Date: Fri, 9 Mar 2012 13:07:07 +0100
From: Julian Obedient <julian.obedient@gmail.com>
Subject: Our First Meeting

     He asked me in his email which I would prefer: Ought he send me a
ticket to fly to Seattle or would I prefer he come to San Francisco?

     I gasped when I read it and quickly wrote back, "Do you mean it?"

     "Of course, I mean it, my silly, beautiful, sweet, pretty boy."

     I thought for a few minutes and then wrote back, "I'd like it if
you came here."

     All the day of the evening he was to arrive, I was in such a
state of excitement, it was difficult to get anything done, and there
was so much to do. It was just at times like these when excitement and
anticipation and fear that I might not make as good an impression as I
wished to make that the discipline of submission he had instilled in
me really came in handy.

     He had suggested we go out for dinner, but I said I wanted him
all to myself and I would like to prepare an intimate dinner just for
two with candles and flowers and champagne on the terrace of my
apartment overlooking the Bay, weather permitting, or inside if it
rained, and he agreed after repeatedly saying that he did not want me
to go to any trouble.

     "Trouble!" I wrote back, dismissing his solicitude with a word as
if it were a flounce of my braceleted wrist.

     "Ok, then," he wrote, after I wrote that I would pick him up at
the airport. "But I will take a taxi to your place. I said I did not
want to put you to any trouble. All I want to do is pamper you. You
know that."

     It was not trouble, but it was a lot to do.

     In the morning I went to market.

     Back home, I laid a terracotta colored cloth on the marble topped
wrought iron table on the terrace. (The weather was obviously blessing
this first meeting in the flesh – oh, yes, in the flesh; we both knew
that. The sky was clear blue and the sun bright but temperate in its
luminosity.)

     I set the Limoges dishes my mother had left me, her special
occasion silverware, and the crystal stem glasses with the silver
filigree circling their rims that she had brought back from Budapest
when she had performed there. I put the champagne in the refrigerator,
along with the flowers, a dozen red roses for the black vase in the
bedroom, and a dozen white as a centerpiece for the table.

     It was a simple menu I prepared. To open, pétoncle, baby
scallops, sautéed lightly in garlic butter and lemon juice on a mixed
bed of mache and arugula , garnished with cherry tomato halves, black
olives, and crushed almonds. The main course consisted of a gigot of
lamb, cous cous garnished with cooked prunes, and lightly steamed
young spinach leaves. At the Parisian bakery I purchased a small
Opera, a Black Angel they called it. I also picked up a bottle of
Pommard, 1996, and a bottle of cognac.

     Food preparation completed by two o'clock, it was time to turn my
attention to myself. I wanted to look better than my best, to look as
enticing as Jordan must have imagined me.

     I was not worried about what he looked like. He had once written,
"You might look better in your black bikinis, but it would not matter
to you at this moment.  You would desire me totally."

     And I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was absolutely true.

     I may sound shallow to say this, but I love my bathroom. It was
one of the reasons I bought the place. Yes, I have enough money even
though I am still in my twenties (enough said about my age) to buy a
wonderful apartment. My mother was very generous in her will.

     The bathroom: Like the traditional French bathroom it was
modelled on, it was not equipped with a toilet. The toilet was in its
own room at the end of a rather long corridor, in what seemed like a
rather spacious closet. It was companioned by a small washbowl and a
mirror.

     I applied a green clay mask to my face, argile verte, and began
my preparations. After ten minutes I stood beneath a thundering
cascade of hot water soaping myself, surface and crevice, gently
stimulating myself, but hardly going anywhere near the edge. For that
I would wait for Jordan to take me there and throw me over it as he
flung himself into the ether with me, and we would fly mightily down
to land in a world where we had never yet gone.

     Wet and lathered and softened, I shaved my entire body, chest,
legs, anal crevice, under arms. And trimmed my pubes to reveal in what
seemed like a shadow the delicate pattern of a fleur de lys, the hair
as silky to the touch as the petals of the lily itself.

     Afterwards, I soaked in a tub scented with the water of orange
flowers. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply and imagined? no, felt
Jordan slowly teasing my nipples.

