Sinful Rewards 9

by Cynthia Sax

  “Bee Carter,” I answer, pressing the cool phone case against my face.

  “Honeybee.” My normally exhausted mom sounds almost as hyper as Cyndi is. “I’m talking on a throwaway phone, just like the spies in the movies use.”

  Any concerns I have about throwaway phones are offset by my intrigue. I’ve never heard my mom this animated.

  “Do you know Long Haul?” she asks. “He works with your Hawke.”

  “No, I don’t know him, Mom.” I slide the bar stools under the counter.

  “He’s a very nice man,” she relates. “His wife left him when he was overseas, serving our country. She said she couldn’t wait for him.”

  I hear the disapproval in my mom’s voice. Had she waited for my dad, her fateful one-night stand, to return? I’ve never asked, not wanting to bring up the touchy subject.

  “Long Haul accompanied me on the flight to Cleveland,” my mom continues. “And then drove me to the apple farm that belongs to the Masterses in Upstate New York. The apples aren’t ready yet. They’re small and green.”

  She talks more than she’s talked in years, telling me about Hawke’s friendly parents, her arrival at the farm, and more about Long Haul, relating his life history, her tone tellingly warm. My mom likes the military man and he seems to like her, promising to call to check up on her tomorrow.

  This worries me. She’s my mom and I don’t want her to be hurt. But I remind myself that Hawke wouldn’t associate with any dishonorable men. He also wouldn’t risk my mom’s safety.

  “It looks like I’m taking that vacation you wanted me to have, honeybee.” My mom sighs. “It could be permanent. The boss wasn’t happy that I didn’t give him any notice. I might not have a job when I return,” she frets.

  “Don’t worry about the money, mom. I’ll take care of you.” I don’t have a job either, but I haven’t told her this. “Do the Masters have kittens?” I ask, seeking to distract her.

  My mom doesn’t know. She hasn’t had time to explore the farm or locate the barn cats Hawke has told me about, but this question prompts more observations and more insights about the tattooed, baseball-cap-wearing Long Haul.

  As soon as she ends our conversation, I call Hawke.

  “Miss me already, love?” he rumbles, his voice curling my damaged toe.

  I can’t allow him to sidetrack me. I have a mom to protect. “Tell me everything you know about Long Haul,” I demand.

  He chuckles, the damn man amused by my request. “I thought they might hit it off. They have a lot in common.”

  They do have a lot in common. They’ve both had people they care about leave them. “What do you mean, you thought they might hit it off?” I ask. Is my rough, tough former marine matchmaking? “Did you set my mom up with one of your men?”

  “He’s not some random man, sweetheart,” Hawke assures me. “I flew Long Haul into Chicago from an assignment in Miami, specifically to help transport your mom. He’s the only person I’d trust with her.”

  “Does he know she’s called the wild woman of Happydale?” I won’t allow my mom to be judged, rejected, hurt again.

  My phone buzzes, signaling that I have a text message. I ignore it, focusing on my conversation with Hawke.

  “Long Haul is in intelligence,” he bluntly states. Men yell in the background. “I suspect he knows more about your mom than she knows about herself.”

  As Hawke knows more about me than I know about myself. “Tell him if he hurts my mom, I’ll kick his ass.”

  Hawke laughs. “He’ll be more worried about me killing him than you kicking his ass.” The whir of metal slicing through air echoes in my ear. He must be flying in the company’s helicopter, going someplace dangerous. My concern transfers from my mom to my former marine.

  “You’ll be careful today, right?” I hear the panic in my voice, a panic I can’t suppress. If I stay, I’ll live with this fear forever, constantly worrying if this is the day he dies. I can’t do that. It’ll drive me bonkers.

  “There’s zero risk, love.” Hawke eases my building terror. “I’m attending a meeting with a needy client.”

  I relax. Meetings aren’t dangerous, are they?

  “Did you touch yourself?”

  I suck in my breath, not expecting this naughty question. “Not yet.”

  “I want you to come hard for me,” he commands. “And lick your fingers when you’re done.” Hawke ends the call with this erotic challenge.

