by Dae, Harlem
It was a question with an answer I didn’t have. Not even the first straws of a clue to figuring out. But I suspected my teacher, my sexy, infuriating, sly teacher, would be only too willing to explain it in detail. She’d no doubt gloat all over again about the fact that I didn’t know everything.
Who the hell did?
Mary looked slightly panicked when I finally returned to the office. And that wasn’t surprising; she was used to me arriving at seven and staying through till eight p.m. most days. Nipping out for lunch or even a coffee just wasn’t part of my routine.
“Are you okay, Mr Partridge?” she asked, wringing her hands as she stood in my office doorway.
“Yes, I’m fine thank you.” I sat down, placed my palms, fingers spread, on the desk.
“Can I get you anything?” She tilted her head and studied me. Her glasses slipped down her hawkish nose, and she slid them back up the bridge.
For an awful moment I imagined her standing, like that, in the doorway to my office earlier. When Zara had been enjoying my cock as her breakfast. It could have so easily happened. Mary knocked as she walked in, there was no pause. And why would she hesitate? She’d never had reason to suspect that I might be receiving oral sex from a harlot and might need a moment to tuck myself away and drag said harlot up from the floor before she entered.
“Well, if you need anything, just let me know.” Mary reached for the door handle. “Mr Sherbourne has a one o’clock appointment. Until then you’re clear.”
“Oh, do I know him?”
“Only from a telephone conversation. This is his first visit to Partridge and Partners.” She paused.
I tried not to look confused. Sherbourne?
“He has an old primary school he’s hoping to convert into apartments,” Mary said with a frown.
“Ah, yes, I remember speaking to him.” I nodded seriously. “That’s great, thanks.”
Mary shut the door, and I tried to recall a conversation with Mr Sherbourne. Normally I was shit-hot at details like that, discussions about new, existing and old projects indelibly stamped on my mind. But it seemed that had changed. I couldn’t for the life of me bring to memory the primary school we’d discussed let alone the budget, spec or brief.
I sighed, tapped my password into the Mac and opened Safari.
What the hell was that club called last night? Did it even have a name? No, I didn’t think it did, but it did have a number six on the door. I remembered that. Wasn’t six the devil’s number?
I pressed my fingers to my temples, tried to visualise the drive there in Zara’s Mini. What was the name of the street? In my mind I could see bedroom windows with scruffy, drawn curtains. I’d slunk down the seat a little. Not the kind of area I liked to be heading into in the dark. The bowels of London’s Soho were not my normal territory.
Eden Street. It came to me. I’m not sure why, perhaps because it struck me as paradoxical. Wasn’t the Garden of Eden supposed to be beautiful yet full of temptation? Eden Street certainly hadn’t been beautiful. Tatty red-bricked buildings, a few boarded-up windows and Axel is a gay slag scrawled beneath the elevated road sign. But full of temptation. Well, that was up for debate. Depended if you thought getting whipped and flogged, made to feel powerless and small, was a temptation.
Clearly some people did.
Hastily I typed in Eden Street. Hit search. It came up with a college, a gym and a record store. No mention of any type of sex theatre. And certainly no listings of a nine o’clock showing featuring a tall, Barbie-like beauty flagellating herself to orgasm.
Frustrated, I stood, walked to the window and stared out at the grey London day. The sun barely showed itself this time of year, it was as if a sudden bout of shyness had struck it. Many times, like today, it was hard to even discern its position in the sky. Just a flickering glimpse of a pale orb when the wind blew a thinner patch of cloud over its light.
I gazed at the shiny, wet rooftops and wondered where Zara was now. What she was doing, who she was with.
Did she have a regular job? Perhaps in a call centre, or Starbucks, maybe even in a library. I smirked. Library, no way. She didn’t have one quality a librarian needed. She was loud and crass, she pushed boundaries, delighted in shocking, and I couldn’t imagine for a minute she would read anything that wasn’t about fucking.
Not to mention her clothes. What kind of librarian wore PVC that showed the gusset of her knickers?
