by Thea Devine
Delia’s eyes widened. “That means something, then.”
“Right, like admit one for Mistress Maintenance 101?”
“Something like that. Oh, Lord—now what?”
“We do it, is what! We do what Brooke did and we find our own lavish lovers—immediately. It works for me.”
Delia looked a little uncertain. “I’m not ready yet.”
“Then I’ll be the next to go—tomorrow. I want to start the process now. Only—Delia?—you have to come with me to the door…”
Brooke was bone tired, boneless altogether. Thane was pumping the barest dribble of spunk into her exhausted body.
“Crap,” he muttered, easing down beside her. “Effing penis can’t produce.”
“I think you produced it out,” Brooke said.
“I want more.”
She didn’t say anything. His penis, still distended, dark, and huge, was at rest between his long legs and she ought to leave it alone, but she couldn’t. She was fascinated by it, the size, the color, the heft, the taste. But he was wrung out even more than she.
He’d ordered room service again, but it sat on the table. He hungered solely for her body, and about the only way he hadn’t fucked her was her standing on her head. She couldn’t imagine what might come next.
He grabbed the house phone. “Get me a digital camera,” he barked into the headset and slammed it down. He ran his hand over her buttocks, down her crease, and began stroking her mound. “I can’t stop feeling you up.”
“I don’t want you to,” she murmured contentedly as he fingered her cleft. He knew just how, too. The gentle spread, the lightest of caresses on the most naked part of her, the delicate penetration of his fingers…“Yes…” she sighed.
A knock came at the door. “Leave it on the effing floor,” Thane shouted, still rhythmically thrusting his fingers.
Brooke reached for his penis; there was nothing like fondling it while a man was fingering you.
Her orgasm was a radiant light spreading from her center outward, soft and enfolding, just as he reached his full solid potential.
“I want that effing camera.”
He bolted off the bed and she watched him, six feet of older naked man with a huge, dark, thrusting man root, and the stride of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and where he was going.
How much more could she give him today, in hopes that he’d want an endless amount of more, when she’d given him practically everything already?
Lord, she didn’t know. But if he was commanding cameras to fulfill his fantasy of photographing her nipples, maybe she should draw the line there, saving that for next time.
Maybe.
He looked damned determined. Every part of him looked determined. There was something about this fantasy that just thickened and engorged him in a wholly different way. He really wanted that picture of her nipples, and he stood at the foot of the bed, hard, jutting, and implacable.
Be smart—don’t give him every fantasy the first time. What did she have to lose, since she was a little ambivalent about him? If you do everything on the first date, what’s left for him to anticipate?
“Sit up, Brooke, I want those nipples.”
That was a command. She rolled onto her side and sat up. Immediately he reached for her nipples.
She stayed his hand. “I think we should leave this fabulous fantasy for next time.”
“Really?” He was eyeing her nipples, which were taut with fondling.
“If there is a next time,” she said daringly.
“And why is that?” That was the displeased CEO voice, the one that was accustomed to having everything he wanted done instantly.
“Because next time, I’ll jack you off on my nipples and you can photograph them coated with your cum.”
She felt the tremor of excitement lance through his body.
“I want it now.”
“Next time,” she said, knowing there was a touch of satisfaction in her voice. “Because if there is no next time, what’s the point of my acceding to your wishes now?”
He gave her a long, considering look. “A little bitchy, Nipples. I offered you two days.”
“You didn’t say when, Thane. They could be a year from now or ten years from now. And I would enjoy another date just like this one, soon. I’d also like a good full-on shot of your penis—if it fits in the viewfinder.”
He made a snorting sound.
“Tit for tit?” she murmured.
He laughed, a good, strong, appreciative laugh, and pushed her downward, murmuring, “Now you’re in my viewfinder,” entering her again before she even hit the bed.
His cell phone rang. It was nearly four o’clock, they were both exhausted, and he had allowed her to tease the camera away from him, to keep until the next date.
He spoke guardedly into the phone, then flipped it off and dropped back onto the bed.
“Crisis at home,” he said briefly. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all, Thane. I know you have another life.”
“And as much I hate it, I have to go. Come here.”
She took his thorough blunt kisses, his sensual fingering of her nipples—whatever he wanted before he banished her from this luxurious aerie back to real life without him, without his limitless lust for her body.
His cell sounded again. He wrenched his mouth away and flipped open the phone. “What?!” He calmed down. “All right. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” He looked at his fingers, still busily playing with her nipple even as he’d been talking. “Well. That’s that.”
He got up, leaving her nipples feeling bereft that he had ended his caress so abruptly.
“The limousine will take you home, Brooke.”
She nodded.
He grabbed his clothes and went into the bathroom. She heard the shower run. Ten minutes later, as she was picking at the cold chicken on the table, he was dressed and ready to go.
“I’ll call,” he said, dropping a hard kiss on her mouth.
“That’s what they all say,” Brooke teased.
“But you’re the one with those pointed nipples,” he said, tweaking one again. Then, without looking back, he walked out the door.
