by Stark, Rhona
Contents
Prologue
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MORE
PROLOGUE
Her hand cracked down again on my behind, and this time, I let out a yelp of surprise.
‘Shhhh,’ she said. ‘Please don’t complain. You’ll start to realize just how wonderful it can feel to be in someone else’s power in a moment.’ Again she slapped me. The skin on my ass was turning tender now, but it was true, in the moments between the strikes, my body was starting to ache to be slapped again.
‘It’s interesting,’ she said, as she slapped me again and again my mouth made that little ‘o’ shape. ‘The ancient Romans actually believe that corporal punishment improved fertility. That spanking a wife could make her more likely to conceive a child.’
She stopped for a moment, and with a sudden thrill of pleasure, I felt her fingers gently push the lips of my pussy apart.
CHAPTER ONE
There was nothing special about the Tuesday morning my whole life blew apart. Really. Nothing special at all.
Don’t believe me? Okay. Well let’s think about this. It was a little rainy out. I was on my way to Schott’s Bakery to buy some kind of special, fancy-pants, artisanal bread for my boss, Teresa. She likes these amazingly intricate sandwiches for lunch, with pickled cucumber, salmon and water chestnuts, usually on sourdough or rye. Don’t ask me - they sound repulsive. So anyway. I was heading down 24th street, on the way to buy this bread, shielding my head from the rain with my anorak. And yeah - you heard me right. I wear an anorak. It’s bright yellow, full of zips and functional pockets, and it does the job just right, thank you very much. Okay, okay, it’s a little ugly, but I never seem to get round to going shopping, and I’ve been stuck with this same anorak for the past five years. At least my dress underneath was a little smarter - you have to be smart for my job, in marketing. Even when you’re at the bottom rung of the ladder like me. Jeez, I’m barely even on the first rung.
The problem with shielding my head from the rain so vehemently with my anorak, was that it wasn’t too easy to see where I was going. That’s why I bumped into her.
And that’s about the moment my whole life blew apart.
But before we get to the brutal, mind-blowing lesbian sex and my crazily intense period of self-actualization, let me take you back a few steps. You’re gonna need to conserve your energy, and take my story in little by little… believe me.
***
So. My name’s Cassie Summers and like I say, I work in marketing. Chances are, if you’re reading this, you’ll already know this is going to be a no-holds-barred confession of my saucy exploits with a sexy stranger, but what you probably don’t know is what sort of a girl I am - or at least what sort of a girl I was - before all this happened. Well, let me be frank about this, because I need to be honest. I am - or rather, I should say, I was - what you might call a late bloomer . I was still a virgin at twenty-one, and I’d always felt it was important I saved myself for Mr. Right. Yeah. You heard me. I said Mister . I wasn’t, like, super religious or anything, although my parents are both Catholic, and I think some of that heterosexual-virgin-until-marriage-stuff rubbed off on me. I still go to church a couple of times a year, you know, and I even kneel beside my bed and pray some nights. These days I mostly pray for forgiveness from my sins… but it doesn’t stop me sinning.
I suppose when I was eighteen I felt pretty good about my decision to stay celibate before marriage. I’d watch my best friend Debbie hooking up with spotty, awkward guys with buck teeth, and I’d think, Jeez, Deborah, rather you than me. But time wore on, and the guys my friends hooked up with got progressively more handsome, more muscular, and more like the type of guy I’d always hoped Mr. Right would be for me. My best friend Debbie told me about the things her boyfriend, Andy, would do to her at night. The way he’d caress her face as he slowly entered her, how he’d tell her she was beautiful as he rode her cunt faster and faster… Oh. Excuse me for using that word. Cunt. I never used to use it. That’s something she got me into. I know a lot of people don’t like it. Heck, I never used to like it. It made me cringe. But now it makes me think of her. Cunt, cunt, cunt. It makes me think of my flower opening up and letting her enter me in all sorts of strange and exciting ways…
But don’t let me get ahead of myself. I’m trying to tell you what I was like then , not what I’m like now. Back then, I’d have blushed at the word sex alone. I didn’t even understand how you did it, not properly. I mean, I got the mechanics of it - I’d watched TV, right? But I never really understood how it worked. I felt a little squeamish when I thought about it too long. I figure I was mostly scared. I didn’t understand how anything was ever going to fit into that tiny space between my legs. But believe me, stuff was going to fit alright. Some seriously big stuff. And that stuff would not be attached to a man either - it would be a woman!
