Wicked Knight

by Sawyer Bennett

  The wooden stocks that are in one of the glassed rooms of the Silo, which is one of the sub rooms within the Wicked Horse.

  I pick it up and study it. There’s no one in the room and certainly no one locked in the contraption, although I’d seen it in use on my first visit there. A woman had her head and wrists enclosed as she was being fucked from behind by a man. That hadn’t been shocking, but the fact there were four other men lined up after him to take a turn had been. I was horrified and turned on at the same time, which made me feel like a total slut that any part of that would appeal to me. I guess it was knowing the woman was enjoying herself, which was clear by her moans and screams of pleasure, that had made it seem tantalizing.

  Shaking my head to clear it of those thoughts, I turn the photo over. Near the top, Asher had written Tonight at ten. Under it was another short message: Enjoying this far more than the Chihuly.

  A snort of amusement involuntarily pops out of my mouth, and I clap my hand over it. Given my observations of Asher’s apartment and the fact the Chihuly was about the only color he had in here, I’m going to take a guess and say that the vase had some special significance to him. What that could be, I can’t imagine, but it makes his words a little more shocking that he’s liking sex with me better than his custom-made vase.

  I simply don’t know what to make of it.

  I will have to admit that the two nights I went to the club with him were by far the best sex of my entire life. Of course, my earlier experiences were limited to my first boyfriend, who I lost my virginity to, then Nelson, and then one guy after him who just wasn’t a good match on any level. None of them even understood what foreplay was, and I was lucky if I could manage to get myself off with my fingers whenever Nelson was humping me with no finesse. Our sex life was something I truly hated about our marriage. I hadn’t known how to make it better, and I never felt comfortable enough to talk about it with him. I was always afraid of hurting his feelings or something.

  Asher on the other hand?

  He is sex incarnate. He embodies everything that is lust and pleasure. He’s beyond adventurous and totally confident in whatever he does. When he commands me, I’m powerless to say no.

  We were in the Waterfall Room on Monday. Every night since then, I’ve gone to bed thinking about it with my fingers playing between my legs. The orgasms I gave myself were soul shredding as I repeatedly replayed in my mind how satisfying it was to suck his cock, or how wanton and liberated I felt when he put me on that platform in the middle of the pool and buried his tongue deep inside of me. I came so fast I couldn’t quite understand what had happened, and he continued to mercilessly suck and lick at me until he drove me to another orgasm, then another, before he finally fucked me.

  And when he fucked me, he did it by putting me on my hands and knees and driving into me with almost a brutal sense of determination. He pulled my hair, slapped my ass, and pinched my nipples so hard they bruised, but I kept begging him for more.

  Face flushed, I shove the photo in my pocket. Using the feather duster, I attack the marble pedestal and try to drive those memories out of my head. If I don’t, I’m apt to go lay myself across Asher’s bed and get myself off. I’d then wipe my wet fingers on his black satin duvet cover and wonder if he’d smell me later.

  “Ugh,” I growl out in frustration. I can’t stop thinking about him or the sex we have, and it worries me.

  It worries me that he has a power over me that has nothing to do with the ridiculous amount of money he’s given me and will continue to pay me to be his fuck toy.

  “Stop thinking about it, Hannah,” I chastise myself out loud, hoping it makes a bigger impression on my conscience.

  A text chimes on my phone, and I nab it from my pocket. It’s my mother, and her words are just what I needed to make me smile. Thinking of you. Know you are loved.

  Carol Brantley was dealt a hard life from the moment she was born in Gaffney, South Carolina to a deadbeat dad and an alcoholic mother. The oldest of five kids, she had to go to work at the age of thirteen to help support the family. She didn’t graduate high school, ending up pregnant with me shortly after she’d turned seventeen. My dad left as soon as he found out he’d knocked her up. I’ve never met him. My mom was unlucky in love a second time, too, and married Toby and Frank’s dad. He left shortly after Toby’s birth, so it was just the four of us. My mom raised three kids on a bartender’s salary.

