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Thursday, May 20, 2004

A New York Fantasy (NC-17)

First some disclaimers. This is not a true story, nor am I sure that I want it to be (although somebody is welcome to try to convince me otherwise!)

I had fun writing it, and I hope you have fun reading it. And, yes, it is supposed to be tongue in cheek.

If you are offended by a sexual story, well, uh, what the hell are you doing on my blog?


Trump International Hotel and Towers, 10:42 AM

Even before noon it was a hot day in Metropolis, and despite his cool reputation even Superman wasn’t about to help out. From my air-conditioned perch I had a three hundred foot vantage point above sweaty tourists, a cool view from a glass and steel refrigerator at the corner of a sweltering Central Park.

Behind me a disturbed sleep had twisted the bed sheets into a bizarre frieze of crazy swirls and folds. If I hung them on my balcony now, by nightfall I could expect a keening crowd of supplicants seeing the face of Jesus, Elvis, or maybe Alan Greenspan, the personal idols of those seeking meaning in their lives of loudly amplified desperation.

But I could do without the crowds, so I merely left the sheets for possible deification by the maid and made my way through my hotel suite to the door. As I had expected somebody had quietly slipped a gold-embossed envelope through the nearly air-tight crack under the door, probably a bell boy sweating under the baleful gaze of the do not disturb sign.

I freed the letter from its gummy prison and unfolded the crisp linen finish stationery. The banner above implied that Donald Trump was my pal, but I knew it lied; Donald hadn’t spoken with me since I drove his Barchetta into the reflecting pool at Casa Lago. But his general manager hardly kept track of Donald’s driving insurance rates, and afforded me the obsequious pleasantries reserved for foreign dignitaries, lesser royalty, and regular patrons with an ever-rustling tipping hand. Indeed this letter was the staff informing me via Waterman of their meticulous arrangements for the day. My eye scanned the flowing script.

Had I been Jove, a nimbus of lightning would have surrounded my head and cleared my clouds straightaway. The car bearing Teresa Lorna, the muse of the heavens, was due shortly! Oh, frabjous day! I leapt for joy and nearly knocked over a flower vase.

“Get a grip on yourself,” I muttered. In fact that suddenly seemed like a great idea. A good “grip” might relieve my suddenly growing “interest” compounding somewhere at the level of my front pocket and rising rapidly toward my belt buckle. In fact, it was a positively throbbing interest. But then I remembered the pact to which Teresa made me swear: that I would not allow anybody but her to satisfy me until Saturday night.

I looked at my watch. It indicated that Saturday was a bit less than three days away. But the watch was a damned Complication with all those mysterious extra hands, half moons, and more dials than an airplane control panel, so maybe...

I looked at the wall calendar. And the damnable paper medium only confirmed the three day sentence.

Well, it wasn’t that bad, right? About 60 hours. About the time it would take for a leisurely read through The Lord of the Rings and the Simarillion, you know: the kind of leisurely reading when you bother to read all the songs. And the appendices. Even the ones about the different Elvish characters. Yeah, no problem. I had already denied myself for nearly a week while I was immersed headfirst in work, so what was another couple days?

But what if she took this seriously? What if she delighted in torturing my very soul, knowing that I would be denied release until Saturday? What if she dedicated every fiber of her considerable mental prowess toward days of pure evil?

No. This would not happen. Not my dear, sweet, friendly, submissive Teresa.

But then why was I sweating?

But throwing away any concerns, I made ready for her arrival.


Four Seasons Dining Room, 1:18 PM

I was distracted from my conversation with Mike by the vibration of my smart phone. I unholstered it, upon which it emitted one shrill cry before I silenced it with the TALK key. Sandy Weil, holding court at his regular table near mine, had his underlings glare at me and rattle their briefcases ominously. Wrong this crowd and you’d never get credit again. They’d drop you in the river with your feet weighed down by third world debt issues. But I ignored them and begged the pardon of my lunch companion.

“This is the concierge. Per your instructions, the driver called to inform you that Miss Lorna's car is less than 30 minutes away.”

My heart raced. I quickly made excuses and stiffed Mike with the check, leaving him to try to explain to the Four Seasons’ staff why he should have his lunch comp’ed... “I’m the Mayor for cryin’ out loud!” Boy, put a billionaire’s holdings in trust and get him into public office and suddenly he’s cheap.

