by K. Webster
“He’s the man who will make you beautiful.”
His comment stings and I drag my gaze away from him to my fingernails. They’re no longer dirty but each nail is still cracked and brittle from malnutrition and the effects of the heroin. A strawberry-blonde strand of hair falls into my face and I sigh. My hair does look like shit—just like he said.
“I didn’t choose you because you were pretty,” he mutters from beside me.
I peek over at him and his elbow is resting on the arm of the seat with his hand cupping his cheek. He turns his head slightly to face me wearing his signature smirk.
Tucking the hideous strand behind my ear, I scrunch my brows together. “Then why?”
His chuckle is dark and when I glance at Dubois, his gaze is downcast as if to give his boss the privacy of his conversation.
“I chose you because you’re a dirty, ugly toy.”
I jerk my eyes back over to his. I can’t believe I felt sorry for his ass just moments ago. He’s one moody motherfucker. And mean.
“Was.”
His dark brow rises at my comment.
“I was dirty. And I’m not ugly.”
He barks out a hate-filled laugh and slaps Dubois on the knee. “Did you hear that, D? She says she’s not ugly.”
Dubois drags his eyes over to me and visually inspects me, his nose crinkled in disgust. “And what do you think, sir?” he asks his boss.
Braxton crosses his arms over his chest and smiles. “I think she is. But not for long.”
His blue eyes sparkle with mischief and it reminds me of someone from my past—someone I hate—someone who liked to say and do cruel things for their own enjoyment. But unlucky for Brax, I know how to deal with people like him.
“So we’re going to play this game?” I question, straightening my back. There are some things a woman can’t hide from, no matter how hard she tries. Like her past. It’s always there, just below the surface, lying in wait for the perfect time to come back out and play. And since Braxton clearly likes games and toys, then I’ll play right along with him.
“I don’t follow.”
“Of course you don’t follow,” I tell him with a cold laugh. “But you will.”
His nostrils flare in irritation and my lips quirk with a smile at seeing that vein of his on his forehead get all pissy too. “You’re my toy and we’ll play my games. If you want the money, you’ll be a good little girl and do as you’re told.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Of course, sir,” I drawl out, laying on the thick Georgian accent for Dubois’ benefit. “I’ll be sweet as Momma’s pecan pie. Your perfect little toy—an adoring smile always on my face. You’ll be putting a ring on this finger in no time.”
Brax is out of his seat before I can even finish and his massive hand is around my throat. I claw at it but meet his glare with one of my own. I spent far too long being afraid. Braxton is nothing I haven’t already dealt with before.
I’m still here.
Alive and kicking.
His grip tightens cutting off my air supply completely. The fact that I can infuriate him in three seconds flat means he’s not as big of a player in his little game as he thinks.
I wink at him.
Who’s the toy now?
He lets go and takes a step back. Rage causes his entire body to quiver and I can tell he’s holding back, barely.
“Where’d you learn to talk like that?” he demands.
My eyes travel to Dubois’ horrified ones and I smile sweetly. “I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic—quite a talented little tart I am.” He relaxes when the British accent easily rolls off my tongue.
“Your desire to be cute and funny isn’t going to do you any good once we get back home,” he grits out as he paces the small aircraft. The metal that surrounds us doesn’t seem like a strong enough cage to contain him.
I stand and walk over to him. Dubois is back on his phone, attempting to ignore us while the flight attendant busies herself with a tray and drinks. Clearly, his employees are used to his bizarre behavior.
“So I can be cute and funny all I want until then?” I sass.
His angry eyes meet mine but I see it. A small twitch on his lips. I’m messing with his plans but despite his annoyance, I think it excites him. “Your punishments are piling up, Bunny. I already owe you two.”
I run my palms up the lapels of his suit jacket. “Two what? Spankings? You know, they say third time’s a charm, Braxton.”
My taunting works because he scowls and jerks me to him. His hard chest is heaving against mine and I squirm in his grasp, fighting a smile when I feel his cock thick and aroused pressed against me.
“You think my punishments are spankings?”
