by Lacy Danes
I step into the bedroom and see George loosening his necktie. “Sit on the bed,” he tells me.
Maneuvering around him, I’m about to perch on the edge of the mattress when he stops me. “Wait,” he says. “Your hair. It’s wrong.”
I instinctively reach up and touch my hair. It’s loose and skimming my shoulders. Oops. George prefers my hair up. Not like a bun or twist. He wants to see ponytails or braids, the higher the better.
“Hold that thought!” I rush into my bathroom and sort through my barrettes and rubber bands. I hurriedly gather my hair in high, messy pigtails using plastic holders. They are bubble gum pink and tacky. I can’t believe someone as elegant as George likes them.
I try not to glance in the mirror because I know I look ridiculous. I quickly return to the bedroom and I see George standing by the bed, his hands on his hips. He’s frowning. I’m in trouble.
Lowering my head, I place my hands behind my back and shuffle toward him. “Sorry,” I whisper, but I don’t really feel that way.
“Sit on the bed.”
I gingerly sit on the corner of the bed. George stands in front of me. “Spread your legs,” he says gruffly.
I follow his order, but I take my own sweet time doing it. After being with George for this long, I can read his moods. He wants me to act shy instead of naughty today. It’s my goal to give him anything he wants.
George steps between my legs. He reaches out and places the palm of his hand on the top of my head. His touch is tender as he strokes my hair. I glance up at him, but he’s not looking at me. He’s watching our reflection from the mirror above my bed.
“Undo my belt,” he says hoarsely.
I slowly unbuckle his belt, my fingers fumbling. It’s not easy pretending that this is the first man’s belt I’ve encountered, but I have my routine. Once I pull the leather from George’s belt loops, I reach for his zipper.
By this time, George is reverently fondling the plastic ponytail holders in my hair. “Take off my pants,” he whispers roughly.
I drag the zipper down and peel away the expensive fabric. I cup his stirring penis that is concealed in his silk boxers. He’s hot to the touch.
“Come on, baby. You know what I want.” George grips my ponytails in his fists. I wince, but the bite of pain adds to my arousal.
I slip my fingers under the waistband of his underwear and push it down his hips. His penis is right in front of my face. I lick my lips with anticipation as I inhale his hot, musky scent.
Stroking his penis with my fingertips, I know the sensation is too light and teasing for him. He thrusts his hips closer. “Suck me,” he says, his voice almost a growl. “I want you to take every inch.”
I grasp the root of his penis with one hand and squeeze him. The way he flinches gives me a perverse sense of satisfaction. I show no expression as he twists my pigtails around his fingers and yanks my head back.
“Do I need to feed you myself?” he asks. His low, commanding voice makes me wet.
“No,” I tell him and wrap my lips around the tip of his penis. I love the taste of George. Salty, warm and male. I swirl my tongue and suckle while I pump the base of his erection.
George keeps playing with my hair and murmurs encouragingly as I slowly make my way down his penis. It doesn’t take long before his length is deep in my throat and my nose is firmly pressed against his wiry pubic hair.
I now have my hands on George’s testicles. I fondle the sacs, enjoying how he twitches beneath my touch. He’s panting and vibrating with need. I can feel his muscles bunching and shaking.
George yanks my pigtails hard, maneuvering my head just the way he wants it as he begins fucking my mouth. I groan as his tempo increases. His thrusts grow choppy and uncontrolled.
He grunts and suddenly pulls out. I squeeze my eyes shut as he bellows, his hot semen splattering on my face. I remain still, my mouth still open, as the sticky come drips from my nose and chin.
George’s hand trembles as he pats me on the head. His praise tumbles over me as my body pulses for completion.
“Go and clean up,” he suggests. “And then you can see me off.”
It looks like I’m in charge of my own satisfaction for tonight. I stumble into the bathroom and strip off my clothes. My shower takes longer than necessary as I grab the handheld showerhead and turn the speed onto massage. Aiming it close to my swollen clit, it doesn’t take long to go over the edge.
