The Businessman's Tie (The Power to Please, Book One)

by Deena Ward

  And then there was the centerpiece of the room -- she was stretched on a wooden rack that stood upright, secured to the floor with support beams at the rear of the structure. The woman stretched spread-eagled on the rack, face forward, completely naked. Thick leather bracelets circled her wrists and ankles and were clipped to each of the four corners of the rack.

  Her face was plain, free of cosmetics of any kind. Although she wasn’t particularly pretty, she wasn’t without attraction. Her blonde hair was secured in a low ponytail at the base of her neck. Her best feature was her eyes, large doe eyes that seemed made to portray suffering.

  What she might have lacked by way of true facial beauty, she more than made up for with her slender figure. Her arms were thin and fine. She had a graceful, long neck. Her breasts were much larger than mine, and the shape of them told me they were natural. She had a small, nipped-in waist and gently rounded hips that curved down to some of the longest legs I’ve ever seen. Her crotch was shaved bare.

  Her skin shone in the light, glistening in a way that made me sure she was covered in some kind of oil. Several narrow red lines crisscrossed her stomach and thighs.

  When the hooded man stood next to her, she seemed tiny and utterly defenseless. She was spread wide open, and she was completely vulnerable, so vulnerable I felt a moment’s fear for her.

  And then Michael said, “Close your eyes.”

  That was about the last thing I wanted to do at the moment, but I did as he asked. I felt Michael wrap something silky around my head and over my eyes. He secured it snugly from behind. I was blindfolded.

  And I was waiting for an explanation.

  Michael said, “The man you saw is my friend, Ron Hoyte, and the woman on her knees is his wife, Elaine. I don’t know who the lovely lady on the rack is. I wasn’t expecting a third person. Hoyte must have found a new toy I haven’t heard about yet.”

  He sounded pleased about the new “toy.” He continued, “The red lines you saw on her body are from Hoyte’s rod. We can assume, with what I know about Hoyte, that he already whipped her back and ass. He always beats back to front.”

  And he chuckled. As if this were funny. I couldn’t imagine. I tried not to imagine, in fact, what the woman’s back looked like.

  He continued, “I hope you got a look at that rod Hoyte was holding.”

  I said I had.

  Michael said, “Hoyte designed it himself. It’s made of some springy graphite composite. It’s thin and flat and strikes a painful sting. It leaves bright red stripes and a lasting burn. The marks fade quickly, less than a day usually. I tried it out on my leg, and it stings like hell.”

  “I think it’s time for some sound,” he said, and I assumed he used the remote control again because the sounds of a woman whimpering flooded into the room.

  The speakers must have been hidden somewhere in the ceiling, I thought, nonsensically.

  Michael’s arms wrapped around my waist, and he explored my body, his hands sliding from my stomach to the undercurves of my breasts.

  He said, “Hoyte’s new toy is whimpering. Can you tell if it’s from pain, or pleasure?”

  I listened, but I didn’t know.

  Michael said, “Since Hoyte was stroking her thighs, I have to believe it’s pleasure.” His fingers brushed my own thighs, a light, tickling touch.

  Then a loud cracking sound split the air. Crack! I jumped. The woman cried out. Now that, I thought, was pain. Another smack, then rapidly two more. Crack! Crack! I flinched with every blow, the remaining heat on my ass a reminder of Michael’s recent belting.

  My breathing and heartbeats were growing faster, caused not just by what I was hearing, but also by what I was feeling. Michael hands roamed my body, no, rather, kneaded my body with more force. My inner thighs, my stomach and hips, then up to my breasts. The blindfold seemed to increase the pleasure from his touch, and I felt goosebumps forming on my arms.

  The woman’s cries changed to the whimpering sound, then moans.

  I heard a man, presumably Hoyte, say, “Slave, more oil!”

  Michael said, “That’s what he calls his wife, Elaine, when they’re in scenes.”

  I only vaguely took in this information, since I was lost amid the incongruity of Michael’s touch and the whipped woman’s pain.

  He continued, “Elaine is rubbing oil on the other woman’s body, her belly and legs and breasts. She has lovely big breasts. Yours are more my type, but still, hers are lovely.”

