Two Strokes

This is another piece that I carved out for an Alison Tyler contest, from a longer story I'd been working on. Totally thrilled that it took first place in the poll, too!

Just his voice on the phone aroused me. “Imagine that I’m there with you. You are nude, kneeling. Your gaze is straight ahead and down. But out of the corner of your eye…. tell me what you see.”

“Your shoes. Leather, polished. No tassels.” He laughed; I was encouraged.

“What else?”

A sigh. “A strap. Just the end…”

“Describe it. Size, color, texture?”

Eyes closed, body humming-- I saw it perfectly. That lovely strap. “It’s old and worn,” I said dreamily. “Soft and flexible, buttery. A little uneven, bleached, too wide for a belt. Your weight shifts, the strap disappears. But then I feel it, touching my back, my waist, my ass. I wait, floating…. Until that first stroke. Not terribly hard, but the second is harder, and lands on top of the first. It will hurt to sit. And every time I do, my face will flush and my cunt will pulse like a beating heart.”

Drawing a shaky breath, I pause, needing air, needing his voice.

“Well.” That rich voice sounded thickened. “That was… enlightening. Two strokes? Is that all?”

“I don’t-- if you—“

Another chuckle. “Trick question. Shall we meet?”

No hesitation. “Yes. Yes, sir. Please.”

…

He hung up, drank deep from his ice water. Though he considered himself experienced, jaded even… he was sweating. Her silky contralto voice, the fantasy so erotic in its simplicity. He knew she didn’t know exactly where to go from there, but he did.

Two strokes, indeed.