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Present, Future Tense
“What do you mean, you haven’t gotten my present yet?” you ask via text. “It’s three days after Christmas and I’m taking the train to New York in a few hours.”
“I know, but you need to be with me when we get it. Soon.”
If I was in front of you, you’d look up, over your glasses at me in your special, circumspect way. It’s the same look you’ve been giving me, off an on, since we were in high school. You trust me enough to know I have something in mind, but not quite enough to think you’ll enjoy your present as much as I will. You might be right about that.
In just a few minutes, I’m on my way to pick you up in my car to drive us into Boston, plenty of time to get a meal and a drink before you hop on the evening train back to the City. At least, that’s my excuse to get you bundled into the car earlier than we’d otherwise need to.
I say my hellos and goodbyes to your mom and we load into the car. You look expectantly around your seat for something that looks like a present. Noticing your poorly disguised search, I smirk as I pull out of the driveway and say “soon.”
Four o’clock in December and the sky is already dark, headlights illuminating the snowflakes as they go by. My Volvo’s seat warmers don’t take long to warm us up. It’s cold outside, but you wouldn’t know it. Your left hand holds my right as I navigate us into Boston, my iPhone issuing gentle directions, to which you consistently reply, “shut up.” We both smile at the humor, old now, but warm in its familiarity.
We make an unfamiliar turn onto the city streets of Boston. You look out your window, trying unsuccessfully to read street signs; it’s been too long since you lived here to remember where we are in relation to South Station. “Where are we going? We aren’t going to eat at the diner near the station we saw last time?”
“We’re erranding first. Present time.”
You let go of my hand to clap yours together a few times; it’s a girlish gesture that makes me smile and feel young, too. I take any chance I can get to evoke such responses from you. We stop at a light and I take the chance to look over at you as you watch people walk, many of them weighted down with shopping bags. “Newberry Street” you half mumble to yourself.
You look at the pedestrians and I look at you. The years haven’t just been kind—they’ve been downright generous. You were cute in a teenager; now you’re beautiful. I put my hand on the far side of your neck, pressing you toward me, your face turning to meet mine as we lean into the space between our seats. We really kiss for the first time in too long and keep at it until the honks from behind us remind me that we have someplace to be.
We park, re-bundle against the cold, and walk a block or two to the shop. I haven’t told you where we’re going, so you yelp when I suddenly turn us both 90 degrees right and down a half dozen steps into a brownstone shop. The sign above the window says “Agent Provocateur”. You half roll your eyes and give a groaning “oh, god” but we walk in and you immediately start rethinking your derision. I give you a slow smile and you begin to get the idea you’re going to enjoy this.
We look around, briefly before a pretty young woman introduces herself and offers to assist us. You look at me, draw a breath and open your mouth, but before you can say anything, I draw out a piece of paper from my coat and say “Hi, yeah. We’d like to see the pieces on that list, maybe one or two at a time? In your fitting room. My friend here will be trying some things on. I’ll be helping. Oh, and the last two items on the list: the first I’ll take wrapped up and the second you can bring in a bag with the last outfit you bring us in the fitting room. Thanks.” You softly close your mouth and arch your brows at the preparation I’ve done; in silence, you let me lead you toward the fitting rooms as the girl starts finding poker oyna the first few items.
Once inside the small room, we take off our coats and my smile gets bigger. You finally find your voice, playfully slapping me on the shoulder to emphasize your point. “you’re getting me lingerie? And you’re watching me try it on?”
“I hadn’t bought myself a present, either—and I’ve been a good boy this year.”
You take this as your cue to switch your tone, bringing your body close to mine. “Yes, you’ve been a VERY good boy this year.” You lean your face up and put your hand around the back of my neck, bringing me down for another deep kiss.
This time we’re interrupted by the girl with the first armful of things to try on. She gently clears her throat and says “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes to see if you have questions. Or need the next few things” She turns and walks out, closing the door behind her.
“OK, you. Strip.” I say it with some humor in my voice, but with another note in it, too. Expectation, maybe? Whatever it is, you look right at me as you begin to untie your boots. Knowing that you’re going to be more-or-less naked in a public room with me, a sales woman right outside, you don’t know whether to feel more scared or more turned on. I get up out of my chair, still frustratingly clothed, but holding the first few items, first among them a back Mercy corset. “This first.” And I take you by the shoulders and spin you around so that you and I are both facing he mirror, me directly behind you.
