by A. J. Downey
This orgasm was different from the first. It was longer in coming, and when it did, rather than spilling through me as if through a crack in a dam, it welled up as if a cup being slowly filled had finally run over. It filled me just as surely and spilled over the crown of my head, running in rivulets over my skin in a tingling wash of pleasure that made me whimper and go limp against the chain holding me up.
It was as if he couldn’t get deep enough, I mean, I had come, but it wasn’t satisfying. It wasn’t quite enough. I needed more. I needed harder and deeper and I found myself begging him with my hips thrusting back into his, writhing against my bonds.
I heard him chuckle darkly and there was a whirring sound, as machinery kicked on and suddenly the tension holding my arms high above my head slacked off. He unhooked me and pulled from my body, gently lowering me to my knees on the floor. He stayed behind me and I parted my knees and arched low to the floor, putting my palms flat to the stage, raising my ass in offering to him, and he wasted no time in filling me once more. The change in angle was perfect, allowed him to press into my wetness that much deeper, touching that secret place that had been begging for it just a moment before and I felt another whimpering, begging, little moan escape me.
He drove me wild, stroking deep with a satisfying grunt before grinding against my body a few times. Oh, when he did that, though, I thought there was some truth to the French calling orgasm ‘the little death’, because when he plunged deep like that and worked me on his cock, I died a little more each time, blissfully so. It only took a half a dozen or so of these strokes and I was coming apart again, bowing low to the floor, a thin wail of pleasure escaping my body as the firestorm swept through me and over me.
I panted, spent, against the stage, and his hand swept along my stomach, pressing between my breasts to bring me up to my knees. He walked around me on his own knees and turned me to face him, taking the bonds from around my wrists. We were turned, profile to the audience when he locked his mouth over mine, tongue plunging past my teeth and sweeping possessively into my mouth. I melted a little more, wilting into his embrace even as he palmed the outside of my thigh and encouraged me to ride him. The same as I had the first time, in his living room after I’d slipped from his coffee table into his lap.
I climbed him like a damn tree. I couldn’t get enough of his hard body against mine… in mine, and I wanted him desperately. I needed him desperately. It was as if he were the one thing I had been missing my entire life to this point. That feeling of safety, of being precious to someone. That a man cared enough to want me the way that he did. Not as an ornament or possession… no, this went deeper than that. Much deeper… and, oh, as he slid up inside of me, that felt much deeper, too.
I rested my hands on his taut, muscular shoulders and rode him, staring into his eyes and finding a match for my desire there. Something undefinable passed between us, a deep emotion that I had no name for. His arms were around my waist, one hand pressing between my shoulders to keep me upright, his other hand buried in the back of my hair, like before, locking into place, turning my insides into liquid as he exerted his control and brought my mouth to his. He kissed me like he would devour me from the mouth down and all else fell away ‒ the room, the stage, the people in it watching us and their arousal. All of it faded into the background as the world, the very universe, narrowed down to the man beneath me and inside of me.
I kissed him back, fingertips from one hand touching his bearded cheek where the mask didn’t cover, feeling the muscles of his jaw work beneath his skin as he ate at my mouth, taking everything I offered him sweetly and willingly. I wanted to give him everything. I wanted him to have all of me. It was, after all, the only thing a poor girl like me had to give.
He moaned into my mouth and thrust up to meet my downward strokes and I could tell, he was close. We both were, riding that sharp and silvered edge at the end of the very universe where everything was just one divide, light and dark, spinning so fast that when we fell, it would be a near thing on which we would fall into.
I closed my eyes and concentrated on him, the feel of him, the sound, the taste, the heat and light touch, the pleasure and the wonder. It rose in me like flood waters and with a cry, we both plunged off the edge of the world and fell and I still couldn’t tell if I were swallowed by the light or the dark.
23
Yale…
Flawless.
She rested, panting against me, face turned from the standing ovation we received from the crowd as the curtains whisked along their automated tracks, concealing us from view. I held her, our breaths mingling, sweat cooling on our skins as we drifted slowly back to earth from the unearthly heights of our passions.
“Look at me,” I whispered, smoothing her hair back from her face. She sat up slowly, using my shoulders to aid her, her green eyes glassy and distant, unable to focus just yet.
“How do you feel?” I asked softly, pushing her hair back from her face.
“Good, really good,” she murmured vaguely, her voice so very far away. I smiled to myself, riding the high of power, fully entrenched in my top-space even as she floated along, deep in her sub-space.
“Does anything hurt?” I asked her, running my hands along the indentations in her wrists from my tie, massaging the marks gently.
“No, I feel good. Really good.” Her voice held that far-off and dreamy quality and I didn’t wish to ruin it for her. Instead, I held her close, pulling my shirt over to us and wrapping it around her shoulders until she was ready to move. I was perfectly content to wait for such a time. There was no rush.
“Mr. Silver?” I looked up at the quiet male voice, and the masked attendant held up my suit jacket and set it at the edge of the stage. I nodded and told him quietly, so as not to disturb Ally, “Locker 118, I can’t get to the key.”
