by CELENE CAREY
Blinded to him, to what he did, where he looked, she felt momentarily paralyzed. Fear exciting her as much as her odor. Every touch was tripled, every breath of air, his or the air-conditioning, amplified, every, every sound arousing.
Her breaths came in rasps. His hands found their way to her flesh, his fingers working over her skin not unlike a masseuse. He stroked along her hip bones, along the sides of her thighs, down the long length of her legs. She fought against the urge to giggle, her finely-tuned tickle reaction threatening to burst from her lips. Down to the bottoms of her feet, he stopped, replacing his tongue with his fingers as Mr. Adams licked along the top of each toe and then across her arch. Biting her tongue, she forced her body to be still.
First one foot, then the other. She shook, her whole body wracked with the effort to remain calm. Then, he backed off. She sucked in air. But what came next was nearly too much to bear--her body already stretched to the point of breaking.
She felt him move away, the cool air replacing his body heat. When he returned a moment later, she nearly cried out. Then, she did. A leather strap, hot to the touch, struck the bottoms of her feet. Back and forth, slaps railed against her. She pulled her legs up instinctively, earning a hard crack of the strap across her calves and upper thighs. She willed her legs to straighten, to take the bit of pain. Even as her feet stung, she felt the flare of the pain radiate up her slender legs and pool between her folds.
His strikes slowly moved north, gentling then hardening in a nonsensical pattern. He pushed her legs apart and whacked her inner thighs from knee to crotch. She was panting, trying to predict where he’d hit next, never right, always wrong. There was no preparation for his slaps. She had no recourse, no time. Her body could only react.
As he inched closer to her most nerve-dense and secretive of areas, she held her breath in anticipation, only to be denied as he stopped and shifted beside the bed. The following rails rained down upon her chest and breasts.
He slid the leather strap across her aching nipples, drawing a whimper from her lips. His first strike upon this virgin field had her arching up and into the punishment. Her breasts bobbed and jiggled, despite their size, and she bucked within her restraints, begging him for more. Her nipples peaked, pebbled, the tips engorged and bright red. Crimson marks came to life across her pale flesh as he rewarded her growing excitement with more smacks of the leather strap.
She was used to Mr. Stone’s bare-handed spankings, but this, this was new. This was better. Each crack of the strap made her blood boil and rise to the surface of her skin, heating her inside and out. Angelique was a cauldron of hot, hot, hot passions.
“Are you liking this?” He asked, his tone jovial.
She nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir.”
“Are you ready for me?”
Shuddering at his implication, afraid to speak the truth--that she wanted more of the leather strap… on her pussy--she hesitated in answering.
“Answer me!” The stern words, so aptly shouted by Mr. Stone when she faltered, were this time spoken softly, though as sternly. It was worse.
“No,” she cried out, remembering a second too late to add the ‘sir’ in her haste to soothe his impatience. “Sir.”
“What did you say?”
“No, sir.”
“Better.” Though his tone did not suggest it entirely. “Any why not?”
“Please, sir?” she begged.
“Yes,” he encouraged, leaning over her. She felt his lips nibble beneath her ear, his breath caress the whorls of her ear.
“Strike my pussy.” The words were less than a whisper.
His laugh boomed in the sudden calm of the room.
What followed was nothing short of the most amazing night of her life. Angelique got her wish, the leather strap finding a home between her legs. He teased and tortured her as she’d begged. Giving her all he had until she erupted in a panic, her come squirting across the sheets of his bed. Only then, had he turned her over, to treat her sweet ass to the same torturous teasing until she was grinding her pussy into the rumbled, wet sheets. Her voice was raw, her wrists bleeding where the cuffs cut into her, when at last Mr. Adams had seated himself fully in her pussy.
His cock pounded through her sheath. Ripping orgasm after orgasm from her. She was nothing but his submissive, a toy with which he pleasured himself. And she couldn’t have been happier.
BOOK 10
HER CHOICE 3
(Her Bosses - A Ménage Romance Story)
KILIE SAMS
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Kindle Edition
Copyright 2015 Hardcore Erotica Stories
Published by Hardcore Erotica Stories
License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
First HARDCORE EROTICA STORIES Printing July 2015
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure inventions of fiction.
Chapter One
“Are you sure about this?”
“Yes,” she whispered in Mr. Adams ear, leaning close to press her lips against his ear, then lower to the tender skin beneath his ear. She felt his chest expand under her hands as she stroked across. She was only this brave because she knew Mr. Stone was deep in a meeting with the head of the company’s financial board. It was a regular every other Monday morning meeting. And Mr. Stone was nothing if not set in stone.
Laughing at her own joke, she moved away, looking up at the sharp ringing on her desk phone.
“Tell him and I’ll see you tonight. Dinner at your mother’s right?”
His hand flared over her hip as she turned, her first step down the hall followed by a sharp spanking to her panty-hose clad ass. She yelped. Thirty eyes turned in her direction, but she ignored them as she hurried to her desk.
