summer (fiction)

The following is one scene from a novella I’m writing. It’s a rough draft still, and there’s much to be done on it, but I thought I’d post it anyway. Some of this is autobiographical, but the characters, other than myself, are fictional.  (Will post this also in my fiction section.)

I meet Summer in the Sheraton parking lot on Wednesday afternoon.

I am eager —OK, I am helplessly eager for her — so I arrive at 1:00, and I take time in the car to retouch my makeup and re-fix my hair. I tell myself to calm down, that it’s not my wedding for fucking sake, but I nonetheless am acting like it is, and I can’t help myself. I’ve been waiting for a week. I am a mess, but I’d like to be a mess with good hair.

Summer pulls up at 1:25, parks next to me. She gets out, walks to where I am standing, pushes me hard against my car and leans into me. I feel her breasts push against mine, and I sigh as she places her lips on mine. We kiss, and I think it must be a couple minutes later before we pull apart.

“I brought you something,” Summer says. She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a leather collar, studded, in a dark red, Merlot, perhaps. I see it and it’s like electricity sparks through my body. “Oh, my god,” I say, and Summer knows the mere sight of it has me creaming.

She wraps it around my neck, buckling it in back, then steps back to look at me. “I’ve wondered all along what was missing. You were made for this.”

“I know,” I reply. “Thank you.”

“Your skirt is perfect, by the way,” she says. “Your top is delicious. And I love your hair. Gorgeous. You’re frickin’ beautiful.”

I’m about to cry.

“So, now,” Summer says, “ I’m going to humiliate you.”

She reaches into her handbag again and pulls out a long leash. She attaches it to my collar.

She knows how it makes me feel — kept like a precious pet, contained, controlled — how that is her love for me. She knows what this is, what I am.

“I’m in love with you,” I blurt out.

“Yeah, I know,” she says. “Now follow me.”

She leads me by leash into the Sheraton. She walks me to the front desk and a gawking man in a suit. “I have a reservation. Summer Jackson.”

The desk clerk looks it up in the system and fumbles around for a plastic key card. “One or two keys,” he asks.

“One,” she says. “She’s not going anywhere.”

He nods because he doesn’t know what else to say. He has Summer run her credit card, and it takes a long moment to go through, during which he musters his resolve to look at me in the — boobs — and get his eyeful, then go through his perfunctory speech about the free breakfast in the morning, then with some extra seconds, looking to my eyes in a way that conveys a smirk, some judgment or pity, and some superiority. All at the same time.

I blush.

Summer senses it all and says to him roughly, “Are we done here?”

He collects himself and says, “Yes, of course, Ms. Malone. Here are your keys. I hope you have a nice stay,”

She collects her credit card and the plastic key card, and leads me away by leash. “They can lust over you all they want, but they don’t get to judge you.”

And somehow I am the proudest girl in the hotel.

She leads me by leash into the hotel bar and our friend Michael. There is another man at the bar itself, but no one at any of the tables. She seats us at one end of the bar.

“She’ll have a pinot noir,” she tells Michael. “I want a bourbon, neat.”

“Good to see you two again,” he says.

“Likewise,” she says. “It’ll be a Wednesday thing here, unless it gets too hot for us. Then we’ll need to relocate.”

“I can keep the temperature down,” Michael says.

“Appreciated. Who’s the dude at the end?”

“Businessman. He comes every other week for a couple of days. He flies in mornings.

Juices up here in the afternoons, then, I suppose, has business dinners somewhere.”

“Good,” she says.

Michael goes to prep the drinks. Summer looks over at me, tells me to straddle the bar seat. I obey.

I am aware that my sheer blouse, for Summer’s visual pleasure, has become Michael’s visual pleasure as well. My blouse’s pale sheer green is lost in a landscape of my full breasts, pink areolae, and erect nipples — all drawing greater attention. My eyes are seeking Summer’s but I can see the businessman’s gaze from the opposite end.

Summer asks me if I’m OK.

I nod yes. I am more than OK. I am in swoonland, kept, loved, and dominated. I am well aware that I am being displayed and used and humiliated. It is not without shame. I am embarrassed like this, and feel every ounce of my exposure. It is also, however, experienced with desire and love and utter submission.

Michael sets our drinks before us.

“What’s new?” he asks.

“Same old, same old,” Summer says. “Just trying to find some excitement in middle earth.”

“I get ya,” he replies. “I remember your name. Summer, I think.”

“That’s right.”

“I forget hers.”

“Her name is a bit under discussion. Not sure what to call her. Maura is her given name.”

“Doesn’t seem quite right, does it.”

“No. What would you name her?”

“Not sure. Let me think about it.”

“Drink your wine,” she orders me.

I take my glass and sip the pinot noir.

Summer reaches over to my lap and slips my skirt higher up my thighs, revealing the lace tops of my taupe stockings.

“Very nice,” Michael says.

“I think she has pretty thighs,” Summer says, “and the lace tops show them off nicely. Problem is, she’s so covered up most of the time. She needs to be seen.”


