by Julia Kent
She set the bottle down like it was hot and another woman snatched it up. Even from a distance, Syria recognized it as lube.
Tyson got up and moved in through the tables. Syria stepped out of any of the lights so he wouldn’t see her too soon. He selected another woman, this one very eager to get near him. She danced with him a moment, then Tyson spun her around, holding her carefully at the waist and gyrating behind her. The whoops and shouts grew so loud, they almost drowned out the music.
Tyson reached in his bag and presented her with a small box. Syria couldn’t make out what it was, but when the woman figured out the contents, she clapped her hands over her face. A few rips of cardboard, later, she was holding up a mini-bullet triumphantly.
Tyson danced through the tables a little longer, handing out a couple more gifts, until the chorus of “Me, me!” started to shift to, “Take it off!”
Tyson pulled back from the tables then, away from the groping hands and wiggling bodies of the women, who were already reaching in their purses to extract dollar bills. Syria leaned against the back wall, trying to contain her amusement. This was fun, and he was really good at it.
The music shifted to something more driving, the drum beat steady. Tyson turned away from the tables and ripped at the velcro of his jacket. Syria couldn’t hear it over the pulsing music, but she remembered it well from his first shoot. He opened it wide, facing away, and the women cheered so loud, it made Syria’s ears ring.
He tugged the jacket off his shoulders, shimmying like a girl might, making the women all laugh. The sight of his muscled biceps made the women all shout again, and Syria watched them for a moment, how their eyes lit up like girls, and even the stodgy lady in the gray hat was shaking her head and smiling.
The jacket flew across the room and slid along the polished floor. The women were on their feet, stomping with the music. Tyson whipped around, pointing to his chest and winking as if to say, “Look at this!” With the beard and hat, the effect was hilarious.
He pulled something from his pocket, and Syria squinted in the flashing lights. She wasn’t familiar with this part. A long leather strap came out, festooned with silver bells. He shook them, the tinkle barely penetrating the din, then slid them between his legs, rubbing them from front to back with an expression of bliss.
The women were shouting encouragement, and Tyson jumped forward again to the beat. He snapped the leather and wrapped it around another women’s waist, waggling his eyebrows at her.
He withdrew back to the center of the room and acted as though he was easing his pants down. The women’s cheering erupted again, but he stopped, looking over his shoulder, and Syria smiled, knowing exactly what was coming next.
In one swift jerk, he yanked off the breakaway pants, revealing his absolutely perfect round ass and the tiny red satin g-string.
Some of the women covered their eyes, then looked back. The noise was deafening. Syria had to laugh at their delight. Even when you know it’s coming, that particular stripper trope was a wonder to behold.
She felt her blood pumping as Tyson strode swiftly through the room, thrusting his hips at random women, who now were coming forward to touch him and slip money inside the tiny band. A few got more bold, dropping the money in the satin pouch. Tyson went along, pretending ecstasy, and making the other women laugh. When it seemed all the women had come forward who were going to, Tyson continued to make rounds, dancing with them, letting them run their hands along his bicep, and sometimes, spank him as he bent over a table.
Syria pulled a hundred dollar bill from her pocket and finally stepped out of the shadows. She came up behind him, waving the money. The other women saw her and pointed, and one finally turned him around.
He saw her and froze for a moment. She couldn’t see his smile behind the beard, but the way it spread wider made her know he was glad to see her. He pointed to the bill and turned back to the crowd, gesturing with has hands with how big it was. Then he pointed at his pouch to show how small it was.
The women were on his side, encouraging him to go get it anyway. He ducked his head, as though he were shy and sheepish. Syria held the money up.
So he danced for her, spinning in circles, gyrating his hips. The women clapped and cheered. Syria felt like she was in a vortex of sound and light, everyone happy and having fun. When he got close enough, his eyes never left hers. She danced with him, moving side to side, then holding on to his hips. He was hard, sweating, and putting off heat. She tried to convey to him how proud she was, how pleased. She tucked the bill in the top of her shirt and pointed to it, as if to say, “Come and get it.”
The women whooped. When he reached with his hand she backed away, waggling her finger as if to say, “Nope, not that way.” She pointed to her mouth.
Tyson turned to the woman and shrugged as if to ask, “Should I?”
They all cheered and he turned back around, hopping toward her in that thrusting way he’d done the whole night. She leaned forward, letting her chest get closer to him. He bent toward her, next to her ear, and said, “I love you,” then turned his head and snatched the money with his teeth.
The room went crazy, and Tyson swooped around the room, blowing kisses and collecting his clothes and bag. Syria waited until the room settled down again to sneak along the wall, and when no one was looking, followed him through the doors.
He was sitting on a chair to one side, pulling money out of his g-string. He looked up, and when he saw her, jumped up to pull her in a hug. “Syria! My God! What a crazy surprise.”
“Merry Christmas,” she said.
He pulled her close. “I’d kiss you but the beard itches like you wouldn’t believe.”
She reached for his hat and pulled it off. “Then let’s take care of that.” The beard attached with a loop around his ear and she carefully tugged it free. He let it dangle from his other ear, and pulled her in, his mouth covering hers in a hot collision of lips and tongue.
