Sal already did that.
The thing about Sal is he actually doesn’t share very well at all. Once he claims something as his, it belongs to him—including me. That is why Jack refuses to have sex with me. Not even a blow job. That is why Dom asked. Sure, it could be attributed to a polite respect, which it was—but it is also about ownership. Sal owns me. And everyone I have slept with recently—Cas, Mack, and even Emily—is on me.
If it were up to Sal, I would have a chastity belt on 24/7, and he would hold the only key. He knows it’s unreasonable at this juncture and I get that, but I wonder if the reverse will ever be true.
My thoughts quickly segue back to the task at hand—the deviant M and M twins snarling with drool frothing out of their mouths and hands twisting up in impending doom kind of way. Maybe it’s not that bad, but it might as well be.
I don’t really see the charming Mitch and academic brain Mack. I see two beasts, self-imposing themselves into a situation they are not fit to win. They should not be here and neither should I, which takes my thoughts back to why in the hell did Jack do this?
I feel as though he is undermining Sal’s authority, instigating a perilous endangerment for the sake of rescuing the captive—me. Maybe this is a practice run. See how fast Raniero can get back from across the pond to rescue the girl. I tell myself the lie, hoping for the truth to be somewhere nearby. Perhaps a magnet will lock them together and I will find myself safe in the arms of a crazy ass.
It would be better than my current predicament.
I ask myself what would Sal do? He would do the exact opposite of what everyone anticipates and when they least expect it, he throws the curve ball, knocking everyone off their line. It’s smooth. Works like a dream, every fucking time if you are Sal Raniero.
While I am dangling here, waiting for giant M and thin M to decide what the hell they are doing with me, I ponder what a girl like Emily would do. Would she scream? Would she cry? Would she snivel and beg?
Unfortunately, probably not which is why I have such respect for the girl. Sal doesn’t typically pick the weak ones. Cas is the exception to the rule based on his previous attachments to her sister Kaci. I wonder if he sees Kaci when he is balls deep in Cas.
Sick fuck.
Propping my body against his thigh, Mitch unbuckles my wrists. I desperately yearn to say—this is a stupid decision, dumbfuck—but in lieu of a smack to the face, I think otherwise.
On his shoulder, he carries my body to the bed and plops it down uncaringly with a thud. Rubbing my wrists, I whisper, “Who are you working for?”
“You think I would tell you that?” he chuckles as he grabs a rope from the nearby trunk and begins weaving a web. “I am not telling you shit, little girl.”
Sal calls me that when he wants to piss me off, but I don’t fall prey to it. Now, I see through it. That motherfucker has been reprogramming me for months, and I never realized it until recently. Sal built me for this battle because he anticipated it. He has the foresight to see a hundred steps ahead and examines all of the possibilities.
He hates that word.
Inside my mind works in overtime as I glare at Mitch starting to wind the ropes. Don’t let him tie you up. Don’t let him tie you up.
“Why don’t we fuck first?”
“Who?” Mack asks. I expect this comment from nerd boy.
“All of us,” I taunt as I teasingly run my fingers up my thighs. “We could have a really good par—tay.”
Mitch wastes no time in shucking the rope as Mack’s lips curl up in a decadent way which admittedly, at one point, turned me on. Now, I find him no more than a nuisance. A gnat that won’t stop buzzing about in my grid causing misfires and electrical disturbances. I need a pesticide for his parasitic infestation.
He strokes his cinnamon scruff, and I contemplate my moves as Mitch starts devouring my cunt. Perpendicular on the bed, he yanks my body close to the edge and pushes me back. My hair brushes against the cinder block wall behind me as he lifts my legs into a wide-V and suckles away at the nubby utter. It’s doing nothing for me. This man is atrociously bad at oral. Too much wet, too much tongue, too much overzealous lapping at what he thinks he understands.
Carefully, I slither my hand up under the pillow and manage to slide open my phone.
