We step into the guest house, an unnecessary movement, since its entire interior is shown through the glass walls that make up three of its four walls. He points out the galley kitchen, the studio apartment, complete with a living room area, fireplace, walk-in closet and deluxe bath. He seems particular interested in my opinion, and I nod politely, a smile pasted on my features. “It is beautiful. You have a wonderful home.”
Then, we return, back to the great room, my eyes flickering over the two bodyguards, who now frame the door, their eyes following us as his body guides me towards the kitchen.
“Stop.”
I stop, standing before a large dining table, it surface smooth and, like everything else, glass. I feel his hand on my back, sliding upward and then the release as my top is undone. I turn to face him, his eyes meeting mine as he reaches back and unties the strings around my neck, his fingers trailing over my skin as he pulls on the final pieces that holds my top in place. I wet my lips, unsure of my words, not wanting to say what I need to say.
“We haven’t discussed money.”
“That didn’t stop you from sucking my cock.” He doesn’t smile.
I hesitate, feeling the fabric slide against my ni**les as my top falls at my feet. “I don’t normally do this,” I whisper.
“What, leave the club?”
“No. Sex. That isn’t something I do with clients.” And not something I am going to do for free. No matter how big your house is. My body argues with my mind, physically pulled to the man, my hands wanting to reach forward right now and take his c**k into my palm. My mind understands the reality of my situation and pushes back against my consumed-by-lust body.
His eyes bore into mine, blue depths with flecks of domination in them, his olive skin bending as he speaks. “Ten grand.”
I return his stare, wetting my lips as I feel his hands slide down my sides, feel them dip beneath the lace of my panties. Ten thousand dollars. A figure I can’t turn down. Not that, at this stage in the game, turning him down seems to be an option. “Okay.” I whisper.
He yanks outward, the quick motion startling me, a ripping sound heard, and then I am na**d, feeling a tickle of lace as the ruined cloth that was my panties drops to the ground between my heels, my eyes passing over his shoulder and alighting on the two men who stand at attention, watching us.
“Your men,” I whisper, feeling the strength of his hands as they move over my body, gentle and caressing, my br**sts the current object of their focus. His fingers spread, running lightly over my nipples, which stand to attention under his touch.
“They stay.”
“But…” my voice weak. “They can see us.”
His hands still and he steps forward, until my face is tilted up to his. “That’s the point. I thought you, of all people, wouldn’t be shy.”
I shut my mouth, hold my smartass response, don’t ask the questions that are burning on my lips. Why do you need protection? Why do they have to watch us? I think of the money to distract me, picture crisp dollar bills so I won’t have to think about the two men, their eyes following our movement. The men have already seen me give him head; this isn’t much different.
But honestly, sex is different. It’s why I don’t have sex at the club. I’ve gotten to the point where hand and blowjobs are as casual to me as dancing, though the aftermath plays havoc on my self-esteem. Sex has always been that one line I won’t cross, proof to myself that I am not ruined, that I am still pure in some fucked-up form.
He leans forward and kisses me, and I suddenly don’t need the image of dollar bills to distract my mind. Everything floods the moment his lips touch mine.
Soft, sweet lips. Not what I expect from this commanding man. He brushes my lips softly, my lips parting for him, immediately wanting more. A groan slips from my mouth before I have a chance to capture it. His hands move up through my hair, gripping and pulling its strands. He tastes me, spreading my lips gently with his and dipping his tongue inside. I respond eagerly, my body taking over my mind, shoving it aside forcefully as a wave of arousal hits me. His touch turns harder, his mouth more demanding and he moves me backward, my heels skittering over tile, till the edge of the table is against me.
His hands grip my ass, squeezing it roughly, one hand on each cheek and lifts me easily, setting me on the table, the surface cool against my skin.
“Lay down,” he bites out against my mouth, taking one, last, torturous sweep of my mouth before he pulls off, stepping back and watching me.
I grip the glass top, sliding backward until my elbows are resting on the glass. I watch him, watch as he unbuttons his sleeves. He breathes hard, his eyes glued to mine and walks towards me, stopping a foot from the table.