Chapter Thirteen
MJ was a languorous puddle of sexworthy flesh. Every nerve ending in her body felt feminine, soft, deliciously manipulated. She didn’t want to move a muscle. She wanted to luxuriate the whole afternoon and let the magic hands of whoever was attending that station knead and nurture her. To enjoy the perks of the Mistress Club after passing all the stringent tests, and uttering the correct password—control.
“I like seeing a new member so content,” Vanessa told her. “That’s the whole point of Maîtrise. But now it’s time for us to visit the lounge, yet another benefit of membership. So if you’ll set aside the robe and put on this bra…”
MJ reluctantly swung herself off the couch of cushions. Vanessa handed her a wisp of a black cutout bra.
“It hooks right in front, MJ. Like that. Now just tuck your breasts into the cutouts—there—it’s amazing. Every woman’s nipples immediately get hard in that bra. And I’ve stolen your garter belt and stockings—I noticed the stockings during our interview. Very classy and sexy, MJ. So, if you would?”
MJ would; she couldn’t take offense that Vanessa had just appropriated her underthings when Vanessa was handing her a mile-high pair of sandals that consisted of two patent leather straps and a four-inch heel that was a pure off-the-charts mistress mule. She slipped into them and took an unsteady step.
“Perfect,” Vanessa said. “This way.”
She led her to the bank of elevators, and almost immediately one of the doors opened.
“Harold,” Vanessa said in surprise. “MJ, this is Harold. Harold, this is MJ.”
He was so tall that even MJ in her sky-high heels came only to midchest. He had the most piercing eyes, a firm handshake, salt-and-pepper hair. He was older, late fifties perhaps, and he was barefoot and dresse
d casually in an expensive silk shirt and tailored slacks.
MJ caught her breath as he took her hand, and she licked her lips as he said, “MJ,” in a deep, commanding voice. He looked at Vanessa and then back to her. “MJ…I’m on my way to my dressing room. Join me.”
He gripped her hand more emphatically, almost demanding that she acquiesce.
Instantly, she became supremely aware of her nakedness, of the way her stockings and garter belt framed her bush, the heat of her distended nipples, the hardness of his hand holding hers, and most imperatively, the force of his strength and will.
He looked at her like he knew her, knew the drive in her, the need in her, the desire in her. And more than that, he looked at her as if he could give her exactly what she wanted.
“MJ?” Vanessa said delicately. Perhaps there was just an edge to her question, as if she would be extremely displeased if MJ said no.
“I…” Her voice caught. “I’d love to.”
Harold smiled, took her hand, and drew back into the elevator. “Vanessa.”
She raised her eyebrows as the doors closed.
MJ started shaking. This was it, this was the goal, this was…so soon…too quick? And this was an older, more experienced man who would not ill use her, who would understand her needs and cater to them in a way that would allow her to cater to his desire.
She hoped. Women always hoped.
But did it matter? He kept looking at her nipples, at her bush. When the elevator stopped, she thought her heart might stop, too.
“Don’t be afraid,” Harold said, taking her hand and leading her from the elevator to his dressing room. He opened the door to a room that was as opulent as a sheikh’s tent—the bed covered in lavish bedding, the walls draped in ivory silk, soft pillows, soft carpet underfoot, soft lighting, even softer music.
His hard hands, drawing her tightly to him.
“Undress me, MJ.”
She’d known this was coming—but this fast, this soon?
“MJ!”
She couldn’t deny him. His hands were so strong, so confident, and he wanted this from her. Her hand shook as she unbuttoned his shirt and his trousers, which he shrugged off and let fall to the floor. He was naked beneath his clothes, his penis strutting up hard and alive against her belly.
“Fuck me.”
She couldn’t breathe.
“MJ—” A slight impatience that ramped up her desire.
She knelt, she kissed the engorged head of his penis, and she felt her insides go molten at how hot he was—how massive, how thick with his need for her mouth, her tongue, her lips. This was what she had missed: surrendering that part of her that could submit only to someone stronger than she.
And he was so strong, so certain of what he wanted, so adamant that she was the one to give it to him, guiding her frenetic sucking and stroking with his clever, hard, demanding hands.
She hadn’t expected it would be this fast, this easy…that this most expert older man could just look at her and know that sucking off his long, strong sex was the stuff of her dreams.
Or maybe his. He convulsed in her mouth fast, unexpectedly. All it took was the intensive wet suck at the head, and he was there, filling her mouth, making her take it, take him wholly into her, orally and completely.
And then he slipped to his knees and looked at her in a sultry sheikh-hero way from under his lids. “I want more. What are you going to do to pleasure me?”
Her voice stuck in her throat. He pushed her back gently onto her rump and spread her legs. “I want your cunt.”
Not I want cunt…I want YOUR cunt. Her cunt. He was looking at her, wanting her. She licked her lips that were still sticky with the taste of him.
“MJ…Your cunt is wet, my penis is hard. I want more.”
She nodded and watched as he grasped her hips and tilted her body so that he was angled just at her cleft. And then he plunged, and she was so hot and he was so hard that their coming together seemed a perfect symmetry.
Why not? She had given just as much of her naked body to one-night bar bangers with half as much heft and finesse. This was easy, easier even than before—with him. The one whose name was never to enter her consciousness again in any comparisons with anyone else ever.