  He wants me to taste myself. I wiggle, my inner pervert excited by his wicked instructions. My phone hums for a second time, reminding me of my unread text messages.

  I look at the screen. The most recent communication is spam, a radio station reminding me that I have only one more day to enter their contest, the top prize being an all-inclusive vacation in Puerto Vallarta. One lucky listener will cavort on the beach, wearing cute little bikinis and even more adorable sandals. I scowl. She likely has a job she’s escaping from and all of her toenails, the lucky bitch.

  I scroll backward in time and my toenail envy is forgotten. Friendly has sent me another text message.

  Friendly: Enter Room 501 North, sit in the red chair, and put on a show. Good girls earn rewards.

  Five oh one north is the mirror condo to Lona’s. Friendly, I’m convinced, is Nicolas. What is the billionaire’s connection to the escort, and why is he continuing his games? We’re friends, aren’t we? And this show that Friendly requests is sexual. I’m certain about this.

  I consider declining this challenge. Hawke has earned the bulk of my loyalty, we’re in a pseudorelationship, however long it’s destined to last, and this smacks of betrayal.

  But putting on a show, stripping with an audience, isn’t anything I haven’t already done. I glance at the floor-to-ceiling windows. No curtains block men from watching me now, from watching Hawke and me while we fucked last night.

  And we might need every reward I can earn. I could sell the high-priced designer item and use the proceeds to pay for my mom’s rent or other expenses. My mom, Cyndi, perhaps even Hawke, depend on me; I can’t let them down.

  I slide my bare feet into a pair of cheap slip-on sandals, the footwear chosen for comfort, not style, and I leave the condo, trekking along the empty hallway, my passcard and phone tucked into the pockets of my flirty little sundress. The common spaces in the building are monitored. Hawke’s team is watching me, will relay all my activities to him.

  They’ll relay all of my activities to him. I stumble over nothing as this truth hits me. Hawke knows about Friendly. He must. His team is monitoring my phone, reading every message I receive.

  Hawke knows about the challenges and he’s okay with them, trusting me, trusting Nicolas. The last of my trepidations fade away.

  I push the button for the elevator, the doors open, and I enter, selecting the fifth floor. My pale face reflects in the mirrored walls, my lips swollen from my military man’s kisses.

  I’ll keep his trust. I won’t allow anyone else to kiss me or touch me. Friendly, Nicolas, whoever my mysterious texter is, can watch me. Hawke doesn’t mind if I have an audience, but these challenges won’t go any further than being observed.

  Having set this hard-and-fast rule, my anticipation grows freely, unfettered by guilt. Hawke ordered that I pleasure myself. Does he plan to watch the show I put on for Friendly? My sexual adventure could be recorded, relayed to Hawke’s phone.

  I play with the skirt of my sundress, squirming with excitement. He’ll find fulfillment with me, unbuttoning his jeans, freeing his hard cock. Hawke will stroke himself while he watches, admires, wants me. As his need grows, he’ll work his shaft more and more vigorously, fisting his rigid flesh, a bead of precum glistening on his tip.

  I lick my bottom lip, remembering how good Hawke’s cum tasted, how his girth stretched my mouth wide. He’ll lift his tight ass out of his seat, thrusting upward into his big calloused hands. When he comes, his essence arcing from his tip, he’ll tilt his head back and roar with sat
isfaction, a fierce gleam in his pale blue eyes.

  Oh my God, this possibility turns me on. The doors open and I stride toward the condo unit, my hips swaying and my feet light.

  The hallway is as still and as quiet as its counterpart on the third floor. The carpet is the same lush blue, the walls a classy cream, the fixtures beautifully designed.

  I stand in front of five oh one north. The door resembles the others I’ve passed, plain with a peephole, an access panel, the standard doorknob. I smooth my moist palms over my skirt, nervous, uncertain what awaits me on the other side.

  I trust Nicolas. He wouldn’t hurt me. And I trust Hawke. He’d never put me in a dangerous situation. I glance around me, looking for the security cameras. His team is watching me. I take a deep breath, count to five, exhale, and press the doorbell, my fingers shaking.

  Nothing happens. I press the doorbell again. Still nothing. I reread the text message. Friendly says to enter. He doesn’t say anything about knocking.