I can’t figure out this man. Or rather, I can’t figure out how I feel about this man. He is cold to the point of being an asshole. A demander instead of an asker — expecting me to perform as instructed. But that is what I am — a hired orgasm-deliverer. Pleases and thank yous are not required, only appreciated. But despite his cold exterior, I am drawn to him, insanely attracted to him. Maybe it is the money, maybe it’s as simple as that. More likely it is that face, those blue eyes set under thick brows, a mess of dark hair that begs to have me run my hands through it, a strong jaw and kissable soft lips. Lips he happens to know exactly how to use.
My thoughts abandon me as his fingers undo his shirt’s buttons, inch after inch of chest falling victim to my eyes. In his suit he commanded respect with his strong words and unyielding eyes. Without a shirt he has my full attention, a perfect build unveiled as his shirt falls to the floor. I pull my eyes from his chest and return to his face, seeing the set of his jaw, the intensity of his eyes. Then there is the yank of a zipper, and my eyes drop.
He is magnificent, every line and muscle defined, framing a package that makes my mouth and sex water. This is the organ that I have already experienced, the one that has kept me awake at night and ended many self-pleasure sessions. I swallow as he strides over and stops before me, his eyes studying me carefully, his hand reaching out and pressing me back, ‘til I lay flat before him on top of the table.
His hands touch my legs, lifting them and tugging them outward, and I am spread wide before him. He bends, his hands on my ankle, his fingers unstrapping my heel, a loud thud sounding when the platform stiletto hits the floor. Then he moves to the other shoe, my foot lifting under his hand when it is free. He grabs an ankle in each hand and places my feet flat on the table, knees pointing to the ceiling.
“Touch yourself,” he rasps, stepping back and watching me, his hand settling on and gripping his cock, which juts out, swollen and hard. The knowledge that I’ve caused that reaction, that his touch on my skin aroused him, is powerful; the vision of him stroking his c**k is carnal in its exquisiteness.
I close my eyes and attempt to relax. Attempt to ignore my open legs, the view on display for the three men in the room. I touch myself tentatively, my finger sliding up and down the slit of my sex, gentle strokes that tease the sensitive skin.
“Is that what you like?” I flinch at his voice, which is closer than I expected, right beside me. I open my eyes and turn to the sound, seeing him above me, his eyes on my moving hand, his own hand moving up and down his delicious shaft.
I nod. “Initially, yes.”
“Keep going.”
I close my eyes again, my fingers never pausing in their travels, moisture collecting between my lips, my fingers grazing hot liquid as they move slowly and leisurely over the edge of my sanity. I allow one finger to dip in, to test my readiness, and drag some of that moisture higher, to the sensitive bud that is my pleasure center, circling the skin gently. I release a low moan, the building pleasure too great to contain, and arch my back, lifting slightly off the table as my fingers dance lightly through a torturous tease.
My pu**y is beginning to respond, to flex and pant, saliva dripping from its eager lips. I can feel my cl*ttaking attention, hardening beneath my gentle swipes, each circle moving a little closer. I am a sadistic bitch when it comes to masturbation, and my body loves me for it. I give until it wants and then I withdraw, coaxing my arousal out only to deny it. It isn’t until it begs, isn’t until it screams for mercy that I will allow it release, the explosion sweeter and more intense the longer I f**k with its mind.
I am reminded of my situation by teeth. Gentle scrapes of teeth against my nipples, first one, and then the other. He covers my nipples, sucking them into the heat of his mouth, his tongue dancing over the rough path of his teeth, my hand reaching up and grabbing his head, gripping that delicious mess of hair and bringing his head harder on my breasts, the sensation too incredible not to savor.
He grips my wrist roughly, yanking my hand off of his head and shoving it back between my legs, his message clear. I moan in frustration, stopping the sound when his mouth returns, visiting my other breast, the combination of soft mouth and hard teeth driving me wild.
