by Dae, Harlem
“She is rude. Very rude.” I lifted my cup and sipped. “And I like it that she’s so different to Helen.”
Ollie leaned towards me, his expression one of him wanting to know more, every little detail. “How rude?”
I couldn’t give details to him. It wouldn’t be fair to Zara. “Just take it from me she’s rude, all right? More than you could handle.”
He laughed hard then. “What, and you’re saying you can handle her better than I could?”
“Yes, I can. I’ve done everything she’s asked of me so far and enjoyed it. And we may have been brought up like brothers, Ollie, but that’s all you’re going to get from me. It’s early days, and I kind of want to keep things to myself for a bit.”
“But you’ve always shared before, even things about Helen.” He paused, staring at me for an uncomfortable moment. “Oh, don’t tell me she’s The One. Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for a girl like her.”
“Of course not.”
“Good, because girls like her don’t stick around for long, Vic. They get bored, bugger off just when you’ve gone and got yourself well and truly hooked. Remember what it was like when Helen—?”
“She’s nothing like Helen, I already said that, and what we have is poles apart from anything Helen and I shared, so I won’t get hurt,” I said, hoping I’d sounded more sure of myself than I felt. But I didn’t, and that’s what had been bothering me for the past day or so. I wasn’t man enough to keep Zara’s attention, didn’t have enough adventure in me. She wouldn’t want to see me after our month was up even if I still wanted to see her. Unless, that was, I showed her I could take what she dished out—and could keep taking it. But where the hell would that take me? Beyond anything my imagination could even guess at?
A sudden pang for Helen’s gentle, undemanding ways struck me in the chest, but at the same time, my dick stirred at my thoughts of what I’d done with Zara the night before. My cock ramming into her tight arse, the plug up mine. The way she just took what she damn well wanted and gave me so much in the process.
If Ollie knew, he’d probably straight out faint with jealousy. If he believed me, that was. I hardly believed it myself. Women like Zara were the stars of fantasies, not real life.
I was nervous as I got ready for my meeting at Eden Street with Zara. That conversation I’d had with Ollie had unsettled me, forced me to think about things I’d been putting off. It had been pointless to hope that I could have something more with Zara than what we currently had. We had one month—less now, damn it—and that was it. But did it have to be that way? I hadn’t wanted a woman like this before in my life, not even Helen. A week or so ago I would have sworn that I’d adored Helen, had been head over bloody heels in love with her, but now I knew I hadn’t been. I’d loved her, but not like this. Not this heady, mad rush, this all-consuming heat that followed me wherever I went. I couldn’t get Zara out of my head. During the business meeting with Ollie—he organised my marketing—he’d had to repeat himself several times in order to get me back on track. I’d let my mind drift to this black-haired beauty, all slim legs and soaking cunt, beckoning me with one finger to come and get entangled in her web.
I berated myself now. It wasn’t love, this heady feeling of obsession. It was lust—pure, unadulterated, fuck-me-stupid lust.
And I’d be her lust-addled fly, let her wrap me up in her silky threads so I couldn’t escape. Eat me, play with me, never let me go. It would suit me very well indeed.
I stared at the clothes in my wardrobe. My jeans and a polo shirt didn’t appeal. Too casual, too…submissive. I wasn’t sure that was the right word, but I wanted a degree of control, an air about me that made her pause. A suit would give me the courage to be all the things Zara wanted me to be—bold, exploratory, risky, willing to do whatever she suggested. And I could, couldn’t I?
I had to at least try.
Dressed and ready to go, I left my place and jumped in the car, making a speedy trip to Soho. I parked, not worrying whether Carlos would keep an eye on my car or put it in Samson’s garage, whoever the hell he was. It didn’t matter now. I just needed to get inside. To see Zara.
At the door, I knocked and waited for someone to answer. No one did. Instead, the door lock clicked and I went in. A receptionist I hadn’t met before was sitting behind the desk, and she looked up at me and smiled.
“Victor, yes?” she asked.