You’re probably getting the idea by now anyway. Before I met my beautiful stranger, I had as much experience as a newly-hatched mayfly. By which I mean, not much! I mean, I’d been on a few dates and all, but nothing to write home about. You’ll have to excuse my babbling, by the way. I’m a one hundred per cent, bona fide chatterbox. It’s both a blessing and a curse of mine. A blessing, because it helps to have a quirky mind in advertising - my boss says I’m a blabbermouth who’s capable of thinking so far outside the box that the box is just a speck on the horizon. But a curse, because sometimes people just wanna hear it plain. And so that’s what I’m trying to give you now. The truth. Nothing more, nothing less, just what happened, in intimate detail. You’re going to learn exactly how naive little Cassie lost her cherry. And how she kept on losing it, over and over again, in all sorts of different ways.
Hold onto your hats, folks. It’s gonna be one hell of a ride.
CHAPTER TWO
So. I was outside, on my way to buy bread. It was raining. I was wearing an anorak. I bumped into someone cos I’m a giant doofus. What next? Well. At first, I was so flustered at having bumped into someone that I couldn’t talk. Which is unusual for me, being the chatterbox I am!
She was the first to speak. I heard her voice before I even saw her face. ‘Watch where you’re going,’ she barked, and I scowled, wiping my hair away from my eyes. It was soaking wet and plastered to my face in a most unattractive fashion. So much for my anorak keeping me dry - I looked like a drowned rat!
I had that feeling, before I looked at her face. You know, that feeling that I was about to be impressed. It’s not like I have a sixth sense or anything like that. I’m not a psychic! But it was a combination of factors. The firm, muscular, tight feeling of her torso, as my soft and rather bouncy body plowed into it. And then the scent of her. The strong waft of perfume. It was like pepper, juniper and razor blades. Okay, not razor blades exactly, but there was something sharp about the smell of her that felt strangely like it sliced me in half. I know - crazy, right?
I opened my mouth, my lips parting, about to apologize - thank goodness at least I’d freshly applied a layer of Chanel L’Eclatante pink lipstick
before leaving work, to stop me looking a total mess - but when I saw her face, I was lost for words again.
My first thought was Betty Draper from Mad Men . But that was probably just the wide-eyed, marketing gal within me. She was much more angular and self-assured looking than Betty Draper. I’ll bet she was a CEO somewhere. I’ll bet she had every man in her office eating out of the palm of her hand. There was something so sexual about her confidence too, like she knew she could have anyone she wanted, whenever and wherever she wanted. And I’ll bet she wanted it often. Her hair was blond and scraped back in a bun, and her eyes scowling and lively, as if they were working hard to contain many dark, dark secrets. She looked professional, but she also looked kinda wild. How could a woman in a Massimo Dutti pinstripe suit look so goddamn wild ? (I knew it was Massimo Dutti as I’d researched an article on them earlier in the year - a Spanish company - very classy.) It was like she’d stepped right out of the jungle and this was the first time she’d ever put on a suit. Incredible.
So many phrases began racing through my mind.
I’m so sorry, Ma’am, it was an accident.
You’re right, I really ought to watch where I’m going.
Oh heck, I’m such a klutz, Ma’am!
