by S. J. Hooks
“Such a good girl,” Mr. Thorne repeats, spanking me again.
I’m ready for it this time, and I try to focus on his fingers and his thumb, which are working me over like I’ve never experienced before, creating sensations I’d almost forgotten existed at all. I try to stop my hips from rocking, but it’s nearly impossible.
“Uh!” I gasp as he spanks me for the third time, pressing my lips together immediately, as if that can somehow withdraw the sound. But Mr. Thorne must like hearing me, because his fingers move faster, causing me to bury my face against my arms to muffle my heavy breathing. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this. I didn’t know I was even able to feel like this anymore.
“Mmmf,” I moan, squeezing my eyes shut against the pleasure as he continues to rub and thrust and slap in perfect harmony. My hips gyrate, silently begging him for more as his hand connects with my ass again … and again … and again.
Oh, God! Oh, God! I’m so close!
Abruptly, he stops. He turns me around and pushes me to my knees, reaching behind me to unzip my dress, and yanks it down, causing my breasts to pop out. I tremble as my body is denied what it wants, but I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved that he stopped. I don’t want to share something so intimate with him. I’m not ready for him to see me like that. This is a job, and my pleasure is not part of the deal.
Mr. Thorne stands, then unbuckles and unzips his pants, letting them drop to the floor. He’s not wearing any underwear, either. I can’t help but stare. He’s long and thick, and so hard it looks almost painful. I look up at him, licking my lips nervously. I can guess what he wants, why he has me kneeling, but last time I didn’t go through with it.
“I-I haven’t done this a lot,” I admit.
His answering smile is gentle. “I know.” He reaches down to pull back my hair, angling my face upward.
“Open,” he orders, tracing the outline of my mouth with his thumb. “And put your hands behind your back.”
Drawing a deep breath, I comply.
“Use your tongue,” he instructs, sliding in between my lips. “And no teeth.”
I do my best, caressing him with my tongue as he thrusts slowly, going a bit deeper with each pass. His hands tangle in my hair and he moans.
“That’s it. Good girl. Suck me.”
His encouragement emboldens me and I pull him in deeper. He tastes good—clean and masculine. It isn’t as scary as I thought it would be, and I’m shocked that I actually like doing this. My body warms and I have to suppress a moan.
“You want this?” he asks suddenly, pulling out to stroke himself right in front of my face.
“Yes, Sir.” My answer falls from my lips without hesitation. It isn’t until it’s out there that I realize it’s the truth.
“Do you want me to fuck you?”
I stare up at him, a resounding yes echoing in my mind.
“I think you do,” he says, sliding back in between my parted lips. “I think you want to be fucked so badly. I think you’re nearly dripping on my carpet right now.”
I flush, because he’s probably right.
“But you know what, Abigail? You won’t get it until you beg for it. Can you do that for me?”
I close my eyes. I want to, but something holds me back. I’m not supposed to want this, and especially not from someone like him, a man I barely know.
“That’s okay, sweet girl. In time,” he tells me, tightening his hold on my hair. “Now, look at me.”
He fucks my mouth with vigor, keeping his eyes on mine. When I gag around him, he tells me to breathe through my nose. It helps, but my eyes still water as I fight to take all of him. Still, I try. Sucking and moaning around him, I can’t help but get into it, wanting him to come, to enjoy this.
“Fuck,” he groans, his hips bucking uncontrollably. “Swallow me. Take it all.” His movements still as he pulses in my mouth, and I try hard to obey, only coughing once as he finishes. Even so, it’s a lot better than I thought it would be to have him come in my mouth, which is something I’ve never done before. I keep him in my mouth as he calms down above me, and his hands move from my hair to my cheeks. His thumbs wipe underneath my eyes and I look up at him. He has a serene smile on his face, and in that moment he’s even more attractive than before. I feel the oddest sense of pride, knowing I’ve made him smile like that.
“Perfect,” he tells me. “You were perfect.”
