There's comparative silence in the featureless hotel room. That will soon change.

Strip for me.

Kneel. There on the floor beyond the bed.

Hold my belt in your upturned palms for me, while I circle you. Appraise you.

Mmm, so pretty.

Now cup one hand between your legs and collect every drip as I spank you with this belt.

Yes, right now. I want to mark you. Hear you gasp as the leather slices the air and cracks against your behind, again and again.

Ohhh, just like that. Good girl.

I know, I know it stings. Part of me hates to hear your whimpers when every snap lands and interrupts the perfection of your curves, but another part knows we both need it, for different reasons.

You love how giving away control delivers freedom. I love knowing it makes you wet. Uncontrollably so. When our lips brush after every stroke ignites your skin, I can almost taste the rosy tint that stripes your bottom in the tears that dapple the corners.

And there, right there, half an inch below her nose, is the reason I think I'm broken-brained. Defective. Why? Because nobody in their right mind chooses someone based on the shape of their lips.

Do they?

Anthropologically, I guess it’s no more superficial than being drawn to boobs and bums, which are important to me too. But focusing on lips seems kind of outlandish. Fetishy, even.

Catching sight of someone like Eleanor gets me all hot and bothered at thoughts of what it would be like to kiss her skin and worship every inch of her curvy body, until she’s bunching the sheets and arching her hips against my mouth in rapture, my cheeks, chin and tongue smeared in a slick film of delicious arousal. But if the next moment reveals her lips aren’t the right shape to suit the rest of her frame, that’s it: instant turn-off.

Fickle, I know, but that’s how it works. Doesn’t matter if she’s rakish or buxom, bubbly or aloof, even if she has that all-important confident gait I adore, her appeal lives and dies on that couple of inches of flesh. I can’t explain it. I’ve given up trying. I just know that’s how it is. How I'm wired.

When people talk, I can’t help focusing on their mouth, and I know it must be weird and I should make eye contact more often—which I do every now and again for politeness and social norms—but it takes huge conscious effort because I’m all too often mesmerised by the exquisite curvature, shape and sheer magic of that opening nestled beneath her nose.

I don’t know how it started, nor when. It just is. When I see a pair of lips that makes my heart skip and veins flutter, my imagination soars.

We’re not talking plumped-up, or any other kind of surgical intervention either; they have to be natural. That’s non-negotiable. It doesn’t matter if they glint and shimmer in the light with lipstick or gloss, or if they’re mostly nude like the ones I’m staring at across the hotel function room now. If I’m honest, no make-up is better, and I harden in my suit trousers as I take in the nakedness of Eleanor's facial features.

Going without make-up is a major attraction for me that builds a picture of inner confidence and strength, alongside her walk and poise and, yes, sumptuous butt and cleavage nestled in that crimson strappy cocktail dress. Simply put, strong women make my pulse hammer because, for reasons I have not yet learned, they respond better when told what to do.

I think you can take one more lash. I promise I won’t be gentle.

Do you agree?

Good girl.

Ready? Count down from three for me…

Ohhh. So beautiful. I can tell how much that one meant by the shape your mouth made as you cried out.

Now offer your sticky palm up so I can feed on your essence—that intoxicating scent and heat—and lose myself in how it must feel to surrender. To relinquish all control. To trust me with your pleasure.

Across the hubbub of polite conversation and laughter and inoffensive piano muzak at the party, the flowing curvature of her mouth pulls me in, helplessly smitten. I light up inside at the tiny changes in shape when she smiles, when she speaks, when she drinks that ochre cocktail through the straw; a Negroni, perhaps, or maybe a Manhattan. I adore the way fingertips brush her lips to cover laughter at something the tallest guy in the group says, and the way one side of that delectable lower lip deforms as it’s caught between teeth at the realisation that someone across the room is besotted by the sheer radiance and as yet unfulfilled promises such lips invite.

Perhaps that’s what it is? A promise. An outer reflection of what I might discover beneath, as each layer of what makes her tick is exposed. Everything hinges on her mouth, the way the lips interplay, the way they stretch and relax, revealing neat teeth, perhaps with a tiny, sexy gap between the top two, perhaps not. It’s difficult to tell from this distance but I will work my way closer and strike up conversation because her allure is magnetic, and it starts with her mouth, shapely, curvy, sweeping, not too wide, not too narrow, its perfect symmetry at odds with the single nose stud that catches the chandelier lights.