My cock stirred. Damn it. I hadn’t wanted to find her so sexy in her slutty clothes and trashy damp panties. But it had appealed to me. I thought I liked nice girls, in pretty white bras and lacy underwear. Seemed I had another side to me that liked the dirty, come-fuck-me look. Girls who flaunted their wares, took what they wanted, and weren’t scared to ask for it.
Who’d have thought?
My mobile rang and, willing my cock to behave, I answered it.
It was my financial advisor wanting to discuss the tax forms.
This would be a long, heavy conversation. Brain ache a guaranteed outcome.
I’d toyed with the idea of being late to pick up Zara. Just to piss her off. But when it came down to it, I was early. So early that I had to sit around the corner for ten minutes so I didn’t appear too eager.
Because I wasn’t eager. Not at all. In fact, I was only keeping my word because that’s the sort of man I liked to think I was. Though if I’d had any choice in the matter I would have stayed at work drawing up the first draft of Mr Sherbourne’s construction. I’d just got into the flow, managed to rid my head of ridiculous sexual scenarios with Zara and in their place see the walls, the lines, the angles of the roof and the practicalities of the rooms. It had been a relief, those hours of forgetting, of not wanting, of not wondering what the hell she was going to do next to shock me, which ultimately seemed to be her goal.
Nine on the dot, I pulled up outside her place and beeped the horn. I wasn’t about to leave the Porsche. This neighbourhood wasn’t as ropey as Eden Street, but I was no risk-taker when it came to the car.
She made me wait for a whole five minutes before she sashayed towards me. She wore a tiny purple skirt that looked like it had been sprayed on and the paint was still wet. She’d teamed it with thigh-high black boots, silver buckles, and a faux-fur leopard-print jacket. Her hair was scraped back, harshly, and a long ponytail hung from the highest point of her head.
She dropped into the passenger seat, long, sexy legs filling the footwell, chilled air gushing in with her.
“Hi, honey, did you have a good day at the office?” she said with a grin then leaned across and pressed a kiss to my cheek. The tip of her nose was cool.
I swiped at the sticky red lipstick I knew would be printed there. “It was different,” I muttered, revving the engine. The meaty tones rumbling through my body gave me a sense of power. I was in control here, I was driving. “Where are we going?”
“I have to work. I’m due on stage in half an hour.”
“What?” So why the hell had she insisted on seeing me if she was working?
She raised her eyebrows and pouted. “I thought you might enjoy my show, Victor.”
A knot wound tight in my stomach. It was bad enough that she’d made me watch Juliette, or Julie or whatever her name was, at that place last night. Did she really think that I wanted to watch her beat the living crap out of herself until she orgasmed?
She rested her hand on my forearm.
A tickle in my cheek told me that a nerve was flicking there.
“Hey,” she said. “I promise it’s nothing like last night’s show. That’s not my thing at all. You saw my back when you did the zipper of my dress. Not a single mark or scar.”
I clamped my jaw tight. It was good to know I wasn’t going to be watching Zara getting hurt, but still, I knew enough about her by now to know it would surprise the hell out of me.
“I promise you’ll like it.” She leaned closer, sliding her hand up my arm, over my shoulder, then resting it on the base
of my neck, pressing the collar on my leather jacket. “Victor, I promise it will turn you on. Not only that, it will tell you something about yourself that you never suspected lay in the deepest, darkest part of your soul.”
How the hell did she know what lay in my soul? And I didn’t have a dark part to it.
Did I?
I turned to her, tried not to breathe in the spiced perfume she was wearing. It made me think of a trip I’d taken to Morocco with Helen—sultry nights, rich food, a beautiful woman in my bed each night.
Zara was beautiful, too, I couldn’t deny that. Her cheekbones held a hint of an apple shape but were high and defined. Her nose was small and perfectly straight, her nostrils tiny, the flare of them hardly visible. She had a cute mole beneath them. Her lips were plump, and I would forever be able to picture them with a blob of my warm cum at the centre of the bottom one. But it was her eyes. You could call them hazel, kind of brown, with flecks, but they were more than that. The flecks glinted gold, the irises rimmed with black, and her pupils, they dilated when she was excited, when she teased me, shocked me, made me step out of my comfort zone.
