Текст книги "Madame X "
Автор книги: Jasinda Wilder
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
“Are you ready, Three?” Low, thickly voiced, teeth clenched, breathless. “I’m going to come. I’ll let you decide where you want me to come.”
Gagging. Gulping. A long, guttural male groan. Sigh. Three’s weight shifts backward as she sits on her heels, one hand planted on the floor. There’s come on her hand, white smears across her knuckles. Apparently she didn’t elect to swallow it all.
A moment of silence.
“Very, very good, Three.” An extended sigh, and the weight on the bed shifts backward. “Next time, I would like you to take it all on your face. I don’t personally find pleasure in that, but others do, and you need to be prepared for how it will feel.”
“Yes, Caleb.” Why does she sound so eager?
“Now . . . I want you to tell me the truth, all right? Penalty free for this answer, regardless of what you say. Our last session together, did you fake your orgasm?”
A hesitation. And then Three’s voice, pitched low, embarrassed. “Yes—no. Well, sort of. I mean . . . I exaggerated it, some. I did come, but not as—as hard as I might have made it seem.”
“Why?”
“Because I—I wanted you to think . . . I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“The truth, Three. Now.”
“I wanted to come. But it’s just . . . I can’t, very often.” Her voice is tiny. So delicate. Mortified. “I’ve tried. On my own, and with you, and before I became an apprentice. My whole life, it’s just . . . it’s hard for me to come. And when I do, it’s just not very—hard, I guess. I still enjoy things, when you do them to me, I mean. I enjoy them a lot. But I just can’t come every time, or not as . . . as intensely as I feel like you expect me to.”
“First, a warning. Do not fake it, or exaggerate. Never again, no matter what, do you understand?”
“Yes, Caleb.”
“Now stand up and put your hands on the bed.”
“But you said penalty free!” A panicked protest.
“I’m not punishing you for your answer, Three, I’m punishing you for faking. I told you at the very start not to ever lie, fake, or pretend. Not about anything. I require absolute truth in all situations.” A softening of the voice. “And this punishment won’t be going on your program record. This is between us. So you understand that I’m serious.”
“But . . . Caleb, I—I understand. Okay? I won’t fake again, I swear!”
“Three. Stand up, now. Put your hands on the bed, now.” Slow, deliberate, precise, calm.
Three stands up, twists in place; I can see her knees shaking. The Italian leather shoes slide forward, and I see the pants rise, hear the buckle of the belt. The bed dips very slightly, and Three’s feet are spread shoulder width apart. I watch as the hem of Three’s shift rises up out of view.
Smack! Hand on flesh.
Smack! Again.
Three cries out. There is pain in that cry, very real pain. But there is also . . . arousal.
Smack!
Smack!
The sounds of spanking increase, punctuated by Three’s cries of pain and increasing sexual arousal. My gut is churning. Some part of me is . . . not as horrified by this as I should be. Three is enjoying this. Doing this voluntarily. Three could leave at will. As the spanking continues, cries of pain gradually become entirely erotic cries of need. Bare feet shuffle on the floor, knees dip, bent body pushing back into the blows, into the touch.
I wonder if there is only the spanking, or if something else is happening. Fingers as well, perhaps, moving inside her privates? From the way Three is moaning and whimpering, I assume so.
I can see how this might be intensely arousing. I feel dirty for eavesdropping on this, and dirtier still for feeling curious, and jealous. But some part of me is finding a dark voyeuristic pleasure in it. I am sick, this is sick.
But I cannot get away from it.
I hear Three orgasm. The wail of release is shrill, and loud, and to my ear, genuine.
The white shift is tossed aside, to the floor. Pants drape around ankles. Three cries out. The bed shifts, dips, and is rocked sideways by a forceful thrust. Three is bent over the bed, male feet lined up behind. The sounds of sex are loud, and fast. Three whimpers with each fleshy slap of skin against skin, and then as the tempo increases, the whimpers become cries, and then grunts, and I can tell from the movement of Three’s bare feet when accepting the thrusts turns to active participation, pushing back into them.