I need to discover everything those lips promise. Everything,

If it's not already abundantly clear, I’m very particular about lips. They can’t be thin. Reedy lips don’t do anything for me, nor do chunky ones. The perfect top lip swoops in from the corners of her mouth and peaks like a suspension bridge, twice near the centre. Not once; twice. And if the lower lip is slightly fuller than the upper, and a tiny bit more prominent, then I’m as good as sunk.

A lot of the attributes feed my imagination again, which spins off unchecked to my hotel room later, with me undressed and standing in front of her kneeling frame, cupping her face and swiping tears of euphoria and pain and everything in between from her delicate cheeks.

You’re such a good girl. And good girls deserve rewards.

The first is to show me how much you appreciate submitting by sliding those beautiful lips over my flared tip.

That’s it.

Feel how silky my pre-cum is as it coats your lips that stretch to accommodate me. So pretty. I love how each millimetre disappears and you begin struggling to take more.

Oh your eyes are watering again. Let me give you a little respite. Draw back so you can adjust. Encourage you to take more with whispered words and tender brushes of stray hair away from your face.

Slide your gaze up to meet mine, top lip curved around the upper surface of my firm shaft, its veins prominent and full of lustful purpose.

You know how difficult it’s going to be to swallow me entirely, deeper and deeper until you cough and splutter and your throat bulges with the invading bulb that leaves you with the only way to breathe by snorting through your nose.

But you do it anyway. Because you’re a good girl, and good girls aim to please.

Good girls also know that, should you not take every inch this time, you will crawl up onto the bed and offer yourself to be tied, one limb to each corner, open and exposed, willingly accepting the savage lashes from the belt against your naked sex that you’ll first let me shave, the hot washcloth rinsing away every trace of former dark curls, leaving just lavender and patchouli top notes lingering, dancing off bare innocence that will soon be laced with dark pink stripes.

Do you agree?

There’s something about a woman’s submission that brings out the worst in me. Or the best. Depends on viewpoint, I guess.

I’m not one of those self-professed ‘Dom’ types, all bravado and bluster and thinking they’re God’s gift to the female race. I’m average at best. And perfectly at ease with a powerful woman shoving me back, climbing on my face and smothering me until she’s taken everything she needs to please herself. I’m more than happy to be teased, pegged, spanked, smothered, for as long as it takes. It’s all incredible. But when the roles are reversed and I have unfettered access to her trust, I turn into the type of person who loves pushing and pushing to the limits of where the safe word is a mere breath away, and yet she still doesn’t use it.

That’s control. That’s thrill.

That’s sex.

As I thread my way through guests and canapés and flutes of Kir Royale over to her group, I make sure at each stopping point that I take time to glance long enough that she notices. Not enough to freak her out, but enough to let her know she’s sparked my curiosity. She brushes a long strand of chestnut hair behind her ear and flicks her gaze my way more times than I glance at her lips. Well, maybe.

When I’m close enough, I let the cadence of her voice filter into me, imagining how she’ll respond when each spank lands. What shapes her mouth will make. Presumptuous, yes, but we’ve already cat and moused from across the room, I've already played out my mind movie how she’ll submit, and it’s not like she’s a complete stranger. Almost everyone in the company knows her, if only by reputation, and she’s burst into the odd meeting I’ve attended, said her piece and breezed away. In. Boom. Out, leaving only awe at such shrewd sense in her wake.

I ought to be intimidated but I see through the lioness to the kitten within. Her soft features and that understated radiance from dark brown eyes aren’t indicative of the sort of person who would relish the opportunity to manage a multi-million-pound company. Maybe she’s proving a point. She’s fierce, feisty, and the right side of thirty to know what she wants, and to take it. I’ve noticed her, of course, but I expect she’s barely had the chance to notice me. Until now. I have to reel her in, match her power and somehow swamp it from the outset.

I only have one shot.

Apart from the short guy in a suit two sizes too small, the group of people she’s with tower over her and are all talking shop. Playing to impress, no doubt, and I’m quite sure she’s only being polite by entertaining their fawning and grandiose claims of how much their respective ventures turn over. They're not employees, they're sharks, invited by her and trying to bite into her empire. Little do they know they're shoal and she has the bigger appetite.

