by Lynn, KT
“Would you like to remove your clothing?” I had been asked politely by a woman on the way in, at what one might normally call the coat check. She had handed me a white Venetian mask, her blue eyes trailing with interest over the contours of my body from behind her own mask. Beside me, a blonde woman with a breathtaking smile removed her long woollen coat revealing a jewelled underwear set beneath. Looking further, towards the party, I saw men in very little. The coats-and-more check girl was looking at me expectantly.
Smiling and mumbling something about it being warm, I had unbuttoned my shirt and handed it over. She paused. Vainly, I assumed she was checking me out. But now I see that the majority at the party checked a lot more than their shirts at the desk.
A waitress passes me by, and I snag a champagne flute, partly in an effort to fit in. Mostly I just seriously need a stiff drink. I start to drift forward, towards the throng of people but not into it. I catch brief glimpses of individuals. A man’s thick-fingered hand pulls at a scrap of silk, exposing a woman’s breast. Her nipple is dark and puckers into a hard nub, as she laughs and lets her silk dress pool at her feet. There is a red-headed woman smiling as she whispers in a blonde woman’s ear. She licks long and slow up the column of her slender neck. Then she looks up and meets my gaze.
It’s stupid, but I can feel myself blushing. Her eyes are a deep green. Her mask covers only the top half of her face, and her smile looks mischievous. The sight of so many bodies pressed together had surprisingly left me cold – but this woman, and her smile, her tongue along another woman’s neck, and her acknowledgment of my moment of voyeurism, makes my cock swell in response.
She starts to move towards me through the crowd of bodies. I have two choices. I could try to make an escape, and write about what I’ve seen. Even just the glimpse I’ve seen of what happens at these corporate soirees is enough to cause a stink for Brooks and Holt, I don’t really need any more dirt. Or I can speak to this woman. She must be with the company, or closely associated. This could be the tip of an iceberg. This could be the making of me.
As the red head pushes closer towards me, I see that she has already lost whatever gown might have originally covered her. All that’s left is a scrap-of-lace thong and a choker that looks like a thick silver chain, wound twice around her slender neck. She is freckled, all over her shoulders and down to her breasts which are small and pert. She’s more than a head shorter than me with a petite build. Slender hips sashay as she walks towards me, parting the crowd. I could pick her up and carry her off with no problems – the thought makes my hard cock throb painfully in my pants.
“Do you like what you see?” She asks when she’s close enough for her voice to be heard over the pounding music.
This isn’t the place to be coy. Not if I expect to fit in. I look her up and down once more, my eyes lingering on her lacy panties. “Of course,” I reply.
“Can’t see much of you,” she says, coming closer to speak in my ear. She leans in against me, and I feel her hard nipples graze my chest. My hand falls naturally on her hip, steadying her. “But I like what I can see.” I feel fingers brushing my hardness through cloth. My hips reflexively rock into her touch. “I’d like to see more.”
“Would you?” I ask archly, smirking down at her. Her eyes are alight with hunger and need. There’s a smell of sex in the air, but I know almost instinctively that she’s already wet for me. Her pebbled nipples, her parted lips, her blown pupils all give the game away. Taking a chance on the way I’m expected to behave, I slide my hand between her legs. Normally, this would be second or third date stuff. But normally I wouldn’t have a mostly-naked woman in front of me, teasing my hard dick. I can feel her juices hot and slick through the lace. She moans and grinds down onto my hand.
Removing the slick digits, I offer them to her. “Show me what that tongue can do again,” I say. It comes out as an order and she responds enthusiastically. Her tongue works over my fingers, tickling at the pads then pushing them open to clean between them. She sucks my fingers between her full lips, her green eyes watching me, until they’re completely clean.
“We can go somewhere quieter,” she says. I see her throat shift as she swallows down the taste of her own pleasure. “I know somewhere.”
I nod mutely. Almost all thoughts of journalism and scandal have gone from my mind. I want this woman, this stranger. I want to bend her over and fuck her hard, twist her nipples, pull her hair. I want to fuck her until she’s begging, until I feel her cunt shudder and squeeze around my cock.
She takes my hand and leads me away from the noise. Only the main room is properly lit, and I lose track of where she takes me. Left turns and right turns. We pass people. Couples kissing or fucking against the walls, a man on bended knees with a collar round his neck, his face pressed hard between a woman’s legs. The redhead ducks in through a door and I follow.
The room we enter is dimly lit and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. There is a chaise in the middle of the room, designed for reclining with only one armrest. Racks adorn the walls displaying various implements. There are dildos. There are whips. There are manacles and ropes. “I thought this might suit your tastes,” she whispers in my ear as she passes me, then drops to kneel at my feet. “Sir,” she adds as though for good measure.
She is utterly beautiful. Her head is lowered and I can see her long eyelashes against the ghostly white of the porcelain mask. Her breasts rise and fall with each short, panting breath. Her slender legs are spread so wide that I can see her pussy lips, the thong splitting them visibly soaked with her cunt juice.
“What do you want?” I ask, dragging my eyes away to consider the many possibilities this room offers.
“To please you,” she replies immediately.
