The Palm Court calls to mind my beloved London—not its decor, which leans too far into the theatrical, but the tea. That delicate ritual of patience and indulgence, the way time slows beneath the weight of fine china and whispered promises. It is a fitting setting for what comes next.
Theo had been waiting for me for precisely ten minutes—just long enough for anticipation to coil within him, for his control to fray at the edges. The young ones always fidget at first, the nervous energy betraying them before they even realize. It pleases me. I’ve long accepted that I have a type—beautiful, brilliant young men who simmer beneath their polish, who long to kneel but don’t yet understand why.
Most of them, curiously, are Jewish. I never seek them out, yet they find their way to me again and again, drawn to something they cannot name. They want a woman who is exotic, but not foreign. Alluring, but not dangerous. A body with curves, a mind that slices cleanly through pretense. They crave sensuality wrapped in discipline. And, of course, they want me to be old enough to command but not so much that they feel examined, unspooled, deconstructed like one of their mother’s psychoanalytic texts.
Theo stood as I approached, a small act of deference that I noted with satisfaction. He pulled out my chair, and I allowed myself the indulgence of a slow, deliberate smile as I took my seat.
“Thank you, darling.”
He leaned in, brushing his lips against each of my cheeks in greeting, his cologne a quiet murmur of spice and bergamot.
“Did you wait long?” I asked, knowing full well he had.
He smiled, polite. “I got here early—” but then stopped himself, realizing the error.
I let the moment linger, watching the faint bloom of color rise to his cheekbones. “Good. I’m glad you had the chance to practice patience. You’ll need it today.”
His gaze flickered downward. A shame, truly—his eyes were exquisite, a shade of green reminiscent of the Mediterranean at noon, crystalline and untamed. I would make him keep them on me later.
The tea arrived, but I barely touched mine, mindful as always to leave only a single mark of lipstick against the porcelain. It is a small obsession of mine—to never leave more than one imprint, on a cup, a napkin, or a man.
We spoke, but the conversation was mere scaffolding before the inevitable fall. Theo was already bending, already giving, already mine.
“Give me the room key.”
He obeyed instantly, placing it in my palm without hesitation. I turned it over between my fingers, feeling the weight of his surrender.
“You’ll wait fifteen minutes after I leave to settle the bill.”
“I can charge it to the room—” he started, too eager.
I tilted my head, fixing him with a quiet, cutting gaze. He faltered. Good.
“You will wait fifteen minutes to pay,” I repeated, my voice like silk drawn tight. “And then another ten before you go upstairs. When you arrive, you’ll knock—two long, two short, one long.”
Theo nodded, his fingers tightening around the edge of the linen napkin. He was already drying. A pity—I liked him best when he hovered at the edge of losing himself.
I rose, and when he moved to follow, I stopped him with a single look.
“You are a man,” I said, each syllable measured, deliberate. “Act like one. I don’t entertain weak little things.”
His throat bobbed with a swallowed breath.
“You want me to like you, don’t you?”
“Yes, Master Liz.”
I smiled, slow and knowing. “Then stop whatever this is. You made it this far. Let’s see this through.”
I turned and left without looking back, leaving him to his tea and his fifteen minutes of exquisite agony.
_________________________________________________________
The suite awaited me—a corner room with a sweeping view of Central Park. The late afternoon sun cast elongated shadows over the treetops, painting the city in hues of amber and gold. The room itself was adorned in ivory and champagne tones, accented by the delicate touch of gilded mirrors and velvet drapery.
I set the stage carefully. Each item laid out with intention:
A delicate black lace bodysuit from La Perla, intricate and sheer, designed to accentuate the lean lines of a man yet soften them under the guise of submission.
A pair of thigh-high stockings, the tops adorned with lace, meant to cling, to hold, to remind.
A garter belt, a whisper of silk and gold clasps, because beauty should never be wasted on the simple.
A blindfold of deep red silk, the color of wine left to breathe, waiting to be poured.
And, finally, the black lacquered box.