I give a light shrug and smile, forcing down a shudder of the memory from the last time he whipped me.
His own smile becomes predatory and a chill runs through my spine. “I’ll indulge you, little one. Let’s go get your ‘punishments’ out of the way. I have to say, it’s fucking adorable how little creativity you think I have.”
Holding onto my biceps, he drags me toward the small bathroom. When we reach it, he manhandles me inside with him. Once the door is closed, he gently pushes me against the tiny countertop. It’s cramped in here and with his massive, brooding presence, I feel as though I might suffocate.
Get it over with already.
Of course I don’t mutter those words. Instead, I keep quiet.
His hands set to undoing my jeans and soon he’s pushed them and my panties down my thighs to my knees. I clench my eyes closed and wait for the impending blows of his wicked belt. I’d much rather get this over with quickly. Physical pain replaces the mental anguish that threatens to consume me. Without my skag, my mind attempts to kill me slowly.
A cold hand splays over my ass and a second later, I feel the hot pain of a slap, hear the whap of its impact. I yelp out in surprise. His throaty chuckle is dark and sinister, but I’m not afraid. I’ll never be afraid of Braxton. I’ve seen evil and he’s not even close.
Whap!
The sound again startles me more than the impact of his hand on my flesh. I wait for the next blow and end up popping my eyes open when his finger probes my pussy instead. My eyes find his in the mirror. He raises a brow at me as if to challenge me to argue with what he’s doing to me. I could squirm or ask him to stop. Or I could wiggle my ass and beg him to touch me more, hoping to distract him from his punishments.
Or . . .
Or I could just fuck with him.
“That all you got?” I taunt but then wink at him.
His brows bunch together and then he shoves two fingers into me. I’m dry and still not quite healed from my infection so the intrusion is uncomfortable. My gasp at the pain spurs him on and his free hand smacks me again.
“You’re the mouthiest goddamned toy I’ve ever had. When we get back home, I have plans for that naughty mouth,” he says with a growl and spanks me again.
Ugh, he is a disgusting pig. A sexy disgusting pig which only makes things so much worse. The deep rumble of his voice, the continuous stinging swats on my ass, and his fingers inside of me create a perfect storm brewing inside my core. With each smack against me, I grow wetter and wetter—his fingers begin to slide easily in and out of me.
“You like this, don’t you, Bunny?”
I cringe at the name but nod. If he wants to get me off, then by all means, he can go right ahead. My hips swivel and I chase that tingling sensation of an impending orgasm. In my line of work, surprisingly enough, I don’t see enough of those. It’s all about the client getting off, not me. The climax he gave me last night had been surreal and I’d been yearning for another ever since.
“Tell me when you’re close,” he mutters, no longer interested in spanking me but instead pleasuring me. “I want to hear it.”
His punishing hand leaves my ass and travels around to my breast through my sweatshirt. When he pinches my nipple through the fabric, my eyes once a
gain slam closed. An aching in my core spreads outward and my legs quiver in anticipation of the ecstasy that’ll soon steal over me.
“Close,” I hiss.
He finger fucks me expertly and I ride his hand. “How close?”
My calves tighten and the walls of my pussy clench around his fingers. “Now, I’m about to come now!”
I expect him to intensify his efforts—to give me another mind-blowing orgasm but instead, he yanks out his fingers and presses his body against mine. I’m shuddering from being on the edge of bliss but never tipping over. Rage ripples through me and his thick arousal pressed against my back does nothing to help the situation.
“You motherfucker! I was so close!”
He laughs but the humor is missing. His voice drips with pleasure at having denied me. “That, Bunny,” he says with a grumble as his hand encircles my throat, “was your real punishment. Every time you misbehave, you’ll be denied something you crave.”
Angry tears well in my eyes as our gazes meet in the mirror. His fingers on my neck are still wet from where they’d just been inside me.
“I hate you,” I seethe through clenched teeth.
He smirks and releases me. “That’ll change soon.”
His smug behavior pisses me right the fuck off. I’ll never feel more than hate toward this bastard. He reminds me too much of a life I gladly left.
