Haughty

Haughty.

That's the word that came to mind when he met her.

Della, a relative or a family friend of his ex-wife, presumably. The brief encounter - the only one - had been at a large gathering at his in-laws' a couple of years ago.

"Her real name is Emilia," Susan had told him afterwards, "Emilia della Frusta." She had giggled, he remembered, wondering now if her mirth had come from something other than the wine.

Why had that meeting stuck with him? She was of barely average height, but nevertheless, she gave every impression of looking down on him.

When Susan introduced him, she repeated his name, Frank, as if pronouncing it left an unpleasant taste in her mouth. He remembered feeling embarrassed, as if he had failed her in some way.

It had been confusing then, and now he was even more unsettled. It's not as if she were a great beauty or simmeringly sexy in some way. No, Della was as non-descript as they come, a brunette with literally nothing particularly attractive about her. But the memory was indelible.

*******************************************************

He was eating lunch in his office when she phoned him. Why he answered an unknown caller remains a mystery. He was probably just bored.

"Hello, Frank. This is Della Frusta. We met at the Sommerfelds'."

"Oh!" Frank responded, surprised. "Yes, I remember you." The sound of her voice, heard only that one time, sparked instant recall; her condescending expression came immediately to his mind's eye.

The slight pause that followed was uncomfortable for him, bringing back that sense of inadequacy.

"What can I do for you?" he offered, and then regretted. Why this need to mollify her?

There was a definite tone of bemusement in her reply. "Hm. That remains to be seen."

Frank found his throat very dry and had to take a sip of his Perrier.

"I thought, since I'm alone here in Manhattan, you could take me to dinner," she concluded.

It didn't sound at all like a question or a suggestion. And Frank, unusual for him, fund himself veering from fluster to certitude.

"Oh, yes, I'd love to!" he gushed eagerly. And then he wondered where that had come from. Yet he couldn't deny that he was excited by the prospect.

"Good. Pick me up at the Plaza at seven."

She hung up.

*************************************************

Over steaks in a "reasonably priced" SoHo chophouse, Della informed him briefly that she was in town to take charge of a business she had acquired. Then she started asking questions.

"What's your annual salary?" she began, firing question after question until she was satisfied, and had a thorough understanding of his finances, lifestyle, hobbies, and interests.

It never occurred to him that her questions might be a bit inappropriate, a tad too personal. Rather, he found it strangely stimulating to lay himself bare in this way. It felt like an intimacy that had been missing since his divorce. More intimate in some ways. And the vulnerability he felt at her total lack of reciprocity gave him a kind of thrill.

He wanted to ask her about her life too, but her demeanor was so intimidating! He studied her face as he psychologically stripped himself naked for her. Her large, intelligent eyes were clearly studying him, appraised him. They were her greatest asset, he decided, actually quite beautiful in their cold, steely gaze.

Her mouth, too, attracted his attention. It was just a little too small, the lips too thin to be pretty, but it was so mobile and expressive when she spoke and often twisted wryly into a sarcastic, mocking sort of smile when he gave his answers.

She looked a little older than he remembered; late thirties at least, he surmised. That would make her a good ten years older than he was. He didn't often do this with women, even the pretty ones, but as he observed her, he tried to imagine her body beneath her clothes. How would she look naked?

The sweater and trousers revealed little. She had small breasts, clearly; a slight swelling of her sweatered chest was enough, with some tapering at the waist, to imply her womanliness. But she was far from curvy. Not much in the ass department, either, he remembered from their walk to the table.

At least she's not fat, he mused. She might even be athletic...

His reverie was interrupted. Della was speaking to the waiter.

"No, just one, for me. He's only allowed one glass of wine."

The waiter smirked and glanced at Frank. His smile softened as he took in Frank's relative youth and good looks. Frank was blushing, affronted by Della's presumption.

Frank spoke up. "Actually I would like..."

He was interrupted by a stinging slap on the cheek! He gasped and the waiter recoiled, clearly embarrassed. He glanced at Frank furtively, sympathetically, as he slinked away. Frank wondered if he was gay.

Della leaned in close, menacing, and hissed in his face, "Don't you ever contradict me again!"

Frank could see spittle at the corner of her snarling mouth. He looked into her glaring eyes. He was afraid of her. A real physical sense of fear gripped his guts.

"No ma'am. I'm sorry, ma'am," he managed to squeak.

"That's a good boy," she said quietly, her features softening. She stroked his burning cheek gently. "Just so we understand each other."

He watched her face, so close up, as her wry smile returned. Was that triumph in her cold grey eyes? He could smell the cabernet on her breath.

His cock was rock-hard.

**************************************************

Della gave the cabbie the address of Frank's upper west side condo.

Frank was politely holding the door for her as she slid onto the bench seat. He was mildly shocked (an almost permanent state all evening) but not surprised. His cock, having never fully deflated, nor his fear fully abated, pulsed and thickened. Was she going to stay the night? The thought both scared and aroused him.

Instead of allowing him to close the door and walk around to the opposite door, Della scooched over to the center and patted the seat beside her.

"Sit here," she said. Her smile looked innocent, her tone wasn't uninviting.

He complied meekly, although warily, already accustomed to this internal turmoil, the battle between fear and desire, that had kept him off balance from the beginning.

But she had only slid halfway across the seat so that, to fit himself inside and get the door closed, he found himself practically squished up against her. He was dizzyingly aware of the warmth of her thigh against his. He glanced at her face. She smiled again. It didn't quite reassure him.

