She had yet to meet anyone who could drive her better than she could drive herself. Her body was like a Maserati that only she knew how to control perfectly.
A FRagile Balance
Cassandra had completely forgotten about her plans with Sean and she was running at least half an hour late. Sean wasn’t too demanding, but he was completely OCD about punctuality. He didn’t punish her on purpose for being late, which she would have enjoyed, he merely became unconsciously moody which bugged the fuck out of her.
Of the few things in life that made her feel blessed, rock star parking was at the top of her list. Having a car in San Francisco was a nightmare, but today Cassandra felt extremely lucky as she deftly swung her Karmann Ghia into a spot right beneath her Jones Street apartment in Russian Hill.
She stood in her room considering what to wear. White. Lace and satin. White thigh high, silk stockings, white suspenders, white lace bra…would her mini-dress be long enough to go without knickers? No. But all the more fun to try. She smiled to herself. Let the ritual begin.
She always started with a tepid shower. On hot days, like this one, the water felt cool and refreshing, and more than washing away the day, her body came alive as the water flowed through her hair, across her shoulders, down her back, and over her breasts. Her nipples swelling as the water streamed down her torso, her clit rising to feel the chill over and through her sex. She shivered slightly in anticipation of the night.
Showering was often a sweet kind of torment because it was so hard to keep her hands off herself. She loved cumming by herself while showering, but that often meant she would cancel the evening’s plans – because why put in so much effort when she could do so well on her own?
She had yet to meet anyone who could drive her better than she could drive herself. Her body was like a Maserati that only she knew how to control perfectly. Whether she was treated like a Porche or a Mustang by men who considered themselves experts, no one else had learned how her gearshifts worked. Only she had been able to get herself to 5th.
And she had come to realise that her fingers didn’t care if she was thin or wore make-up and she never had suffer in heels if she stayed home and played alone. Her hands never annoyed her the way people did - and there was only so much she was willing to put up with in order to be with someone who couldn’t give her what she gave herself anyway. Sartre was right, hell is other people, and personal bliss was in her own hands.
It had taken her years to figure out that if she wanted mind-blowing, deep, dark, convulsing orgasms, she should keep to herself, but if she wanted to be the object of someone else’s desires and pleasures – if she needed that kind of attention, that kind of rush, the bliss of being ravaged - she should be with people. Her hopes of ever uniting the two experiences – being ravaged leading to endless convulsing orgasms with a lover – had faded, like her favourite pair of blue jeans, over time.
As she closed her eyes to rinse her hair and face, she let her imagination wonder back to Kyla. She imagined Kyla naked, standing in the middle of the dance studio, with all the mirrors reflecting all the different angles of her beautiful, young form. Cassandra inadvertently reached up to fondle her own nipples as she imagined gently fondling Kyla’s, and the delicate electric tremors of desire pleasantly surprised her when she imagined her nipples touching Kyla’s. There were so many indulgences to want with Kyla, but how much would have to remain in her imagination?
The water was off and she was already beginning to oil herself when she finally came back to the present. If showering was a torment, oiling was closer to torture. If she needed to keep a handle on her rising desire, she would squeeze the oil into her hand and then gently rub it on her still dripping wet skin, but if she was feeling particularly sensual, she would lasciviously pour the oil directly over her chest and shoulders, across her hips and thighs, and over her pubis and down her backside, letting the oil cascade over her body, luxuriating in the ever so faint caress of warm botanical emollients basting her skin.
She slipped on a silk kimono to do her hair and make-up, making sure to understate everything. There were times when dressing and making-up like a whore created just the kind of subversion she wanted, but tonight she decided to look as sexy and chic as she possibly could. Power Exchange, was a bestial club, and Cassandra wanted to bring a sense of beauty and style to that den of depravity.