Mansions

by Whitney Bianca

  He's going to win, I think at that blurry, confusing moment. He's going to win because I'm going to let him.

  “You're exquisite,” he says, brushing his mouth against mine. I let my mouth drop open. My lips feel swollen and tingly after his assault on them. His tongue finds mine again and he toys with me. He licks and sucks at me, watching my reaction to every sensitive movement. A drop of saliva rolls down my chin and he catches it, following the path with his tongue. My nipples harden and when they brush against his rough, starched shirt, I can't stop myself from arching into him. “Tell me what you want,” he says, his cold blue eyes boring into mine.

  “Not this,” I whisper. “I don't want this.” It's worth one last shot, even if it's a long shot. With a low chuckle, he takes a step back, dropping his hand from my neck. He looks down at my breasts, his face impassive. All the heat in the room has gone just as quickly as it appeared.

  “Really?” he says, no emotion behind the word. He almost sounds bored. “I don't believe you.” Then he shoves his hand into my hair and pulls, hard. He moves so quickly I can't fight him. I can only cry out as he roughly forces me around so that my breasts smash against the cold acrylic case. He presses my face down against the hard case, his palm flattened against my cheek. My jaw presses into the unyielding acrylic and I wince, opening my mouth to relieve the pressure. His cool facade is close to crumbling. His hands search until they find the zipper of my dress. He yanks it down and I feel the bodice loosen and peel open. The dress catches on my hips, luckily, otherwise it would've pooled around my ankles. I'm not ready to be completely naked in front of him. I need some protection from him, and the dress is all I have.

  He slides his hand under the fabric of my gown and I stiffen as his probing fingers shove in between my thighs. He pushes my panties aside and runs his finger up the sensitive skin there, like he's teasing me. I bite down hard on my sore lip, trying not to moan. I don't want it, I tell myself. I'm not that desperate. But as he presses his thumb against my clit, all rational thought flees my brain. All of my thoughts are focused on his fingers and what they're going to do. I scream as he pushes three fingers into me without warning, but my breath catches in my dry throat and the sound cuts off sharply. It doesn't even echo off the walls of the small room.

  Or maybe it does. I don't know.

  I can't hear anything but him – the rubbing of his starched shirt, the slap of his skin against me, his breath in my ear. He thrusts harder and harder and it renders me incapable of sound. I'm wet and he likes that, I can tell. He exhales slowly, his breath tickling my bare skin. Then he slides a fourth finger inside. I squeeze my hands into fists as he rudely, deliberately, pushes deep. He finger fucks me hard as he runs his teeth across my shoulder. I shudder and quake at every movement, at every violation.

  “I'm going to ask you one more fucking time. After that, I'm going to choose for you,” he rasps in my ear. I imagine him stretching and filling me until I break. It'll hurt. I know it'll hurt like nothing I've ever felt before but I'm not scared of pain. In that moment I'm only afraid of what will happen if I keep fighting. He'll destroy me bit by bit until I can't do anything but grovel on my knees and beg and bleed.

  Somewhere deep inside, I think that's exactly what I want.

  I think I crave it.

  “Make it hurt,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Please. Just make it hurt.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Make it hurt,” she repeats, her voice clear and strong.

  Her words catch me off guard. I can admit it. I didn't expect her to reveal herself to me so soon. But I can't stop the smile from spreading across my face because we're finally speaking the same language.

  She's special.

  She's always been special.

  I could see it in her eyes when I yanked on her hair and hurt her. She liked the pain. She liked the receiving the pain just as much as I liked giving it. She's scared of me, of what I can do to her, but it only makes the pain better. More pleasurable. Her eyes are wild now and she's hungry for it. She's revealing her mysteries to me one by one and it turns me on. I'm more turned on than I've ever been. I want to make her scream and cry. I want to destroy her. I shove her legs further apart and she moans, pressing her knees against the acrylic case to steady herself. She's not shaved and clean. She's not covered in perfume and makeup and wearing expensive lacy lingerie. Her body has scars and bruises and her hair smells like cheap shampoo and her mouth tastes like tequila. I can almost smell the fresh earth, the cut grass. The thick dampness of the air upstate. I take a deep breath, reveling in it. In her.

