“No, I really didn’t,” I admit.
I shrug, while tossing my blonde hair over my shoulder flirtatiously. All this is so deliberate, he must think me rather lame. He is classic, modern sophistication in perfect form. Smooth dark hair, a bold chin-line and alert russet-colored eyes accentuate his face, while his body in a European tailored business suit conforms to the genetic imprint of modern day success. There is a small flaw above his right eye—a bar fight? A crewing accident? An angry woman? My mind uselessly scans the possibilities—I’m sure the truth is far more simple than my fanciful speculation. And why in a museum at lunchtime? I wonder. Why here now, when he could be back in his office making money? I think again, wondering if he’s gay, his agenda ruled by other forces than those of the modern heterosexual man.
I bat my lashes, see him smile, and realize that there’s something about the way he’s flirting back that suggests he’s straight as an arrow straight. Zeroing in on my prey, I lick my lips like a coy vamp, a move that sounds awfully Hollywood, but it works.
“But you spent time with that Atherton,” my stranger speaks again, smiling, “that must mean something.”
“Humm, it means very little, except that I liked the company.” Will he take the bait? Will he want what I’m after?
His smile becomes more engaging as the realization dawns on him. Meanwhile I contain my feelings of triumph, acting as if I expected him to move causally to my side. My panties are already moist when he places his hand on my ass.
“Am I getting your message right?” he asks.
“Very much so,” I answer as he gently fondles that soft place. There’s only a slight twinge of guilt. I pass it by and continue.
My skirt is short, making it easy for him to slip his hand between my thighs. My pulse races; my head throbs; and my juices soak my panties.
“There are dressing rooms in here big enough for this kind of thing,” he says, while casting a furtive glance around the store and finding no one there to object.
Along the far wall, I spot the row of floor-to-ceiling dressing room doors, which like the rest of the place are paneled in rich, ostentatious mahogany.
“You suppose they keep them locked?” I ask.
“Never.”
I move away from him, letting my hand trail behind me, as if I’m dragging him along. He follows me into the last of three rooms, which is tucked deep in the corner of the shop.
We’re on each other instantly as if we have little time, as if any minute the bullets of war will shatter the moment like glass and our quickened bodies will fall dead. It’s that kind of frantic passion that makes us strip down to underclothes; I to my bra and wet panties; my lover to his pale blue cotton briefs. I pull his member out above the white elastic band and dive down to fluff it with my mouth until it’s fully erect, a huge projectile jutting from his nest of black pubic hair, practically hitting his stomach with its natural curve. He tastes sweaty and raw, like his morning shower and the long hours since. I drink him in and rise to my feet, resting one foot high on the built-in seat. I lean back against the wall and pull my panties away from my cunt to reveal my nakedness and let him come for me. He admires the flawless texture of my bare pubic mound—the silky hairless skin compliments of my captors when they made me their slave and permanently removed my pubic hair. I see the lust in his eyes expand, and his mouth curl into a twisted smirk. Seconds later, he stabs me with his cock, pushing his groin firmly against mine, while laying a hard kiss on my mouth. He’s about ten good heaving thrusts away from a mountain of semen spent in my pussy; while I’m just a few thrusts beyond that from my climax.
We cling to each other like we belong together, and for that moment, we do. Who knows what virulent need drives him. And do I care? I hardly understand my own. But my obsession, at least for the moment, recedes as the physical spasms fall away.
My handsome stranger watches as I clean up my messy snatch and dress, then politely refrains from silly anticlimactic conversation, which would only cheapen the event more. I’m ashamed of myself now, but I won’t linger on the thought as I’m sure he won’t.
Fucking my stranger in the dressing room doesn’t stop me from attacking Steven the next night he sleeps over, nor does it end my madness. I seem doomed to repeat the scene in another venue as soon as I have a new prey in my sights.
Even the next anonymous message can’t deter me. This one arrives at my apartment, shoved under my door when I’m not there, left for me to step on, practically slip and fall on when I push my way inside with two bags of groceries in my arms.
“Those days—and nights could be repeated. You could have your cake and eat it too. A wise woman is wise not to resist.”