“Very good, sir. Leave it upon the chair.”
I nodded, and rocked Ally in my lap, pressing her head to my shoulder as she curled against me, motionless and still, riding out the afterglow in peace.
The attendant returned and set her dress and cloak neatly at the edge of the stage, and with a slight salute, backed through the curtain and left. On top of her clothing were the keys to my car. As part of the arrangements, I had requested that it be parked at the back entrance to the club so that I could take her home away from any prying eyes. The show was over, there was no need, in my estimation, to mingle with the guests. I had gotten what I had come for and was beyond pleased with the outcome.
“Come on, baby,” I murmured into her hair and immediately bit the inside of my cheek at the too-familiar term of endearment. She sat up reluctantly at my urging, and I helped her to stand, moving her over to the chair. She sat obediently while I gathered my pants from around my ankles and fastened them around my hips. I redressed first, taking my shirt back from her gently and replacing it with the cloak I had bought her. It was far more rich and luxurious against her skin than my shirt and she deserved that. She had exceeded my expectations beyond my wildest dreams, tonight.
Once I was dressed, my ruined tie in my pocket, I knelt in front of her. She looked down through her lace mask, her eyes clear and bright and I smiled.
“Still feel good?”
“A little shocked, actually.” I tilted my head, a silent command for her to go on, and she smiled faintly. “I mean, was that really me?” she asked.
“It was,” I said with a light laugh and she laughed too. I looked her over, where she was huddled on the chair, holding the cloak to her chin like a blanket and I said to her, “Let me help you.”
She let me take the heavy velvet material and I helped her back into her clothing a piece at a time starting with her bra, and then her dress. I pocketed her panties, crotchless as they were, I couldn’t remember why I had taken them off rather than just fucked her with them on. I wrapped an arm around her waist once her dress was on and hauled her up hard against my body. She took a sharp intake of breath, her hands going to my chest, half
in surprise, half to make me stop. I raised both eyebrows and despite the mask, she took my meaning, her hands relaxing, her touch softening as she yielded to me.
I swept a hand between her thighs and pressed it against her bald pussy beneath her skirt.
“While I appreciate the effort, you need to at least grow a landing strip of hair or something. I like to make love to women, not little girls. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” tumbled so beautifully from her lips I rewarded her with a kiss, pressing my fingertips to her clit and rubbing it in slow circles, I swallowed the surprised cry she emitted into my mouth like the sweet piece of candy that it was.
I broke the kiss and swept my hands down her skirt, smoothing her dress into place, holding her steady as she stepped into her heels, a happy pink blush across her cheeks.
I fastened her cloak at her throat for her, and murmured, “Keep the mask as a memento, don’t take it off until we are in the car.”
“Of course, Mr. Silver,” she said and the wicked little curve to her burgundy lips brought an answering one to my own.
I let myself have a moment to wonder if it was her corruption that was just beginning or if it were, in fact, the opposite and that the levity I felt in my soul was the start of my own redemption. I didn’t dwell on it, leading her off the edge of the stage and along the back hall to the side door. I pulled up her hood and held the door open for her to step into a different sort of indigo night, a warm and sultry late-summer one.
She held onto me as we went up the cement steps into the lot at the back of the building and I unlocked my waiting Mercedes with my key fob. I opened her door and tossed my suit jacket, which was over my arm, into the back seat.
I helped her into her seat, sweeping the remaining material of her cloak, which was trying to spill out of the door, into her lap and onto the passenger floorboard and making certain she was secure, her seatbelt going into place, I shut her safely inside the car. I got behind the wheel and started it, putting on my own seatbelt and taking off my mask, which I carelessly went to toss behind me, but Ally plucked it from my fingers, placing it on her lap.
“You want it?” I asked and she nodded softly. I nodded and let her have it. It cost me nothing, and I had no further use for it.
The drive to the Point Side went by in comfortable silence. Ally stared out the window after pulling her own mask free, her eyes wide with wonder as if seeing the city beyond the window glass for the first time. I remembered the feeling. When I had first found myself, what I liked, and that I could have it all? I’d almost felt like a real life superhero with a secret identity. I still felt that way sometimes. Like now, when I reveled in her self-discovery, in the feeling of accomplishment and power that rested on her slim shoulders like the cloak I’d purchased for her.
I turned down her street and rolled to a stop at the curb in front of her building. She turned to me and I tucked some of her hair behind her ear. She smiled a little sadly and whispered, “Thank you.”
I felt my smile grow and said, “You’re very welcome, and thank you.”
“Of course.”
“Wait,” I said as she stepped out of the car and straightened. I dipped my hand into the pocket in my door and retrieved the envelope of pay I usually left on the dining room table for her. She may not have cleaned this week, however, I felt a deep desire to take care of her, nevertheless.
She bowed and looked inside the open door, and her eyes fell on the envelope, her face contorting, stricken and… horrified. She straightened, took a moment or two and bowed again, her eyes alight with rage.
“I’m not your whore, Damien!” she hissed, and before I could open my mouth, she had slammed the door to my car and was striding up the walk. I rolled down the passenger side window. I was angry at the accusation but that didn’t absolve me in any way of ensuring to her care and safety post such an intense scene.