  She's nothing like what I'm used to.

  “Fuck me,” she says and a flip inside me switches on. This is what I've been waiting for and it's unlike any other gift I've been given. People and places and things are usually disappointing, especially if you spend too much time hoping and wishing for them. The reality can never compare to the dream. But this isn't like that. This is what heaven would be, if it existed. Or maybe hell. I can't tell.

  Adrienne is filthy and dirty and all I want is to roll around in the mud with her. I thrust my fingers into her as I press my nose into her hair. Her juices run down my fingers and I can feel the hunger tingling at the back of my throat and squeezing deep in my guts. I want her too much. Her body is just as soft as I wanted it to be. She tastes and smells as good as I always imagined she would. I want to hear the words from her mouth again. I want to hear her beg. And I will. I want to fuck her mouth. I want to fuck her pussy. I want to fuck her ass. I'm going to make a mess. I'm going to make it last. It's going to be bloody and raw and when I'm done, I'm going to make her lick my cock clean.

  Unfortunately, the hour is too early. I can't get as dirty and messy as I want to, not yet. I'm still in my pressed suit and silk tie and I have to return to the gala when I'm done with her. I'll have to settle for the smell of her on my fingers and the taste of her on my lips. This is simply a taste of what's to come and I'm willing to wait.

  For now.

  Abruptly, I slide my hands to her hips and shove her off her feet. She falls to the floor in a pile of gauzy green fabric. She rolls onto her back, her big tits bouncing lightly in a lovely way. She stares up at the ceiling, her amber eyes glazed and unfocused and her arms flung out at her sides. I nudge her in the ribs with my wingtip and her beautiful gaze finds mine. Good. I want her eyes on me.

  I drop to a crouch and run my hand down her skirt. I grab her ankle and lift her leg and her skirt falls away. My eyes scour her long, bare legs, taking in every scratch, bruise and cut. She has a scrape on her knee and what looks like a handprint on the back of her thigh. It's greenish-yellow and mottled, an older bruise. I wonder who's been hurting her. Who's been fucking her, too.

  She's no stranger to pain.

  I run my finger over the mark on her skin, wanting to erase it and replace it with my own.

  “Who did this?” I ask, wanting to know, despite the fact that it doesn't really matter. She doesn't respond, just stares at me with wide eyes. I yank off her boot and toss it across the floor. Then I yank off the other. She watches me, her chest rising and falling with each of her jagged breaths. I take her heel in my palm, running my thumb over her arch. The memory of her dirty feet on the stone wall comes back to me. I don't know how many times I've masturbated to that image in my life, but it's a fucking lot. I'm into kinky shit, but she's the only woman whose feet make me crazy.

  I decide I'm going to suck her toes a second before I do it.

  She gasps as I suck her big toe into my mouth. She tries to pull away, but I clamp my fingers on her slim ankle and hold her in place. She tries to drag herself backward and her skirt slips along the marble floor, helping her cause. Impatiently, I yank her back to me. I bite the pad of her foot, hard, and she cries out. The sound is a mix between pain and pleasure and I love it.

  I want to hear it again.

  “We're going to fuck, Adrienne,” I say, because that's a certainty. Later, I'll explore every in
ch of her with my mouth. I'll suck each and every one of her toes. I'll suck her tits until they're raw and covered in bruises. I'll do everything I've ever wanted to do to her. And she'll like it. “Unfortunately, we'll both have to wait a bit longer.”

  *****

  I don't hear the footsteps at first.

  I'm too focused on what he's doing, how his fingers are digging into my ankle and how his mouth on my foot. I've never had anyone touch me like that. But before I know it, he pulls away from me, letting my foot drop. Only then do I hear the distant footsteps echoing down the hallway and I hiss as if burned, scrambling away from him until my back hits the wall. I'm wet all the way down to my knees with need from him. My tits are bare and my chest is heaving. The realization of everything that's happened and everything that almost happened is like a splash of cold water to the face.

  He stands and smooths out the creases in his pants methodically. He re-buttons his suit jacket and I watch him, noting his almost obsessive attention to detail. In a matter of minutes, he looks exactly the way he looked before he accosted me. Cool, calm, collected.

