How It Began…

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him.

It has been three days since we met, and his face is constantly in my mind. As I fall asleep, his eyes appear behind my own closed eyelids.

Such a deep blue.

Almost indigo.

So dark, it is difficult to make out the line between the iris and the pupil.

The crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled at me.

His hand was warm, dry and very large, engulfing mine completely as we shook hands in greeting. He stood a full foot taller than me.

I caught the scent of his cologne; smoky, woody and musky.

Even whilst counseling my clients, as they recount harrowing memories of abuse and neglect, I find my mind wandering, as I recall him sitting in the same chair they are seated in. I am ashamed at my selfishness.


The way he crossed his leg, resting his ankle on his knee, his wrist casually draped over his ankle.

The way my eyes were drawn to his long slim fingers as he rubbed them against his thumb in circles as he talked.

He wore jeans and a light blue shirt, open at the collar with the sleeves rolled up, brown leather Chelsea boots. The late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window picked up the light chestnut tones flecked through his collar length, wavy hair, and revealed copper highlights peppered amongst his stubble. He never moved his eyes from mine the entire time we spoke, switching from intense, serious concentration to mischievous amusement and back again.

His voice was soft but deep. He spoke slowly and carefully, taking the time to construct intelligent questions and find the appropriate words. I could not imagine him ever being rushed or flustered.

He was smart, witty, charming and, at one point, simply bossy.

A recently purchased fold up Cross Trainer had been mistakenly delivered to my counseling room instead of my house, and was conspicuous in its brown cardboard packaging in the corner of the room. He asked me about it, and then asked if he was my final appointment that day. I said he was, and he told me he would drive me home with the equipment, to save me from hiring a courier.

“Oh thank you but no, I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that,” I replied, to which his eyes quickly turned quite frosty as he retorted, “Nonsense, you didn’t ask. I will drive you home”.

Not used to being told what to do, I was rendered speechless, but found that it was oddly pleasant and refreshing to have my problems solved for me by another person. I agreed to his offer, or rather, his demand. He drove me and my new purchase home and carried it into my hallway.

That was the last time I saw him.

The following day I answered a knock to the door of my counseling room to find a smiling woman presenting me with two dozen roses, the palest shade of lilac, emitting a powerful sweet clove scent.

The card : “Thank you for an informative and interesting afternoon. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

It is finally the evening. I have had a rough day, listening to my client’s traumas. Some days, the cruelty and pain that some people have had to endure simply takes my breath away. I find sometimes the knowledge I carry about how vile people can be to each other a burden that weighs heavily on me.

I am too exhausted to cook, all I want is to have a shower, wash away some of the stress of the day, and eat the pizza I ordered.

I am irritated with myself that that man is still on my mind. His presence in my counseling room, and later in my house when he carried in the Cross Trainer, feels like he has left a trace of himself everywhere I look. I feel annoyed that I am allowing his memory to distract me at work as well as during my free time.

Still damp from the shower, I hear the knock on the door as I pull on my night slip. Not caring what the deliveryman thinks of my appearance, I run to open the door and instantly think, “Fuck!”.

I blush deep red as I watch his eyes sweep over my barely dressed body.

The midnight blue eyes lock onto mine as he smiles down at me, “I intercepted your pizza man.”

I cannot move. My legs are leaden and my feet feel rooted to the hard floor. Confused and forcing myself to pull myself together, I invite him in.

I cannot believe he is standing here in my hallway. I am practically naked with my hair still dripping from the shower. I feel caught out, exposed and as if he somehow knows that I have been thinking about him for the past three days.

“I hope you don’t mind my uninvited visit. I wanted to see you again. Let’s not allow your dinner to get cold, show me to the kitchen”.

That bossy streak rears its head again.

Dumbfounded and robot-like, I lead the way to my kitchen, thinking to myself, “What is he doing here? Why are you not saying anything? Why are you allowing him to tell you what to do?”

This is not me. I am an independent, self-reliant, educated woman, who has never taken orders from anyone. I have a fucking PhD for Christ’s sake!

As he sets the pizza box on the kitchen counter I feel a drop of water trickle down from my still wet hair. It slides over my collarbone and down between my breasts.

He watches it travel.

He licks his lips.

Swiftly he is standing directly in front of me. He cups my chin in his large hand and strokes my lips with his thumb. It tickles and I part my lips. He pushes his thumb into my mouth and presses down on my tongue then slides it out and leaning down, he grazes my lips with his.

The scent of him makes my head spin.

