Pure Paradise

by Allison Hobbs

  Maxwell crawled over to BodySlam, and then rose to his knees. He unsnapped and unzipped the tented area of BodySlam’s pants.

  Approvingly, BodySlam petted Maxwell’s narrow shoulders as the CEO devoured the Haitian’s impossibly long phallus. Maxwell’s body shivered at BodySlam’s touch. Seeking more approval, he sucked and slurped loudly, striving to give good head.

  A feeling of warmth seeped through Milan as she witnessed Maxwell sucking a man’s dick. She thought it a disgusting freak show, but her wet pussy apparently didn’t agree with her. Maxwell gave surprisingly good fellatio, pulling the huge dick in and out of his mouth with ease.

  Suddenly dissatisfied with Maxwell’s performance, or perhaps annoyed that Maxwell was enjoying himself too much, BodySlam grabbed the back of Maxwell’s head and plunged his engorged manhood deeply, gagging and choking Maxwell with his iron-hard erection.

  It appeared to Milan that BodySlam was seeking a quick release, but she had another idea.

  She popped Maxwell upside his head. “That’s enough, cocksucker.”

  Obeying his mistress, Maxwell gleefully pulled back, releasing BodySlam’s throbbing penis, allowing it to pop out of his warm mouth. BodySlam winced in discomfort as his cock was abandoned and exposed to the chilled, air-conditioned air.

  Milan smiled at BodySlam. “He’s all yours. Do with him as you please.” She crossed the room and sat behind Maxwell’s desk. She observed the walls, which were adorned with plaques and other framed tributes to Maxwell Torrance’s accomplishment and let out a burst of mocking laughter.

  Maxwell’s neck drooped, causing his head to hang so low, he seemed to burrow his forehead into the thick carpet. With his eyes closed tightly, he braced himself for the kind of flogging that could possibly leave him maimed. BodySlam was a ferocious master, and had been jilted by Maxwell. His anger was thick and palpable. It filled the air. Maxwell trembled in fear and excitement.

  BodySlam paced menacingly, muttering in an island patois that was sensual but also invoked fear. He glowered at the tycoon with every rambling word.

  Milan sat on the edge of her seat, excitedly watching the scene unfold. Soon, Maxwell would be emasculated and she planned to savor every second of her sex slave’s agony and extreme distress. She took such pleasure in being a voyeur rather than a participant in this type of sex play.

  As if weary, BodySlam plopped down on a very expensive Edwardian settee made of fine French silk. With his chained vest, leather pants, and worn boots, BodySlam looked completely out of place. The delicate piece of antique furniture was no doubt intended as decoration and not to be sat upon.

  Relaxing further, BodySlam propped his boots heavily upon Maxwell’s rear end, deliberately inflicting more pain on an area that was bruised and quite sore from Milan’s flogging. Maxwell made the dreadful mistake of letting out a pitiful sound. In one swift movement, BodySlam lifted Maxwell up and cruelly threw him over his lap. Scolding Maxwell in a rush of words that were issued in a heated Haitian dialect, BodySlam raised his large hand and gave Maxwell a sound spanking. Maxwell’s whimpering lament incensed BodySlam, provoking him to greater heights of fury. He flayed Maxwell’s buttocks until they bore a tapestry of red-shaded handprints. Maxwell writhed and groaned painfully.

  CHAPTER 27

  BodySlam examined the pattern of handprints on Maxwell’s naked ass. He stared with intensity as if looking for an unblemished area to brand with his trademark. Maxwell wriggled uncomfortably. Infuriated by the twisting, moaning captive, Bodyslam sadistically brought his hand down firmly and began to apply harder, thunderous slaps. He furtively slipped his arm beneath the tycoon and viciously imprisoned Maxwell’s tiny cock and scrotum inside his monstrously large, ball-crushing bare hand.

  Maxwell howled. BodySlam knocked him off his lap and worked the unzipped leather pants off his hips. He pulled Maxwell by his hair and pressed his face against his groin. He smiled with wicked satisfaction as his organ lengthened and hardened. He used his big dick as a smacking device against Maxwell’s miserable face. Finally, he brushed the swollen tip alongside the CEO’s quivering lips.