I am flushed as the two talk about me. I am embarrassed to be exposed, thrilled to have Summer say my thighs are beautiful, and thrumming in my state of being collared and leashed.

“May I have another sip?” I ask Summer. I am playing into the scene she is creating.

She smiles at me, and I warm. “How do you address me?” she demands.

We haven’t talked about this. I have called her “my goddess” on occasion, but that’s for play and it’s meant in love. In front of others here, it would sound taunting and fake, I think. I settle on something else.

“Ma’am, may I have another sip?”

“You may.”

As I reach for my wine, Summer hands my leash to Michael. “Don’t let her get away,” she says casually. She walks down to the other end of the bar and talks with the lone businessman sitting there. After a couple minutes, I realize she’s inviting him to sit with us. My body flushes.

He takes his drink and walks toward us. He’s got light hair and a square jaw. He’s trim and attractive, sporting a good fit in his Perry Ellis suit.

“This is Mr. Jay Donovan,” she says, introducing him. Summer has him sit next to me on the right and she takes the seat on my left. “So,” she continues, “we are trying to come up with a name for my slave girl here. Jay, her given name is Maura, but we all agree that isn’t so good. So what else might we call her?”

“Pretty thing,” he says, immediately playing along, trying to get into the flow of the scene.

He might not mean “Pretty Thing” as a candidate for my name, just as a description, as he scans my breasts veiled through my top and drinks in the sight of my bared thighs sheathed in lace.

But Summer takes it as a suggestion. “I like that,” she says. “’Pretty thing.’” She rummages through her handbag and pulls out paper and pen. She’s really doing this.

“’Toy,’” Michael says. Both men are getting into Summer’s improvisation. “Or ‘Plaything.’”

“Both good,” Summer says, adding them to her list. “Let’s try that one.”

She turns to me and says, “Plaything, hold out your wrists.”

I obey, stretching my arms in front of me.

Summer reaches into her bag and pulls out a pair of leather wrist shackles, wine red, just like my collar. She attaches one to my left wrist, then reaches over and puts on the right one. “Plaything,” she says, “does that hurt?”

“No,” I reply.

Summer looks up to the men, watching intently. “I like that name ‘Plaything’,” she says.

“She seems to respond well to it,” Jay observes.

I realize I’m being addressed in the third person, the inanimate object on a bar stool.

“Plaything,” Summer says, “put your hands behind you.”

I obey, and Summer aligns my wrists in back, hooking them together with a spring clamp.

“I like that name,” Summer says, “but let’s keep being creative. Plaything is my slave, she obeys me in everything, and I own her. Gentlemen, what else shall we call her?”

“Fuck toy” says Jay.

“Might be too much wishful thinking on your part, Jay,” Summer says, “but we’ll put it on the list.”

I sit, my legs straddling the bar stool, my skirt hiked up above my thighs, and my arms shackled behind my back, as I listen to these men and the love of my life consider humiliating names for me. I am blushing, ashamed, incredibly turned on, and then ashamed all the more that I am so aroused.

“Maybe we should see a little more of her, gentlemen.” Summer says. She takes the hem of my hiked up skirt and pulls it up around my waist, revealing my bare pussy.

I breathe in sharply and look down away. I cannot bear to see the men staring at me.

“Plaything,” Summer says sternly, “look up at these fine men. Look at how they see you. Or else I’ll let you become a fuck thing. Right here, right now.”

I slowly lift my head and stare ahead.

“I suppose we could call her ‘Pussy’,” Michael says.

“That’s the name of the Bond girl,” Edward quips.

“That’s Pussy Galore. We could call this one just Pussy.”

“I’ll write that down,” Summer says.

“She has nice lips,” Michael observes.

“Kind of full and puffy,” Edward adds.

“Puffy Lips might be a name,” Michael says.

Summer writes it down. She places her pen and notebook on the bar. She walks behind me, standing behind my right shoulder, and leans over, kissing me on my cheek. “So,” she says, “let’s see.”

She reaches between my legs and her fingers stretch along my naked labia.

I flinch and start to close my legs. Summer raises her hand and brings it down hard against my inner thighs in a loud, sharp slap.

I screech and jump. Summer holds me in place, then whispers in my ear: “You want me to own you, so let me do this to you.”

I nod. “Yes, ma’am,” I reply.

She starts again on my pussy. I am wet, have been wet, and now am even more wet.

“She’s sloppy,” Jay says. “There you go: Sloppy Jo is another name.”

Michael has gone to the doors to the bar, closing them.

Summer massages my labia lips and I start to moan. Her other arm comes around and her hand cups my breast, squeezing it. I sigh loudly. Summer’s finger dips between my labia where my juice has pooled, and she scoops a thick dollop on her pinky.

Michael has returned behind the bar and he groans, “Oh my God,” as he sees Summer lift her pinky to my mouth, feeding it to me. I lick her finger clean tasting my own desire, sweet and tangy.