Male grunt of release, slapping of body on body slows and stops, and Three is breathless, moaning, emitting high-pitched whimpers.
I’m damp between my thighs, aroused, and sick with guilt and shame and confusion.
A moment of silence, then, neither person moving or speaking. And then I see trousers slide up, hear a belt buckle, fabric rustling. I can picture strong hands tucking a pristine white shirt into the slacks, tugging it to blouse just so, stuffing fingers into hip pockets so they don’t bulge or fold. A familiar ritual of re-dressing, adjusting; Three will still be naked, of course. Artfully posed, probably, to look sated, glutted, content, drowsy.
I know the pose all too well, having assumed it myself a million times.
“Was that exaggerated, Three?” Arrogant, and assured.
“N-no. No, Caleb.” A gasp. “It was real. I came so hard, Caleb.”
“What do you think made the difference?”
“You . . . spanking me. I—I liked that. It hurt, but I liked it.” Three sounds embarrassed. “I liked it a lot.”
“Don’t be upset, Three. You shouldn’t feel shame. Know your body, know your sexuality. In time, you will learn to control your sexual encounters. Even when you’re being fucked like I just fucked you, from behind, where you have no physical control over what might be happening to you, you will still be able to exert influence over how enjoyable it is for your partner. You will be able to control how fast you both get off, how intensely. I can tell the difference when you fake it, Three. Some men may not be able to, but I can. When you genuinely enjoy and participate rather than just being a passive receptacle, you become a much more exquisitely erotic creature. When you were a whore, it didn’t matter. Your johns paid you to let them fuck you, and they didn’t give one single shit how you felt about it. But you are not a whore anymore, Three. You will not be paid for sex, implicitly or explicitly. Indigo Services does not provide sex workers; we provide companionship, partnership, and romance. If you have sex with a client, it will be your choice, a mutual decision between you and the client, after your service contract has expired. Keep this in mind, for tomorrow. The basic Indigo Services contract expressly forbids any kind of sexual act during the time frame of the services provided. If you choose to engage in sex with the client after the contract expires, that is your choice, and you should never feel pressured by the client. If you do experience pressure of any kind, report it to Lisa immediately and that client will be blacklisted. You should not ever be pressured into sex by a client. And you should always enjoy sex. Do you understand?”
“I understand.” Three’s voice is small, unsure.
“You enjoy a little pain with sex. I suspected as much, but now we know. Perhaps in the coming weeks, as you begin working as an Escort, we will explore the limits of your enjoyment of pain.”
“But you won’t . . . hurt me, hurt me?” Three sounds breathy, eager, and a little afraid.
“No. Never. You are valuable. To me, and to Indigo Services, and ultimately, you should be valuable to the man who eventually chooses you as his Bride.”
“You think someone will choose me, Caleb?” Oh, the doubt, the fear, the vulnerability I hear cuts me to the bone.
“Three, dear Three.” I’m not the only one, judging by the tone of voice. “Yes. I do think someone will. How could they not? Your personality shines through in every situation. I realize this program is not the easiest thing to go through. Letting go of your name, your past . . . it’s never easy. But through it all, your beauty remains undeniable, and I refer to the beauty of your soul as well as the beauty of your body.”
I have never received such kind, genuine, uplifting words. Am I unworthy?
“Th-thank you, Caleb.”
“Congratulations, Apprentice Six-nine-seven-one-three, you are now an Escort.” This is said with great formality. “Have you chosen a name?”
“Rachel.” Three—Rachel, now, I suppose—sounds excited, gleeful.
“Why have you chosen this name?”
A pause. “You’ll laugh.”
I can almost—almost—imagine a subtle quirk of the lips. “I think not.”
“I used to watch Friends a lot. You know, Ross, Rachel, Joey, Chandler, Phoebe, and Monica?”
“I am familiar. I don’t watch television, but it is a common enough part of pop culture that I’ve heard of it.”