She pressed against his body, hot from watching him strip for other women, seeing them run their hands along his skin. She broke away. “I know they were a lot of older ladies, but that was still so totally hot.”
“It’s hot now.”
Syria glanced at the door, the jazz music muted from the other side. If she could get off to a bondage knot in front of a roomful of strangers, she could certainly risk this. She had, after all, almost become a signed and sealed professional Exhibitionist.
She reached down for his g-string. “I think you’ve still got some money in here.” She slipped her hand inside.
He grew erect against her so fast that bills flew out and fluttered to the floor. “You are one crazy girlfriend,” he said.
She pushed him back on the chair, his cock coming up at her like the north pole. “And I come prepared. She took his hands and slid them up her legs, revealing her naked skin. He slipped a finger between her legs, sliding up inside her. “I hope TSA didn’t have to search you.”
“I wasn’t concealing anything,” she said, and straddled his lap, pulling the skirt out of the way.
He moved his hand to her waist, eyes closing as her folds parted for him. When she sat nestled against him, all the way down his shaft, he held her so tight and so long that emotion welled up in her again.
“You’re here,” he said. “It’s not a dream.”
“I am,” she said, “and now you better pleasure me or you’re getting coal for Christmas.”
He opened his eyes, smiling up at her, and scooted down a little on the chair. “Prepare to get slammed.” His hand shifted to her hips, lifting her up, and bringing her down so hard and so fast that she gasped.
“Better?” he asked.
Syria couldn’t answer because he was doing it again, shifting her body to his bidding, grinding against her, then starting another long stroke. Laughter broke out on the other side of the door as somebody gave a speech, and Syria prickled with the danger, the risk, and the willingness in both of them to do whatever the o
ther wanted, anywhere they wanted it.
She clutched his shoulders and dropped her feet on the floor, helping him move with her, adding to the impact of their bodies slamming together. The heat curled up through Syria, starting at the burn between them, the slide of his skin inside her, and the pain of overworking her muscles, all combining to shoot her into a new level of pleasure. She was just starting to spiral up when the door opened and a shocked woman looked at them with an open mouth. Tyson stopped a moment, holding Syria close, but the woman simply backed away and closed them in again.
“I think you might be fired,” Syria whispered. “And the cops might be on their way.”
“Then I better hurry this up,” Tyson said. He increased the speed and pressure, and now it was going, her body tightening, then letting loose, cascades of shivers crossing her body and gripping him where they were joined. Tyson slammed his cock into her one final time and now everything burgeoned with warmth and wetness, his cum flowing inside her as she relaxed down on him.
“I hate to fuck and run,” Tyson said. “But we better run.”
Syria burst into giggles as they snatched up his money and their bags. He thrust his arms into the jacket and did a patchy job of connecting the velcro of his pants. They were running through the empty room and out the other side when the doors opened a second time.
“Go!” Tyson yelled, pulling on her arm as they dashed out into the night. “My car’s over here!”
He unlocked the doors and they jumped inside. They pulled out of the slot just as two women came out the back door. Tyson careened across the lot, speeding their way to the side street.
“You are a mad mad woman!” Tyson shouted as they left the hall behind.
Syria laughed. “I am.” She reached over and gripped his arm. “I’m mad about you.”
He grinned at her, checking his rear mirror. “I’m glad you are. Nobody’s following. I think we got away with it.”
Syria squeezed him. “I mean it. It’s taken a lot of sorting out, but I finally realized what was going on with me.”
They pulled up to a red light, the color splashing across Tyson’s face and the beard, still hanging from one ear. He pulled it off. “What’s that?”
“I love you too,” Syria said. “And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get us in the same city, and I’m fine with your work. I trust you.”
He reached for her, and she pulled against the seat belt so he could hold her close. “Then I can tell you my Christmas surprise right now.”
She pulled away just enough to look at him. “What is it?”
“I got a job with a national talent agency.”
“As a stripper?”
The light turned green, and Tyson pulled through the intersection, then into another empty lot, dropping the car into park.
“No, as a booking agent. Actors and models, mostly. No more stripping, or at least no more taking gigs I don’t want.” He glanced behind him. “I’m probably done with the single ladies’ auxiliary.”
“Tyson, that is great!” Syria rested back against the seat. “So where is the job?”
“That’s the best part. They have ten offices. We can go wherever we want. We can stay in New Mexico if you want, since you have your studio. Or come here. Or choose a different place.”
Syria thought of Erik, and the proximity of his slaves, and the bondage people, and that restaurant she was pretty sure she couldn’t never go to again.
“Where are the other cities?”
“LA of course. And New York and Florida and Houston and a new office in Vegas.”
“Vegas?”
“Yes. They are growing quickly there.”
“I could shoot some fabulous things there.”
“I could send you portfolio work, easy.”
“I could start over.”
“We could both start over.”
Syria unbuckled her seat belt and leaned over the console. “Let’s do that,” she said. “Let’s move to Vegas.”
He pulled her in close, his mouth in her hair. “Let’s go.”