  Except for his hair. The strand of hair lays across his forehead, the only piece out of place on his head. As if feeling my eyes there, he smooths his palm over the perfect strands, correcting the deformity instantly. He glances down at me and cocks his head. His eyes are ice blue again and impassive. He could be looking right through me for all the emotion he shows. His face gives nothing away. He's impossible to read. Or maybe I'm too scared to read him. I don't want to know what the hell Dorian is thinking. His unfiltered, unadulterated thoughts might just ruin me even further.

  The footsteps stop just short of the room. He turns his head toward the entrance and without another word, he strolls out of the small room. The clicks of his wing tips on the marble floor get further and further away until I can't hear his footsteps anymore. Pulling my dress up to cover my chest, I crawl over to peer through the door, my curiosity getting the better of me. Another man stands there, a rougher looking man than Dorian. He's shorter than Dorian but thick with muscle and wears all black. Dorian addresses him quickly and then they walk away. Dorian doesn't look back, but the other man does. I don't bother trying to hide because he knows I'm there. It seems useless.

  Then they turn the corner and they're gone.

  Only after their footsteps completely fade do I finally let myself relax. I stand on shaky legs and slide my panties off, cleaning off my thighs as best as I can with the slip of fabric. I pull my dress back up and I shove my feet back in my boots. I press my hand to my pounding stomach as I leave the room and hunch my shoulders hunched against the burst of nausea. I glance around the room, wondering if there's any trace left of him or any sign that what just happened did indeed happen. There's nothing; I can still smell him in the air but that's all that's left. The centuries old sarcophagus stares back at me, as unchanging as it ever was.

  I toss my panties in the nearest trash bin and make my way slowly back to the gala. My pussy clenches and unclenches with every step and I feel sick. My thighs are sticky and my knees are weak. I feel like a fool. I feel weak. I smooth my hair, trying to tame the thick strands with my fingers. My lips feel swollen and bruised. I wonder if it's obvious what I've just done. I feel like it's written all over my face.

  Dorian Armstrong made me beg. He didn't even stick his cock in me but he ruined me anyway.

  And I hate him for it.

  I keep to the edges of the crowd, the jazz music loud and woozy in my ears. It makes me feel more drunk than I am. Jessica waves and calls to me, but I turn and change course like I don't see her. I swipe my hand across my sweaty forehead, knowing that I need to get the fuck out of there. I'll call Jessica tomorrow, I decide. I'll call her and give some stupid excuse. Then I'll promise to be home for Christmas.

  It's the best I can do.

  All the air escapes my lungs when the crowd parts and he's standing right in front of me, smiling politely and chatting with the other man-made gods like he didn't just finger-fuck me next to an ancient Egyptian artifact. My feet won't move even though I know I need to get the hell out of there. His wife curls her pale arm around his and flashes her perfect teeth. Her eyes stray to mine and and her smile droops an infinitesimal amount. I wonder if she can see it. I wonder if she can smell her husband on me. I wonder if she can smell my pussy on his hands.

  Then I realize I'm staring. She probably thinks I'm insane. I turn and head for the coat check. I need my bag and then I can go. I hurry through the well-dressed throng, catching snippets of conversations as I pass.

  “Is that Adrienne Hamina?”

  “Is she on drugs?”

  “I thought she was kidnapped and killed by that cartel in Honduras?”

  “Her father would roll in his grave if he saw her now.”

  “If she didn't have such a crazy mother, everything could have been completely different for her, that's for sure.”

  I shut my ears off after awhile, not sure if the voices are really there or not. I learned long ago not to listen to them.

  I retrieve my leather bag and leave as quickly as I can. As soon as I push open the doors to the museum, my ribs seem to loosen and I can breathe again as the hum of the city washes over me. The honking of the traffic and the distant rumble of the train relaxes my nerves but only slightly. I need to get the hell out of this city. I never should've come back, I know that now. I ball up my gown in one hand and make my way down the stairs. I reach around for the front pocket of my bag, looking for my smokes.