We take a few minutes lacing you into the corset and admire the result in the mirror. You lean back gently against my chest and my arms encircle you as our eyes meet in the reflection. My fingers trace the skin just above the corset’s lace front.
Gooseflesh raises just behind my fingers, you close your eyes and drop your hands down so they find the backs of my thighs. As my fingers find their way down your arms and then your hips, you press your hands into the back of my legs. I’m moving my fingertips around the front of your pelvis when there’s an inconvenient knock at the door.
“How’s that working out for you? You get the Mercy laced up OK?”
A little deflated, you respond, “It’s fine.” There’s a slight pause and she comes into the room, hangs up a few more items on a hook near the door, turns, and walks out again, a knowing smile on her face.
We take the opportunity to pull apart and I unlace you before choosing something new for you to try with a flippant “the rest of these are…less complicated. Faster on and off.”
We spend the next half hour getting you into-and out of-beautiful and delicate pieces of silky clothing. After you slip each on, we look at you in the mirror and I touch whatever skin is left exposed. We lose track of the number of outfits and both of our breathing comes quicker and more ragged. I’ve had my hands on you almost constantly, but never exactly where you want them.
“You have to get me out of here. Take me somewhere and fuck me,” you say, almost pleading.
“Not just yet.” We have a few more things to look at.”
“Noooo…I can’t take it.”
There’s another knock at the door; she’s back, with a final hanger’s worth of silk, a bag, and something wrapped in tissue paper. I take each of the items from her and say “thanks. Can you go ahead and ring all of these last things up? My friend will wear this last bit out of the store.” I give her my card and in a single fluid series of motions, she nods, smiles, and exits the small room.
I hand you the hanger and wish you Merry Christmas. You look at what’s on it, a Luna camisole and matching briefs, both black. “I’m going to need those, though,” pointing at the soaked pair of underwear you’ve managed to keep on throughout the last half hour. You bend down, slowly draw them off, and hold them out, hanging heavily from your index finger. I canlı poker oyna take them and as you watch, I bring their wetness to my nose. I inhale deeply and close my eyes, the smell making me dizzy. I pause briefly and exhale, opening my eyes again. I put the thong in my pants pocket.
You slip into the camisole and briefs as I retrieve one of the other items the girl brought in. You’re standing in front of the mirror, admiring the view and murmuring “I love it” when I take my usual place right behind you, this time with something wrapped in store tissue paper. “Merry Christmas,” I wish you again, and hand it over.
“More?” you say, and tear through the paper. A few moments of shredding reveal a large silver metal ring with two black chords tied to it. I take the ring from your appraising hands and unfasten it. I bring it up to your neck and close it again until it becomes a choker, hanging low and resting just above your collarbones.
I put my hand on the back of your newly encircled neck. I use the hand to guide you away from the mirror and toward the room’s sole chair. “Kneel on the chair and hold on to those chords with your hands. Don’t let go of them, no matter what I do.”
You like the sound of that and follow orders. You bend at the waist, resting your elbows on padded top of the chairback.
I move my hands to the small space between where the camisole ends and the brief begins and hook fingers into the waistband, dragging them very, very slowly over the curve of your ass, down to your knees, and under them, causing you to shimmy a little. I say, almost in a hush, “I know I just gave these to you, but I need them back for just a second.” They’re off of you and I drape them on the arm of the chair. “I wouldn’t want to ruin these.”
I trace my fingers up the back of your thighs and up to your ass, dragging my nails just a bit to sharpen the sensation. You make a sound like you just took the first bite of delicious, creamy dessert, nearly a moan. You put your head and shoulders down, sending your body backwards to meet my touch.
I bring my fingers to the center of your ass and down and start to feel how wet you are: you’ve been turned on for the better part of an hour by now and your skin is slippery between your legs. I put a gentle pressure on the inside of your thighs, letting you know to move your knees apart and once again you follow direction.
Barely touching you, I bring my fingers over your pussy lips and you let out a long sigh, ending with “please…” I answer with my own dizzied sigh almost automatically: “soon.”
