Pose

by Becca Jameson

  She looked up. “Ah. Figured that out, did you?”

  “I know he’s your boyfriend, or whatever.” Andrew waved vaguely in the air. Yes. Boyfriend. Not husband. Julian had never asked. He said the collar was enough in the community. It said everything that needed to be said. She licked dry lips.

  Andrew continued without waiting for an explanation as to whether her relationship status changed in Ely, “That doesn’t change the fact that the Loft would be better off not to count on him so much. If he ever decided not to pour money into this organization, we’d have to shut our doors.”

  She blinked at the reminder of that reality. And then another thought occurred to her. Oh God. She shouldn’t have left him. He’d be angry, and it put the Loft at risk. She hoped he didn’t do anything rash before they got the grant. How mad would he be? Enough to take everything from her? She’d seen his fury before, but not like that. Never like that.

  “Right. Well, then, we better get this grant.” They had to. Morgan couldn’t leave all those kids so vulnerable. The Loft was important to them. For some of them it provided a purpose, a hope for the future. It gave them a place to escape the hard things in their lives. Something that photography had always done for her.

  “What can I do to help?” Andrew asked.

  •●•

  Julian sat naked on the bed in the playroom of their cabin seething in cold fury. No texts or calls from Morgan. No e-mails. Just silence. And betrayal.

  He had to do something. He felt scraped raw by his own emotions. His hands fisted and unfisted. He punched at the pillow again. It had been pulverized since the moment he’d woken up alone. He stood and paced the playroom for the tenth time, staring at his silent phone on the left-hand side table. The table with the hooks for connecting cuffs and ropes to, a matching one on the opposite side of the bed.

  “Dammit, Morgan,” he snarled.

  He did another lap around the room, eyes avoiding the bureau full of toys, before snatching his laptop from the right-hand table and pulling it open. He clicked on the folder he’d created and released a long breath as the movie loaded.

  He scrubbed his hand over his head as he watched himself on the screen, video after video after video, ink black skin against the paleness of a dozen different submissives. He only filmed his scenes with the pale ones, the ones who looked like his Morgan. She didn’t know about them, of course. He’d never tell her for fear of what she’d figure out about him. What she’d have to admit.

  He watched as he pounded into each new girl, filling every hole in their bodies without any real notion of who they were. The man on the screen was a beast, incapable of anything but brutality. He drew blood with his nails and his teeth, and they begged for more. Pain sluts, all of them. Girls who got off on torture. By the end of their sessions with him, they were covered in bruises, and still the beast wasn’t calmed. He could see it in his own eyes. He fucked them and hurt them, gave them everything they wanted, and still the darkness didn’t escape him. Nothing made it go away. Except…

  Daddy.

  Jesus, could Morgan be his little? Would she? If it was what she wanted, why had she run? He needed to talk to her, he needed to ask her, he needed to fuck her so she wouldn’t ever leave him again. But his rage was too great. He had no notion of what he was capable of. He needed to do something to hold back the beast so it wouldn’t scare her.

  He returned his gaze to the video on the screen, flopping back against the pile of pillows behind him and situating the laptop on his chest. His vision was filled with the revolving images of so many perfect women, sucking him off, displaying their pussies or asses for him, smiling into the camera in the beginning and then later demonstrating only raw emotion on their faces as he got rougher.

  He reached around the screen to grasp his cock. He needed the friction of rough sex, but without a willing body there to relieve him of the drive, he took matters into his own hands. Women swam across his vision, but he only saw Morgan. Her face. Her sweet red lips. Her gorgeous long hair… He gripped himself harder.

  Moving the laptop to the side, he added a second hand. He cupped his balls, squeezing them almost too hard. The pain was welcome. He deserved it. He almost wished it were Morgan punishing him for a list of crimes she didn’t even know.