  He squeezed my breasts and gently pinched my nipples while he said this. I think I may have moaned.

  He said, “Elaine has finished oiling up Hoyte’s toy. She’s back in her spot, kneeling on the floor. Hoyte is tickling his toy with the end of his rod, tickling her pussy.”

  I held my breath when Michael reached between my spread legs and began stroking me over my panties. His fingers teased around the elastic edge of the fabric.

  Then ... crack! Hoyte had struck again. At the same time, Michael gave me a nasty little pinch on my inner thigh.

  I believe I yelped louder than the woman being whipped, more from surprise than any real pain.

  Michael left me no time to think about it. He fondled my labia and I began to squirm.

  Michael said, “I think you’re beginning to see.”

  He removed my blindfold.

  I blinked. There they were, still just past the glass wall, Hoyte and his two women.

  “Watch them,” Michael said. “Don’t look away.”

  While Michael continued to tease my breasts and pussy, I watched Hoyte tease the woman stretched on the rack. With the tip of the black rod, he traced a line across her belly then down to her pussy where he stopped and tapped the rod against her puffy flesh. He moved the tip to her thighs, then led the tip upward again to her stomach.

  The woman watched the rod travel over her body, but she never looked at Hoyte himself. Her muscles tensed and twitched as the rod touched her. I think mine may have twitched as well.

  Hoyte said nothing, gave no warning. He just pulled back his arm and with a quick movement delivered a cracking blow across the woman’s stomach.

  She cried out.

  Hoyte unleashed another strike across her stomach. Then another. Then he moved to her thighs. Crack! Crack! Crack! The helpless woman shuddered in her restraints and cried out, her big breasts shaking from the onslaught. Blows fell on her stomach and thighs, quick, sharp and relentless.

  I could hear my heart beating in my ears. I could feel Michael’s heart beating faster now, too, his excitement growing.

  Hoyte stopped striking the woman. With his free hand he caressed the areas he had struck. Thin red lines crisscrossed her stomach and thighs. Hoyte rubbed the lines and massaged her hurts until she began a low moan, then he reached between her legs and began to slide his fingers inside her slit.

  Up and down he slid his fingers from her clitoris downward and back up again. He rubbed her and her moans grew louder and she began struggling in her restraints for a wholly different reason.

  I, too, had begun to moan. Michael had pinched and stroked me during the entirety of Hoyte’s assault on the bound woman.

  Once, Michael whispered to me, “This is nothing to what she’s feeling. Nothing.”

  I could not stop looking at the red marks on the woman’s stomach and thighs, fascinated by the evidence of coldly-delivered pain. Hoyte had not spoken a word to her during that storm of blows.

  Then Hoyte stepped back and traced more lines with the tip of his rod. He traced invisible lines across the woman’s breasts. He prodded a nipple, then traced lines on the undersides of her breasts.

  The woman’s moans of pleasure changed in tenor. They got louder, raising in pitch ... from fear, I knew, believing it could be nothing but that. Fear of what would come next. My palms were sweaty and slick on the bar I held. I hadn’t thought he might ... no ... not there ...

  Hoyte pulled back his arm and delivered a cracking blow across the tops of her breasts
. A terrible shrill scream exploded from the woman. I barely had time to gasp before Hoyte struck again, this time claiming the undercurve of her breasts.

  Her screams were frightful, loud, high-pitched and beyond anything I had heard before. She continued to keen when Hoyte reached out to massage her poor flesh.

  I couldn’t look anymore. I closed my eyes and turned my head away. Surely a pain of that magnitude ... surely Hoyte couldn’t rub it away. In my natural recoil from the scene, I released the bar and grabbed Michael’s wrists. I held on to him fiercely, wanting everything to stop. It was too much for me. I wanted no more of this.

  Michael yanked my hands off his wrists and restrained me with one hand, while with the other hand, he drove two fingers inside my pussy. I was so surprised, I didn’t know what to think.

  His voice ominous, he said, “I told you not to let go of that bar.”

  With each word he spoke, he plunged his fingers inside me. “Now ... grab ... the ... bar!”