“When I was a kid, I’d watch it with my older sister. She’d do her homework and I’d sit with her and—well, and then . . . when I ended up working for Slade, I’d watch it late at night. It was . . . a way to escape, I guess. And I always just loved Rachel the most.”
“Do you miss it?”
“What? Watching Friends?”
“Yes.”
Three is quiet for a moment before answering. “Yeah, sometimes. I don’t miss none of—I don’t miss any of the rest of my past, obviously, but Friends? Yeah. They were like my friends. Their lives were better than mine. They had easy problems, so I could forget mine for a while. I miss that.”
“Perhaps something can be arranged. I do not believe in my girls being distracted by such triviality as television, as you know, but perhaps as a reward for achieving Escort certification I could arrange a viewing for you.”
“And the other girls?”
“It is a reward for you, Rachel.”
“Which means I can share it, right?”
“Very well, then. Lisa will be in to review and brief you for tomorrow. Once again, congratulations.”
Loafers tread quietly away, and I see a hint of white door as it opens, the thud-click as it closes. I wait several more long moments.
“Come on out, he’s gone.” Rachel’s hand appears in front of my face, waving me out from under the bed.
I scoot out, sore and stiff, and stand up on wobbly legs. Brush dust away, straighten my clothes. Rachel lounges on her bed, naked. Her breasts are slight, areolae pale pink around her nipples. She is shaved totally bare between her thighs, whereas I am not. I smell sex in the air, musk, seed, pheromones, sweat.
I don’t know what to say, what to do. Congratulate her? I don’t know. It’s hard to look at her. I keep hearing her moans, the sound of her being spanked, how thoroughly she enjoyed it. I can almost see her, bent over the bed, hair in her face, pale skin of her buttocks reddening with each slap. I push away the images.
“Never had an audience before,” Rachel says. “Felt a little weird at first, knowing you were listening. But then . . .” A shrug, dismissive.
“What?” I can’t help asking. “But then what?”
“But then I forgot. Well, sort of. I was sort of distantly aware that you were there, but that only made it even better.” She giggles. “God, I had no idea I’d like being spanked so much. When I was a hooker, things was straightforward. They wanted me on my back, or doggy style. Caleb . . . he’s kinda weird about positions, though. Only likes it doggy style or from behind. Bent over, standing up facing a wall, you know? Like that. Never face-to-face. Talked to the other girls about it, and he’s the same with them.”
The same is true for my own experience. I don’t offer this, though. “Hmmm. I wonder what Caleb has against face-to-face sex?”
Another shrug, which is a signature expression, I’m realizing. “Oh, probably commitment issues, you know? Guys like him, it ain’t just control, right? Or not control over us, the girl he’s fucking, but control over himself. Face-to-face, you see the other person’s eyes. You see their expression. Makes it more . . . personal, I guess. And with us, for Caleb . . . it ain’t personal.”
“It’s sex, Rachel. How is it not personal?”
An expression of utter befuddlement. “We’re just apprentices, you know? Nothin’ but girls to be trained. The clients, when they get their match, they expect the girls to be . . . perfect, basically. Educated, well-mannered, and good in bed. Everyone is always like, ‘Oh, I wanna bang me a virgin,’ but virgins ain’t any good in bed. They’re clumsy, too quick, no fun in ’em. Boys and girls both. Girls is worst, I hear, because a girl virgin, she’s got the pain to deal with. You gotta specially train them, I’d think. A gentleman is coming to Indigo Services for a trophy wife, he wants a woman who knows how to please, who knows what to do with his dick, you know? Who knows how to work it all night long. A virgin cain’t do that. Those guys who’re shopping the Bride pool, they don’t want to have to train their wife to fuck ’em like they want to be fucked. They want to be fucked by an expert. And you don’t get to be an expert at fucking except by fucking.”
“So Caleb . . . fucks you until you’re an expert.” The vulgarity both feels and sounds foreign and awkward on my tongue.
“Right.”
“Eight of you at a time?”
“Well, not all at once. Not like, ménage à . . . whatever eight is in French.”
“But you’re aware he’s having sex with each one of you apprentices?”
