by LS Silverii
“You’re going to spoil me, Krystal.”
“You’re already spoiled hero. We’ll see who the big shot is after I’m done teaching you a lesson.” She challenged, and he sighed as the arc of her shapely ass tempted his dick.
Long strands of soft hair hung loosely across her face. Hollywood gritted his teeth. He resisted the urge to take her from behind as his fingers fumbled with the collar’s metal buckles.
“How you gonna teach me anything? I got the collar, and I’m in charge now.” His voice wavered to sort through the stream of logic—his legs pulsed between surges in his groin.
“Hero, submission isn’t about surrender, it’s having complete control to just let go. Can you let go?” She reached behind and gripped his penis. Muscles flexed in her wrist. He moaned. Hollywood’s knees buckled. His body hurried to adjust to the overwhelming sensation of ecstasy.
“No, I’m a control freak. I don’t let go.” He murmured into the soft space between her ear and neck—his tongue filled the gap with slow strokes. She quivered.
“Too bad. You’ll never know how fucking amazing it is to not give a shit. Hero, I’m going to fuck up your whole stay-between-the-lines way of thinking.” Her hands rested on the kitchen island while she bopped her hips under his hands. The stainless steel ring inside the collar’s clasp clinked as she moved.
She just might do it.
Hollywood had been in a drought. Thanks to chasing down the Preacher’s terror network, he’d not had sex in weeks. His hormones begged him to stop talking and start fucking, but his heart itched at a new sensation he couldn’t describe.
“How’s the lesson progressing, hero?”
“All I give a shit about right now is fucking you. Enough of the horny Zen lessons.” Hollywood shut his eyes to refocus on the sex, forget the metaphysical bullshit. Don’t get emotional—a few days temporary duty down south, and then back to D.C. Down deep, he knew better though.
He snugged her collar and she sighed. Voodoo’s primitive reaction to every touch increased his excitement. Hollywood’s eyes waxed in imagination as thoughts of her submission tantalized with possibility. His head rolled back—he sighed an ominous sigh.
“Enough talk. I want you. Right now.” His fingers tightened the leather—the strap cut into her throat. She whimpered and hopped up on her toes to ease the strain.
“Too tight?” He whispered against her spine.
“Tougher than you think pretty boy,” she purred, hair floating against her right shoulder. His fingers slid around her voluptuous hips to guide his dick against the cheeks of her ass. She groaned louder as he pressed himself against her.
“You carrying?” she whispered.
“Glock, model 17, why?”
“Condoms.” A light laugh eased the misinterpretation, and she retrieved one instead.
Hollywood’s knees gave way once the head of his cock breached her pussy. Guttural moans escaped him, his left hand dug into the dip of her hip. She winced.
“Too tight?” She flipped the question on him, and pressed her fingers into his thighs as he slid inside of her.
“Just the head of your cock baby.” Her skin glistened with a sheen of moisture. His moist palms roamed her muscled buttocks. Moans intensified as her toes flexed for balance—he held onto her collar.
“Good girl.” The sensation of her submission began to appeal to him. He smiled delighting in her gasps and pleas to stop. He cranked back on the collar with his right forearm pressed along her spine.
Drawn into an unnatural bend, her breasts hoisted the double-pierced nipples into the chilled air. His fingers roved her ribcage, reaching for the stainless steel rods. Rolling them against her erect nipple drove him mad for more.
She sucked air through her teeth and pulled back against his hold.
“You okay, Voodoo?”
“You’ll break before I do.”
A wavering shadow alerted Hollywood of another’s presence. His head spun left at the sound of a throat clearing—Bonny dawdled against the refrigerator. Light shone through her sheer gown flaunting her slender, athletic physique. Tussle-dried hair swept across her tilted head, and the sexiness of her Lauren Hutton smile contrasted with the cheerleader type that had drawn Hollywood to Voodoo.
“Walk her,” Bonny said, arms folded in defiance, she exuded sensual dominance.
“Sorry?” Hollywood leaned toward Bonny.
“Walk her—like a pet.” Her body stiffened rigid in the command—Bonny’s smile vanished. Hollywood expelled an uncertain breath. His gut tensed. He’d bitten off more than he could chew.