  He silenced Maxwell’s whimpering with his sturdy cock, switching its usage from a face smacker to an extra-large and extremely hard pacifier. Maxwell wrapped his thin lips around BodySlam’s girth and sucked, bobbing his head up and down, obviously preferring dick sucking to having his ass whipped.

  “Harder!” Milan shouted from across the room. “Shove it down his throat.” She didn’t like the idea of Maxwell enjoying his assignment.

  Refusing to take orders, BodySlam ignored Milan. Swiftly, he unbuckled his boots, kicked them off, and removed his leather pants. His hard-muscled ass and soaring appendage made Milan’s mouth water. BodySlam was ripped like an ebony god. With the skill of a trained wrestler, he flipped Maxwell across the room. While Maxwell lay on his back panting, BodySlam stalked over and pounced. He lifted Maxwell’s legs up and held them open, the way a man would prepare to fuck a woman. Though his cock was moist from Maxwell’s mouth, he spit in his hand and slathered his dick with saliva then rubbed his glans against Maxwell’s puckered asshole. He slowly penetrated his anus, hurting Maxwell with his bulging sex organ.

  It was a fascinating sight. Milan’s mouth fell open. She’d never seen anything like this. Maxwell moaned and she couldn’t tell if it was a sound of pain or passion. Her eyes were glued to BodySlam’s high, well-formed ass as it undulated in the act of giving Maxwell a tender and sensual fuck.

  Then he quickened his pace, behaving sadistically, plunging now instead of gently gliding. The sound of pounding flesh echoed inside the room as he shoved his dick in to the hilt.

  BodySlam bit down on his lip. Perspiring, he appeared to struggle to control the pressure rushing through his veins. He began to make sounds…words. “You got good pussy, my man. It’s hot like an oven. You’re nice and tight. But you already know that, eh?”

  Maxwell murmured affirmatively. He seemed to enjoy having his ass penetrated much more than getting it smacked.

  Milan was shocked! The tangle of hairs at the mouth of her own pussy moistened. Astonishingly, she was aroused by the sight of two men fucking.

  “Ah, yes.” BodySlam groaned as he worked his hips, perspiring profusely, totally into it. “Do you like me? Eh? Do I fuck you good?”

  Maxwell cleared his throat and murmured softly.

  Milan felt her vagina tense. Watching BodySlam’s dick and balls bounce while he rammed Maxwell up the ass was another unexpected and powerful turn-on.

  “Talk dirty to me, man. Tell me how good I’m fucking your tight cunt.”

  Maxwell wrapped his arms and legs around BodySlam and clung to him as he got served, murmuring sweet words in his ears.

  Her patience was near to breaking. It was time to end the party. She made an impatient sound and then clapped her hands, making a scolding gesture that indicated she wanted them to stop copulating. But BodySlam and Maxell ignored her and kept at it. The sound of men moaning in sexual rapture was disturbing and titillating.

  BodySlam was no wimp and she doubted she could control his wanton behavior. Milan sighed. She caressed her wet sex. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. She pulled Maxwell’s arms from around BodySlam and pushed his head to the floor.

  “Suck my pussy, you cheating bastard,” she hissed, straddling his head and squatting down. Her parted pussy hovered over his face, and then she lowered herself until her buttocks rested on his cheeks.

  Maxwell didn’t disappoint. He stretched his tongue to capacity and lapped inside Milan’s cunt. Skillful at serving two masters, Maxwell’s exploring tongue had Milan’s body rocking.

  “Give me that good pussy,” BodySlam commanded Maxwell. Maxwell obeyed, thrusting his ass as quickly as he stroked Milan’s cunt with his tongue. Maxwell’s mouth became an aggressive sex provider. His lips sucked urgently, his tongue licking roughly as it sought to provide Milan with pleasure.

  Feeling competitive, BodySlam yanked Max
well closer, pushing his cock more deeply into Maxwell’s ass as if to nourish him. “My man,” he whispered. “You’d make a good woman for a wild man like me. Do you like the way I fuck you?”

  Maxwell licked Milan’s pussy with desperation while his lower body undulated, silently screaming a reply.

  “Ah. So, you like the idea of giving yourself to me. That sounds good, man.” BodySlam pumped dick as he spoke, his tone soft and mesmerizing.