“Well, yeah. He’s Caleb.” Like it’s something obvious, like, duh.
But I understand it. There is something hypnotic about those dark eyes, that commanding presence, utter confidence of primal male sexuality, something entrancing in total dominance.
“Does it bother you?” I ask.
“Not really. I hear it, when it’s him and Five, next door. She’s a screamer. He’s always trying to get her to shut up, but as soon as he’s got her going, she starts howling like a damn cat in heat. Annoying as hell, you ask me.” Rachel stands up, walks with an air of confidence in her nudity.
I follow her. Some carnal curiosity has me looking at her backside; her buttocks are still pink, and I see a glistening smear on the insides of her thighs, low, a trickle of seed seeping out of her.
I am equally repulsed and aroused. Not at the sight of postcoital drip, but at the memory of my own walk from bed to bathroom, the memory of delicious ache, a sense of . . . satisfaction, almost, at the feel of the wet warm stickiness on my skin.
And then, as fast as the sensations roll through me, they are replaced by disgust, and hatred.
Revulsion.
All of it aimed primarily at myself. At my blindness, my gullibility.
At my twisted thoughts. At the fact that any part of me found pleasure in what I overheard.
I hear the shower running, splashing, quickly shut off. Rachel emerges with a towel around her torso.
“You’re the problem, ain’tcha?” Her voice is sharp.
Her poor grammar and twanging accent and propensity for cursing lends a false sense that she is somehow unintelligent; she is not.
“The problem?” I pretend to not understand her meaning.
“Don’t play coy with me, Madame X. ‘Find her,’ he said. You’re running away from Caleb.” The last is an accusation, blatant.
I sigh. “Yes. You’re correct.”
“He’ll find you.”
“I know that.”
“Ain’t nobody else like him, you know. I’m only twenty-two, but I been on the streets since I was thirteen. Met all kinds of men, turnin’ tricks. Some of ’em weren’t bad, just . . . lonely. Or too busy to bother with even trying to set up casual sex, I guess. Some were curious. A few virgins, here and there. But in all of ’em I ever met, there’s never been nobody like him. You must not understand what you’re running away from.”
“My situation is . . .” I have to hunt for an appropriate word. “Unique.”
“Ain’t everybody’s?” Rachel eyes me.
“Well, I guess that’s true, but I’m different. I don’t mean to sound—”
“You’re different. You’re special. I get it. You’re Caleb’s big secret on the thirteenth floor. What you don’t get is what he’s done for me. For all of us here. I know what you think of us. I can feel you judging us.”
“I’m not judging—”
“The hell you ain’t!” She closes in, her eyes intelligent, proud, and piercing. “I was a meth head. Okay? You don’t—you can’t understand that if you ain’t lived it. Alls I cared about was the next fix. I was gonna die, and Caleb Indigo saved me. He got me off the street, gave me a place to live, fed me. He’s gotten me off drugs. Before, I was turnin’ tricks to afford the next high. No one gave a single shit about me, myself least of all. Now, here? I got a reason to live. I got a reason to stay off drugs. I’ve got value, here. Yeah, I know I ain’t the only one, but Caleb spends time with me. Me, the whore, the drug addict. When he’s with me, I’m the only one that matters.” This last in a quiet voice that quavers with conviction. “He makes me feel like I could amount to something besides what I used to be. I can get put in the Bride pool, and who knows, maybe I’ll even get matched with someone who—who could love me.” Such hope, clung to with tenacity. “You run away from all that if you want.”
A long silence. I do not know what to say. I have too much in my head, in my heart.
“Garage is your only real shot, I’d say,” Rachel says. “Take the elevator down, make a run for it. Good luck to you. I won’t say nothing, but if Caleb asks, I’m telling the truth.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to lie for me.” I try a friendly smile. “Thank you, Rachel. And . . . congratulations on your—promotion, I suppose it is?”
She does a part nod, part shrug. “Thanks.”