This darn rain… I hope it clears up soon…
All the usual chatty bullcrap that normally tumbles right outta my mouth. But none of it seemed… appropriate for this woman. It was like she could see right through me. I stood up straight, lifted my hood back, and looked at her, trying to communicate through the expression in my eyes that I was indeed real sorry, and that in just a moment, I would find the right words to make some lame attempt at small-talk with her, but right now, I was, for once, struck dumb.
I parted my moist lips, hoping that I could get the words out this time.
The stranger looked down at me, still standing close to me, our bodies still touching, my chest still pressed awkwardly against her. She reached up to my face and wiped a strand of rain-soaked hair away from my cheek. The water continued to pelt down onto my face, running onto her hand, down her sleeve, but she didn’t seem to mind. I looked up at her expectantly.
‘Don’t say a word,’ she said, her hands pressing lightly but firmly upon my chin, closing my mouth. She studied me for some time, looking first at my mouth, then at my eyes, my hair, and eventually, her eyes trailing down my body. I felt strangely indignant and excited all at once. I cursed myself for wearing such an ugly anorak, and hoped that she could at least sense the shapely figure that lurked beneath my coat. I’d never be as attractive as her. Never ever . But I wasn’t that bad!
‘That’s better,’ she said eventually. ‘This is how it’s going to work between us from now on. I’ll do the talking. You listen. Okay?’
Not knowing what else to do, I simply nodded.
‘I expect you’re sorry for bumping into me,’ she said, studying me for my response. I nodded again, as emphatically as I could. I’m very sorry , I thought. Please don’t hurt me . But I wasn’t really scared. If anything, I was kinda mesmerized by this woman. I felt like I was under some sort of spell… and I wanted to see where this might end up.
She drew her hand away from my face. ‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘Nice little girls like you should be sorry when they bump into people like me.’
Now she took my hand in hers. ‘I expect you’re running because you have somewhere very important to be. Am I right?’
I bowed my head. I didn’t want to nod. I didn’t want to leave this woman, to go and buy bread for my psycho boss, Teresa. Teresa wasn’t a strong and sexy CEO. Teresa was head of my department, in her fifties, skeletal and witchy. The woman in front of me here - she was exactly the kind of woman I aspired to be. Gosh, I bet she could teach me a thing or two about business. About everything, really.
‘I get it,’ she said. ‘You’ve got someplace to be, but you don’t want to go.’
I looked up, my eyes shining with recognition.
‘Listen,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘I’m going to put you in a cab now. You’re going to ride to the Plaza Hotel with me, and I’m going to talk to you for a while. While you listen.’ She paused. ‘Okay?’
Again, I nodded. And then I nodded some more.
CHAPTER THREE
You need to know that I’m not crazy. I swear I’m not. In those personality tests they make you do on business weekends I come out as an INFJ. Apparently that makes me an ‘advocate’: I’m quiet and mystical, and extremely idealistic. Good careers for INFJs like me include counselors, psychologists, life coaches and spiritual guides. The only thing that’s crazy about someone like me is that, with my personality type, I ended up in marketing.
I’m certainly not the kinda gal who gets in a cab with a complete stranger.
I’m the kinda gal who spends a month planning what she’s going to have for dinner.
And yet… Here I was, in New York City, getting into a cab with a woman in a Massimo Dutti suit… and that’s all I knew about her. All she knew about me was I was a bedraggled mess, wearing an anorak. She hadn’t even heard my voice, for heaven’s sake! I could be totally mute, for all she knew!
In the cab, the stranger didn’t say a word, except to tell the driver to head for the Plaza. The cabbie nodded, as if this was all just totally normal for him, as if he drove a pair of strangers to the Plaza every day… Not that he knew we were strangers, of course. I wonder who he thought we were. A smart businesswoman, and a soaking wet girl in a cheap raincoat. Did she look like my rich aunt? My mum? Certainly not my lover . Hang on. Why was I thinking about her being my lover? I’d never thought about a woman in that way before! That’s ridiculous. I guess I was just carried away by the scent of her perfume, her dominant personality. Of course I didn’t want to make love to her. I wanted to be her. That’s all. Be her.