My vulva has become engorged from her fondling, my labia have swollen and gotten red. My vagina has opened more, now gaping, starting to spasm.

Summer now strengthens her fondling, stroking my cunt harder, her finger grazing my skin between the bottom of my pussy and my anus. She pushes harder against my pussy lips, then a finger pushes hard between them, inside my vagina, fully penetrating me.
I gasp loudly. “Ohhh, Gawd!” I say, bucking once, my bottom coming off the bar stool. “Ohhh. Yes!”

Whether it’s a week of desire and deprivation, my extraordinary lust for Summer, or the intense experience of being watched by two male strangers, I am flowing quickly into an orgasm.

My head falls back, and my breathing is coming faster. Loudly too, as I am wheezing for air with each quick breath.

Summer is pumping her finger in and out of me as I build to climax. Michael is leaning over the bar and has his head pushed down a mere foot from my pulsing cunt. Jay is kneeling now to my right, also peering close at the sight of my developing sex.

Summer’s finger is now making sucking sounds as it drives into me then pulls out. My vagina is contracting each time, trying to hold on to what is impaling it.

“Oh. My. God!” I yell again. I am loud and shameless and have nothing left for restraint or propriety. I want Summer, her fingers and fondling hands and sweet lips, and I start to beg her for it. For all of it. “Please,” I say, my voice suddenly weak and plaintive.

“You want it now?”

“Yes, please, ma’am. Please.”

“Thank these fine men for their help in naming you.” Her finger continues to fuck me.

“Thank you, sirs — “

“Individually, by name,” Summer interrupts.

“Thank you, Mr. Jay,” I start to say, my desperate gasps stopping me, momentarily, “for naming me.”

“Welcome,” he replies.

My hands are rocking behind me and my body is starting to shake. “Thank you, Mr. Michael, for your help in naming me.” My last words trail off into a whisper.

“You are welcome,” he says.

“Are you ready?” Summer asks me.

“Yes, ma’am, I am ready. Please. Yes.”

“You know,” Summer says slowly, “I think you ought to ask each of these fine men for permission to come.”

“Oh, no,” I say to her. “Pleeease!”

“Did you say no to me?!” Summer says. She spanks my inner thigh, and I yelp and jump.

“No. I mean, yes,” I say. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Summer’s finger is back inside me, and I am stinging from her spank and throbbing at my core, and now oozing profusely.

“So?” Summer prompts.

My breathing almost keeps me from speaking. “Sir. Mr. Michael, Sir, may I please have your permission to come? Please?”

“I kind of don’t want this to end,” he says.

“Please, I beg you.”

“I suppose,” he relents. “Yes.”

I moan loudly and throw my head back again. “Mr. Jay, Sir?” I gulp for air. I moan, as Summer’s finger drives a bit deeper. “May I come, Sir?”

He deliberately waits to answer.

“Please. I am begging you…”

“OK,” he says, laughing at me. “Yes.”

“Are you ready?” Summer asks again.

“God yes.” It comes out as a breathless yelp.

Her hand starts to slide back and forth over my pussy very fast, as she inserts her middle finger into my vagina every few seconds. In a hot moment she moves her hand farther up, and her hand flicks start to graze my clitoris.

“Ah!” I exclaim, “oh god.”

She continues and I am shaking hard now.

“Please don’t stop,” I beg her.

And… she stops. Completely.

“Ohhh,” I cry.

“Gentlemen,” Summer says, “I want you to look closely.”

“I believe I have been,” Jay jokes.

“Look at this,” she says. Her fingers splay me open wider and pull up on my labia, stretching my hood, and revealing my clitoris. “Look at that, gentlemen.”

“That’s really large, swollen.” Michael says.

“A lot of pleasure in that bulging pebble,” Summer says.

I feel like I’m going to cry. “Please,” I beg again, but my voice is wispy and dying.

“Another name,” Jay says. “Pleasure pebble. Or sex pebble.”

Summer starts her hand on me again, right where she left off. She brings me to the brink again, my breathing fast and quick, my body shaking, my nipples hard and achingly pointed through my sheer blouse. Her hand brushes my clit over and over, and my eyes close, and I drift away into another space.

My body stops bucking and bouncing and instead it starts to shudder in place, coming in rolling spasms.

Summer’s finger enters me one last time, then as she pulls it out, she slides it directly against my clit, like a sword pulled out of a scabbard, sparking as it slides against it.

I am gone. I yell. I scream. I swear. I stop breathing momentarily as my consciousness and body soar and leave and then return to earth, back to reality, spread-eagled on a bar stool in a hotel and sitting soaked in my own cum juices in front of two gentleman strangers and the love of my life, Summer.

“Welcome back,” she says. She kisses me.

Summer leaves my side and goes to sit on the bar stool to my left. She picks up her wine glass and sips it.

The men continue to watch me, my naked vagina still contracting in spasms, my head turned to the side in deep pleasure and deeper shame.

“Anything else exciting going on, guys?” Summer asks.

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