I give her one last smile, one last glance. Then pull open her door, peek, step out. Close the door behind me, a sense of finality in the soft click. Stride away from the door marked 3. Focus on the now, focus on reaching free air, reaching sunlight, reaching the outside.
Step onto the elevator, and my finger hovers over the G. But I hesitate. Why am I hesitating?
I need answers. That’s why. Who am I? Who am I to Caleb? What does anything mean?
The conviction in Rachel’s voice. Feeling like she was the only one that mattered when she was with Caleb . . . that sounds all too familiar.
Instead of G, my thumb stabs the L, for the lobby.
Descent, my stomach twisting. The doors whoosh open. I step out.
Surprised faces. “Madame X!” Hands reach for me.
I stop them with a glare. “Keep your hands to yourself. Bring me to Caleb.” I feign authority.
Pretend I’m not a mess of nerves, shaking, furious, disoriented. Pretend as if everything I thought I knew hasn’t just been upended.
Len parts the crowd of onlookers and security guards. A familiar face, at least. “Madame X. Gave us quite a scare. Thought maybe you’d gotten lost.” Len’s face is impassive, giving away nothing.
“Take me to him, Len.”
“Why don’t we get you back to your room? Been quite a morning; I’m sure you’d like to rest.” A politely phrased command, that is.
“I don’t think so, Len. Take me to the penthouse. Now.” My eyes are narrowed, my voice hard and cold.
Len blinks twice, lets out a short breath. Lifts his wrist to his mouth. “I’ve got her, sir. She wants to see you . . . no, she wants me to take her up to the penthouse. . . . Yes, sir. Got it, sir.”
Len takes my upper arm, gestures to the elevator on the far right of the bank of doors. This elevator for authorized personnel only. A key opens the doors, the same key twisted to the PH. Ascent, my nerves ratcheting with each foot the elevator climbs. Len is stoic, silent.
I try to formulate thoughts, try to decipher my feelings.
Everything I thought I was going to say flees when the doors slide open at the penthouse level.
“Madame X. Please, come in.” Oh, that voice. Deep as canyons, rough as sandpaper.
FOURTEEN
I’m glad to see you’ve come to your senses.” Suppressed fury, teeth clenched.
The doors slide closed behind me, and as soon I hear the elevator whine and fade, I step forward. “You bastard.”
“Excuse me?” Disbelief, shock.
“Would you like to know where I was just now, Caleb?” I ask this in my sweetest, most innocent voice.
Dark eyes narrow in suspicion. “Where were you, X? Do enlighten me.”
I am chest to chest, staring up. I seethe. “I was on the sixth floor.”
“I see.”
“In room three. I met a very interesting young woman who said her name was, strangely enough, Three. But then, you see, I was privileged to overhear a very . . . illuminating . . . assessment and promotion, in which she earned a real name.”
“I don’t know what you think you heard or saw, X, but it’s not what you think.”
“It isn’t? That’s strange, because it seemed very much as if what I heard was Three sucking your cock.” My blood boils at the memory, at the indignity of my own unstoppable arousal. I cannot temper my fury. “I’m pretty sure what I heard was you fucking her. Just like you fuck me. Which I must say, raises some very interesting questions, Caleb.”
“You saw this, did you?” This is said calmly, quietly, in far too even a voice.
“Saw it? No. Heard is a more accurate term, I think. I was under the bed, you see. Hiding from you, and your thugs.”
Jaw muscles work. “X, there are elements to all this that you don’t—that you can’t—understand.”
“Then enlighten me, Caleb!” I shout. “Because it feels like I’m just another one of the girls on the sixth floor. Except, I don’t get the future they have. I’m kept in the dark, alone, day after day, serving client after client. But I’m not allowed to form a friendship with any of them. I’m not allowed relationships of any kind. Except you, when you deign to visit me, in the middle of the night. Are you training me, too? Like you’re training girls Two through Eight? Teaching me to please a man, before you sell me to the highest bidder? Is that it? Or am I just your dirty little secret on the hidden thirteenth floor? The secret you sneak in to, late at night, to have sex in the dark with, after you’ve finished training all the other girls. Or am I—”
“You are mine!” comes the venomous hiss, cutting me off. Huge hard hands clutch my face, tilt my head up, brutal fingers holding tight, not allowing me to escape. “You are not like them, X. You’re secret because you’re special.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You think I’m selling those girls, X? Is that what you think?” An abrupt change of tactic. “That’s not how it is, and if you’d really talked to Rachel, you’d understand that.”