Just in time, too. Mr. Stone threw open the his office door a moment later, storming out with the head trailing him. He was glaring, red cheeked, his forehead glistening with a sheen of frustrated sweat. Angelique knew the scene well. These meetings were rarely promising.
Mr. Stone bit off his string of curses as he caught sight of her. “Angelique here will get you all you need Mr. Farris. Won’t you?”
She stood, sending her rolling chair bumping into the wall. “Yes, sir.” She quickly shuffled through the stack of reports on her desk, retrieving the correct one. “It is right here.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Stone nodded, turning away from her, already done with Mr. Farris and their meeting. Having passed the older gentleman off to her, he was satisfied. “And when you’re done, Angelique, I need to see you.”
Shivering at his words, she couldn’t help the heaviness in her stomach nor the leak of moisture in her panties. He had her well trained. Very well trained.
The latch to his door clicked softly in place leaving his words float in the air around her not unlike his heavy, surprisingly spicy cologne. After knocking the sheaf of papers she’d collected for Mr. Farris into a tidy bundle, then slipping them deftly inside a report folder, she handed them over to the older man. With a perfunctory nod of thanks, she was abandoned to her boss’s final order.
It was now or never. She had to tell him she wanted out. Taking a handful of deep breaths, she straightened her shoulders and ran through the list of points she needed to make.
After her third orgasm of the night last nigh
t she’d told Mr. Adams that she wanted out. He’d been elated, literally thrilled with her decision. Even going so far as promising her a mind-blowing orgasmic weekend at Nags Head and suggesting he come over one night for dinner with her and her mother. At that, she had been floored.
But now she actually had to go in and speak with Mr. Stone. She had to tell him, possibly beg him, and hope he agreed to her decision. It was a long shot. One she had tried to warn Mr. Adams about. One he had brushed aside in his excitement.
Steeling herself against the barrage coming, she shoved through her boss’s door and into his inner sanctum. Instantly, the smell of his furniture polish, cologne, and the tangy bitterness of the bottle of scotch--after the meeting, no matter the time, he always partook a shot--sitting on the edge of his desk, struck her. She sucked in her breath at the assault and the memories which flooded her mind.
“Yes?” he asked, not looking at her. His eyes were closed, his head propped back on the leather office chair, the shot glass pressed to his forehead above his nose.
“You asked to see me.”
Groaning, he sat up, placing the glass open side down beside the bottle. “I did.” He stared at her and she tried not to fidget under his gaze. Mr. Stone cleared his throat. “Lock the door.” She knew what was coming. She held her ground. He frowned. He didn’t like to repeat his orders. It was rule number five. Not that he had ever written the rules down. Still, she knew them all by heart.
“Lock the door.” Standing, he placed his palms flat on the desk.
“I would rather not.” She held his stare, firmed the line of her mouth, and prayed to whatever deities were available that she would survive today. Marks were likely, though she hoped no scars.
She winced as she sat down at the table, her grip tightening as Mr. Adams helped her. His eyebrow lifted. “I’m fine,” Angelique answered his unspoken question, her eyes flicking toward her mother across the dining room table. “Really.” She let go of his hand, hers only slightly shaking as she dropped it to her lap. Pushing in her chair, he moved to the final setting, at the head of the elaborate and pointless table. Angelique hadn’t believed the hotel had gone so far as to installing this monstrosity in a suite of rooms that would, honestly only be used by at most four people. It was stupidity, basic stupidity.
Yet right now she appreciated its presence. Had they been at her mother’s house, they would be dining around an old folding table draped with a yellow checkerboard, hand-hemmed linen square.
Her mother had insisted on preparing dinner. Considering how, exactly, the fire which had rehomed them here had begun, Angelique had managed to talk her into having one of the executive chefs from the hotel kitchen help her--or rather watch her. She was grateful to the man, who had despite her pushing, not accepted the money she’d offered to pay him for the “babysitting” duty claiming that he had his own mother at home and more than understood.
Were she not involved with Mr. Adams and Mr. Stone, she would have given the young chef a serious look. Another time, another place.
Dinner--seared steak, potatoes, ham-hocked peas and leeks, and for dessert, a heaping spoonful of peach cobbler--was delicious even if it appeared as though her family or mother, in particular, were dyed-in-the-wool southerners. In fact, they’d never been further south than the Mason-Dixon line.
“So, Mr. Adams--”
“Call me Daniel, Mrs. Jacobson.”
She blushed. Honest to God, blushed. Angelique shook her head at her mother’s attempt at flirting--for her daughter’s case only. “Okay, Daniel,” she sighed after saying the name, “how was your dinner?”
“Very fine, Mrs. Jacobson. A family recipe?” He was just being nice. Angelique softened as she watched him and her mother talk about meal. Talking to her mother these days was nothing short of honeyed inanity. Anyone willing to give it a go and keep trying after a few minutes was a keeper in her books. The fact that a man who was both capable of giving her the best orgasm of her life and was good with her mother made her heart swell even more.
