by Deena Ward
He said, “I want to see you come.”
So I clamped my muscles onto the dildo, and I rubbed around and around my clit. I watched his eyes. His eyes, always watching my pussy, watching my fingers. Faster, he ordered.
And the pressure grew, and grew, until it finally burst. My orgasm flooded through me, and his eyes met mine. And I rode the pleasure, rode the desire I believed I saw in those dark, dark eyes.
I held his gaze as my orgasm faded away into the diminishing repeated pulse of my clitoris. Fading. Fading.
He broke our gaze and looked at my pussy. I looked in the mirror, to see what he saw.
I was sprawled, slack-limbed now, looking satiated, for the moment at any rate. I still held the black dildo in one hand, but loosely, more like it was resting on my palm rather than actually being held. My labia were redder and more swollen than before. I looked like I was waiting. Ready, not finished. Indeed, I felt far from finished.
I quickly discovered I was alone in that feeling.
The Businessman smiled at me and said, “Good. You did well. I enjoyed it. Now, tidy yourself up, if you wish, but don’t take too long. I’m expected somewhere else this evening. I’ll wait for you in the other room.”
He stood, leaned down and patted my knee, then turned away from me. I instantly flashed on Michael telling me we were done. Is that what The Businessman was doing? Was he telling me we were done? He hadn’t even touched me, had he, except for that pat on my knee?
I couldn’t recall him touching me other than that once. We could not be done.
And he said that he had somewhere else he needed to be. Did he actually say that?
I jerked myself upright and snapped, “Is this it? Is that what you’re saying?”
Chapter 8
He turned back toward me, one eyebrow arched in question.
I said, “Basically, I’m dismissed. We’re done in here. Is that right?”
He replied, “Not exactly. There are a few things I want to speak with you about, but other than that, yes, I suppose we’re done.”
“That’s just great.” I could easily see that he didn’t like the tone I was using with him, but at that moment, I didn’t care. I said, “You could at least tell me what stupid rule I broke. Let me guess, I looked away from the mirror, so I have to be punished.”
He asked, “Why do you think you’re being punished?”
“Why do I think ... you’ve got to be kidding me.” My voice kept getting louder, more outraged. “You’re not going to have sex with me, and you ask why I think I’m being punished? It’s unbelievable. After what I just did? You never even touched ...”
I didn’t get to finish my sentence. In two quick strides he was on the bed next to me. Before I could process what was happening, he grabbed me, flipped me onto my stomach, and pushed a knee into my lower spine. With one hand, he restrained both my wrists, arms bent at the elbow, my hands shoved against the middle of my back.
He weighed heavily on me, and I was forced to work hard to pull air into my lungs. Though one side of my face was mashed against the mattress, I could still see the mirror. I looked crushed under his bulk, the way he loomed over and beside me. His leg seemed huge, pushed onto my lower back. He looked down at me, glowering.
I began to struggle. I wanted away.
“Do you think this is some game I’m playing with you?” He said it more as a growled statement, than a question.
I didn’t answer. I tried to pull my arms out of his hold. Impossible, I thought.
He continued, “Maybe it’s a game to you, but I assure you it’s not, not to me. You speak to me as if I owe you something. As if you earned some reward that I’ve denied you, that I’ve cheated you out of something.”
I managed to gasp out, “Let me go.”
“No problem,” he said. “And then we’re really done. We’ll part ways for good. Just say the word at any time. I’ll let you go.”
I wanted to say it. I really, really wanted to say it. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t say it. I didn’t know why, but I couldn’t do it. My struggling weakened and I tried to catch my breath.
He said, “What is it? What is it I failed to give you? What do you want?”
I didn’t answer.
He delivered a resounding smack to my bare ass. “Answer me. What do you want?”
He eased his knee a little off my back and I grabbed a gulp of needed air. I said, “I thought you would have sex with me.”
He shoved hard into my back again. “What do you want?”
