Author’s Note: My first submission to the EMCSA, and my first piece written from a female perspective. It’s pretty mild, but I’m happy with the way it turned out; I hope you like it too. Bonus points to anyone who figures out the significance of the title.
Bodhisattva
“Looks kinda busy tonight,” he said as he held the restaurant door open for her. “Think we’ll be home by ten?”
“It’s not even 8:15,” she said. “Why, do you have plans for the evening?”
“Actually, yeah,” he said, and smirked. Well, smirked was the wrong word; that would imply a level of dickish arrogance that he didn’t have. It was just a little I-know-something-you-don’t-know smile, a smug grin that said he was two moves ahead of her in some undefined game that she didn’t even know they were playing. The kind of smile that made her want to slap it.
On anyone else, at least. Somehow, he made it charming.
The restaurant was a little busier than usual, but the service was briskly efficient and they were seated in short order. “Yeah, we’ll probably be done by nine,” he said to her as he picked up the drink menu. Again, that quick little grin, inordinately pleased with himself as though he had just told a clever inside joke. He was up to something, she knew; but then again, when wasn’t he? It was part of what made him so sexy; as annoying as it was, it still made her tingle a little.
He ordered for her, as usual. That had been a little strange, even annoying, at first; but as their relationship developed, she realized how well he had come to know her tastes, how carefully he chose for her exactly what she would have wanted for herself. Sometimes he went outside her usual menu, and she was tempted to tell him he had chosen wrong; but when the food came, it was always delicious, and she had to admire how well he knew her. She didn’t like to admit it, but a part of her craved those little demonstrations of his knowledge, his control.
He was very good at control.
He ordered the loaded potato skins appetizer, a greasy indulgence that neither of them should have had, but that both of them loved. They ate and chatted and laughed about his co-workers and hers, about his neighbor’s annoying Pomeranian, about the business trip she had to get up early in the morning for. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’d love to stay the night – you know I’d love to – but I have to get up so early to get to the airport, and I have to give this presentation first thing when I get to the Houston office. I really need my sleep tonight.” She smiled, a little nervously, and hated herself a tiny bit for wanting to please him so much. “I’ll make it up to you when I get back...”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I know you will.” He looked down at the plate of potato skins; there were two left. “I’m not sure if these are yours or mine,” he said, looking at her with a curious intensity. “Were there eight of them to start with, or only seven?” He seemed to be emphasizing the numbers oddly.
Between her legs, something throbbed.
She flashed back to the last long Saturday they had spent together in bed. Between orgasms, when they were catching their breath in a tangled, sweaty mess, he asked if she trusted him. Of course she did; he was a good man, and a wonderful lover, and if he liked having a level of control that she wasn’t used to, well, she found that she was happy to give it to him. She had begun to wonder if she was kinky, one of those women who wound up chained and caged in a corner of someone’s basement – but no, this wasn’t like that. She just really loved the feeling when he grabbed her hips and placed her where he wanted her, when he pulled her head back by her hair as they kissed, when he gave her that look and told her to do something and she readily – eagerly – did it.
She wasn’t kinky, except for him.
He had started talking about hypnosis, about how it could add a little additional spice to their relationship, and she had agreed that it sounded interesting. All she really knew about hypnosis was from a late-night stage show in Vegas, which had been mostly filled with juvenile pranks and over-the-top sight gags. She thought she had seen a show on Discovery about people using hypnosis for dental anesthesia, which seemed crazy. But he had made it sound subtle and sexy and appealing, and he had already proven to be a wonderfully creative lover...and she trusted him, so she had let him hypnotize her.
It was great. He had tied her to the bed with ropes that weren’t there, and turned her elbows into erogenous zones, and made her call him Sir every time she said anything to him. She had loved every minute of it. And then, at the end, he had started counting down from ten, telling her how each number made her more and more aroused, more and more desperate, leaving her hanging, needing, panting like a bitch in heat until he said the next number; and when he reached zero, without any fingers or toys or anything anywhere near her pussy, she came and came and came...
Her eyes widened as she looked across the potato skins at him, and he smiled again, wider this time. “Six,” he said, almost as an afterthought, and sipped his beer.
Throb.
“You son of a...” she began, and stopped when he cocked his head and looked at her. She wasn’t afraid of him, not in a physical way; she was sure he would never hit her in anger. She had seen the face of a man who was capable of throwing a punch at a woman before, and this wasn’t it. This face was just...disapproval? No.
Disappointment.
He was going to be disappointed in her if she said such things about him, and she couldn’t bear the thought of that.