I cock my head slightly, moving to the nearest rack and gently taking down some kind of whip. The many suede strands fall through my fingers, gathered at the ends to form a firm but supple woven handle. When I look back at the redhead she is watching me. She doesn’t look concerned. “What don’t you want?” I ask her.
She pauses a moment, glancing at the whips behind me. “No lasting marks. And don’t hit my face.”
Things I wouldn’t have done anyway. I’m no expert, but I’ve given a heat-of-the-moment spanking before. She’s pale, but bruises fade. That shouldn’t be a problem.
“Kneel on the chaise, legs nice and wide. But bend over the back. I want to see your cunt twitch when I hit you.”
She complies immediately, her moves graceful as she lifts up from the floor and drapes herself over the chaise. Her hips are narrow. I walk closer, one broad hand sliding over the firm curve of her ass and down her flank. My skin looks rough and tanned next to hers. I pinch hard, grabbing a handful of flesh and testing it between strong fingers. A sharp intake of breath from the redhead, but she doesn’t flinch or move away. “Good girl,” I murmur, and swiftly lift my hand to land a resounding open-palmed smack on her ass. The blow rocks her forward against the chaise. My hand stays there, cupping her as her skin warms from the smack.
Then my touch shifts inwards. Pulling the lace to one side, I slide two thick fingers into her tight little passage. I can feel her muscles gripping me, the slick slide of her juices against and between my fingers. “So wet already?” I ask her, chuckling.
My other hand trails the suede ends of the whip over her behind. With a sharp flick of my wrist, they splay across her skin. Her pussy squeezes around my fingers. I aim lower for my next hit, the tails smacking against her thigh. This time she moans and pushes back into my hand. I start to fuck her with my fingers, sliding them in and out as my thumb finds her clit and rubs the little nub through the lace.
She rides my hand, moaning and writhing as I whip her harder and harder. Pink streaks appear across her pale skin, but the redhead doesn’t seem to notice. There’s a tell-tale twitch of her cunt around my digits every time the whip thwacks against her cheeks. She grips me and moans, torn between pushing back onto my fingers, and pulli
ng away from the pain. Her body gives her away, tells me how much she’s enjoying my attentions. As she bucks onto my hand more furiously I whip her faster. Her movements and my strikes building in a crescendo that can only end with her screaming in pleasure as her body bucks against me and her cunt muscles ripple around my fingers.
I slide my fingers slowly from her dripping cunt as she breathes heavily, slumped forwards over the chaise. The whip drops to the floor, and I swiftly unbutton my fly. “Did you enjoy that?” I ask her, my voice coming out ragged.
“Yes,” she breathes, looking over her shoulder at me. “Yes, Sir.”
“I don’t remember saying you could come, though.” I push down my pants far enough to release my cock. It’s grown painfully hard, jutting out from my body and flushed dark. I smear the juices that cling to my fingers over the shaft, swallowing back a groan.
Her eyes widen as she looks back at me. “I … I’m sorry,” she stutters.
Smirking, my hand tangles in her thick hair, pulling her around to face me. “You can make it up to me, I’m sure.”
She needs no further instruction. Her tongue sets straight to cleaning my dick, working long wet trails up and down my shaft. My fingers tighten in her hair, winding through the silky strands. I pull her in closer, hard enough that it must sting. When she opens her mouth to swallow my cock, she looks up at me and there are tears in her eyes. I grunt and thrust into her eager mouth. She takes me deep in her throat, her little hands scrabbling for purchase on my hips and thighs. But I’m pushing into her so hard and fast that she struggles to hold herself up and the weight of her body is taken by her hair in my hands.
It is the sight of her -- eyes red-rimmed and begging for my approval -- that tips me over the edge. With a loud grunt I thrust hard into her mouth, holding her face close to me as I spill my cum down her throat.
Even when I’m empty, the redhead keeps sucking. It’s almost too much, too sensitive. I struggle to catch my breath. My fingers tighten in her hair and lift her up from my dick. She wipes a trail of spittle and semen from her chin as those green eyes look up at me innocently. Despite coming, my cock is still rock hard.
“Turn around,” I growl, releasing her hair.
Her pale, freckled skin is striped pink and red. Some of the marks are livid and angry, some just faint and soon to vanish entirely. As she bends over the chaise once more I roughly grab her ass cheeks, spreading her wide. She hisses in pain as my fingers dig into the welts. Her cunt gapes open, begging for my cock. The little rosette of her anus is glistening with her pussy juice. I lean in to run my tongue over her ass hole, licking up her juice, wriggling it inside the tight ring of muscle. “Do you want my cock in you?” I growl against her.
“Yes,” she moans while pushing back onto my face.
I stand upright and rub the thick, blunt head of my cock against her hot center, coating it in thick sticky juices. She keens in response, trying to push back, to force me inside of her. “What’s the magic word?” I chuckle, admiring her body and the frustrated moans she makes.
“Please!” she cries out, looking back over her shoulder at me. Her red hair, so sleek when I first saw her, is mussed and tousled. Her chin is smeared with spit and semen, and her eyes are still red rimmed and needy. For a split second I wonder who she is. Some intern? A lawyer? Some minor player, surely. No one high up in Brooks and Holt would ever beg for a hard fucking – or for anything.
