by Shandi Boyes
Fallon’s dress slides up her waist more as I adjust her position. Flattening her torso onto my desk, I pry her knees further apart with mine before slamming my cock back into her. She groans a long, quivering moan when I take my cock to the very root before drawing it back out. Her pussy ripples around me, begging for me to stay immersed in her warmth. A bead of sweat rolls down my glistening torso when I thrust my hips forward, slamming back into her.
“Ah, Christ, Brax,” she pants breathlessly as I fuck her at a ferocious speed.
Her new position has her taking more of my cock than she was earlier, while also quickening my sprint to climax.
“It feels so good, baby, so deep. So. . . Oh. . .,” Fallon purrs.
A familiar tingle races along my spine when her pussy clamps down on my cock, her third climax coming to fruition even more quickly than the first two. Unlike the lower-class bunnies, Fallon’s climaxes are void of the usual ear-piercing screams I’ve come to expect. If it weren’t for her pussy milking my cock, and her slick wetness coating my balls, I’d be none the wiser that she's orgasming.
Once the violent shudders raking Fallon’s body lessen, I close my eyes, trying to block her from my thoughts. It isn’t that she doesn’t have a body most men would take a stake to the heart for, or that her pussy isn’t milking my cock the way I like it. It is the fact my cock has some fucked-up ideas on what it classes as a fun time. Tonight’s event, unfortunately, has become a regular occurrence for me the past three months. My cock plays his part to a T. He shows up hard and primed to go, but no matter how close my chase to climax gets to the finish line, I’ve failed to cross the line every single time. It’s there, right in front of me, but the final push I need to get me over the line is missing.
Fuck I hope I find my mojo soon or I'm going to die of sexual deprivation.
My eyes sluggishly open when the door in my office creaks. Although shocked to see Clara, I'm not at all surprised when she walks in unannounced. Princesses don’t require permission to enter private premises. She walks three steps into the sweat-infused space before her eyes lift from the cell phone in her hand. One of her hands darts up to clutch her neck, stifling a scream, while the other yanks a set of earbuds out of her ears. As her eyes absorb the scandalous visual playing out in front of her, her pupils dilate to the size of dinner plates, her lips part, and her cheeks turn a hue of pink.
Her flushed expression gives me the final push I need to cross the finish line. I close my eyes as the most intense orgasm I’ve ever experienced rockets through my body, shredding any concerns I had about dying of sexual deprivation. I come like I’ve never come before, a vision-hazing orgasm that utterly destroys me. I’m so spent, I don’t notice Clara slipping out of the room until the bells above Inked’s entrance door chime into my office. Fuck!
Pulling out of a delirious Fallon, I snag my jeans off the floor and take off after Clara. My abrupt departure has me accidentally stomping on Clara's expensive diamante-encrusted cell she left on the floor. I drag my jeans up my thighs and tuck in my half-masted, condom-covered-cock before staggering onto the sidewalk at the front of Inked.
My head cranks to the side when metal crunching together booms out of the alleyway. My heart thrashes against my ribs harder than it did when I was climaxing as I charge for the alley. I take a step backwards when Clara's white convertible comes flying out of the narrow alley, missing me by the skin of my teeth. Tires squeal across the asphalt and horns honk when she merges dangerously onto the street.
Any thoughts of jumping on my bike and chasing after her fade when my eyes lock in on my pride and joy lying on its side on the asphalt part the way down the alleyway.
“Oh, baby, what did she do to you?” I mumble to myself as I bend down to collect the broken side mirror of my custom Harley Fatboy.
“You owe me three grand,” I declare, slapping the invoice from the panel beater who spent forty-eight hours of my weekend restoring my Harley back to her original condition onto the windscreen of Clara’s BMW.
For the past hour, I’ve been lying in wait in the parking lot of Inked for Clara to show up. For the first time in the nine weeks she’s worked here, she’s arrived only ten minutes before opening. I was getting worried I’d finally scared her off.
“I don’t owe you shit,” Clara replies, opening her car door into my hip.
