While They Watch

by Sosie Frost

  Somehow, halfway across the city and over the phone, he’d caught my bed on fire. I twisted under the blankets, but the softness tangled with my legs, and, for the briefest, most mesmerizing of seconds, I was immobile.

  “Do you understand?” Anthony asked.

  “Yes.”

  My voice was an unashamed whisper, but, as soon as I’d spoken, the silence cracked like a whip.

  Something was missing after the yes. I opened my mouth, but just thinking the word sir sent my body into shivers. Saying it would launch me into orbit.

  Anthony’s laugh rumbled, deep and mellow. “Dinner first, then we’ll explore a bit more.”

  “Okay.” I licked my lips. “I’ll text you my answer.”

  “Good girl.”

  I sizzled. It was like he wanted me to explode. I struggled to think of something, anything to respond, but, in two words, he’d both complimented and patronized me.

  It was insulting. It was sexy as hell.

  I wished he’d say it again.

  But the endearment was his goodbye. I ended the call and groaned.

  Did he have this effect on all women? Maybe I just craved that sort of wild intensity?

  I used to love structure and rules and formulaic discipline, especially when rehearsing for a show. Was his world so different?

  Every nerve ending in my body seared raw and hot. I gave it a minute then responded.

  I can’t wait to see you again, Sir.

  That word looked bright against the message. Bright and terrible and visible for a man to read and understand every vulnerability that twisted deep inside me.

  The blanket tangled me more. I kicked to move it, but my hand brushed my panties. I sucked in a breath then seized a handful of the throw. It pushed against the most sensitive and desperate area between my legs.

  And I rubbed.

  He was a complete, potentially dangerous stranger, but who was I kidding? Every part of me ached for Anthony’s touch.

  I ground the blanket against my panties. A surge of tickling pleasure wove over me. I was getting better at this, better at learning what my body liked. Part of me wished I learned how to please myself years ago. It might have resolved a lot of my frustration.

  I rubbed again. Harder this time. Undoubtedly, Anthony would know how to please a woman.He’d probably delight me better than I could myself.

  Just imagining it was a naughty thrill. I’d be under him, of course. Every bit of his seduction was framed by his body. Never forceful, never to frighten, but his strength could easily pin his conquest to a bed.

  His thick arms would press against my sides, keeping me still and in place, just for him. He’d lean down, skip kissing my lips and dive right for the neck.

  He probably liked to bite.

  I arched again, abandoning the blanket. It was soft, but I didn’t need soft. I needed relief.

  No one would have to know. I used my fingers instead, pressing the cotton of my panties against my slit. They were wet now. Shameful, but it was exactly the reaction Anthony would want.

  I closed my eyes and imagined him over me, my legs trapped under his and my arms gripping his biceps as he kissed me.

  No.

  He’d prefer my arms over my head.

  That positioning felt so much more Anthony.

  He probably loved this part—the begging need right before he conquered. Watching his woman squirm as he ducked down to kiss her breasts. I dragged my other hand over my chest, imagining his mouth against my nipple. Sucking. Pulling. Then moving further down. Tonguing my navel. Opening my legs and kissing between my thighs.

  Getting eaten out sounded like the greatest and dirtiest experience in the world. I imagined the feeling of a tongue against my clit. Soft and warm and gentle enough to hit the sensitive parts again and again and again.

  The panties got in my way. I pulled them to the side, and the wetness sucked me in.

  This was what I wanted. Anthony over me, pleasuring me, readying me for him.

  Preparing.

  The thought earned a stronger wiggle between my legs. Anthony would need to prepare me for sex. Petite was one way to describe me. Two inches away from my very own parking space was another. Size hadn’t been a concern before. I’d never thought being tiny would be a challenge.

  But someone like Anthony didn’t become the former owner of a sex club without…qualifications.

  My insides clenched as if he had slipped within me. I groaned. He’d probably make me take all of him, every last inch. My trembling hand worked like my own vibrator, and the thought made me purr.