  Milan didn’t hear Maxwell say anything. So why was BodySlam claiming victory? Had she known this sadistic bastard would once again try to steal her chattel, she never would have hired him to help her give Maxwell the severe punishment she was unable to dispense. She moisturized Maxwell’s lips with her juices, claiming her property and marking her territory.

  “I’ve lost my woman, Veronique. You know that already, eh?”

  Maxwell muttered something. BodySlam was taking it to another level and Milan didn’t like it. She stopped moving, ready to physically fight the muscled sadist if she had to.

  “That’s it. Get out,” Milan ordered BodySlam. He paid her no mind.

  Working Maxwell to a crescendo, he asked, “Would you like to be my girlfriend? I can slap you, beat you, and fuck you all night long?” BodySlam spoke in a low, lilting tone, hypnotizing Maxwell with the erotic sound of his voice.

  Maxwell responded with a harsh moan. His rush of excited breath, though disturbing, aroused Milan, who was still perched on his face.

  Unable to control herself, she rocked against his tongue. Her fingernails scraped at the wall as she tried to give his tongue as rough a ride as BodySlam was giving his ass.

  But she couldn’t compete. Nothing could have prepared her for the way Maxwell was eating her pussy. He sent a shocking sensation through her when his tongue journeyed to her clit and slathered it, causing her to shudder and hasten her rhythm. Holding back her orgasm was torture. It was a worse sexual agony than she’d ever experienced. Milan felt a spasm in her stomach. She moaned loudly and squirted a premature shot of sticky cum. Maxwell’s open mouth received it, slurping, sucking, trying to drain her.

  At that moment of Milan’s paralyzing orgasm, BodySlam asked again in a voice that was as soft as a caress, “Maxwell, my good man…my pretty woman, do you want to be with me?”

  She couldn’t believe it when she felt Maxwell’s lips moving and his voice vibrating into her quivering pussy, speaking words of agreement. “Yes! Oh, yes. I do!”

  Fucking faggot-ass bastard!

  CHAPTER 28

  Milan finished off her second glass of wine. Wine usually made her feel good—happy and amorous. But the euphoria she’d been counting on was brief at best. Her thoughts drifted to Maxwell. A couple hours after his encounter with BodySlam, Maxwell had to leave for Japan to finish up an acquisition. Though his anus was no doubt on fire, she was sure he’d board his private jet wearing a satisfied smile. What a sick puppy he’d turned out to be! Of course, she’d known he was weird when she first met him online, but at that time, she’d considered him no freakier than she was.

  But now, his new lust for corporal punishment was taking her beyond her capabilities. It was just a matter of time before she was going to have to give Maxwell the boot. Of course, she’d have to get her hands on a lot more of his money before she bailed.

  Maxwell and BodySlam may have been satiated by today’s depraved interlude but Milan was left bereft. Getting involved in that S&M scene had not helped her mood at all. In fact, she felt soiled. Watching Maxwell getting knocked around and reamed by another man was gross and she regretted having participated in the increasingly dark activities that were taking over Maxwell’s life.

  Being bossy, giving orders, and having emotional control was sexually stimulating, but indulging Maxwell’s dark urges was taking a toll. His quiet demand for pain and punishment put her in the awkward position of taking orders. In his own twisted way, Maxwell Torrance was calling the shots and in reality it was he and not she who was actually in control. After all, his needs were being met and he had virtually turned her into a prostitute. She was getting a hefty financial benefit and a bad case of nausea from exchanging deviant sex for pay.

  To get her hands on even more of Maxwell’s fortune, she’d have to devote more time and energy into thinking and implementing creative ways to keep him happily submissive. She frowned. It had been so much easier when all he required was humiliation.

  Thankfully, his trip to Japan would give her some alone time to figure out a way to get Hilton back. She got an instant visual of Hilton’s heavy dark lashes, the smoothness of his honey-colored skin. And then she recalled the softness of his kiss. Stricken by an intense pang of regret, she poured herself more wine, hoping for a little relief. Maybe the third glass would be the charm. It wasn’t.

  She missed what she and Hilton were beginning to build—the flirty interactions, the cuddling, the underlying feeling that their sex-based relationship could possibly develop into something long lasting and real. But she’d ruined it. The romantic liaison they’d been on the verge of assembling was over before it had even begun.