I clench my teeth and swallow back the moans. Black spots dance before my eyes as my legs wobble. I want to sink to my knees and continue, but I know George is outside, waiting.
With great reluctance, I finish washing and turn off the shower. I grab my bathrobe and pull it on, loosely tying the sash. The gap offers glimpses of my firm breasts and my Brazilian cut. Just enough skin that will make George do a double-take. It doesn’t matter if he just sampled me; I’m a firm believer in advertising.
When I get out of the bathroom, I see that George is waiting for me in the condo’s entry. All traces of my lust-driven, out-of-control lover are gone and replaced by the sophisticated gentleman in a hurry.
“I’ll see you next week,” he promises as he leans down for a swift kiss and a possessive grope of my breast. Before I can say a word, he’s gone.
I close the door behind him and lock it. I turn off the lights and check the windows, deciding I’m ready to call it a night. I wander into my room and notice how everything is quiet and undisturbed. That doesn’t stop me from stripping the clean sheets off the bed.
The champagne silk is beautiful, but I see them more as a prop to set the mood. I toss them in the hamper and grab my favorite sheets from the linen closet.
The bright red poppies design is too feminine for my lovers, so I save this bedding just for me. It’s a private ritual I have. The sheets signify the start of my weekend. I remake the bed, take off my robe, and dive under the warm covers. The next two days are strictly for my pleasure.
Before I know it, my alarm clock wakes me up. I reach out and slap it into silence. I have a lot of plans for today and I should hop out of bed and hit the ground running. Instead I stretch slowly, opening my eyes as the morning sun filters past the drapes and into my room.
I look up at the ceiling and see my reflection. I’m sprawled on my bed, taking up every inch. For a brief second, I see why these guys are willing to pay for an invitation to my bed. My dark hair fans out on the pillow. The sheets are down around my waist, revealing my breasts.
I watch as I leisurely slide my fingers along my collarbone. My hand drifts down to cup my breast. The nipple is rosy and puckered. I pinch it, watching it redden. I pinch harder and gasp as the intense pleasure zips through my veins.
My breasts feel full and heavy. I fondle them, plucking at my nipples until they sting. I stare at my reflection. I’m not the prettiest woman, or the sexiest, but I work with what I have.
I drag my fingers down my stomach. I look good, but that’s because I spend a lot of time taking care of myself. I pamper my body. It’s all a part of the package, for the men and for me.
Even now, as I’ve been doing this for years, I’m not sure what made me place a price on my body. What made me think men would pay top dollar for me? Flattery? Curiosity? Or did I like how powerful it made me feel to be paid when they could go elsewhere to get the same thing for free?
I dip my hand underneath the covers and cup my sex. Parting my legs, I watch the sheet move as I rub my fingers along my wet slit.
All I know is that once I had set an outrageous price for sex and George agreed to it, there was no looking back. I can stop at any time, but I don’t want to. I want to enjoy every minute of this agreement while I can.
I kick the sheet away and watch my reflection. My vulva is slick and puffy. I massage my clit, circling my hips as I enjoy the sensations.
Reaching for the bedside table, I pull open the drawer as I furiously rub my clit with my other hand. I don’t want to stop as the pleasure builds ins
ide me. My hand curls around the vibrator and I switch it on. The intense pulsing makes me moan in anticipation.
I place the juddering tip against my clit. I grit my teeth. The feeling is so pure, so white-hot, that I cry out as the wave of pleasure scorches through my body.
Spreading my legs wider, I dig my heels into the mattress. I watch the mirror in a haze as I guide the vibrator into my pink and juicy vagina. The toy barely penetrates me and I’m rocking my hips.
The headboard butts against the wall as the sheet pulls away from the corners. I watch my breasts jiggle and bounce as my hips rise off the bed. I can’t help but be fascinated at how my body responds.
A flush spreads from my chest and creeps up my neck. My reflection suddenly wobbles. I squint at the mirror. My image lurches. It’s closer. Too close!
I tuck my knees and roll off the bed. I hit the carpet and I’m still rolling, hearing the mirror fall from the ceiling and shatter.