His tongue traces the outline of my lips. Feeling completely outside of myself, I open my mouth and allow his tongue to touch mine. After thinking about him so much, I cannot believe he is here, his hand still resting on my chin; the only parts of us touching are lips and tongues.

The kiss lasts an age and I feel every nerve in my body alight. I want him to touch me, but his hand remains at my jaw, his other hand resting on the countertop, keeping a distance between our two bodies.

“It has been so good to see you again. I won’t keep you from your dinner any longer.”

What the? He’s leaving?” I am confused. Not only confused, but irritated and frustrated. I have been thinking about this man for days and now he turns up at my house, kisses me, makes me want him and leaves?

“Don’t…” (did I just say that?)

“Don’t what?” his dark eyes narrow.

“Don’t leave,” (fuck, I did just say that)

I reach up to run my hands through his hair and am surprised by how fast he grabs my wrists and pins them behind me with one hand, his hips pressing me up against the hard marble kitchen counter.

I look up at him, feeling a bit scared but excited. Thrilled. His eyes are dark as a moonless night sky, his mouth curls into a wry smile, as he does two very small shakes of his head, no, no.

The hand that was resting on my chin begins to travel down my throat, his fingers gliding down to the hollow dip at the base of my throat.

I swallow.

He traces his finger over my collarbone to my shoulder and slowly slides the strap of my slip down my arm. His eyes leave mine and he tilts his head, as if admiring my breast. I am throbbing between my legs and struggling to breathe. He reaches up and runs his fingers through my soaked hair then down to circle my hard nipple with his wet fingers.

I hear a groan and realise it has come from my throat.

Very slowly, he peels the other strap from my shoulder and glides the soft fabric of my slip down my body to the floor. Giving me a look of warning, I understand somehow that I must not move as he leans down to collect my slip. I am so aware of his eyes, level with my pubic hair, that I feel the need to close my eyes in an unfamiliar mixture of desire and embarrassment.

He is back towering above me and he reaches around to use the slip to bind my wrists tightly together behind my back. I cannot believe I am allowing this man who I have only met once, three days ago, to do this to me. But it feels so good to relinquish total control of myself to him. Such a release. I feel all responsibility lifting from my shoulders.

This is how I want to feel. Free.

My wrists tied together, I have little choice but to stand before him as he steps back to run his eyes all over my naked body, head tilted again, his lips curling into a slow smile. He looks back into my eyes and I feel compelled to look away.

“Look at me. You are beautiful. Perfectly stunning.”

He leans down and wraps his hands around under my bum and lifts me off the floor as if I am weightless, placing me on the countertop. The shock of the cold marble against my cheeks makes me gasp which elicits a low chuckle from him. I try to wrap my legs around his waist but his hands stop me, pushing my knees back down onto the counter.

“This is how it is,” his voice is low and deep.

Standing between my open legs, he moves his head down to start kissing and licking my throat, his hand slides down to touch my breast, lightly at first then harder. He pinches and pulls on my nipple, making it even harder and more sensitive. His head lowers, his tongue is wet against it and he sucks hard and harder again, his teeth grazing it.

I sit on the cold counter, wrists bound behind me with my head thrown back, eyes closed, already feeling the beginning of my orgasm approaching.

As if sensing this, he stops and lifts his head to look me in the eyes again.

The subtle two shakes of the head, no, no.

I blush, feeling as if I have been scolded.

There is a mischievous glint in his eyes. He is enjoying himself.

Without taking his eyes from mine he moves his fingers across my stomach, stroking it from one side of my waist to the other, stopping to playfully circle my navel.

His finger gently pokes into my navel and, achingly slowly, begins to travel south, through my pubic hair, and finally I feel his fingers sinking deep inside of me.

My breath quickens and I lick my dry lips.

Using his long fingers to stroke me from deep inside, his thumb begins to massage my clitoris.

I cannot bear to look at him any longer. I cannot believe I am here doing this with a virtual stranger in my own kitchen.

“Look at me,” this time it is not a suggestion, it is a command and I comply. I am bound, naked and completely at his mercy, to do with me as he sees fit, and I realize that I am loving every second of it.

Did he sense something in me during our meeting that I had never even known about myself? Is that why I have been unable to stop thinking about him?

Using one hand to pull at my nipple again and the other still rubbing between my legs, he keeps his dark eyes on mine. I feel my orgasm building inside me and feel the flush rising over my face and chest. I am grinding my hips against his hand, desperate to come. I feel no embarrassment or shame. I just feel free.

