This is the moment the blond man has been waiting for. I feel the ball of the anal hook press firmly against my asshole. He just holds it in place and pushes and my sphincter, which has seen plenty of training in the last few months, opens up on cue and swallows the ball. It nestles in me and each time I twitch, I can feel it move inside my body.
I am almost feverish with arousal.
The top keeps spinning.
The blond man’s hand is on my pussy lips. In my head there’s only room for one thought and that’s a fervent plea to be touched. I need hard strokes. I need a fat cock splitting me open. I need firm hands on my thighs, holding them apart even if I want to writhe away. I need hard slaps to keep me in line.
I need to see the same wild desire in the eyes of the Watcher. I need him to do all these things to me and more. But the Watcher has a role to play here and it is not to participate.
The briefest of touches on my pussy and then I’m lifted up like a rag doll once again. I’m positioned on my knees and I can feel the anal hook shift deep in my body. My pussy gushes in response.
The man with black hair moves directly in front of me, cock in hand. He moves his hand up and down the shaft while keeping his eyes on me. “Are you ready to suck cock, little slut?” There’s a trace of mockery in his tone but I don’t care. My eyes are fixed on the bead of precum that has formed. I want to reach out with my tongue and lick it clean.
Fingers unbuckle the strap of the ball gag, which falls forward on the seat. I pay it no mind. I’m being pushed down on the cock in front of me and all I want to do is suck.
The noise of sex fills the room. I’ve always thought of it as a very distinctive sound - a retching, gagging, slurping noise that sends arousal spiking painfully through my body. My pussy aches for contact and I clench tightening muscles around the hook. I bounce up and down on the bench trying to see if I can rub my pussy against my heel. It’s shameful and humiliating, but at this moment I’ll do anything to get myself off.
“Stop that.” The blond man speaks, his voice sharp with rebuke. A stinging slap on my ass expresses his displeasure. “It is not up to you to decide when you get to come, little slut.”
I want to apologize, but my lips are wrapped around the dick. The man with the black hair is relentless. His cock shoves in and out of my mouth, thoroughly face-fucking me. I feel a thrill of need entwined with no small measure of fear. As the cock slides in and out, breathing becomes difficult. I pull back just a little, coughing and spluttering for breath, but he is unimpressed. “Suck it,” he orders.
The top keeps spinning.
There’s a wicked gleam in his eyes now. He pulls his dick out of reach and fists it in his hand again. “Do you want this?” he asks lazily.
I nod. Yes. Taking him in my mouth keeps my focus off my own need and the way the hook shifts in my ass every time I move.
“Then come get it,” he invites me, moving around the bench to a different side. I shift and shuffle on my knees, unsteady without my hands to support me, trying to chase a cock. My cheeks flush with shame as I feel the gaze of the Watcher on me.
“Come get it,” he says again, as if I’m a dog invited to play fetch.
As I move, I see the blond man move behind me. His fingers spread my ass cheeks apart, squeezing and kneading them as I bob my head on the dick in front of me. Then, he starts spanking me, rhythmically, keeping time with the thrusting of the cock in my mouth.
Every time the dick escapes my mouth, I need to ask permission to start sucking again. “Can I have it back, Sir?”
“That’s good.” I hear the approval in his voice. “There you go, my little slut. Incomplete without a cock in your mouth, aren’t you?”
“Yes Sir.” I flush with shame as I utter those words. I peek at the Watcher. Nothing. Absolutely no expression.
“Dick in your mouth and fingers in your cunt.” These words are spoken by the blond man as he pushes two large fingers inside my slippery wet pussy. He doesn’t need to thrust them in and out - I do that hard work for him as I bounce up and down on the cock in my mouth.
Spanks across my ass. Nipples squeezed and pulled and pinched. The hook wriggled and rotated so every inch of my anal passage is stimulated. I’m shivering with need and animal lust. Every hole in my body is filled. A cock in my mouth. Fingers in my pussy. An anal hook in my ass.
