Caramel Flava

“You’re not naked under there, are you?” he asked, trailing behind her slowly. He’d dressed nicely, as if they were going out even though he was certain they wouldn’t be. He was seasoned enough to know that an unkempt man and house were the easiest ways to botch a night of expected passion. She stopped walking when she got to the middle of his living room, gave the place a brief, assessing glance, then finally turned toward him.

“You might want to take that off,” she said, putting a crisp Macy’s shopping bag down on his metal coffee table.

“Take what off?” he asked, already feeling the power of control snatched away from him. He didn’t like the feeling, it made him uncomfortable, but he was intrigued nonetheless.

“Everything,” she said, untying the belt of her coat and letting gravity pull it open only to be stopped and held in place by her ample breasts while the ornate jewelry dangling from her belly button sparkled in the light of the candles he’d lit for the occasion. He felt like he’d be a chump for giving in to her demand easily, so he fought back.

“You first,” he said, making sure he didn’t sound annoyed.

“We don’t have a lot of time.” It was not the response he wanted but he immediately understood that his opportunity for sexual gratification would dissipate if he didn’t act fast. Reluctantly, he took his clothes off, keeping a fake smirk in place the whole time and hoping she was impressed by his gym-toned physique. He stopped at his silk boxers, expecting her to take over from there, but she just jerked her chin toward him and said, “Those too.”

When he was completely naked, and felt completely idiotic and vulnerable, she pointed to the middle of his blue leather love seat and followed him over to it, picking up the Macy’s bag as she did. When she straddled him on the sofa her coat fell away to reveal that she was wearing nothing but black lace boy-shorts, her belly button ornament, and two black pasties over her nipples. And the heels, of course. Green re

ptile-skin stilettos.

She leaned close and he licked his lips, eager, excited, expecting her to dip some part of herself into his mouth. With his face nestled into her cleavage, the thick, spicy aroma of sandalwood and lust wafting into his nose, he closed his eyes, waiting.

Instead of the delicate wetness of a tongue, he felt…silk. On his chest, up to his neck, past his chin, over his open mouth, his nose and finally coming to rest over his eyes. She was blind-folding him, he realized, and she was using one of his brand-new ties to do it. He smiled to himself. No wonder brothers were lined up for blocks to buy ties from her. He could get used to this.

When he was securely blindfolded, all he could see were brief glimpses of black lace when he tilted his head backward and peeked out from beneath the tie. Every time he did, she would gently push his head back down, blinding him again, but he liked the game and sensed that she did too.

There were two floor lamps behind his love seat, one at either end, and he felt her using two more ties to bind his left wrist to one and his right wrist to the other. Even though she hadn’t tied them very tightly, he felt simultaneously thrilled and dismayed by the fact that if he moved either arm, he would topple his lamps and probably break them, so he found a comfortable resting position and settled in to enjoy whatever came next. He was very aware of the fact that she had only one tie left.

She trailed the nails of one hand across his face, down the side of his neck and over his chest and she must have felt his body responding because she scooted back on his lap, allowing him room to harden. When he was ready, rock hard and throbbing, slowly, delicately she tie-cocooned him again. Taking her time, squeezing occasionally, until he felt pampered by the feeling of being completely swaddled in silk. He could feel that she was holding on to the tip of the tie again and he was both excited and disappointed in himself that he felt like doing whatever her bidding might be.

She wrapped one arm around the back of his neck, leaned close enough that he could feel the heat of her body washing over his chest and put her lips to his ear.

“You like to have control over women, don’t you? To feel superior.”

He tensed, resisting the idea, fearful of reprisal. “Look, Ms. Ramos,” he began, the well-practiced lies, apologies and deceptions ready to pour off his tongue before she cut him off.

“It’s Doctor Ramos right now. And it’s okay, I already know. Right?”

He nodded and hoped that was the end of it.

“You know, it wasn’t nice what you said about me being too pretty to be a doctor.” Again, he hesitated but a swift jerk on the tightly cinched tie was all he needed to remind him that she was very much in control and that she could hurt him if she wanted to. He nodded slowly.

“I can be pretty and still be smart, you know?” He nodded again.

“Bueno,” she said, switching to Spanish, “I’m glad we got that taken care of. Now, to matters of healing.”

After that there was only silence and the feeling of her nails all over him. For a while he moaned and rocked his hips in anticipation of release, but soon, he found himself becoming calmer, as if she was putting him into a trance. Before long he became sleepy, and even though he tried hard to fight it, he found himself drifting off only to be awakened by her nails discovering another part of his body before he drifted off to sleep again. The pattern continued until he woke up and didn’t feel anything at all. He waited for a bit, called out for her and waited some more.

It took him quite a bit of physical maneuvering to free himself and remove the tie-blindfold without wrecking his living room. Once free, he noticed that there was a handwritten note on his coffee table.

Hold the tip of the tie with one hand. Pull it tight. Masturbate. Think of me. I promise you’ll have the biggest orgasm of your life. Next time, buy more ties. I always deliver.

She was right. In his own hands, all over his brand-new tie, he came hard enough to introduce Dr. Ramos’s name to the neighbors across the street. He was no stranger to masturbation, but with the memory of Dr. Ramos’s touch still playing over his skin, the phantom feeling of her full hips warming his lap, the thrill of being bound with his own new ties all fresh in his mind, his self-pleasuring experience was more profound than any previous one. He let himself drift toward sleep right there on the couch with the candles he’d lit still glowing, feeling more satisfied than any of his conquests had ever left him.

It was a blessing and a curse because he knew he’d never achieve the same heightened climax again without her. Maybe he would eventually, but for a while he’d need her to help him along. So, in the interim, he’d be buying a lot more ties—right along with all the other “patients” waiting in her line at Macy’s. A long queue of men, he realized, that she was slowly retraining to appreciate the beauty of an emotional sexual connection rather than endless empty moments of physical release. Dr. Ramos had all of them tied up helplessly, her ties both binding them to her by desire and trussing them up with the previously dormant need to be sexually responsible.

“Never been whipped without having sex before,” he mumbled to his empty apartment with a laugh. “She got me all wrapped up.” Then he rolled over and went to sleep, dreaming of Dr. Ramos and her next home delivery.

On the Temptation Tip

Al borde de la tentación

Michelle De Leon