Crown and Anchor Series: Book 1-4

by Kerri Ann

  Bending at the waist, I grip the footboard of the bed. Positioning herself behind me, I feel the sting of the paddle as it sings against my skin. Moaning, I grip my cock, roughly.

  “Quiet, Cas,” she says. I can hear the grin in her voice, but I do as I’m told. I know if I don’t she’ll stop, leaving me with blue balls.

  She hits me again. I feel the tension as it builds in my balls, and I relish it. Stroking slowly, I move as little as possible. There’s no way I want this to be fast. I want to enjoy this feeling as it rises.

  Strike after strike, I take what she gives. Feeling my pulse rising, my heartbeat races at speeds faster than my bike. Tugging on my cock like my life depends on it, I slow down, wanting to chase the feeling. Lolli knows I don’t want off fast. I want to get off so hard I sleep for days. It’ll calm my mind for a while.

  Reaching around, she holds my balls in her hand, gripping them painfully. Wanting to tell her to let go and let me come won’t happen. I know she won’t until I scream it out, so I hold back.

  “You good?” she asks. I nod. It’s not only fucking excruciating, it’s exhilarating.

  Releasing my balls, I feel her back off my body, just before she strikes again and again with the paddle. It’ll be sore to sit later, and I’ll have a hard time on the bike, but I don’t care; I want this more.

  Slamming the paddle against my ass, my hand increases in tightening and loosening motions against my swollen cock.

  I stroke faster, knowing my release is approaching. “Aubrey,” I grind out, undoing the buckles on her ankle restraints. Watching her feet recede from beside me, I know she’s coming around to where I need her. Lolli stops the abuse on my ass as I rise up and kneel on the bed with my legs pressed along the rail. Gripping it tightly, I wait.

  Without a word, Aubrey kneels on the rug in front of me at the end of my bed with a knowing grin. The gag is gone, and with her mouth wide open, I grasp her hair tightly and slam my cock into her mouth. Her teeth rake along my length just as Lolli smacks my ass as hard as she can. With that, and Aubrey deep throating my cock, it’s almost enough.

  “Please,” is all I say, making Lolli pause. She pulls on my hair so my back bows and my hips thrust forward. I shove my cock so far down Aubrey’s throat, her nose almost touches my body. That’s when I feel the electric spark of my orgasm building to a crescendo. Lolli inserts one of the smaller plugs into my ass and strokes my balls.

  “Fuck!” I yell as Aubrey’s cheeks suck in tightly. Her tongue ring glides along the underside of my sensitive cock, while her tonsils rub against the head. Smacking my ass again, I let my climax go as I hold her head in place. She’ll run out of air in a minute, maybe pass out, but I could care less right now. I’m done, and we all got what we wanted.

  I come so hard, I swear my heart stops as my release flows down Aubrey’s throat. The feeling is intense, alighting all my senses. Gripping my ass, Aubrey takes me in deeper, sucking and swallowing down all I offer. Lolli pushes the plug deeper as I come, and doesn’t remove it until I’m completely spent. It may have taken all day to get me here, but I’m done.

  And what fun it was.

  CIRCE

  “Making his way around the final stretch of the Isle of Mann TT, is Wyatt Crown. For those of you that haven’t had the pleasure of watching Wyatt, more aptly known as Casper, he’s been a delight to take in this season.” Everyone’s heads are turned to watch Jim Jackson, our head newscaster, on the big screen as he narrates the events from his perch at the finish line.

  God damn, he’s beautiful.

  Not Jim. Fuck, definitely not Jim. His paunch gut and balding, old-man hair that’s combed over like the Donald is not my style, or era.

  No, I’m watching Casper.

  I have the hardest time concentrating on my job as I watch him bank, swerve, and careen around corners at breakneck speeds; speeds that would make most people pee themselves. He does it with a certain amount of beauty, and a lot of style.

  Casper’s an aphrodisiac. To me, and many other women, I’m sure, he’s dangerous. For me, though, he’s a reminder of the dangers of my past—money, family, confidence, strength, and self-worth.

  “While we wait for the inevitable end, let’s show a clip from a short interview we had with Casper Crown.” Jim and Jack wait for their cue that they are indeed off-air as I flick switches and start the feed.