“That’s a bit much, even for me.” He gestured with a hand held above his head. He loosened the grip on Voodoo’s collar and let his hand slide over her shoulder.
“You want to be in control, then there’s a responsibility that comes with it.” Bonny’s parochial voice returned him to the days of his youth and the high-minded nuns who taught him through grade school.
“Bet you thought you were coming here to get a quick fuck? Didn’t expect a lesson in respect.” Bonny challenged again.
“Actually, yeah. I was dying to fuck the both of you.” His penis regained its glory as his ego pressed the point. He wasn’t at all interested in walking or training—he wanted two pieces of ass, and then to hit the road.
“At least the hero’s honest,” Voodoo said, smiling. Her hands still pulling at his waist—his shaft glided deeper into her pussy.
“Last chance, pretty boy. You walk her or I will.” Bonny’s innocent wheat field, girl-next-door look forfeited to a snarled command.
“Baby, please walk me.” Voodoo moved back against him. She moaned in pleasure, though pain satisfied her desires.
“Here girl,” Bonny called.
He felt her heat around the head of his cock until she moved away and broke their connection.
Voodoo immediately stooped onto all fours. Bonny bent forward and brushed her thumb and fingers together at knee height. She made a quiet kissy noise. Free from Hollywood’s grip, Voodoo silently slinked across the room. She was the sexiest feline in the entire animal kingdom.
“This shit’s weird.” An inferno baked his testicles—it was crazy intense. Hollywood fell back against the kitchen island. His mouth open, he tried to suck extra air through his nose to slow his pulse. He jumped when his bare butt touched the cold stainless steel dishwasher. Both girls looked back at him. His sheepish smirk shone through the lightless space.
“Heel,” Bonny commanded. Voodoo sat—face focused on her trainer’s next words. Hollywood tried to divert his thoughts away from the rush of cum marshaled to explode across the kitchen floor. He was hooked. Only wanting a fast fuck and escape before another long day of field ops, Hollywood fantasized about Voodoo’s submission and ownership role.
He began to understand that Voodoo was actually more in control of their situation than he was. It strangled his desire to hammer her with a quickie, but instead slowed him into wanting more. His heart pounded as he watched her—he’d never wanted anyone so bad. Bonny had suddenly lost her appeal.
“Good girl.” Bonny encouraged her. She slowly fingered Voodoo’s jet-black tresses with an open hand. The way Bonny’s hand raked across the back of her pet’s sheared nape sent Hollywood into shivers. Although he fancied himself a ladies’ man, he admitted this was out of his league. His throbbing dick on the other hand signaled he wanted back off the bench and into the game.
“Would you like another chance pretty boy?”
“Yes, please.” He’d never had to beg.
“Please what?”
“Please may I have her?”
Voodoo’s small waist that flared into perfectly rounded hips and a tight round ass resembled a guitar from behind. She patiently waited on her knees for Bonny to negotiate terms with him.
“Have her?”
“Train her,” Hollywood clarified.
“You may.” Her grin showed sinister delight.
“Thank yo
u.” Hollywood wouldn’t avert his glare—neither would Bonny.
“I know what you’re thinking, hero, but Voodoo has a fetish for transference of power. It’s my pet’s way to relieve the stress of always being the Alpha female cop. What type of roomie would I be if I wasn’t willing to accommodate her bad little ass?” Bonny beamed, but her high attitude had fallen flat. “Everyone’s broken, hero. Even you.”
Mouth as dry as desert sand, he couldn’t swallow enough to continue speech. The arterial beat through his neck set a rhythm. Carnal adrenaline consumed him. His hand trembled when he reached for the leash’s loop. He guided Voodoo toward him. Her smoldering eyes glanced up and she flashed a playful leer.
Bossy bitch wouldn’t pass up the chance to manipulate her roommate.
“Come.” Hollywood forced his weakening legs to carry him toward the bedroom. Voodoo paced in front of him—her round behind rocked with each slide of hand and knee.
Sexual electricity surged below his skin. He’d played the collar and control game long enough, and it was now time to put that behind them. He wanted a partner, not a pet.