As I feel it is about to happen I reflexively close my eyes. His hand is no longer at my breast but has grabbed my jaw and straightened my head level with his.

“LOOK. AT. ME.” His voice a deep growl.

I open my eyes to meet his and he nods very slowly twice and I understand he is giving me permission to come. My body convulses in pleasure against his hand and I call out his name as I reach the place I have been longing to reach since he started.

He stands back and very deliberately undoes his belt and jeans, pulling them down just enough to release his erection, all the while looking at me.

I cannot take me eyes off the size of him, so I barely have time to realise I’ve been pulled off the counter into a standing position. He turns me around and wraps his free hand into my hair, pushing me forward onto the counter. The marble is cold against my breasts and face.

His hand is between my thighs, spreading them wide open. The tip of his erection is pressing into my backside as he slides his fingers into me again and starts finger-fucking me rough and fast. Then it is not his fingers inside me anymore, and I cry out at the sheer size of him entering me.

The feeling is exquisite, not quite pain, but a deep burning as he thrusts hard and fast into me, firmly holding onto my hip. His other hand is still wrapped in my hair and he pulls it back, making my head bend backwards. My throat is stretched and my chest is lifted slightly from the countertop.

I have never felt as powerless before in my life. This man, that I do not know, could snap my neck if he chose to, but I discover I either do not care, or that I simply trust him not to.

He can do whatever he wants to me and I will let him and I will love it.

His pace gets even faster and harder and I feel the hot liquid erupt inside me as he emits a long low groan of pleasure with his final slam into me.

I feel his forehead resting on my back for a second then he pulls away and fixes his clothes, as I feel his semen running down the inside of my thighs.

He unties my wrists and massages them, then turns me around and looking into my eyes, he plants a sweet slow kiss on my lips.

He lifts me up into his arms and carries me from the kitchen, up the stairs and finds my bedroom door open. I am gently sat down on the edge of my bed and he sees my robe on the hook on the ensuite door and wraps it around me, placing my arms into the sleeves and tying the cord around my waist.

Then he kisses me again and leaves.

The following morning I am sore and have found bruises on my hipbones from the pummeling he gave me against the counter. I find myself smiling anyway.

The florist woman is back at my door with a massive bouquet of pink peonies this time.

In the small envelope nestled amongst the flowers is a card from an hotel.

The Card : “Tomorrow. 6pm. Room 1220. Wear a tight skirt.”


 Copyright 2014 by MsT secretgarden. All rights reserved.


5 thoughts on “How It Began…

  1. I think it takes balls to put this out there, I certainly couldn’t. To a degree I think you will always see it as corny, because you wrote it and are self critical, and maybe fearful that it is seen as corny by others, but I can’t really see it like that myself. The sort of thing that often makes me cringe is in novels where it’s watered down and all overly-cliched, nicey-nicey, wouldn’t offend your grandmother type stuff. It isn’t that! It’s descriptive, and detailed, and isn’t that what matters sometimes, the detail of exactly what is going on where? Because an inch here or there makes all the difference sometimes ;-). It’s horses for courses of course, different strokes and all that! It doesn’t go into massively graphic detail and the graphic part his very short, it’s more the build up and the power/freedom thing, which I think is a more typical of feminine erotic fiction. Not that I’m a great judge though!
    The eye contact thing got me. I like eye contact because it adds a whole new level of intimacy and intensity. There’s always times when one or both wander off into their own world of distraction but don’t you want to see how your partner is feeling? Doesn’t that connection just feed into a spiral of mutual enjoyment? Doesn’t he want to see it in your eyes, see you feeling it and see him loving giving it….because it isn’t just about giving and taking of physical pleasure, it’s the ‘soulful’ connection.
    Not looking is like taking and giving nothing back. Isn’t it? So I guess I felt there was more to be said there maybe, but it’s probably because that’s my thing, and I only mention it because you wanted feedback. This is really very good!
    I think it treads a line quite nicely of having female elements in it, you would know I guy wouldn’t have written it (that’s probably a good thing) even without the obvious physical perspective.
    You see, even trying to explain it sounds corny!


    1. First of all, thank you so much for taking the time to read it and give me so much feedback! You are a sweetheart!
      As for balls, I got balls of steel man! And I love to shock grannies whenever I can! And that rhymes!
      I love the eye contact too… Makes it all even sexier in my opinion. There’s lots more eye contact in the later stories too.
      Once again, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy anything else you read from my little blogs! I’m juggling three so I’m a busy lady.

      Liked by 1 person

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