  What would it feel like?

  Overwhelming? Aching? Would it hurt?

  Or would it feel perfect, a perfect bliss within his arms.

  I’d do whatever it took to have it. I’d work to take him inside me. I’d stretch. I’d beg. I’d obey his every command even if I didn’t understand what he wanted.

  Maybe he’d fuck me hard and brutal, ripping me apart with a raging cock.

  Maybe he’d want me tied up and at his mercy, blindfolded and anxious.

  Maybe he’d push me down and make me serve him with my mouth, my hands, my body. Every part of me built for his pleasure.

  And I’d do it. It had been too long since I pleased someone. Anyone. In any way.

  My fingers moved quick and frantic. The pressure built in me, trembling my arms, legs, words. I whispered his name, again and again, just to taste that darkness on my tongue.

  And I burst into a million little pieces of indignity and delight.

  I felt no better, but at least I could think now.

  A minute passed before I finally tore my hand away from between my legs. My fingers were wet—wet enough to wipe against my sheet. It might have grossed me out once. Now it only encouraged me to explore more.

  I rolled over onto my stomach. I still panted and absently pressed myself into the mattress.

  Again?

  There were ten-step-programs for people who needed to masturbate that much.

  Step one: Admit Anthony was my problem. A perfectly delicious problem that rocked every nook of my body.

  It wasn’t fair. Anthony already owned me, and we’d only had a coffee date.

  What would happen once I completely surrendered?

  4

  I’d heard of dressing for success.

  But dressing for submission? That was a little harder.

  I had only one formal dress, but I kept the dreadful thing hidden in the back of the closet.

  It fit looser than it did when I last wore it. I guessed that was good. Most girls gained weight in college, and the ones who bounced out probably put on a ton more. Fortunately, I didn’t have the disposable income to waste on fast food.

  The dress ended right above my knees, and the neckline left everything to the imagination. About what one would expect from a concert black dress. Presentable, form-fitting, but nothing dramatic, so the audience would focus on the instruments and not the artist.

  Usually it worked well…until someone made a mistake.

  Until someone butchered an easy solo so badly even the French horns thought it sounded bad.

  Until someone forgot the song, dropped the bow, and stopped breathing as a year’s worth of fear and repressed anxiety choked her in the spotlight.

  Then it didn’t matter what someone wore. Naked or dressed, the symphony recruiter still witnessed the breakdown. Then every dream that certain someone had—from the time they first banged on Fisher Price instruments as a child—was ruined in an instant.

  The dress was a bad memory.

  At least a night with Antony might make it feel…lucky again.

  I pinned my hair into a low side bun and picked out a vibrant lipstick. The caramel shine on my mocha skin did nothing but make me hungry, but, hopefully, Anthony would feel the same way. I looked good. Scared, but my wide-eyes gave me a Disney Princess type allure.

  He’d probably like that.

  The doorbell rang.
My confidence crumbled.

  Moment of truth…

  I opened the door. Anthony waited, filling the entirety of my doorway.

  No going back now.

  I never wanted to go back.

  He dressed in a dark, tailored suit with a crimson tie. The simple splash of color drew my eyes up, up, up. In the rush to open the door, I’d forgot my heels. I teetered in his shadow, breath lost, remembering only the fantasized feel of his body against mine.

  “Hello, Morgan.” He could read my mind. A smile like that? Only one reason his greeting sounded victorious. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes...sir.”

  The floor rocked under my feet. Anthony’s smirk twisted into something unfamiliar—carnal and amused and delighted by my bewilderment.

  “Good girl.”

  His gaze cast over my home. A short glance, but that’s all it took. Studio apartment. Boxes stacked near the bed. Laptop and blanket on the busted couch. Every college kid’s dream.

  Except I wasn’t in college anymore.