“Did you want to finish that sentence?” he asked, politely.
“No,” she said. After a long moment, she added, “...Sir.”
He was in no hurry. “Five” was slipped into the small talk just as their steaks arrived (the filet, medium, for her; the strip, medium rare, for him). “Four” came just as she was about to take her first spoonful of their shared dessert; she had to close her eyes and breathe slowly through her nose to keep from moaning. A driblet of ice cream fell onto the table from her suddenly wobbly spoon. He reached over, scooped it up with a fingertip, and fed it to her. She let him.
The waiter came with the check. Thank God, she thought. We can get out of here and go back home and fuck before I leave a wet spot on the seat. She wasn’t actually squirming in place yet, but knew she would be if he kept this up. He looked over the bill, nodded, put his credit card in the little slot in the leather folder, put it back down.
“Excuse me,” he said as the waiter returned to pick up the check. “I wasn’t sure...did she have three glasses of wine, or only two?”
She did moan that time, low in her throat, closing her eyes and lowering her head, feeling the blood rushing in her cheeks and elsewhere. When she looked up again, the waiter was very carefully not staring at her. “I’m going to the ladies’ room,” she said, a little more forcefully than necessary, and slid out of the booth. She heard that smug little chuckle of his, and knew they were both watching her ass as she walked away.
In the ladies’ room, where she was thankfully alone, she gripped the edges of the sink and stared at herself in the mirror. She was flushed and breathing hard. I am a grown goddamn woman, she told herself. I have control over my own body and my own mind, and he cannot make me cum just by saying some goddamn numbers.
Except, of course, that he already had, and was evidently going to again.
Jesus, was she horny.
She wanted him to finish this—finish her off—so badly, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. She looked at herself in the mirror. “One,” she said, and nothing happened. “Zero.” Nothing. She tried again, counting all the way down from ten, trying to pitch her voice like his, imagining him saying the numbers...nothing. Nothing but the need he had filled her with. He was in the driver’s seat—she had put him there herself—and all she could do was go where he took her.
And was that really so bad?
She splashed some water on her face and touched up her makeup, and when she came back out the bill was paid and he was waiting for her. Their waiter was standing over at the bar, picking up a tray of drinks, and she could feel his eyes on her. She knew she was walking differently, swaying her hips more, feeling full of her own sexuality, and she found that she didn’t care.
They walked to the car in silence, holding hands like teenagers. He went around to her side first, to open the door for her – always the perfect gentleman. When his hand was on the door handle, though, he didn’t open it. Instead he pressed up against her, hard and close, pinning her to the car. She was acutely aware of every layer of the sandwich she was suddenly in – car skirt panties ass pussy panties skirt jeans boxers cock. Please, not until we’re in the car, she thought desperately, knowing it didn’t matter because she wanted him so badly – wanted him, wanted to please him, wanted him to say it and let her release.
He reached up, took her chin firmly but tenderly in his hand, kissed her – lightly, almost chastely, on the lips. “Will you do one thing for me?” he asked, quietly. She felt herself shaking, felt him press her even harder against the side of the car. Please, not out here, she thought, hopelessly.
He slid his hand around to the back of her head, used a handful of hair to pull her head gently to the side, and kissed his way up her jaw and her neck to her ear. She knew what was coming, knew what he was going to say, didn’t want to hear it, wanted it more badly than anything in the world.
“Zero,” he said. “Cum for me,” and she did. Helplessly, desperately, greedily, trapped between the car and his body, feeling herself rocking against him, grinding herself against his crotch, letting everything go, realizing that he was well and truly in control of her now, and that she loved it, craved it, needed it.
He held her while she came, letting her muffle her moans against his shoulder, whispering “good girl” soothingly into her ear, supporting her weight when her knees wobbled a bit. As she slowly recovered and looked up, an older gentleman getting out of his car looked over at them and smiled, seeing nothing more than two young lovers necking in a quiet parking lot. She smiled back, weakly.
He helped her into the car, handed her her purse, put her seat belt on, and kissed her lovingly before going around to the driver’s seat and starting the engine.
“Thank you,” she said quietly as he backed out of the parking space.
He glanced over, one eyebrow raised.
“I really needed that,” she said. “I didn’t think so, but I did. And now I can still get a good night’s sleep before my presentation tomorrow.”
“Oh, right,” he said, and that cat-that-swallowed-the-canary grin was back. He looked at the dashboard clock. “We’ll probably be home before ten.”
He put the car in gear.