by Misty Kayn
Lace Touches
Misty Kayn
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Afterword
About the Author
Copyright © 2017 Misty Kayn
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Author and publisher assume no responsibility for fictitious characters’ kinky deeds. Play at your own risk.
Chapter 1
Whore
Every Friday at midnight, this man picked me up at the corner of Hollywood's Sunset Boulevard and Rodeo Drive. A sure paycheck I counted on, even though I knew better than to rely on a man. I should count only the money and think of ways to increase those hefty tips he left me.
And blessings.
I counted my blessings for not falling under a pimp and never having been arrested for working the streets. The phone app, a hook-up service arranged the clients, reduced the risks for me. Besides, I didn't dress as revealing as some of the other girls, and in the winter, my long coat covered the dress underneath.
I rounded the corner and stumbled back from the force of cold wind this evening. I shivered, chilled to the bone, then lifted the scarf over my mouth and pinched my lips, so as not to smudge my red lipstick.
My client was never late. Oftentimes, he arrived early and ended up waiting for me. Like now. I walked across the vacant parking lot and spotted his Lexus. The thought of the heated leather seats warmed my cold buttcheeks. I knocked on his window, and after he unlocked the car, I folded inside—ladylike.
I wanted to remove my coat, rub my hands on the heaters, and tell him my pussy might've frozen for the night. But customers didn't pay for real women, they paid for fantasies.
My baby's daddy should've paid me before he took off. Dickhead wanted a fantasy, while I went into our relationship with real expectations. Like a commitment, which would come after I bore his son. Before he hit the road, all I got from him was his dirty laundry and roaches when he ran out of weed.
So instead of telling the client my pussy got winded and not wet, I smiled a wide one and crossed one leg over the other, making sure I held back the coat to reveal my stocking-clad leg and the lace dress that ended just above my knee. "Waiting for someone?" I asked.
Sir's gaze locked on my legs, and he didn't hesitate when he reached for my thigh and rubbed a thumb over the hem of the dress. He bit the side of his plush bottom lip, his perfect white teeth in contract with his dark skin. A single streetlight reflected in his expressive brown eyes. "Did you get the dress from May's?"
"She asked if Sir T sent me." I'd hoped to finally learn his name from the classy shop lady who almost drooled as she’d said Sir. I didn't blame her. He must be the hottest bachelor in L.A.
And yet, he used whores. Sometimes I wondered if he'd turn psycho on me. Most times I suppressed my fears. The money was great, and I couldn't pass on this client.
"Curiosity will kill her business," he said, his palm gliding over the silky material with a pause at my knee. He squeezed it, then moved his hand up and over my hip. "What did you tell her?"
"I said yes and asked for your home phone number."
His eyes widened.
"Kidding,” I said. “I told her I had a good week and felt like buying treats. Also, I did say I wanted to meet the guy she believes would send a girl to buy a pair of $274 stockings and a dress five times that amount." Sir had a thing for lace. Gave me money to shop for the best dresses and lace stockings with halters. I'd worn stockings before, but I'd never felt sexy wearing them. They were more of a uniform. A stocking for a hooker was like a black button-up shirt to a girl who worked at the office. Something to wear and feel at work. With Sir, however, lace stockings took on a whole different meaning.
As he thumbed and rubbed the material, I pretended he thumbed my bare leg.
Sir didn't do bare anything.
I didn't do bare anything for risk of losing my app profile. The people behind the hookup app prided themselves in their collection of clean girls, and clients trusted them. I worked a job. It just so happened I enjoyed this particular assignment. A blessing. It could be worse.
It could be a lot worse.
Sir tapped his cheek.
I leaned across the middle and kissed him there. Not on the mouth. My hard limit, not his.
Sir
In the hotel suite, we sat on the floor. Apart for her stockings, Melanie was the only naked one in the room. Below us, L.A. traffic crawled, people trying to get out of town for the weekend. Unlike me. I went into town for my Friday night whore. She was a drug. I was addicted, and I wanted her all to myself. Thoughts of anyone else touching her made me want to put her in my cage at home and never let her out. In a kinky way, not in a psycho way.
Her small foot trailed over my suit-pants, and my gaze transfixed on her black stockings, my palms tingling with the urge to touch them. Melanie whimpered when I gripped the sole of her foot and pressed my thumbs into her arch.
I wondered if she held a day job.
I wondered if anyone took care of this whore.
Because I wanted to.
Melanie was sweet.
And sexy.
And kinky.
And one day, I'd marry her.
But first I'd slap some sense into her. Again, in a kinky way. With my leather gloves. We'd long passed the instructions, and the formalities of safewords and blood exams, though we always used condoms. So when I extended my hand, Melanie knew what to do. She got on all fours, leaned toward me and slid the glove off my hand with her teeth. Her big brown eyes twinkled. I took the glove and swung.
Got her left cheek first. A pretty red mark over her pale face.
I swung the glove over her right cheek. In my hand, her toes curled. I gripped her jaw, pulled her body to me so she'd have to crawl over my legs. "Who's my sweet whore?"
"I am."
"What's a whore to do?"
"Please her Sir."
"How?"
"However it pleases him."