Chapter Ten
Mr. Thorne is all smiles as he pulls out of my mouth and starts putting his clothes back in order. I remain kneeling on the floor, unsure what to do. Well, what I really want to do is brush my teeth—or at least drink something—but I remain where I am until he finishes dressing.
“Up you go,” he says softly, reaching down to help me to my feet.
I wince as I stretch out my admittedly bony knees and I have to lean on him a little until the ache subsides. I didn’t used to be this frail, but I’ve lost a lot of muscle tone and endurance since my cheerleading days, and not eating properly certainly hasn’t helped.
“Easy,” Mr. Thorne whispers, sitting down with me in his lap. Gently, he runs his hands across my legs. “Next time, we’ll get you a pillow, hmm?” he says, massaging my knees.
“Thank you, Sir. That would be good.”
“Are you all right?” he asks.
I nod my head, surprised by his question. I’m not sure if he’s referring to my legs or the blow job. His concern is nice, though. His hands trail upward to my bare breasts, brushing over my stiff nipples. I bite back a moan as he gives them both a little tug before pulling the dress back in place, covering me up. When I dare to look up at him, he’s wearing a smirk, obviously quite aware of the fact that he’s aroused me.
“Are you able to stand now?” he asks.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. I’d like for you to reheat the food and bring me a fresh plate and utensils.”
I climb off his lap and do as I’m told. Once the food is hot again, I serve him another plate, only to have him pull me back onto his lap, where he settles me comfortably. I stare at him as he loads some mashed potatoes onto his fork and holds it up to my mouth.
“Open.”
“Sir?”
“I want to feed you,” he says, as though that’s perfectly normal.
Um, okay. I accept the offering, and he smiles.
“Good girl. You need a bit more meat on your bones.”
“I’m working on it,” I whisper.
He nods, placing the fork on the plate as he reaches for the wine glass, bringing it to my lips. I don’t like wine at all, but I take a sip anyway, not able to hide the way my lips pucker as the sour taste hits my tongue.
Mr. Thorne laughs, setting down the glass. “You don’t drink wine?”
“No, Sir.” I went to some parties in high school, but I haven’t had a drink since becoming pregnant.
“I don’t drink soda myself, but I believe there’s some in the fridge for the cleaning staff and the gardeners,” Mr. Thorne says.
“Not even at the movies?” I blurt out. “Er, soda, I mean.”
“The movies?” He looks surprised. “I honestly can’t remember the last time I went to a movie.” He helps me off his lap. “Go get your soda. Then we can talk some more while you eat.”
Two minutes later, I’m back on his lap, being fed dinner, a tall glass of Coke next to the plate.
“So, do you go to the movies a lot, Abigail?”
I shake my head, swallowing. “Too expensive,” I elaborate. While I know Mr. Thorne is aware of my financial circumstances, it still makes me uncomfortable to discuss it.
“Of course,” he murmurs. “That’s a shame. A young woman like you should enjoy herself.”
He seems genuinely regretful for me. Slowly, I move my hands from my lap and run them up his torso, holding him around his neck. “This is pretty enjoyable,” I say.
He observes me for a moment, the fork paused mid-air between the pl
ate and my mouth. Then, he smiles. “That it is.”
I return the smile before taking another bite of food. “What’s your favorite movie?” I ask after I’ve swallowed.
His eyebrows go up and his lips purse. “I don’t know,” he says, offering me a drink. “I don’t have much time for movies anymore.”
“You work a lot.”
He nods.
“Well, if you did have the time, what would you watch?”
“Indiana Jones, probably.”
My mouth drops open. That definitely wasn’t the answer I was expecting. I thought he’d mention an old black-and-white film, not an action movie.
“Seriously? I mean, uh, really, Sir?”
“Hey, I’m a child of the eighties,” he says with a grin.
“So, um, how old would that make you?”
“Thirty-nine.”