  I wave my passcard over the sensor, the light turns green, and I cautiously open the door. My hesitation is unnecessary. The condo, a huge open space with one main room and one powder room, is devoid of human life.

  A crowd is expected, however. My heart pounds. Black folding chairs surround a small stage. A red velvet armchair and glass end table are set on this stage. A box has been placed on the table.

  I walk toward the performance area. There’s no natural light, heavy red curtains blocking the windows and covering the walls. The room resembles a burlesque club, the décor naughty, sexy, and stimulating.

  I venture onto the stage, wishing I’d worn my red corset and black skirt. My fun flirty white sundress is out of place amid the rich velvet. I open the silk-covered box and suck in my breath. A glass dildo consisting of fused white beads rests on a blue cushion. This beautiful sex toy removes any doubt about what I’m expected to do.

  I lower onto the red velvet chair, sinking into its soft seat cushion. A loud mechanical click echoes above my head and a spotlight shines down on me, the heat of the bulb warming my skin.

  “Hello?” I call out. “Is anyone here?”

  There’s another click and the other lights turn off, plunging the room into darkness. Only my chair and my body are illuminated. I gaze into the pitch-black abyss, the spotlight blinding me. I can’t see past the stage, can’t view my audience.

  But they can view me. My nipples tighten, pressing against the flimsy fabric of my sundress. A door snicks shut. Someone is here.

  I hook my legs over the arms of the chair, elevating my throbbing toe, my sandals dangling, my body trembling with excitement. How many people have entered the room? I hike my skirt higher and higher, showing my pale knees, thighs, pristine white panties. Are all of the chairs occupied?

  I rub my fingers over my lace-covered mons. The people sitting in the front row will see my brown curls through the cutouts, the hint of moisture on the fabric, smell my readiness. Did they pay for their seats, or are they friends, perhaps acquaintances, people I’ve seen in the building?

  I look into the void, the pervert in me enthralled by this fantasy come true. They won’t touch me. Neither Nicolas nor Hawke will allow that. They can merely look and listen.

  I keep my legs spread, brazenly allowing them to see everything. The men are silent. I inhale deeply. And they have no scent. Not a trace of cologne floats on the recycled air.

  A pang of disappointment shoots through me. Hawke isn’t here. If he was, I would smell him, sense him. I’m certain of this. An energy surrounds him, an electricity.

  I cup my right breast, squeezing my curves through the fabric. He could be watching me on the cameras. A chair creaks. One of my audience members is ready for more.

  I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my panties and slowly draw the lace over my thighs, knees, calves, dangling the undergarments from my left ankle. They’ll see my pinkness, my empty entrance, my wetness.

  I raise my ass, widening my stance, presenting my pussy to them, taunting them with a sexual offering they can’t ever accept. My body belongs to a rough, tough, former marine. Not even a sophisticated billionaire can claim me.

  I drift my fingertips over my folds, up and down, up and down, toying with my audience, with myself, and drawing more moisture from my molten center. No one makes a sound, the men’s attention held by my display.

  I circle my clit and moan, my response obscenely loud in the silent room. Being a freak, this arouses me even more. “Yes.” I circle and stroke, circle and stroke. My lips part in a sexual plea, my passion escalating.

  “Are you hard for me?” I ask my audience, envisioning a variety of rigid cocks tenting black dress pants, brown khakis, army green cargo pants. “Do you want me?” I push one finger into my hot pussy hole, burying myself up to the joint.

  “Do you yearn to fill me?” I pump myself, in and out, a wet sucking sound accompanying my panting. “I’ll be so tight for you, clinging to your big, thick cock.”

  It’s Hawke’s cock I envision stretching me to the point of pain, my military man owning my body. I add a second, a third finger, trying to mimic his girth, unable to achieve this. There’s no replacing him.

  His name dangles on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t voice my preference, not wishing to hurt Nicolas. The men in the room are here by my billionaire’s invitation. They know and respect him. I won’t humiliate him by calling for his rival.

  Instead, I’ll allow every man to believe he’s my fantasy.