  As the show controller, my job is to cue, switch feeds, and add in the adverts at the right spots. I feel like I’m Kermit the Frog, looking after the Old Men in the balcony like a fucking babysitter.

  As it starts, I sit back in my chair and enjoy the view. The taped feed shows Casper, relaxed, sitting in a Victorian era armchair, looking coolly at the interviewer. I’ve seen this before, and I find it hard to turn away. As I always am when it comes to him, I’m drawn in by his uncharacteristic beauty.

  Casper is wearing a Fox racing T-shirt, frayed at the sleeves, with faded lettering showing the years of love it’s endured. He’s paired it with dark wash jeans that plump in just the right spot. His 49ers cap keeps his surfer, floppy cut, platinum hair out of his runway model face so you can see his sexy grey-blue eyes shine. They suck you in and you drown in their depths.

  Casper has this casual aloofness that makes me want to reach for my handheld toy. He’s a known player, even though he doesn’t announce it to the world, like his brother does. Jamieson’s exploits are in the papers, daily. Casper’s classy. He doesn’t show off the arm candy of the week, but is quietly reserved about women from what I’ve found in researching him. For work, I remind myself. I’ve been researching him for work.

  Sitting back, I pull out a magazine and open a granola bar to busy my hands as I await the final turns. It’s expected that Casper will take this with seconds to spare. Every camera crew is already waiting out at the Crown paddocks to get his immediate reaction as he crosses the finish line, because today is business as usual for the cool racer. For us, it’s news. I listen to the recording, but I know every word of it by heart. His gravelly, rich, manly tone makes me want to bend over and scream ‘Yes!’ over and over again. That is, until Patrick, our ground crewman’s voice cuts through my musings.

  “Circe. Security has a problem on the last turn.” His voice is so loud, I drop the magazine onto the control panel and almost jump clear across the trailer.

  Composing myself, I click the button on the mic. “Yeah, Patrick, I’m here. Hang on a sec.” Looking ahead on the screen, it shows the various parts of the course and there, standing in the middle of the racetrack is a blundering, naked as a baby spectator, and Casper is headed right for him. At the speed he’s going, there’ll be no time to change course or stop, not without serious injuries. Possibly death.

  This isn’t Nascar, where they call out a caution flag and slow the track. This is a timed race where racers have to complete the course regardless of track condition to win. This is dangerous.

  Pressing the button on the dashboard that hooks me directly into the announcers, I interrupt their droning chatter. “Spectator on the track!”

  Looking bewildered and confused, they stop talking. “What did you say?”

  “There’s a fucking spectator on the track, and Markus can’t make it out in time!” I shout into the headset as the two of them scramble into position.

  Flicking the recorded program off and turning the announcer mics back on, the two men chirp loudly about the impending disaster that’s about to happen. Zoning out, watching the screens, we wait for the inevitable. Hearing nothing they say—simply because their dialogue is unnecessary—everyone holds their breath as they watch, preparing for the coming disaster.

  Just as Casper rounds the Gob-ny-Geay curve, towards Bedstead Corner and the Human Roadblock, I wait for the impending wreck. Gripping the control panel, I concentrate on the digital view in front of me. Casper rounds the bend. Swinging gracefully to the right with amazing precision, he narrowly misses the pudgy dolt.

  He warped right around
the luckiest fucker on the planet.

  A collective sigh comes over the crowd as he speedily passes the Nook and Governor’s Bridge, crossing over the finish line to win. It’s surreal that a hairsbreadth is all that saved the asshole, and almost took Casper’s life.

  As I pull myself away from the screen, sucking in a sigh of relief, Casper passes the crowd with screams and cheers. They’re ecstatic, but it’s a hollow victory if you ask me.

  “Circe, I need you to get out to their trailer. Markus isn’t answering his page.”

  As Jack and Jim smile gleefully, narrating the events to the fans at home, I bundle up the mobile needs for a broadcast and head out of the trailer as fast as I can.

  Closing the door, I step out into the moist, salty air to engage humanity. I laugh to myself because I’m going to interview Wyatt Crown. Holy Fuck!

  As I move along, I listen in on the broadcast as the two announcers chat things up. The whole ordeal has been scary, but exciting.

