He was a Scotsman who worked in Edinburgh. Tall, handsome, cultured enough to keep a conversation. He had brown hair going gray at the temples. I have to hand it to the Collector: he picked my type.
When the Collector introduced me to him, he did the typical male up-and-down (I was wearing a coral satin halter dress) and said, “Collector, I see you’ve done well for yourself.”
“Of course,” said the Collector.
“Come sit at the table and enjoy some cheese before the steak comes out,” I said, taking his hand. His hand was soft.
I found out that one of his degrees was in psychology, specifically Organizational Psychology. I studied this in school, so we had a lot to talk about. If there’s one thing I love in a man, it’s his ability to talk nerdy to me. I’d fuck Quasimodo if he wrote a book I admired.
We discussed BF Skinner and Chris Argyris over Cotswald and Brei cheeses on slivers of French bread while the Collector roasted some asparagus. He poured the Scotsman a big glass of wine. I had ice water.
I did a test and adjusted my garter briefly. He didn’t say anything, but he focused in on it with laser-like intensity, and forgot the words he was saying.
I have him, I thought. There is a part of my personality that loves the chase. I like to be hunted, but I also love to hunt.
The steaks came out. We all liked them medium-rare.
The Collector kept exchanging glances at me over the table, and even nodded at the Scotsman.
“This is delicious,” said the Scotsman.
“If you think that is delicious, you ought to try her. Sweet and briney at the same time,” said the Collector.
The Scotsman turned beet red and started scratching the back of his head.
“Is this a proposition?” he asked. He was almost stammering.
I reached out and grasped his hand, which was still holding a knife: “It’s a proposition if you want it to be a proposition. Do you want it to be a proposition?”
I’m telling you, the guy was trembling like a leaf.
“What do I do?” He asked.
“Finish your wine and come with me,” I said, softly.
He gulped it down and I took him by the hand and started leading him to the first hallway. The Collector followed.
“Second bedroom on the left,” he said. I understood. It’s a lovely bedroom, but it’s a guest bedroom, neither mine nor his.
Once we got there, I started to undress the Scotsman. Take it from me: men love to be undressed. They turn to water. This one was no exception.
The Collector unzipped my dress from behind, so I was nude except for my garter and stockings. The way his eyes widened when he saw my little breasts!
“I told you she tasted good. Find out for yourself,” the Collector said.
He dived between my legs. His technique was not the best–he was a little too frantic–but it felt good.
The Collector was fully dressed and he would let me touch his hard-on through his trousers, but not take his clothes off. “Save it for later,” he said.
He left the room for 90 seconds and came back with some condoms, which he threw to the Scotsman. The Scotsman dropped them and picked them up from the bedspread.
“Fuck her well. Fuck her hard. Make her come,” said the Collector.
He kissed me gently while the Scotsman screwed my brains out. I was being held by men at my mouth and my pussy. I cannot envision a better shangri-la.
Eventually, the guy came, and I invited him to relax on the pillow next to me for a few minutes.
“Do you mind if I vape?” he asked.
“Not at all,” the Collector said.
He vaped while the Collector brought him a glass of Port.
After 30 minutes, we invited him to use the shower and then walked him to the elevator. Bye-bye, back to Edinburgh.
“I’m not done with you yet,” The Collector said. “Go take a quick rinse and go to my bedroom.”
He tied my arms behind me and put my legs in a frog-tie.
“Nobody get to fuck you like this but me,” he said, thrusting into me. “What was your favorite part of today?”
“The way you controlled everything,” I gasped. “What was your favorite part of today?”
“Seeing another man covet what is mine,” he said.