Ballrooms, as far as one's assumption goes, are dazzling and gorgeous and usually quite large. The same can be said for the ballroom I find myself in now. I am at one end of the opulent, oval room and at other end is my goal: Miranda. We had been parted by some mogul that wanted Miranda's attention and the wife of a photographer that was a fan of my work. Slowly but surely, as people ebbed and flowed around us, I drifted to one end of the tremendous space and Miranda had stayed at the other, still holding court among her loyal followers. I huff indignantly and steel my nerves to make my way as undetected as possible to the other end.
I am halfway across the room, the white silk skirt of my lovely gown flowing impressively behind me when I am stopped by two men who want to talk to me about the war crimes being reported in Syria and how the Australian Government is insisting they are at not fault. I smile, a fake sort, but nobody but Miranda can ever tell, and nod along while trying to slip away and head in the direction of my wife. They continue to blather on and I slowly but surely grow frustrated at the separation from my wife and this inane conversation that I didn't ask for. In a moment of rashness on my part, I rather impolitely excuse myself and begin walking away from them and towards my lover. I realise I must wade through the dance floor to make the quickest route so I do that, and I suppose I was naïve to think I wouldn't be caught by someone.
A firm grip on my arm signals another delay in my task, and I just barely manage not to rip my arm out of the stranger's hold. I turn to see a man that clearly thinks himself very important by the arch of his smirk and the gleam in his eye. He looks me up and down as though analysing whether I am worthy of him after all. The frown between my brows is growing steadily at the undisguised leer.
"Can I help you?" I ask. His grin turns lascivious. He eyes my chest shamelessly and when the glint of fine silver catches his eye, he looks to my necklace. Sitting upon a dainty silver chain, is a finely spun silver 'M'. His brows quirk in askance.
"Let me guess," his pompous voice says. "Melissa? Melanie?" At my blank and uninterested stare, I can see he feels his ego being bruised and as a result his hackles rise. I know his type and any encouragement to his behaviour at all will make him more intolerable than he already is, so I stay quiet.
"No? What about the things you like most then? Money? Men?" My frown has returned and he grins again, unaware of the change in atmosphere that heralds my love's arrival and his imminent downfall. His hand is growing sweaty where it holds my right forearm and I wish he would let go, but after another jerk his grip tightens.
"Actually," a voice, my favourite one, sounds from behind him. How Miranda had even gotten to that side of the room, I was unsure. All I know is I am terribly relieved to see my beautiful wife, bedecked in structured black couture, a silver 'A' hanging from her own silver chain. The ice in her voice freezes the obnoxious man.
"The 'M' stands for two things," she says as she glides the rest of the way to where I am still being held by this arrogant stranger. He obviously doesn't know who we are, or he would be running. She rips his hand from my forearm, covering the spot with her own softer hands, as if erasing the mark of another and standing between the prat and I. Miranda is very possessive of me and with that comes a protectiveness. I adore both.
"Miranda," she continues, gesturing to herself. She grabs my left hand where the opal and diamond engagement ring sits huddled with a white gold wedding band. She turns her fierce gaze to the now nervous man.
"And married," she snarls. He gulps and tries to glare at her too. When that doesn't work, and it really doesn't, he turns his hateful gaze to me. So focussed is he on melting me with his stare (I worked for my wife for nearly a year before we began dating so I am impervious to any glare) that he doesn't notice the two buff men in tailored black suits coming up behind him until they're dragging him away. The guests at the party quickly avert their attention away from the scene at Miranda's scornful gaze.
I step closer to her, breathing near her hair to catch a whiff of her lovely scent and whisper a heartfelt, "thank you, my love," beside her ear. She grunts almost silently and begins to guide me away from the ballroom and to the elevator to the hotel room we had booked for tonight. The soiree isn't in Miranda's or my honour so we aren't breaking any social expectations by leaving early.
Once in the lavish room, Miranda pounces.
Her soft hands push me against the door then they are everywhere, moving so quickly and working so efficiently that my lovely dress is no longer swirling against my ankles, but is rather in a heap on the floor. Her mouth is on me next, nipping and soothing, wet and warm; tasting. She's angry, I know that, and I also know that she is feeling threatened by another trying (very poorly) to seduce me. She is much like an animal in this way, staking her claim on me. I gasp when she finds the sensitive spot behind my ear, which she does unerringly every time.
She rips her mouth from me and pulls me desperately behind her to the bedroom. I don't even have a moment to admire the room before I am on my back in nothing but my wedding rings and her initial around my throat. She likes me best this way.
"You are mine, Andrea. You belong to me," she growls lowly. I whine, a strangled keening noise erupting from my throat as I nod my head in desperation. She moves slowly towards me, her own body naked but for her rings and my initial. I know not to move, not to try to assert any dominance. I am her prey in these moments, and there is a thrill in the hunt.
On all fours, she slithers up my body, daring me to make a noise, to invite her attack. I never held out more than a few seconds in the first dozen times we played this game. But now I've gotten very good at it, to Miranda's chagrin. I know that she likes the anticipation, finding ways to wring even the smallest sound from me. She's not playing fair tonight, though. She breathes a hot cloud of air onto my breast and when the heat fades and the coolness of the room hits the reactive skin, it pebbles immediately. I only just manage to stifle the groan in my throat. She knows how sensitive I am there, and she's taking advantage of that. She does it once more and I can't keep the groan silent that time. Her eyes twinkle in devilish delight.