“I’m close,” I gasp, my sex contracting and screaming for release, my cl*tone swipe away from explosion. His mouth moves between my breasts, his fingers replacing his tongue, dragging slowly and softly over my nipples, gentle and light enough to make them arch for more. His mouth, that incredible, hot machine of ecstasy, moves, traveling into the curves of my neck, and all I can think about is how it would feel between my legs.
“Come,” he orders, his mouth lifting off my skin, one of his hands gripping my face and turning it to his, his blue eyes capturing mine and holding me hostage. “Come,” he repeats, need blatant in his taunt, strong face.
I try to keep the eye contact, try to give him what I think he wants, but it is too strong — that final moment that my cl*thas been waiting for, that perfect swipe across its swollen surface has my eyes rolling back, my world temporarily going black, his green eyes disappearing from sight as my back arches and I explode in
one.
perfect.
moment.
CHAPTER 7
I am weak, drained, my body losing all muscle function as the last tendrils of pleasure gently fade away, aftershocks twitching my body. I should be doing something sexy, like sucking or jacking or f**king that beautiful cock. But instead I am lying on the hard ass table and celebrating the incredibleness that was that orgasm.
“Get up and get on the bed in the master. I’m going to f**k the hell out of you.” His voice is hoarse with need, hard breaths in between the sentences, the order almost a plea despite the command in his tone.
I move, my limbs sluggish and irritable, my orgasm party cut short. My brain tries to process his words, tries to remember where the master bedroom is. I am aided by his hands, pushing me through the kitchen, down a short hall and into the first doorway, my bare feet hitting thick carpet as my eyes adjust to darkness with a rainbow of a thousand city lights stretched before me.
My body is spun by his hands until I face him, the lights reflecting in his eyes, his mouth finding mine, his hands gripping my waist and lifting me up and outward, until the soft bed is beneath me and he is above me, the thick length of him stiff and heavy against my thighs. I part my legs, his body settling between them, his mouth taking my throat, soft kisses alternating with delicate feedings of my flesh, his tongue teasing and torturing the hollows of my neck.
He grinds against me, his hand reaching down and placing his c**k upward between our bodies, its hard shaft heavy between my legs, every thrust of his pelvis creating delicious friction on my sex. He lifts his mouth from my neck, hovering above my mouth and changes the pace, kissing me softly and deeply as he slides his bare c**k over me. I gasp against his mouth, an ache between my legs growing, the tease of his shaft driving me wild, every withdrawal thrust giving me hope that he will move it two inches lower and bury it inside of me.
I, despite my ridiculous stripper standard of abstinence, have had plenty of partners; my college career littered with drunken hookups and failed relationships. The one-night-stand experience and I are old acquaintances, having shared three or four awkward experiences. One-night stands have, in my experience, always been disastrous, two strangers fumbling through motions while trying to convince each other that they are having timeoftheirlife sex. This is something else entirely.
This is electricity, sizzling between our bodies and creating heat of intense need. There is, at this point in time, no going back. If he changes his mind, pulls off of my body, I will tackle him to the ground and take his cock. I am ravenous, my body crying out for his, my mouth, fingers and skin itching for his touch, for his domination. What he demands, I will freely give, his orchestration of our sex uncontested. I don’t want to battle with him, I want to pour out my body for him to use in any way he sees fit. I have tasted submission to him and love the release of control and how it feels.
He pulls off of me, disappearing for a brief moment, only to return, his hands rolling over his cock, shielding it with a thin skin of latex. I lay back, my fingers where his shaft had previously been, my sex begging for stimulation, needing a release that will only be sweet enough if he participates. My eyes devour him as he climbs onto the bed, positioning himself between my legs, his eyes on mine.
“Tell me what you want.”
I don’t respond and he grips my legs, pulling me to him, my legs and body open to him, his hands pushing mine away. He brushed his stiff head over my swollen lips, watching my eyes. I take a quick breath, the tease of his head too much, the look in his eyes even more of a turn-on. Possessive, dominating, with a fire behind them that both terrifies and electrifies me. He knows what I want, what I need. But I love this look in his eyes, the raw need and the demand in their intensity. If withholding my response lights that fire, then I want to drag it on as long as humanly possible.