My voice sounded hoarse when I said, “Sex. With you.”
“You want me to fuck you. Is that right? Say it. Say, ‘I want you to fuck me.’ Exactly like that.”
God help me, I said it ... exactly like that.
With his free hand he reached into the black bag that was somehow still nearby on the bed. He pulled out a long purple velvet sack that I half-noticed earlier. He loosened the tie that held the sack closed, then shook out the biggest dildo I had ever seen.
It was flesh-colored latex, easily over 12 inches long, and thick, too thick, I thought. One end was the usual shape of the head of a cock. It was the other end that, for some reason, scared me. Sticking out of the other end was a handle.
The Businessman flipped open the tube of lube and squirted a large quantity down the length of the dildo. Then he grabbed it by the handle, and reached back and shoved it between my legs. He paused for a moment at the entry of my pussy and caught my eyes in the mirror.
He said with a fearsome, even tone, “Spread your legs.”
I didn’t. I was going to, or I thought I might, but I was scared, and I didn’t spread my legs, at least not fast enough.
It didn’t matter, ultimately. He pushed the huge dildo into me all the same. I gasped at the intrusion of the massive rod of latex. I had been clenched, and tight, afraid. It hurt when he pushed it farther into me, my muscles no barrier to his invasion at all.
He said, “Spread your legs.”
I obeyed, quickly this time.
He pulled the dildo out of me, then shoved it back in. I cried out. It was huge. Too big. I felt like I couldn’t stretch enough. And I couldn’t even be sure he was putting it in all the way to the hilt. What if there were still more to it, more he had yet to shove into me. No, I thought, please, no more.
It looked so brutal, in the mirror, the way he held the handle of the thing, the way it disappeared behind my leg when he shoved the dildo into me. Again. Again. So hard. Too hard. Even as my muscles stretched to receive it, I thought it could not be enough. It was too big. Too big. Too much. I grunted and tried to bear it.
His knee continued holding me down and I fought for every deep breath. My wrists were starting to ache from the pressure of his hold.
He said, “This is what you wanted.”
And he pushed the dildo into me.
He said, “You wanted me to fuck you.”
And he pulled out the dildo, all the way, then stuffed it into me again.
“This is what you wanted,” he repeated.
I began crying then, the tears running down over my nose and soaking into the white bed sheets. I said, weakly, “No.”
“No what,” he said. Relentless.
“No, no, it’s not what I want.”
“Then what is it? What did you want?”
“I wanted you,” I answered. “I want you in me. Not that thing. You. Your cock.”
He tossed the dildo aside and reached into the black bag again. He pulled out a length of cord and in a few seconds, tied my wrists together. He climbed off of me then flipped me over, onto my back, my tied hands trapped underneath me, the softness of the mattress making the position more bearable than it would have been on a harder surface.
He got off the bed and grabbed my ankles, pulling me toward him, stopping when my butt rested against the edge of the mattress. He dropped my legs and reached for his belt, which he quickly unbuckled, then he unbuttoned his pants and pushed them down
along with his underwear.
I only saw his cock for the briefest of moments when he paused to rip open a condom packet and unrolled the rubber down the length of his shaft. The sights blended into a blur from the tears I couldn’t stop. He reached under my knees and lifted them high, spreading my legs as wide as they would go out to my sides and back toward the mattress.
Then he was inside me. His dick slid into me and I gasped because it was perfect. After the big, ugly dildo, he was perfection, silky and hard at the same time. He filled me. I reveled in the feel of warm flesh inside of me instead of cold plastic.
He held my legs behind my knees, keeping me wide and open to him. He pumped out and in and out and in.
He didn’t say anything, or look at my face. He looked at my breasts and my pussy, he watched his dick slide in and out of me. The entire lower half of my body tingled.
He fucked me with a steady pace that was neither fast nor slow.
