He paused, then played along, “Who's available?”
I answered him by making up the sluttiest names I could think of on the spot, until at last he pounced on one: Mitzi.
I rolled my eyes. “Mitzi's right here,” I said. “Her tits keep popping out of her dress, though, so she may have a wardrobe malfunction on you.”
Suzanne/Mitzi made a startled face and covered her chest. She was wearing her yoga clothes—black pants and a pink zip-up jacket, and in no danger of popping out. She had a tiny, modest figure, but Mr. Thorne didn't need to know that.
His voice cold and business-like, he said, “Let me speak to her.”
“Your wish is my command. Yes, sir.” I handed Suzanne the cell phone.
The waiter came by to refill our chilled cucumber water and clear our plates in time to catch Suzanne describing herself as, “Petite, with red hair, and ample, natural br**sts.”
For the first time, I saw Suzanne as the hot little piece of ass she was. The girl was petite, and though her red hair came from a bottle, she did have nice br**sts. I wouldn't call them ample, but they were big enough. As she spoke on the phone, breathlessly, she unzipped her pink yoga jacket and ran her fingertips along the top of her form-fitting yoga top.
The waiter, a teenaged boy, blushed and quickly ran off, practically tripping over himself in his haste.
“You gave that poor boy a boner,” I said to Suzanne, but she snapped her fingers and waved at me to stop talking.
I crossed my arms and slunk in my chair.
Suzanne was grinning, enjoying herself immensely, and I was … not happy.
Why wasn't I happy?
I looked around, seeking an answer. Attractive people were walking up and down the busy street, and an expensive-looking car drove by—one of those bright yellow sports cars designed to attract attention.
That was it. I wanted attention from Mr. Thorne.
Suzanne had him now, and I was jealous.
She was describing to him a full-on fantasy scenario, taking a lot more time to set up the scene than I had when I'd spoken to him. Damn, she was good. She created a luxurious suite, complete with a baby grand piano inside the room.
My jealous mind imagined the scenario as she described it over the phone to him, in tantalizing detail. When she got to the strawberries, I ceased to be in the sunshine at a sidewalk cafe, but was transported by her words, watching the fantasy scene unfold.
It went like this:
Suzanne met Mr. Thorne at the place of his choosing, which was a luxurious hotel suite downtown. They ordered room service: champagne and ripe, red strawberries. They requested a room with a piano, and she played a song for him—a beautiful song. All those years of lessons had really paid off.
(Just a reminder: this is me, telling you what I imagined, based on what Suzanne was saying to Mr. Thorne over my cell phone. At times, my imagination filled in a lot more than what Suzanne was saying. My imagination is just like that.)
He wore casual clothes, with a knit shirt, like what you'd see on a golf course. His strong biceps bulged as he popped open the champagne, and Suzanne squealed. (She wasn't Mitzi in my vision, but Suzanne, my dear friend.)
She got up from the piano stool, shy and nervous as a school girl, and stood in front of him, looking more petite than ever next to his imposing frame.
He picked out the biggest strawberry, stuck it in his mouth, and passed it to Suzanne with a passionate kiss.
She reached down with her manicured hand and stroked the crotch of his pants. He pushed her hand away and asked her to take it slow, not to rush. They were standing next to a table, in the middle of the luxurious open-plan suite. In addition to the piano, there was a sunken tub on one side and a King-sized bed on the other.
The sun was setting, and the curtains were open, revealing the city, all midnight blue sky and golden lights.
“You're all mine,” he said.
“I am.”
“You'll do as I say.”
She nodded obediently, and then he poured champagne for both of them, in tall, thin, crystal flutes.
“What shall we toast?” she asked.
“Eating strawberries,” he said. “I'm going to eat your strawberry.”
“I waxed it just for you.”
“Let me see.”
She trembled a little as he reached down with one thick finger and lifted the hem of her red dress. He caught a peek at her freshly-waxed and baby-powdered pu**y. She arched her back, leaning her soft mound toward him, begging to be touched, but he only nodded, smiled, and dropped her hem.
He said, “You want me to touch you.”
Her voice shook as she said, “I really do.”
“Doesn't your husband touch you there?”
She shook her head, no.
“He doesn't know what he's missing. Let me see it again.”
She nodded and waited for him to look, but he didn't move.
“Go stand against that wall,” he said, gesturing to the side of the room, next to the bed.
She walked toward the wall and he directed her to stand with her back to it.
“Now spread your legs,” he said, standing a few feet in front of her.
She wore red shoes with very high heels, as she was so petite, and she was glad she had them on, so she could nearly look Mr. Thorne in the eyes.
“Spread them a little wider,” he said, and she did.
He took the champagne from her hand and set it on a nearby table, along with his. He undid the buckle of his belt, but went no further undressing himself.
Still standing before her, gazing into her eyes, not letting go, he said, “Lift up your dress without moving your feet.”
She timidly pulled at the hem of her skirt, inching it up along her pale thighs.
“Slowly,” he said. “Now. Now show me that strawberry pu**y of yours.”
She raised the hem some more, revealing her mound, the front of her crease, and her folds, which were swelling in anticipation.
He took off his belt, dropped it on the floor, and undid the top button of his trousers.
Huskily, he said, “Do you want me to touch that strawberry pu**y?”
She nodded.
“I didn't hear you.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes, what?”
She blinked at him, looking confused.
He fed her the line, “Yes, please, sir.”
She repeated after him, “Yes, please, sir,” not breaking the connection of their gazes, she with her sparkly, pale blue eyes, he with his hazel eyes that wavered between green and brown.
“Do you know what I'm going to do to that strawberry pu**y?”
She nodded.
He undid his zipper and slid his trousers down, and then his briefs.