“You certainly have,” she squealed. “But that isn’t steak!”
“Sorry.” I realized that I’d gone way off course. The tips of my fingers were grazing the nipple of her left breast. It was quite hard, erect, a little moist, and straining against my fingertips.
“I should think you’d be able to tell the difference,” she said.
“Now I can.”
“Then would you mind—?”
“Oh, sorry.” I pulled myself out of my reverie and reached down farther until I managed to get hold of the piece of steak between two of my fingers. I extracted it very slowly, the palm of my hand moving over the firm surface of her large ripe breasts in a series of small, circular motions to insure my not dropping it again.
“Well,” she said breathlessly when I finally had it out. “That was fun. What’ll we do for an encore?”
“I think I can come up with a few suggestions.” My hand dropped under the table, making contact with her bare thigh where her tight skirt had ridden up over her knees. I squeezed her leg. The flesh was smooth and very warm. “As a matter of fact, I’m sure I can,” I added.
“Later, lover.” She removed my hand. “We’ll discuss it later. Let’s not rush things. You wanted to show me Miami. So let’s have one for the road, and we’ll hit some of the hotter spots.”
“Check.” I ordered coffee and brandy and then we moved on.
Our first stop was the Boom-Boom Room at the Hotel Fontainebleau. It was too early for the show, but the band was working up steam with a cha-cha arranged around a slow sex-beat. We danced. It was like having my arms around a live torch. Ophelia could really move, all right! And she hadn’t just been bragging. The way she was built, underwear would have been superfluous. It would have been a desecration, like wrapping rubies in brown paper. And the dance excited her too. I could tell from the way her twin breast-tips pushed out and throbbed against my shirt-front, and from the heat of her thighs against mine when I held her in a long, deep, insinuating dip.
We cooled off a little by walking over to the Eden Roc. We had a few drinks, a few more dances there, and then hopped a cab to the Americana where we caught the show. From there we moved on to the Peppermint Lounge. By this time we’d had enough drinks so that the chummy game of footsie we were playing under the table was getting higher and higher and becoming more and more intimate. We did some heavy petting in the cab that took us to the Castaways and in the Wreck Room of the hotel we started getting so uninhibited that the headwaiter began looking uneasy.
Ophelia might have been used to public performances, but I wasn’t. I took her back to her hotel and followed her into her room without waiting to be asked. I didn’t ask her if she wanted to be kissed, either. I didn’t have to. When she turned to me with her face raised and her eyes closed, there was no question about it.
The kiss started off slowly enough, but it soon became feverish. Her lips were soft, knowing, insistent, drawing my tongue to meet hers in a flame-flicking duel. Her small teeth were sharp, playful; they caught my lip for an instant and I tasted blood. I bit back and we broke the kiss.
“You play rough,” she whispered. She leaned back and looked at me from eyes that were eager. Her tongue darted out to lick a drop of bright scarlet from her lip.
“I’ll play any way you want. Just lay down the rules and fill me in on them.”
“I like it rough.” She nipped at my earlobe and laughed when I pulled away. “Is that too rough for you?”
“Not at all.” I looked straight into her eyes and closed one hand over her breast. I purposely squeezed it harder than was necessary. “How about you?”
“The rougher the better.” She closed her hand over mine so that the pressure increased. Then her nails raked the back of my hand and came away tipped with my blood.
That did it! I'm not really a sadist, but I had to play her game. With casual cruelty, I slapped her open-handed across the face. It left a red mark on her face. Her eyes glowed briefly and then closed. “Again!” she sighed. “Do it again!”
“Nope!” I was on to her. “You like it too much.” I judged that this was the point where denying her the violence she obviously craved was probably the cruelest thing I could do to her. I figured this cruelty would really turn her on.
I was right. “You bastard!” she said. Her arm swung out with the fist closed. I moved my head a half-inch and the fist just missed me. “You lousy—!” She swung again and again I ducked easily.
I grabbed her hand, held the wrists together in one of my hands. I raised my other hand threateningly. “If we’re going to play that way, baby, I’ll do the beating,” I told her.
“Then do it!” she said through clenched teeth. “Do it!”
“I’ll think about it.” I forced my lips down on hers again.
“Why are you holding out on me?” she asked, managing to pull away from the kiss.
“I want you ripe and ready,” I told her. “I want you sizzling mad.”
“I’m mad!” She drew back and deliberately spat in my face to prove it.
I slapped her again casually and then wiped the saliva from my cheek. “Not mad enough,” I told her. “I want you slave-mad, the way only a slave can get when she’s forced to do her master’s bidding.”
“I’m not your slave!”
“No? Well, you’re not the one who’s going to have the whiphand, that’s for sure! Now, you want to play this game, that’s fine. But if I play it with you, I give the orders and you take them. Is that clear?”
She didn’t answer.
“Is that clear?” I grabbed her by the tail and dug my fingers into her flesh.
“Yes! All right!” She was in the spirit of it now. She’d wanted a caveman and I’d made it clear to her that she really had one. “What do you want me to do?”
“You’re a stripper, aren’t you? Well then, strip!”
“You mean you want me to do my act?”
“Sure. Why not? I missed seeing it tonight. Put it on for me now. A private showing. If I like it, I’ll lay on a few licks. That’s what you want, isn’t it? And if I don’t like it--well, I just may not go to bed with you at all.”
I knew damn well that wasn’t likely. Not the way she looked. Not with her breasts all filled up with desire the way they were. Not with her hips already beginning to writhe in anticipation. No, it wasn’t likely I’d turn up my nose at a lush piece like Ophelia!
And she knew it. “Don’t worry, you’ll like it,” she assured me. “But I can’t really do my act here. I don’t have my costumes, or props, or anything.”
“Just do the best you can with what you’ve got,” I told her, thinking to myself that that was considerable.
“All right, master.” There was some sarcasm in the way she said it, but there was also acknowledgement of our roles. She backed off from me and I let her hands go. She crossed to the other side of the room and put a record on the stereo. It was an orchestral arrangement of a blues, very slow, very suggestive. Then she turned to face me and began.
Ophelia knew her onions, all right! She started off very slowly, her feet hardly moving, her hips swaying only slightly, her hands moving over the front of the yellow silk dress in a prolonged caress. Then the tempo became a little faster. Her hands slid down her thighs, to the hem of the dress, just above her knees. Still moving slowly, she raised it, revealing her long, slender legs inch by quivering inch. When the dress was at a point just below the juncture of her legs, she swayed her body around so that her back was to me. The skirt inched up higher and now I could see the firm, high globes of her nether cheeks. Her rhythm quickened. The muscles of her derriére rippled and the flesh began to jump with a sort of erotic frenzy. Then, quickly, she let the skirt fall and turned to face me again. Once more the pace slowed, though not as much as before. One of her shoulders began moving in slow, calculated circles. The bodice of the yellow silk dress began sliding down smoothly on one side. After a moment the large, pink roseate became visible. Then, a little bump, and her maroon nipple was fluttering in the air. Another quick motion and the entirety of one perfect breast was revealed. Still moving to the music, her fingers stroked it. To my surprise, the nipple grew even larger, the roseate spreading, the tip standing out a full half-inch, the ivory breast itself flushing with the palest pink of passion.