  His suit was designer. His mannerisms impeccable. Anthony came from money. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he turned around and walked right out the door.

  Instead, he nodded towards me, his voice low. “Go get your shoes. We don’t want to be late.”

  It was such a gentle command, and I followed it. Easy. Without a thought, without a care.

  Without protest or worrying.

  Of course, it was only shoes. No need to judge my future sexual preferences and exploration on mandatory footwear.

  I did as he asked, slipping into my heels as I locked the door. My apartment was on the second floor, and usually it wasn’t worth the time to risk the wobbly elevator. I made the exception while wearing heels. We entered the cabin, and I reached for the ground floor button at the same time as Anthony.

  His palm curled over my wrist and squeezed. “Allow me.”

  I froze. He didn’t hurt me, but he could have easily driven me to my knees. I obeyed, letting him push the button.

  A subtle hint. He’d be making the decisions tonight.

  Oh, this was going to take some getting used to.

  Anthony didn’t release me until he reached his ride. He opened the door for me. Parallel parking was impressive enough. The vehicle was overkill. I didn’t even want to price the sleek, black Mercedes, but it had to cost well more than my bungled college education.

  I slid into the seat with a quiet thanks. He wore a custom suit. Drove an amazing car. Owned and sold his own nightclub.

  Who the hell did this lawyer represent?

  The seat belt dug into the valley between my breasts. He saw. I bit my lip as he merged into traffic.

  Anthony adjusted the air conditioning and turned on the radio while we drove. The car synced to his iPhone, and he nudged the control on his steering wheel. Violins whined over the speakers.

  Oh no.

  He spoke with a gentle pride. “I didn’t know which song was your favorite.”

  None of them. Not anymore.

  “Thanks.” I forced a smile. “I’ll let you know when it plays.”

  “I want you to be comfortable tonight. If something bothers you, we can leave at any time.”

  Like now?

  I eyed the track listing on the radio display. Bach. Sonata No. 1. Every repressed memory beat back to the forefront of my mind in time to the movement.

  I pretended to ignore it. If I could make it through violins without keeling over, dinner would be a cinch. Still, it was good to be prepared.

  “Should I have a safe word?”

  Anthony’s eyebrows rose. We rolled to a stoplight, but the light mercifully turned green. His attention drifted back to the road.

  “You’ve heard the term?”

  “That’s about the only thing I do know. Submissives use the word if they don’t like something.”

  “It’s a word to use if they feel threatened or unsafe.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  The darkness of the car couldn’t hide Anthony’s smirk. “I’d say so.”

  “So...what word do I use?”

  “For this dinner, Anthony, take me home should do the trick.” He brushed my hand and the pressure in my chest eased. “A safe word is something different though. In my experience, the best ones are words with a negative connotation. Something non-sexual that the sub doesn’t like. Spinach. Traffic. Nicolas Cage.”

  “Concerto.”

  He hesitated. “I’m sorry?”

  “Concerto. That’s my word.”

  Anthony frowned, but he didn’t press me. He fiddled with the controls on the wheel. A few seconds of silence passed before a classic rock station popped on the radio.

  It wasn’t my favorite type of music, but I suddenly loved Aerosmith.

  “You won’t need a safe word,” he said. “But I’m glad you have it. That means we can trust each other.”

  “You have to trust me?”

  “Of course.”

  “But I’m not the one holding a…”

  “Holding a what?”

  Whip? Crop? What did these guys use? “All the cards.”

  He liked that. “These experiences are meant to be pleasurable. I’m introducing you to very intense opportunities. You’ll need to trust every action I take, everything I show you, and everything I might do to you. Do you understand?”

  I nodded. He exhaled, harsh. I caught my mistake.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good girl.”

  I beamed. Got the question right and impressed the teacher. That hadn’t happened in a long time. I forgot how good it felt.

  “Do you have dinners like this often?” I asked.

