He takes you on a guided tour through the open-plan living room, dining room, and kitchen, and then up stairs that float effortlessly and seemingly unsupported out of the wall. The ceilings are so high you could play volleyball inside.
There’s no question about your destination, and your excitement builds as he leads you toward the bedroom. Are you really going to do this? Sleep with your best friend’s boss? You still feel a slight twinge of guilt about it, but it’s overwhelmed by anticipation. Miles has barely touched you—there was that kiss outside the restaurant and some hand-holding in the taxi, but that’s been all so far—which is somehow even more tantalizing than if he had his hands all over you. Every second he doesn’t touch you makes you crave him more.
He leads the way to what is clearly the master bedroom. It contains a bed the size of a boxing ring, lots of mirrors, and a white leather love seat against one wall. At the touch of a button, music pipes in through invisible speakers and the lights dim just enough.
At last—he finally strokes his hand down your cheek and takes your chin again to kiss you. But he breaks the kiss off quickly, teasing you, forcing you to lean toward him, following his mouth with yours.
“Come here,” you whisper, frustrated, reaching out and grabbing the back of his neck, pulling him toward you again. No longer tentative or teasing, he grabs you ferociously, tipping your head back, messing your hair, pressing your body against what feels like a rock in those expensively cut trousers. You arch against him, and he tugs at your hair. The difference between his usual suave style and the passion with which he’s devouring you is hugely arousing, and it’s clear from the erection you can feel pushing up against you that the feeling is entirely mutual.
Then he steps back again, leaving you dizzy with lust and confusion, and strips off his shirt, revealing a torso that is clearly the product of long, disciplined hours in the gym.
“I want you to get that dress off. Now.” It’s a command, not a question, and it makes you pause.
“Okaaaay,” you say, not moving, your stomach dipping a little. You’re not sure about taking orders, even from a man who’s used to hundreds of employees doing exactly as he says.
You stand staring at each other, and you sense that there’s something he needs to tell you. His reticence is a dead giveaway.
“What is it?” you ask.
“I like to do things slightly differently.”
“So you said.”
“I have a box of tricks I want to share with you.” Then, seeing your face, “It’s not drugs or anything like that . . . but let me show you. It’s easier than explaining.”
Miles draws an unremarkable suitcase on wheels out from under the bed. It’s black, and as to be expected, it looks extremely expensive. It also has a complicated-looking combination lock.
“Going somewhere?” you ask.
Your attempt at levity falls flat, as he completely ignores you. Oh god. You hope he’s not going to pull out a gimp suit and ask you to pee on him, or anything like that.
He places the case on the bed and deals efficiently with the lock. You look on, curious and slightly wary.
“Come and stand here,” he says quietly.
“Bossy much?” you say, remaining where you are.
“That’s my job.” His voice is still soft, but more insistent. Half of you is yelling to get the hell out of there, but the other half is curious. You take a step closer and peer into the suitcase.
You get a general impression of black leather goods laid along the bottom, and on top of that is a collection of different kinds of crops, whips, and other toys. There are paddles and beads, and are those handcuffs? You lean in gingerly for a closer look. There are also ostrich feathers and an assortment of vibrators, from a discreet little wand to one that is so big it’s frankly terrifying. No way, you think, a girl has to draw the line somewhere. There is also an impressive assortment of condoms, including ribbed, studded, colored, and flavored ones.
“I warned you there would be adventure,” he says. “I take it this is all new to you?”
“That’s putting it mildly,” you say. “I once had a boyfriend who blindfolded me with a silk scarf for fun, but we lost interest after I accidentally poked him in the eye while we were thrashing around.”
“I’ll completely understand if you’d like to leave now. I’ll call a taxi for you—you only have to say the word.”
You look at him uncertainly. He stands inches away from you, his bare chest rising and falling—otherwise perfectly controlled, the wildness of a few minutes ago brought to heel. There’s no denying how attractive he is—your panties are in danger of melting.
“Let me be clear here,” he says. “I could show you an entirely different kind of pleasure, and I think you know it. I can guarantee that you’d be completely safe at all times. You have my word on that. The idea is to take you somewhere entirely new.”
You’re torn. This is your chance to experiment with a little tasteful S&M, and you have to admit, you’re just a tiny bit curious; it’s what everyone’s talking about these days. It helps that you’re with one of the most powerful and sexy men in the city. He’s experienced, he has all the props, he’s discreet, and if that bulge in his pants is anything to go by, he really wants you. But the question is, do you really want him? And if so, do you want him badly enough to try something different? Or is it time to get out of there before things start to get really freaky?
If you decide to go for it, click here.
If this just isn’t your style and you want out of there, click here.
You decide to go for it
“ALL RIGHT, SO IF, hypothetically speaking, I was to say yes . . .” you say, taking a step closer to him, so your bodies are now almost touching. Just a slice of air holds you apart.
“I don’t think you’d be disappointed,” he says, not moving to touch you.
“And you wouldn’t hurt me?” you ask.
“Nothing that you couldn’t handle. I think you’ll discover that sometimes a little bit of pain can translate into a lot of pleasure. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
“Of course,” you say. “But what if I want you to stop?”
