I wanted his cum. If he wouldn't cum in my mouth, I swore to myself silently, then he'd cum in me now. I pushed back against him, wanting desperately for something, anything, to happen. After the first orgasm I had felt like the tension had gone, but it hadn't -- it had gone straight to my head, making everything fuzzy except the desire to be fucked.
I moaned out his name, "Jaaaaake."
He tugged on my mouth and I moaned again, the pain bypassing straight to the pleasure center of my brain. I could feel him losing his rhythm behind me in his mad desire to get more pleasure, to push deeper into me, as I pushed back to feel him deeper. His other hand grabbed my hair and pulled.
I moaned out around the fingers he had shoved into my mouth. "Oh, fuck me. Cum in me, Mr Stone. Please, cum in me. I need your cum."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you, you little slut," I heard him say through gritted teeth.
"Mm," I purred. "Don't stop, please. I'm begging you."
He thrust against me again, his skin slapping against mine, again and again, both of us pushing together. He pushed into me one last time and his hands scraped to try to pull me still closer as he came. I could feel the warmth of his cum spreading through me as I came with him, barely able to keep my breaths coming. I grabbed the sheets and pulled on them, trying to keep from floating away on the wave of pleasure that was engulfing me.
He pulled out and I rolled over, looking at him through the valley of my breasts. He was buttoning his shirt and tucking himself back into his pants. He didn't speak, not a word. I could feel the tears still in my eyes from the pain of the spanking that still stung even now, getting worse as the haze of pleasure cleared. And then, without a single word, he left.
I woke up the next morning with my ass still sore, bruises on my neck. They didn't remind me of some sort of happy memories, like I'd heard some people talking about. It was just something that had happened. I was less afraid, now, at least. He wouldn't kick me out, I thought. I woke up the next morning, and the next. The days seemed to fade, one into the other. I felt like I could leave, and I did. There were clothing stores nearby. At first I didn't shop, but I could feel the charge card that Mister Stone had given me weighing in my pockets. Eventually I did start shopping, buying a few pieces of clothing here and a few there.
Then one day, he didn't leave right away. His phone beeped, and he checked it. Tossed it onto the bed and went into the restroom. It seems that all the money in the world doesn't change men after they fuck.
I picked up the phone. There was no password or security on it. There was a text from a woman called Elle. There was a picture of her next to her name at the top of the screen, too small to make out much detail. Dark hair, well-shaped face. But beyond that, she could have been anyone.
I didn't have time to read the whole conversation before I heard the faucets come on. But I read enough to get the idea. Mister Stone had a date. And it would only be a matter of time before I was out. If only I'd known how little.
He came out of the bathroom with a dark look on his face. I already had the phone back where it was, close enough that he couldn't have suspected. He picked it back up and started to walk out. The door was already open when he turned back, like it was an afterthought.
"You have a week to get out of here," he said, softly. "If you need any references for a job or something, I'll have my assistant make herself available to you."
He turned back. His face was impassive, a look I was sure he'd practiced when he was still low-level enough to dismiss people himself.
"I wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors. Goodbye, Jen Smith."
And then he was gone, and my new life was gone with him.
The Substitute Sadist
I don't know how I did it. I look back on the weeks since I was kicked out by Mr. Stone, and I can recount all the things that happened -- I remember applying for a job, I remember talking to his assistant and being given an advance on my paycheck to get a small studio apartment, slightly larger than a closet. I remember my first day of work. I can almost remember what I ate for breakfast every day, even, but the actual reality of it seems distant. As if I'm dreaming.
Then again, so do the months I spent... working for Mr Stone. As if I've just been waiting to wake up back on the cold, hard ground with mats in my hair and ratty, destroyed clothing. I can't really wrap my head around any of it, and every time I wake up in my bed, with the full closet and food in the fridge, I am confused by it.
