Having been cooped up in the monochromatic quiet of the penthouse, stepping out of the car and into the explosion of sound and color is like being thrust into a sensory cornucopia. Behind the quaint, bright storefronts are high-end boutiques and shops of all kinds. Cars whizz by on the damp streets, people chat on cell phones or with friends in an indecipherable language, colorful, nonsensical signs abound. The vivid sights and sounds and the limitless choices are almost overwhelming. For a while now, I have avoided autonomy and now the mundane task of shopping feels much like a baby taking her first steps.
By the time I return to the penthouse around two, while mentally fatigued from shopping, I still have a ball of unfocused physical energy that has yet to be expelled. It’s like my body is waking up from this deep slumber, like I am the lady-version of Rip Van Winkle.
What can I do that requires little thought, but physical exertion? That’s it! I’ll hit the gym!
I rummage through my shopping bags and whip out some gear I purchased, figuring I would need fitness clothes for hiking and other outdoor physical activity. Within minutes, I am in the building’s gym. I hop on a treadmill, plug in my earphones, and let my mind meld into my playlist. I always do this, start running and immediately remember I hate it, but this time, I push past that point of loathing and my endorphins take hold. I hit a rhythm with the music and my body. It is a calmness, as if my being has found a frequency where it all meets in perfect harmony.
The sweat, the pounding of my chest, the impact of my feet slapping the treads all no longer feel like slow torture, but instead a physical symphony. By the time the concert is over, I look up and see that it’s already 3:13.
As I enter our room, I whip off my drenched tank and take in my appearance in the entry mirror. My hair is stringy and wet, my face flushes with patches of red, my skin glistens between beads of dripping sweat. Holy shit, I have a four pack. Admittedly, it is from a lack of body fat due to my recent “diet”, not exercise. Still huffing and somewhat high, I kick off my sneakers and socks and head to the bedroom to shower.
“Fucking shit fuck!” I scream and jump when I spot Taylor’s tall silhouette standing with his arms crossed in the far corner of the room, a smirk painted on his face. “You cannot do that!” I yell, covering my face with my hands, my heart feeling like it will explode through my chest. He really should know better. Well he does, but Taylor never stops playing games. Ever.
“I watched you running in the gym. You were in the zone. You didn’t even feel me staring.”
“And somehow I’m the creep? I didn’t think you’d be back until four.”
“I was able to get out earlier. But I was happy to see you working out and I didn’t want to disturb.”
“I don’t know what came over me. I hate running.”
“Take off your shorts.”
“Really? I’m drenched in sweat.” Taylor doesn’t repeat himself and I shrink under his intense stare. “Okay…” I slide my spandex shorts down to my ankles and stand there as he appraises me with his bluish eyes.
“Turn to your left and face the mirror. Tell me what you see.”
“I…” my voice gets stuck for a moment. “Uh…me?”
“Details please.”
“I see myself, looking like I just came from an intense run, of course. I feel really hot, flushed, I am still sweating…” I look over and he seems unsatisfied.
“My hair is sticking to my neck…I don’t know Taylor,” I say, feeling uneasy, like am failing a pop quiz.
“What are you wearing? Right now.”
“A sports bra and panties.”
Taylor walks over to me, I hold my breath as the tension from his predatory glare is paralyzing. He wears a white shirt with the top buttons undone and still tucked into charcoal suit pants. My eyes glide over to his tie and jacket tossed on a chair across the room. He slides his fingers through my tangled sweaty mane. “What did I tell you in the field about your undergarments?”
My mind floods with flashes of that night: the kaleidoscope of physical and emotional intensity.
And then I remember. He told me not to wear underwear on this trip. Rule number one and I totally fucked up.
“But I was at the gym.”
“Did I say there were any exceptions?”
“No.” There’s not point in arguing. He was clear, and I didn’t take him seriously. More like I was too crazed to remember. I know this is my training. I also know he is fucking with me. I can fight or I can let him lead. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”
“Take everything off now.”