He brought my knees back together, then pushed them both to one side, my torso twisting with the movement, my ass turning into view, the pressure of my weight gone from one of my restrained arms.
And he fucked me like that, with my legs together and off to one side. Both of his hands were on my topmost thigh, and his thumbs dug into the flesh near my pussy and pulled, opening me wider. My tears disappeared and I moaned and tried to grind against him, though it was practically impossible in my position.
Oh, I didn’t know. I didn’t know it could feel like this. Never. Never had it felt like this.
He increased the speed and power of his thrusts. He landed a fearsome swat on the topmost cheek of my ass. I cried out in surprise more than in pain. He reached out and grabbed my shoulder, shoving me completely onto my side, never once missing a stroke as he fucked me.
With my whole ass available and vulnerable now, he smacked my other cheek. It stung. Badly. Then again. Again. He smacked my ass until it burned.
He fucked and spanked. Spanked and fucked. And my cries grew louder and he felt so good in me and I didn’t want it to stop, even though tears were once again rolling down my cheeks. I don’t know when the pain of the spanking began adding to the pleasure. I only know it did. I wasn’t crying from fear, or pain. My tears were a release from what was too much to feel at the same time.
Then he flipped me onto my back again, and spread my legs wide. He left them splayed open, while with one hand he pressed down on my lower stomach, and with the other, he began to lightly pinch and toy with my clitoris.
My ass burned. His dick slid in and out of me, a constant source of pleasure. Something about his hand pushing on my stomach added a pressure, an urgency. I moaned and moved my hips in rhythm with his thrusts. He rolled my clitoris between his fingers.
I couldn’t hold off the pressure any longer. I came.
I gasped and reveled in the tremors passing through me, the release eclipsing my earlier orgasm. He maintained his steady pace in and out of me while I thrashed about beneath him and shuddered and moaned. All thought ceased, and I became a creature of pure sensation, no distractions, no questions, no thought. Just pleasure.
When at last the sensations died away, leaving only that familiar pulse and occasional throb of my clitoris, thought returned. I looked to The Businessman.
He pulled out of me, his dick still proudly standing out from his body, as hard and long as when I first glimpsed it through the blur of my tears.
He asked, “Was that what you wanted? Is that what you earned?”
I answered quietly. “Yes ... no.”
He glanced significantly at the big fleshy dildo that lay nearby.
I said, “No, no more. Not that.”
He stared at me. I knew what he was waiting for. He wanted me to tell him what I believed was missing. And there was definitely something missing.
He bent over and began pulling up his pants.
I felt my stomach turn over. I said quickly, “You, you didn’t come.”
He hitched his pants over his hips, rolled the empty condom off his dick, and somehow tucked his huge erection away before he buttoned and zipped up his pants.
He was buckling his belt when he asked, “You wanted me to come?”
I sat up and said, “Yes, of course, I wanted ...”
I didn’t finish because he leaned into me. I flinched, but he was only reaching behind me. With a few deft motions, he untied my hands. Then he turned and walked away, heading into the bathroom. I sat up on the edge of the bed, listening to him running the water in the sink.
He was drying his hands on a towel when he returned to the bedroom and crossed in front of me. I thought he was going to leave, but he stopped and looked at me, his face closed.
He said, “What you’ve failed to understand this evening, though I thought I had made the point adequately, is that none of this is about what you want. Needs are a different matter. And since yours have been met, you have no reason to complain about that, either.”
He picked up his jacket and tie that he had laid neatly over the back of a valet chair.
He met my eyes and said, his voice appallingly calm, “This is about me, about what I want and what I do not want. That’s all it will ever be.”
And he turned and left the room.
I sat stock still. I felt like I had been slapped across my face. Humiliation boiled up from my stomach and caught in my throat.
I thought of how I must have looked, tossing my head and wriggling my hips from the pleasure, coming and moaning and ... I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to think about how he had been in complete control of his body and I hadn’t noticed. I realized now he hadn’t even been breathing hard, or not much anyway.