  To say life was hard is an understatement, but it’s also molded me into a hard-working woman with grit and determination. I started working when I was just twelve—after school and in the summers—to help with the family expenses. It was usually cleaning the neighbors’ houses or raking leaves to earn a few bucks here or there. Every little bit helped, and I routinely contributed to buying groceries, school supplies, and thrift store clothes for my brothers and me.

  I was determined to break the family tradition, though. After I graduated from high school, I went to community college for one year. But then I met Nelson, who was attending a conference in Columbia while I was working part time at a coffee shop there. He swept me off my feet, and I jumped at the chance to run off to Nevada with him. I was just nineteen when we married. Not a day goes by that I’m not guilt ridden for leaving my mom and the boys behind, but my mom was happy for me. She wanted nothing more than for me to pursue my dreams.

  I text my mom back. I love you. You’re my hero.

  She replies with a heart emoji.

  It doesn’t take me long to finish dusting the foyer, and I leave a note for Asher on the counter that says, See you at ten.

  By the time I’m walking out of his apartment and locking the door behind me, I’m making a mental calculation of the time I have left in the day. I was going to work a four-hour shift this afternoon doing customer service support, which I can do from home. I did not quit that job as the hours are flexible. Since Asher wasn’t keeping me busy all day, it was a good way to pick up a little extra cash that I stashed in a Christmas pot I would use to buy Hope something special.

  Instead, I decide to go car hunting. The daily Uber charges to get to and from Asher’s apartment, as well as to The Wicked Horse, are adding up. I’m sure I can get a cheap used car for a lot less than what I’m spending on Uber and far less than getting my repoed car back. I only had to put down a five-thousand-dollar retainer for the attorney to take the case, which was the original bonus Asher had given me. The lawyer will require another five thousand to file the motion, so that’ll leave ten grand in my savings account. I figure I can get a car for hopefully less than half. I consider it a wise investment, especially since I’ll be getting Hope tomorrow. The last thing I want to do is pull up in an Uber at my ex-husband’s house. I don’t want to deal with the humiliating remarks he’ll make when he learns my car has been repoed.

  Yes, I have a good plan of action today. After I go car hunting, I’ll work a few hours doing customer service support from the comfort of my own home if I have time this evening. Then I’ll get showered, put on the red dress I wore on my first night at the Wicked Horse, and meet Asher there—where I’ll let him lock me up in the stocks to do God knows what to me.

  I’m not sure whether I should hate myself or not, but I’m looking forward to it.

  CHAPTER 9

  Asher

  My father holds his drink up, the amber-colored bourbon lit up from the candle burning on the table. “Great job on the Tyndall deal.”

  I hold my drink up. “Thanks.”

  We sip and share a meaningful congratulatory smile. The waiter appears, returning my credit card and the receipt for me to sign, which I do after adding a hefty tip.

  “You continue to amaze me,” he says, but not necessarily with beaming pride in his son. It’s more in an incredulous way, like he can’t believe I pulled off something he would not have dared yet again. And that’s because no matter my achievements and the fact I continually make this company more successful each year, he just doesn’t want to beli
eve I’m as good as or better than he ever was. His ego won’t let him.

  When I do a quick check of my watch, I note it’s closing in on nine-thirty. I need to get going. Got a hot night planned with Hannah and the stocks.

  “Your sister seems to have the gala well organized,” Dad says nonchalantly, but I can hear the faint tone of ingrained disappointment in his voice. Even though I make him envious of the things I’ve accomplished, my father has never disapproved of me the way he does Christina.

  She’s the epitome of everything our mother was. While my father was fond of his wife and loved her in the best way he could, he expected both his children to be like him.

  Christina’s first major failure was in taking her ivy-league education to become a public-school teacher. Her next was in giving away most of her trust fund to charitable organizations. The killing blow was in marrying a man who had no greater ambitions in life than to also be a public-school teacher like his wife.