“I’m soaked.”
He slides his hand out of my hair and stares. Clearly, he is not a fan of repeating commands. I pull off the sopping wet teal sports bra and toss it on the floor beside me. Then I slide off the soaked pink panties and kick them to the side.
“Have I ever told you I love the scent of your sweat, Shyla?” he whispers into my ear. “It’s potent with your pheromones: sweet and dirty. I want you dirty. I want you wet and sweaty.” He yanks my ponytail so that my chin juts up sharply to meet his lips.
Heat from the afterburn of the run escapes my body like a furnace, while the temperature of Taylor’s passion pushes up against my skin. He licks a trail up from my collarbone to my jaw, then licks and bites his lower lip, tasting the saltiness of my skin.
“Today, you will not come. Do you understand? I will taste your pussy, I will savor the smell and flavor of exertion from between your legs, but you will not come. Then I will stick my hard cock inside of you and use your body for my pleasure. But you will serve me. When you learn to follow simple rules, then you will regain the privilege of coming in my mouth or around my cock.”
Arousal surges between my legs. Never in my life have I wanted to come more than I do right now.
He slides the elastic from my ponytail so that my sweaty hair collapses, clinging to my shoulders and collarbone.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir…Master.” The words feel so foreign escaping my lips, but at the same time a great relief rolls through me. I just let him take all the responsibility. He can do what he wants and I don’t have think so much about every nuance or social norm. He can do as he pleases with me and I will be happy to oblige.
He grabs my ass and lifts me off the ground as if I weigh nothing, suckling on my collarbone, and I can tell he’s not just sucking for my pleasure, he’s tasting me. I thought I would feel self conscious about my scent, but I know what his scent does to me when he comes upstairs from the gym. It ignites something primal, and from the way he buries his face into my neck, I know it must do the same for him.
He throws me on the bed and I feel like a fireball, still sweltering from the workout and now the sexual energy erupting out of my every pore. Taylor stands over me, his shadow blocking out the twilight like a lunar eclipse, and his eyes are ravenous. There is no softness, there is only hunger and greed. He wants to take from me; he will not give. Yet that yearning, that avarice, makes me want him even more. There is something about the wrongness of Taylor that makes him so fucking perfect. If we were alive centuries earlier, he might be a king or a conquerer: he is a storm of masculinity and power. He takes what he wants.
I recall what he said to me days ago: People like me exist because we do what needs to be done.
We can’t all be saints. Some people are sinners; some people have to do the filthy work of life. Some people need to kill, to dominate, to control so that others can go on their merry way living in clueless quaint morality. Taylor has those needs: his success with H.I., his long-sought win in the battle between him and his brother. But he needs it here too. And while this may seem self-aggrandizing, having those other women is nothing like having the woman you have waited for since you were seven years old.
He wants to conquer my body, my heart, my soul. And it’s my duty to let him have it all.
Never did I think I could relinquish myself so fully to a man, but that’s because I had
n’t yet met the force that is Taylor Holden.
So much of my life before Taylor seems like I wasn't even really me. I was just getting through each day in this body. My life with Rick seems like a dream about which I can only recollect fuzzy details. I wasn't really there. I was dormant. Meeting Taylor has tuned everything to high definition, as every detail and moment is amplified. Since finding him, I am finally present. I am here. I am awakened. I am truly who I was destined to be.
He yanks his shirt off overhead like a freaking animal of a man. His muscles flare with each passionate inhale. He grabs my ankles and violently pulls me to the edge of the bed. His pants tent with the fierce bulge of his arousal. Then he pauses. My chest heaves as I wait, patient but unsure of what he will do next. Taylor’s eyes glow as they slowly move along the length of my body, estimating what part to ravage first.
Then he violently yanks his belt from his pants. Just like the night at the club, he wraps one end around his hand tauntingly. The wait for what he will do with it is almost more excruciating than anything physical he could execute. Then he cocks an angry crooked grin.