“Ally!” I called and she froze mid-step and refused to turn around. That pissed me off too, but wouldn’t stop me from saying what I had to say. “Take some ibuprofen before you go to sleep and take a hot bath tomorrow,” I ordered. “It will help with the soreness.”
She turned her head slightly but then her posture stiffened and she marched resolutely away from me. I scowled, my anger bubbling even closer to the surface that she would so blatantly defy me. I tossed the envelope onto the seat, shifted gears and pulled away from the curb with an angry squeal of tires.
24
Ally…
I spent the weekend going back and forth between hurt and angry tears. When I had keyed my way into my apartment, I had been angry. When I had gone to bed, staring at his mask, lying forlornly on my small sewing table next to my machine, I had hurt. The empty eye holes and furrowed brow in the leather seemingly mocking me.
I hadn’t done what he’d told me. I hadn’t taken anything before bed and the next morning I certainly had regretted it. I’d woken up stiff, my shoulders and back killing me. I’d grudgingly taken some of the anti-inflammatories that morning and schlepped myself into the bathroom and put myself under a hot shower’s spray. I didn’t have a bathtub.
The rest of my Saturday had been spent alone, doing my laundry, begging off from seeing Dawnie with a lame excuse of not feeling well, even though the pills and hot water had done some magic. I’d then tried to find my happy place by throwing myself into my favorite hobby. My grandmother had been a seamstress and she had taught me a love of all things sewing. Most of my clothing was actually repurposed thrift store finds.
In fact, I made most of mine and Dawnie’s clothes. Right now, I was working on a broomstick style skirt for Dawnie using strips of different textured material in complementary colors. I had been hoarding for a while to make it happen. This one was in different greens and golds to complement her long auburn hair. I used pieces of corduroy from jackets and pants, bits of velvet from evening dresses and scarfs, even some burned-velvet patterns from a scarf or two. Some heavy Asian silk and jersey knit material also went into the making of it, and I was determined to have it done before fall.
She couldn’t see, so I did my best to make things to excite her other senses, like this. It was the least that I could do for her. Well, that, and choose and sort yarn with her. She had taught herself to crochet to pass the time and she made some of the most beautiful things by touch. It was a secret dream of ours that one day we would win the lottery or that we would be discovered through our little online shop and we’d be able to open a boutique someday.
Sunday, I had made dessert and gone to see my grandmother. She had, once again, noticed my lackluster appetite and my strained smile. I had lied to her again, not wishing to worry her. Told her that I was just tired and that everything was fine while I wrestled with my feelings over what I had done with Damien Parnell.
I don’t know what had made me do it, other than it felt right for me to get it out somehow, some way, but I had written another letter, fulfilling his wish that I write about our sexual escapades afterward.
I was less than kind when it came to my feelings this time. Harsh. Angry. My bitterness at how the night had ended bleeding onto the page. I’d shredded it. I wouldn’t dare dream of giving it to him. He didn’t deserve to know anything more about me. Not unless he gave me something of him. I couldn’t anymore. I just couldn’t… but neither could I afford to stop working for him. At least not until I found another job.
I had been squirreling any extra away, and it was enough to cover the missing money from the last week, but now as I ground the beans and packed the portafilter and made overpriced coffee for under appreciative people, I was just tired. Emotionally drained. My anger fled with time and left me facing a chasm of deep and awful aching hurt.
“Allison Blaylock?” someone asked and I looked up and over to the register. Millie was staring wide-eyed at the delivery person, and the huge bouquet of bright red roses he clutched in a heavy glass vase, her finger pointed in my direction. I blinked and said, “I’m Ally.”
I gave him a weak smile back, and he tipped his ball cap at me and rushed out the door. He didn’t even wait for a tip. I took the roses to the back counter, their heavenly scent perfuming the air even over and above the permanent rich smell of coffee. Millie didn’t even ask. She simply took up my place behind the espresso machine and pulled double duty so that I could read the card.
I plucked the familiar white envelope from the plastic fork thingy holding it in among the roses and turned it over to the familiar sticker seal holding the triangular flap closed. I sighed and with some trepidation, worked a nail under it and freed it so I could liberate the card inside.
Ally-
You’re my lover, not my whore. I simply want to take care of you…
Please, arrive on time today. We need to talk.
-Damien
The word ‘not’ was underlined twice, savagely, and I swallowed hard. He was angry, and I was pretty sure I was fired, but… I looked up at the tight roses that had yet to fully bloom and frowned slightly, counting. There were twenty-four. Two dozen roses, for me? Two dozen red roses. I read and reread the note wishing there was more, wishing there was some sort of indication as to what to expect when I arrived at Damien’s for work.
I sighed and rubbed my eyes; the hand with the note dropped to my side helplessly. He was magnetic. I couldn’t believe I had already decided I would be meeting him, but I couldn’t help it. All of these mixed signals were driving me a little crazy. I swallowed hard and slipped the card into my apron, having a hard time dragging my eyes away from the riot of color on the counter.