I observe him more closely than I have before. I thought he was a little older, but maybe that’s because of how he dresses and does his hair. I try to imagine him in a T-shirt and jeans with unstyled hair, but I can’t. Besides, I like that he dresses nicely. He’s quite … sexy. I’ve always had a thing for older men in movies and on TV, though I never thought I’d ever actually be with one in real life.
I realize I’m staring at him and when I meet his eyes, my face heats. He tilts my head up, holding my chin.
“Not too old to make you blush, pretty girl?” he asks, his hazel eyes lit with amusement.
“No,” I whisper, “not too old, Sir.”
“Good to know.” He offers me another bite, which I accept. I’m feeling more comfortable speaking with him now, and he seems very open at the moment. I don’t want there to be any weirdness between us.
“I’m sorry about earlier. In your office … I shouldn’t have.”
“Shouldn’t have what?” he asks. “Sought comfort?”
I nod my head. “I’m here for you,” I whisper. “Not the other way around. You said so.”
“I remember,” he drawls. “I’m also the one who held you when you were upset. Now, what does that tell you?”
“I don’t know.”
He pierces me with his gaze. “It means that I get what I want. If I want to hold you, I get to. If I want to comfort you, I get to. If I want to fuck your mouth, I get to. If I want to feed you dinner, I get to. Don’t be mistaken, Abigail. Whenever I do something, it’s of my own volition.”
“Y-yes, Sir. I’m sorry.”
I’m worried I’ve ruined the nice mood with my comment, and now I wish I hadn’t said anything.
“Don’t be sorry,” he says. “Be mine.”
“Yours?”
He nods. “Surrender to me. Trust me. Let me be in charge. All you have to do is obey. If I invite you into my arms, don’t pull away like you did earlier. If I give you pleasure, don’t deny yourself. I want your tears, your words, your thoughts, your orgasms. I want all of it. Understand?”
I understand what he’s saying, but to give him everything is impossible. I’m a mom first. Always. Luke comes before anyone else. Mr. Thorne wants me to put him first and I can do that while I’m here, but he’ll never get everything.
“All that, and worship too?” I ask, hoping to lighten the mood.
The corners of his lips twitch. “Definitely worship too.”
“I can do that, Sir.”
“I know,” he says, lifting the fork to my lips again. “You won’t regret it, sweet girl.”
An hour later, I’ve cleaned up and I’m back in my own clothes. Mr. Thorne leads me to the door, his hand once again resting on my lower back.
“I want to see you again,” he says, handing me another manila envelope.
“You do?” My heart beats faster. I can’t deny the thrill of excitement I feel at the thought of spending another night in Mr. Thorne’s company.
He nods and pulls out his phone, tapping the screen a few times. His mouth twists and his brows draw together. When he looks back at me, he’s still frowning.
“I’m going out of town,” he says, “so I won’t have time to see you until this time next week.”
“Oh. That’s okay, Sir.” I’m just happy there will be a next time at all.
“Will you be all right until then?”
His question startles me, but I recover quickly. “Um, yes, Mr. Thorne. I’ll be fine.”
“Good. That’s good.”
After a moment, he reaches into his pocket again and hands me another envelope, but this one is white and has writing on it—the name of a spa downtown.
“Sir?”
“It’s for you,” he says. “A gift card.”
“What … uh, what would you like me to get done, Sir?”
Please don’t say waxing, please don’t say waxing.
“That’s entirely up to you,” he answers. “Although,” he adds, looking at me again. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t cut off your hair. And no long, fake nails. And keep your eyebrows natural-looking.”
“I don’t know what you want me to have done,” I admit. “Is there something you want … different next time?” I motion to my body.
He seems perplexed. “No, don’t change a thing. You’re perfect. Just enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you, Sir,” I say, still confused. Did he just give me a gift?
He takes a step closer and reaches out to take my hand in his. His thumb traces over my knuckles a few times before he lifts our joined hands to his mouth, pressing his lips against my skin for a moment.
“Thank you, Abigail,” he says. “I’ve had a lovely evening.” His eyes are large and sincere. Looking into them makes my chest feel funny.