I've admired her long enough to know the only language she responds to is confidence so I make my move, stepping behind her and touching her lower back, “Sorry to interrupt, Eleanor, but something has come up.”

Without waiting for acknowledgement, I steer her away, towards the bar, my fingers brushing the skin beneath the plunging cutaway portion of the dress laced with delicate criss-cross red straps, like a portent of how her bottom will appear when my belt lashes it. I point at her glass and signal to the swarthy barman for a replacement. Free bar. Might as well take advantage.

She smells better than a Saturday morning florist’s and takes her time to appraise me, perhaps surprised at my audacity. “Thank you for the exit. Not sure I could take much more of that circlejerk.”

“Happy to gallop in. I’m not cheap though.”

Her expression sparkles. “I don’t doubt. Name your price.”

I pause as if considering. “Later.”

We eye one another. The barman slides her drink across and she lifts it, chinking it to mine. “Do I know you?”

I take a sip of my flute. “Yes. You may remember me from,” I point to the buffet table, “over there and,” I point to the group of people about ten feet from the circle she left behind, “over there.”

“Knew you looked familiar.”

“I’m also a quality engineer. Mobile division.”

She lets the drink slip down her throat, swallowing softly. “An engineer of high quality, or someone in the Quality department?”

I smile. “Both. That’s why I work for you.”

“Cute.”

“Yes.”

And so it goes on. Casual flirting while I try—and largely fail—to focus on anything other than the glorious shapes her lips make. She has to notice.

My thoughts always lead to the culmination of her first reward.

You’re so very good, Eleanor. Love the way you take me that deep. The way your lips split and widen as they nudge so close to my groin that you have to break eye contact.

I’d prefer if you kept your eyes on me though. I’d hate to have to punish you again. But I appreciate this time that you’re so stuffed full of me that it takes your breath away. Completely.

The way your cheeks puff when you gag and cough on my length is a sight to behold. The fact you have your fingers voluntarily laced behind your back is a lovely touch.

I especially adore how your body bucks just before I yank free and you gasp in oxygen as the orgasm thunders up my shaft and splatters the beautiful curvature of your upper lip.

The fat globs and stripes of cum spray across the gap my shaft leaves between your lips. The hot white strings that drip to land on your lower lip demonstrate the importance of it being slightly fuller and more prominent.

And your desperate gasps as more cum peppers and webs your mouth, while you haul in lungfuls of air through it, thrills me to the core.

A woman never looks more beautiful than with that joy etched on her face because she’s pleased me or she’s glowing in the aftershocks of orgasm I've helped create. It warms every corner of my body and mind. It’s what I’ve missed for years in my marriage, and I didn’t even know I needed it until I took the plunge after flirting heavily with a woman a few cities North that opened the floodgates of desire.

Well tonight with Eleanor, I’ll witness that suffocating joy.

How do I know? Because—give or take a few details—everything in my imagination pans out. A few drinks, some laughs and some not-so-subtle brushes of skin on skin at the bar and I suggest we take the party away. She seems surprised at first and there’s a brief moment where I wonder if I’ve pushed it too soon and the consideration that creases her brow is going to end in thanks-but-no-thanks.

When she captures half her lower lip between her teeth and demurely slides her gaze up to mine, that doubt dissolves.

I’ve done enough and she’s mine, whether she wants to admit it or not.

I reach into my back pocket and retrieve one of my room key cards, sliding it across the bar her way and closing the distance between us half a step so I can do two things. First, to take a brief glance from her lips down her cleavage plunging between the scoop of her cocktail dress, and the second to whisper barely loud enough to be heard, “You asked my price? This is it. 328. You have a ten-minute head start. Strip off this gorgeous dress and your underwear, kneel in the space beyond the bed and wait for me.”

Her eyes widen. “That’s not the sort of thing I’d normally do.”

“Precisely.”

I love the way her lower lip trembles as she takes a shaky breath. “But, what if I don’t want that? What if… what if it’s too much? I don’t even know you.”

I lean in a fraction more. Stare at her lips to gauge her reaction, “Let me earn your trust and I promise you’ll never look back.”

She moistens the inner edge of her mouth with the tip of her tongue, swallows and says nothing.