  He released my wrists and I grabbed the bar. There was no way for me not to grab the bar.

  He said, “Watch them.”

  And I did. I watched Hoyte beat that poor woman’s breasts, and I nearly cried along with her, but for different reasons. Michael’s fingers worked a rhythm inside me, and when he stopped that, he tortured my breasts and nipples with hard squeezes and pinches.

  He pulled my nipples out further and further, my breasts stretching into cone shapes. He pinched harder and harder until I was gasping. Then he let go and my breasts snapped back into their normal shape, until he attacked again.

  He pinched and squeezed my pussy lips, too, when he wasn’t fucking me with his fingers. I writhed my ass around on the bench and could not have spread my legs wider had I tried.

  His harsh breathing sounded in my ears, and blew hot and humid on my shoulders and neck where he nibbled and kissed me. His obvious excitement fueled my own.

  All the while, Hoyte beat that poor woman’s breasts, slowly and deliberately, not saying a word to her, no longer intermittently soothing her burning flesh. He would strike. She would scream. Then maybe a ten count. Then another blow would fall on her poor breasts. Tears flowed down her cheeks and dropped onto her red striped breasts.

  Then came the final blow. It was beyond brutal.

  Hoyte struck his aim perfectly across the center of her breasts, cutting across her areolae and nipples. The woman shrieked like never before. I moaned for her.

  Then Hoyte was in motion, unshackling the woman from the rack. In a few quick movements he released the clips from her leather manacles. She slumped in his arms, and he easily picked her up and carried her limp form under one of his beefy arms.

  Hoyte took her to a nearby table and dumped her on her back, her legs draping over the side. She continued to keen, tears flowing, and wrapped her arms around her chest, cradling her poor, red-striped breasts.

  Hoyte unzipped his pants, and pulled out his dick, leaving his pants buttoned at the top. His cock was uncircumcised and all-around large like the rest of him. He barked at the woman to spread her legs, the first words he had said to her as long as I had been watching. She obeyed and he grabbed her hips and drove his dick into her with one mighty thrust.

  I gasped for air while the woman cried out. Hoyte called his wife over and told her to restrain the woman’s arms to the table legs. Elaine scrambled to obey. The beaten woman didn’t resist, probably couldn’t resist, I thought.

  Hoyte seized her poor swollen breasts with both of his meaty paws, using them as something like purchase for his thrusting. His hands were vises on her breasts. He pumped into her and she cried out, in pain or in what may have been the beginnings of pleasure. I couldn’t know which.

  Michael sighed behind me, an odd sound at this moment. He said, “Hoyte never was a master of timing. Oh, she’ll come, but she would have come harder if he had just waited a few minutes longer, just a few more strokes.”

  He sighed again. “Oh well. So be it.”

  He gave my nipples a hard pinch, and then he got up. The air felt cold against my back when he left.

  He stood in front of me and told me to look at him. I did, of course. His blue eyes were lit with a cold flame of passion. Whether his passion was for me, or for the beaten woman, didn’t much matter at that moment in time. It was my turn, now, I knew it, and I was beyond ready for him. He had brought me close to orgasm multiple times, then backed away. So yes, beyond ready didn’t quite cover it. I was on the verge of pleading for release.

  He unzipped his jeans, and like Hoyte, pulled out his cock without actually removing his pants. Michael’s dick was circumcised, and hard and you could practically see the blood pulsing through the veins running just under the smooth skin. I wanted to reach out and touch it.

  Then Michael said, “Don’t let go of the bar.”

  I held on.

  Then he said, “Open wide.” He held his cock and directed it toward my mouth.

  I opened and leaned forward. He guided his dick between my lips. I sucked him in further.

  He tasted clean and musky, the same way he smelled. He wrapped his hands around the back of my head, and it soon became clear that I was not, technically speaking, giving him a blow job. It was more like he was fucking my mouth.

  He held my head firm and tight, while he pushed his dick further into my mouth, eventually bumping up against the back of my throat. I tried not to gag, and he pulled back. In a slow rhythm, he pushed himself back into my mouth.