     I opened my eyes with a start realizing what danger I was in, not
of falling asleep and drowning, but of coming on my own, and that was
something I no longer wished to do. Perhaps it was foolish, but this
restraint powerfully assured me that I no longer belonged to myself,
that I had been reserved for Jordan's use.

     It was nearly five-thirty when I stepped out of the bathroom. I
examined myself in the long mirror inside the bedroom closet and was
pleased and hopeful that Jordan would be able to find no fault.

     What I would wear, my costume, was of great importance. I had
existed up to now for Jordan only as a collection of words and I
appeared to him clothed only in garments of words. But now...now words
had to become actual things.

     First, then: I got into my underwear, a skimpy, skin tight black
bikini, a band of elastic and a small black V covering the parts
reserved for only Jordan, front and back. How that tiny underwear
emphasized the dimples of my lower back just above my muscled, high
and tight round buttocks and the hollows on either side, its sloping
valleys framing the deeper valley that lay hidden in its central
crevice!

     Over that I put on a silky pair of snug black shorts that stopped
just at the top of my inner thighs and were edged with a scalloped
band of lace.

     The knee high black vinyl boots I had bought and never yet had
found the nerve to wear except sometimes alone when I posed in front
of the mirror, I had to put them on. They had just enough heel to show
off my upper legs to their best advantage.

     For a top, it was simple, a snug, brocaded black and silver
halter with spaghetti straps that stopped just below my nipples,
lightly threaded with silver rings, and left my well wrought midriff
bare. I wanted Jordan to know I was both highlighting my breasts for
him and keeping them, as it were, under wraps, the gift I was offering
that signified my entire self.

     Once again in the bathroom, over the sink, I applied black
eyeliner above and below my eyes. My lips, just for a hint of
vulgarity, I painted a luscious Chinese red. My hair color falls
somewhere between brown and blond and I have it cut the way a
beautiful girl who wants to look like a boy would have hers cut. After
I combed it carefully I sprayed a fine mist over it to keep it in
place but with a natural look. I hooked a small silver chain around my
neck and a pinned a silver stud earring through my left earlobe.

     The piece de resistance: a long silver velvet cape flung over my
shoulders and tied loosely round the neck, the ties falling so as just
to draw attention to the delicacy of my clavicles.

     I would be lying if I said I had any doubts that Jordan would
find me pleasing.

     Seven o'clock arrived and so did he, and despite my serene and
composed demeanor, I was as nervous as a schoolgirl and inside, as
fluttery, and I also knew, as desirable.

     I answered the downstairs buzzer without asking over the intercom
who it was, and I waited to hear the elevator gate shut.

     He did not ring the doorbell, but knocked, as if he knew the
rhythm of my heartbeat.

     I opened the door and when I beheld him – remember I had not even
seen a picture of him, as he had not seen one of me, either, except in
the words we exchanged in our emails – and my heart leaped out of my
body drawn by a magnetic force in him. I had never before experienced
anything like this, and I felt myself lodged in his breast.
Simultaneously, I felt the same thing happening to him, and I was sure
that it was his heart now that was pounding in my breast.

     I don't know how long we stood there before he laughed and said,
"May I come in?"

     "My home is yours," I said, taking his hand – our first actual
touching – and led him inside.

     That moment of the two of us frozen in the doorway was not
awkward. It was rather like the Russian ritual practice at parting
before a journey for everyone to sit one moment in silence. Only our
spontaneous engagement turned it into a ritual of beginning, a shared
prayer of thanks for having reached safely home in a world so full of
error and snares.

     "My home is yours" was not just a polite formula.



     The touch of Julian's palm around Jordan's wrist as he led him
into his apartment was all that was needed to ignite what was already
smoldering and they clasped each other in a fervid embrace as if
devouring each other with every inch of their bodies. Their mouths
found each other. They tasted each others lips and their tongues met
in a fury of desire that exploded in joy that seemed never to be able
to be quenched.

     And then they drew back and only grasped each other with their
eyes, gazing until they became sleepers inhabiting the same dream.

     Jordan had caught his plane that afternoon without going home,
taking a cab to the airport directly from his office and was still
dressed in the suit he wore to work.