Besides, I knew nothing about her. She told me she was going to talk to me at the hotel. Just talk. Maybe she was a lonely widow, or going through a heavy divorce, in need of a fellow female ear. I’d never thought of myself as a good listener, only ever a chatterbox, but maybe I could give it a try.
She didn’t look at me once during the ride. Her face was angled away from me, looking out of the window at the busy streets, full of working people walking back and forth up the crowded sidewalks. There were people carrying briefcases, off to important meetings. There were chefs carrying trays of pastries covered in cellophane, and women in stilettos navigating the rain with far more grace than I had just done. Why had this stranger chosen me to sit beside her?
Just then, I remembered something. Teresa, my boss. Shit. I took out my cell and wrote a hurried text, shielding my screen so the stranger couldn’t see. Emergency , I typed. Just seen an old woman get mugged on 24th street. Taking her to the cops to give a statement. I pressed send before I had a chance to realise what the heck I had just done. Jeez, Cassie! You crazy weirdo! Why did I just do that? If something was to happen to me in the hands of this woman, nobody would ever know how to find me.
And yet…
I was beginning to feel something. Excitement. Pleasure. The joy of doing something naughty and not caring about the consequences. The joy of finally, maybe, having a real adventure.
As the cab approached the Plaza, I looked up at its imposing architecture and began to feel quite dizzy. It was such a beautiful building. So regal. So full of history. I’d seen it across The Pond in Central Park plenty of times, of course, but never up close, quite like this. Never as a potential visitor. My heart began to race, wondering if I was really going into this impressive building. Perhaps we’d eat macaroons and drink fragrant tea in the legendary Rose Club. I’d heard about that place, located in the very spot Liza Minnelli performed back when there was a nightclub there. I imagined how it might feel to drink tea in the spot where Minnelli perhaps once sang Teach Me Tonight . I shuddered. My best friend, Debbie, would never believe a story like that. I couldn’t wait to tell her about all of this, to be honest.
/> Suddenly I realized the stranger was talking to me. ‘It’s time to get out. We’re here.’
Oh, golly, how embarrassing. The cab had stopped and she was holding open my door. I had no idea how long she’d been standing there, telling me to get out. Me and my daydreaming! I looked up at her, noticing how tall she was. Oh my god. I wondered how pathetic I looked to her. My hair was still damp, but starting to frizz up as it dried. I had a horrible feeling my mascara had probably run too.
I took a deep breath, resolving to find a mirror once we entered the Plaza, and I got out of the cab.
CHAPTER FOUR
The inside of the Plaza was even more incredible than the outside. There were huge chandeliers hanging from the ornate ceiling, and everything looked like it had been dipped in marble and gold. Even the people looked like they’d been dipped in something expensive. The women in here were glamorous, and the men were handsome. And there I was in my yellow anorak. I’d never felt so out of place in my life.
I thought back to the last time I’d been somewhere this fancy, and felt even more out of place when I realized that the only thing I could think of was St.Patrick’s Cathedral, the neo-gothic church in Manhattan. Something about the inside of the Plaza made me want to drop to me knees and pray, just like being in church. It was a place to worship opulence and extravagance, I thought to myself, as I walked past crowds of the faithful.
I looked up at my mysterious chaperon. She belonged here. She seemed more relaxed than she’d been with me before, and her strong features and killer eyes made me wonder again who and what she was. It was the first time I’d had a chance to get a good look at her face without her staring at me. Her eyes were softer than I’d thought at first, and were a rich, hazel color, warm and strangely reassuring. I must have been staring, because the moment she caught me looking, her expression hardened again, her scowl even more stern than before.
Ugh, Cassie, you idiot, play it cool! Hang on, I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Why wasn’t I allowed to look at the woman I was with? Why was I even thinking about any of this stuff? What had I gotten myself into?