I made my way to the hotel to await Her arrival. True to the driver’s information, it was a short wait. But the buildup of hormones already had me quivering, counting every moment as if it were a lifetime.

At 1:45 PM, the car pulled up. I had a stage-side seat for the ballet the hotel staff call a VIP arrival. Fosse might have choreographed the scene at the height of his powers: the doorman strode to the rear door while a bellman nudged his rack into place by the entrance out of the way, then while the door was opened the bellman stepped next to the trunk just as the driver popped it open. Even as a pair of stunning legs was emerging from the car door, the doorman lent a hand to the passenger, the bellman was pulling luggage from the trunk, the driver was stepping out to tip his hat to the passenger, and the concierge was motioning the staff into a greeting line inside the lobby. But all this theater was stage left, in my peripheral vision. My eyes were dominated utterly by a soft focus vision of loveliness, the incomparable Teresa emerging from the car.

Despite a cross country flight, she looked as fresh as spring air. She floated up the entrance stairs as graceful as a gazelle, with a small smile as she greeted the staff. Of course as she saw me, her smile widened and brightened until the room lighting appeared to dim and my peripheral vision started to fade alarmingly. Reeling from the exposure, I murmured something nonsensical and guided her toward the elevator. Her first touch to my elbow to take my arm sent a shock through my system and the resulting electric arc knocked a nearby bellman unconscious. As we reached the elevator lobby, cherubs tossed garlands of flowers and sprinkled rose water over us. We escaped into the elevator wet and covered with soggy petals.

I vainly tried to remember my floor while I struggled to insert the passkey to get the elevator to move. My hand was trembling. Was I imagining a ghost of a superior smile from Teresa? It must have been a trick of the light, since she merely covered my hand with hers and guided me to firmly insert the key into the slot. Once in, within moments the earth moved and we were on our way. Teresa graced me with a welcome kiss that lasted through the entire twenty story trip, and left me reeling for the gilded handholds and cursing my evolutionary ancestors for abandoning the anaerobic life. Then the elevator stopped with a groan. Or perhaps the groan was from me. But we had arrived. Our floor. Our suite.


Trump International Hotel and Towers, 1:52 PM

Teresa acknowledged the roses I had arranged in her honor with a small smile. The view remained impressive, but somehow dimmed by the glory of her presence. She removed her shoes, curled her legs underneath her body in the couch, and accepted my offer of water with her characteristic grace.

For Teresa only the best, purest, most refined water would be acceptable. How could I ever dilute the noble chemistry of her character with anything else? To this end, I had procured nothing less than the legendary, fabled “eau de Trump”, collected from the holy waters of the woods of Penn, the home of the Burgs of the Pitts, and the source of the fabled Her and She rivers from whose rich, dark and creamy waters, it was said, one could brew an elixir of love that, when mixed with almonds, would drive any woman mad with desire. Unfortunately I must have predicted her wiring incorrectly, for she merely burst out in peals of laughter.

But moments later the bellman showed up with her luggage, which I directed to the master bedroom. She had packed remarkably light, which fueled my hopes that her clothing would be as scanty as my morals when it came to her. I rubbed my hands with anticipation, hoping beyond hope that we would be shortly locked in passion. Perhaps she had felt the same anticipation I had felt, and was pining for me while on the plane? Perhaps she had been crossing and uncrossing those fantastic legs in anticipation of meeting me?

I held her gaze and walked toward her. In my imagination the strains of a thunderous symphony was welling as I took her hand, pulled her to her feet, and then toward me, her beautiful eyes filling my vision, my heart and body suddenly feeling on fire...

“Would you like me to pour some water on that?”

I was confused. “What?” I said.

“Would you like me to pour water into the flower vase, sir?”

It was the bellman. Ordinarily a helpful, courteous, respectful young lad, I was amazed at how quickly he had turned into a mealy-mouthed, obnoxious, interfering brat. I threw some bills out of my pocket at him until he went away.