  “He’s done it, folks! Casper Crown has become the first to win the Isle of Mann TT three times! Casper Crown has become a legend in the sport of motor racing at the age of twenty-three. Never before has this happened! This is amazing!” I can almost see it; Jack jumping up and down in his chair, rocking the temporary post they call the roost, while Jim watches on stoically.

  Running down the steps, I move as fast as I can. Inside, I don’t hear the constant activity that mills around our trailer, and being locked inside with air conditioning, I don’t usually notice the stagnant air outside. Within a few minutes, I’ll look like a drowned Cairn Terrier; all curls and frizz.

  Damned red hair.

  Being locked away for the past six hours, sequestered away from the buzz of humanity in the quiet of my own head, it’s just how I like it. Quiet.

  Our mobile command center is shared with two other affiliates, and technically, it’s just a glorified electronics cabinet, stuffed into a tightly packed field with sixteen or so other doublewides. They’re full of anchors, assistants, and others that are needed to run a show.

  The whole situation could have gone so wrong. Casper could have hit the guy, crashed, killing them both. Or we could have watched him lose because of avoidance. As I race out to their site, I periodically get stuck in-between the milling spectators, from fan crazies, mother’s toting strollers, teenagers, and other wandering souls.

  The TT is the largest race for the most psychotic assholes on two wheels. The racers have to run around tightly-packed European sized roads that are misshapen and uneven, where houses dot the landscape as massive obstacles. People die here. Becoming paralyzed is a real possibility, and it’s not for the faint of heart. It’s a revered and hallowed rite of passage for motorcycle racers, so of course it’s an attraction. Like any festival, it’s jammed with vendors and hawkers.

  On this side of the track, the only thing that identifies your location is the team flags. It’s a sea of brilliant blues, yellows, and reds that match the rider’s bike manufacturers, or their race team crests. Walking through the aisles, the Crown’s flag and trailer area is unmistakable. Glowing like a beacon in this sea of bikes, babes, reporters, and fans is Crown Industries. Their five trailers create their own small city with a separate entrance, gates, and a media section. Their purple flag with a gold crown flaps slowly like a queen’s wave, standing out like royalty in a field of paupers.

  There are hundreds of people standing around it, waiting for a look. Stepping on toes, or shoulder bumping someone inadvertently, I make my way through the crowd. I see Markus, our anchor, and Jason, the cameraman, lost in the sea of reporters to the right. Everyone’s conversing amongst themselves, checking their phones, or trying to get the attention of one of the Crown’s crew for a quick sound bite.

  “Why are you not answering your pages?” I ask Markus.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I wasn’t available.” I can smell the beer on his breath, but I don’t say anything. I’m a low man on the totem pole, so it’s best to keep my mouth shut.

  As I shoulder the camera, readying to do as I was told, Markus pushes it back down. “Not necessary, love. You can go back to your bonbons and sexy books.” He shoos me away like a child.

  “I was asked to do this, so how about you just sit back and let me do my job,” I tell him sweetly as I readjust the camera.

  “Suit yourself, but they’ll never use your footage. You’ll never even get a word from him.”

  Really?

  “Want to place a wager?” I ask boldly.

  He smirks. “Sure, I’m up to take your money. Fifty quid and a bottle of whatever you drink, but I guarantee you, he won’t even acknowledge you.”

  Hardening my gaze, I smile. “You’re on.”

  I hear the throaty growl of Casper’s ride making its way down to the paddock. He pulls up, parks his bike and removes his helmet. Fuck me. Gazing at him like an idiot, I almost forget to turn on the camera, watching it through the lens in slow motion. He grabs a bottle of water and begins gulping the liquid down. Concentrating on how his Adam’s apple bobs up and down, I watch as the water dribbles down his chin and down his neck. I’m entranced.

  Turning, he whispers something to Kyle, his crew chief. Once he’s finished, Kyle nods and steps away as Casper bypasses the crowd, shunning them all without a word.

  “To be a bug on the wall,” Markus says. I couldn’t agree more.

  Watching as Casper heads to his caravan, he opens the door and walks inside, closing the door behind him. It’s quite sad, actually, for a guy who just won his race and avoided killing someone, including himself. You’d think he’d look relieved or happy, say hi or wave to his fans, but there was nothing.

