Dirty Bad Secrets

by West, Jade

  “Fuck off with the victim act, Faye. I don’t have any violins,” he said. His eyes were cold and angry. “You haven’t even tried to make it up to me, not even close. I doubt you ever could.”

  “Fine. I’ll go. Permanently this time. Forever.” I stood up, digging around my handbag for an age before I found the cold metal jangle of my keyring. My copy of the staff key took forever to come off its ring. Andy watched me with a stoic expression the entire time. He said nothing.

  Nothing until I’d slammed the key on his desk and reached the door on my out.

  When Andy Morgan spoke next it was an angry snarl in my ear, loud enough to give me shivers. The door slammed shut, trapping me back inside as he forced the weight of his body against mine.

  “You aren’t going fucking anywhere, Faye Devere.”

  ***

  Andy

  She was trembling. Buckling beneath her stupid fucking bravado. Three years hadn’t mellowed her any. She was the same flighty, highly-strung little bitch that I’d signed the lease papers with. The same little bitch with the same smart mouth.

  Fuck him.

  The words fuelled the anger in my gut. Years of resentment pounding behind my eyes.

  “You aren’t going fucking anywhere, Faye Devere.” A little squeal as I took her wrists and pinned them at her sides against the door, my breath in her ear. “It’s time you learned some fucking manners.”

  I eased up enough to spin her to face me. Her eyes were wide and shocked, lips slightly parted and begging to be bitten. She gasped as I ran my tongue across her mouth, squirming against the swell of my cock at her belly.

  “I won the fucking coin toss. This is my fucking week,” I growled. She tasted of anger and hurt and lemon alcopop. She tasted fucking delicious. “You cannot even comprehend how fucking pissed off I am.”

  “Show me,” she breathed. “Just fucking show me.”

  She folded so perfectly across my desk, grabbing hold of the edge as my hands hitched up her skirt. Her legs were perfectly toned, with just the slightest shadow of bruising remaining from our playroom session. I hooked my thumbs in the thin fabric of her panties, slipping them down around her thighs. They were beautifully wet, clinging perfectly to her clammy skin. She groaned as I pinched the ripe flesh of her arse.

  “Stay still,” I told her. “Don’t you dare move a fucking muscle unless I tell you, understand?”

  She nodded, gasping as I leaned down to nip at the tender flesh of her thigh. She shifted her legs apart, just enough that I could savour the pretty pink lips of her pussy. I slipped my fingers through her silver pussy rings, tugging until she squirmed. “When I’m in charge, you will fucking act like it. You will show me some respect. No fucking backchat, no fucking hissy fits, no fucking interfering.”

  I unbuckled my belt slowly, taking my time to ensure she’d hear me. She glanced back over her shoulder and her cheeks were flushed pink. She looked divine, dishevelled and flustered and embarrassed all at once. She looked like the girl I’d jacked off to far too many times. She looked like the same fucking girl who’d bailed on me and hadn’t given a shit, whose sweet flesh needed the pain of remorse.

  I looped the belt in two and held it in front of her face as she stared up at me with big dark eyes. “Kiss it,” I said. “Then you’ll say fucking please. Please, Andy, thank you for teaching me some fucking manners.”

  The flicker of a smile across her mouth. “Please, Andy.” Her eyes met mine as she kissed the leather. “Punish me, please. Make it hurt.”

  No fucking fear there.

  My muscles were wired, taut and hot as I gripped the belt in my fist and landed the first sharp lash on her backside. It made a lovely thwack. Tough leather on tender skin, fucking beautiful. She jolted forwards on the desk and gripped the edge tighter, but she didn’t make a sound. Her shoulders were rigid, breath tight as she prepared for the next strike.

  “Tell me how sorry you are,” I growled, pressing my palm to the small of her back.

  “Sorry, Andy,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  I landed the belt on her thighs and she squealed.

  “Tell me you’re fucking sorry!” I raised the belt again.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry, Andy. I’m really fucking sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?!”

  The leather bit at her skin, wrapping around her hip so savagely she sucked in breath.