“Um, yes.” I straightened the knot in my tie, and the thought of tying Zara up with it came so swiftly I couldn’t breathe properly. Where had that come from?
“Zara said to go into room four. Said you know where it is.”
“Err, right. Thanks.”
I went through the rear door and found the room where I’d encountered my first bout of shame. I wondered how many more I’d go through in there before our time was up.
Our time won’t be up. Not for me. Even if she ends it, I’ll never forget her.
It seemed I needed to add being sappy to my list. Straightening my shoulders and trying to man up a bit, I rapped on the door with my knuckle.
“Enter,” Zara said.
My stomach rolled, and I took a second to inhale a deep breath then blew it out again. It was time to watch The Harlequin. Time to let Zara do to me whatever the hell she liked.
Chapter Eighteen
Fuck, Victor looked gorgeous tonight. Not that he didn’t every night, but wow, he had me just by stepping into the room.
I tutted at my fanciful thoughts, they meant nothing. A good suit to a man was what sexy lingerie was for a woman, that was all. But damn, Victor had got it just right. Sexy didn’t begin to describe him, and I ached to touch him, hit him, yank his dick until he cried for release.
The suit, I was sure, was Savile Row. It was exquisitely cut, a deep shade of grey, and framed his long body to perfection. That Man used to wear similar suits. He’d been the same as Victor—shed loads of cash to throw about. And it worked; clothes that screamed success and hinted at a quiet, controlled dominance were just my thing. Partly because I admired the status the wearer had achieved, but also because it made me itch to break them, have them hand over all that power, get them on the floor begging to lick me, kiss me, fuck me, or even better, unleash the animal in them they didn’t even know was there.
Every man had the basic instinct that could drive them to fuck with violent passion. Just very few knew about it. Not only that, when it came to submission, the higher up the food chain they were, the further they fell. Hit that low with an even greater satisfaction. Playing with those two extreme emotions, absolute submission and the primitive response, could be so much fun.
“Hi,” he said, shutting the door and taking the seat next to me.
I crossed my legs, my black leather, thigh-high boots creaking in the silence. “Victor, I’m so glad you graced me with your presence.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” His gaze slipped down my boots; thighs, knees, sinfully pointy tips of the toes. I wondered if he was remembering Carlos adoring them, albeit briefly, and hoping it would be his turn soon.
It would be.
“Shame you didn’t bother to come last night. It was one hell of a show,” I said.
He reached for my hand, brought my knuckles to his lips. They were soft, barely damp as he kissed me. “We made our own show afterwards.” His breath was hot on my skin and sent an annoying scatter of sensation up my arm.
I tugged away. “You should strip.”
“What.” He raised his eyebrows.
Lunging forward, I gripped his chin. “You want another slap?”
He swallowed, and his eyes narrowed slightly, small wrinkles forming at the edges. “Is that a trick question?”
A deep belly laugh gripped me. He was so fucking funny. “I suppose it is.” I slapped him, hard, across his left cheek. “That’s for forgetting to call me Mistress.”
He turned away, stared at the door as though composing himself, or maybe wondering whether to le
ave. Again he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the collar of his pristine white shirt. He breathed deep, turned back to me, his eyes still slit-like.
“I’m sorry, Mistress.”
Good, I still had him. He needed to be able to take a bit of a slap, there was so much more to come.
“So what are you waiting for? Strip. It’s a swanky suit and everything, but I want you naked when you watch this.”
He stood and I glanced at my watch. The Harlequin was five minutes late—good, it was what I’d asked for. Didn’t want Victor distracted with undressing when The Harlequin started the show.
He did as I’d asked, and as he peeled away the layers, hanging them on a hook on the wall, I congratulated myself on how far we’d come. That first evening, in my bedroom, there was no way he would have tolerated a slap and then obeyed an order. But now, well, it was like having a puppy to play with.
I licked my lips, and my pussy heated as he stepped out of his boxers and kicked them to one side. He was hard, but not as deliciously hard as I knew he could get.