Humiliating. I had been punished, indeed, but not for failing to follow his commands. I was punished for thinking I deserved something from him. Him. It was all about what he wanted.
No. That wasn’t it at all. It was worse than that. I truly had failed to understand. Precisely as he said.
This was not a tryst, or assignation, as I thought. I believed I was meeting a sexy man in a hotel room and we’d have a great time with one another, the way we had in the hallway at the bar. If it went well, and we both enjoyed ourselves, maybe we’d do it again.
But I was wrong. Completely wrong.
This wasn’t an assignation. This was an interview. I remembered thinking of interviews after he asked me all those questions in the sitting room, but I hadn’t seriously considered that’s what this was.
He asked me here to interview me for ... something, I didn’t know what, exactly, but that didn’t matter so much as the fact that I missed his entire reason for asking me here tonight.
I practically begged him for sex, while for him, this was only an interview, an examination, a study of my fitness for whatever task he had in mind for me.
I don’t know how I missed it. He basically told me as much. But I had missed it.
I thought again of how I asked him to have sex with me, to fuck me. Hell, I wanted to curl into a ball and never see him again. I thought, so this is what complete and total humiliation feels like.
The skin on my face felt tight. My throat was dry and my head ached. I didn’t want to think about any of this anymore. I wanted him to leave, to go to that other appointment of his, and let me slink away once he was gone.
That wouldn’t happen, though. So I walked on shaky legs into the bathroom and poured myself a drink of tap water. It soothed my throat, but my head still pounded. I splashed my face with some water, washing away the dried tears from my cheeks.
I went to the toilet and sat there for awhile, trying not to think, but failing. I was putting off the inevitable, I knew. I would have to return to that sitting room. His previous command that I not take too long while I tidied myself, still stood. I understood that, now. He had another engagement, he said. No more time to waste on the likes of me, I assumed.
I winced at the recognition of the bitterness in that last thought.
&nb
sp; I got up, wrapped myself in the other bathrobe that was hanging in the bathroom and tucked my feet into the smallest pair of slippers that were lined against one wall.
I went into the sitting room. The Businessman stood by the bar, knocking off the last of an amber liquid from a tumbler. He thumped the tumbler down onto the bar then glared at the glass as if it were to be blamed for thumping.
He was as put together as always, having put his suit jacket back on and retied his tie. He, unlike me, looked no worse for the wear this evening. He looked manly and sexy. I looked tired and plain.
He glanced at me briefly, then up at the clock on the wall. He said, “I apologize that I have to leave so soon. I would have enjoyed having dinner with you. But my appointment is unavoidable. Are you okay?”
I nodded and headed to the sofa, where I sat down and sank into the soft cushions, a welcome bonus since my ass was still sore and hot from his swats. I didn’t need that reminder of my foolishness. Let this be over soon, I thought.
“You’re not hurt, are you?” he asked.
I shook my head and thought, not if you don’t count my pride.
He said, “Good. I’m glad you’re okay.”
I stared at my hands and waited.
Finally, he said, “I’ve left my card on the table there. It’s my private cell number. I’ve decided I’d like to see you again.”
I wasn’t sure what to feel when he said that. I couldn’t imagine why he still wanted to see me, feeling certain I had failed the interview. Besides, in the light of my new understanding, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to see him again. I wasn’t exactly angry at him. He hadn’t lied to me or actually hurt me. He had, in fact, given me the mind-blowing orgasm of my life. But these facts didn’t matter to me. Not at that moment.
I said nothing, but I did lean down and pick up the card. In simple black lettering it read, “Gibson Reeves,” and underneath that, a phone number. That was all there was on the card.
Gibson. His name was Gibson. At last, a name.
Gibson said, “Call that number if you decide you wish to continue our association, and we’ll discuss what I have in mind for us. Understand, though, that if you do call, you can’t also accept Weston’s offer.”