  After downing the third glass of wine, she felt lonelier than before. Hilton had escaped to some field of dreams, football heaven, and with a football tucked beneath his arm, he was probably running and leaping like a happy gazelle while she was sitting home alone. Milan felt so forlorn, so abandoned. She was as grief-stricken as if someone she loved had died. She set down her wineglass and dabbed at the stinging tears that began to fill her eyes.

  She’d promised herself after her trainer had broken her heart that she’d never again give another person permission to hurt her. She could feel herself sinking, succumbing to new depths of depression. So what could she do to ease the pain? Make money! Creating new avenues for cash flow was the perfect remedy for heartache. She’d take her mind off Hilton by throwing herself back into running her salon as efficiently as she once had. Lately, she’d been allowing Sumi to oversee Pure Paradise and quite frankly, Sumi was mishandling the business to such a degree that Milan shuddered to think how much money she had lost while her head was in the clouds dreaming about Hilton. Everything was out of balance. Employees were showing up for work late, if at all. Foot fetishists were filling in for spanking masters. Milan shook her head. It was time to get back to business and personally oversee every aspect of the salon, from the sordid lower level to the classy upper levels. Clearly, she had to get her staff whipped back into shape.

  Planning on getting completely inebriated, Milan took a gulp of her fourth glass of wine. Thinking about her out-of-control staff, she abruptly stood. Teetering slightly, she steadied herself and, with a wineglass in one hand and a chilled bottle of cheap wine in the other, she walked determinedly toward the stairs and headed up to her home office.

  She clicked open her laptop and guzzled more of the fruity elixir while she waited. The monitor finally sprang to life. She tapped the keyboard with one hand and turned the wineglass up to her lips with the other as she accessed the Pure Paradise files. Squinting, she reviewed a series of spreadsheets. Amazingly, despite Sumi’s lackadaisical management style, earnings were up. Way up. The large figures on the spreadsheets made her beam. After getting dumped and replaced by a damn football, Milan was surprised that her lips remembered how to smile. Chuckling with drunken laughter, she viewed the images of dollar signs. Her bad case of the doldrums quickly changed to giddy excitement.

  Determined to use a more hands-on approach to her business, Milan arrived at the salon earlier than usual the next morning. She sent Sumi to the lower level to manage things downstairs.

  First on Milan’s hit list was Asian Spice. Something had to be done about the backed-up-traffic, the clogged entryway. Clients were lined up to get Shin’s special foot softening treatment, and there was standing room only. Not a pretty sight for a posh salon. Stroking her chin, she considered several options as she whisked behind the reception desk and peered over the harried receptionist’s shoulde
r at the computer monitor. Someone—probably Sumi—had overbooked the manicurist, who, of course, was just a guise for customers who really wanted some Asian Spice.

  Milan couldn’t redirect everyone down to see BodySlam. To expect everyone to be easily converted into masochistic sub-missives was a totally unrealistic notion, so she decided to take another tack. At Milan’s urging, the receptionist called the next name on the list. “Ms. Landers, the manicurist will see you now,” the receptionist announced in as cordial a tone as she could manage with Milan breathing down her neck.

  Acknowledging her name, a poised and perfectly groomed woman gave the receptionist a tight smile. Wearing a well-tailored suit with a smart-looking gray-streaked bob haircut, she set down a copy of Vogue and rose to her feet. Ms. Landers, Milan noticed, appeared to have a fresh French manicure and Milan suspected that her top-designer pumps were hiding a fresh pedicure. This pampered matron, obviously dissatisfied with her life, wanted to add some extra zest to her life by adding a little Asian Spice. Tough! She wasn’t in dire need of a manicure; she was not an emergency case. It was Milan’s responsibility to get things in proper order.

  Milan looked at the appointments on the monitor and quietly directed the receptionist to call the next person on the list.

  “Uh, Ms. Marlton?” the befuddled receptionist said.

  A frumpy woman sprang from her seat and happily pushed past the gray-streaked, bobbed client and then rushed over to the receptionist’s desk and uttered a breathless, “Yes?”

  Milan cut an eye at the woman’s nails and was satisfied that she was indeed badly in need of a manicure.

  In a hushed tone, Milan instructed the receptionist to redirect Ms. Landers to the miniscule cubby that was Shin’s workspace, the place where he gabbed on the phone, sent texts to his friends, or played games on his computer—bullshitting around until Ellen called him to execute the specialty he was paid to perform.