Inside, nestled in silk, the centerpiece of the night: a strap-on of muted ivory, its weight undeniable, its form sculpted to perfection. The leather harness beneath it was supple, rich with the scent of polished hide. I ran a finger along the length, considering. When he saw it, there would be no mistaking its purpose.
A slow smile touched my lips.
Then, the knock came.
Two long. Two short. One long.
Exactly as instructed.
I took my time before opening the door.
Theo stood before me, eyes dark, breath shallow. He entered without a word, his gaze catching on the bed, on the garments waiting for him, on the black box left open just enough to reveal its contents.
“Strip,” I ordered.
He obeyed. One by one, the layers fell away—his Brioni shirt, the crisp Tom Ford trousers, the polished Ferragamo belt. Beneath it all, his body was as I had expected—lean, taut, perfect in its vulnerability.
“Put them on.”
He hesitated only a moment before reaching for the lace. I watched him, my lips curling as he slid into the bodysuit, as the stockings rolled over his calves, as the garter belt clasped into place. He stood before me, wrapped in silken submission, utterly undone.
I approached, lifting his chin.
“Exquisite.”
Then, from my vanity, a tube of deep crimson lipstick.
“Hold still.”
His breath hitched as I traced the pigment over his lips, painting them the shade of ruin. When I was finished, I tilted his chin up, pressing my mouth against his, tasting the surrender on his tongue.
When I pulled away, his lips were smudged, his expression wrecked.
I retrieved the blindfold, sliding it over his eyes, then turned, reaching for the harness.
I stepped into it slowly, buckling each strap with deliberate care, watching his reaction. He couldn’t see, but he could feel. The weight of it. The shift in the air. The knowledge that it was now a part of me, that it might as well be real.
I let the silence stretch before leaning in.
“On your knees.”
Theo obeyed, trembling, his lips parting as I brushed the tip against them.
“Open.”
When he took it into his mouth, it was with something akin to reverence. His lips, painted in a deep, smudging crimson, wrapped around the length in a slow, deliberate descent. The contrast of red against pale silicone sent a wicked thrill through me, a purely visual indulgence that only deepened the power of the moment.
His eyes were closed at first—lost in sensation, in submission. But I wasn’t about to let him hide from this.
"Look at me," I commanded, my voice a low, silken demand.
Theo’s lashes fluttered, and when his gaze met mine, I could see it—his hunger, his devotion, the way he lost himself in the act. He looked as though he was tasting divinity itself, not silicone, and the sight alone made my core clench with pleasure.
I moaned for him, letting my body respond the way a man would under the attention of a lover’s mouth. I arched slightly, let my breath catch in just the right way, let a deep, guttural sigh escape my lips—a perfect simulation of ecstasy. And oh, how it spurred him on.
His pace quickened, eager, desperate to please, and I could see it in the way his throat worked, the way his tongue traced reverent circles against the underside, the way his own quiet, shuddering moans started escaping between movements.
"That’s my sweet little slut," I purred, threading my fingers into his hair, tightening my grip just enough to control him, to guide him into a steady, unrelenting rhythm. His breath hitched, but he didn’t resist—if anything, he melted into my grip, surrendering to the rough back-and-forth motion, allowing me to use him as I pleased.
The red lipstick smeared further, streaking along the shaft in sinful, messy proof of his devotion, mingling with the slick sheen of his own thick saliva. It was filthy. It was perfect.
And it was only the beginning. Do you want to read the rest and the uncensored version? Head over to Master Liz's Patreon page. @noustheclub #noustheclub #noussociety
Copyright © 2025 by Master Liz
All rights reserved. No part of the publications, both photography and writings, created by Master Liz may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address provided by Master Liz.
The content within these publications is provided by Master Liz as the author and photographer and is intended for personal use only. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from Master Liz is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Master Liz with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
This disclaimer, along with the content provided within the publications, does not transfer any form of licence or ownership to the receiver or reader but merely provides the right for the consumption of the content as intended and permitted by the copyright and permissions stated herein.
Please note that the content herein is a work of creative expression by Master Liz and is protected under copyright law. All names, characters, photographs, and incidents portrayed in the publications are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
コメント