I pecked her perky nose and slapped her in the earnest, then grabbed her hair and dragged her behind me until we reached the bed. She climbed on the top and showed me her ass. Bent over, she spread her asscheeks. I stuck a thumb into my mouth, then into her asshole. This was my hole to fuck; she told me so. It swallowed up my thumb, and Melanie whimpering before me. I bent and clamped my lips over her clit, put the bud between my teeth and flicked it with my tongue until she wriggled and whined and moaned and finally broke down to begging.
Of course, I wouldn't let her come. Not now. Not next Friday. Not until I took her home.
Chapter 2
Whore
On Monday, I stuck a gate card into the scanner, and the large gate opened, letting me pass and drive up to my... office—a mansion, where I'd been dog sitting for a month now. I parked my small efficient ride on the curb and slammed the door behind me. My son's Superman watch on my wrist read eight thirty. Usually, I came in at nine, but the housekeeper called me last night and asked if I'd come in half an hour earlier, because Mr. Jones—the dog's owner—wanted to speak with me.
Since the housekeeper ran the household, I’d never met the man of the h
ouse before and didn't know why he'd asked to meet me now. Seeing as I couldn't hold on to a job for more than two months, on my way here, I span multiple scenarios of how he'd fire me today, and how I’d respond to each one. Breaking down and begging for the job was the last scenario, so I came prepared.
My son, Jason, and I needed to eat. And since I'd fallen head over heels for my Friday night high-paying client, I'd only been servicing him. His money didn't cover our bills. A bleeding heart and a hopeless romantic, I pretended he was some sort of a secret boyfriend. A single mom’s delusion. I was unwilling to accept I whored for a living.
In any case, a whore's worst nightmare had happened to me. I fell for my client.
At the front door, I fixed my hair and straightened my clothes before pressing the doorbell button. A minute later, nobody had answered. Okay. So the housekeeper left for a vacation. Didn’t he have a replacement, or couldn’t he open the door himself? I poked the bell again.
"I'll be right down," a man's voice said via the com. The door clicked open.
"Take your time," I said and closed the door behind me. Then I crouched, waiting for Guff to come sprinting around the corner. Guff was a mastiff, a big ball of smooth gray fur and fun. He made my job so easy.
"Start the coffee."
Wait. What? I opened the door and spoke into the com unit. "Excuse me. Did you say something?" The line was breaking a bit, and I might've imagined he'd asked me anything.
"Start the coffee," he repeated.
"Sure."
I walked around the corner, and when I didn't see Guff, I went to the kitchen. Oh man. This kitchen was as big as my entire apartment and appeared even bigger by the wraparound windows overlooking Long Beach. I hooked in L.A., but lived in L.B.—had spent my youth chasing after lowlifes, down on the sand.
I shrugged off my jacket, slung it over a chair's backrest, and rounded the kitchen bar. On the counter, I found an espresso maker, one of those huge things you'd expect at an Italian restaurant. His housekeeper womanned this kitchen, and I didn't intrude on her space. Needless to say, fat chance Mr. Jones would get his coffee this morning unless he had a manual stashed somewhere.
I should probably at least try to make it. Maybe he'd have a harder time firing me over an espresso than on the go. I pressed the big power button, and the machine whooshed. Okay. Now what? Ground beans. I rose on my toes and opened the cupboard.
"Miss... Your name, please?"
"Kate Wapp," I answered the kitchen com.
"Kate?"
"Yes?"
"One spoon of sugar."
"Yeah. Aha. Where's the coffee?"
"In the cupboard."
I glared at the com unit. "Thank you, Mr. Jones."
"Welcome."
Which cupboard? I searched the entire kitchen and finally found it in the corner. It should be stashed above the machine. I put it on the counter and eyed the machine. There were three handles attached to circular metal things with tubes, from which the coffee should pour into the cups. I put a small white cup under one tube, then gripped the handle. It didn't bulge. I twisted it left and right. Nothing.
A dog barked. Scratching came next. "Guff. Come here, boy." I left the kitchen for the hallway and expected him to come.
Guff whined.
I followed his voice down the hall and one flight of stairs, then heard him scratching behind one of three basement doors. I'd never snooped around this house. I sat in the living room, and went outside for Guff’s walks. Other than that, I had no idea what was in here. The housekeeper had said Mr. Jones enjoyed privacy, and I respected his wishes. But Guff seemed stuck inside. He probably snuck in there and couldn’t twist open the door.
I opened the door, crouched so I could give him a hug. Guff sprung at me and knocked me on my ass. I grabbed fistfuls of his fur and shook. "You big ball, you. How was your weekend?"
In answer, he barked and let me up. I straightened my clothes and went to close the door, but the assortment of floggers hanging by the hooks on the opposite wall made me pause. Oh dear Lord, my boss was a kinkster. "Guff, my friend, you never told me your daddy built a kinky dream-house down here."
I closed the door behind us.
Mr. Jones
I pressed an inch-wide piece of tissue on my cheek. The blood stained it red. I peeled it off and stuck another one. Fucking cut myself shaving again. Probably because it was a damned Monday, when I wanted it to be Friday. And also because I needed to speak with my mother and tell her whether I'd decided to bring someone on the cruise for my brother's engagement party, or if I was going alone.