  “I’m sorry... for the book... I’m sorry...” she whispered. I hit her harder, and it felt like fucking bliss. “I’m sorry for the things I said...”

  “What else?”

  She hesitated for too long. So long I had to punish her with five heavy lashes in a row. She squirmed and whimpered, shifting from foot to foot, and her ass glowed red, but still she stayed in position.

  “I’m sorry for being rude... fuck! Ow! Yes!”

  “And?”

  “I’m sorry for being disrespectful...”

  “More.”

  “I’m sorry for being bossy. Andy, I’m sorry!”

  “What else?”

  “I’m sorry… for leaving.”

  Her words were sweet music to my cock. I hit her hard and fast, until she whimpered and writhed and squirmed against the desk, and then I slipped my fingers between her thighs.

  “You’re a dirty little bitch, Faye. So fucking dirty.”

  “Please... more...” she gasped.

  And with that her whole body shifted. She was rolling with the endorphins, drifting into subspace. Her shoulders relaxed, her grip on the desk easing up, and her thighs opened for me, showing me that tight, wet little slit. I hit her. Harder.

  This time she was begging for more before she’d even stopped wriggling from the last. Her ass was beautiful and ripe and pink, her thighs streaked with colour.

  “Take me...” she whimpered. “Please, Andy... fuck me... I want you...”

  I yanked her hair back until I could whisper in her ear. “No. You don’t deserve it. My week. My rules.”

  “Shit, Andy, please!” she groaned, reaching for her clit. I slapped her hand away.

  “My fucking rules, Faye. You get fucked when I say you get fucked.”

  I slapped her pussy, making sure it caught her by surprise enough to yelp, then I pulled her panties up.

  “I mean it, Faye. My fucking rules.”

  I straightened my tie and made my way back to my chair as she caught her breath. My cock was rock solid, pulsing like a bastard, but I played it down, pretending to busy myself with emails like nothing had happened. Slowly Faye pulled herself together. Her breathing calmed and she raised herself from my desk, brushing her clothes down and attempting to play it cool.

  “What now?” she asked, pupils still dilated.

  “Get back to fucking work,” I snapped.

  She shot me a smirk, making her way back to the doorway on legs that looked a little unsteady. She turned to face me before she left and her eyes were sparkling with lust and devilment.

  “What?” I asked, resisting the urge to jump up and tear her fucking clothes off.

  “I can’t wait until it’s my week, Andy. You have no idea what I’m going to do to you.”

  ***

  Andy

  I was impressed with myself. Very impressed.

  It had taken every ounce of self-restraint not to slam my cock balls-deep in that sweet little snatch. Not to jab my fingers in that tight asshole until it opened up wide and showed me all her dirty secrets. Not to fuck her smart little mouth so hard she would retch around my dick. Not to take her, fuck her, use her, own her, until her apology fucking meant something.

  My week. My fucking rules.

  I watched her on the CCTV, laughing and chatting with Topaz. Thick as thieves, those two little bitches. How much fun I could have with the pair of them trussed up in one of our playrooms. The things I’d make them do. I palmed my cock at the thought.

  Topaz, my green-haired little pixie. Too young for me, and far too sweet. Sti
ll, her cute little mouth fixed over Faye’s pussy would be a hard temptation to resist.

  I was officially losing my mind, and my grip on the cold, hard rules of professionalism along with it.

  My cock was in my hand when the phone rang. I cursed under my breath, shoving it away before picking up the handset.

  “Club Explicit, good afternoon.”

  The voice at the end of the line killed my hard-on in a heartbeat. The smooth Italian drawl.

  “Faye Devere. I must speak with her.”

  Not even a please, the fucking prick.

  “No. Faye is not available,” I said.

  “When will she become available?” he asked. His tone was agitated, mirroring mine.

  “How about never. Faye doesn’t wish to take your call.”

  “I think that is Faye’s decision.”

  “And she’s made it,” I said. “While we’re on topic, Vince, we need to talk. About your choice of cover image.”