“Turn around, face the window,” I said.
“Yes, Mistress.”
The other side of the window was still covered by a dense black curtain but he stared at it anyway.
Damn, his back view was cute, and I couldn’t help giving my nipples a little tweak through my top. The nape of his neck was covered in hair, neat and recently brushed, I’d say. He had wide shoulders, not balled with muscle, just strong. The gutter of his spine was deep and lined with sinewy tendons. The small dimples, just above the rise of his buttocks, invited licks. His arse was lovely, pert and high, the skin a fraction lighter than the rest of him, as though he’d enjoyed some foreign sunshine over the last few months. My attention lingered on the cleft of his arse and then swept down his legs. His thighs I knew to be hairy at the front, but at the back, the covering was sparse. I liked the backs of his ankles, just above his heels; the tapered tendons there were defined and screamed strength. I wondered briefly if he was a runner, or maybe had been.
“Put your hands on the glass,” I ordered.
He obeyed.
I shifted to the edge of my seat, reached out and stroked his buttocks, first the left and then the right. Smoothed the skin in delicate sweeps. “I’m sorry if your arsehole has been sore today.” I ran my tongue over those dimples.
A slight shiver went through him. Was he cold, standing naked in this small room, or had my touch affected him the same way his had me, only a few minutes ago?
“My arsehole has been okay, thanks for asking.”
I slipped my finger down the warm crack, touched the hidden hole.
He tensed further. His buttocks clenched, gripping me. He wasn’t up for that kind of play today, but I’d known that.
“It was worth it, though,” I said. “In order for you to learn something new about yourself.”
“Yes.” He paused. “Mistress. It was worth it.”
“Good.” I stood, pressed my lips to his ear. “The show is about to start, and I want you to stay like this, staring into the room, standing, hands on the glass. I know you’re hard and you’ll definitely get harder, but no one but me can see you from the waist down, and to be honest, no one is really interested. So just stay still, enjoy The Harlequin, learn your lessons and I’ll be right here helping you along.”
He was silent.
“Victor.” I slapped his arse. Hard.
He jerked. “Yes, Mistress.”
“Stop being so damn awkward,” I said, brushing away the sting on his buttock. “Or I’ll go and get that big fucking plug I shoved up Carlos’ arse and you’ll have that in for the next hour. Might make your trip to Heaven a bit more hellish.”
“Sorry, Mistress. I’ll try harder.”
He’d spoken the subservient words, but something about his tone didn’t quite ring true. As though he was acting. Spouting them because he knew that was what I wanted to hear.
Well, I’d soon change that.
A slight whirr echoed into the room, and the curtains drew back.
The Harlequin stood in the middle of the stage, hands on hips, face covered by a gold Venetian mask with a plume of feathers on the right-hand side.
I ran my hand around Victor’s waist, down his obliques and checked the solidity of his cock. Oh, yes, nice and firm—the slap and the sight of The Harlequin’s large, bare breasts clearly worked for him. I’d suspected he was a bit of a tit man right from the word go, and now I was pretty sure I’d been right.
“Do you like her big tits?” I asked, touching my lips to the mound of his shoulder. He smelled of that woody shower gel again, but tasted of him: fresh and clean, like ocean surf on a hot summer’s day.
He hesitated and then, “Yes, Mistress.”
“Me too. Sometimes I frig myself off just thinking about The Harlequin’s tits. They’re so big and soft, the nipples so sensitive.” As I’d spoken I stroked his back, tapping my fingers down his spine. “Can you imagine what it would be like to put your dick between them, Victor? Use those big, warm pillows to wank with? Perhaps you’d like to watch me masturbating at the same time. Would you like that?”
“Yes, Mistress.” No hesitation that time.
“And then when you came, it would hit the mask, wouldn’t it? Your cum would fly into those pretty white feathers, making them sticky and matted. How would that make you feel?”
He didn’t answer. I slapped his arse, hard, each cheek.