  As such, my dad and sister don’t have much to do with each other. He wasn’t much of an influence on her growing up, anyway, not the way he was on me.

  But the one thing he will always support her on is the charity gala she has taken over putting on each year since our mother died. He buys one of the insanely expensive dinner plates, and always brings some ridiculously young, sexy woman with him as a date. He’ll even give a speech on how proud he is of her accomplishments with the money that’s raised each year, and then after the event is over, he’ll go back to ignoring her.

  It’s something that used to bother me, and I’ve had words with my father over the years for not trying harder with his daughter. It was Christina who finally told me to give it up. Not because it is a losing battle, but because she doesn’t feel like she is missing out on anything. My dad has never been a doting father—to either of us, actually—and she truly doesn’t feel any loss. She accepts dear old Dad for what he is, but then again, so do I. Although, I’ve just now stopped being incensed with him on my sister’s behalf and only at her insistence that I do so.

  Still, I use the opportunity to get my digs in at my dad by laying my praise of Christina on thick.

  “As always, she’s done an excellent job with the gala. But she’s also doing some amazing volunteer work with high-risk students. Mom would have been so proud of her.”

  My father grunts as he stares down into his drink glass, merely an acknowledgment he heard me, but not agreeing with me. “Christina could be so much more.”

  “She’s more than either of us,” I retort, feeling a wave of anger and protectiveness for my twin course through me.

  “Now that’s simply not true,” my father says with a smirk. “Running a multimillion-dollar-a-year company is a bigger accomplishment, and you know it. Your sister is a failure.”

  “I’m curious,” I say in a silky-smooth mocking voice. “Do you feel yourself to be a failure since I’ve made this company infinitely more successful than you ever had when you were at the helm?”

  I didn’t expect to cow my dad, but I’m surprised when he comes back swinging. “You’re better because Michelle died. All your rage and guilt have been funneled into your work, and it’s yielded positive return. I was hamstrung with a wife and kids, but you’re free to give all your attention to Knight Investment Group.”

  For a moment, the man who was once a little boy who idolized his dad is crushed he would say something so cruel. Then I’m infuriated because I gave him an opening to strike deeply at me. I let the bastard exploit my weakness, and he’s right… I had so much rage and guilt over Michelle’s death, and I still struggle with it today.

  But it’s something I hold privately, and I’m not about to let him know he’s struck a nerve.

  “Always a pleasure seeing you, Dad,” I murmur, with enough sarcastic bite to the word “dad” that he understands my respect of him ends where his parenting abilities start.

  When I push up from the table, my father doesn’t say a word. Saying nothing else, I give him my back, winding my way through the maze of tables to the exit.

  Once outside, I inhale deeply of the dry desert air, letting my lungs expand to capacity before releasing it. Deep breathing has become therapeutic to me over the last few years. After I found Michelle’s lifeless body on our bed with an empty pill bottle clutched in her hand and an empty liquor bottle on the floor, I went through a period where I started having anxiety attacks. My gut instinct was to self-medicate with bourbon, but Christina—who was the only person I ever confided to about what was happening to me—suggested I see a doctor. I was given the choice of medication versus meditative and breathing techniques. I chose the latter, and it ultimately worked for me.

  I don’t get anxiety attacks anymore but when I get pissed, I find the same tricks seem to work.

  Taking in another breath, I think of Hannah. I imagine her locked in the stocks, naked and totally under my control.

  My breath stutters out, and I imagine Michelle, lying on the bed with open, vacant eyes. Her expression so blank I could not discern anything from it.

  Like why she did it and how in the fuck had I not seen it coming?

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I conjure forth the image of Hannah again, forcing myself to fall into my fantasy. I concentrate on the smooth lines of her body as she’s bent over, neck locked tight in the stocks. When I inhale, I don’t smell desert heat but the muskiness of her pussy. I imagine sinking into her from behind, and I fucking force Michelle into hiding.