“Wow, Princess knows how to cuss. Did they teach you that in princess school?” I mock, my taunting words hiding the grimace crossing my face from the sting her door made to my hip.
“Uh huh. Along with how to avoid low-life scum.” Glaring into my eyes, she curls out of her car all ladylike, her prim and proper composure not matching the malice of her words.
When she tries to sidestep me, I move into her path, foiling her quick getaway with my six-foot-two height.
Her nostrils flare as her icy eyes connect with mine. “If you don’t move, you’ll learn about another technique they taught me in princess school.”
“Oh, yeah, like what?” I take a step closer to her, not the slightest bit intimidated by her threat.
When she takes a retreating step, her back splays against the driver side door of her car. Like carpe diem, I seize the moment by taking another step forward. The pulse in Clara’s neck thrums when my body pins her to her car. I try to ignore the way her nipples are budded and pressed up against my chest; how her rich floral scent has my cock stiffening, and how I’d let her smash her BMW into my Harley again just for the chance on discovering if her lips taste as yummy as they look. In case you didn’t realize—my endeavors of being ignorant are fruitless. My body is acutely aware of every inch of Clara’s skin flattened against mine. And from Clara’s wide-eyed and flushed expression, I’d say she's also mindful of my body’s reaction to her closeness.
“This is workplace harassment.” The hotness of her breath tickles my lips.
“If we were inside Inked that may be the case, but since we haven’t entered the premises yet, I'm perfectly within my rights of seeking restitution for the damage you did to my property. Believe me. I checked,” I say, quoting some of the words she flung at me during our last tussle.
Everything I'm saying is a lie. I didn’t check shit.
When Clara fights my hold, I lean in even deeper, nearly crushing her tiny frame under my two hundred pounds. My movements cause my cock to brush the tempting warmth between her legs. My girth swells when a breathless moan unexpectedly topples from Clara’s O-formed mouth. Her pupils expand as she snaps her mouth shut, no doubt mortified at her body's response to my closeness.
Fighting the desire to request the restitution I'm owed in a non-monetary value, I repeat, "You owe me three thousand dollars," while peering into her arctic blue eyes.
My blood heats from the cunning grin that curls onto her lips. “As I said earlier, I don’t owe you shit. Your bike was like that when I exited the parking lot.”
The throatiness of her voice makes me even harder. But even if I wanted to ignore the deceit her eyes are relaying; I can’t ignore the massive streak of vivid black satin paint—the color of my bike—on the right front fender of her car.
Noticing the direction of my gaze, Clara huffs before she struggles against my hold, fighting to get free. I hold my ground, refusing to relinquish her from my grasp.
Realizing she has no chance of fleeing from a man my size, she sighs. “It was an accident! I didn’t mean to hit your bike.” Her words come out in a hiss as she strains them through her clenched teeth.
“You didn’t mean to hit it?” I quote, moving my head into her line of sight, demanding the attention of her bouncing eyes. “You dragged it halfway down the alley.”
“It was an accident!” Her chest heaves against mine. “Because I was blinded by an image I’d give anything to forget, I accidentally clipped your bike with my car. Believe me, I was just as mortified as you were.”
I don't know if the last part of her statement is referring to the damage done to my bike or the s
cene she witnessed in my office. While I strive to unravel the mystery of Clara, I return her determined stare. I've said previously that Clara's eyes were soulless, but the small sparks of life that have grown in them the nine weeks she has worked at Inked display she's telling the truth. So, ignoring the screaming protest of my cock, I take a step back, not only unpinning her from her car, but also moving away from the warmth my cock wants to delve into.
The instant I step away, Clara runs her hands down her dress, smoothing the crinkles I caused to the material. My mind goes straight to working out a way I can get that dress creased on my bedroom floor. What the fuck? I don’t take girls back to my place. Correction. I don’t take bunnies back to my place. Since Clara isn’t a bunny, technically, she doesn’t count. But either way, I shouldn’t be having those types of thoughts about a member of my crew.