“And if, for whatever reason, you wish me to stop, just say one word. Everything stops instantly. We dress, and go our separate ways.”

“One word?”

“One word.”

“Promise?”

“Absolutely. It’s the cornerstone of trust.”

She hunts for deception in my demeanour and nips her plump lower lip with her teeth again and that definite, faint gap between her two front teeth makes me flex further in my suit trousers, an inch from her thigh.

Almost breathlessly, she whispers, “What word?”

“Arrête.”

She blinks. “Like, the French?”

I nod. “You might feel like you want to use it at times, and I make no apology for that. But I expect you won’t.” Leaning in so my breath must tickle her ear, I inhale and whisper, “You retain complete control over whatever situations arise, but otherwise,” I pull back and drag my gaze from her mouth to lock with those walnut irises, “you do as I say.”

Eleanor holds my stare for a long moment. I mean what I say about the safe word but I know she won’t use it because it’d be a sign of weakness, a chink in her outer shell, the equivalent of retracting her claws and admitting defeat. She’s too strong for that. Too proud.

She swings her gaze to the keycard, then back up to me. Wraps her lips around the straw and sucks most of the remainder, draining colour from the ice cubes.

Breaking eye contact, she places her glass on the bar, taps the keycard with an unpolished fingernail and slides it into her palm, smooths her dress, grabs her Radley clutch bag and turns to leave. She pauses. Whispers, “You mess this up, I’ll have you fired. Or worse.”

I watch her strut away with purpose and power that I will soon erode, and sip the remainder of my drink.

Turning my attention to the party-goers, some drunker than others, I flick my wedding ring idly with the thumb of the same hand. Even though we’re separated, I still love her and know it’s my fault for seeking exactly the type of situation I am about to engage with Eleanor. The thing is, Mags wouldn’t even let me go down on her, let alone trust me to treat her to a single night of worshipping her curves, and it wasn’t for lack of attention or my reassurance of her beauty.

It truly baffled me why someone so adventurous when we first dated would gradually lose confidence in her own body to the point she would barely allow me to hug her, let alone treat her to unbridled pleasure. I wasn’t even chasing sex. No penetration, nothing but focusing on her needs and, indirectly, feeding my eagerness to please, devouring her until she begged me to stop making her cum. Why would that not be desirable? And yet with Eleanor, it was easy to see through her mask and assess her unwritten wants; I already know how to meet and exceed them, and fully intend to do so.

Women: both enigmatic and predictable. That must be their allure.

I finish my drink, nod at the barman, step out to the shiny, tiled lobby from the function room and call the lift. Tracing the edges of the keycard on the short ride to the third floor, I pace down the quiet carpeted corridors past more fire doors than seem strictly necessary, to arrive at my room.

When the door swings inward, she doesn’t flinch, kneeling exactly where I told her, naked, vulnerable and beautiful, silhouetted side-on in the moonlight, her lips fractionally agape. My heart thuds as the door latches behind me, I slither the belt from my trousers, coil it and place it in hands that I tell her to hold out, while I undress, then proceed to venerate her body and ruin her resolve, spank by spank, lick by lick, kiss by kiss, as promised.

She never utters the safe word.

As the last remnants of my climax dribble across her mouth and she hungrily laps and smears me, I stoop to kiss her, tongues lancing amid the sticky playground. We share everything and her lips are warm against mine, both of us breathless for different reasons, yet determined to take what we need from the union of our mouths.

Drawing away, linked by strands of salty white that stretch and snap back to freckle her chin, I marvel at the way her mouth glistens. Maybe that’s another reason lips are so important to me: they echo the promise of what I might find nestled between her legs. And that, for me, is the ultimate prize.

Where she might crave the need to be taken away from the daily pressures of proving that she’s not only a suitable candidate to build and guide a business to prosperity against all competition, but also that she can do it better than anyone, I crave to drown myself in the release of all those stresses. To make her forget them all and be confined to the singularity of the moment. To focus on now and need and nothing else.

As I slip my hand in hers and guide her up from kneeling, walking her on shaky legs to the bed, I ensure she is comfortable and relaxed, head nestled against the pillow, before I begin my journey. Starting at the lips of course. With gentle pecks and flicks of my tongue, tasting myself, I walk caresses across her soft jawline out to one ear, whispering how much I adore the way she lets me take her away, to exist only in this space. Nothing outside the pursuit of pleasure. And I remind her not to join in unless given permission, or the belt will return.