  “Well, nothing to see here.” Jason lowers his equipment and taps Markus on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go get entertained elsewhere.”

  “Totally with you,” Markus agrees.

  “Aren’t you going to stay and wait? What if he comes out?” I inquire.

  “Then I guess you win the bet. But, I think he’ll be busy for a while.”

  Jason tilts his head to the side. I look in that direction and see Kyle sauntering over to the groupies with a mischievous grin on his face. Speaking to one of the girls—I think her name is Kimmy, as I’ve seen her around a lot—she smiles wide. Pushing up the barrier rope, Kyle allows Kimmy and her friend to pass under, towards the awaiting rider.

  As graceful as possible, while wearing Kleenex’s for dresses, the trio wanders to the door. Kyle opens it up for them to enter, and with a wave to the crowd, the girls giggle before shutting the door behind them.

  CIRCE

  Fuck, was I ever wrong about Casper not showing off his sexcapades. Hiding out in his caravan with his ample entertainment, everything has slowed to a snail’s pace. Markus—like the asshole he is—took off with Jason in tow to drink away their boredom. With no Casper in sight, staying to the back, behind a monster of a man who smells like week old pizza and stale beer, I wait him out. Hopefully, it won’t be too much longer. Casper’s family stands off to the side, looking relaxed and bored, awaiting his return and leaving him alone with his trinkets. Wondering how often this happens isn’t important. He’s a means to an end for advancement in my job, and a bottle of whiskey with my fifty quid.

  Using the camera for something, I decide to take a few pictures of the family and what’s going on around them. Jax Crown, better known as King Crown, is the original wild man of the tribe. Leaning up against one of the trailers with his ankles crossed, looking bored, his unusual six foot four frame makes him distinct. For a Le Mans and Indy car racer, he’s been the champion in the hearts of millions for the last ten years. With his dark, chocolate eyes that pierce your soul, silver, peppered black hair, chiseled jawline with permanently puckered dimples, he’s a beautiful and rugged looking man. It draws the forty-something mommies to him, and his charismatic way of engaging the public also makes him a favorite on and off the track everywhere.

 
Casper’s older brother isn’t here. Jamieson, better known as Whiskey, is a competitive snowboarder out west. He’s never seen with his family, but from the pictures I’ve seen, I’d say he looks most like his father. They have the same build, and piercing dark eyes.

  His sister, China, also known as Doll, is the youngest of the royal family. Doll’s a total diva and a damn good racer. She’s also drop dead gorgeous. With her milk chocolate, pin straight hair that cascades down her back, forest green eyes, petite five eleven frame that dips to a tiny tight waist, which is accented by an overtly voluptuous body that most pay big money for, she’s a pinup in many a boy’s bedrooms. Wearing a brilliant blue cat suit and white heels, she stands out in the crowd. I’ve heard that at their house in California, her and Casper race fearlessly against each other on the family's personal track. It’s all hearsay, though, as press are not allowed. They’re a very competitive family, so I expect it to be true.

  Casper’s mother, Marca, who’s always stylish and reserved, sits on a chair in the shade with an oversized brimmed hat, a white pant suit and black heels. She’s stunning. Her straight platinum hair looks like spun silk under her hat. Her soft, cream complexion is blemish free with masterfully applied makeup, making her the picture of youthful perfection. It’s easy to see where Casper gets his looks.

  His hair is the same platinum color as his mother’s, albeit wavy. He has classic, strong cheekbones and high eyebrows that frame his brilliant blue-grey eyes. At just over six feet tall, he’s the perfect combo of his parents. Rugged, dangerously gorgeous with wide shoulders, thin frame, and a smile that makes women swoon. He’s the top-billed star to many a night’s dreams in my head.

  As I’m filming his family, the object of my affection shows his face. The two hanger-ons from before slip out behind him, grinning like Cheshire cats as they straighten their non-existent clothing. Without acknowledging them as they leave, not even a kiss goodbye, Casper moves over to his family. His race coat is hanging around his waist, leaving him standing in a sweat-soaked fireskin shirt that’s untucked, showcasing his beautiful, tight body. I’m now finding him to be just as much a manwhore as his brother, with complete disregard for the women that left him only moments ago, but I still find him fucking sexy as hell. If the drool on my chin is any indication, I still want him. Bloody libido.