     Julian freed his eyes from the power of Jordan's gaze when Jordan
released him and regarded the full figure of masculinity standing
there. His excitement was alloyed with an inchoate sense of fear that
the power of unadulterated virility and the aura of masculine
aggression must always exert over a feminine disposition like his. It
was a power that could threaten or protect. Julian knew that Jordan
was his hero, his protector, a man worthy of his adoration and
devotion, and submission.

     "I am like a lighted candle," he said "When you touch me I feel
myself melting."

     "You are more beautiful than I imagined," Jordan said, and Julian blushed.

     "You," Julian responded, "are a god. I know it's a cliché, but in
this case... And in that suit! May I pour us some champagne?"

     "With pleasure," Jordan said.

     Flutes in their hands after their first toast, Julian took
Jordan's hand and took him through his apartment, and he was as
pleased at his appreciation of it and of the rare old pieces that
furnished it as he was at Jordan's appreciation of him and how he was
arrayed.

     They belonged to my grandmother and my mother has passed them on to me.

     Last, he led Jordan out onto the terrace and in the falling light
they looked across the Bay and spanned the great arcs of the bridge.

     "Wow!" Is all Jordan said, wrapping an arm around Julian's
shoulders and drawing him nearer. His other hand strayed across
Julian's chest and stopped at a nipple which he gently teased, playing
with its ring, without lifting the fabric which covered it.

     "I wonder who you want to be tonight, Julian or Julia."

     "I want to be who ever you want me to be, whatever you want me to
be," Julian said, turning only slightly to face Jordan and gaze up at
his impossible eyes.

     "I will let you know after dinner," Jordan said.

     After dinner, under a full moon, sipping cognac and sharing a
joint, Julian said, "Take me to bed, please." The room was lit by
candles and perfumed by the essence of the roses, roses of a rare
variety that still, unlike most flowers now sold, suffused the room
with their powerful fragrance.

     Julian danced in his heart and it was translated by the way he
moved in his body; swaying in front of Jordan: Julian's hands slowly
made their way to the knot of Jordan's tie and slowly began undoing
it.

     We gazed without pause into each others eyes, ensnared, bound to
each other by the invisible eyestrings that joined our gazes.

     I unbuttoned his shirt and removed it. He wore nothing underneath
and I bent and kissed his nipples, worshipping them as I drew life's
sustenance from the energy that flowed over my tongue.

     I opened his belt and knelt before him to remove his shoes and
socks. I slid his trousers down and removed them. Everything done
slowly, with deliberation. No need to rush. This was the beginning of
forever.

     I folded his trousers carefully and with his shirt and jacket
hung them in my closet.

     Naked he stood in front of me while I was still clothed, even to
the silver cape.

     I fell again to my knees and gently tongued his velvet scrotum
and took each ball in my mouth and gently held it until I took his
silken steel cock inside the womb of my mouth and cradled it there
without yet daring to suck on it, feeling myself filled with its
fullness bathing it in the amneotic fluid of my saliva.

     Jordan stroked my hair and lifted me.

     "Now you," he said, undoing the ties of my cape and letting it
fall to the floor where it lay like a shimmering puddle.

     His spidery fingers wove a web over my chest and slipping under
the bottom of my top lifted it up over my head. I stretched my arms up
to help and felt his palms press and circle my nipples. A great breath
escaped from me as he pulled me near by my rings, and my knees began
to buckle.

     Jordan held me up and stripped me down until I was only wearing
my bikini jock. And then he stripped me of that too and wrapped his
palm around my softly swollen...clitoris.

     I backed up to the bed and drew him irresistibly after me. I lay
upon my back in full surrender. Jordan straddled my ankles and with
hungry tongue strokes tasted my clitoris and brushed his finger
through my holy valley and then touched me with his tongue. I felt
myself split open. He raised my legs to his shoulders and drove slowly
into me, slowly at first, going deeper, and then withdrawal, and then
return, going deeper, holding me in his gaze until his sword had
sheared and sheathed itself into me to the depths. He held me there as
we trembled and shook in tectonic eruptions, turning each other inside
out as we clawed our way through the flesh to the flaming undulation
of the spirit, and then he took my mouth with a hunger no fiercer than
mine for him and breathed me to the depth as I did him.

 [When you write, please put story name in subject slot. Thanks.
julian.obedient@gmail.com]