“What were you doing at Inked at that time of the night?” I ask, endeavoring to return my thoughts to less deviant grounds.
I racked my brain a majority of the weekend trying to work out why Clara would be entering my office a little after 1 AM. Not one plausible reason was found.
“I could ask you the same thing. Haven’t you heard of a bed?” She fakes a gag.
I smirk, loving not only her feistiness but the glint of jealousy firing her icy eyes. It’s rare to spark a reaction out of her, so I’ll take it for all its worth. I’m not sure which look I prefer the most on Clara: the feisty little temptress, or the jealous scorned woman. Both are as enthralling as the other.
“When you have an itch that needs to be scratched, you scratch it.”
The rise and fall of Clara’s chest grows the longer I bounce my hankering gaze between her wide eyes. Even knowing I’m playing a game I shouldn’t participate in, I add more chess pieces to the already over-stacked board.
“Have you got an itch, Princess?” I mutter, no longer able to harness my curiosity on what has caused the glint of lust in her eyes.
The zipper of my jeans dig agonizingly into my cock when she murmurs, “Uh huh,” in a soft, throaty moan.
The pinch of pain turns into a full throb when she takes a step closer to me. She stands so close, the minty freshness of her recently brushed teeth fans my hungry lips.
“I have a really bad itch,” she purrs, her voice the most provocative thing I’ve ever fucking heard. “It’s just one a beast of a man like you wouldn’t know how to scratch.”
My conceit surges into unchartered territory. "Is that so?" I mutter, dropping my eyes to the generous swell of her curvy breasts. "Your tits are telling me a different story, Princess." I raise my eyes from her heaving chest to her face. Believe me, it’s no easy feat. "They're telling me you not only want me to scratch your itch, but you also want me to fuck you hard and fast on my desk like I did to the little bunny Friday night.”
Any concerns about my grandma having me lynched are left for dust when Clara's knee catches my groin unaware. Hot lava seers through my lungs as the air is violently removed from my body. I stumble backward and curl over, fighting through a torrent of pain I've never experienced before. No grown man should ever experience this type of pain. There are no doubts about it: Clara McGregor—Princess-Fucking-Socialite—has officially broken my cock.
“Jesus Christ, Clara. You could have just said no,” I wheeze out.
“Oh. Could I? I once had someone tell me little punks don’t understand the word no. So I figured I’d try a new tactic. I think it’s safe to say my new ploy worked.” Her words are vicious and add to the pain crippling me.
I cough, feeling my balls gargling in the back of my throat. “Yeah, it’s safe.”
My balls have barely returned to my stomach—let alone my sack—when Clara mutters, “Just in case the knee to the balls wasn’t convincing enough, I’ll spell it out for you, Brax.” She spits my name out like venom. “The odds of me paying your three-thousand-dollar repair bill is nearly as good as your chances of scratching my itch.”
The hot air of her breath flutters my earlobe when she snarls, “Pigs will fly before either of those things will happen.”
She saunters away with her head held high and her hips swinging.
Even hunched over and nursing a set of crushed balls, my fucked-up brain tries to invent a way to get pigs to fly.
Chapter Nine
Did I get an apology from Clara for my balls being crushed beyond recognition? No. Has Clara coughed up a dime of the three thousand she owes me? No. Do I care? In all honesty; no, I don't. Clara set me in my place, but I deserved it. I pushed; she pushed back harder. Although we have spoken since the incident in the parking lot two weeks ago, we've never discussed what led to our heated exchange. If she's happy to forget I suggested fucking her like a bunny on my desk, I'll happily forget she crashed her BMW into my Harley before she crippled my balls with the same amount of intensity. Seems like a fair compromise. I'm totally fucking pussy whipped.
Ignoring the thoughts that would have Diesel paying out on me for weeks, I wander aimlessly around Inked. Not wanting another incident marked in my ledger, I now check that Inked is void of any living thing before I lock up each night. Happy that the premises is lacking human contact, I amble to my bike. A grin curls on my lips when I enter the thick six-foot steel enclosure my bike is now protected behind. I had it installed three days following Clara's accidental collision with my bike. The look on Clara’s face when her BMW rounded the corner the morning it was installed was priceless. She looked a cross between amused and mortified. I’ve been loving all the new expressions she’s been experimenting with the past two weeks.