“Get on your stomach.” My throat dries as I roll over as quickly as I can. “Prop your ass up. You will learn to listen to me. I won’t always be this harsh, but I find the first lesson should be firm. That way you won’t soon forget it.”
Then he slaps my right cheek with the belt. It’s not ferocious, it’s not even meant to make me scream, it just stings. Then he does it again, and again. They are rhythmic slaps on the same spot so that over time, each slap burns a little more.
“I am going to take you right to the edge today you filthy fucking girl, but I won’t let you go over.” I claw at the sheets, feeling like a star about to burst. There is so much build up already and I cannot imagine being unable to release. “Do you want me to eat your pussy?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Today, you will call me daddy.” The word shoots to my chest like a bolt of lightening. That word is loaded like a roulette gun and he knows it. “Do you want me to lick your little asshole?”
“Yes…” it’s so hard to let that word out. He might have hit a hard limit. I don’t know yet. It’s all happening so fast. “Don’t make me repeat myself.” He cracks the belt, the vibration of the sonic boom, rattling my core. Do I let this go on? Do I call him that title that means so many things?
That word has had so many meanings to me, all painful, and none of which I had any control over. Right now, I can take it back, I can assign it a person of my choosing.
“Do you want me to finger fuck your pussy and asshole?”
“Yes…” my chest shivers as the word battles to emerge from its tightness. “Yes, daddy. Please.” The word wrestles its way out of my mouth.
He flips me over like a doll and spreads my legs viciously, biting inside my thigh so that I call out, but damn it feels so electric. He pushes my ankles up in the air and back so they are nearly to my ears and he takes one long lick from my pussy down to my asshole and rolls his tongue, deeply inhaling. “Your pussy smells so ripe. I cannot fucking wait to fuck that sweaty, dirty little cunt and fill it with my cum.”
“Oh god,” I whisper aloud, but it’s not meant for his ears. This man is trying to kill me via sexual tension.
He marches over to the chair where he had dropped his tie and grabs it, using it to bind my hands together overhead urgently, with some set of knots beyond anything in my skill set. He grabs his shirt, which likely costs as much as most people’s car payments, and twisting it into a rope, ties each of my ankles with either end. He takes his belt, and loops the center of the leg binding to the center of my wrist binding.
“Keep your hands overhead.” Following his command pulls my feet back so that they are again close to my ears, making my sexual openings completely available to him.
He sneers at me as he sucks on his thumb and bites at the fingertip, letting it linger there for a moment. It’s the look one person gives another before exacting revenge. His thumb presses into my asshole and I let out a tight moan. He sucks his other thumb and slides it in my pussy.
“God!” I call out.
“Tell me who I fucking am!” He growls.
“Daddy. Daddy…” I say breathlessly. The word that was so hard to utter just seconds earlier flies out of me as he takes my ass and pussy violently in unison. His thumb rubs against my g-spot, but he knows his pacing is too rough for me to orgasm. He is doing this to show me who owns me, not to please me. But somehow it feels pleasurable despite it being aggressive and angry. If there was any doubt that I trust this man, the fact that I am helplessly bound as he ravages my holes speaks far greater than any words of assurance.
He pulls his fingers out of me and delves his face into me, twisting his neck like he is passionately making out with the entrance between my thighs. And now I am right there. My body trembles as the rolling waves of heat and energy build into that tiny pit of tension right before it explodes and contracts like a nova. The option exists to not seek permission and come all over his gorgeous face, but if I do, then I betray his trust and authority and will incur a worse repercussion. Perhaps withholding of any stimulation.
“May I come?” I whimper.
He stops. “No.”
I clench my fists in disappointment. “Please.”
“It wouldn’t be a lesson if you didn’t pay. You will however, take my cock, you will make me come, you will take my cum in your pussy like a good little girl,” he says, running a finger up my engorged labia, leaving a trail of tingles. “You are such a beautiful little thing. I think that’s why it’s so fun to taint you.”