She thought I wasn’t perceptive, that I was just a ‘virgin’, but she’d thought wrong. I’d learned about her eyes.
“So drive,” she said, sitting back and delving into a plus-sized red handbag. “You do know the way to Soho, don’t you?” She tugged out her mobile phone.
“Yes, but—”
“Carlos, darling, it’s me. Listen, I need a favour.”
I glanced across at her as I pulled onto the road. Who the hell was Carlos?
“I’m wonderful, thank you.” She giggled and tipped her head back. “Yes, of course, oh, definitely I’d be up for that. Anytime. Just say the word.”
The deep rumble of a man’s voice echoed towards me, but not loud enough that I could discern any words. What the hell was Carlos offering her that she’d be up for anytime?
“Yes, he’s coming tonight.” Pause. “He’ll be absolutely fine.” She reached across and squeezed my knee. “I have every faith in his potential.”
Once again I let my attention leave the road, stared at her.
She caught my gaze and winked.
I pursed my lips, gripped the wheel and briefly watched my knuckles pale. I slowed then stopped at a red light and wished my cock wasn’t stirring just at her light touch on my leg.
Witch.
She removed her hand, and I missed the heat of her flesh seeping through my jeans and onto my skin.
“But I really need him to relax,” Zara was saying, “so do you think you’d pop his car in Samson’s garage. I know he’ll be on edge if it’s on the street. Blokes his age are like that about their wheels.”
I opened my mouth but no words came out. Bloody cheek. Blokes my age? What was I? About eight, nine years older than her? Certainly no more than that.
But what could I say? I’d just been about to point out that leaving my car outside number six Eden Street was not an option. Zara had read me like a book, when for me she was like reading Japanese—backwards.
“That’s great, we’ll meet you out the front in twenty. And make sure you’re ready for tonight’s show, won’t you.” She snapped her mobile shut then dropped it into the gaping mouth of her bag.
“You really think I’m going to hand the keys of a hundred-and-twenty-thousand-pound car over to someone I don’t know?” I laughed, but not with humour.
“Yes.”
“Then you thought wrong.” I shook my head.
“No I didn’t.” She flipped down the sun visor, slid the little cover back from the mirror and pursed her lips at her reflection.
“This time, Zara, you’re asking too much.” The lights changed and I pulled away, still heading for Soho. I split my concentration between her and the road.
She drew out a lipstick, slicking vivid red over her pout. Pressed her lips together and then checked her teeth.
“Seriously, too much,” I said again, when she appeared not to have heard me.
“Victor, baby.” She snapped the visor back up and tucked the lipstick away. “I haven’t even started asking things of you yet. And when I do, I promise you’ll say yes, every single fucking time.”
Chapter Seven
I didn’t feel entirely comfortable handing my precious Porsche keys over to Carlos. A big brute of a man, Spanish if I was correct in placing his accent. But what choice did I have? I had to go with Zara and watch her show.
Luckily Zara seemed to have a bond with Carlos, and I could only hope, because he seemed enraptured by her, he’d look after my car.
If all else failed, the damn thing was insured. It would just be difficult to explain the unusual venue for the valet parking.
Inside the club, I shifted my bum on the same bucket seat I’d sat in the night before. The one Zara had given me my first blowjob in. The wide window to the showroom was in blackness, and alone in the small room, all I could hear was the sound of my breathing and the friction of the skin on my palms as I rubbed my hands together.
My mind was in overdrive. She’d given nothing away about the theme of her show on the way here, other than she wouldn’t be whipping herself into a frenzy. But the look the red-haired girl at reception had given me made me nervous. More nervous than last night. She’d studied me like I was prey—prey who’d been hunted, captured and was about to be devoured.
Suddenly the curtains opened and the lights in the room came on. As opposed to the stark whiteness of the flagellating show, now the lighting was a subdued scarlet. Dark shadows stretched over the floor and against the wall opposite.