I squint my eyes when flashing orange lights impede my vision as I glide my bike down the side alley of Inked. Even with my vision hindered by bright lights, I can't miss the panicked expression on Clara's face as she pleads with a gentleman wearing a pair of grease-stained overalls. I park my bike next to a tow truck that has Clara's BMW sitting on the tray and switch off the ignition. Clara's panic hits an all-time high when the second man with inky black hair clamps a set of safety chains onto the tires of her pride and joy.
Since Clara is so immersed in pleading with the middle-aged gentleman, she fails to notice me approaching. "I sent a check yesterday, I swear," she says, her begging eyes locked onto a man who has “Jim” stitched on the upper left side of his overalls. "If they just waited a day or two, this whole situation could have been avoided."
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I don’t make the rules; I just enforce them,” Jim replies, flicking the ash from his lit cigarette onto the ground.
With a nudge of his head, Jim gestures for his employee to hop into the cab of the truck.
“If you're going to rack up thousands of dollars in credit and fail to make a payment, you have to be prepared for the repercussions,” Jim reprimands Clara while tearing out a sheet of paper from his extensively used tow slip pad.
“If you can come up with the payment they're requesting by Monday, call the number at the bottom of the slip. If not, your car will be auctioned.”
Jim gives Clara an apologetic smirk before he climbs into the cabin of his tow truck and drives down the street. Clara's chest thrusts up and down as she watches her beloved car become nothing but a speck on the horizon.
An ear-shattering scream expels from her lips when she spins on her heels and crashes into my chest. Snapping her eyes shut, she inhales a large breath as her hands scan the ridges of my chest and stomach. A few inches lower and she’d discover the knee to the balls she struck me with two weeks ago didn’t sustain me any permanent damage.
“How long have you been standing here, Brax?” she questions with her eyes still shut as tight as a bank vault.
I smirk. “You can tell it is me just from feeling me up?”
Quicker than a flash of lightning brightening a blackened sky, her eyes pop open. “I was not feeling you up.”
“Yeah, you are.” I nudge my head to her hands still plastered across the ridges of my stomach.
She
freezes for a second in shock before she yanks her hands away as if scorched by an open flame. The tears glistening in her eyes prevent me from issuing a smart-ass remark to her absurd reaction. She was touching my stomach, not my cock for crying out loud. After running her sweat-slicked hands down the front of her designer dress, she turns her wide eyes to mine.
“Have a pleasant evening.” She cringes at her poor choice of words before she spins on her heels and storms down the sidewalk.
It takes a minute for the reality of the situation to dawn on me. Clenching my fists into firm balls, I hotfoot after her.
“My warning still holds credit. If you get on a bus, your ass will be fired,” I warn.
Clara's quick strides to the bus shelter come to a dead halt halfway down the sidewalk. Her shoulders rise and fall as she inhales a large breath before she spins around to face me.
“You just saw my car towed away, right?”
I nod.
"Then you know I have no other way to get home than to take the bus," she continues, crossing her arms over her chest.
The nod of my head converts to a shake. “You don’t need to catch the bus. I’ll take you home.”
Her lips quirk as her perfectly etched brow curves high. “Do you have another mode of transport that has more than two wheels?”
I crack a smile at the sassiness in her voice. “No,” I reply with a brisk shake of my head.
Her brow arches even higher. “Then I’m taking the bus.”
"Like fucking hell you are," I shoot back, my words flying out of my mouth like daggers.
All the high-spiritedness in her face drains, making way for the well-worn angry mask Clara usually wears. “You may be my boss when we are inside those walls,” she spits out, pointing to the doors of Inked behind my shoulder. “But you have no power over me on this sidewalk.”
The stern mask she's wearing slips for the quickest second when I take a step closer to her. “Are you sure about that, Princess?”