For a second or two, I just lie there on the floor, my face turned toward the wall. What the hell just happened? The sound of broken glass still echoes in my ears. I gulp for air. My throat, raw and hot, clamps shut.
I slowly get on my feet, brushing my arms and legs to see if I got hit. So far I’m lucky. Kicking the vibrator out of my way, I feel an aching twinge in my leg thanks to the fall.
I turn and stare at the jagged shards scattered across the bed. They grab the sunlight making me wince. The giant poppies suddenly look like pools of blood. My favorite sheets, I want to wail, they’re ruined.
Okay, so I’m not sounding very reasonable. Who cares? I was almost killed! I could have been cut into ribbons! I stare at the ceiling, wondering how this could have happened.
The ceiling looks smooth and innocent. I don’t see any cracks or signs of trouble. Warning skitters down my spine. Something isn’t right. I need a closer look.
I grab my robe and give it a good shake in case it has bits of mirror clinging on it. I put the robe on, my hands shaking as I tie the belt tightly. I find my slippers. The men love the way I walk in the impractical mules, but right now the ridiculous heels protect me from any sliver of glass. I slide them on and carefully step onto my bed.
Pressing my fingertips on the ceiling, I look for what caused the mirror to fall. There is nothing wrong as far as I can see. I look at where the mirror used to be fastened. How could all of the bolts fail at the same time? What are the chances of that?
Maybe someone didn’t leave it to chance.
I shiver at the thought and immediately discard the possibility. No one is trying to kill me. I’m being paranoid. Unreasonable. There is a simple explanation, and I need to find it.
I study the spots where the mirror used to be fastened. There is no sign of stress or fatigue. Rubbing my fingertips against the bolt holes, I feel the freshly disturbed grains of plaster.
Someone had loosened these bolts.
I pull my hand away and scurry off the bed. I back away until my spine hits the wall. Wrapping my arms tightly across my chest, I can’t stop looking at the broken mirror. My skin suddenly feels too tight as I stare at the pointed tips that could have sliced right through my flesh.
Someone tried to hurt me.
No, it’s worse than that. Only three men had the opportunity to do this. That means one of my lovers—one of my protectors—tried to kill me.
Ungrateful scum. Sick bastard. I oughta—
But which one did it? And why? I try to consider the possibilities, but it’s like a metal door slams shut in my brain. It’s almost as if I’m too scared to dig deeper.
Police. I need to call the police. I hurry out into the living room to get the phone. I stumble at the threshold as reality hits me.
Am I crazy? Call the police? And say what? Excuse me, officer, but one of the guys is obviously not happy with my sexual services. Can you tell me which one? I can’t tell them the truth! They’ll arrest me for sure.
I sink onto the couch and hold my head in my hands. I can’t turn to anyone. I’m on my own with this. What am I going to do?
Dump them. The answer is instant and comes from the gut. Dump all the men. Right now. If I can’t trust any of them, then it’s time to retire.
I look at my condo, absently wondering what I can take with me. Tears prick my eyes. It isn’t fair. I invested my time and energy and now I have to walk away with nothing to show for it. All because of one man.
Frustration and anger bloom inside my chest. I don’t want to quit. For once in my life I’m calling the shots. I’m in charge of my destiny and I can’t go back to letting someone else dictate my actions and choices. If only I could figure out which one would do this to me.
There is one way I could find out. I rise from the couch and slowly make my way back to the bed, surveying the mess. I can clean up the broken glass and replace the mirror this weekend. Act as if nothing happened.
And then when Calvin shows up, I’ll lure him into the bedroom and watch his reaction. I’ll do the same with Dennis and George. The guy responsible will give himself away the moment he tries to save his hide.
That is, if I don’t mess up. I have to have sex with these guys, knowing one is trying to hurt me. Kill me.
I lean against the door frame, imagining myself naked and vulnerable as the killer hovers above me. Stretched out on the bed before him as he makes his move. My stomach rolls, but I remain still until the nausea subsides. I’m not going to run. I can’t hide. I need to face him down.