“Whatever, just go so I can finish myself off.”
“Finish yourself off and I’ll take my belt to your ass next. Last time was nothing compared to what I will do this time,” he threatens.
We have a silent standoff, each of us glaring at the other. Finally, he pulls away. “Clean yourself up and redress. I’ll have Janet prepare some refreshments.”
He pulls the door back open and slides out, leaving me a heaving, shuddering mess in the bathroom. I slam the door shut and mutter a fuck you under my breath. He can kiss my ass. My entire body aches for that orgasm he should have given me. I don’t even care if I get whipped for it, I’m finishing the job he wasn’t man enough to do.
Slipping my fingers between my thighs, I locate the throbbing bundle of nerves that crave to be touched. One swipe and my body jolts with the need to come. Being a prostitute, I never indulged in masturbation. My life consisted of sex and heroin was my climax. It wasn’t something I ever needed to do.
But now?
Now, I crave it more than the drug I’ve lived for the past six years.
I massage myself in quick circles, chasing the high that was nearly within reach. The pressure builds but never to the level he brought me to. Soon, my body begins to numb and it’s clear I won’t find the edge again, much less dive over.
“Fuck you, Braxton,” I growl again under my breath as I jerk my clothes back up my thighs.
Once my pants are up, I storm from the bathroom back toward my chair. As I pass the dickhead, I shriek in surprise when he seizes my wrist, twisting it painfully toward him. He brings my fingers to his nose and inhales. An evil, stormy scowl washes over his features when he catches my scent. And, as if to be sure, he flicks out his tongue and tastes my middle finger.
“You stupid, stupid girl,” he snarls, squeezing my wrist. “Don’t listen to a damn thing I say.”
I jerk my hand from his grasp and wave the offending middle finger at him. “Don’t worry, master. I couldn’t get off. So get your knickers out of a wad and keep your fucking belt on.”
Braxton bursts out into boyish laughter that should be cute but I’m too pissed off and unsatisfied to give him any more thought.
This is going to be the longest six months of my life.
The trip back to Washington is long and exhausting. By the time we land, I can barely keep my eyes open. Bunny sleeps peacefully curled up in her seat and I can’t help but stare at her. She’d really fucking pissed me off when she tried to get off knowing I was going to whip her ass. The woman has an impenetrable will and that worries me. I need for her to learn her place and submit to my desires.
They always do.
But Bunny scares the shit out of me.
What if she doesn’t submit and fights me every step of the way?
What will I end up doing to her because of it?
“Shall I wake her and blindfold her?” Dubois asks, flailing the scarf.
I shake my head and stride over to her. “I’ll carry her to the car. I don’t think she’s going to wake up.”
He nods and I pick her up while he sets to gathering our bags. I catch a whiff of her musky scent which still lingers on her fingers and I groan when my dick hardens. I’m dying to fuck her, even in her still ugly state. None of my past toys were worth touching until Cartier worked his magic.
But Bunny?
She’s already fucking with my head.
Her wide, pretty green eyes, are always blazing with a thousand different emotions—emotions that I crave to understand. Her tiny body responds to me, even when she’s pissed which really turns me on. And her mouth—Jesus, that fucking mouth—says things that I want to both punish and reward her for.
I want to do so much with that mouth.
A gust of evening Washington fall air swirls around us and Bunny whimpers in my arms. I hug her tighter to me and stride down the cement walkway to where the car is waiting. Dubois has already started it and it’s warm when I climb inside with her. I mean to set her on the seat in front of me but instead keep her in my arms. Once again, I find myself wishing for a pause button in life. If only I could step outside of my fucked head for a second and just hold her with no other thoughts brutalizing my mind. To simply inhale her and get drunk off her scent.
Her palm is on my chest and her face pressed up against my neck. I like my toy like this. Normally, I don’t want to hold them. But Bunny is different.
The thought is a dark one that I don’t understand. I’m selfish enough though that I ignore it and continue to hold her. It feels good to keep her warm and secure in my arms. I’ll have to simply adapt to the fact that my rules are ever changing—my game ever evolving.