  The prick laughed. “I have nothing to say to you. My magpie looks beautiful, like an angel.”

  “I suggest you rethink your marketing strategy. I’ve been in touch with our lawyers. They’re itching to take on the case.”

  “Our lawyers? There is nothing illegal about the image,” he said. “My magpie doesn’t belong with you, she belongs here. With me. She will fly home, you will see.” That fucking laughter again, smug piece of shit. “This is not over.”

  “Faye will not be flying fucking anywhere. Not to fucking Italy, and definitely not to you.”

  “We shall see about that, won’t we?”

  “Yes, we fucking shall,” I said. “Don’t call this number again. Faye will never be available.”

  I hung up before the twat could say another word, and then I barred his number. Prick.

  Your fucking move, Vincent cunting Blackthorne. Bring it on.

  ***

  Chapter Eight

  Faye

  Andy didn’t fuck me. Not that day, nor the next, nor the one after. He utilised his regular modus operandi of lording it around the place, and I played my part, abiding by the rules of the all-powerful coin toss. His week. His way. His reign wouldn’t last forever, and when the tables turned they’d be toppling flat on their backs.

  I’d always been sexually submissive, even before I knew what it meant. My fantasies revolved almost entirely around the beautiful place beyond pain, where I sacrifice control to someone who knows how to wield it. I’d been playing in the BDSM scene since the day I discovered it, and played both dominant and submissive happily enough under the right circumstances, yet the domme in me had always been a minor facet; an intellectual bystander to my more natural submissive traits. Even in Venice, I rarely felt it. Rarely felt the power-lust that dominants yearn for.

  But Andy was different. I veered between the desire to kneel at his feet and beg for punishment, and the desire to slap the holy living shit out of him. I replayed our playroom power struggle on loop through my bar duties, the urge to mark his perfect skin becoming my all-consuming aphrodisiac. I wanted to hurt the man. Wanted to control the man. Wanted to hear him beg me to stop, beg me for more, beg me for anything just so long as that fucking man was on his fucking knees before me.

  I craved the sight of his body battered raw at my sadistic hands, the beauty of his skin as it hardened into welts, and ridges, darkening into glorious rich bruises. I wanted to bind him, humiliate him, force him to do things that would make even the mighty Masque call for a time out.

  Above all things, I wanted to break him, but someone like Andy Morgan wouldn’t break easily. I doubted a man like Andy even knew how to submit himself entirely to the will of another. Still, I could dream.

  Friday night was a killer. A crazy long night on bar in new heels and an overenthusiastic corset. A night where Andy didn’t show his face at all, and I managed to miss out on a Masque spectacular, changing over cruddy barrels whilst he flogged his pretty green-eyed fiancée until she cried. My grumpy night grew grumpier still when I got the news that our wet room had become a little clogged. I was to be the one to rectify the situation, apparently. Of course I would be; Andy’s orders.

  Fucking coin toss.

  I tackled the job when the club was wrapping up for the night, teetering on my heels as I attempted to flush fuck knows what down the main drain. Water wouldn’t cut it, so I held my breath against the stench and yanked up the drain cover. The problem was easy to identify, a used rubber wedged in the pipe, along with a grimy matted slimy collection of hair. Even through gloves my skin crawled. The rubber plopped out like a squishy pink slug, and there was shit on it. Actual fucking shit. Jesus Christ.

  The thought came unbidden; a crystal clear image of me choking Andy on the skanky, shit-covered rubber until he was sick. It would serve him right for sending me on the grotty fucking errand in the first place.

  It was the perfect moment for him to make an appearance, and I couldn’t help but smile. He propped himself against the doorway like Little Lord Fauntleroy, careful not to dirty his brogues on the piss-wet floor tiles.

  “I knew you were a dirty cow, Faye, but even I didn’t imagine I’d find you smiling over a wet room blockage.” He pulled a face. “Jesus wept, what the fuck is that?”