I turned back to Teresa... but she was gone! My mouth hung open as I contemplated the significantly humbled living room without her presence. I turned again, and saw a trail of clothing she had left, leading toward the bedroom. My eyes popped. My mouth went dry although paradoxically I was salivating heavily. I pushed my eyes back into place and wiped the drool off my chin, and staggered into the bedroom. I was having difficulty walking, but my persistence was rewarded by the awesome sight of Teresa’s naked body artfully arranged on the bed, with a small coverlet strategically enhancing the curve of her hip and the viola-like sweep of her torso. My knees buckled, I croaked something desperate, and I fell toward the vision in front of me.

“Silly boy,” Teresa said, giggling. I tried to shed my clothes, but my dexterity had apparently followed my intelligence and vocabulary, fleeing gibbering for parts unknown. Teresa skimmed her cool hands over the burning flesh of my face and chest as she helped me remove my shirt. When the slacks came off, she wrapped sinuously around me and tickled my thighs with her fingertips, cooing softly. I was mad with desire and pushed her back, preparing to ravage her.

Then, with a smile, she pulled away. Covering her privates with her arms, she said, “Naughty boy, don’t you remember your promise?”

I thought my life would end right there. It was like an icicle driven through my brain. Suddenly intelligence returned with its unwelcome guests: memory and dignity, and a fire hose of frigid reason it was using very liberally. I wilted, figuratively and literally. “Y-y-you don’t mean...”

“But of course, I do.”

I reflected on how I had never noticed how mischievous and devilish her expressions were. When did I think it was pure?

“But we really aren’t going to wait until Saturday, are we?” I asked, unable to keep a little plaintive tone from my voice.

“Oh, at least. Saturday is if you’re good.” She smiled. I reflected on how I had never noticed how evil her smile was.

“So we aren’t going to touch at all until Saturday?” I said, unable to keep from whining.

“Oh, no, no, no.” Teresa replied, “We’re going to touch a lot. Oh, yes, a lot. I’m going to touch you and tease you until Saturday... any way I want.” She laughed merrily. I reflected on how I had never noticed how sadistic her laugh was.

“You wouldn’t do that to me!” I said. When I looked back, Teresa had suddenly become taller, looking down at me sternly. I realized it was because I was on my knees.

“Now you wouldn’t break your promise to me, would you?” Teresa growled. Was it my imagination, or were her canines unusually sharp and long?

“No, of course not.” I sighed. I couldn’t remember if I was drunk when I made that pact, or merely insane without mitigating excuse. But if through some parallel dimension I were able to meet my past self, the nutjob who made that agreement, I would have strangled him right then and there. He wasn’t the guy who was looking forward to suffering the next 60 hours.

My hands shook as I noted the time: T minus 58... Teresa minus 58 hours.


5th Avenue, 3:20 PM

I had arranged for a romantic night. Teresa had packed light and needed a dress for the evening. What would make more sense than Fifth Avenue?

Fifth Avenue is an interesting place, crowded by different kinds of customers: There are tourists, who gawk at the world-famous stores on this storied via. There are the mainstay customers, who are older women who buy Jill St. John and keep the cosmetic surgeons in business by measuring their lives by the carat weight of their jewelry divided by their dress size and wrinkle count. Then there are the young female customers, the models, the actresses, the arm candy, the beautiful. The girls in the fantasies of the top designers when their runway fashions leapt out of their fevered brows.

Shopping is ordinarily an experience I rank just higher than surgical amputation. But with Teresa, it is joy.


Today it was a unique mixture of pleasure and agony.

At Prada, she pressed her curvaceous rear against me when she bent over to look at a tag. She put her hands back and pulled my hips forward, and swayed a little. She looked back at me, her hair hanging over one eye as she felt my hardness against her. She smiled coquettishly, and then moved away. I had to stand close to the rack to avoid making a scene, pretending to be fascinated with the prices of women’s’ skirts.

Later Teresa found a long tight dress. She pulled me into the dressing room downstairs and backed me against the wall. She pushed against me and kissed me. Her head turned as her lips parted and our tongues entwined. A sudden heat flared in my head and I almost lost my balance as she thrust against me. Her mouth found my ear and breathed in it, raising the hairs on my arm. “I want you so badly,” she panted in my ear, raising her leg to press against my member. “I want you right here.”