Damn the man who does this! I want to shout as soon as I read the note. But I’m inconveniently standing with my apartment door wide open and cute little Mrs. Renfraw across the hall looking on about to say, “Anything the matter, dear?”
Squelching my distress, I crumple the paper in my hand, give her a brisk smile and close the door behind me.
Who is this guy?
On impulse, I return to the apartment hallway and knock on Mrs. Renfraw’s door.
“You didn’t happen to see anyone here hanging around my apartment, maybe pushing something under the door?” I ask her.
She thinks carefully. “No, I can’t say I did.” She thinks again like old people do, with deliberate effort. “No, I can’t recall.” She shakes her head sadly, she so wants to help.
“Thanks. I just thought I’d ask.”
“Anything the matter, dear?”
“No, not really. I’m just a little confused.”
I leave her to her confusion and return to my apartment, where I have the eerie feeling that I’m not alone. I rashly move from room to room, opening doors and closets, expecting someone to pop out of the shadows and take me. When I finally concede that I am alone and safe, I try to shrug off my silly behavior with a laugh.
Yes, it is the notes that make me act rashly, that throw life my life off balance. The notes and the sex with Steven, and Sunny’s continuing monologue on the virtues of her newfound kinky life.
Yesterday my assistant admitted to being bound by her master, hogtied, gagged and fucked in the ass. The ‘fucked in the ass’ came out a little differently than that, but I understood what she meant behind her carefully constructed phrases designed not to shock me too much.
“Why are you telling me this, Sunny? You want my approval?”
“No, I just…” she looks a little forlorn that I’d ask, nervously brushing her hair off her brow.
“You think I’ll understand?”
“Don’t you?” she stares at me hopefully.
“Sure, I do. Just be careful. The games you play can get dangerous with the wrong person.”
Her face screws up perplexed. “How do you know if it’s the wrong person?”
“If you have to ask, I think that’s already a dangerous sign.”
“Oh, but he’s not dangerous. He saw my eyes, how afraid I was, and stopped.”
“That’s good. And you still want to play with this man?”
“I think I do.”
I give her face a good once-over with a look of consternation on mine. “I think you’d better think about it for awhile, until you know for sure.” Why do I sound so old and stuffy? Even more importantly, WHY do I feel this way?
“Maybe you’re right.”
I hope I am. I hope I’m not just putting my fears—my past—on her.
“Giving yourself to someone requires trust,” I wisely continue like a mother hen. “On what basis do you trust him? Looks? Hormones? Fantasy? Hope?”
“Intuition.” She says this thinking I’ll be pleased.
“That’s what I was afraid of. Intuition can go right out the window when your body wants a sexual end. Don’t trust it, not completely. If nothing else, Sunny, figure that these conversations with me are your intuition talking. Keeping you on track. You have reservations or you wouldn’t use
me as a sounding board. Got that?”
“Yeah, I’ll be careful, I promise.”
“Don’t promise me, promise yourself.”
How can I ask Sunny to promise me she’ll be safe, when I’m recklessly pursuing the wild need in me?
I carry my obsession to the streets again, without any intention of having sex. I’m simply restless. It’s been a week since my event in the dressing room with Mr. GQ.
I end up in a bar, sipping wine, thinking I’ll stop by Steven’s apartment and surprise him. He’s working at home, late, a paper he has to finish, which seems to consume all his time. I know I’m a distraction, but a little pizza and maybe at beer by ten? Certainly he could use a break, and sex wouldn’t be such a bad idea either. I’m sure I won’t have trouble convincing him. That is my plan until Scott Harper is suddenly sitting next to me with his hand on my thigh. Scott worked in my producer’s mailroom, until he was fired. He considers himself hot stuff and made no bones about wanting to jump mine. I laughed him off.
But now, his invading hand feels strangely warm and sensuous. Although it’s only been three months since I’ve seen Scott, he looks different. His lanky build looks more robust than I remember him—he’s probably pumping iron. And the rash of pimples on his face has been replaced by a well-groomed three days’ growth of beard in keeping with current fashion. He’s cut his hair like a prep school kid, and I find myself I thoughtlessly squirming in my seat, while brushing his hand from my thigh.