  “We try to arrange something once or twice a month. I haven’t done sushi in a while.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “The…” He smirked over the word. “Elite of Duchess.”

  “So the VIP room has a VIP section?”

  “Those who prefer to live this way permanently.”

  “As opposed to?”

  “The occasional game.” Anthony hummed. “Many people have similar desires to ours, but not many are willing to commit fully to the lifestyle.”

  “But you do?”

  “Yes. 24/7.”

  “You never turn it off?” I giggled. “I mean, are you always turned on?”

  “No, actually. I’m not currently…” His eyebrow rose. “Involved with anyone.”

  “Why not?” I didn’t know if that was too forward, so I added the sweetness. “Sir.”

  “Work.” He tapped his cellphone. “I have very important clients, and I travel. Considerably. Between here and San Jose. When I work, I’m probably too focused. And when I want to relax…”

  I bit my lip. “Yes?”

  “Let’s just say…I’m demanding. Not every woman can fulfill my needs.”

  “Can I handle it?” I toyed with the seat belt, looking away. “I mean…there must be a reason I’m here. That you agreed to…”

  “This is dinner only, Morgan. You’ll have to decide how far you’re willing to go.”

  “I’m feeling lucky.”

  “See if you still feel that way at the end of tonight.”

  “You make everything seem so dangerous,” I said. “How wild can sushi get, sir?”

  “You have no idea.”

  But I couldn’t wait to find out.

  When was the last time I had been excited by something?

  The restaurant wasn’t far from my apartment, but I’d never frequented it. Nothing on the menu, not even the appetizer, fit my modest budget. I was used to drive-throughs. Here, Anthony passed his keys to a valet.

  Fancy should have made me nervous. But Anthony offered his arm, and I tucked tight against his body.

  One deep breath and I was lost. His scent, sharp and fresh, wound over me. My tummy clenched. Everything about this man set me on fire. His touch. His voice. His body. He was as gorgeous as he was mysterious, and somehow I
knew even if I’d stripped him of his clothes, I’d still never uncover all that was Anthony.

  And I liked that. All lust demanded anonymity. Maybe it’d be easier to survive this night, these fantasies, if I kept it casual.

  He wanted submission. I wanted adventure and excitement and a new way to hide from all the darkness that upset my stomach when I was supposed to be sleeping.

  I needed this. Nothing would rid me of my old life faster than shedding the remaining parts of me that labeled me a failure. My virginity would be first to go.

  If I could survive this dinner.

  A maître d’ as guided us through the dining room. The light strumming of a folksy lute murmured over the restaurant. Crystal place settings and vibrant chinas set at the tables, finished with white tablecloths, hundred dollar glasses of wine, and candles. This was plenty ritzy for a formal party, but the maître d’ led us to the entrance of a private room.

  The door was closed.

  Anthony took my hand before we entered.

  “We’re going to get serious now,” he warned.

  My throat closed. I thought we were pretty serious before.

  “We don’t have time to discuss the required etiquette, so I’ll expect you to observe. Be polite, but there are no mistakes tonight. You’re learning.” He lifted my hand to his lips. His kiss came with instructions. “You will be dining with my friends, and they have expectations for their submissives. Don’t speak unless someone speaks to you. When you do speak, be respectful. Remember to use Sir and Ma’am.”

  “Even to people who aren’t you?”

  That smirk. Dark and twisted. His hand brushed over my cheek. I warmed, but he bumped my chin up, forcing me to lose myself in his eyes.

  Dark, hypnotic eyes.

  “Morgan…” My name even amused him. It rolled over his lips like a caress. “You are innocent.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “For me.” His stare bound me to his will. “I’ll have to be very careful with you. That sort of innocence…intrigues me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I keep thinking about where to fit you into Duchess’s hierarchy.” Anthony chuckled. Mischievous? Maybe I should have been worried. He tugged my hand, pulling me closer. “You, little one, will address everyone as Sir or Ma’am.