“You’ve got her brainwashed. Like you did me.”
“I saved her life, like I did yours! I took her in off the streets and I sat by her as she went through meth withdrawals. I bathed her, and I held her as she shook so hard I thought she’d break a bone, and I fed her with my own hands. That’s not something I’d sell like a bag of fucking potatoes! I’m giving her a future, and I’m not going to sit here and defend myself to someone who doesn’t have the first fucking clue what I’m about!” I am abruptly released, and long legs begin pacing back and forth, impatient, angry. “You know nothing about me, X. Not the first thing.”
“That’s the point!” I shout. “What do you think I’m trying to—”
“And have you forgotten what I’ve done for you? Who was there for you when you woke up, alone?”
“You were, but—”
“And when you couldn’t talk, couldn’t walk, who wheeled you around in a wheelchair and carried a notebook everywhere, so we could communicate? Who took you to MOMA? Who showed you the Madame X painting? Who held you when you cried at night, every night, for weeks? You had no name, no past. I couldn’t return your past to you, but what did I give you, X?”
“An identity,” I whisper.
“And a future!” Male scent, heat, fingers gripping my waist. “I built you a life, X. I gave you the best of everything. The best clothes, the best food. An education. Skills. A job, something to keep you from going crazy with boredom! I’m not keeping you prisoner, I’m keeping you safe! Have you forgotten all that?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten.”
“I don’t often bring these things up. You know that. I focus on the now, on the immediate future. I move forward. I don’t dwell on what was, X. I don’t expect repayment or even thanks.” Finger and thumb, pinching my chin, lifting my face. Wide, deep, dark eyes penetrate mine. I cannot look away. “What I do expect, X, is loyalty.”
“How dare you?” I pull away. “Loyalty? When you’ve got eight women just sitting around waiting to service you at your every whim? Hoping for a glimpse of you, hoping for the next . . . assessment? Yet you expect loyalty from me?”
“Do not speak of what you do not understand. And that is something you don’t understand.”
“You show up in my room late at night, and you fuck me. That’s all it is. Just like them. All of them. None of it means anything to you, does it? Not me, not them. We’re just . . . receptacles for your . . . male urges, prettied up with fancy excuses.” I fight a sob. “And you always leave and I just . . . want it to mean something. But you never give me anything of yourself. It feels good, sure, but when that’s over, what am I left with? You said it yourself . . . I don’t know the first thing about you. How could I? I don’t even know the first thing about myself. But why should that matter, right? I’m just there to satisfy you when you feel like picking me.”
There is a silence then, and it is a silence more full of tension and volatility than any I’ve ever felt.
“How can you not see, X?” This, so quiet I have to strain to hear it.
“See what, Caleb?”
“See that you’re special to me. I keep you apart. I keep you for—for myself. Those girls, Rachel and the others, I’ve got to give them away. They’re all fucking damaged, and I’m trying to make them whole. I know you don’t get it, but that’s what I’m trying to do. I don’t sell them, I match them. All of them, each one, they’ll all get matched with someone who will appreciate them, even love them. It works. I’ve seen it work. But in order for them to go out and be the wives they need to be, they have to feel beautiful. They need to feel their own self-worth. And when they come to me, when they enter the program, they don’t.”
A few paced steps brings a body I cannot ignore to stand beside me. A long index finger touches my cheekbone, traces its curve. “But you, X. You’re special. I always knew you would be. When I first found you, I just knew I had to help you. And yes, I was eventually going to put you in the program. But I couldn’t. I can’t.”
