by Daryl Banner
I shrug. “So?”
A frustrated sort of snort flees from him. “So, I’m not a player. I’m respectable. I treated her like a lady. I mean, well, y’know. Aside from banging her against the wall like a jackhammer so hard, I was probably dislodging bricks. I treated her like a lady, alright?”
I don’t respond to him, my arms still folded and my eyes like needles as I debate whether or not to let this whole thing go. Is it really that big a deal to win this fight? Was it a mistake to bring him here?
The warmth growing between my thighs would suggest it isn’t.
And the heart palpitations his crystalline eyes alone are inspiring within me surely don’t scream “mistake”.
I can’t deny how fucking sexy he is or what he’s doing to me … even if he makes me mad as hell with his juvenile reasoning.
“Is that what this is?” he says suddenly, giving a glance back at the work, then returning his intense gaze to me. “You think I objectify women?”
I glare at him, wordless and fuming.
“So, wait,” he goes on, gripping his temple. “You think I … You think I just take advantage of their bodies and, like …” He sighs, squinting at me with a hundred thoughts. Then, something seems to occur to him, and a smile works onto his face. He drops his hands and begins to circle around the display once again. “Alright. Fine, okay. I ‘objectify women’, you’re implying. Alright, alright …”
I watch him as he slowly stalks around my work of art, as if giving it a new consideration.
“You know,” he blurts suddenly, “I would let you objectify me … if you wanted.”
I lift a questioning eyebrow.
“Yep,” he says, answering some question my eyes apparently asked. He arrives finally at my other side, gently looking up at me with his forehead wrinkled and his dimples pushed out with a cheeky smirk. “I’d let you have your way with me.”
“Would you?”
“Yes, ma’am, I sure would.”
His Texan accent plays as thick as barbeque sauce into those words, and maybe it’s his sudden change in mood—or mine—that inspires my next action. Without thinking, I grab his ass and pull him towards me. He stumbles for a second, his eyes flapping open with surprise, and then he’s inches from my face. Our breath falls upon one another in hot, jagged torrents.
He was definitely not expecting that.
To be honest, neither was I.
“You … want to be my object?” I murmur, attempting not to admire how firm his ass is, even through his loose, low-hanging jeans.
He bites his lip, as if to stop himself from grinning further. “You know that’s what I want, girl. If you wanna take charge … if that’s your thing, I’ll fuckin’ let you. I’m yours to play with.”
Even he has to take deeper breaths between his sentences. His eyes shimmer with excitement as his face creases with the amusement of about a hundred wicked ideas that I’m glad I don’t know—despite having a certainty in my gut of where each and every one of those wicked ideas of his leads.
I lift my chin, defiant and ready to put this camera boy right where he belongs. “Take off your jeans.”
The whites of his eyes flash. “H-Here?”
“Take off your jeans.”
Without pulling his face away from mine, his fingers leap to the buttons of his jeans and he fumbles, prying them open and letting them drop to the floor. Right here in front of these tall glass walls. Right here in front of the whole damn Abernathy street, despite there being no one outside yet to observe the show. The buckle of his belt slaps the tile so loud, it rings like a bell throughout the gallery. He steps out of them and kicks them to the side.
“Shirt,” I order next.
He glances nervously at the glass walls, then swallows and laughs away his hesitance. “I took off mine. When do you take off yours?”
“We’re making you into my object, remember?” I lick my own lips, pulling his eyes straight to them. Then I tilt my head, all my dark hair shifting with it. “Shirt, camera boy.”
He has fun with the removing of his shirt, still thinking he’s got a grip on our little scene. He grasps the bottom of it tightly, turning the maneuver into a little dance without music, then pulls it over his head and casts it to the side with a flex of his bicep.
I would be lying if I said that Brant isn’t one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen. His slender, V-shaped, panther-like build is chiseled at every possible turn. It’s endless, the places in which he has definition, how his infinite abs turn into the two, smooth pecs of his chest, which rest under his taut, shapely shoulders, which lead the eyes up a neck and to a face that, even in his nakedness, still shows a striking confidence—as if he dares me to keep challenging him, testing him, pushing him …
And I will.
“Wish I could see yours,” he murmurs through a tightened throat. “Shit, it’s cold in here.” He glances behind him, then looks off to the side for a second. “Is there a showcase tonight or something?”
“It doesn’t start for another thirty minutes,” I assure him.
“Oh. That’s pretty soon, isn’t it? Won’t people start showing up?” Then he grins, his face lighting up. “On second thought, that’s plenty of time. So, tell me. Do you—”
I bring my face up to the side of his, which shuts him up right away. My lips trace—without kissing—the smooth, silky skin of his cheek as I slide ever so slowly to his ear. It’s there that my teeth find purchase, raking in his earlobe as I take a little taste.
He groans, his breath blasting the nape of my neck. “Oh my god …”
I run a finger up his body, starting just above the rim of his briefs—which are black, skintight, and leave very little to the imagination—and I trace up the insane hills of his abs, one by one. He bucks ever so slightly at the touch of my cold fingertip, then braces himself as I let my wandering finger slide up his core, stopping at his hardened nipple. I give it a pinch.