She’s already restless but the way my voice catches as I announce my intent makes her lips part and an involuntary breath enters. Such a simple act, but one loaded with every facet of why her mouth means so much to me. I live for the expressions of surprise at the tiniest flick of my tongue against her collar bone. Her breath quickens when I dust a fingertip under the curvature of her breasts and circle upward to caress the firmness of one nipple. Then the other.

I love how she purrs when my lips trace a meandering path from her chest, down her forearm and kiss her fingertips, then across to navigate the softness of her belly. And as for the gasp of delight when my mouth connects with her folds, well, that is enough to cause my flagging erection to flinch.

Pausing at her entrance, I compare the shape of her nether lips to the ones already etched in my memory that drew me to her. There are vague similarities, but these are soaked. Dripping. Rivulets of clear arousal drizzle and are never wasted on the sheets or her thighs, nor do they disappear into the curved recess that squirms against the sheets. Every drop is scooped and lovingly swallowed or smeared as I nuzzle and kiss and worship her lips, my nose nudging her clit.

When her orgasm crests, I pull away, leaving her gasping and cursing for more as I skim my way up her flushed form, capturing a nipple between my teeth en route to sharing her scent in a torrid kiss. The way her tongue snakes and duels with mine tells me she is rampantly ready to cum, and that’s precisely why I slow my assault when I caress my way back down via her nipples to bury my face between her thighs.

I guide her gradually back to the plateau she previously attained and push her to the next where she claps her hand to the back of my head and holds me against her soaked centre, mewling into the sparsity of the room. Thankfully, I expect our neighbours to still be downstairs.

As she nears climax once more, I tear free of her clutch and kiss my way up to her throat, then down to bite her nipples, tugging one away from her body and basking in her hiss through clenched teeth. Then I treat the other to the same. Maybe a little harder, until she’s a gasping wreck, slapping the sheets and begging.

I lift away, deliver one savage slap to the wetness between her thighs and her legs clamp around my hand as I massage the sting.

When she wriggles, I spread her, stoop, nuzzle stubble across her belly. Move lower still, checking her mouth for signs of her mental state, timing touches and nips and bites with what's going on in her head until I know she's once more at the edge of her resolve. Only then do I resume lapping her juices.

Fastening my tongue to her needy jewel, I flutter against it, my gaze up her body focusing solely on her mouth. She bites her lip when I back off and her jaw falls open when I re-engage, lips forming an almost perfect ‘O’ through which groans and rasps escape and bounce off the walls.

She implores me to let her cum, breathlessly chanting, “Please finish me. Please. Pleeease,” and I know she's finally ready. The previous begs have been desperate but not as loaded with hysterical need as these. She's right on the cusp and if I don't deliver, she'll likely cum anyway.

A flash of power surges through me and I briefly consider letting her either fight for control or spill without permission. The prospect of spanking her for disobedience has a certain draw, and delaying her further might reap even greater dividends, but if I'm many things, I'm a man of my word. And I promised her a second reward.

I lift my mouth clear. “Cum for me.”

Without even thinking further, I bury my face in her delicious heat and both sets of lips part.

I soar as she does. Her groans turn to sharp rasps in time with the fluttering beat of her delta against my eager mouth and I draw in every drop she willingly gives, savouring and drinking her essence.

Her lips change shape three times as the waves of euphoria crash through her. From the ‘O’, she clamps them shut, forming a straight line as she stifles a succession of “Mmmms” before they part again and she huffs through a rhythmic series of groans, finishing up biting her lip, just like she did downstairs at the party. I lap at her entrance and swallow, veins fizzing with desire as she peaks, almost never-ending rasps and sighs and spasms racking her tormented frame until her humping against my mouth gradually slows and she begins to slide down the other side of her orgasm.

I ease off. Let her bask. Watch her lips cycle through reflections of what is going on in her mind: flickers of pleasure, self-conscious nibbles of her lower lip, consternation perhaps at the realisation that she's not who she thought she was, or that she's learned something unexpected, and then the weirdest thing that she tries to cover up with her fingertips: uncontrollable giggles.