There is a flaw in this logic, somewhere, but I’m dizzy, lost. Heat overwhelms my senses, the sudden and unexpected rush of truth drowns out my logic. Hands span my waist, gripping with fierce need. Lips touch my earlobe. There is tenderness here, and it is so alien and so welcome.
“Why?” I whisper it. “Why can’t you?”
“I can’t give you away to someone else, because you’re mine. You belong to me. I can’t share you. I won’t. You’re . . .” Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow. “You mean something to me, X.” Behind me now.
I’ve never heard such things from this mouth. Never seen such intensity or openness. I am flooded with doubt.
Lips touch my throat, and sorcery subsumes me, weaves me into the dark thrall of its warp and weft.
“Don’t you feel it?” Broad, powerful hands on my belly. “Don’t you feel . . . us?”
Oh, that word. Us. It means belonging. I want it. I want to believe.
“Do you feel it, X?”
“I feel it, Caleb.” And I do. I do.
I shouldn’t, but I do. I am weak. So weak.
I am falling under the spell.
My thighs tremble, my belly quivers and tightens. Need pulses in me. The hard body behind me is huge and powerful and incites something hungry within me. I cannot help but lean my head back, baring my throat. One huge hand slides up my body, cups my breast, and then curls around my throat, gentle, but insistent. The other skates down my body, over my belly, down between my thighs. Cups me, there. Fingers curl and gather the edge of my dress, lift it. Inch by inch, my thighs are bared. Then my hips. Then the black sheer mesh over my privates, the skinny string around my waist.
One hand at my throat, the other at my core. One cupping, the other clutching. One clamped with enough pressure to render me tremulous with a hint of fear, the other digging under silk to find flesh, stealing my breath.
“You’re mine, X.”
I can only moan in response. Fingers curl, slip in, find me sensitive and needy, press just so to set me shaking, knees weak.
I come, quickly and hard.
But I’m not done. Oh no. While I gather my strength to stand up on my own, the fingers slip out of me and unzip trousers. My dress is up around my hips, hot breath on my ear, and now my underwear has vanished, leaving me bare from the waist down, the air cool and my damp core hot. I hear shoes kicked off, pants and belt thud on the floor. Feet nudge mine apart, and a hand pushes me forward. My bottom is bared, exposed. I drip with need. I ache. God, I ache.
The hand on my throat has not slackened its grip, and now, bent forward, that grip is all that keeps me from falling over.
A deep-throated groan, and I am filled. Deep, slow, and hard.
“You feel it, X? You feel us?”
I don’t know how to fathom this. Words have never entered this equation, have never been a part of this act. “Yes, Caleb.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I feel it.”
But it’s the same, still. Despite the words, despite the palpable emotion, it’s the same. I see only the floor. Feel only what I’m allowed to feel.
But then something changes. A thrust, another. I moan, stumble, shake, only the hand on my throat keeping me upright. I’m dizzy with lack of breath. I’m not being choked, but it is still limiting my oxygen.
Control.
I want more.
“Let me see you, Caleb.” I say it, out loud, and I am amazed at my own daring.
The presence within me vanishes, and I am hauled upright by a sharp tug on my hair. Hands turn me. Eyes fiery, blazing, burning, dark and unknowable. “You want to see me?”
God, that body is dizzyingly perfect. All hard angles and huge muscles. Carved, cut, and perfect. I reach, and for a split second I am allowed to touch firm flesh, but only for a moment.
Hands strip the dress off me, make short work of the strapless bra, and then I’m naked.
I am pushed backward, and I trip over something.
So focused on the man in front of me, am I, that I’ve noticed nothing of the space around me. That does not change now. A couch, I think. I fall backward over the arm of a couch, and male heat and hardness follows me over. On my back, my legs dangle over the edge, hang into space. A broad wedge of male flesh and muscle fills that space, parting my legs. Hands grip my thighs, pull me, and then grip my hips and lift me. I can see the sharp angles and dark stubble, wild, angry eyes, thin slash of a mouth. I have a moment of breath, a moment to look, to see slablike pectorals and grooved abdomen, and then one sharp thrust drives the thick shaft into me.