“Fuck …” he hisses into my neck.
My teeth let go of his earlobe just long enough to ask, “Feeling objectified yet?”
He doesn’t answer, lost in the ecstasy of what my finger’s doing to his poor nipple. Taking his silence for an answer, I reach down and grip the waistband of his briefs, then slowly start to slide them down.
That’s when he shakes from his trance and grabs my hands, stopping me. “Wait, wait, wait.”
“Yeah?”
“Not here. Someone could see,” he whispers, turning to look over his shoulder, then staring out at the empty gallery once again.
“No one’s seeing but me.”
“But someone else could just … People might come early and … One of the other artists might—”
“No one’s coming in. The student exhibit doesn’t open for another thirty minutes.” I meet his face with mine, reeling his bright, blue, worried eyes in. “Plenty of time, you said. Didn’t you?”
The worry seems to ease out of him, replaced quickly with that all-too-familiar cockiness. “Yeah, right. Y’know, two nipples are fun, sure. But four are more fun.” He gives my breasts a quirk of his eyebrows.
I give his nipple one last pinch, earning a moan from him, then release the tortured thing. Turning my back to him, I bend down to the art project next to which we’re having so much fun and release the handcuffs one by one. Brant stands there in all his sexy, slender, muscled glory, his nipples hard and his cock harder, bulging in those tight black briefs of his. When I glance back at him, his blue eyes watch me under his tuft of messy brown hair, hungry and waiting.
I remove the naked lady from the platform—it’s just wire and paper and weighs next to nothing—then gently pat the vacant display. “Giddy up, camera boy.”
Brant, ever slow to process my meaning, simply looks at the empty platform, confused. Then he squints at me and asks, “You want me … to get onto that?”
I lift the four handcuffs. They rattle in my clutch as they tap against one another, creating their tinny
dissonant song of metal and restraint.
That’s when the message hits him. “Oh, fuck! You’re a kinky minx, aren’t you?” He laughs, his face lighting up. Then, just as quickly, he turns worried again. “W-Wait, are you serious?”
My lips curl. “Yep.”
He rubs his hands together quickly—whether out of nervousness or to keep warm, I’m not sure—then glances around one last time before crawling up onto the display, assuming the all-fours position.
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
He looks up at me, quivering with excitement. Apparently, neither can he.
“Makin’ me your object, huh?” He licks his lips, then lets his eyes go on a thorough stroll down my body, and it might as well be his hands doing the strolling, for the way they seem to touch my every curve. All his wet dreams and expectations are painted on his lively face.
In this moment, I almost lose my nerve, second-guessing myself. That is, until I hear the sound of the cuff clicking around his left wrist.
“Fuck, this is hot,” he whispers—to himself, I think.
I circle around the display to his left ankle. Even from behind, he’s a work of art—a sculpture of muscle, of man, of beauty. Click! His right ankle is next—click!—and then I’m back in front of him, securing the final cuff to his right wrist. Each cuff is tight and unforgiving, lending him no ability to move his limbs whatsoever; he’s secured in place and not going anywhere.
“This sucks a bit for my knees,” he tells me casually, “but I’ll live. Maybe now that you’ve made me your … object … you might consider showing me a little … somethin’-somethin’ of you?”
I crouch down in front of him, nearly nose to nose. “Oh, yeah?” I smile, squeezing my breasts together invitingly. His eyes go straight to them. So predictable. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Yep.”
“Throw the dog a bone, huh?”
He sticks out his tongue and pants like a puppy.
“You know, Brant …” I shake my head ruefully. “I still think women are objectified far more than men. But maybe this little display of yours might … sway my mind.” I pat his smooth, flushed cheek.
This close to his face, I find myself in a predicament of my own, warring between a desire to just ditch him here and stalk home, or to kiss those full, sexy lips of his … lips that I know will send a fire rushing through me that no cold shower could dream of putting out. Wetness gathers between my thighs as they squeeze together, nearly squirming as I crouch before him with my face so close to his. A hundred ideas of what else I can do to him tumble through my conflicted mind.
What’s the harm in giving in, anyway? Wouldn’t I get something out of it too, even if it’s just for one night? How long has it been since a man touched me and sent electricity down every nerve in my body?
Why, when something nice actually enters my life, do I feel the need to sabotage any possible chance of something good coming from it?
“You look gorgeous,” he murmurs.
My face softens at his words.
“And,” he goes on, “I bet you’d look prettier with my dick between your legs.”
He, however, is not that “something nice” who’s entered my life. He embodies everything I can’t stand about men. Unspeakably arrogant. Thinks he’s the tissue for my every tear. Thinks he’s the supply to my every lack. Sure, Brant’s talented, and his talent is spoiling every mood and taking what little hope I had and wiping up the floor with it.
I rip the gag off my sculpture, then bring it around his head.
“Whoa,” he blurts as I wrap the thing behind his head. “You’re so damn kinky and twisted. Fuck, I’m so haaa—”
He doesn’t quite finish the word “hard” as the ball-gag slips past his lips, trapping the rest of his words within him and converting any sound he makes into vowels and moans.