She stood back, breasts thrust forward, and peeled down her clothing until she was completely naked. When she stepped out of her panties she backed against me, took my hand in hers and guided it to her womanhood. She stroked it with my fingers, cooing, “Do you feel how hot I am for you?” Again she thrust her rear against me, driving me crazy with lust.

Then she walked to the hook and pulled on the dress.

In the mirror it looked tight and sexy. And in the mirror I looked disheveled and stupid. In fact my jaw was hanging, the room was spinning, and I had no idea what was happening.

Teresa looked at me. Her look softened, “Poor dear,” she said, stepping up and feeling my erection. “We’ll have to do something about that,” she declared as she sat on her heels, unzipped me and pushed down my pants past my hips. Reaching in with her cool fingers she gently pulled it out and blew cool air on it. She looked at me with her soulful eyes and licked her lips. I heard myself moan. She adjusted her hold, and then moving down to her knees she kissed the head and licked the smear of juices from it. I could actually hear the pounding of my own heart in my ears.

“There, all clean.” she said, and gently replaced it. She smiled at me, got up, and pirouetted in front of the mirror.

It was then suddenly clear to me, and the realization struck me like lightning from the gods: I was a dead man.


Per Se, Time Warner Building, 5:35 PM

Daniel was the best maitre d’ in New York City. I had first met him at the legendary original Bouley’s, where David Bouley’s incredible food experience started with the carefully orchestrated scents of apples and fruit in the entrance, and ascended to the fantastic French preparations of food accented with the productions of his own organic gardens. I had followed him to Ducasse, where Alain Ducasse built the most expensive tasting menu of that time, and now to Per Se, the new pinnacle of food mastered by Thomas Keller of the fabled French Laundry.

And it was fortunate indeed that I did know him for over ten years, since that was the only way I could get into the damned place. A kitchen fire had closed it down right after it opened, and the waiting list was full of the very rich, very famous and very impatient in New York itching to pay homage to this new chef.

When Teresa and I swept into the dining room entrance, the receptionist smiled at me. French restaurants in New York were famed for hiring models as the receptionists, and this woman had all the qualifications. But as bright as she may have shined, she was entirely eclipsed by Teresa, whose simple black dress drew stares from the men and daggers from their women.

Daniel saw me and hurried to me. He brushed right by Hilary Clinton and her party, bowed to me, and escorted us to our table. It was a table by the end, with a superb view. We sat across from each other, where I could regard Teresa’s gracefully plunging neckline.

Heads turned, but I hardly noticed, since my brain was in a fog. My entire body felt different, like my sex organs had swollen to the size of my body, and the rest of me had disappeared. I felt the air brush against my member as I walked, and could feel the pulse of it as my heart beat.

The plan was a relatively quick tasting menu, followed by the play Wicked, the latest Tony Award magnet based on the acclaimed book written by the same author who wrote Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister. I hoped the play could take my mind off of... of... well, away from wherever it was.

We were in the second or third course, and I had started to become more comfortable again. We were studiously ignoring the elderly gentleman at the next table who kept staring at Teresa. We were talking about the politics and evolutionary basis of racism, and my brain was warming up to the topic. I was making a point about maternal scent affinities crossing over to visual cues when I felt Teresa’s foot caress my leg. My voice slipped up, and I saw that devilish smile on Teresa again.

Her foot made its way between my legs, and she was teasing my member running down my thigh with her arched toes. My eyes started to roll back, but then, suddenly, a kind of anger rose in me. Clearly my brain was resisting being evicted by my other smaller but evolutionarily senior head. I grabbed her foot and squeezed hard, prompting a small squeal from Teresa. But she was still smiling when she said, “Is something wrong, lover?”

“Stop it,” I said, gritting my teeth, “stop teasing me like this. I won’t have it.”

“You won’t have it? Really?” she said, shifting sexily across from me. “You don’t want me to touch you?” She licked her finger slowly like a delicious lollypop, and looked at me longingly. She took my hand and traced her fingers over my palm. I shivered at the sensation and refused to be distracted by the elderly gentlemen apparently in cardiac arrest the next table.

“No, I won’t let you do this to me,” I said. “I have my pride.”

