LITMIR.BIZ

       Something Extra

       Flora Dain

      ‘Open your legs. Wider. Now push out that delectable little ass. I want you spread and ready.’

      The voice in my earphone is deep and stirring. Whenever I hear it I melt, like I’m chocolate cake.

      Maybe to him I am chocolate cake – with cream on.

      It’s late evening and I’m leaning on the bar of a plush hotel. The barman gives me a long look as he shakes my cocktail.

      I guess he’s used to seeing women dressed like this. I’m heavily made up, with piled-up hair, a skimpy, revealing satin dress and high heels.

      I’m even wearing diamonds – real ones.

      I may look expensive but I feel cheap. Or maybe it’s the other way round. Tonight I’m so excited I can’t think straight.

      I can also feel colour in my cheeks and a sparkle in my eye. It’s not just from excitement. There’s more than a touch of fear in there somewhere too.

      I don’t do this very often.

      ‘Lean forward. Keep your legs straight. I want the men around you to wonder if you’re wearing panties. Move a little.’

      I sway provocatively as I sip my drink. I’m hot now, partly from shame, partly from sheer, thumping arousal.

      He knows perfectly well I’m not wearing any. I was ordered to leave them off.

      His low command sends a shaft of heat straight to my groin.

      Has he any idea how short this dress is? If I lean forward any further everyone here will know for sure …

      The men around me all know I’m here. No one’s looking at me but I’m a female on heat. I can sense their interest. They’re waiting to see who’s with me.

      ‘Are you OK, Miss?’

      Even the barman’s curious now. There are other people waiting to be served but he ignores them. Maybe he thinks I’ve had too much to drink.

      The earpieces are wired to my phone. To everyone else around here it must look like I’m listening to music. I smile at him and nod.

      He colours a little and looks pleased.

      Is he going to chat me up? This might be a complication. But the men are tired of waiting and soon get his attention.

      ‘Now take a step back and arch your neck. Make sure all the men at the bar can get a good look at your tits.’ That voice, his voice, purrs again in my ear and I take a careful step back, hoping I don’t stab anyone’s foot. These heels are lethal.

      Several of the men are openly staring now, eyeing me as if I’m not only chocolate cake but the last piece left on the plate.

      This could get tricky.

      I know what they’re thinking but so might the management. Any minute now someone might decide to throw me out.

      I feel warmth behind me, a brush of fabric. Heat flares deep in my belly.

       He’s here.

      He leans forward and places his hands on the bar at either side of me in a frank, alpha-territorial land-grab. From somewhere above and behind me he calls to the barman, who scuttles over.

      No waiting around for Mr Alpha. He always gets instant service.

      ‘Another cocktail for the lady. For me a scotch. Make it a double.’

      The barman looks a little scared. ‘Yes, Sir. On the tab?’

      I feel my earpieces being gently removed. Mr Alpha leans close to my ear as he unlaces the wiring and reaches round to retrieve my phone from somewhere deep between my breasts.

      His fingers deliberately graze my nipple. It stiffens and prods against the thin satin, telling anyone who happens to be watching that I’m a needy, greedy slut. I can almost hear him think it as he slips my technology into his pocket.

      ‘Now walk slowly over to the table by the palm and wait.’

      I do as I’m told. Men’s eyes follow me all the way. There’s some sort of corporate event taking place tonight and I’m one of the only women around.

      I’m certainly the only woman dressed like this.

      The table is a small circle perched on a stand. People are discouraged from sitting for long. They’re urged to stand while they drink so they can join the dance floor.

      He follows me and sets down our drinks on the little circle between us. We stand side by side, our backs to the palm. He lifts his scotch and toasts me in a mild, sardonic greeting. I raise my second cocktail of the evening and touch his glass.

      Our eyes lock, his full of fire, mine, I’m sure, bright with excitement.

      Slowly he inspects my full, painted lips, my bare throat and my deep cleavage. As his eyes roam over me his gaze falls on my upper breasts, pink with my embarrassment, rosy with arousal.

      He looks amused. He’s enjoying this.

      I know what he likes. And he knows I find his demands hard to meet.

      That’s why he makes them.

      ‘You’re late.’

      I feel a tremor

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