I end up falling asleep for the long ride from the small airport to my sprawling estate on Lake Sammamish. I’d purchased the nearly fourteen-thousand square feet waterfront Italianate four years ago from a retired engineer. His son was disabled so he’d put in a top of the line elevator that went from the basement indoor pool and sauna room where the child could do his water therapies all the way up to the rooftop floor that was the child’s toy room.
The top floor is what sold me. A circular skylight is above the entryway as you exit the elevator, four doorways leading to exciting rooms fit for a child. The first door on the left is the Theater Room which is decorated with comfy leather chairs, windowless, and houses a stocked candy and soda bar. I added the vintage popcorn machine once I moved in.
The second door is the Fun Room. When I bought the house, it had a couple of arcade games and a pool table. I’d added some pinball machines and board games. It has a wide window that overlooks Lake Sammamish and sometimes I sit up there for hours staring at the lake.
The third door is the Princess Room—a bedroom and is the largest of the four rooms. My toys sleep there. That room was the one that required an entire renovation as it was used for storage before I got my hands on it. I carpeted it with thick, white shag carpet, painted the walls a pale lilac, and purchased a fancy four-poster canopy bed. In the corner is a vintage vanity for my toys to doll themselves up for me when I allow it. The room also has an adjoining small bathroom with a standup shower and toilet. Next to the bathroom is a decent sized closet that I stock with all of my toy’s dress up things. Each toy I’ve shown the room to has squealed like a little girl.
But the fourth room . . . the fourth room is not at all for their enjoyment. It remains locked until I’m ready to play with my toy. The fourth room, I call the Hole. It’s small, windowless like the Theater Room, and holds pieces of my dark soul.
My toys all hate the Hole.
A rush of bit
ter cold air rushes in the moment Dubois opens the door. Bunny sits up, groggy from the trip and bunches her brows together in confusion to see me holding her. I push her off my lap and she reluctantly takes Dubois’ outstretched hand. He’s parked in the circular drive behind the house in front of the three car garages.
“Wow, this place is gigantic,” Bunny gushes as she climbs out of the car.
I follow after her and peer up at my mammoth of a house. From this spot, you can’t see the lake, which encompasses the entire front of the house and allows for stunning views of the sunsets when it’s not raining. I know she’ll be impressed once we get inside. The stucco and stone on the outside of the home has recently been pressure washed and it sparkles to my liking in the moonlight. After all these years, I never tire at admiring the beauty of my home.
My home.
The moment I bought my first home back in LA, was the first time when I felt like I was able to shut the door on my past. Poverty, struggling to stay warm, starvation—they were all on the other side of the door. Along with her. The woman who couldn’t stay clean long enough to care for her only son.
“Come on,” I bark out in a harsh tone, eager to rid the memory of my mother. “Let me show you the house.”
Bunny lets me take her hand, despite being pissed at me, and follows me in through the large doors. She gasps as the warmth swirls around us once we step inside and I inhale the scent of cinnamon and orange. I’d happened upon the scent while shopping in downtown Seattle a few years ago and it calmed my angry spirit. Now, it’s a required scent in my home. Christine, my housemaid, learned how to cook a lovely concoction of ingredients that wafts through the house. Where it doesn’t reach, she’s plugged in countless flameless burners that are a mixture of orange and cinnamon wax cubes. She changes them out often and I am happiest while at home drinking in the calming air.
“It smells good,” Bunny gushes, mimicking my thoughts.
I flash her a smile of approval and drag her through the marbled floor entryway. If we go straight, the front doors lead out to my sprawling yard overlooking the lake. To the left is my massive kitchen, dark cherry cabinets and tan specked granite encasing smooth, stainless steel appliances. Beyond the kitchen is the dining room, with an expensive table which seats six, overlooking the lake. Between the two rooms is a doorway leading to my wine closet. It’s only about fifteen by fifteen feet but it’s stocked floor to ceiling with imported wines from all over the world.