I can't help the moan that escapes my mouth at the taste of her tongue against mine, and my hips pulse reflexively up to meet hers. But before I can reach the heat emanating from her core, she grasps my neck in her hand and pushes me away, pressing...
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I sat at the bar, face blank.
Fuck my regular Martini, I asked for a shot of whiskey.
And another.
And another.
Okay, so maybe I am down five shots of whiskey. But I'm a big fucking girl who can handle her goddamn liquor and...
Fucking hell.
I lower my head to the bar and lightly slam it against the counter to the tune of: fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuuuuck meeee.
"Bitch you looking a whole damn mess."
Looking at Kyra, you see a small, slight Korean-American woman with soft curves, long hair, and penetrating dark eyes. At first glance, she looks harmless. But those eyes could cut through concrete, they're so damn sharp. Her voice is light and melodic, but when stating orders, it hardens into something so ferociously intimidating that you have no choice but to submit. Kyra found me at my darkest place. Kyra showed me the power of relinquishing control. And when I was ready, she showed me the power of taking control. She hadn't entirely known my situation then, but she had this annoyingly accurate tendency (some might call it a gift – her husband Noa sure fucking does) of seeing right through any walls you may erect to keep everything out.
I lift my head from its position on the bar counter to scan her body.
She looks like a MILF.
I may or may not have a thing for MILFs.
She's wearing a tight fitting turquoise peplum and high waisted, tight-fitting jeans. Her feet are clad in stiletto boots that raise her a few inches, and her dark, voluminous hair tumbles down her back and tickles the top of her waist.
"And you looking a whole damn meal." My eyes darken and my tongue darts out to lick my lips, doing another scan of her tight little body.
She rolls her eyes and climbs into the seat beside me, wordlessly raising two fingers toward the bartender for a drink. He nods, knowing her order by heart and begins preparing her usual gin and tonic. As he gets to work, she refocuses her attention back to me.
She looks me over and narrows her eyes. "I'm going to let that last comment slide but only becomes I'm no longer your domme." She breathes out, resting elbow against the counter and her chin against her hand.
The bar is dim lit and sparsely occupied.
It is a Monday night after all. The only people here are the alcoholics, the lonely, and the broken. And then there's me, trepidatiously tiptoeing the line between all three mortifying mediums.
I down my 6th shot of whiskey, not at all worried because apparently, I have the tolerance of a seasoned alcoholic. I turn back to face Kyra just as the bartender places her drink before her. She nods at him, takes her drink, takes a sip, and resumes her overly invasive examination of me.