And this…was breathtaking. She felt delicate and feminine, enfolded by him, consumed by him in the way he lowered his body onto hers, covering her completely, his chest hair scraping her nipples, as he cradled her hips and pumped himself into her, as he kissed her with abandon and spurted thickly deep inside her.
“I’m claiming you,” he muttered roughly into her ear. “Do you know what that means?”
Her body twinged at those thrilling words, but she sensed he wouldn’t want her to have known.
She whispered, “No. I don’t.”
“It means your name is entered in my little black book, and then your body is mine to do with as I wish, until I decide if I want to keep you. No other man can approach you until I release you. I wouldn’t give you a choice, but Maîtrise requires that I do. Do you want to be claimed?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“By me?”
“Yes, Harold.” She could barely get the words out, breathless at the thought that he wanted to claim her this quickly.
“And you stay with me. No lounge, no spa. No one sees you except me until I say so.”
“Yes, Harold.” He was rocking his hips hard against hers; his mouth took hers, hard and tight, and he began thrusting in rhythm with the violence of his kisses.
She wrapped her silk-shrouded legs around his body and welcomed his ferocious pumping, welcomed his fierce kisses, his masterful claim, his volatile sex. Everything about him, she welcomed and wanted with the same ferocity with which he was taking her.
Yes, Harold, yes. Just like that—and that, and I’ll stay with you forever…
“Okay,” Delia said to Brooke that night as she fretted over the fact that Thane had not called, “so now it’s MJ who’s missing in action.”
“I’m sure someone found her at Maîtrise, just as you predicted. Don’t worry; obviously she’s in good hands. This is what we wanted, and now we’ve all found it. And if MJ was approached as I was, and claimed already, then that’s good.”
“But she has to go back to work tomorrow. And the rent’s due on her apartment, and I’m scared to death Baines is hanging around, and who knows what will happen if she goes back there.”
“We’ll figure all that out. Maybe she’s been claimed, maybe her prospective lover is keeping her with him a little longer, maybe overnight. You didn’t think that was such a bad thing when Thane claimed me.”
“No, I didn’t,” Delia admitted. “You’re right. Only I have to work the afternoon and evening shift tomorrow, and visit the Maîtrise doctor. So I won’t know anything unless MJ calls. How did this get so complicated, when it was supposed to be fun?”
Brooke shrugged. “I don’t know. You know, Lonita told me not to be dumb, but I was with Thane. I went against my every mistress mandate.”
“What did you lose, really?” Delia asked. “There isn’t a guy on the planet who’d call back this fast. And he offered you something.”
“And I gave him everything—and look at where I’m sitting now.”
MJ was sitting in Harold’s lap with his slack penis cushioning her buttocks, his strong, clever hands idly exploring her nether parts and lulling her into a drowsy state of adoration while he asked desultory questions about her life.
Like, did she work? He didn’t want her to work. He wanted her to give his needs priority, to give him complete access to her and as much sex as he could fit into his schedule.
The idea thrilled her—not working, just waiting for him and all the pleasure that came with his demanding needs.
He caressed and stroked her body, he kissed her, and in between his hot, hard kisses he told her what he expected and what he wanted.
He wanted everything. It was so simple that she wrapped
her arms around his neck and whispered, “Yes, Harold,” to everything he said.
He thumbed her nipples, pulled at them and twisted them lightly as he told her what he liked, how she must comport herself, how she must dress for him privately or in public.
“Never cover your nipples when we’re together. Never hide your cunt, even when I’m not here. I want them available all the time.”
“I’d adore that, Harold,” she murmured hazily, seduced by his masterly manipulation of her nipples.
“These are mine.”
She swallowed hard. This was familiar territory, yet it was different. This wasn’t Dallan Baines, this wasn’t a selfish, self-centered son of a bitch. This was an older man, an experienced man who knew what he was doing and how far to push her.
“My nipples are yours.”
“And your cunt.”
“All yours, Harold.”
“That pleases me.” He squeezed her nipples simultaneously and her body jolted with pleasure. “They please me.”
“I’m glad, Harold.”
He made a sound in his throat. “I have to make arrangements—to tell Vanessa and get things started. I own your sex now, you understand that.”
“Yes, Harold.”
“You’re with me now.”
“Yes, Harold.”
“While I go speak to Vanessa, you telephone whomever you need to notify that I will be occupying your time and your cunt from now on.”
She was breathless with excitement. “Yes, Harold.”
He pointed at his clothes. “Dress me.”
“Yes, Harold.” She climbed off his warm lap, his hot sex.
“No, wait—fuck me again, first.”
She knelt between his legs and took him to her mouth, and then paused with his shaft head just grazing her lips. She lowered her eyes and smiled a secret smile to herself before she obediently murmured, “Yes, Harold,” and took him into her mouth.
Delia called Brooke at her office the next morning. “MJ called.”
“Good. Where is she? What’s happening?”
“She’s with Harold…Hanson, I think she said. A sophisticated and experienced gentleman whom she met right out of the spa at Maîtrise. She’s going to stay with him, and she wanted us to pack up her apartment. She’s breaking the lease.”