Eying Mack and the obvious protrusion up in his pants, I pretend to enjoy the trip through Mitch’s carwash. I cannot wait for the dry cycle. Feeling way too ballsy, I pleasantly inform, “You know you kind of suck at this.”
Mack laughs distractedly, and I press the DA call button. He will not only get an earful, but he’ll come rescue my ass.
Mitch’s head shoots up faster than a rocket from between my legs as he completely did not see my critique coming. I’ll rave when motivated, review when necessary, and maintain my magniloquent ways incessantly. It’s not my fault he doesn’t get it, but I can show him. I can teach him—at least enough to waste some time for my hero to arrive.
“What the hell are you on about, Iris?” Mitch scolds.
“You don’t lick pussy worth a fuck. Seriously. You never have. I think considering you are so young and we have so much time here together,” I say with a sweet smile, “that we should teach you a thing or two for all your future romps into the cavern taco.”
“You’re serious?”
I nod at his dumbfounded expression. He sighs and looks either direction, humiliated beyond belief. “It’s nothing we cannot fix, but you have to be willing to listen.”
“To who? You?” He rages just under the surface; I can hear it in his voice and see it seething in his eyes. I am going to end up black and blue instead of wet and ecstatic.
“No…Him.” I point to Mack as he shines back with a deer in headlights expression. I swear that boy’s eyes have never been that big. In this move, I learn quickly that Mack too fears Mitch Daniels bizarre ways of handling things.
I can use this.
“That chump knows how to go down?”
Closing my eyes, I tilt my head down once in affirmation. “That chump, as you say, is one of the best.”
Immediately, Mack’s pale skin rises up with a nice pink hue of a gloat. He smiles—albeit with his somewhat crooked teeth—and blinks at me adoringly. Yes, I just complimented your sexual prowess, now come through for me, you weasel.
You may wonder why I chose this route. Mack over Mitch. It’s simple. I can top out Mack in a heartbeat, but Mitch—I have no real fighting chance against his stature and build. He is big—in all areas. Mack is slight, thin, and an easily manipulated switch. I have to play the best game possible. Sometimes, intelligence trumps muscle especially in the case of sex games. Well oiled, defined body is great with a good hard cock, but if they don’t know how to get in the headspace between the ears, I might as well be using a dildo. I cannot stand uncontrolled, undisciplined men—and Mitch Daniels ranks number fucking one.
So, I play up Mack and make him shine like the star. It’s all strategy. Waste some time and save my nose from getting smashed. “Mack, come here.”
That’s right, you good little bitch, listen to me.
Mitch moves out of the way, but doesn’t go far, maintaining a closeness which is still in my space. He can still take me out with one swoop. I do not fret; my nerdy pseudo-savior of the moment is imminent.
“It’s really all about the pacing,” Mack says in the most eloquent British inflection. “You are probably just overdoing everything. You are not chowing down on a steak, you are savoring a decadent dessert that you want melting on your tongue.”
Oh, shit.
Mitch looks like he is about to clobber Mack as he continues on his lesson. This will not behoove me in any way. Of course, the other problem here is Mack will make me come—easily and readily on his tongue, thereby putting me in a weakened position.
I think nothing of it as I scroll back to lessons with Sal and Dom. The moment Mack’s lips hit mine, I know I am in serious trouble. He is sweet and gentle and “Oh, s
o fucking good at this!” I squeal out loud by accident. I glance at Mitch, popping his jaw and getting angrier by the second.
I am on the cusp between splendidly, sensual Eros and fearing for my life. It is strangely, beautifully chaotic. His hands lift up to rest against my hips and slide upwards to toying with my nips. I am going to come soon. This won’t take long. Yes. Please. Don’t stop.
And the twit stops.
By the hand of some otherworldly being, Mack decides to suggest the unthinkable. “Why don’t you drop my trousers and take my ass?”