  “Smoke?” a smooth voice says behind me and I almost trip. Instantly, I can feel him. I can feel his hand in my hair, his mouth on mine. I shake my head and turn away but I can't move fast enough. “You're in luck, I have an extra,” he says, his hand closing around my elbow and pulling me back. I yank my arm away from his touch but he's already beside me, holding out a lit cigarette. The smoke smells so good, I can't resist. I grab it and put it to my lips. I suck in a deep drag like my life depends on it, because that's how it feels. I need something to calm my nerves. Anything. “Good, isn't it,” he says, putting the last cigarette from my Mexican pack between his lips and lighting it.

  “Mmm,” I murmur and turn away.There's few people around us, but I'm not completely alone, thankfully. But that doesn't mean I can relax. Far from it. “Don't come closer,” I warn but he grabs my arm again, angling me back against him.

  “Be at the SoHo House in one hour,” he says, his mouth close to my ear. “There will be a key for you at the front desk.” Then he takes a step back and blows a stream of smoke over his shoulder. “Meet me there.”

  “No,” I say, keeping my voice bland and polite.

  “I'm not asking, Adrienne.” He runs his hand down the front of his suit coat. My eyes catch on his wedding ring.

  “No,” I repeat.

  “You will be at the SoHo House in one hour,” he says conversationally, lifting his cigarette to his lips again. “We're going to continue what we started.”

  “I have no idea what you mean,” I lie, keeping my voice light. He laughs, low and dangerously, but there's no amusement on his face. My heart skips a beat at the evil sound.

  “I'm going to rip that dress off you,” he says, his voice low but casual. “Then I'm going to fuck you in the most degrading way I can think of.” He glances down the stairs to the street as traffic passes by. “Then I'll do it again and again until we're both satisfied.” He takes a deep slow drag and all I can do is stand there as his words repeat over and over in my brain. “I'm not asking,” he repeats, then exhales his smoke against my cheek.

  I feel his hand pushing down the back of my gown, exposing the skin below my shoulder blades. I furrow my brow and glance back at him, in confusion. “Shh,” he whispers then a sharp, electric pain shoots down my spine as he presses the butt of the cigarette into my skin. I hear a light sizzling sound as my flesh burns and I gasp in shock and pain. I grit my teeth to keep from screaming. Only my high tolerance fo
r pain keeps me from collapsing to my knees right there. Tears blur my vision, my pussy clenching as the sweet agony throbs through me. “I bet you liked that,” he says, his voice amused as he flicks the butt off into the darkness.

  “You're insane,” I whisper. But he's right.

  I did like it.

  “One hour,” he says. I feel a light touch on my neck. I'm not sure if it's his fingers or his lips, but either way, it lingers on my skin long after he's gone. He lets go of my arm and I force myself to keep moving forward. I continue on my way down without looking back. I walk to the street and throw up my hand. A yellow cab swerves to the curb and I throw open the door. I toss my bag in and then pull the fabric of my gown in after me. I gasp and my eyes sting as my dress scrapes against the fresh burn on my back. I sit forward, careful not to let the wounded skin touch the vinyl seat. It's too arousing. Too overwhelming.

  I never should've come back.

  “La Guardia airport,” I say, slamming the door shut.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Forty-five minutes too late, I finally have the bright idea to flag Adrienne Hamina's passport to prevent her from leaving the country.

  Too bad she's on a plane to Germany this very moment.

  I sit in my dark, expensive room at the SoHo House, my cock hard and my anger raging. The bed is still made. It hasn't been touched. There's no frothy green dress on the floor. There's no naked woman with bruised skin and dark hair and perfect tits smoking a cigarette in between marathon fuck sessions. I can't taste her blood on my tongue. I can't smell her arousal in the air.

  This is not how I planned my evening.

  There's others I could call. I put my mistress up in a loft in Tribeca and she could be here in twenty minutes. Tonight, however, that's not enough. I'm sitting here alone in the dark because I want only Adrienne. No one else will do. Until I get her out of my system, I'll be unsatisfied no matter what. I press my hand to my nose. If I close my eyes, I can still smell her on my skin. I can feel her pussy clenching around me and hear her light moans and cries in my ears. I can see her big tits jiggling as I finger-fuck her, her nipples crying out for my tongue and my teeth. She's everything I thought she would be. More, if that's possible. After fifteen years of wanting her, the fact that she's not a disappointment is almost as shocking as the fact that I've finally gotten a taste of her.