  He tightened his fist on his cock and tugged faster, harder, watching the girls on the screen choke on him, scream their own releases, beg for him to take them harder. He scraped nails along his cock until it hurt, a sort of self-flagellation born of desperation. He came with a roar and started again, not easing up for a moment. He put all his fury at Morgan’s departure on himself, scrubbing until he felt raw and spent.

  He stared at the wooden ceiling, his breath rasping through his throat as if it were escaping through a straw. His emotions held him in a fierce chokehold, and even his sore cock offered no comfort. For a moment, he considered finding someone in town, maybe going back to the two girls who he first propositioned at the Sparkling Pines. But somehow he knew it would be worse than what Morgan had done to him. More of a betrayal. And if he took someone else before he found his way back to his girl, she might never forgive him.

  When he finally put his laptop away and lay flat on his bed, he thought about what he would say to Morgan. What he could say. How he could give her what she wanted and still protect her as he’d promised. He had no answers and was filled with a deep regret for asking so much of her. In trying to protect her, he’d pushed her too far away from him.

  His phone pinged, and he grabbed it from the side of his bed. Lucinda. Again. This text was an image, her in the skimpiest of bras and even less of a thong. Her red hair and pale skin standing out against the navy blue underwear set. She texted again moments later.

  Sure I can’t change your mind? I’m around…whenever.

  He powered his phone down and dropped his head back on the pillow, sweat from his head sliding down to his neck. His cock hurt, but not nearly as much as his heart. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to imagine what Morgan was doing and who she was with. But it was an exercise in futility. He’d seen her with too many others. He pulled himself up off the bed and stalked out of the room, determined to lose himself in a bottle of Jack Daniels till he was able to calm the fuck down and go get her back.

  •●•

  Morgan and Andrew worked the rest of Friday. She taught her class, sending home the last-minute substitute Julian had arranged to cover her. Morgan went back to the grant application, searching through the financials again, which somehow weren’t adding up now. Andrew stayed late with her, and they got dinner in the office. She waited for Julian to turn up. Every noise at her door had her head jerking in anticipation of his fury.

  But he never came, and the reality of that sank deep into her gut by the end of the day. Maybe she really was replaceable.

  When she was too tired to work any longer and too frustrated by the inexplicable missing money on the Loft’s financial balance sheet, she dragged herself back to their apartment, ready to face whatever awaited her. Only to find it empty when she arrived. Everything pristine and in its place. Simple but elegant furniture with sleek lines and minimalist design. A glass bowl full of dying white roses. Julian hadn’t come home at all.

  She considered calling him. But he hadn’t called or texted all day. She was a little lost without him demanding her whereabouts, insisting she come home. She took off her clothes and curled into their bed, waiting.

  By Monday morning, he still hadn’t come home. She dressed carefully, trying to look professional and ready for the Smith site visit. She’d spent the weekend pouring over numbers but couldn’t get her accountant on the phone to explain the anomaly in the new balance sheet. Fifty thousand dollars was unaccounted for, and Morgan couldn’t figure out what line item had been deleted.

  At ten a.m. she met Andrew outside her office. He was holding coffee and smiling at her. She squeezed his hand and smiled back, so grateful for her friend.

  “You
look exhausted. Have you slept at all?” he asked as he walked with her to the front reception area to greet the Smith people.

  “Not much,” she answered honestly.

  “Have you talked to Julian?”

  “No.” Her heart ached. He hadn’t called, and she felt so unhinged without his presence. Moments of regret for leaving scraped against her skin, but she couldn’t consider it now. The two of them needed to talk, but she needed to get through this visit first.

  Andrew placed a hand on the small of her back and led her toward the front. “Okay. One thing at a time.”

  The tour itself went incredibly well. Andrew did most of the talking, walking the two funders through each of the galleries and classrooms, explaining all the different opportunities the students had. They seemed genuinely impressed with what Morgan had accomplished, and the tension in her stomach eased a bit.