“Tie the hook to her hair,” the dark-hair man suggests to the blond one. He seems the more dominant of the two. I see the blond man grin at that idea and he quickly complies.
Now, every sensation is magnified a hundredfold. When my head bobs on the cock, the ball is pulled deeper into me. When the blond man adds a third finger to his assault on my pussy, I feel so full I think I might explode.
“Can I have it back, Sir?” I ask as the cock once again slides out of my mouth. He slaps my cheek a few times with his fat dick, leaving a mixture of drool and precum on the side of my face. Behind me, the blond man pulls his fingers out of my pussy and wipes his fingers clean on my ass. For emphasis, he smacks me once he’s done. A sharp burst of pain radiates from that spot.
“Keep asking,” the black-haired man orders. His cock keeps hitting the side of my cheek. “And stick out your tongue like a panting, begging little slut.”
I pant. I stick out my tongue. I beg. “Please can I have your cock, please can I have your cock, please can I have your cock…?” My words are jumbled together in one string of need.
I want to come so very badly. But the blond has been careful not to stimulate my clitoris. The pleasure I need, the pleasure I crave - it is being withheld from me.
I whimper and plead. There’s a haze in my brain. All I can think about is how badly I need to come.
“Down, bitch.” The blond man’s hand is at my back, and he pushes me forward. I unbalance and fall on my shoulders, and the blond man takes advantage of my splayed open pussy and pushes his dick into me.
If I told you I heard the sound of the condom wrapper tear, I’d be lying. I should pause and ask. Safety first, right? The thought doesn’t even cross my mind. I have no idea if he’s using a condom or not but it doesn’t even register that I don’t know. I’m too far gone. All that exists is my steady begging for a climax.
The spanks on my ass are swift and hard. Each thrust rocks me forward on the bench. The man with black hair closes his fingers around his cock and watches as the blond man fucks me hard. “Tight cunt,” he chokes out. I wonder if he can feel the ball in my ass on each thrust. Does it feel good as his head grinds against the thin barrier of skin separating my anal passage from my vaginal one? It feels good to me. Intense. The stimulation is almost painful but the thought of stopping doesn’t even occur to me.
“Did someone tell you that you could stop begging?” The hard words are a startling contrast to the Irish lilt. The man with the black hair looks displeased and I realize that my chants pleading for his cock have stopped, replaced by whimpering and moaning.
“Can I please have your cock in my mouth Sir?” I correct myself and begin that mantra again. “Please Sir, please will you use my mouth?”
He lets me plead for a few minutes, watching me with mocking eyes. Then he sits down on the bench and grabs me by the ropes wound around my body, lifting my shoulders up to rest on his lap. His cock rubs against my chin.
“Find it and take it in your mouth,” he orders.
I try. It takes effort to lift myself and push down on his cock, distracted as I am by the way the blond man’s balls are slapping against me, by the way my pussy is being stretched open, by the stinging pain in my ass as his palms strike against them repeatedly. But I manage. My mouth again closes over the cock, and I suck.
In time, I feel them come. The blond man grunts and grabs my hips, grinding deep into me as he climaxes. The black-haired one makes me work for it. I bob my head repeatedly on his dick, my jaw aching and my throat raw before he too explodes and I swallow strands and strands of ejaculate.
Finally, they u
ntie me and I lie there on the bench, on my back, with my legs spread open. “Please,” I beg them. “Please make me come.” I need them to do this for me. I need their touch on my clitoris. I am only seconds away.
They look at each other. “Toss for it?” one of them asks, pulling a coin out of his pocket. “Loser gets to make the slut come?”
I flinch, as if they physically hit me. Shame washes over me. The loser gets to touch my pussy and make me climax? The loser? I should get up and get out of there. I should never come back to this dungeon again. I feel shame. I feel numb.
I lie there with my legs open as the coin is flipped.
The top keeps spinning.
Three months ago, I was a fashion designer in New York, nothing more. I juggled work and frequent flights home to sit at the bedside of my mother. I had secret cravings to be taken and used, but don't we all have secret sexual desires?