Then, we return, back to the great room, my eyes flickering over the two bodyguards, who now frame the door, their eyes following us as his body guides me towards the kitchen.
“Stop.”
I stop, standing before a large dining table, it surface smooth and, like everything else, glass. I feel his hand on my back, sliding upward and then the release as my top is undone. I turn to face him, his eyes meeting mine as he reaches back and unties the strings around my neck, his fingers trailing over my skin as he pulls on the final pieces that holds my top in place. I wet my lips, unsure of my words, not wanting to say what I need to say.
“We haven’t discussed money.”
“That didn’t stop you from sucking my cock.” He doesn’t smile.
I hesitate, feeling the fabric slide against my ni**les as my top falls at my feet. “I don’t normally do this,” I whisper.
“What, leave the club?”
“No. Sex. That isn’t something I do with clients.” And not something I am going to do for free. No matter how big your house is. My body argues with my mind, physically pulled to the man, my hands wanting to reach forward right now and take his c**k into my palm. My mind understands the reality of my situation and pushes back against my consumed-by-lust body.
His eyes bore into mine, blue depths with flecks of domination in them, his olive skin bending as he speaks. “Ten grand.”
I return his stare, wetting my lips as I feel his hands slide down my sides, feel them dip beneath the lace of my panties. Ten thousand dollars. A figure I can’t turn down. Not that, at this stage in the game, turning him down seems to be an option. “Okay.” I whisper.
He yanks outward, the quick motion startling me, a ripping sound heard, and then I am na**d, feeling a tickle of lace as the ruined cloth that was my panties drops to the ground between my heels, my eyes passing over his shoulder and alighting on the two men who stand at attention, watching us.
“Your men,” I whisper, feeling the strength of his hands as they move over my body, gentle and caressing, my br**sts the current object of their focus. His fingers spread, running lightly over my nipples, which stand to attention under his touch.
“They stay.”
“But…” my voice weak. “They can see us.”
His hands still and he steps forward, until my face is tilted up to his. “That’s the point. I thought you, of all people, wouldn’t be shy.”
I shut my mouth, hold my smartass response, don’t ask the questions that are burning on my lips. Why do you need protection? Why do they have to watch us? I think of the money to distract me, picture crisp dollar bills so I won’t have to think about the two men, their eyes following our movement. The men have already seen me give him head; this isn’t much different.
But honestly, sex is different. It’s why I don’t have sex at the club. I’ve gotten to the point where hand and blowjobs are as casual to me as dancing, though the aftermath plays havoc on my self-esteem. Sex has always been that one line I won’t cross, proof to myself that I am not ruined, that I am still pure in some fucked-up form.
He leans forward and kisses me, and I suddenly don’t need the image of dollar bills to distract my mind. Everything floods the moment his lips touch mine.
Soft, sweet lips. Not what I expect from this commanding man. He brushes my lips softly, my lips parting for him, immediately wanting more. A groan slips from my mouth before I have a chance to capture it. His hands move up through my hair, gripping and pulling its strands. He tastes me, spreading my lips gently with his and dipping his tongue inside. I respond eagerly, my body taking over my mind, shoving it aside forcefully as a wave of arousal hits me. His touch turns harder, his mouth more demanding and he moves me backward, my heels skittering over tile, till the edge of the table is against me.
His hands grip my ass, squeezing it roughly, one hand on each cheek and lifts me easily, setting me on the table, the surface cool against my skin.
“Lay down,” he bites out against my mouth, taking one, last, torturous sweep of my mouth before he pulls off, stepping back and watching me.
I grip the glass top, sliding backward until my elbows are resting on the glass. I watch him, watch as he unbuttons his sleeves. He breathes hard, his eyes glued to mine and walks towards me, stopping a foot from the table.