  Afterward, they convened to her office for a lengthy interview. Morgan did her best to answer their queries until the balance sheet came up.

  “We received the latest balance sheet from your office, and it appears to have some inconsistencies from the initial financials you provided with us in your query. I know these numbers are still being finalized for your application, but we wanted to discuss some anomalies.”

  Morgan’s face burned. Who had sent them the updated balance sheet? They’d only required an initial financial statement to get through the first round of the grant process. The updated balance sheet was part of the final grant application.

  “Oh. I’m sorry. That must have been a mistake on someone’s part. We’re still working on that piece and are trying to clear up a deleted line item with our accountant. It appears to be an administrative error. Rest assured all will be accounted for on the final application.”

  The two funders glanced at each other, a tiny frown emerging on the woman’s face, but she cleared her expression before turning back to Morgan. “We’re sure you will get to the bottom of it. Please do keep us apprised as to the missing line item. These are the kind of errors that get people audited, and we don’t want you to have to go through that process.”

  The rest of the interview went well, and by the time the visit was winding down, some of the classes had started, so Morgan again took the funders around to watch some of her teachers in action.

  They popped in Andrew’s room where he was explaining still life drawing to his new students and having them practice with a bowl of fruit. He smiled at Morgan like an excited puppy, and she almost laughed when he gave her a thumbs-up behind the funders’ backs.

  The rest of the day flew by quickly, the niggling worry over the balance sheet being pushed aside for more pressing matters from the students and staff. By five o’clock, Morgan felt like a boulder had been placed on top of her shoulders, and all she wanted to do was go home and crash.

  Kathryn had left early for a class she was taking at the U on nonprofit management, but Morgan wasn’t surprised when Andrew came in to her office after his last art students left.

  “It went well today,” he said.

  “Mostly.” She worried her bottom lip. She didn’t want to talk about someone sending the balance sheet to the Smith Foundation. It was probably an accident. At another time, she would have called Julian. But not anymore. She swallowed back tears again. She wanted to slide into her bed and sleep for a month.

  Andrew walked around her desk to the back of her chair, dropping his coat and backpack beside her. He laid gentle hands on her shoulders and started to knead her tight muscles. Warning bells pinged around her brain, but his hands felt so good. She groaned as her neck eased into his pressing fingers.

  “Jesus. You’re tense.”

  She laughed. “That sounds like a pick-up line, Andrew.”

  “Yes, it does.” Her head whipped up to see Julian standing at the door, his arms crossed, the look on his dark face like a predator ready to pounce.

  “Julian.” Her voice broke. She felt a wave of relief at the sight of him—he’d come back for her—followed by a mountain of fear. He looked ready to kill Andrew.

  “Take your hands off my little girl.”

  Andrew’s hands dropped and he sputtered. “Your little girl? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Julian stalked to her desk. “I am not. You need to leave, Andrew. I will deal with you later. But right now, I need to have a few words with my little girl.”

  Morgan glanced at Andrew. She could see Andrew’s hackles rising and almost shook her head at the ridiculousness of it. Really? He was going to try to play alpha? Against Julian? Who ate other men for breakfast?

  She put a hand on his arm. “It’s all right. Go, Andrew. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  Julian didn’t say anything, but when her gaze returned to him, his jaw was so tight she could see the pulse point throbbing. Andrew looked between the two of them and shook his head.

  “You deserve better than this, Morgan,” he mumbled. Then he snatched the coat and backpack he’d left on the floor next to her desk and exited the room.

  When the door clicked shut, Julian bore down on her. “You are in so much trouble, baby girl.”

  Chapter Ten

  Julian had been fuming all weekend, every moment away from Morgan making him feel like a teakettle ready to blow. He thought he’d pulled it together enough to talk to her, but when he saw Andrew’s hands on her and heard her groan of satisfaction, he lost it.