Looking up at her from between her legs, I don't share the joke, but it's clearly very funny because she quakes and laughs and doesn't seem able to stop. Every time she tries, another round of giggles begin and I let her ride them out, nuzzling her thighs with my cheeks coated in her juices.

When she eventually stops long enough to take a breath, she eases herself to a sitting position, reaches down to cradle my head and lifts me. Our lips meet and the florist's shop mingles with the earthier tones of her arousal as our tongues swirl and mouths mash.

We're slightly off-axis to one another, me kneeling between her thighs, and as she moans into the kiss that quickly heats up, she reaches for my hand and tucks it between her legs. She's utterly soaked and I curl one, then two digits inside her still needy slit, cupping her fully. Trembling against my mouth, her groans intensify again and she rocks her hips against my palm, clit grinding.

I'd expect her to be too sensitive to go again, but she seems to need one more climax to closely chase the first and isn't afraid to go after it. I'm ecstatic to oblige, fingering her with increasing intensity until she flings her head back, leaning away from the kiss to support herself on outstretched arms that grip the edges of the pillow.

With only one hand free, I slither it up over her tummy, cup one of her breasts and squeeze, then continue until her throat nestles in my grip. She fixes me with a dark stare and nods. I tighten and she humps me harder, an obscenely beautiful squelching filling the room as my fingers enter and exit her slippery centre.

It's soon joined by rising wails of excitement as her lips part once more and a second climax overwhelms her capacity to contain it. We both freeze and this time she simply quakes in my grip as the breath exits her body in bursts through pursed lips.

It takes her a while to reanimate enough that I slither free of her confines and lap my fingers clean. We share a languid kiss and she climbs under the crisp white covers, settling against the headboard as I sit beside her. Nothing but breathing until she tilts her face my way.

“I feel like I should have a cigarette right about now. And I don't even smoke.”

I smile. “I'd hate to think I drove you to an addiction.”

“Heh.” She places her hands in her lap. “I think you have. That was incredible.”

“Thank you.”

“Where do you learn stuff like that? And how did you know I'd like it?” She frowns. “Need it, even.”

“The Internet is amazing. Helped show me what I've been missing. And as for you, well, I've had my suspicions for a while, and can gauge people now I have experience.”

“Oh. So what is this, some kind of white knight gig, saving women from mundane existences one orgasm at a time?”

I laugh. “Two. But hardly.” I gaze out at the moon bathing the cityscape in silver shadows. “I just… adore the power of delivering excitement. Gives me such a rush.”

“So you don't want anything in return?”

I blink like it's the most obvious thing in the world but I guess it isn't when porn and, presumably, the men to which it's catered centre around the money shot. “Your trust to let me bring you to orgasm is the return.”

It's her turn to blink. “Wow. Seriously?”

I nod.

“So you don't want sex or anything?”

“Haha. Oh I won't say no to that, ever. All I'm saying is it's not a requirement, and nor is my act a downpayment.”

Eleanor shuts her mouth. Opens it. Closes. Opens. “Where do I sign up?”

“Your name's already on the list.”

“A big list?”

I feign thought. “No.”

She twirls a lock of hair by her temple. “Is there, uhh, a way to jump the queue?”

“Now that is a leading question.” I stroke my stubble, breathing remnants of her in. “Depends if you can manage another orgasm.”

She runs her gaze up and down my full length. Walks her fingers across the gap between us, up to my chest and pushes me onto my back, swinging out from under the covers and straddling me. She shuffles forward, inching towards my face. “How about I lead this time?”

I roll my hands up her thighs, hips, abdomen, then skim her chest and continue to her chin where I trace a fingertip around the delicate oval of her mouth before my hand falls to her hip. “That works for me. Just let me see your face when you cum.”

Tipping her head to one side, she regards me. "You have a thing for lips, huh?"

I twist my head away, cheek to the cool pillow staring at the softness of her thigh, butterflies suddenly raging at being outed for the first time in my life.

Her fingertip caresses my exposed cheek and chin and she guides my face upright. *Hey, it's okay."

I give a faint shake of my head. "Sorry. I'm not sure I'll ever be fixed. It's just... a thing."

"Shhh. Don't apologise. If you want to watch—" She lifts and hovers her mouthwatering, sticky scent above me, leans forward to grip the headboard and gazes down at me. Lowers to smother my lips with her heat. “I think that can be arranged.”