LITMIR.BIZ

      Stranded

      Rachel Kramer Bussel

      I’m wearing my shortest skirt – white and flaring right out, like a tennis skirt – and no panties, along with a skimpy white tank top, through which my nipples are clearly visible, and platform wedges, as I sit on the barstool at our friend Colin’s new restaurant, the latest of eight he owns. I’m only five foot three, but height isn’t important from my perch. My almost black, sleekly styled straight hair falls just past my shoulders, long enough that I can swish it around or run my fingers through it. I’m wearing a little butterfly clip in my hair on one side, and stark, dramatic black eyeliner that makes my brown eyes pop, plus bright-red lipstick with shimmering gloss that makes me look even paler than I normally do, emphasising the dramatic colour.

      Next to me is Jake, my lover, my boyfriend, my top – and my wardrobe coordinator. When we get dressed for an evening out on the town, he tells me what I should be wearing, from how to do my hair to whether to wear makeup to whether I should insert a butt plug in my ass. Sometimes I’m fresh-scrubbed, wearing a ponytail and an outfit more appropriate for jogging than for fine dining, what he calls my slutty cheerleader look, even though on the outside it’s totally wholesome; he says the slutty part is something that those who know what to look for can just tell about a girl like me. Sometimes I’m in basic jeans and a sweater, incognito, in a way; he says that, when I’m dressed down like that, even those attuned to naughty girls don’t have a clue, that it’s our dirty little secret, to be revealed at his behest – or not. I have a walk-in closet full of four years of clothes he’s purchased for me or that I’ve amassed, and, while fashion is a favourite pastime of mine, being Jake’s plaything is my number-one hobby – or avocation, if you will.

      He bought the tank, skirt and shoes for me; I’m more of a colour girl, when (occasionally) left to my own devices. I like to play up bold, striking colours that garner as much attention as the tattoo on my left shoulder of a purple dragon. Plus my breasts are big enough that I really should be wearing a bra, a fact he knows very well. When I don’t, not only are they visible, they also bounce heavily against me with each step, reminding me of their presence. ‘I like being able to see those pretty nipples,’ he told me while I was getting dressed, as he came over and plucked from my hands the T-shirt bra I’d been planning to wear. I know what he really meant was that he likes seeing other people noticing my nipples, ogling me quite obviously, sometimes accompanied by smirks or winks, allowing Jake to be a voyeur by proxy. Showing me off has always been something he’s enjoyed, a bonus to our ongoing play, and under his tutelage I’ve become quite the exhibitionist. Sometimes he’ll make me flash a car driving next to us on the highway, or he’ll drop a credit card on the ground at an opportune moment, so I have to bend over and bare my bottom just when the car salesman or manager or waiter is standing there. If I ever refuse, the punishment will be far more embarrassing.

      At first, I was a little concerned about this delight he took in my risqué attire; I loved the games we played, but wondered if Jake’s lack of jealousy meant there was something wrong with him, or me, or us. Then I realised that it gave me a chance to show off and flirt and have fun in a safe way. I’d had lovers who acted like their mild jealousy was no big deal, only to later find out that even a smile at a stranger on my part could incite something in them I couldn’t undo. With Jake, he’d made it clear that he wanted me, the core of me, the heart and soul of me, and if he had that – had my devotion – a few little harmless peeks and looks wouldn’t matter. I was his to show off, but I was definitely his.

      Technically, our relationship was open, but it came with boundaries and rules, and neither of us had fully taken advantage of that openness yet, save for some make-out sessions and heavy petting at parties in front of one another. The frisson of sexual energy passing between other people and back towards us was enough to recharge our erotic spark, to make us fully aware we were capable of choosing each other over and over again, even if other possibilities dangled in the air. ‘That older man asked me if you’d suck his cock,’ he told me after one of our early parties, as he shoved his fingers between my legs in our doorway. I’d shivered at the thought of them having such a conversation. ‘I thought about telling him yes, then blindfolding you and making you suck his cock, thinking it was mine. Maybe another time. Tonight I want you for myself,’ he’d said, before taking me roughly, tossing me on to the bed, pinning me down, both wrists in one hand, another twisting a nipple, while he slammed his cock into me in one deep, penetrating thrust.

      The light bulb had finally clicked at another party when I’d watched, champagne in hand, as a sweet young thing I could’ve eaten for breakfast flirted up a storm with Jake, tossing her masses of blonde hair over her shoulder, gazing at him with utter adoration, letting her breasts not so subtly brush against his arm repeatedly. There was something about seeing my Jake, in a suit, which is not really my thing but he wears them so well, chatting up this girl in a skimpy dress that probably cost a few hundred dollars while I wore artfully shredded jeans and a tight black lace top.

      I admired him anew, and liked that he was being hunted down by other women, but would be coming home with me. He’s extremely skilled in the art of flirting, and I smirked to myself as I watched him lean in towards her, heard her giggle but not whatever he whispered so close to her ear he may as well have kissed her. I got wet thinking about him doing to her some of the things he does to me. I got so lost in my fantasy of all that blonde hair swirling around her head as he held her in place while she sucked his cock, my fantasy vision so realistic that he startled me when he came back and whispered in my ear, ‘Having fun?’

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