“I’ll stop the second you ask.”
You raise an eyebrow at him, not convinced.
“We’ll agree on a safe word, of course.”
“A safe word?”
“Something you can say if you feel uncomfortable at any point, that’s a sign for the other person to stop what they’re doing that instant. The words ‘stop’ and ‘no’ aren’t always clear in the heat of the moment. Sometimes, when you get to the brink, ‘stop’ can mean ‘go,’ so we need to pick something absolutely clear, a word that couldn’t possibly ever be confused with anything else. Something that we both agree signals ‘Stop right this second!’ ”
This all feels slightly surreal. This is really happening—you’re discussing safe words with a media magnate, who also happens to be your best friend’s boss.
You’re tempted to pick a silly word, like “jabberwocky” or “controlling bastard,” but instead you say, “How about ‘sea urchin’?”
He can’t help smiling. “Well, technically that’s two safe words, but ‘sea urchin’ it is. At least there’s no way it’s going to crop up in conversation and be mistaken for anything other than ‘stop.’ ”
You nod, and with that decision made, he tugs you in for another kiss at last. Once you pull apart, he looks at you for a long moment. Then he changes pace: “Now get that dress off! I have something else in mind.” And he lifts a gleaming black leather bustier with corset lacing out of the suitcase.
You stand there, not used to being given orders like this, trying to decide if you like it or not.
“I said, take it off,” he growls.
Heat jolts through your body. You pull your dress up and off over your head and drop it to the ground. He reaches behind you and unsnaps your bra.
“All of it!” he says.
&
nbsp; You swallow hard, then wriggle out of your G-string, covering yourself with your hands. But you’re not stark naked for long; Miles helps you put the bustier on, turning you around and tugging the laces at your back so vigorously you yelp a little.
He rewards you for your obedience by first running a finger from the nape of your neck down your back through the lacing, and then stepping close behind you and nipping at the tops of your shoulders. The feel of his body against yours makes you want to turn, grab hold of him, and kiss him, and you start to move, but he grips your arms, holding you in place. “I didn’t say you could turn around.”
There’s a row of mirrors on the wall-to-wall walk-in wardrobes, and you catch sight of yourself, wearing only your black high heels and the patent-leather black bustier, your hair tousled. The bustier makes your waist look tiny, and even you catch your breath at the sight. There’s no denying it—the effect is hot. Behind you, you feel his breath in your ear as he whispers, “Choose a whip.”
You gulp, nerves momentarily overcoming the heat in your pussy, but you peer into his box of tricks. There are some very businesslike-looking crops, a paddle that looks exactly like a Ping-Pong bat, another one like an oversize hairbrush that has short metal spikes protruding from one side, and also an old-fashioned wooden school ruler, complete with ink stains. You spot a cream-colored suede whip that ends in multiple tails of soft leather, knotted at the ends. It looks dainty and unthreatening, and you point to it. “That one.”
He reaches for it, then leads you over to the love seat, which is probably worth more than all the furniture in your apartment.
“Stand in front of me,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the seat.
You do as you’re told, thinking that you might just be getting the hang of this. But you wish he would stop bossing you around and touch you already. You’ve had the bare minimum of actual physical attention since you got here, and now you really want it. Desire has been building up inside you, need on top of need.
“Now turn around,” he orders.
You twirl, showing off your bustier-improved body, and he whispers, “Perfect. You are very sexy, you know that? But you’re also rather naughty, aren’t you? I think I’m going to have to spank you.”
Without warning, he grabs your wrists and clasps them together with one hand, then tugs sharply so that you lose your balance in your heels and tumble forward across his lap. You giggle as you fall, but then you gasp as he trails the loose ends of the little whip across your bottom and exposed lower back. The tickling sensation is deliciously erotic, and his erection is growing steadily beneath you. You feel the whip trailing along your naked buttocks and down your thighs to the back of your knees and then up again. The soft feel of it is delectable against your naked skin. The trailing whip disappears momentarily and you eagerly anticipate more.
You hear and feel a little slap as he lifts the whip and brings the suede strands down on your naked behind. It stings a little, but it’s not unpleasant. He follows up by running a cool hand over your bottom, following the tracks of the fronds. The touch of his fingers on your naked skin immediately soothes away any memory of the sting of the whip.
Seconds later you feel his hand disappear, and the whip comes back down again, this time a little harder. The knotted ends catch you on the lower part of your bottom this time, and a few of them hit you on the back of your upper thighs. You suck in a breath, but immediately his hand is back on you, massaging your skin, taking away the sting. Then he rubs circles across your bottom before raising his hand and slapping it down onto your bare skin. You cry out at that one, more at the surprise of the flat-handed smack than the soft leather of the whip, and at the cracking sound than at the sting of it.
Again he rubs your buttocks, kneading your skin, his fingers briefly slipping between your legs—and you know how wet he’s going to find you, the thought of which makes you even wetter.