I can’t figure out this man. Or rather, I can’t figure out how I feel about this man. He is cold to the point of being an asshole. A demander instead of an asker — expecting me to perform as instructed. But that is what I am — a hired orgasm-deliverer. Pleases and thank yous are not required, only appreciated. But despite his cold exterior, I am drawn to him, insanely attracted to him. Maybe it is the money, maybe it’s as simple as that. More likely it is that face, those blue eyes set under thick brows, a mess of dark hair that begs to have me run my hands through it, a strong jaw and kissable soft lips. Lips he happens to know exactly how to use.
My thoughts abandon me as his fingers undo his shirt’s buttons, inch after inch of chest falling victim to my eyes. In his suit he commanded respect with his strong words and unyielding eyes. Without a shirt he has my full attention, a perfect build unveiled as his shirt falls to the floor. I pull my eyes from his chest and return to his face, seeing the set of his jaw, the intensity of his eyes. Then there is the yank of a zipper, and my eyes drop.
He is magnificent, every line and muscle defined, framing a package that makes my mouth and sex water. This is the organ that I have already experienced, the one that has kept me awake at night and ended many self-pleasure sessions. I swallow as he strides over and stops before me, his eyes studying me carefully, his hand reaching out and pressing me back, ‘til I lay flat before him on top of the table.
His hands touch my legs, lifting them and tugging them outward, and I am spread wide before him. He bends, his hands on my ankle, his fingers unstrapping my heel, a loud thud sounding when the platform stiletto hits the floor. Then he moves to the other shoe, my foot lifting under his hand when it is free. He grabs an ankle in each hand and places my feet flat on the table, knees pointing to the ceiling.
“Touch yourself,” he rasps, stepping back and watching me, his hand settling on and gripping his cock, which juts out, swollen and hard. The knowledge that I’ve caused that reaction, that his touch on my skin aroused him, is powerful; the vision of him stroking his c**k is carnal in its exquisiteness.
I close my eyes and attempt to relax. Attempt to ignore my open legs, the view on display for the three men in the room. I touch myself tentatively, my finger sliding up and down the slit of my sex, gentle strokes that tease the sensitive skin.
“Is that what you like?” I flinch at his voice, which is closer than I expected, right beside me. I open my eyes and turn to the sound, seeing him above me, his eyes on my moving hand, his own hand moving up and down his delicious shaft.
I nod. “Initially, yes.”
“Keep going.”
I close my eyes again, my fingers never pausing in their travels, moisture collecting between my lips, my fingers grazing hot liquid as they move slowly and leisurely over the edge of my sanity. I allow one finger to dip in, to test my readiness, and drag some of that moisture higher, to the sensitive bud that is my pleasure center, circling the skin gently. I release a low moan, the building pleasure too great to contain, and arch my back, lifting slightly off the table as my fingers dance lightly through a torturous tease.
My pu**y is beginning to respond, to flex and pant, saliva dripping from its eager lips. I can feel my cl*ttaking attention, hardening beneath my gentle swipes, each circle moving a little closer. I am a sadistic bitch when it comes to masturbation, and my body loves me for it. I give until it wants and then I withdraw, coaxing my arousal out only to deny it. It isn’t until it begs, isn’t until it screams for mercy that I will allow it release, the explosion sweeter and more intense the longer I f**k with its mind.
I am reminded of my situation by teeth. Gentle scrapes of teeth against my nipples, first one, and then the other. He covers my nipples, sucking them into the heat of his mouth, his tongue dancing over the rough path of his teeth, my hand reaching up and grabbing his head, gripping that delicious mess of hair and bringing his head harder on my breasts, the sensation too incredible not to savor.
He grips my wrist roughly, yanking my hand off of his head and shoving it back between my legs, his message clear. I moan in frustration, stopping the sound when his mouth returns, visiting my other breast, the combination of soft mouth and hard teeth driving me wild.
“I’m close,” I gasp, my sex contracting and screaming for release, my cl*tone swipe away from explosion. His mouth moves between my breasts, his fingers replacing his tongue, dragging slowly and softly over my nipples, gentle and light enough to make them arch for more. His mouth, that incredible, hot machine of ecstasy, moves, traveling into the curves of my neck, and all I can think about is how it would feel between my legs.