“Heel.” Hollywood played out the role for Voodoo’s benefit. He jerked the leash and sat her up onto both knees. Eyes scanned—his mind raced as if this still wasn’t real. He took a last glower at Bonny standing in the kitchen before he fully focused on Voodoo.
“Let’s cut the charades, if I don’t consume you soon, I’m gonna crash.” He fumbled to unclip the leash.
“No charades, hero.”
“Stop with the hero crap too. I ain’t that.”
“But Fats said you killed someone. Must’ve been a high-value target.”
“I was Naval Intelligence—desk geek. No hero.”
“If you say so, pretty boy.” Her tongue dabbed her bottom lip.
“Yeah, I say so. I also say get on that bed before I hero your fucking hot ass.”
“Like you attacked me yesterday at SWAT training? I’m really scared of you.” She laughed as they wrestled across the mattress.
“Who knew you’re such a fucking sex mutant? I thought you were maybe some kick ass dyke. But damn, you and Bonny freak me out with that S&M stuff. Let’s save this collar for something else.” He removed the leather neckpiece and returned it to her like she’d originally presented it to him. He bent to kiss her—she pushed his head to the side.
“I take it seriously, Dwight, even if you can’t understand the value of transferring the roles of power. It’s an important part of life. One day you may have to depend on someone other than yourself, hero.”
“What are y’all a cult or something?” He simulated making the sign of a cross.
“Yeah, that’s it. A cult or something. Why you think they call me Voodoo? Now I cast a spell on your horny ass.” Her hands waved before his face. His smile turned into a wooden expression.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t mock what I don’t know shit about. Besides, I was that close to banging the both of you had I played along.”
“No you weren’t, pretty boy, but dream on. You’re about to lose out on me if you don’t stop yapping and start sexing.” She pretended to bite at him as she rumbled toward his groin.
The touch of her moist mouth clenched around his cock almost caused him to faint. The contrast of sensations between soft wet and rock hard bent his torso over her shoulders. Strong thighs became weak as he pulled her head into him.
Her cheeks hollowed gouged when the head of his dick heaved from her mouth. She pulled him back. Lips tensed behind the ridge of his cock’s head. She sucked until he caved. Both hands full of hair—he cupped the rear of her skull to shove his organ back into her throat.
She grunted. He tried to slow her ferocious motion—Voodoo was a man-eater. His mind raced with images of fantasies yet unrealized. Sweat seeped from his pores, ran into his eyes, his mouth gaped for air. Her fingernails clenched his ass cheeks. He winced as air hit the opened skin. Hollywood thrust his pelvis forward while she swallowed him down.
He let one hand loose to swipe water from his face. Sweat usually reserved for long, hard running now painted his physique. He inhaled the aroma of decadent exhilaration mingled with her herbal shampoo. His spine arched as his muscles tensed for an all-out orgasmic assault.
“Krystal, oh momma yes. Suck my cock. Make me come.” Incoherent speech began to slur. Hands reached for support—anything to cling to, “Come on, baby.”
“Hollywood,” Bonny yelled from the kitchen. “Hollywood.” She now stood in the open bedroom doorway. “Hollywood.” She rooted right up next to him.
“Shit woman, I’m busy.” His upper body convulsed, his eyelids beat faster as the flush of blood began to pool south. “You want in?”
“No, Casanova. Your cell phone’s going crazy. Five missed calls from RP.”
His erection vanished. Rose only called when things got critical. Usually he snapped to returning her call, but he’d imagined reuniting with Voodoo since their first meeting. And now—now—freaking duty called. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, scanning the room, seeing nothing. Duty always came first.
“I’m so sorry, I gotta take this call,” he apologized as he tumbled through the dark scooping up clothes and his weapon.
“Your wife?” Voodoo’s terse allegation stopped him while one leg hung suspended above the pant leg.
“No, my job,” he said.
“You running out on me again?” she teased in a pouting voice that tugged at his obligation to STR.
“No, baby, but seriously, I gotta go.” He cupped her soft face in his hands and kissed her. His somber expression illustrated his concern for Rose’s call and the potential of losing Voodoo again. Hollywood hopped while he shoved his foot into a boot and bolted for the door.