There was a long pause as Teresa looked at me, assessing me. Finally she looked away. “Ok,” she sighed, “I can see you are suffering, and I feel bad.” She looked contemplative. God, she looked sexy when she was like that.

“Ok, just this once, let’s get you straightened out so we can make it through the evening,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Come to the restroom with me.” she said simply, and she got up. I remembered that the restrooms were private here, one person per restroom.

“Give me a moment,” I said, realizing that her words and the thoughts flooding through my brain had made it difficult for me to make the walk through the dining room to the restroom.

“No, come now,” she stated, and walked towards the entrance. I tried to arrange my jacket to look decent, thought about dead puppies, and followed her, ignoring the waiters rushing to replace our napkins and the EMTs providing CPR behind us.

She almost roughly pushed me into a restroom and followed me in. She turned and locked the door. Without a word, she unbuckled me, pulled my garments down and slid my member into her mouth. Her lips held me tight and she swirled her tongue around me. I moaned, and threw my head back. It wouldn’t take long. She pulled off and then started to focus on the head with her tongue, building a rhythm that my body and breathing involuntarily started to follow. Her eyes watched me carefully.

Then suddenly she pushed me down her throat, her eyes flashed dangerously, and she bit down slowly but firmly on my head with her molars.

“Argh!” I cried. I pulled out a little, but was held firmly, so stopped. “What the hell?”

Teresa growled at the back of her throat, and stared at me. She shook her head a little, letting me feel her incisors. It hurt a little, but the sudden shock of it had almost pushed me over the edge.

She released me slowly, grabbing firmly with her hand. She sat back on her heels and gave me a hard stare. Then she loosened her grip and started to stroke me. She leaned forward and licked me. I groaned, confused.

She pulled away. “Do you want me to do this more?” she asked.

“Oh, god, yes!” I said.

Her other hand massaged me and she pushed her mouth over me. Then she pulled off again.

“You like that?” she said.

“Yes, please don’t stop.”

“I am going to stop,” she said. “I’m absolutely going to stop before you finish. Do you still want me to do it again?” And she squeezed me, causing me to groan again.

I could hardly think. The feeling was so good I couldn’t stand life without it. The wall of my pride was glass shattering under the pressure of my need.

“You could have more of this,” Teresa said, standing up, my penis still in her hand, and kissing me deeply. Then she let go of me and nuzzled and licked my ear. She took her hands and caressed my chest, teasing my nipples.

“Or you could have no more,” she said, and pouted. She cocked her head, her hair falling to one side, and smiled knowingly. “It’s your choice.” And she bent down again and almost touched my penis with her tongue, watching it pulse. “So do you want my mouth on you? Do you want to feel it against my throat? Do you want to feel my tongue caressing you? Even if I won’t let you finish?”

My pride shattered, and my lust surged like an unstoppable river bursting the dam. I heard myself say, as if from a distance, “Yes, please, yes do it. Even if you stop.”

Teresa smiled. “To deny me is to deny yourself.” My brain hardly registered the meaning of her words, when all thinking was banished by the thrust of her mouth, taking me deeply.


Trump Hotel, 3:44 AM

It was a dark and stormy night. Suddenly a shot rang out! My shot. And it was great. No... wait...

I woke to sweaty sheets. It was only a dream, I realized with a groan of misery. I was in poor shape. My rising interest had become such a constant and pressing presence that whenever I was standing I was perpetually leaning to the left. Another day of this and I’d be casting votes for Nader.

The ivory cool body spooned against my rear didn’t help. Teresa was extra-ordinarily affectionate during the evening, gazing at me with her eyes, stroking my arm with her fingers, and pressing herself against me. We went to bed naked.

I usually don’t wear a watch to bed, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Earlier that day I sent the concierge out to buy me a Breitling chronograph to accurately measure the 180 thousand second countdown, ditching my complication.

I cursed as I read the watch face. Still 159,341 seconds to go.

I tried to positive about it. I had broken the two day barrier, it was less than 48 hours now. I had made it to Thursday. But Wednesday almost killed me, and it was a half day. I was only one fifth the way through. Darkness filled my thoughts. I groaned again in misery.

Teresa responded, half asleep. She snuggled closer, nestled her head against my neck, and rubbed my nipples, causing my erection to harden and my body to quiver.

