat...just a touch... feather-light...soft
as silk. Your unencumbered palm brushes against my thigh. I sigh softly.
Did the sound touch you in that special place where only I can reach?
I dip the stopper once more. Your hand trembles. "Don't spill," I whisper
again, as I place a second drop on my manicured digit. Then slowly, your
eyes following my every move, I slip my finger between my breasts...so
firm...so prominent in their black lace bustier. I hear you groan.
"Don't spill," I repeat, my voice a caress.
I dip again.
This time I part my thighs, raising my foot upward between your stiffening
legs, and bringing it to rest on the outside of your hip.
A single drop. Pristine and perfect.
Slowly my finger lowers, between my parted limbs, and I trail a thin line
of the aromatic moisture along my inner thigh.
You dip your head, inhaling the heady aroma of sex and roses...your
impatience a thing of the past...replaced by a more acute sense of
urgency...but I haven't finished...not yet.
I dip a final time...one last maddening immersion...and place the small,
hard cylinder between my palms. Slowly I begin to roll its moist surface
against my flesh...like a child awaiting a treat...coating my skin with its
dewy effluent.
Why her palms?
I hear you wonder, your thoughts almost tangible.
Why there?
You'll be wondering that all night... I have no doubt of it. When the
staunch and staid patrons of this new world to which you aspire are
discussing their golf scores this evening... it's my palms that will occupy
your thoughts...my palms and the promises they hold.
But...I want to be what you need me to be. I've delayed long enough. I need
to make an end. We need to be on our way.
Quickly I don my blouse, a Victorian confection in antique
lace...classic... enigmatic, with a "sweetheart" neckline displaying the
full half-moons of my breasts for your approval. Your eyes soften.
Uncertainty wafts across your features...vacillation. Perhaps...?
But no...I'm determined. This pseudo-social soiree is of great importance
to your career. I won't compromise this evening. I can't.
Without pause, I wrap my open skirt around my hips, covering the bare
expanse between my bustier and the low, lacy elastic of my panties. It too
is vintage, black velvet, buttoned down the front from the heavy leather
belt I cinch around my waist, to the full sweep of the hem hovering just
above my ankles. I secure the buttons as far as the knee, but leave the
remaining undone. A peek. A seduction. "Look, but don't touch."
I complete the ensemble with a final touch...a velvet choker. Is it a
symbol perhaps...a reminder of the hand that gave it to me...the man that
gave it to me?
I smooth my clothing with my fingers, watching lust and obligation warring
behind your eyelids. I have only my boots remaining now. High heeled. High
buttoned. Calf-length black leather.
I slip my foot hesitantly into the right, and retrieve the antique button
hook from the vanity. Grasping the bulbous, wooden handle in my palm, I
deftly insert the hook into the tiny aperture. With a flip of the wrist,
the gap begins to diminish. Button-hooked. I continue thusly, until the
dozen or so pearly closures are securely in place, then pull on my left
boot to repeat the procedure.
"No," you mutter thickly. "Come here. Let me."
I am uncertain. There is no time. No time...but I obey.
Once again I stand between your outstretched
thighs...wondering...wondering. Your hand penetrates the slit in my skirt
and grasps my knee.
I quiver.
Gently...but brooking no resistance, you part my thighs and place my foot
on the bed between your legs. Your palm extends.
"Button hook?" you rasp.
I feel your hands on my calf...holding me in place...inserting the hook
into the butter-soft leather again and again. My breathing becomes ragged
and uneven...moisture flows unbidden...drenching my auburn curls.
Higher...higher.
My thighs, open and vulnerable, begin to shiver beneath your touch.
No time.
No time.
No.
Time.
They reach my knee, your task complete, but still you hold me fast.
"Dan?" I ask.
A question? A plea?
Your eyes, smoky and glazed, form a response that no words could
approximate.
Slowly I feel the button hook trace a flaming trail along my inner thigh,
its bulbous, wooden handle still pressed tightly into your palm.
I shiver once again. You wouldn't. You couldn't.
The thin metallic shaft gently nudges the fragile elastic perimeter of my
panties. I feel it turn in your hand, the wooden knob warm against my
quivering flesh. My knees become weak. I brace myself against your
shoulders.
"Dan?"
I try to whisper once more, but the word dies silently in my throat...
desperation unanswered.
And then I hear the instrument of my torment thud heavily to the carpet
beneath my quaking form. Relieved, I begin to pull away.
"No," you rasp, your voice heavy with need. "Not yet. Are you wet?"
My lips move incoherently, but words fail me. I'm helpless to
respond...mute...a prisoner. Slowly you insinuate your index finger beneath
the elastic...tracing the outline of my wet and dripping chasm.
You smile.
You stroke.
Then, in one swift, penetrating thrust, you plunge your finger deep within
my quivering core. I gasp...begin to fall...but you wrap your free arm
around my waist and hold me fast and unmoving as your finger continues its
maddening exploration.
Then, just as my world begins to fall apart...to shatter into a million
crystalline fragments... you withdraw.
I whimper as you raise your glistening digit to your lips, the residual
void a physical torment. "Not yet," you whisper, watching my hunger engulf
me. "I want you to think of me this evening...to think, and feel,
and...anticipate."
But I need something...anything...a balm to sooth the ache you have
awakened in me. I take your hand. "Let me...please," I ask, my voice primal
with desperation.
Gently, greedily, I raise your finger to my mouth, stroking its length with
my tongue, drawing it deeply between my parted lips. The taste...a little
you...a lot of me, dissolves against my palate.
"We're late," I whisper. "I have to let go now."
You nod, the gentle pressure of my mouth lingering on the tip of your
finger...and...(what's that?)...a tiny smudge of pink lipstick carelessly
smeared across the pad. I reach to wipe it off, but you draw away.
"No," you respond. "Leave it there. I want to remember you, and this, until
we get home."
I blush. Your words penetrate deeper than your wayward digit ever could.
I want to be what you need tonight. I need to be what you want.
I want...
I want...
I need...