“Me too, Sir.”
“Same time next week, then?”
I nod wordlessly and he smiles. Outside, the taxi honks its horn and Mr. Thorne leads me through the doorway, still holding my hand. He pays the cabbie and holds the door open for me as I climb inside. Leaning down after closing the door, he motions for me to roll down the window.
“Yes …” I glance at the driver in front, who’s busy fiddling with his radio. “Sir?”
“I forgot to tell you,” he whispers, leaning in closer. “Next week, I have every intention of fucking you, which means I will make you beg for my cock, Abigail. In fact, I look forward to it.”
My mouth drops open. The driver is right there, for Christ’s sake! Mr. Thorne sees my shocked expression and takes pity on me.
“Get home safely, sweet girl,” he says softly.
I regain my wits. “Have a safe trip, Sir.”
He straightens himself and taps the roof of the cab twice, which makes the cabbie start the car. I look back as we drive off. This time, Mr. Thorne is still standing there, his hands buried in his pockets, watching me leave. What will he do now? Go back to his work? I guess I shouldn’t care, since I’m off the clock, so to speak, and yet …
Is he lonely late at night, just like me?
He’s such a strange man. Stern and cold one minute, playful the next, and definitely not without quirks. But there’s also a kindness to him that I never would’ve expected. He cares for me in his own weird way, I think. Next week, he’s going to make me beg for him to fuck me again, and if he does again what he did to me tonight, I’ll probably do it—and mean it. I remember his fingers, how they felt inside me. His hand warming my backside, the rough sound of his voice, and the taste and feel of his cock in my mouth. The way his eyes fluttered closed right before he came and the sound of his moans, the feeling of knowing I was the one giving him pleasure.
I clench my thighs, embarrassed by the dull throbbing sensation between them. What the hell is wrong with me? This isn’t normal. This shouldn’t feel good.
Twenty minutes later, I knock softly on Jo’s door. The moment I see her, looking so familiar and safe, I burst into tears.
“You w-were r-r-right,” I hiccup. “I’m in w-way over my h-head!”
Chapter Eleven
Jo pulls me into a fierce hug. “Oh my God, Abbi,�
�� she whispers. “Did he hurt you? Should I call the police?”
I shake my head, trying to get my blubbering under control. “N-no, n-nothing like that. I’m not h-hurt.”
My best friend holds me at arm’s length, scanning my face. “Are you sure? You can tell me. He can’t do bad stuff to you. I don’t care how much he’s paying.”
I compose myself as best I can. “Yes, I swear.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“I’m—” I stop and look around the quiet apartment. “Where’s Luke? Did it go all right?”
“Yeah, he’s just fine. Come see.”
Relieved, I follow Jo to her bedroom, where she holds the door open. Luke and Jo’s two girls, Piper and Pippa, are sprawled across the king-size bed, all three of them fast asleep. There are pillows and blankets everywhere and the room looks a complete mess. Jo shrugs.
“They went a little wild making a fort, and then fell asleep in the middle of it.”
A wave of calm settles over me and I smile, happy they’ve had a good time.
“Now, will you please tell me what’s going on with you? I’m kind of freaking out here.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry.”
Jo leads me into the kitchen where I sit down at her small table, resting my head in my hands.
“If this were a movie, I’d be pouring you a stiff drink right about now,” Jo says. “But you know I don’t have anything like that, so this will have to do.” She places a pint of ice cream and two spoons on the table and joins me. I smile at her and watch as she opens it and hands me a spoon. “Start talking,” she orders.
“Well, he doesn’t have a dungeon or anything like that.”
“That’s something. So what’s his deal?”
“I don’t know,” I sigh, dipping into the ice cream. “He has this 1950s housewife thing, I guess. He made me dress up with an apron and everything and cook dinner for him.”
I keep talking. A lot. Before I know it, the ice cream is gone and Jo is staring at me, her mouth hanging open.
“I liked it, Jo. The spanking, the way he touched me, the things he said. I almost … you know.”