  I waggled it in the air like a trophy, fighting the urge to retch. “A shit-covered condom matted with pubic hair. If I didn’t know better I’d think you put it down there, just to be a sadistic asshole.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Even I have my limits, Faye. That is seriously disgusting.” He toed the drain cover back into position with a scowl. “Fuck knows how it even got down there. It’s usually just hair and soap scum. Despite its reputation, people do generally use the place for regular showers. I’d have handled it myself if I’d have known, I’m not that much of a cunt.”

  “You, on all fours, in rubber gloves, fishing about in someone else’s shit? Now that I would love to see.” I dropped the offending item in the bin and the gloves along with them. “Way to go for installing a wet room.” I rinsed my hands under the nearest faucet, flicking the drips in his direction.

  “Actually, if I recall, the wet room was your idea, I merely implemented it. A regular shower block would have been my choice.”

  “I clearly didn’t think through the practicalities.”

  “No holds barred,” he mimicked. “The ultimate playroom experience… we go bigger, better, dirtier, Andy, not just a couple of flogging benches and some cages. We have the works, everything, even a wet room…”

  I smiled. “I remember that conversation.”

  He slapped the wall with some kind of perverse pride. “And here you have it. The princess gets her piss play. She also gets shit-smeared condoms along with it, call it a value-added extra.”

  “I’ll survive.” I leaned back against a cleanish looking piece of tiling. “Never fancied it? In here, I mean.”

  “I’m hardly Masque, Faye. I do have some limits.”

  “Limits are there to be pushed,” I said. “That’s where the fun is.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I know so.” The thought of kneeling at his feet in the filth gave me tingles. The thought of him kneeling at mine gave me more. “You used to be pretty dirty, Andy. Some of your scenes are emblazoned on my memory for all time. It’s one of the things I liked best about you.”

  “Liked best? Don’t write me off quite yet, Miss Kink. I’m dormant, not fucking extinct.”

  Heat. You could feel it between us. A flame smouldering without oxygen, waiting to explode. A clack of heels broke the tension, Topaz with keys in her hand.

  “We’re all done,” she said. “See you in the morning, Faye…” she looked from Andy’s feet to his face and back again, “Goodnight, Mr Morgan.”

  “Goodnight, Topaz,” he said.

  I waved her goodbye, then readied myself for leaving. Bed was calling, loud. Blissful bed for aching feet. Fucking heels. “Time for a cab, Mr Morgan,” I said. “I’m absolute
ly pooped.”

  I could’ve smacked him across the mouth for the cheek in his smirk. “Not quite,” he said. “Playroom three’s flogging bench needs washing down before tomorrow. Someone forgot club etiquette; it’s rather sticky, apparently. You’d better grab another pair of gloves.”

  My eyes widened. “You are shitting me?”

  “Afraid not,” he said. “This is club life, Faye, you wanted in, you can pull your weight.”

  “This isn’t about pulling my weight,” I snapped. “It’s about you proving a stupid point.”

  “Think what you want, but that bench isn’t going to clean itself. Gloves. Bench. Then taxi. And don’t be late in the morning.” He walked away without so much as a backwards glance, leaving me to simmer in the wet room with a temper fit to burst.

  I stomped through the club to the supply room, gathering up antibacterial spray, and steriliser, and gloves, and wipes and bleach and a commiseration glass of vodka Coke before tracking back through to playroom three.

  I flicked the lights back on, slamming the door behind me and downing my drink in one. The room was immaculate, the fresh smell of pine steriliser still ripe in the air. I approached the flogging bench with confusion; it was perfectly fucking clean. I cursed under my breath that the asshole had sent me on a fool’s errand, when the door creaked behind me.

  I didn’t bother turning around. “No need to check up on me. It’s already been done,” I said. “It doesn’t even need cleaning.”

  “I know it doesn’t,” he said, and his voice was low, gravelly… threatening. The hairs on my neck prickled, pulse accelerating, mouth clammy.

  I held my breath as his footsteps came closer, and even though I knew what was coming, it still made me jump.

  The leather of the crop tickled my shoulder blade. It crept up slowly, then grazed a path right the way down my arm.

  “I want your back against the wall, Miss Devere. Right fucking now.”