I've made a noise, which is the first part of the game. The second is submitting to her which never takes long at all. One lovely hand weaves its way from my hip up my stomach, between my breasts and to my neck where it takes a firm hold, keeping me in place but not depriving me of air… yet. Her face is hovering above mine now, turbulent blues against shining topaz. I look away first, tilt my neck just so, and she has won, though I never wanted to win anyway.
"He touched you, Andrea," she whispers against my neck, the skin tingling as her words hit. "You know how unacceptable I find that." I shiver and nod.
Her left hand, heretofore forgotten, makes itself known by gripping my hip in a rough hold, then skating down to my thigh where it pries open my legs. I know I'm wet, I can feel the air hit it, I can feel my clit throbbing and my walls contracting wishing for something to grip on to. She knows it as well, and her grin is beautiful as it is feral in the dull light from the open curtains. I feel fingertips brush against my very inner, very upper thigh and my hips jerk in a futile attempt at finding contact. Any touching will be on her terms. It always is when it's like this.
"Will you deny me, Andrea?" My breath hitches at how she says my name. There is such agony in those syllables, such torment.
"Will you deny me what is mine?" I shake my head, the movement strained from her grip around my throat.
"No? Good girl," she says. Before I can think to smile at the praise, three fingers are inside me and apart from the abrupt insertion, there is no further movement. I whine again, high and keening. It's a cry for relief, for mercy which I know I will not be granted. She won't let me come until I beg, but I always make it worth her while to pull such verbal desperation from me. I've always been stubborn, and I've always held such importance with words. I think it's her favourite part of our game.
Her lips are still resting against my throat, but I feel them stretch into a grin, her teeth touching my flesh very lightly. I wriggle my hips, trying to get those fingers to move, to go deeper. I can feel them resting on my spot, the one that Miranda focusses on when I've had a bad day, or when we've been apart for too long. I know she knows where her fingers are, and I know she knows that it will take scant moments for me to beg her. I try to hold out anyway, but then she curls her fingers so slightly, just enough to brush that spot, but not enough for it to be stimulating at all. My back arches and a pitiful groan pushes past her hand and out of my mouth into the room.
"Please, Miranda, please." She chuckles darkly in my ear, then pulls out her fingers almost completely.
"No! Please," I say again, thinking she might leave me this way, aching for her and pleading. It has happened before. But she hushes me and kisses me softly below my ear before slamming her fingers back in, curling them to rub against the rough patch of flesh inside me. She keeps a furious pace making sure each time to grind her palm on my poor clit and stimulate my spot with her precise fingers. It might have been hours, it might have been seconds since she began fucking me. It doesn't matter because already I'm tightening, already there are dark spots in my vision, and that is when I realise I'm not breathing, that her fist has gripped me hard enough to delay air. It's always like this when we play. Always so hard not to fly from my body into another world. I know that I still have to ask permission or she will be upset, and I hate it when Miranda is upset.
"Please," I manage to choke out. Her eyes are on mine now, her elbow rearing back and forth, the sounds of our joining echo loudly in the quiet of the room. She raises an eyebrow and I remember I haven't asked yet, and I can feel my womb tightening, my abdomen muscles bunching up. I have to ask quickly or I'll come but I won't be able to enjoy it.
"Please may I come?" I manage in a quick breath. Her eyes soften, the slight snarl in her mouth melting away to an expression of such tenderness it makes my heart ache. She smiles then, softly and at just the right angle so she is caught by the moon's light from the window. She's a goddess among mortals.
"Show me you're mine, Andrea. Come for me, now."
My eyes roll back into my skull, my back arches, my thighs snap together but she doesn't stop fucking me. It seems hours until the coil in my pussy snaps, but when it does, I feel my walls tighten dangerously on skilful fingers. My heart stutters in my chest and I can't be bothered to worry if I'd die in that moment, because what a way to go. I squeeze so tight on my wife's fingers that I feel the metal of her wedding rings inside me. That thought makes me grip her fingers once more before I fall boneless, silent and twitching intermittently onto the mattress. Her fingers retreat from my body, gently because she knows how sensitive I am after, and her hand loosens then falls away from my neck, rubbing the reddened skin soothingly.
I lie in a daze, unsure how much time is passing and ultimately uncaring too. I feel soft kisses along my cheeks and forehead and chin and mouth. I feel tender whispers of fingertips along my ribs and around my breasts and my shoulders. When I finally regain a modicum of awareness, I am lying on my side, mirroring my wife's position. She's looking at me now, not touching, but close enough for me to feel her body's warmth. She's gazing upon me in the way she does that makes me feel beautiful. I always feel that way when I'm with her.
"Are you with me, Andrea?" I look into her eyes, not so turbulent this time with lust, but swirling with something else. I concentrate on it, trying to unlock what it is when the tone of her question sinks in.
I worked for her for ten months and learned about who Miranda is in her job as a boss. Then when I quit, we had no contact for two months and I learned what life was like without her after knowing her (terrible). Then we dated for six months and I learned what she was like as a lover and as a mother to our girls (wonderful in both regards). Then we married, and have been for six years, and I have learned that Miranda, for being the queen of aesthetics and beauty, will always think she is not enough for someone. It is her greatest secret, that she is insecure, but I had known once we began dating have since made it my mission to do everything I can to assuage that absolutely ridiculous idea.
Am I with her? The answer should be obvious.
"Always, Miranda."