Della was fully cognizant of Frank's bewilderment. She turned her head to speak softly in his ear.

"You like me taking charge, don't you?" she said sweetly.

He just stared dumbly. Like a deer in the headlights, she thought, quite pleased.

"I think you like being told what to do," she continued, speaking louder and more authoritatively.

Frank was hearing alarm bells. He grasped for an answer, but it hadn't been a question, and his alarm turned to panic with Della's next words.

"I know why Susan left you." Della had reverted to her more intimate tone, soft and breathy, warm in his ear.

"Huh?!" Like a punch in the gut, Frank felt the wind knocked out of him. Although Susan had indeed instigated the divorce, they had agreed to say that it was a mutual decision; they had just grown apart. Frank had noticed his wife's increasing restlessness that final year or so, but had never understood why.

Della tried not to display the glee she felt at the sight of his dismay: eyes like saucers, mouth agape.

"Didn't you know?" she said, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. "She just got bored." God, how she was enjoying this!

"Oh, yes," she continued, taking in his pained incredulity. "She told me all about it... How frustrating it was. How passive you are. Indecisive. She had to make all the decisions. Getting input from you was 'like pulling teeth,' she said."

She let that soak in. She liked the way Frank looked as if he might start crying.

Frank felt so betrayed! Susan should have told him these things. He would have tried... maybe it could have... And how could she betray him to Della this way? What must she think of him?

"Most women like a man to be the leader, to be strong and decisive. At least some of the time!" Della explained pedantically, disguising her growing delight.

Softening her tone again, she said with all the empathy she could feign, "She told me how awful it was having sex with you."

Della's dagger stuck him perfectly. His face turned bright red, not just from shame, but indignation! Awful? Really? How dare she! (Was he mad at Susan or at Della?)

"What!... That's... I mean..." Frank sputtered in indignation, his voice rising inarticulately in both volume and pitch, as he turned his face angrily toward Della.

Della really let him have it this time! Her palm hit Frank's cheek at over twice the velocity of her first slap. The report resounded as his face recoiled, spittle flying everywhere. The pain was sharp; his body froze, although he turned his head back to gaze at Della in shock and awe, his eyes welling and overflowing.

"Don't you raise your voice at me!" she snarled.

Was he going to cry? Della's excitement grew; like a tremor, it rippled through her body to her crotch.

"Listen to me. Listen good!" she said, low and menacing. "All your wife wanted was a little initiative. No woman wants to always have be the one to initiate sex. But you never would."

She could see the dawning of comprehension in his sad, puppy-dog eyes. How pathetic, she thought, amused.

"Susan also said," Della continued with calculated affect, "that you are a perfectly adequate lover."

She watched his reaction to the lukewarm compliment. Good, she thought, and then topped it off with, "And she told me you have a beautiful cock."

They had arrived. The taxi pulled into the space next to a fire hydrant. Della had to nudge Frank with her elbow. He quickly got out and stood by the door as she exited.

"Give me the key," she said as she stood. Once again, like the first time they met, he felt small. How does she do that, he wondered, standing more than a head taller.

He withdrew his keychain from his pocket and placed it in her open palm. It felt like giving up his autonomy. An acknowledgement of her authority. His cock was so engorged it left him lightheaded.

"Pay the man." Della said, her voice as crisp and commanding as her last demand had been. Unlike Frank, her mind was clear and sharp. But she too was aroused; her underpants were wet with anticipation.

The address was clearly marked on the building. Keys in hand, Della strode up the steps to open the door. Frank had to hurry to catch up after paying the fare. He reached her in time to hold the door for her. She waited for him to scurry ahead to call the elevator. It arrived quickly and the doors opened.

Frank recognized the elderly woman inside: Ada Zimmerman, riding up from the lower level where she owned one of the precious parking spaces. He nodded politely to her as he entered and turned to face the front and press the number fourteen button.

Della ignored the old woman. As soon as the doors had closed, she resumed the conversation as if they were quite alone.

"Susan said it wasn't all bad."

Frank's eyes widened in alarm. He glanced behind him at Mrs. Zimmerman. She seemed preoccupied with her own thoughts.

"She said you are actually quite good at cunnilingus." Della smiled brightly. Her vaginal muscles twitched. This was so delightfully humiliating!

Frank was breathless. He was certain Ada had heard that. Why? Why would Della say that out loud? In public!

Della wasn't finished. "I'll bet you want to lick my pussy right now." Her innocent smile disguised the gush of juices in her pants. She turned, fully facing him.

"You do, don't you?" she asked, more forcefully.

Frank hung his head, his heart pounding in his ears. The elevator stopped. Tenth floor, the Zimmermans' floor. Thank God!

Ada brushed past him when the doors opened, giving him a strange look as she exited. But the doors hadn't closed before she had to have heard the slap.

With her hand raised, threatening another blow, Della growled, "I asked you a question. Answer it!"

Frank was actually cowering, his hands raised protectively. He couldn't help it: he started to cry. It was the utter humiliation.

"Yes," he sobbed, tears spilling down his cheeks.

It was true. Why, he didn't know.

To crawl between Della's thighs and bury his face in her cunt and delve his tongue deep inside her and taste her and breathe in her woman-musk and exert every ounce of his ability to try to please her, to satisfy her, to bring her to orgasm, that was what he wanted.

And he wanted it as if it was everything he had ever wanted.