And he kissed her again, a different sort of kiss, one Syria wasn’t sure she’d ever felt before. It was kiss that said, this isn’t for now, for a lark, for a one-off good time. But for real. For love. And maybe, even, for keeps.
About the Author
Starla Cole is a boudoir photographer and writer. She began her Boudoir Sessions stories after some crazy guy called her once and said he was so hot, she’d want to have sex with him during the photo session.
After she hung up, she thought—hmmm. What if he WAS? And wrote the story Naughty Santa.
The characters Syria and Tyson seemed to decide they wanted an actual relationship, so the Boudoir Session series has continued. She has also started a series with her husband (who was not amused by the phone call) called Couples Play.
Watch for more work from Starla at her web site: http://starlacole.blogspot.com or join her mailing list for sneak peeks and free excerpts at http://eepurl.com/tlv6b
When not creating erotica, she writes romantic comedies under the name Mary Beth Daniels.
Some retailers hide books with erotic content. You can always find direct links to where to buy Starla’s stories at
http://starlacole.blogspot.com
Get notice of any new releases on Starla’s mailing list at: http://eepurl.com/tlv6b
Thank you for being a part of Syria’s journey!
Starla
Syria’s Seduction (FREE!)
Syria has just failed out of her second community college program when she stumbles upon a boudoir photographer shooting an almost-naked woman in a public park.
The photographer Anthony asks for her assistance with his equipment, but also to help fend off the prowling woman, and suggests they have dinner to offer his gratitude for saving him from the cougar, who seems hell-bent on making Anthony her next conquest.
Syria is anxious and shy, having never dated in the small town where her mixed-raced heritage and absent father were a constant source of gossip. Anthony comes on a little too strong at dinner, sending her into a panic, but with encouragement from a friend, Syria decides this might be her best opportunity to loosen up and gain some life experience from someone who knows exactly how to make a woman look and feel beautiful.
Their tryst by a lake goes from photo lesson, to sexy photo shoot, to a seduction that will change Syria’s life and open her eyes to both the beauty within her and an art form that will become her new passion.
THE BILLIONAIRE’S ULTIMATUM
By Cerys du Lys
His Absolute Conditions
*
“Don’t move anything out of place,” the cleaning staff lead said. “Don’t use non-approved equipment, don’t speak unless spoken to, and don’t get in the way.”
This place was strict, apparently. I knew it would be tough when I started, but the pay was good and I really needed the job at the moment, even if it was only for a day. The temp agency that placed me here had seemed reluctant about offering me the job, but the staff lead said it didn’t matter, that he(who was he?) wouldn’t be in the office today and they just needed someone to fill the position.
That should have tipped me off to something, but I was blinded by the money. And this was at Landseer Tower, no less, one of the most high class buildings in the city, so of course they’d pay well. Still, I had to double check to make sure the figure was correct; it was more than I made in a week at most places, and this was only for today. I usually performed secretarial jobs, data entry, or anything involving paperwork, but I’d done a few cleaning jobs before. I told the woman at the temp agency I would accept it.
I should have been scared—I was scared!—but I tried to overlook it. What was the worst that could happen? The job was only for the day.
“Jessika Fevrier,” the staff lead said, reading my name from a worksheet and pronouncing it wrong. “Do you have any questions?” he asked. He looked at me like I was a nuisance.<
br />
Time to lighten the mood, I thought. Not my typical strong suit, but he looked like he could use a smile, and after arriving at this place, complete with a fountain in the front lobby and crystal clear glass elevators, I was extremely nervous. “If I can’t move anything out of place,” I said, “how do I clean everything?”
It was a joke. I knew how to clean, and I knew what he meant. It sounded better in my head, like the sort of silly, sarcastic joke that would put someone at ease. This man would laugh, give me one of those silly shakes of his head, pat me on the shoulder, and we’d be fine for the day.
That never happened. He stared at me, long and hard, furrowing his brow in disapproval. “I think we’re going to have to find someone else. It’s clear to me that you are unfit for this job.”
What! No, no… I needed this. “Sir, I’m sorry. It was a joke. I swear. I was just joking.”
He didn’t look convinced. I was certain I couldn’t convince him, was just about ready to give up and walk away, knowing I’d ruined my chances at a decent opportunity. He frowned, letting out a loud sigh.
“It’s your lucky day,” he said. “I doubt I could find anyone else on short notice, and I don’t want to explain the situation to Mr. Landseer, so I’ll let you stay. The joke wasn’t funny, though. I’m not entirely convinced it was a joke, either. Consider that your first and final warning. If you screw up again, you’re finished. You really don’t want that to happen.”
I gulped, eyes wide. A blush of red heat warmed my face, the tingle of it making me feel like I was sick, like I should have stayed in bed today. Chicken soup was good for the soul, they said. You couldn’t pay bills with chicken soup or a soul, though, now could you?
I gathered supplies from the closet that the lead man showed me. Nothing too difficult to handle. A feather duster, a handheld vacuum, some cleaner spray, and a special streak-free towel. Basic items, things I’d used numerous times before.