  He told me when he wanted me to suck, and when to suck harder, then softer. Often he stopped and pulled out of my mouth, then told me to lick and kiss the entire length of his cock. Then he pushed it past my lips again, and thrust back into my mouth.

  While Michael was fucking my mouth, I heard the sounds of fucking in the room beyond the glass wall. Hoyte’s baritone grunting and harsh breathing, the woman’s higher-pitched moaning and gasps of pleasure. More than once I heard what could have only been the smack of a hand on flesh. Good God, I thought, he still hasn’t had done with her. I couldn’t imagine how she could bear it.

  And in our own room, Michael’s pace increased with the pace of the grunting in the next room. He pumped into me more ferociously than ever, his rapid breathing a quieter version of Hoyte’s.

  Michael’s hands tightened around my head and his hips bucked, and I felt a rising alarm as it seemed I couldn’t escape his thrusts even if I tried my hardest. His dick kept pushing deeper into my mouth, coming closer and closer to triggering my gag reflex again.

  He commanded that I suck harder, and so I did, and he pumped into me, over and over. Then at last, the woman beyond the glass wall orgasmed; the cries were unmistakable. Hoyte slapped and grunted, then he too cried out his release.

  And Michael shoved into my mouth, hitting the back of my throat, and I gagged, hard, my body heaving. He pulled out and left me choking and coughing and holding back my vomit. Saliva spilled out of the sides of my mouth onto my breasts.

  Michael rapidly stroked his dick up and down, his breath a pulsing beat in the air. Faster he went, and faster, until at last, he came, his orgasm spurting semen over my breasts.

  His eyes were hooded and half closed while he rubbed the tip of his deflating penis over my semen- and saliva-covered breasts. He blended the semen and saliva into a goo across my nipples and areolae.

  The moans in the other room were slowing, and becoming ever softer. I was finally able to control my gagging, and my panic.

  Then Michael leaned down behind me and picked up the remote control. With a few pushes, the sounds of breath and moans were abruptly cut off, and the big white curtain rolled closed. The world suddenly became a much smaller place.

  Michael tucked his dick back into his pants. He walked off behind me. I just sat there, my heart still beating hard from the combination of desire and panic. I waited, wondering what was coming next. In spite of what he had done, how he had scared me, I still wanted him.

  He said, �
��You can let go. Come here.”

  I gratefully let go of the accursed bar and wiped my sweaty palms on my thighs.

  Michael pulled a towel out of a drawer that was hidden in the wall. He wetted down the towel with some bottled water he took from the mini-bar. With a firm and steady hand, he cleaned the mess off my breasts.

  He wiped his hands on a clean corner of the towel, then dropped it on the floor. He walked about picking up his clothes, sorting out his shirt and pulling it over his head. He gathered my things together, too, and brought them to me.

  He said, “Sorry about your shirt. It’s pretty wrinkled. Guess we should have hung it up or something.” Then he grinned, showing he wasn’t actually all that sorry.

  But I didn’t care. I had a larger issue at hand. I stared, practically open-mouthed, at the clothes he held out to me. Was I supposed to get dressed now? Was it over? Impossible. I was in need. It wasn’t time to get dressed. What the hell?

  Misreading my confusion, Michael said, “It’s okay. Go ahead. Get dressed. We’re done.”

  And I thought, “We’re done?”

  Since I wasn’t taking the clothes, Michael shrugged and dropped them onto the seat of the recliner. He strolled over to the mini bar. He rummaged around, pulled out a can of soda and took a long, and apparently, satisfying drink.

  It was the smug satisfaction on his face that finally helped me find my voice.

  I said, in a statement, more than a question, “What the hell do you mean by that? We’re done? I’m not done.”

  He said, “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t mean we’re done forever. I just meant we’re done for the night.”

  I said, “But I’m not done. I feel ... I need ...” I didn’t want to have to ask for it, but I decided it wouldn’t kill me to set my pride aside for the moment, not if it got me what I wanted. And maybe he wanted me to ask for it. “I need you,” I told him. “Don’t leave me hanging.” There, I’d said it.

  Michael laughed. He laughed at me. Not a big laugh, but big enough and long enough to tell me that leaving me hanging was exactly what he was going to do.