Bahia
“Oh, Mr. Jarius—sorry, Peter, sorry—you really can turn a phrase.”
“Always better to turn a phrase than an ankle, my dear.”
Kerry giggles, and they depart the artificial grotto of The Greedy Parrot.
Night, cold, the stacked cyclopean eyes of traffic lights, the blat of carhorns, and then the chauffeur is opening the limo’s door at their destination, another underground garage. Kerry rides an elevator up several floors, each chiming sweetly in passing, leaning on the elegant slim form of Peter Jarius, whose arm continues to enfold her waist. The mummy-colored rug inside his twilit apartment seems ankle-deep.
“Feel free to discard those cumbersome galoshes, Kerry. This woolly sea longs to lap at your trim ankles.”
Kerry crosses in stockinged feet to a buttery leather couch, spins giddily and drops melodramatically down. “What a wonderful evening! Such a pleasant change of pace.”
Jarius tends bar in a clinking of glassware, his back to her. “I feel we both waited much too long to reward ourselves with such a simple tryst. But let us not dwell on our foolish past sins of omission.”
Jarius’s by her side on the couch, drinks in hand. Kerry accepts hers, sips, then sighs.
“Peter, you’ve been so considerate toward me.”
“What you’ve experienced so far is but a token of my intense affections, dear.”
Kerry draws a deep draught of her peaty drink, lowers glass to lap, rests her head backwards against warm cushions, then closes her eyes for a moment. Opening them, she finds Jarius unbuttoning her thin brown suitjacket.
“I want you to relax more fully, my dear. And of course I want a view of your splendid young breasts, so often admired from across the distance of authority that cruelly separates us.”
Kerry neither cooperates nor resists. The scalloped blue lace of her bra against her pale skin resembles a line of surf on white sands, the man’s fingers like inquisitive crabs. Jarius discovers a front hook and disables it. Cups slide away to either side with an almost imperceptible soft susurrus, disclosing proudly mounded prominences. Jarius’s whiskered lips surround one gorging nipple, while his pinch cossets its sister.
Kerry’s left hand scoops its partnered breast upward for its share of attention. She lifts drink from lap, blindly seeks a shelf, sidetable or sofa-arm, then lowers the glass onto air. The tumbler tumbles through space, landing with a splash of ice and liquid, feeding the thirsty carpet. Freed, her right hand cups the back of Jarius’s neck
Her breasts accept minutes of languid suckling and stroking before she gapes her legs. Jarius quickly responds, sliding a slow hand up and down her nyloned flanks, moving higher with each zenith, pausing at the bare band below her loins. Kerry lifts her ass to free her skirt for the completion of the hoisting—then accidental, now intentional—begun when she first slid into the limo. Jarius cups her mounded cunt through the periwinkle fabric, and Kerry emits a soft mewl. Her hand traces the bulge of his cock through the cloth of his trousers.
Then, cessation of sensation. Kerry opens her eyes. Jarius stands some distance off, a desk drawer opening now to his fickle touch.
“Peter, what—”
Jarius’s eyes seem to concentrate whatever dim light informs the room, twin furnace points. “Before we go any further, dearest, I’d like you to do something that would enhance my pleasure immeasurably. An easy thing, but rather titillating for both of us, I hope. Would you wear this?”
From the drawer, Jarius removes what seems at first a large floppy scrap of white leather. Then he displays it fully, like a proud salesman.
The calf-supple zippered bondage hood would look utterly familiar from a thousand common pornographic illusions, save for one odd feature: a stitch-edged irregular sinistral opening exactly contours Kerry’s aubergine birthmark. Should she don this cowl, it would focus her silent, sometimes buried, never truly forgotten shame as if under an actinic spotlight.
Kerry gawps at the unexpected fetish garb, then nervously tugs her skirt down. “I won’t. I don’t feel right about it.”
Jarius slopes insinuatingly beside her on the couch, still offering the hood like some dark pope seeking to miter a new bishop. “Would you deny one of your own most salient charms, my dear? This innocent appurtenance merely serves to direct your lover’s desire onto your uniquely erotic blemish. How often I’ve dreamed of caressing and kissing your maculate countenance, so ripe with nature’s stain. You’re like a bruised fruit demanding to be plucked. But hopefully you’ll notice that even now, on the verge of our intimacy, I refrain until I receive your permission. Our first encounter must be perfect—”
Kerry’s breasts are swaddled in blue lace again, and she’s buttoning her jacket. “Mr. Jarius, I really have to leave now. Thank you for the dinner, and I’m sorry I let you get the wrong idea about us.”
Jarius contemplates the virginal hood draping his deflating, still trousered erection. “I had this made just for you, Kerry.”