“You wouldn’t possibly reconsider my previous proposals, now would you, Miss Monroe?” He’s obviously conscious of and quite proud of his improvements.
I sigh in that disparaging way I have, and suddenly all I can think of is Sunny hogtied and gagged, getting her ass reamed. Why that picture comes to mind now makes no sense. How long has it been for me? Since Kovac, I quickly recall. It’s not just my pussy wanting the excitement of a good screw, but my ass. And why haven’t I allowed Steven? I wonder, though I skip right over thoughts of Steven; the present desire seems to be short-circuiting my good sense.
“You want me, boy? You grab a friend, get plenty of lube and condoms and we’ll check into the hotel next door. How’s that?”
Scott looks at me stunned. “You mean that?”
“I won’t ask twice,” I level him with a seductive but firm stare he won’t forget.
He shoots out the door and I sit back to finish my wine, feeling a whole lot better just having said that, while being reasonably certain that I’ve dispensed with Scott Harper for good. Declining a second glass of wine from the efficient bartender, I slip a few dollars on the counter and reach for my purse. A hand abruptly covers mine and I turn.
Scott looks taller than he did just a half hour ago. His sandy blond hair is now windblown and beside him stands an olive-skinned honey of a young man with coal-colored eyes and thick black hair. He scowls, cocks his head just slightly and peers at me inquisitively through hooded eyes. Italian, maybe Slavic, maybe half-breed something. Hard to tell. He’s six feet tall, slender, but not wiry. A steamy heat radiates from those hooded eyes. I’m doomed now.
Just Scott alone, I’d laugh him off again. But this guy? He’s interesting enough to keep me in my seat.
“You said grab a friend. This is Marco.”
“Hi, Marco.”
The surly fellow nods.
“So, what is it, Michelle? You gonna pass me up this time?” Scott’s cockier than I’ve ever seen him, which makes him oddly appealing.
“Okay, why not? Let’s check in.”
I feel like a hooker. Like they should pay me. I’m gonna give them the time of their lives, something they’ll never write home about, but they’ll never forget. The farther along this farce proceeds, the more I’m invigorated, driven by the fantasy of two young, virile men using for their pleasure what I find so easy to give away.
The hotel room’s a desolate bore, walled in that cheap kind of paneling that was popular thirty years ago—what an ironic contrast between this and the mahogany paneled sophistication of the dressing room where I fucked my stranger. I like it.
I survey the room deciding quickly on my plan, which has evolved from a simple scene to something more complex than I originally intended.
“You’re going to tie me up.” My groin aches as I say that; my thigh are heavy; my mouth parched and dry. A deep thirst rises from within me.
“Tie you up?” Scott looks at me in wonder, and a little afraid.
“Yes.”
He hesitates, but his friend does not. “How hard is that?” he says, moving beyond Scott. “Hand me your belt.”
Scott’s still dazed, and I think if given the choice he’d bolt the room in a second. But like a dutiful submissive, he reaches for this buckle.
His dark friend scouts the room and finally turns back to me. “We’ll need your pantyhose.”
I’m suddenly inside my subspace alter ego, feeling very comfortably there as long as I stare into his eyes. The hooded look of them remains, but I feel a fire emanating from the centers I hadn’t seen previously. He fumes with passion and that’s exactly what I need. I swiftly obey his order, wiggling myself from the pantyhose and pulling them off my feet.
They turn into shreds in his hands, into ribbons that will bind my feet to the rails of the bed frame. Mr. Darkness grabs the pillows from the head of the bed and mounds them at the foot, then shoves me over, face first, positioning my ass at the height for fucking. With my skirt still covering my ass, he hasn’t even seen what he’s getting. He uses Scott’s belt to bind my hands behind me and does this efficiently enough to keep them secure. I’m not sure I could struggle free.
“Are you sure about this, Michelle?” I hear a dazed Scott ask.
“You have the lube?”
“That’s what you asked for,” he reminds me as he pulls out a tube of KY Jelly from his pocket. I realize that he’s quite a sub.