My attention, however, didn’t linger on the aesthetics of the hues, because standing in the middle of the room, wearing black leather hot-pants, a blood-red corset and the same thigh-length boots she’d travelled to work in, was Zara.
Her ponytail swung as she turned to face me. She raised her left hand, pressed a kiss to her palm and blew it my way.
Fuck, my cock was bloating by the second. I couldn’t deny she was bloody gorgeous. Like no woman I’d seen before, not least because she had the sole of her right foot pressed onto a man’s back. The heel was creating quite a dent in his flesh, visible even from where I sat. It must be painful.
He was on the floor, on hands and knees, head hanging down, black hood over his face. He was naked, and I could see that his cock was turgid and straining towards his belly.
The guy was big—his muscles had that over-worked, pumped quality to them—and his olive-skinned back was thick and wide. I noticed a trail of dark hairs in the cleft of his arse. The same coating covered his thighs, calves and forearms.
It was then I spotted what Zara had in her other hand. A whip. But not a long, cowboy-style one, it was short and had several strands, more like a flogger, I supposed. Damn, she’d said she wasn’t going to…
She cracked it down on her leg, the one hoisted up. I flinched at the sharp snapping sound of leather on leather. So did the man. His cock bobbed.
Zara’s lips tightened, giving her face a stern, determined, don’t-fuck-with-me look. She removed her foot and walked around the form on the floor, studying him like one would eye something they were thinking of purchasing.
Her long legs were elegant and slim, the boots as sexy as I’d ever seen a pair of footwear. A sudden image of her thighs wrapped around my hips, while she was wearing those boots, besieged me. The material would be cool, sort of slippery but maybe not once it was laced with sweat. As I pumped into her they’d cling to my skin, tug, squeak. Maybe the sharp silver heels would catch my buttocks, prod me, urge me on.
God, I was at full hardness now. The same as the man on the floor. It wasn’t comfortable in jeans.
His physical form was twice that of Zara’s frame, yet he was cowering down, unmoving, his body tense as though he was unsure of what she would do to him next.
She traced the strands of the flogger down his back.
He trembled.
A ting
le ran over my spine.
With a sudden flick of her wrist, the strands whipped his right buttock. He made no sound, but the forward flinch of his entire body told me it had hurt.
Damn it, my own buttock smarted and I clenched my arse cheeks, raising them slightly off the chair.
Why would he let her hit him like that?
I leant forward, spying a drop of pre-cum on the end of his cock. It hadn’t been there before. Fuck, my prick was so bloody hard, straining against the tight denim of my jeans. The tingle in my spine and the heat in my buttocks were racing to my dick, enlarging it, engorging it.
Why the hell was I turned on by this crazy shit?
Zara moved, so her back was to me, and walked over to a silver trolley heavy with implements I had no definite names for. The hot-pants were so tight, so short they travelled up the gulley of her crotch and exposed the entire bottom third of her bum cheeks. Her inner thighs didn’t touch—even right up to her cunt her legs were a half inch apart.
I clenched my fists, blew out a long, slow breath. The criss-crossed lace of the corset hung down a few inches, swaying like a short tail, matching the swish of her sleek hair.
She spun, looked directly at me and held up a long, black, tapered dildo, the end shiny, as though greased. For a moment she didn’t move, just stared at me, quizzically, as if curious to see my reaction.
I kept my face neutral, my lips pressed together and chin tilted. I couldn’t deny the thought of watching her use a dildo on herself didn’t turn me on. It did, a lot. Especially when I was sitting in here, in safety, and nothing was required of me but to watch and enjoy. Feast on her spectacle and see how she made herself come. Maybe it would give me some tips for the future—if I decided to fuck her, that was.
She tilted one side of her mouth, as though she’d read my thoughts. But of course she hadn’t. How could she?
Her attention left me and she wandered over to her plaything. With slow, teasing strokes, she swept the flogger down his back several times. He was shaking slightly, his right buttock now burnt red from the swipe she’d given him.