“Come,” he orders, his mouth lifting off my skin, one of his hands gripping my face and turning it to his, his blue eyes capturing mine and holding me hostage. “Come,” he repeats, need blatant in his taunt, strong face.
I try to keep the eye contact, try to give him what I think he wants, but it is too strong — that final moment that my cl*thas been waiting for, that perfect swipe across its swollen surface has my eyes rolling back, my world temporarily going black, his green eyes disappearing from sight as my back arches and I explode in
one.
perfect.
moment.
CHAPTER 7
I am weak, drained, my body losing all muscle function as the last tendrils of pleasure gently fade away, aftershocks twitching my body. I should be doing something sexy, like sucking or jacking or f**king that beautiful cock. But instead I am lying on the hard ass table and celebrating the incredibleness that was that orgasm.
“Get up and get on the bed in the master. I’m going to f**k the hell out of you.” His voice is hoarse with need, hard breaths in between the sentences, the order almost a plea despite the command in his tone.
I move, my limbs sluggish and irritable, my orgasm party cut short. My brain tries to process his words, tries to remember where the master bedroom is. I am aided by his hands, pushing me through the kitchen, down a short hall and into the first doorway, my bare feet hitting thick carpet as my eyes adjust to darkness with a rainbow of a thousand city lights stretched before me.
My body is spun by his hands until I face him, the lights reflecting in his eyes, his mouth finding mine, his hands gripping my waist and lifting me up and outward, until the soft bed is beneath me and he is above me, the thick length of him stiff and heavy against my thighs. I part my legs, his body settling between them, his mouth taking my throat, soft kisses alternating with delicate feedings of my flesh, his tongue teasing and torturing the hollows of my neck.
He grinds against me, his hand reaching down and placing his c**k upward between our bodies, its hard shaft heavy between my legs, every thrust of his pelvis creating delicious friction on my sex. He lifts his mouth from my neck, hovering above my mouth and changes the pace, kissing me softly and deeply as he slides his bare c**k over me. I gasp against his mouth, an ache between my legs growing, the tease of his shaft driving me wild, every withdrawal thrust giving me hope that he will move it two inches lower and bury it inside of me.
I, despite my ridiculous stripper standard of abstinence, have had plenty of partners; my college career littered with drunken hookups and failed relationships. The one-night-stand experience and I are old acquaintances, having shared three or four awkward experiences. One-night stands have, in my experience, always been disastrous, two strangers fumbling through motions while trying to convince each other that they are having timeoftheirlife sex. This is something else entirely.
This is electricity, sizzling between our bodies and creating heat of intense need. There is, at this point in time, no going back. If he changes his mind, pulls off of my body, I will tackle him to the ground and take his cock. I am ravenous, my body crying out for his, my mouth, fingers and skin itching for his touch, for his domination. What he demands, I will freely give, his orchestration of our sex uncontested. I don’t want to battle with him, I want to pour out my body for him to use in any way he sees fit. I have tasted submission to him and love the release of control and how it feels.
He pulls off of me, disappearing for a brief moment, only to return, his hands rolling over his cock, shielding it with a thin skin of latex. I lay back, my fingers where his shaft had previously been, my sex begging for stimulation, needing a release that will only be sweet enough if he participates. My eyes devour him as he climbs onto the bed, positioning himself between my legs, his eyes on mine.
“Tell me what you want.”
I don’t respond and he grips my legs, pulling me to him, my legs and body open to him, his hands pushing mine away. He brushed his stiff head over my swollen lips, watching my eyes. I take a quick breath, the tease of his head too much, the look in his eyes even more of a turn-on. Possessive, dominating, with a fire behind them that both terrifies and electrifies me. He knows what I want, what I need. But I love this look in his eyes, the raw need and the demand in their intensity. If withholding my response lights that fire, then I want to drag it on as long as humanly possible.