After trailing a few fingers over your pussy, he returns his hand to your bottom and gives it another quick slap before again kneading the skin, which is now inflamed and sensitive to the slightest touch. You’re starting to understand what this is about, a little bit of unexpected pain followed each time by the reward of touch turning the pain into something surprisingly erotic. This is why your body is enjoying and responding to something you’d always thought you would find completely unacceptable.
The sting of the last slap fades and is replaced with goose bumps as you feel cool air across your bottom—he must be blowing on you. Then his hand is withdrawn again, and you brace yourself for whatever’s coming, so that this time you’ll be prepared when his hand comes down on you.
Then, crack! The whip comes down once more, and this time it’s not at all what you expect.
“Ouch! Dammit, that’s sore!”
You thrash off Miles’s lap and stagger to your feet, rubbing your outraged ass with both hands.
“What do you think you’re doing? That really hurt, for fuck’s sake!” you snarl.
For the first time, he looks nonplussed. “Safe word,” he reminds you. “Use the safe word if you need to.”
“The hell with your stupid safe word! That was sore and you’re not doing it again.”
You glare at him, hands on your hips, your breasts threatening to spill out of the bustier as your chest rises and falls.
Miles is clearly discombobulated. He runs a hand through his hair and the muscles in his arms flex. He is so smoking hot, and he looks so disappointed, you soften a little. Your ass may be throbbing, but you’re still as horny as hell, and you’re not letting this opportunity slip through your fingers. An idea occurs to you.
“Get over to the bed right now. I think you need a taste of your own medicine,” you say, standing up tall and pointing at the bed.
His eyes meet and hold yours for a moment, and you can practically hear swords clashing. You stare him down, and when he doesn’t move, you take his hand and pull him roughly to his feet. Then you point at the bed again. “Now!” you say. “I mean it! Quickly!” Then you put a hand between his shoulder blades and shove him. To your astonishment, he goes like a lamb, and you’re emboldened by his complicity. Maybe it’s the leather bustier.
“Pants off and bend over the end of the bed. Do it now,” you snap, diving into his suitcase. You know exactly what you want, and you smirk with satisfaction as your fingers close over it.
But your smile is replaced by an expression of awe as he steps out of his trousers and blindingly white shorts. He could double as a Calvin Klein model, except his cock is bigger and his six-pack more clearly defined than those of any male underwear model you’ve ever seen.
You stare at each other for a moment—then you watch almost in disbelief as this tall, muscled, powerful man walks meekly to the bed and bends, bracing his hands on the mattress, placing himself entirely at your mercy. Not that you intend showing him any—your bottom still stings.
You stand beside him and raise your weapon of choice—the schoolteacher’s ruler—while admiring his firm, muscled buttocks. Then you bring your arm down with a satisfying whack. He jerks and groans, and you’re a bit alarmed—have you been too enthusiastic? But as you stalk round him to check, you notice the effect on his already swollen cock as it rises still further.
You pause and then bring the ruler down again, this time slightly harder, and the second smack has the same effect. You remember how good it felt when he stroked your burning skin after hitting you, so you run your hand lightly over the area you smacked, feeling a small welt rising under your fingers, and you hear him groan at your touch. His skin is smooth and hot, the muscles twitching. You rub a little harder in small circles, the way he did, and when you think he’ll least expect it, you quickly bring the ruler slapping back down on him again. Then you repeat your earlier actions, replacing the ruler with your fingers, kneading, massaging, and stroking his burning skin. At one point you slip your hand between his legs and cup his balls, squeezing them gently and feeling his entire
body tense and shiver with excitement, then you slip your palm along his ever-hardening cock, but once only before you return your hand to his perfect behind.
By the time you’ve administered half a dozen blows, his penis is perpendicular and the big vein running underneath it is throbbing visibly. You’ve never seen such a perfect specimen, and it has you throbbing, too. You’re finding all of this strangely exhilarating, and your pussy has big plans for that cock.
It’s clear that Miles is as turned on by being bossed around as he was by doing the bossing, so it’s time to dish out more orders, you think.
“Now, lie on the bed, on your back, with your arms above your head,” you command, stepping back and thwacking the ruler into your palm a few times, your voice as crisp and assertive as a schoolmarm’s. Yet again you’re amazed when he complies without a murmur.
You investigate his suitcase once more and fish out the handcuffs. They look efficient, almost like the real deal—but instead of being lined with something cheesy like fake fur or leopard-print fabric, there’s a deep layer of purple suede inside them. Like everything else in this home, they’re the expensive kind. You snap one cuff around his wrist and the other around the bedpost, then put the key carefully on the far bedside table, so he can see you doing it—you do not want to lose that.
That takes care of one arm, but what to do about the other? You don’t want him to have any control at all. You have an idea, and scoop up the shirt he stripped off earlier. Careless of the fine tailoring and with buttons popping everywhere, you use his bespoke shirt to tie his other arm to the corresponding bedpost.
Through all of this he lies still, watching your every move, groaning as you tug at his limbs, his rock-hard erection straining at the ceiling. You cannot wait to sit on it—your pussy is aching. You’ve already helped yourself to some intriguing-looking condoms from his treasure chest—they’re black and covered with little rubber studs that look like they might feel incredible inside you.
A Girl Walks into a Bar Page 9