“Then don’t talk to me, just do it. You can have my ass, but not my cunt, as long as you use the lube and condoms.”
Marco doesn’t need my permission to have me. He has my skirt yanked over my bottom before I quit talking. When he gathers my dainty panties in his hand and jerks, I let out a fractured scream.
“And you don’t make a peep,” the guy informs me before the fretful sound dies. He grabs my hair with his free hand and pulls back. “You got that?”
“I do,” I give him a strained reply.
“Good.”
He tugs at my panties until the flimsy fabric finally gives way. “Open your mouth,” he tells me. “He shoves them inside so I practically gag.” The smell of my sour snatch fills my nostrils, which makes me think of licking pussy. The natural vibrator down below gets turned on high. I could be thinking lovely thoughts of women and warm kisses, but not with Marco’s fingers probing my asshole.
“Think we should just ream her hard?” Scott asks.
“That’s not what she asked for, man. We’re giving the lady what she wants,” his friend replies. “I know what a woman needs to make this work. You have to loosen them up, or it’s hell.”
“But she wants it rough.”
“She’ll be tight enough and she won’t bleed,” he answers. He’s clearly in control—which seems to be my good luck.
My dark friend has three fingers in my behind working the hole with an adroit massage that suggests he’s had some training in anal sex. Probably took some old lady in the ass who taught him how to do it right.
When he feels my hind end engage the pleasure, he shoves his fingers deeper, pours some lube over the opening and starts to fuck my asshole with the vigor of a rampaging cock.
“Go get a towel,” he orders Scott.
The boy is predictably compliant. He shows up a minute later with a white hotel hand towel, which Marco uses to wipe his fingers.
I hear his zipper lowering and close my eyes, waiting for the sparks to fly. He moves in behind me, massaging my ass cheeks and giving them a few hard whacks, then he thr
usts with the meanness of a bull deep into my channel. His technique surprises me. Most men take their time, but he’s schooled enough to know that I’m sufficiently primed. His cock’s got length if not bulk and opens new spaces his fingers couldn’t reach. I gasp behind my panty-gag, and satisfaction rains down on me in a soothing shower. There aren’t the sparks I expected, but my contentment is soul deep, at least for those first seconds of the fuck. He’s hard, he’s fast, he’s thorough; we hum together as if we’re playing the same melody. My only upset is that he’s done too soon, and my ass gapes wide as he withdraws. I can’t wait for Scott to stuff it full again. I do need more.
I open my eyes just long enough to see what’s happening in the room around me. Marco is in the bathroom while Scott’s getting geared up. He’s naked from the waist down, stroking his cock to a full erection, and I gasp again seeing the size of his member—longer than Marco’s and a whole lot fatter. I now know why he thought he was such hot stuff. This is the rod of a porn star, not a normal man. I’m sure he sees my horrified reaction. He smiles, self-satisfied and moves in to impale me. This must be his revenge—one I authored myself—for a year of hasty denials and scowling rebukes.
Thankfully, he squeezes a wad of KY Jelly from the tube and coolly caresses the thick lube around the opening. I’m just a little bit sore from the first fuck and it’ll be a whole lot worse before this day is over.
When I feel Scott’s thighs against me, I cringe. When he slaps my ass, I am surprised and thrilled, but try to calm. For several seconds, I feel his erection taunting the tight rose of my anus, alerting me of its presence. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then feel a sudden thrilling shudder as Scott’s erection makes its way inside. Thankfully, he moves much slower than his friend; he’d kill me otherwise. My whole being seems to expand just to contain him and my body feels as if it’s melting into atoms, diminishing into the nothingness of air. All I am is this one filled orifice, all my attention, all my fear, all my pleasure is centered there. When the last inch of his shaft sinks deep within my bowels, I let out a wistful cry.
He slaps my butt as if I’ve offended him. He slaps me hard, again and again until my cheeks are burning. Then he grabs the sore flesh in his hands and starts the action. His belligerent in and out has me mewling with almost the first stroke. I can’t help the sound that escapes around the panty gag. The bedsprings creak, then squeal, and Scott begins to groan like he’s never had anything like this before—he probably never has.
White Silk & I Belong to You Page 17