When Jack calls at 6:00 p.m. on a Saturday and tells me to meet him in the bar at the Embassy Suites, I know two things: he wants to fuck me, and I will let him.
But because he knows my answer even before he calls, I make him wait. A little. I shower, locate my sexy underwear at the back of my drawer, put some effort into my makeup and hair. When I get in my car and drive downtown, the knowledge of what I’ll soon be doing, and with whom, sharpens the colors visible through the windshield, the verdant leaves vivid against black-shingled roofs and a Wedgwood-blue sky.
As I walk through the lobby my stride must project a confidence I don’t feel; either bravado or my sheath skirt and tight sleeveless blouse have drawn attention from a cluster of loosened-ties-no-jackets businessmen waiting by the front desk. I ignore their appraising looks, pretending engrossment in the brass railings, plush patterned carpet and abundant plants working to create a tasteful atmosphere. What I’m about to do could easily take place in a rundown motel next to the interstate. Jack, however, likes comfort and couldn’t care less about the two-hundred-dollar room rate. The bar is at the back of the large atrium and the waterfall doesn’t quite mask the click of my fuck-me heels against the tile floor. He knows making this walk by myself heightens my nerves and leaves me to do it anyway.
There is always that moment, standing in the doorway to the bar and looking for him, when I torment myself with the impossible. I imagine he’s found someone equally willing and right at hand, that he’s disappeared upstairs in the time it took me to prepare myself and come to him. But then I see him, a half-full glass of beer next to the Heineken bottle. Tonight he is wearing dark navy jeans and an olive cotton sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
The sight of his forearms, tanned and dusted with blond hair, sends a shock of lust straight to my pussy.
The rest of him is nothing special. Muscles don’t strain the seams of his sweater. Despite the absence of a ring, the other women in the bar don’t eye him with obvious interest. He’s of average height and build for a man, with sandy-blond hair. He doesn’t look like a man who can make a woman lose her mind.
But he is. With a woman, on a bed stripped to the bottom sheet, when there is nothing else to do and nowhere else to be, he is gifted. That’s why I’m here.
I stand next to him. He acknowledges my presence with a slow once-over, the kind that stays just this side of insolent. A nod indicates his approval.
“You want a drink first?” His voice, unlike his eyes, is smooth, calm. His eyes, however, are melting, dark chocolate.
I consider his offer, then indicate acceptance by boosting myself onto the seat next to his. When the bartender comes around he asks what he can get me.
“White wine,” I say as he openly eyes me. I’m not wearing a ring, either, and I know from experience that despite Jack’s presence, I am fair game. Jack doesn’t stake his claim in front of the bartender, but when he leaves to pour my wine, Jack leans to whisper in my ear.
I tip my head slightly to indicate interest, but keep my eyes on the condensation sliding down the green beer bottle. I never use that color in my work. It’s too recognizable.
“Undo one more button.”
My breath stops in my throat at his command, but I lift one hand to the front of my blouse and flick open the button just above the swell of my breasts. This button keeps me from being slutty. Jack wants it undone. I obey him.
That’s the rule. If I meet him, I do what he asks, when he asks. I’m free to decline his invitation. If I accept, I’ll do what I’m told.
I always accept.