I got a job in the only place where I can do any good, and I suppose that did have some advantages. The gleaming white walls at Benny's remind me of who I was before Daddy moved on and that bitch took all the money. But somehow it's not the same. I don't feel at home, like I had when I was still in high school. The walls feel foreign, even after all this time. I feel like sooner or later, it's inevitable -- someone will realize what a mess I was.
I didn't think about it, but I wouldn't have minded not waking up one morning. I found myself feeling that way a lot, but I just brushed it off. I'd been jilted twice, by people who I relied on. It was only natural that I would feel bad for a while, but unlike the first time, I had something I could do about it now. I could keep my head down, and eventually, the feelings would just go away. That was what I hoped, anyways, and I was pretty sure I could manage it.
I felt particularly bad this morning; I had stayed up a little bit late watching movies on cable; I didn't have a special interest, but the easiest way to make the pain go away was to slip into a routine, and that was one I was trying on for size. It didn't even seem to matter that I had work in the morning at the time, but when the alarm went off at 6:30, it suddenly seemed like it mattered so much more than it had the night before.
My manager smiled at me; she was a fake bitch, but so was everyone here. It was part of their charm, that you could always be sure that no matter how they really felt about you, they'd fake it. It was an unspoken rule, and I liked the feeling myself. It was easier to put on a plastic smile and run through the same scripts behind the makeup counter than it was to deal with everything.
I made myself look busy, rearranging bottles that didn't need it, until I thought she was gone. Only, when I looked up, feeling the bags under my eyes dragging at my face, she was still standing there. She wasn't watching me, so I relaxed for a second, until I saw what had distracted her. Coming through the door was trouble, with a capital 't'.
Cathy knew him, of course. The other secret, other than how fake it all was, was how small the New York socialite scene was. Cathy had grown up with me, though she was a few years older. And she'd grown up with Travis, too. I try not to think about what she thought when I stopped showing up at social functions. It helps me sleep at night.
"Jen, I can call security."
"It's fine. Just keep an eye on him, I'm sure it's fine."
Cathy gave me a look out of the corner of her eye.
I wondered what he wanted, but even more than that I wanted to give him a piece of my mind. That was what I was thinking at the time. But then I saw his clothes. It wasn't anything you could buy here, not even if you were fucking the head of acquisitions. Too expensive. You can't smell money on a man, but you can see it. Travis had always had that look, and that hadn't changed. And I was starved for some sort of escape from this place, from these people.
I could feel my cheeks pulling into that plastic smile, the one that showed my teeth. It had taken most of two weeks before I was sure enough of my teeth to flash a grin like that again, but it had been helpful to say the least. The smile was a shield I could use. On the street, you needed to be afraid all the time, defensive. Had to keep people away from you, physically if necessary, or that was when they'd get you.
But in a place like this, what you needed wasn't a physical shield. It wasn't to fight. It was to convince everyone around you that you won't fight at all. That was the shield that the smile gave her, gave them all. In reality, the world of millionaires was more vicious than any street. It
was just plastered over with a facade of respectability, and the rest of the world just bought it.
He walked up with a confident swagger that he'd learned in high school and perfected in college. It helped him with everything. Business partners liked it; it inspired confidence to be dealing with someone who thought he had nothing to worry about. People want to believe there's nothing to worry about, and Travis knew how to tell people that everything was just fine. He had even fooled me for a long time.
Girls like it because it communicates, quietly, that he's not a project. He already knows who he is, he already knows what he wants. There's an animalistic quality to it, like a pheromone. The walk says what you need to know about the man. His face seals the deal, and his body was a happy surprise, hard-packed muscle that fit into a slim suit; with his clothes on, he looked like he had an average-sized body, but with his clothes off he looked like some kind of God.
Once upon a time, I had thought that that God was mine. But I had learned my lesson the hard way, and I tried to remind myself not to make the same mistake again.