A half hour after they had all finished off all of the peach cobbler, Angelique excused herself and asked her mother to join her. Together they cleared the table. While Mr. Adams sat in the living area, with a glass of wine, Angelique rinsed the dishes as her mother lined them up in the small hotel dishwasher.
“Wow, Angie,” her mother only called her that when she was tired, “your young man is very handsome. He reminds me of my first husband. The fair hair and wide shoulders. He, too, was a handsome man.”
“Yes, he is,” Angelique agreed, handing her mother a plate.
“And so good in bed--”
“Mother!”
“Come now, you can’t still be a virgin, my dear,” she patted her wet towel to Angelique’s
cheek. “Surely you’ve had sex with this man. One so virile. If you don’t soon, someone else will.” Her mother stepped closer and palmed her daughter’s chin, pulling it down to look her in the eye. “Don’t be such a prude.”
Angelique burst into laughter. Nearly dropping the bowl she was scrubbing, she curled into herself as her stomach seized and she choked on the air. Blinking rapidly and heaving for breath, she finally calmed down, her mother’s fist pounding on her back.
“Don’t say things like that,” she chided her mom.
“Why not?”
“Well…” she paused, thinking of a good reason. “I don’t know, Mr. Adams might hear you.”
“If he’s waiting for me to give him the go ahead then you’ve already lost. Now, get out there. I’ll finish up here and then slip off to the bedroom.” Turning to the sink, she yanked the sponge from Angelique’s hands.
Shaking her head side to side, she backed away from her mother.
“And don’t worry about me, I sleep like the dead. Nothing wakes me.” Her mother’s voice chased her from the kitchen. The old woman was definitely losing it. Either that or she was finally being herself. And if that was the case then Angelique had a wild ride ahead of her.
“What did she say?”
Mr. Adams was standing as Angelique entered the room. His wine glass was resting on the table, his eyes locked on her as soon as she entered the room.
“Oh,” Angelique looked behind her, “nothing.” She crossed the room to him and as she stroked her hand down his arm, sat, bringing him with her. “Sorry about dinner.”
“It was fine.”
“She must have found Betty Crocker’s Best of the South cookbook somewhere. I only blame myself, I should have better checked what she gleaned from the remains of her house.”
“Really, don’t worry. It was good.”
She leaned into him, settling her hand over his. His body was arm in the cool hotel room. Snuggling closer, she just breathed in his scent. Tonight, he smelled like steak and potatoes. Like home cooking. Or perhaps that was just the remains of dinner wafting from it still sat on the dining room table.
“She reminds me of my mother.”
“Yes, she is very motherly.” Angelique’s tone softened as she considered her mom bustling about the kitchen. She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like growing up without a mother. Turning toward, Mr. Adams she caught the flicker of lamplight at the corner of his eye. Though not crying, she could tell he was close.
He shuddered beneath her as he took a steadying breath. “She used to cook meals like that all the time. My favorite was her Shepherd pie. Minus the peas, of course.”
“I got a lot of pasta and tacos, personally.”
He laughed at that, cutting off as her mother walked into the room. “Daniel. Angelique.” She paused as she saw them cuddled together on the plush sofa. In her hands, she carried twins bowls of ice cream, piled high with chocolate sauce, whipped cream, and a bright red cherry on top. “Wow. You look so familiar. Just like my little boy.” Angelique stood abruptly, pushing away from Mr. Adams. Her mother’s hands were shaking. Grasping the bowls a second before her mom dropped them, she saved the carpet.
“Little boy?” Her mother faced her, then, looking over her shoulder at Mr. Adams still on the sofa. “What little boy? You only had a girl, me.”
“No, I had a son. My first husband and I adopted an infant.”
“What?” Putting the bowls down on the coffee table, Angelique studied her mother. Her eyes were clear, focused on her, her mind clear and bright in their green-blue depths.
“I was married before I met your father. We were young, happy. He was unable to get me pregnant although we tried. What was once a happy family changed. A sad time. Had to leave my son behind. His father, well…” she trailed off. Angelique could guess the rest. And so could Mr. Adams. From the corner of her eye she saw him shift on the sofa, move to the edge and place his palms on his knees. His neck was craned forward, his eyes wide with shock.
“So, what… you have another family?”
“Did. I changed my name. Ran away.”
“What about your son?”
“I heard his father got married again. He had a new mom. My sister, she stayed back home. Your aunt kept a watch on the boy as he grew. Sent me postcards every once in awhile.”
“But she passed away over ten years ago…” Angelique was having trouble working out exactly what she was hearing.
“Yes. Car accident.”
“So, you never heard from her again after that?” Now Mr. Adams had stood. Crossing the open space between the women and himself, he moved with purpose. “Your son?”
Angelique’s mother swiveled to face Mr. Adams. “Would you like to see him? He was a handsome young man.” She looked hopeful, all at once her sanity fading away and the senility returning. It made sense. This late at night, her moods and mind wandered aimlessly. Angelique wasn’t surprised. The changes had been getting worse and worse each week. She needed to schedule an appointment with a specialist.