How did I get here, you ask? What is the path that takes someone who exists in the real world and brings her here to this shadowy place where only lust dominates? For that, we must turn the page…
Chapter 1
The phone kept ringing, loud and insistent. The alarm blared untended in the corner. The announcer on the radio was saying something about Lady Gaga. I dragged the blankets over my head and ignored it all. I definitely didn’t want to wake up.
An annoying beep followed, the noise that my phone made when I had voicemail. Then the phone started ringing again.
“Go the fuck away,” I mumbled, groping for it. “Hello,” I spoke blearily into the receiver. There had been plenty of drinking last night. I was hung over and hurting and I just wanted to go back to sleep.
“Wake up, Kelly.” The woman’s voice was a combination of amused and annoyed. “I’m just calling to confirm your lunch appointment with Mr. St. Clair.”
“Fuck, is that today?” I swore and opened my eyes to look at the time. Ten-thirty. I was meeting Miles at noon. I would have to hustle.
Paula, Miles’s uber-competent assistant, huffed in mild irritation on the other end of the line. “Yes, Kelly, it’s today. As you should know, since I called you two days ago to make sure you had put it on your calendar.”
“Sorry, sorry,” I soothed Paula. “There was a guy last night. Drinking, dancing, you know how it goes.”
Last night I’d received a call from the nursing home my mother was in. She was fighting some kind of infection that seemed incredibly resistant to any of the antibiotics they gave her. “She hasn’t been able to keep food down,” the woman at the other end of the line had said. “We are switching her to an IV.” They had to inform me according to the terms of the Power of Attorney. I’d clenched my fingers into fists, feeling helpless and unable to cope. An increasingly common feeling nowadays.
So I’d accepted an invitation to go out with a group of friends and had tried to drown all the painful memories in alcohol.
“I’m getting up now,” I replied to Paula. “I promise I won’t keep Miles waiting and he won’t go ballistic on your ass.”
There was a smile in her voice now. “Mr. St. Clair does not ever go ballistic on my ass, Kelly.” No doubt. I couldn’t imagine Miles ever creating a scene. He was pleasant and polite and well-mannered and very square. “I got the two of you reservations at Le Cirque.”
Despite my pounding headache I laughed aloud, then winced as a fresh slice of pain went through me. “Paula,” I told her, “you are the most awesome person in the entire universe.”
“Just get there on time, Kelly,” she responded pertly, though her voice had softened. “Because while I’m sure they’ll hold Mr. St. Clair’s reservation, he also has a meeting back in the office at two that he cannot miss.”
Miles St. Clair. Part science-geek, part business-genius. Miles had founded a biotech company in college, working with a bunch of graduate students to patent their research and try to monetize it. One of their ideas had struck gold. The venture capitalists had knocked on his door; massive sums of money had been invested and less than ten years later, Miles was one of New York’s many billionaires and the CEO of St. Clair Biotech.
He had also been my next-door neighbor growing up in Akron, Ohio. Before my mom’s illness, our mothers had been best friends. When I’d finished college a few years after him and moved to New York with a dream of working in fashion, my mother had called Miles and asked him to keep an eye on me and he’d promised he would.
Miles always kept his promises. Every second week, we would have lunch on a Friday, while Miles carefully probed the details of my life and made sure that I was well.
But his kindness went deeper than that. When my mother had been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s when she was only fifty two, it was Miles who had paid for the best medical care that money could buy. I’d stammered out my thanks and he’d given me a surprised look out of his bottle-green eyes. “Kelly, your mom has cooked dinner for me more times that I can count. Of course I’m going to pay. She’s family.”
He’d paid for a multitude of hospital bills and now, month after month, he footed the bill for the luxurious nursing home she lived in. Once a month when he flew home to Akron to visit his mother, he gave me a ride on his private plane, since of course, billionaires didn’t fly commercial. And I scraped together every bit of money I could afford and flew home once more a month to visit my mother, even though she never remembered me. Every single time, these visits broke my heart.
