The Girl in 6E by Alessandra Torre
This book is dedicated to Terezia, a sister who understands the beauty of a great book, Dr Pepper, naps, and puppy breath.
“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.”
— John Milton, Paradise Lost
Undressing is an everyday occurrence. Most women do it mindlessly—automatic motions that accomplish an end result. But, if done correctly, stripping can be the ultimate foreplay, a sexual seduction that can wipe clear any rational thoughts and leave a man totally and utterly at your mercy. I have mastered the art.
I kneel on the bed and trail my fingers over my skin—light, teasing caresses designed to heighten my senses and stimulate my body. I exhale slow, trembling breaths as my hands travel near sensitive areas, the dip in my neckline, the lace over my breasts. I keep my eyes down, subservient to him, and wait for the command. One always comes.
“Take off your top. Slowly.” The voice is foreign, English words dipped in culture and dialect. I comply, lifting my eyes and biting my bottom lip gently, my tongue quickly darting out, and hear his gasp in response. I run my hands down my neck, grazing the top of my collarbone and dipping under the silk of my negligee. I slide down one strap, then two, the silk bunching over my breasts, the fabric clinging to my nipples. Then I rise to my knees, crossing my arms, sliding the fabric higher, letting it reveal inch by slow inch of skin until it unveils the curve of breasts, dip of throat, and the pout of pink lips.
“Good,” he groans. “Very good. I like you, Jessica.”
Jessica. Not my real name. He thinks he knows me. They all think they know me. After all, they’ve seen my Facebook page, seen the Photoshopped photos that construct my manufactured life. They believe what they see, because they want to believe. Like I want to believe.
I turn to the wall and stand, dragging my expensive thong down over my toned hips, bending over and exposing my most private area to his hungry eyes. The embroidered lace slides the rest of the way down my legs and drops around my ankles, snagging on the Italian stilettos that encase perfectly pedicured feet. I am naked now, and slide down to lay on my side in front of him, propped up on one elbow, his eyes hungrily feasting on my body. The lights, bright and hot, illuminate my bare skin, causing it to glow. He speaks, the arousal present in his voice, in the slight thickening of his accent.
“Touch yourself. Just your fingers. I want to see you come.”
He wants my fingers, a seductive performance of gasps, moans, and slick foreplay. Eventually, fingers won’t be enough. The next visit he’ll want more, something bigger, deeper—my moans to be louder, my orgasm stronger. There will be no secrets anymore, no boundaries, no requests he won’t be comfortable giving. At this moment, I am his, to do with as he pleases. And right now, he wants fingers.
I angle my body so that he can see my parted legs, my completely bare sex, wet, opened and closed with experienced movements. I dip one finger, then two, inside of me, moving them in and out with slow, seductive strokes, my eyes closed, head tilted back. I hear his gasp, the rustle of clothing, a zipper, and a moan as his hand finds his cock. Unintelligible words, a brief slip into a foreign tongue, the meaning clear despite the language. I increase the speed of my fingers, then pause, spreading my lips and exposing the sensitive bud that holds the power over my ecstasy. I moan softly, a breathy sigh that speaks of want and need, spreading wetness over my swollen clit, the change in pace causing a groan from him.
“Jessica,” he whispers my name, longing and need filling every syllable. “Please. I need to see you come.”
I open my eyes, staring forward into the bright lights, with a thin sheen of moisture on my skin. I bite my bottom lip, widening my eyes when my fingers again plunge into my core, quick, fast darts of movement, skin on skin; every thrust placing the heel of my hand over my clit, with a delicious friction that moves me in the general direction of an orgasm.
I won’t come. An actual orgasm is an occasional occurrence, one that my tortured body spits out in exhausted exasperation, one of those ‘here take it!’ gifts. But for the most part, I am severely oversexed, and my body, my *, has grown immune to stimulation. But he doesn’t know that. All he knows is that, ten minutes after my fingers make their first dip into the wet folds of my sanctum, my back arches, eyes close, and I have a full body, toe-curling, best-orgasm-of-my-life. I shudder, I gasp; I own the shit out of that fake orgasm. As I always do.
He groans at my climax, his hand creating slick sounds at an impossible speed, and a strangled sound meets my ears, a shuddering moan that disappears into thick gasps.
Then, pure silence. No breaths, no fabric rustling, no sated sighs.
An electronic beep sounds, a tone that I’ve heard thousands of times. I stretch, grab my lingerie and roll over, hop off the bed, and walk carefully across soft carpet in four-inch heels until I reach my computer’s keyboard. I press a key, ending our session.
The lights go out.