This isn’t one of my better plans.
Too bad it’s the only one I have.
It’s Monday night and I’m a nervous wreck. I watch Calvin over our intimate dinner. He’s charming and attentive. Well, as charming as a computer nerd with no social graces can be.
He’s getting better. I allow him that. I can get him to sit through a meal before he pounces on me. He can now carry on a conversation that doesn’t have to do with sex. It helps that Calvin wants me to be a sophisticated, glamorous creature, but that doesn’t stop him from claiming me with the crudeness of a barbarian.
As I watch him toss the napkin onto the table, I realize that one day he is going to restrain his insatiable sex drive and become a legendary lover. All that he needs right now is practice and a patient teacher.
That would be me.
I should be proud of this moment, feel a sense of accomplishment for polishing this diamond in the rough, yet all I can do is keep track of the silverware. I’m counting forks and knives while knowing where his hands are at all times. This hyper-awareness isn’t going to save me. Calvin is clever enough that he could gut me with a spoon.
I should have planned a menu filled with finger foods. I should have fed him myself. I want to thwack my hand on my forehead. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?
“Are you listening?” Calvin asks.
My gaze collides and locks with his. “Yes, love,” I say with a smile. “I…just realized I didn’t have your favorite dessert.”
His eyes take on an unholy gleam. “I know how you can make it up to me.”
My smile stays put but I feel my stomach free-falling. Oh, boy. Here we go. I can do this.
Well, I thought I could. After all, I went through the checklist and left nothing to chance. My bedroom is spotless and I paid triple for a new mirror to be installed on the ceiling in record time. I planned countless scenarios in my head on how to get my lovers into bed and watch my back at the same time. I think I have it all figured out, but when it comes right down to it, I’m a basket case.
Calvin scoots back from the table and hooks one arm over the chair. His T-shirt pulls against his lean and wiry body. I stand up and my legs are shaking.
“You know,” he says as he musses his spiky short hair with his fingers. “I think you’re overdressed.”
Damn. Okay, sure, my halter dress isn’t a suit of armor. It’s not going to protect me, but I want to hide behind something. I want to refuse his unspoken request, but that’s not going to lull him
. I need him cooperative and in a good mood as I guide him to my bed.
I look at him in the eye and reach for the knot at the base of my neck. I tug it free and the black dress slides off my shoulders and breasts. I can feel Calvin’s gaze focusing on my pointed nipples.
Pushing the dress over my hips and dispensing with my skimpy underwear, I stand before him wearing nothing but a pair of high heels. “Is this better?” I ask. My voice comes out in a rasp. I want to clear my throat, but that isn’t going to get rid of my nervousness.
“Come closer,” he tells me.
I force myself to comply. I want to believe that Calvin isn’t the one who wants to hurt me. I want them all to be innocent.
It’s quite possible that I’m wrong. It could be that the mirror was a freak accident, despite what the installers said as they replaced it. Calvin wouldn’t have tampered with the mirror, I argue to myself. He’s a software guy, not hardware.
And Dennis? The man doesn’t like to exert himself. George might have had the opportunity to do it—hell, they all did—but he’s not the type who uses power tools.
I jump when I feel Calvin’s hand cup my ass. I look down, startled, just as he places his other hand on my breast. His chest rises and falls as he strokes my skin.
“Closer,” he says, his eyes never leaving my breasts.
I’m tempted to tell him that my eyes are up here, but I don’t trust myself enough to tease. I straddle his lap. His hard dick creates a tent in his jeans. I wiggle my slit against the denim. Pleasure sparkles under my skin.
Calvin squeezes and kneads my ass. His touch is almost too much, but as long as both hands are on me and not on the cutlery, I won’t complain.
He’s showering kisses on my face and neck. Wet, fierce kisses that make my sex swell. His good manners are slipping fast as he sloppily licks my ear and stabs the tip of his tongue in the canal. He’s breathing hard and I can hear the satisfied growls deep in his chest.