With a little more pressure on the second pass, your lips part and my middle finger finds its way into the slickness of your pussy, its pad moving forward towards a clit I know will be distended from the lack of direct attention. I touch it and you nearly jump out of your skin, a woman on the receiving end of an electric shock. I respond by putting one hand on your shoulder to keep you in place as the other begins to move forward and back, gliding over your clit each time it passes over.
As we establish at a slow, but steadily increasing rhythm, you let out a louder groan, the tension of months finding their way through your mouth. I caution you to be quiet, but take the paradoxical step of moving my thumb just so that on my hand’s next stroke forward, it slips totally inside you, its pad sliding smoothly over your g-spot. Your groan quiets, but turns into a “God!” as your head drops even lower, between your shoulders. The chords you’re still holding onto are taught now, but you don’t let go.
A few moments and no more than a half-dozen strokes later and you begin to have that tingling in the base of your skull that tells you you’re going to come. You whisper something about wanting me inside of you, clearly not talking about just my thumb. “Soon,” I whisper. “Come for me first.”
And you do, internet casino almost as soon as the words pass my lips. You buck up, then down, letting out a sob brought on by the release.
A few more strokes, softer now, bring you down gently. I take my hand from your shoulder and unzip my pants, fishing out my cock. My other hand withdraws from you and you nearly slump from its absence. I bring this second hand, wet from being inside you, and rub it on my cock, making it slick.
In an instant, it’s inside you. My still-wet right hand finds your hip and urges you back into me, totally superfluous except to establish who’s in control. The other finds its way under the camisole to a hardened nipple, and begins to pinch and roll it between my thumb and forefinger.
We are fucking in earnest now and though the shop girl has only been gone a minute or two, she won’t stay at the register long. We don’t need her presence urging us on, though, and even if she knocked, we’re at a point where we couldn’t possibly stop.
Riding the wave from your first orgasm, you pick up speed as you ride down through the trough and up to another, higher peak. We’re both speeding towards orgasm and I warn you I’m going to come soon.
That sends you rocketing off and you come again, this time sinking your teeth into your forearm to stop yourself from crying out. What escapes is only a whimper, but you’ll bear marks on your arm that will last half the train ride.
I can last only a few more seconds and my body lets me know I’m approaching my own moment of no return. I can only grunt out “Coming. Soon” between teeth clenched hard from the effort to make myself last just a little longer.
In a surprisingly quick motion, you spin off of my cock, kneeling in front of me. You take me into your mouth, hands finding my still-clothed ass to urge it in. That’s all it takes as I start to spurt, immediately weak-kneed as every bit of my consciousness is concentrated into those inches inside your mouth. I say only “Oh, oh!” My hands somehow find the root of your ponytail and help guide you taking me in and out of you until I stop coming. You swallow what’s left and look up, a grin on your face.
I look down, still reeling. “Sweet Jesus” and smile my own goofy smile. It’s been less than ten minutes since the shop girl left us alone, but we both know this experience will loom large in our already extensive history.
We dress quietly, leaning on each other when it comes time to put on your shoes and our coats. We are happily flushed and exhausted when we exit our dressing room and walk toward the counter to retrieve my credit card, sign the receipt, and thank our helper. The shop girl, too, is flushed and staring down at the counter, conspicuously avoiding eye contact. I wonder if we’ve earned ourselves a lifetime ban from the store, but she says “I’m glad you got what you came for. Please come back any time,” still looking down at the counter, but smiling slightly.” I merely smile in answer, but you let out a single syllable of laughter before taking my hand as we head out the door and into the snow, which has gathered momentum.
We virtually traipse down the street as we go back to the car. The small bag Agent Provocateur bag I’m holding in my left hand catches your eye and you ask “another present?”
“Yeah, but this one was for me, kinda as a contingency.” We stop on the sidewalk among the other pedestrians and I pull you out of the flow of traffic. I draw out a small black leather paddle, not much bigger than a shoehorn, and hold it up between us. “This was in case you got feisty—or let go of the chords. Lucky for you, I didn’t need it.”
You laugh again, this time adding a second syllable. “Good thing you didn’t show that to me in the store. They’d have needed to bring the cops to get us out of there.”
I file that away for future reference and put the paddle back in the bag. Our hands slip into each other’s grasp again and we approach the relative shelter and warmth of the car.
Thanks for reading my story; this is my first submission and I welcome constructive criticism in the comments.
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