He jolted forwards. My palm tingled.
“This is what’s going to happen,” I said sternly. “While you watch the show, you’re going to imagine yourself screwing The Harlequin. Not boring old missionary, something kinky, anal perhaps, if that’s your secret thing. And I’m going to make your arse a wonderful bright red.”
“You’re, you’re going to spank me…Mistress?”
“Yes, because quite honestly, Victor, you deserve it. After standing me up last night, not using the plug when I told you to, and then all that skiving and sending dirty emails when you should have been working, you really do need to take your punishment.” I leaned closer so my lips caressed his earlobe. “You’ve been bad. Really bad, and for that you must take the consequences, but…I’m pretty damn sure it will get you off.”
He looked at me, taking his attention from The Harlequin, who was reaching into a black-and-white chequered box.
“The show,” I snapped, whacking his arse again.
His cock grew in my other hand. Yes, I had him.
He looked through the window.
“Let the heat spread,” I murmured in a softer tone. “Harness that pain and add it to your arousal. It will feel fucking fantastic when you come.” I kissed the bottom curve of his neck. “Trust me.”
The Harlequin had the snake out of the box now and it was winding over those luscious big tits as the swaying dance routine began.
Briefly I let go of Victor’s cock, but only to reach for a paddle from my handbag. There was no way my palm would cope with the beating I intended for my little virgin.
“A bit wider.” I nudged at his feet, and he broadened his stance. “You remember my middle name?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Use it if you need to.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
The dance was slow to start with, lots of snake-tit action going on as The Harlequin moved past each window, stopping to press the assets that were the star of the show against the panes. When hard nipples, the size of Christmas baubles, squished in front of Victor, I applied the first stroke.
The flesh-on-wood noise rang around the room. He shifted forwards but quickly back. The snake, I swear, was giving him the eye.
My pussy was damp, my skin flushed, and I had Victor just where I wanted him. Obedient, naked and enjoying a show that would shock the hell out of him. How far would he let me go? What would it take for him to snap?
“Yes, that’s it,” I said. “Show me you’re the type of man who can stand u
p and take the pain.”
The Harlequin moved on. I hit Victor again, setting up a steady rhythm that I knew would make the strikes blur into one hot mass of torment.
I glanced down. His buttocks were rapidly becoming a fiery red, his cock engorged, bobbing between his belly and the wall beneath the window.
For a moment I wondered if I should paddle him and suck him off at the same time, but I was enjoying watching his expression too much. The Harlequin had allowed the snake to travel into small red-and-blue striped panties, the head disappearing from view.
“Jesus, is she going to let the snake fuck her?” Victor asked, his voice strained like his throat had contracted.
I felt sorry for him, gripped his cock and wanked him slowly, so he had somewhere to direct the pain my paddle was doling out. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s a bit sick.”
“Yeah, but you’re hard as a damn steel rod. It’s turning you on.”
He blew out a breath, gritted his teeth. “Fuck, that hurts, you know? What you’re doing.”
“Yes, but you deserve it.” I increased the pace, to show that I meant it.
He gasped. “To be hurt? Does anyone deserve to be hurt?”
“Yes,” she snapped.
“Really?”
“Yes, and this is good hurt so stop whining.”
“If you say so… Mistress.”
I whacked even harder, ignoring the ache building in my arm.
“Ah, fucking hell.” He canted his hips forwards and sucked in a breath, the air hissing around his teeth.
“So just come then it will all be over,” I said a little breathlessly.
“Is that what you want?”
“Yes, fucking hell, Victor, that’s the idea.”
He removed his hands from the window. Went to reach for me.
“No,” I shouted and stepped back. “Don’t fucking move.”
That muscle jumped in his cheek. He hesitated and then turned back to the window and placed his palms on the glass. He stared at The Harlequin, who was lying down and writhing as if on the way to climax. The snake was the only thing providing stimulation. Damn, it was a freaky show, that’s why it was only performed once a fortnight. It just didn’t have the following.