  When I feel like I’m in control once more and Michelle can’t taunt me any further tonight, I open my eyes and turn toward the valet stand to collect my car. Grounded again, I have a firm grip on the fact that my life has room in it for a few important things.

  Knight Investment Groups—which I will continue to pour my energies in to make it more successful than anything my father could have imagined—my sister Christina—who has all that is left of my heart—and hardcore, dirty, impersonal fucking at the Wicked Horse.

  ♦

  I’ve made myself stay away from Hannah all week, reasoning it would be better if I abstained. Like the sex would be better if I waited for it. Anticipated it a bit more.

  I also wanted to set the tone with her, which is that she isn’t necessary to me.

  Oddly, I haven’t been to the Wicked Horse since I was there with her last. That’s odd because I would normally avail myself of the club at least two or three times a week, but for some reason, I was content to just wait a bit for Hannah. I’m admittedly intrigued by her, and there’s no denying my body responds to her in a way it hasn’t to any other woman in a long, long time.

  But now that I’m here with her, in the glassed room inside The Silo with the stocks just sitting there waiting to entrap her, I wonder why the fuck I wasn’t doing this with her every goddamn night. I must be insane or a glutton for punishment.

  Hannah stares around with nervous eyes, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip. She’s wearing the red dress she wore the first night, and it’s an amazing color on her. I make a mental note to buy her more red lingerie.

  We’re the only ones in this room, but I left the door unlocked in case someone wants to join us. It’s typical protocol in here, because most that use The Silo are into group sex. At the least, we’ll attract a crowd who will watch as we fuck. The thought of displaying Hannah for everyone to admire has my cock aching already. The Orgy Room that first night, and the Waterfall Room the second, were good introductions for her, as they were dark and more intimately lighted.

  The Silo is bright, open, and without privacy walls. Everything is on display in here.

  “I’m scared,” she blurts out. For a moment, I experience a sensation I haven’t felt in years.

  Empathy.

  Ignoring it, I shoot her a sinister smile before walking over to the stocks. The contraption isn’t authentic, since traditional stocks imprisoned people by their feet. This one was made for the sole purpose of bending someone over so they can be fucked fro
m behind, whether it be a man or a woman. This one sits bolted into two heavy wooden beams, the top and bottom portions opening with a heavy-duty cast-iron hinge on the side. There’s a larger hole for the head, and two smaller ones on the side for the wrists. To accommodate the variances in people’s heights, the imprisoning part can be cranked higher or lower.

  I lift open the top board, gesturing to it. “Come over here.”

  Hannah walks slowly toward me, despite what I recognize as a tinge of fear in her eyes. I admire her courage, but I also get off on her being a little afraid.

  Still, I remind her, “You can say no.”

  She nods in understanding. “I won’t.”

  Thank fuck.

  “What are your hard limits?” I ask as she comes to a stop before the stocks.

  Twisting her neck, she gazes out the main glass wall into the interior of The Silo before turning back to me. Already, several people have meandered up to the edge to watch us.

  “No anal,” she says bluntly.

  “Just my cock… or can I put something else in there?”

  Flushing, she lowers her eyes. “Your cock is too big.”

  “We’re going to work up to that,” I assure her, but then I give her some peace of mind. “But tonight, I’m mostly interested in your pussy, especially since we don’t have to use a condom.”

  As expected and equally hoped for, our mutual visits to the doctor revealed we were both safe. Of course, I felt the need to make sure she understood she wasn’t to fuck anyone else. Oddly, she didn’t ask the same of me, but maybe she just assumed I wouldn’t—which is the truth—because I was the one who wanted the tests in the first place.

  “Anything else?” I ask, starting to get impatient in my need to lock her under my control.

  Hannah’s eyes harden slightly, her chin lifting. “No other men can touch me. Our deal doesn’t mean you can share me.”