It had been Paula’s idea that our lunches would be at places I wouldn’t otherwise be able to afford. Three years ago, my eyes had turned wistful at the mention of some fancy eatery and she’d remembered. Ever since then, our lunch dates were always at Manhattan’s finest restaurants.
Today’s meal was at Le Cirque.
The one advantage of working as an assistant to a fashion designer was that I never had to worry about what to wear. My insanely tiny studio apartment in Brooklyn, an illegal sublet from an old Irish man who had moved to Florida upon retirement, was over-crowded with my sewing machines, half-constructed clothing and carefully folded yards of fabric. I pulled out my newest finished creation, a teal knit dress that dipped low in the front and stopped just shy of my knees and slipped it over my shoulder. I swallowed some ibuprofen, hoping it would keep the pounding headache at bay as I headed towards the subway.
I was only five minutes late but of course, Miles was already there, sipping a glass of sparkling water. Though it was Friday and summer in New York, he was still formally dressed, wearing a grey suit and a pale blue shirt. His only concession to the weather was that he had loosened the knot on his tie.
“Hello Miles.” I slid into the chair the waiter held out for me and smiled my thanks at him, before turning to look at the piece of eye-candy that was Miles St. Clair.
His hair, in shades of brown that ranged from chocolate to caramel, was longer than strictly appropriate for a serious New York businessman. But sadly, that was it in terms of rebellion for Miles. In every other way, Miles always did the right thing. The boring thing, I thought snidely. He’d been something of a wild kid in high school and in college, but that version had disappeared many years ago.
“Kelly,” he raised his glass in greeting. “How’ve you been?”
“You saw me last week,” I pointed out. We’d flown to Akron on his private plane, but Miles had had to work the entire flight. I’d just curled up on a plush seat and read a book.
He nodded. “But I was on the phone most of the time.”
“I’m doing okay,” I replied. “I’m thinking of applying to a job at Zac Posen.”
“Not enjoying your current job?”
We were interrupted by the waiter taking our food order. Miles didn’t bother glancing at the menu. I hastily scanned it as the waiter stood patiently. “Could I get the tasting menu please?” I finally asked. I loved variety.
“I’ll have the same,” Miles said. He looked at me expectantly once the waiter had departed, waiting for me to continue my conversat
ion.
“I am,” I replied. “I like working with Nina. But I also feel like I’ve learned everything there is to learn. A bigger name would look better on my resume.”
“True.”
More than once, people asked me why I’d never hooked up with Miles. After all, he was single, rich and impossibly good-looking. There were so many answers to that question. The easiest being that there were two people in that particular equation and they both needed to want to tango. But a truer explanation was that I was a ticking genetic time bomb and I had no desire to inflict that on anyone else. I couldn’t put anyone through the same emotional wringer I’d been through since my mom had been diagnosed.
In addition, there were the things I wanted sexually and the things that I thought Miles wanted, and these didn’t intersect. Miles wouldn’t understand my desire for pain and oblivion. Once upon a time, I thought Miles and I were cut from the same cloth. I would have sworn that we each had a darker hidden self that hungered to escape.
But in New York I’d come to realize that Miles and I were two very different people. It wasn’t his wealth, but it was the ease with which he’d had embraced New York society. He’d maintained the utter properness required of being a CEO of a Fortune 500 company, with no rebellion and no desire that he’d ever wanted something different.
I was much less proper. I sang karaoke while completely drunk. I danced and stumbled into people without inhibitions. I wanted to grind against strange men and be used by them. Perhaps I was subconsciously packing all the life I could into a short period of time, always aware that there was a ticking clock in the background and my memories could be erased, bit by precious bit.
Miles had never been a bad boy. But growing up there’d always been a wicked gleam in his eyes. A gleam that said that if you stuck around he’d take you exploring and it would be something you wouldn’t easily forget. Now, all that was left was his genuinely interested smile and immaculate politeness. I couldn’t see Miles slamming me against a wall and taking me. I couldn’t see him curving his fingers around my throat and I couldn’t see him holding a whip over me.
The Darker Side of Love (A Dark Erotica Boxed Set) Page 2