* * *
“This was one crazy fucking night girl.” Voodoo collapsed onto the bed. She looked up at Bonny and exhaled. “Wouldn’t doubt if he transferred out by morning.” Voodoo laughed, but with a serious glint in her eye.
“You’re not serious, Krystal? He was a total slime ball—wham bam thank you ma’am.” She slapped her palms together like whooping some ass.
“I know tonight got weird, but you should’ve seen him at SWAT training. Something about him that’s broken—he’s searching for answers.”
“He ain’t no stray. You can’t fix him. His remedy’s usually found in a bottle or a bullet,” Bonny admonished.
“He’s got a soul, Bonny. I sensed it.” A sad smile loomed until a light rap against the condo’s front door alarmed her.
“Back so soon?” Voodoo tried to cover her breasts.
“Forgot my car keys.” His sheepish admission caused Voodoo to fake fan her face.
“Here, hero. See you at the undercover briefing in about three hours. Be on your game, pretty boy. I’m counting on your best to watch my back.” She traced the clef dimple in his rock-hard chin—then blew him a kiss.
CHAPTER 5
“Rose, sorry I missed your calls, what’s going down?”
“Is that a police K9?”
“Neighbor’s dog.”
“Good you found a place to bunk.”
“Actually…”
“Never mind. Same old Hollywood.”
“Well, it is the Big Easy after all.” Hollywood slid a pair of satin panties off his driver’s seat and tossed them across the console. “Wonder whose panties these are?”
“Dwight, you’re on hands free and I can hear you. I allowed temporary duty because you claimed you needed to sharpen your field skills. If I knew it was to pick up tail during carnival, I’d have kept you up here to help STR get back on its feet.” Unmistakably pulling no punches, his boss, Rose Prospero wasn’t impressed.
“I’m sorry, Rose, back to business.” The soft glow from his in-dash GPS reflected off an unshaven complexion. He fat-fingered in his hotel’s coordinates and zipped his way through barren pothole infested streets.
“You set to blanket an undercover operation later i
n the day?” she asked.
She knew the answer already. Rose had years of field experience, unlike many of the supervisors in the federal system. Her leadership skills had been learned during her time with the CIA and sharpened through the never-ending skirmishes between terrorists and politicians—some were one and the same.
“Yes ma’am. Briefing in about three hours at the Task Force warehouse.” Narrowed eyes scanned each intersection before he blew through the red lights. Full stops made ripe targets for ambush. Vicious memories of Afghanistan’s Kunar Province blasted in his mind as Rose’s monotone diatribe continued.
“You listening?” she snapped.
“Yes, ma’am. Old ghosts in the attic. You know the symptoms.” Hollywood’s fingers strangled the fine leather steering wheel. His other hand hovered over the pistol tucked below his hamstring. He’d lost enough in one ambush. Now he lived to suffer because he’d survived. “Why me?” He chomped on the insides of his cheeks.
“Survivors guilt, Hollywood. You’ve got a purpose—focus on finding it.” Rose’s tone switched from chastiser to counselor. She’d been there and knew where the cracks were. Healing them wasn’t her job—protecting America was.
“Why you up at four in the freaking morning, Rose?” His haggard reflection bounced back through the rearview mirror.
“Gotta move when the data deciphers. Intel Division’s still muddling through the Preacher’s hard drive. Seems something’s brewing down your way other than coffee and beignets.” Her attempt at imitating the thick slur of Cajun dialect fell flat.
The sound of the Preacher’s name chilled his soul. This homegrown uber-extremist and his network of disciples had nearly pulled off the most significant terror plot against the American way of life. Though he’d been killed months earlier by Special Threats Response Team’s very own boss, Rose Prospero, the Preacher’s diabolical schemes continued to be launched by his blood family and his network’s hierarchy.
The specialized STR was authorized by the United States Government to operate beyond the blackest of black ops’ environments. Deciphering the Preacher’s confiscated hard drive had allowed STR to anticipate the many still active attempts against America. According to Rose, Hollywood just so happened to be in the right place at the wrong time—something often said about the Big Easy.