Little Miss Kate downstairs had better found a way to make me coffee. Why did I let my housekeeper take a day off? I frowned. Couldn't remember. Next time, she could take off for a funeral or when she caught the plague. No more fucking days off. I stocked out of the bathroom and slung a tie over my shoulder.
My phone rang. If my mother started me up before I had coffee, I might just chew on my phone. I glanced at the screen. A Monday mercy. It was Sam, my mentor and one of the owners of Club Cage, a place where people got kinky and didn't worry about being judged. "Yellow," I said.
"Sun," he answered.
Bizarre man. "You're calling early." I walked down the stairs.
"On my way to work," he said. "You called last night. What ails you?"
"No ale." Speaking of beer, I didn't smell a drink brewing in the kitchen. “I need a favor." Miss Kate found the espresso grain but didn't liquefy it. I yanked a pair of metal things out of the machine, measured then filled them with grains, and pressed start. "Remember my girlfriend? The one I see on Fridays?"
"Girlfriend and seeing?"
"Yeah, seeing."
"What about her?"
"She's driving me crazy. I can't even shave right."
"Awww. A puppy in love. You still paying her?"
"Kind of."
"Then she's your whore, not your girlfriend."
"Okay. Let's not get real."
"Fine."
"Anyway. I want to bring her in this weekend. Tie her up. Let her swing a little. Maybe you could stop by. She likes to be watched, she said."
"Let me get this straight. You want to bring a whore to my club and hang her."
"No. Hell no. What the hell's wrong with you?"
"Playing with you, boy. Bring her in on Saturday. Your brother's room's available."
"Thanks. He won't be there, right?"
"Nope. Still coming on Fridays."
My little brother inherited my dad's company. I headed our marketing team. We worked like the clockwork, except for one problem—he bitched me out for banging my secretaries but then went on to fuck his. Hypocrite. Though he got one thing right; I was better off without a secretary and with my little whore.
I chatted with Sam a bit, then hang up and sat behind the bar, daydreaming about all the things I wanted to do to her, when I realized my house appeared empty. There should be a woman around here. A cute pink jacket hung over the chair next to mine, but there was no Miss Kate.
"Kate?" I called out. Nothing. Well, damn. She might've taken Guff out before talking to me, and I'd be late for work in another ten minutes. Fucking Mondays.
Woof.
I chugged my coffee. Guff got himself locked in the playroom again. Since I didn't have kids, I never locked it, but now I realized I needed to guard the butt plugs from my dog. I took the stairs and paused at the door. "Guff, you kinky beast, whatcha doing in there?" I swung open the door, and Guff's goofy face greeted me, a big silicone dildo slung between his teeth.
"I'm gonna lock this place. Let's go."
He stayed.
I sighed. "Keep the damn thing. I won't be using it. Come on."
Guff didn't move. Where the fuck was the dog sitter?
Shuffling came from behind the wardrobe rack. Oh fuck. My dog sitter. Of course. Where else would she be, but with my dog? "Miss Kate," I said in my most non-psycho voice, as if speaking to a terrified vanilla person stu
ck in kinky torture chambers from hell. "It's not what it looks like." I winced at the assortment of leather masks and playwear across the wall. "Miss Kate, come out and let’s talk about it."
Nothing.
I walked across the room and peeked over the wardrobe to see the top of her head. "I see you."
Miss Kate peeked up.
Well, well, well. My dog sitter was cute. Ready to charm the panties off her, so she didn’t think to call the authorities over my masks, I smiled. “Hi, there.” Wait a second. She looked familiar. No fucking way. Melanie wore a ton of makeup, while Kate here wore—if I had to guess—mascara and lip-gloss. "Melanie?"
Chapter 3
Kate
Heat spread over my neck and traveled up my face. I felt like I would explode from embarrassment. My heart beat a mile a minute, and I fisted my hands. Stunned, Sir kept staring down at me, his face unreadable Was he pissed? He might think I arranged this. Might think I was stalking him.
By the time I'd recognized his voice, it was too late to bolt. Had I recognized it upstairs in the kitchen, or better yet, outside via the com unit, I'd have bolted out of here faster than the current track Olympic gold medalist. Yup.
Now I couldn't bolt. I’d have to deal with this—terrible—situation. "It's not what it looks like," I said. "I didn't know Mr. Jones and my Friday night were the same guy. Sir. I meant my Sir and Jones. Mr. Jones." Well, that went well for me. I couldn't even form a comprehendible sentence. I pursed my lips.
"Do you want to come out of the closet?" he asked.
"Not really."
"Okay," he said and moved out of sight. I sighed, thinking not only would I lose my day job, but I'd also lose my night job. Men like Sir didn't want real women, and Kate was real. Kate got up in the morning, got her son ready for school, dropped him off, and drove here to babysit a dog. On most days, Kate didn't have time to do her hair or make up. Kate was too busy doing things for her kid, to worry about the state of her eyeliner. On the other hand, the only thing Melanie obsessed over was pleasing Sir and wearing lace. Which Kate didn't wear today.