Taylor turns back to the spot where I undressed and grabs my underwear from the floor. “Open your mouth.”
I do.
He shoves my panties into them. I taste the damp saltiness of my sweat. I smell the mixture of my pussy juices and perspiration. Just then, I see something in his eyes turn on, as if he has just had a epiphany. He opens his mouth to say something but stops. I think he was about to tell me how much he fucking loves me.
He unbuttons his pants and pulls out his massive erection. The beautiful head of his cock so smooth and curvy, the long rigid shaft that I know will make me scream for mercy with my legs up at this angle makes me quiver in anticipation and fear.
He pushes my ankles back further, so that my toes are touching the bed underneath me. I don’t think I could be in a more helpless and open position to him. This is not about making me feel good, it’s about conquering me with his phallus. Taylor climbs on the bed, hovering over me like a man who has just summited a great mountain, and while on his feet, slides his penis inside of me, using his weight as leverage.
I cry out, twisting my head from side to side since I cannot use my bound hands to grab him. Quickly I adapt by reaching for small bits of bedsheets and squeezing them in between my fingertips.
He starts slowly and pushes in deep, and when my insides have adapted to his size, he increases his pace. Not rapidly, but enough to make me wail, losing myself in the sensation of my walls being completely pillaged by this specimen of a man who stands over me. Like a jackhammer, he fucks me, and I utter muffled cries through the soiled panties in my mouth. My muscles ache with exhaustion from being held in this position for so long.
“Goddamn Shyla,” he calls out drunkenly as he slides in and out of me. My arousal is so rich that my cream rims the base of his shaft. He wants to maintain his aggression, but he is softening under the firm and wet grasp of my vagina around his dick.
I holler as his cock instantly expands in its final surge before it erupts into me. He lets out a moan louder than I have ever heard as his knees weaken and he trusts to violently into me, a tear falls from one of my eyes from the physical intensity of his thrusting. He crumbles to his knees, still holding an ankle and rubs his fingers on my vulva, sliding them into me and emerging with cum-soaked fingers. “Suck,” he says as he slinks my panties from my mouth. I obey, rolling my tongue ar
ound them. Like a beautiful demon, he watches my lips purse around his fingers. Taylor, my angel of darkness.
With a few simple tugs, my arms and legs splay back on the bed and I lay there, unfinished, still wanting more.
Every time I think I have seen or felt it all, Taylor finds new depths to reach.
After these types of sessions, I used to feel dirty and guilty. But now, I embrace the filth. I feel overwhelmed from excavating a place buried inside of me, but I refuse to feel like something is wrong with me. On the contrary, everything is finally right. I want to feel like a slut with Taylor because he makes me feel safe enough to act like one. There is something lovely about feeling so safe with another person that you can be so vulnerable, perverse, and twisted.
Taylor lays on his back, and still, I am taken aback by the timeless flawlessness of his features.
I roll over and rest on his chest for a few moments as we collect ourselves.
“Was I good?” I ask meekly, once the tidal wave of emotions and hormones have settled. I trail the tip of my forefinger down the center of his chest.
“You were a very good girl.”
Taylor looks over to me after I grow quiet.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. I hadn’t realized I was so obvious.
“Why did you ask me to call you…?” I let the sentence drift off, the word still pits a knot in my stomach.
“Because, I take care of you. You’re my girl. The most important man in your life let you down in every way possible, and I will never do that. I’m going to be everything you never had.”
“You already are,” I say, running my finger down the center of his torso. “But, if you don’t let me come, then you may have to deal with some tantrums,” I say, biting my lower lip.
Taylor lifts his head and looks over to me, his greenish-blue stare devours my soft brown eyes. Then he throws his head back on the bed and rests his hand on his forehead in surrender. “Fuck me. I am so absolutely and completely in love with you, Shyla.”
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