I couldn’t sleep. I was exhausted, but the pent up sexual energy was keeping me awake.

I tried counting sheep. I was up to 124 sheep when I noticed that those soft, furry legs and shapely hindquarters were starting to look pretty damned good... damn, even that was getting to me.

Normally I would masturbate to relieve the tension.

I seized on that thought. Could I get away with that? It would probably take about two minutes in the condition I was in. And how would Teresa notice if I were quiet?

I looked at the night stand, but there was no tissue there for cleanup. It would have to be done in the bathroom. That would be better anyhow, since there was less chance of disturbing Teresa with motion or noise.

But I had promised!

Maybe that would have mattered ten hours ago, but my pride and honor had become a flimsy house of cards, easily scattered by the winds of sexual frustration.

I carefully untangled myself from Teresa’s arms and moved to the edge of the bed. I wanted to act natural, like I needed to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I rolled off the bed. Teresa had rolled in the other direction, clutching a pillow that was fortunate enough not to have made stupid promises. Her nude form draped on the bed was stunning, her legs long and tapered, and her breasts moving gently with her breathing. I stared, my lust growing again.

Maybe I could just ravish her. She’d be half asleep, and she was always responsive. But it was dangerous. She might say no. She stirred and moaned a little, and I noticed in horror that my hand had involuntarily reached out and stroked her leg.

I walked to the bathroom. My erection was hard in anticipation of the orgasm. The bathroom light was on very low. I shut the door, but not all the way, to avoid the sound of the latch. I carefully put the top seat down on the toilet and sat down on it, but it wasn’t that comfortable. So I pulled down two large towels and put them into the Jacuzzi bathtub. I lay in the bathtub and started to touch myself. Yes, it wouldn’t take long, but I wanted to intensify the feelings.

I stroked myself slowly, and then a little faster. My breathing quickened, and I fantasized about Teresa’s stroking me surreptitiously during Wicked, her eyes looking into mine, yeah this felt good… the oral sex in the limo on the way to the Rainbow Room, the feel of her hair over me, I stroked a little faster… our sneaking off to the closed section of the Rainbow Grill for groping, her breath in my ear, her grinding her body on mine in the steam room before bed, oh, god, I was close...

“Bad boy!”

The yell scared me shitless as the lights suddenly snapped on to full and the door slammed open. Teresa stood there, gloriously naked and looking quite pissed off. I lay there in the bathtub open mouthed, nearly at orgasm. Without hesitation, she walked up to the faucet and turned on the shower full blast.

“Argggghh, wait, stop!” I cried as the cold water struck me. If not for the towels I would have hit my head on the bathtub badly, as it was I flailed around for a while before I could make it out. I didn’t see Teresa, but I grabbed a fresh towel to dry myself off and warm up.

Teresa stormed in again. “Bad boy!” she repeated and whacked me across the head with a rolled up New York Times she got from the room. I was stunned. Her other hand was balled on her hips and her eyes were narrowed.

“But Teresa...” I said, and I was startled to hear myself whine.

“But nothing! I trusted your word, and you were bad.” Oddly, I thought I saw tears forming in her eyes.

“No, wait...” I stammered, “I couldn’t help it. I need it so badly.”

“I thought you were more than just an animal. You could control yourself.” Teresa looked down. “I thought you were better than other men.” Suddenly she looked like a lost girl, vulnerable and sad.

I felt devastated out of proportion to the situation. I had made Teresa sad and disappointed, and it made me feel very bad. “I’m sorry, Teresa. I... I can do it if you really want me to.”

I felt something change in her. When she looked up at me she was smiling again, radiant and beautiful. My heart swelled and I felt happy again. She looked at me and said, girlishly, “Would you really? For me?”

“Yes, Teresa. For you, anything.” I said, feeling oddly protective, caring, and loyal.

“Come to bed, lover,” she said, and she led me to the bed. She kissed me, warmed with her body, stroked me, and said, “No man has ever done this for me.” She snuggled up to my aroused, twitching body, and fell asleep like a child in my arms.

When sleep finally took me, an hour later, a thought slipped through my consciousness: our relationship had changed, and I wasn’t clear headed enough to appreciate how.


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