  “I’ll show you everything.” I tug on my sundress, freeing my small breasts, my nipples pink and taut against my pale curves. “These are yours also.” I squeeze my breasts hard. Hawke would suck on them, flick my sensitive flesh with his tongue.

  I pinch my nipples with my wet fingers and cry out, the sweet pain traveling straight to my pussy. This entrance is frustratingly empty. Both of my hands are occupied, cupping my small breasts, and I need more. I need a man.

  The room is filled with eager volunteers, assistants willing to fill me with their hard cocks. A gang bang holds no appeal for me. A fast fuck by a stranger leaves me cold. I want, desire, crave only one man—Hawke. He has my loyalty and my body.

  Hawke’s not here, so I reach for the alternative, removing the dildo from the box. It’s gorgeous, resembling a pearl necklace I once saw in a window display at Tiffany’s.

  These pearls are fused together and I rub their length over my chin, between my breasts, jiggling the dog tags nestled there. The glass is cool against my skin, the bumps thrilling me. I trace first my right nipple and then my left, teasing my body.

  Before Friendly’s challenges, I’d never known sex toys could be this stunning and this satisfying, offering an intriguing substitution for the real thing. His missions have allowed me to explore, to push my sexual boundaries, to unleash my inner pervert and revel in her unique demands.

  “I’m your kinky little freak.” I slide the dildo over my cloth-covered stomach, the friction warming the glass.

  “Your naughty girl.” I thread the artificial shaft through my private curls, inching the tip slowly toward my pussy, aware that my audience is watching me, listening to my excited pants, my soft moans.

  “And you want me this way.” I’m speaking to Hawke. He’s the voyeur to my exhibitionist, a fellow pervert.

  “Spread wide and open to you.” I slide the first pearl into my entrance.

  “Yes,” I cry, the fullness divine. My pussy lips hug the dildo, pink flesh kissing white glass, softness cradling an unyielding form.

  I gaze into the blackness. Are my audience members as enthralled as I am? As though offering an answer, a chair creaks. Are they leaning forward, taking a closer look?

  I push the second pearl inside me. “Oh, God.” My thighs shake. A man has only one cock head. I now have two inside my pussy, two rims pressing against my inner walls.

  I slide the dildo deeper and deeper, each sphere adding more sensation, driving me toward the edge. My juice
s drip along the glass, wetting my fingertips.

  “It feels so good.” I close my eyes for a second, savoring the experience. The dildo isn’t as large as Hawke, but the bumps are magical, every shift inside me stimulating multiple points.

  I pull the dildo out as slowly as I pushed it into my pussy, my arms and legs quivering, each pearl extraction drawing a moan from my lips. The glass glistens with my wetness, the surface hot and slick. I press down on my clit with my thumbs, bombarding my body with more bliss.

  I push the dildo in, pull it out, repeating the motion, each invasion and retreat increasing my need, a tight band of emotion strapping around my chest. I forget about my audience, forget about everything except my desire and the man dominating my thoughts.

  “Hawke, Hawke, Hawke.” I chant my former marine’s name, requiring this connection to him, his presence, real or imagined, necessary for satisfaction.

  I envision his rough hands on my breasts, his breath on my ear, his body over the top of me, pressing me into the chair cushion. My inner walls constrict around the glass, moisture spattering my thighs, and I ravish myself harder, faster, thrusting my hips upward as I plunge the dildo into my pussy.

  My voice grows louder, my pitch rising. I’m so close. All I need is a little bit more. I slap my clit as I drive the dildo into me. The pain shatters me, light and color burst in the darkness, and I scream, flinging my body into the air, reaching for Hawke.

  He isn’t there, my fingers grasp air, and I fall. The velvet-covered cushion softens my landing, the chair cradling me as I shudder and shake.

  “Hawke,” I whisper. My orgasms are his. My tremors ease. I slide the dildo out of my pussy and place it on the table. My fingers are sticky. Remembering my promise, I lick my skin clean, tasting my essence.

  If Nicolas is Friendly, he’ll know I’m not a good girl. No good girl tastes herself. No good girl masturbates in front of an audience. She definitely doesn’t love it as much as I do.