With one swift thrust I grant her wish and impale her. She is tight and wet, scalding hot around my throbbing shaft. My hips fit snugly against her ass which is still warm from the lashing she received earlier. My fingers curl into claws, digging hard into the firm flesh of her behind. My nails are short but they dig in, gripping her as I begin to thrust. I control the pace, I control the movement of her hips. I fuck her body without needing any input from her, without paying any attention to her needs.
And she loves it.
She holds on tight to the back of the chaise, her cunt sucking at my cock as it clamps down around me. She’s moaning, keening, screaming her pleasure. Faster, harder. I don’t need the encouragement. I’m already slamming into her, determined to make her feel the burn and friction against every weal. The thought of her scalding, bruising pain and how she begs for more makes my balls tighten. I’m slamming into her as hard as I can when I feel myself tip over the edge.
Howling and fucking her hard as I can right to the end, I pound my cum into her tight cunt hole. Distantly, I notice her body shudder to a screaming orgasm. She slumps against the back of the chaise as I collapse over her back, covering her body with mine.
Everything goes blank for a few moments. All I feel is the rise and fall of her breaths, and the pounding of my own heart.
When I raise my head, she is looking back at me. The submissive, needy woman is gone. Those green eyes are sharp and shrewd now.
“Take off your mask,” she says.
Even in the flood of afterglow a stone drops in my stomach. “I thought anonymity was a luxury I could expect at these parties.”
She slips from beneath me, turning to sit primly on the chaise. She manages it despite her nudity, the smell of sex and her obvious dishevelment. Her legs cross demurely, the curls of her thick, red hair arranged over one shoulder. She’s the very embodiment of just-fucked chic. Her smile is wry, green eyes looking up at me from beneath long lashes. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“I already showed you mine,” I grin, sitting beside her.
“Take off your mask,” she says more firmly.
There are ways in which this could work for me. I’ll be revealed – but so will she. I’ll get eyes on the inside at the best, a chance to blackmail for more information at the worst. Either way my career can only profit.
I reach behind my head and pull off the mask. She doesn’t recognize me, of course. But she keeps up her end of the bargain and slides off her own mask.
I recognize her. I’m staring into the green eyes of Angela Brooks, CEO of Brooks and Holt. This mewling, submissive woman who begged me for my cock is possibly one of the most powerful, most corrupt women in the country. And I just fucked her at a sex party.
“Why do I get the feeling you shouldn’t be here?” she says. She is scanning my face, trying to place me. But someone like me would never have made it onto her radar. She has people who deal with people like me.
In this respect I have the upper hand. “Because I shouldn’t be here. You don’t usually send out press invitations to these kinds of parties. Lucky for me, I know someone who knows someone.”
Her eyes rake over me, but this time her gaze is weighing, assessing. She’s no longer interested in sex. It’s all business. “Journalist. You wouldn’t be that pesky, inept rag columnist that keeps bothering my security people with entirely unfounded allegations, would you?”
“Completely unfounded, right up to the point where I walked into your company funded orgy. Care to comment?”
To her credit, Brooks smiles. She looks unruffled, which is impressive in her current state. “Let’s not trade in circles and insults. What is it going to cost me to make this go away?”
Despite already enjoying a busy evening, my cock makes a twitch of interest. “Oh, I’m not interested in your money, Ms Brooks. At least, not anymore.” I lean in slightly, tangling my fingers in her hair once more and turning her to face me, her green eyes meeting mine. “I think you have so much more to offer.”
The Journalist: Part II - Angela
by Stephanie Silvers
Themes: BDSM; M/f
The floor is cold and smooth beneath my knees. Highly polished granite tiles laid seamlessly one next to another. I have been placed just so in the centre of the room: kneeling on the floor naked, legs spread with my hands tied in front of me. A long length of rope coils between my legs, tied behind to cuffs on my ankles. The thick chain necklace I wore when we first met is a snug fit, the inch long links looped twice around my neck. The room is mine, my
living room in my house. It has been designed to my own specifications. I personally picked out every furnishing, approved each item of decoration. But for one day a week this room – this house – is no longer mine.
His bare feet make almost no sound on the granite floor, and he is able to take me by surprise when I hear his voice from directly behind me. “Stand up.”
I refuse to scramble. I take my time, shifting onto the balls of my feet and being sure of my balance before extending my legs and standing upright. My eyes don’t leave the floor – partly because he likes the submission, and partly because I can’t bear to look at him. “Spread your legs wider,” he instructs. He is still standing behind me.
I comply immediately, parting my feet to the widest extent my restraints will allow. His arms encircle me from behind. I feel my shoulders tighten in response. Affection isn’t something I think I could take from him, that’s not part of the agreement. But then I see that he’s just putting a thin leather thong around my waist. He ties it at the back where I won’t be able to reach it, and a small butterfly shaped fastener rests just below my navel. Then he feeds something between my legs and walks around to face me. It is then I realise he took more from my secret toy stash than I realised. He is chaining me into the rimba, the delicate but strict clamp that closes over my cunt lips and seals them tight shut.