  He walked as calmly as he could to her office door and clicked the lock, shutting them off from everyone still walking through the Loft halls. He wasn’t nearly in the right frame of mind to take care of Morgan at the moment, though he could tell by the lines on her face that she desperately needed it. She looked as shitty as he felt.

  He moved to her desk and methodically took everything off of it, using the time to anchor his fury. He could hear the hitch in Morgan’s breath, see the way her nipples pebbled beneath her silk blouse. She never dressed up like this on Mondays. Not if she was teaching her class. The photo processing chemicals ruined the material. The only time she dressed in silk blouses was for funders. Funders, in this case, that she hadn’t told him about.

  He hoisted her off her chair and spun her so she faced the desk.

  “Safe words,” he demanded, his voice rough and scratchy and full of too much anger. He needed to calm down.

  “Yellow. Red.”

  “Good.” Then he gripped the bottom slit of her pencil skirt and tore it all the way up the back. Long legs in thigh highs, pale skin peeking from the bottom of her silk panties. He traced the curve of her ass, pushing her legs wide with a tap of his feet.

  He stroked his fingers over the front of her panties, closing his eyes as he felt the soaked material. Tucking his fingers under both sides of the thin silk covering her pussy, he yanked hard and fast. The panties ripped easily. He dropped the scraps to the floor as she flinched.

  Without warning, he plunged two fingers into her channel and found her dripping.

  “Is this for him or me?” he demanded.

  “You, Sir. Only you.”

  He paused for a second. Only you. He knew what she wanted. He’d had the whole weekend to consider it, and there was only one reason for her fleeing. One reason why she’d have removed his collar when those girls got into the car.

  “What do you want, little girl?” he asked, driving his fingers in deeper.

  She moaned and widened her stance. “You, Sir.”

  “No. Not good enough.” He released her pussy and dragged his palms up to grasp her tits. He squeezed. Tight. Tighter than usual. He knew it would get her attention. “Whose tits are these?”

  “Yours, Sir.”

  Julian released her and stood straight, gripping his hands into fists while he attempted to get control of his emotions. His little girl had secrets. He didn’t like it. He would show her just how much he was displeased. “If you like that blouse and bra, I suggest you remove both of them in the next ten seconds, or I will rip them off.�
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  Morgan didn’t turn around. She kept her back to him, but she fumbled quickly with the buttons on her blouse until she had the first few undone. Without wasting time, she jerked the silk over her head and tossed it to the floor. Her lace bra followed. She stood still then, awaiting his next instructions as she always did.

  Julian traced a line down her spine, still grasping for control. He had never injured her, and had no intention of starting now.

  Finally, he flipped her around and hoisted her onto the desk. “Arms behind you, brace yourself against the desk.” He positioned her feet on the edge and moved the chair so his face was between her thighs.

  For long moments he stared at Morgan’s pussy. He hadn’t seen her for days, and yet she had maintained a close shave. He hoped to God it was because she was waiting for him. He loved to see her bare. He liked to watch her pussy lips ripen with need, swelling and turning pink. Glistening with her juices.

  And she would glisten for him. Yes. His little girl was about to receive a punishment unlike any other. She would think twice about running from him in the future.

  Julian gripped her thighs and spread them wider. “Open for me, little girl. Whatever you do, do not close these legs. This pussy is mine. I want to see it at all times. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Her voice was faint and breathy. Oh, she knew the kind of trouble she was in.

  “Tell me.”

  “That pussy is yours,” she mumbled.

  “Louder.”

  “That pussy is yours, Sir.” She spoke stronger that time.

  Julian stroked one finger through her folds. “My little girl is very, very wet. Tell me again, who are you wet for, Morgan?”

  “You, Sir.”

  He intended to make her repeat it over and over until he was sure he had her attention.

  Julian flattened his palm and rubbed her pussy.

  Morgan bucked her hips off the desk.

  “Ass flat on the desk, little girl. Do not lift it again.” He released her pussy and tugged his shirt over his head.