With his help, I lay across his lap, face down, his bulge pressing enticingly against my tummy. I could almost feel the throb through the material of his pants.
“Oh,” I gasped, feeling his hand on my ass, even before he’d pulled up my skirt.
Stroking me through the cloth of my skirt, Seth helped relax me, a sigh of pleasure escaping my lungs as I slumped harder against him.
I could almost feel the goosebumps rising on my exposed skin as my master pushed up my skirt, leaving my ass bared to the open air, save for a rather skimpy pair of silk panties. This condition was short-lived, Seth deftly removing my already wet panties with one hand, stroking my lower back with the other as he did so.
With a deep, cleansing breath I got ready for the first slap, Seth surprising me by gently stroking me. The gentleness of his caress let me know it was a play spank, and not serious discipline.
Taking time to warm me up, he let in with the first strike. A short, hard smack with a flat palm. Repeating it a few more times, he started striking upwards with a slightly cupped hand. Just when I was relaxed, he gave a sharp downward strike with just his fingers, to make sure I was paying attention.
Returning to the gentle scoops, he slipped two fingers from his other hand into my pussy, working me up to a squirming orgasm on his lap.
I really wanted to touch myself now, but I didn’t, and it was a good thing. I snapped back to reality when the door opened, yanking myself back into reality so fast it almost hurt.
Seth had arrived, and I had to pull myself together.
Chapter Two - Seth
The thump was maddening. I opened my eyes, seeing nothing but the brass ceiling tiles. They were sturdy and antique, decorated with an ever-repeating pattern. A Brigid’s Knot, to be exact, which was associated with the Gaelic pagan goddess of healers, poets, smiths and inspiration.
Without looking, I set the needle back to rights, pounding music filling my skull via the stereo headphones. They were the huge, tin-can style type that were making a comeback. Probably because they were significantly more comfortable than earbuds.
By sheer happenstance, I noticed the steady march of time had brought me to the point where I had half an hour before I was late to show up at the office.
The fact that I was the one who actually set the schedules was a great comfort as I rose from the chair. That plan didn’t exactly go down like gangbusters, my stiff and aching legs clearly not listening to a word my brain was shouting.
The needle came up off the vinyl without a sound, the sleeve laying empty on the floor. It was a first pressing of Immortal Territory by Lords of Sacred Shadow. It had been Luna’s favorite. I closed my eyes, silencing the screaming ghosts, and slid the record back into its proper place.
For someone not considered to have a ‘real job’, until I started making six-figures that is, I could be a real stickler for organization. Part of why I’d done so well. I also never really got into the drug scene. Music and sex were my own highs of choice. No less potent, but not as likely to leave you insensible, at least not for long.
Warm water embraced my aching muscles, reducing their piteous cries to a manageable whimper as the droplets ran the gauntlet of scars and tattoos from my neck to my feet. Most were more intentional than others, yet almost all of them were permanent reminders of youthful mistakes.
That was okay, though. They helped to keep me humble.
The closet doors slip open like the entrance to an ancient cathedral, my suits lined up like dutiful sentinels. A neat row of Converse sneakers was lined up under them, like a last nod to my mad formation.
The rest of my outfits trended towards the dress casual. Usually slacks, sometimes subtle jeans, with a polo shirt. They went better with my shorter hair and corrected vision. I only made the admission, even to myself, that I really did need glasses, in my mid-20s. How I managed to live that long going about the world half blind was a sort of miracle.
The engine roared to life like a poked dragon, settling down into a steady rumble. Closing up the garage, I rocketed out onto the empty street, the other members of my quiet suburbia having already gone about the business of their day.
I’d lived downtown for a while, but you only needed to hear a couple shootings outside your window before a suburban ranch seemed like much less of a ‘sellout’ – a term I never really understood even in its most limited form.
My good friend Cam and I had often debated whether music should be made for art, or money, or both.