If I thought that Cathy had my best interests at heart, I was a fool. She nearly tackled him like a lioness on an antelope you see on the nature channel. She played the manager there to help her customer, but I could see that she was practically humping his leg. Maybe I wasn't as over him as I'd thought. He still felt like my property, and I could feel the pit of hot anger burning in the bottom of my stomach as I watched them.
Then something happened that I didn't expect, and that's where things always went wrong for me: Travis didn't look at her, hanging her tits out. He barely slowed down. He pantomimed a wave and kept walking. His eyes barely left me, even as I pretended not to watch. I could feel my jaw hit the floor even as he was walking up. I barely managed to get my composure when he put his hands on the counter, spread in a wide, confident pose.
As if I wouldn't be mad, as if he had nothing to apologize for. And then I looked at his face again. The grin was gone; it seemed so genuine that it was hard to remember that he was the same as all of us. He had practiced that look in the mirror for hours and now it was so effective that when he used it on me I didn't realize it was just a front. But now, as he let it slip, slowly, I saw how tired he looked. How sad. I almost felt bad for him.
"Jen..." He started, but he didn't finish the sentence. He looked down at the counter.
"Speechlessness doesn't suit you, Travis." I was angry, and defensive, and a thousand things swirling all at once. But my voice sounded tender, teasing. It was an odd sound, to say the least. "Why did you come here? I thought we'd said everything we had to say to each other. Or did you come to tell me how great things have been since I left?"
"No..." He paused, his shoulders shrugging up. His posture sagged even further. I hadn't seen him like this... ever. I couldn't think of a single time that I knew to a certainty he was this upset. "Not really."
I tried not to let the pity get to me. If he wanted my forgiveness, he'd have to say it, and then he'd be lucky to get it.
"Well things have been great for me. I've met someone, Travis, so if you came to me begging for me to take you back, that's not going to happen."
He looked up, tired lines criss-crossing his face, like a slept-in suit. He looked deflated, utterly.
"Is that true, Jenny?"
My lips pursed involuntary. I couldn't really tell any more what the truth was with Jake.
"It's complicated."
He regained some semblance of control of himself. I could see it; he had taken it as a 'no,' and the truth was, that's what it was. He got taller, got younger.
"Please give me another chance. I've changed, you'll see. I swear, you'll see."
I'd heard this before. I'd seen him do this before, though never this completely. I couldn't believe that he could fake his despair this well, but at the back of my mind, I remembered all the times I'd heard that he'd changed before.
"I've been clean and sober for a month. I haven't seen Sheryl in... I don't remember. A month? More? I missed you, but I know I don't deserve your trust. I know I have to earn it. But please, give me a chance."
I tried to say no. I tried so hard, but it seemed so genuine, all of it. I couldn't get it out of my head how upset he seemed, how much it seemed like he really regretted all the shit he'd put me through. I wanted to believe, and he was showing me every sign that he could, that he was being genuine.
"Okay, listen, Travis. You need to go, alright? I get off at eight. Meet me outside and we'll talk. Okay?"
I watched his face screw up in thought, and then he collected himself. He put his hands over his face, and when he pulled them away again the mask was back on. His shoulders straightened. It was an impressive transformation, and I almost had to admire it.
"Eight? I'll be here." He looked me straight in the eye, his hawkish, predatory expression held tightly in place. It was what he did best, and even after years with him it still had just as big an effect on me. "I love you, Jenny."
Cathy walked up, trying to play the part of the manager, but I shot her a look and she changed her posture. So that's how it was going to be, then. She pressed against me from the side, trying to ape conspiratorial friends. That was the one thing we would never be. "So what was that about?"
I didn't answer her. Cathy could draw her own conclusions, and it would drive her nuts. That was the best part.
The rest of the shift was a nightmare and a half. I think it was the single longest day I ever had at that job, and it was only half a day. I couldn't believe how nice it was to slip into my own clothes, pull on a T-shirt and jeans and just feel relaxed. Even if it was just for a moment in the locker room, I tried to regain my composure.