“I’m not kinky,” I assure him with a gentle pat to his cheek, “and I’m definitely not twisted.”
He says something through the gag as drool gathers at the corners of his mouth, turning the ball slick. I love what I’ve reduced him to.
“I’m Nell.”
He blinks a few times, confused. It doesn’t take long for realization to dawn on his adorable, trapped little face.
“I’m the artist, camera boy.” I lean into his ear, giving the lobe one more tiny nibble before I add: “And you’re my new exhibit.”
When I pull away, I might say that I see a flicker of excitement in his eyes at those words of mine. Is all of this turning him on, the predicament I’ve put him in?
“Enjoy your grand opening.”
As I leave, I hear a moan or two that might or might not be him calling out my name, which he just learned. I hear another groan that might or might not be a show of his unbridled horniness on display for the whole school to see—or perhaps just his ultimate humiliation.
Either way, I’m sure the lesson’s the same.
Chapter 6
Brant
Well, this is a particularly unique shade of “totally fucked”.
And why the hell am I hard as a rock?
Like, seriously. I am so fucking hard right now that my cock—which is totally on display right now in these skintight, revealing briefs that Eric swore I should wear on my date tonight—feels like a goddamn swollen eggplant.
My heart hammers tirelessly in my chest, pumping more and more blood below my waist. It’s as if even my body is like: Hey, Brant! We’re excited! Exciting shit is happening! Let’s make you even harder!
That Nell chick is totally messing with me, right? She’s going to come right back and release me any second now.
I breathe in deeply, then breathe out. Already, this damn oversized ball-gag is making my jaw sore. I bet this is what Eric and Dmitri feel like every time they give head.
The thought makes me laugh.
My dry chuckles echo like whispers throughout the empty gallery, then reverberate back at me tauntingly.
I turn my head. “Nmml?” I push through the gag. “Nmmmmml?”
Nell. Not the name I was expecting from her. Who the hell names their kid Nell?
Fuck, she looked so hot tonight.
The sun is still up. So really, I’m not as visible as I think I am from the street. There’s reflections and shit on the glass outside. I’m pretty much protected until Nell decides the joke’s over with and she comes to free me. Maybe the whole gallery showing was just a lie? Maybe she’s just trying to scare me?
I give my left wrist a tug, only to find it completely and utterly secured in place. With a quick jerk of my right side, I make the same discovery. I’m not going anywhere.
The only thing that would make this even hotter would be if Nell would come back with a whip or some kinky shit. Not that I want to be actually whipped; the threat of one is sexy enough for me.
But a spanking …
Fuck, I’m getting even harder. Every time I think I’m at full mast, my cock betrays me and throbs even more. For a second, I’m seriously concerned that my cock might explode.
Mental note: Eric deserves severe payback for his evil suggestion to wear “sexy” underwear that’s a size too small.
I hear a click. When I look up, I see a pair of people walking along the sidewalk outside. Just as quickly, a pair of voices enter the gallery. Then I see more people approaching from the other side of the street, looking both ways before they cross the road. The front door—which I can’t see at my angle—opens to let in another crowd of some utterly indeterminate number.
An intercom clicks, and then music begins to play: some new age, hippie, synthetic beats crap.
Holy fucking shit. There is an actual gallery showing tonight.
I twist my neck around to try and see the front, then realize I can’t. Footsteps and voices join the music, echoing all around me tauntingly.
Every inch of my skin is cold and sensitive at once, my predicament growing more and more pressing by the second.
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br /> And I can’t will my boner away.
I’m still hard.
Nell did this to me to make a point, sure. I get it. Alright.
Suddenly, I chuckle through my ball-gag, thinking about her. She wants to teach me a lesson? This is the way she’s going to play my game? Two can play.
I feel the presence of someone behind me. Then a voice lightly gasps in shock. “It’s a person,” I hear them whisper. “Oh my god,” another voice returns.
When the two come into view to get a look at my face—two girls holding programs or pamphlets or something—I look up at them. And to their curious, awestruck faces, I grin proudly through my ball-gag, then give them a jerk upward of my chin. “‘Sup?” I push out, despite it sounding like some random grunt.
“Beautiful,” murmurs one of them.
“Poignant,” agrees the other, nodding.
The pair of them are joined by three more—a blond guy in slacks and two women in dresses. I give them the same grunting nod and greeting. Then, for good measure, I wiggle my ass and grin even tighter, inspiring a chuckle from the guy. The two women blush and whisper something between themselves.
When I look ahead through the window, my eyes catch sight of her. Nell. She’s watching from the street.
I save my biggest, widest grin for her. I even wink.
For a moment, I think I catch a hint of her smiling back—a faint, nearly undetectable smile—before she turns and strolls away.
Score one for Brant Rudawski.
I don’t see her after my impromptu gallery debut.
It was the art gallery owner who was instructed how to free me from the cuffs at the end of the exhibit. Apparently just a tiny stupid out-of-reach latch on each cuff was all it took to keep me in place.