Kay begged Cole to touch her “there.” But playing in that part of the woods has a price, he warned his new lover. “There’s a power shift. For the bottom, it’s humiliation, surrender, loss of control.” Though not sure she understood—and not caring—Kay eagerly submitted. When he took her, Cole commanded her to bark like a dog (and she did!). Then the tables turned: Cole agreed to let Kay take him, although it takes a trip to their local sex toy shop for the right gear. Cole thinks he knows about the power shift. But it’s different when a woman is in control.
~~~~~ Excerpt ~~~~~
Following Kay up the walk to the house, I was captivated by her easy stride, her hips moving on their own, as she approached the door. Her sleeveless, red knit mini-dress was clingy, formfitting, a real show stopper. The fishnets were icing on a very hot cake. She’s a big woman—not big that way, just five-foot-eleven big, proportional, full breasts, a woman’s hips and curves.
Two hours into the party, Phil, one of the bassists in the orchestra, sidled up to me. “You’re a gorgeous couple. Cole and Kay. Kay and Cole. Gotta love the alliteration. And Cole and the ice princess, no less.”
What could I do but smile? A player of the lowly trombone, the descendent of the ancient sackbut, hitting it off with a cellist—instrumentalists not known for commingling with the hoi polloi. But not Kay. She had no pretensions of being a soloist. She was just another working stiff in a regional orchestra that almost paid a living salary.
“Can’t comment on her rep as being cool,” I replied. “Jesus, though, she’s hot tonight.”
We had been lovers for months, a known number in the orchestra for nearly that long, and we knew that soon it would be common knowledge that we were moving in together in the fall.
Throughout the evening, an obligatory late summer soiree hosted by the concertmaster, Kay stayed close to me. Her hand often found mine, whether we were together on the couch talking to one of the percussion players or standing in the kitchen with the hostess, admiring the new cabinets. When I glanced at Kay, she’d meet my eyes and show me the tip of her tongue and the hint of a smile.
Chatting with the conductor, wine glasses in hand, my arm went around her, hand resting lightly on her hip. Without missing a beat, her hand found mine and pushed it down to her butt.
Standing behind her as we said our goodbyes, Kay leaned back, her generous curves pressing into my crotch. I know that sounds sluttish, but she did it with discretion and aplomb, all the while complimenting the décor and the host’s hospitality as she induced my erection.
In the car, her face half-lighted by streetlamp, I leaned in to kiss her. As our lips touched, she guided my hand down her side, lifted a haunch and slid it under one of her round cheeks. Like a good writer, she had been showing, not telling: She wanted me to do her in the ass.
Kay was a cellist. Her pedigree included Pablo Casals, Jacqueline du Pré, Mstislav Rostropovich, and Yo-Yo Ma. Like those masters, she exuded class, style and refinement. Kay isn’t a goof like me who makes a living by buzzing his lips and blowing in a brass tube.
Breaking off the kiss, she moved her mouth along my cheek to my ear: “Cole, I want you to do me in the ass.”
Luckily, it was only a ten minute drive to my apartment.