I need to keep my wits about me. Sure, he's cute. Sure, he's got a lot of money. But I couldn't afford to just accept whatever he says; I can't be that pushover again. I had learned when I'd seen him before how hard that was going to be, though. I needed all my composure.
He was waiting outside, like I'd asked. It was unusual of him to respect my boundaries like that. He'd learned from business how effective it was to have the other guy off-balance, and he liked to use it to keep me in check as well. I think he thought it was romantic, and to a degree it was. It could be exciting, sexy. But it could be terrifying, too, when things went badly. I could never be sure which Travis I was going to get, but the one thing I could always be sure of was that it wouldn't be the way I expected.
But not this time.
This time, he was standing there like a screen from a romance movie, in his chic suit, a red rose in his hand, leaning against the white brick outside.
"You ready to talk?"
I could feel a tingling in my lips; I wanted to jump up and kiss him, to feel wanted again, but I know better. I kept my distance, the same way that I imagined that he was forcing himself to keep his. "What is there to talk about, again?"
"Don't be coy, Jenny, please. It's not the time, just talk to me, okay?"
"Fine; you talk, I'm listening."
"I'm sorry I hurt you, and I want to make it up to you somehow. I'll do anything to show you that I've changed."
"What did you have in mind?"
I could see on his face what he'd had in mind, and I wanted to give it to him. But that was giving up, and for Travis, I had no desire to give up. I would push until there was nothing left. That was how I felt, anyways.
"We could catch a movie, if that would be... interesting?"
"What's showing?" I crossed my arms across my chest and looked up at him. It was always looking up with Travis, that was something that he was very careful to manufacture in every situation. I couldn't exactly blame him for it per-se, but after being alone for three or four weeks, I could feel it consciously. And I could remember how much it hadn't changed at all in the time since I'd seen him, more than a year ago.
"Don't you trust me?" There was that cocky smile again. He might have changed in some ways, maybe even the important ones. But underneath i
t all was the same guy I'd grown up with. Part of me was comforted by it, but not all the memories it dredged up were of the good times in our relationship.
"Okay, I'm game. But it's not a date, you got it? We're gonna try being friends for a few hours." I let him guide me to his car. It was a Lamborghini, all hard edges; the car of a man who had too much, and needed everyone to know that he wasn't afraid of anything. But the feeling of the seats hugging me was familiar and comfortable. I let the seat hold me the way I wanted Travis to. The throttle pushed me back into it further as we pulled onto the nighttime streets.
It was hardly two miles; we could have walked. Travis knew that, the same as he always knew it, but he loved that stupid car more than anything. More than he'd loved me. More than he loved fucking skanks. I don't think he would have understood the question if you'd asked him what he loved more than that.
I got out at the door -- it was part of his entire conceit, that an attractive woman steps out of his million-dollar car. Without all of it together, he's lost. I suppose in that way, he valued me almost as much as the car, but not quite. I smiled ruefully as I stepped out. I had almost missed the attention, myself. Even with Mr. Stone, I wasn't a display piece. I was a tool, and even a well-loved tool isn't the same thing as a misused trophy.
I stood beside him when he ordered the tickets, but I didn't listen. Trying to figure out what he was doing would come off like I was questioning him, and he wouldn't stand for that. I would just have to wait for him to tell me, and that would have been fine if he paid any attention to my tastes. I couldn't think of anything I would have liked to see, though. Romances were tired and cliched, too much for me. I needed to get away from romance.
What he picked, though, was some action film where all the stars were twenty years too old to be playing in it. I didn't pay close attention, and I couldn't have explained the plot. Travis picked up on it; maybe he'd taken my feelings into account more than I had imagined, since he always knew that I got frisky when I was bored. His fingers started gliding in between my thighs, dancing higher and higher. I could feel the familiar tingle in my stomach. I wanted to stop him, but more than that, I wanted desperately not to stop him.
The Sadist's Series Season One (Love and Sex for Money) Page 3