You understand the importance of the wrists. You do not take me by the hand or embrace me in meeting. Instead you wrap your long, strong fingers around my wrists, tightly, firmly -- a vice of flesh and heat. My fingers flutter involuntarily: small white birds in the brief flight permitted by their new cage.

Turning my right hand over, you draw it to your face. Palm cupped, open toward you, my fingers curving upward in natural supplication. Shifting your dark fingers, you expose the soft fragility of my inner wrist, staring at the pale skin stretched over the curve of tendon, the fast blue pulse of veins, the soft crease where limb joins hand. I drop my eyes; your glance seems suddenly too intimate, too knowing, as if you have read the beat of my blood with your fingers and learned more than you should.

You smile then because you do know. Know exactly. Transferring my right wrist to your left hand, you grasp it against its partner with powerful ease, pulling upward, stretching my arms over my head, pushing me against a wall I had until now been only vaguely aware of. Slick painted brick imprints against my knuckles, my shoulders, through the fabric of my skirt to ass and thighs -- cool against the rising heat of my body. My back arcs outward, forced away from the wall, my nipples hardening as my breasts strain closer to you. "Look at me" -- your voice is low, commanding, distinct against the muffled thud of club music behind you. A quick look up taking in your face illumined by the multicolored lights reflecting into this dim corner, not even sure of the color of your hair. I avoid your eyes.

"Look at me." A finger of your free hand traces my jaw, prompting me with a stroke that sets my skin afire. "The eyes. The eyes are a gift." Tilting my head back now, my eyes offering themselves, losing myself in the obsidian smoothness of your gaze. "Open your mouth."

Eyes still transfixed, my jaw drops. You insert one finger, then another, wetting them against my tongue, sliding them in and out in false fellatio. "Suck them." Your eyes sparkle as I obey. My lips slick with stray saliva -- as wet now as the lips of my throbbing cunt.

With firm pressure against my wrists you lower me to my knees, still imprisoning my arms against the wall. I feel the heat of your crotch, close, so close to my face. You unzip your jeans and release your cock, moving the one step to my mouth. I move my tongue, my lips over your uncut head, your thick shaft; pressing it against the roof of my mouth, running my tongue and, guardedly, my teeth along the vein on its underside. You make a small feral noise and tighten your grip on my wrists. I roll my tongue around and around the head of your cock, then back to your balls, bulging and full, sucking them into my mouth, licking and savoring. I work your cock -- sucking, licking, plunging it deep into my throat, I want you to come so I can taste you. You are bucking your hips now, fucking my mouth, your free hand grasping my hair and pushing me to your rhythm. I feel your fullness, taste hot drops of you deep in my throat. You come, flooding me, choking me with sweet jism, never letting go of my wrists. I drink you, coax a final jet before you withdraw.

I wonder if we have been seen. The sound of music, murmurs and laughter of the club return to my consciousness. My arms seem numb, my hands above my head still more numb except for solid, sharp striations of pain. Have they been rubbed raw by the bricks? You pull me up and finally drop my wrists. Your hands rub my tingling arms, massage my deadened hands. I fear to look at you, fear what expression I will see displayed. But I hear your voice, feel your lips soft against my ear as you say, "You have pleased me. Come." Your hand takes my wrist again, pulling me across the room, threading past tables and dancers to the door and into the night.