He winks discreetly at me and suddenly, I realize—Mack and I—are on the same team. I grip his shoulders, wishing he wouldn’t have suggested that. Anything but that. Of course, that is Mitch’s dick which is far too large really, way more cock than is ever necessary. The problem I know all too well is how rough he can be, and I pity Mack’s poor bum as his trousers go down.
“There is lube in the trunk,” I suggest and open my eyes wide at Mack in some clandestine union of getting us both out of this situation. He rolls his eyes up towards Mitch and twitches like he should never have been here.
Mitch has something hanging over Jack.
The pump goops out with a unique sound as Mitch lathers up Mack’s butthole, and I cannot say I envy the poor young man. He is brave. He deserves an award. Or at least, only one black eye from Nero.
Same as before, Mack returns to my folds, easing slow into my pie like it’s the best fucking thing he has ever tasted. I know when the thrust is coming because his tongue remains firmly pressed against my nub. It is hard. It hurts. He glances up as tears gather at the corners of his eyes.
I could go on about how this dork succumbed to a rape for me. I won’t though. We both know what he is doing, and I understand I am now indebted. He is saving my poor vagina—and other orifices—from the blistering of Mitch’s manhood. It is a task I will not soon forget.
But something happens between the three of us as Mack gets pounded from behind and sends shivers up through my nerves by way of his greedy tongue. We frolic and work in such a way that it is good—this scene. This moment will not go down in history as the worst nor the best. I mark it as one of the most memorable times another human has done something nice for me. Mack takes the hit so I don’t have to.
Mitch is unfaltering in his execution, laying out pound after pound of a hip thrusting arsenal attack. It is neither for the squeamish or weak as I lay paralyzed beneath Mack. The thing that gets me is despite the assault on his puckered rim, Mack is still cautiously gentle with me. I wonder if I could be such. I don’t know that I can. I understand he portrays the switch, an often times misunderstood spot in our fetish hierarchy. Neither top nor bottom, but both—and perhaps in this rare instance, even at the same time.
Part of me is honored to have experience—this sandwich of humans. I am the far end—the true submissive—Mack somewhere between the two, and Mitch rallies up the tail with his interpretation of Dominant. Not one I adhere to, but kudos for attempts. I don’t have to ask if Raniero would slip into Mack’s role, I know he did. Sometimes the role of the Dominant is to block the attack of another Dominant by taking on the lesser role. Not everyone can do it. It takes a special type.
I know I am saying Sal is a switch, but not exactly. He comes to this through a way of a trajectory, a growth arch, if you will. Submissive elevating to a status of Dominant, well studied and trained, and adept at taking on the lightest of subs—Emily. He can assess quickly the totality of the scene by the mere players involved, and that takes a special type of Master. One who can control not only his own Dominance, but his submission and the lesser discussed—scene—the third component of the triangle. It plays equal importance as the other well-known star lineups of D/s, but it receives little fanfare.
Mack is a true switch. I think he is capable of experiencing growth in both dynamics, but will likely never choose one over the other because in his mind—there simply is no choice to make. Mack is who he is, the rest be damned or come to understand, but either way don’t underestimate his abilities.
Sweat pours off of him onto my thighs, adding to the already built up dampness between my lips. I will come when he does, anything less might be insulting. And far be it from me to be rude.
Glancing to Mitch, he is lost in the world of Mack’s rear end and I can only imagine the load of spunk he is about to dole out. He reaches underneath Mack and pumps his dick in his palm fast. He is far too angry, too vigilante for my tastes. I would never ever have married that man. I would rather marry The Sandwich King buried against my clit.
Does a switch earn the titular of King?
In this case, absofuckinglutely. Mack is my King for this session, saving my bits from complete degradation and decimation by a man who isn’t very good at sex with his overly gross member.
Mitch’s jaw line angles sharp as he grits his teeth together—it is an unsavory sight to say the least. I close my eyes and count backwards until I am in a southern gothic plantation. I am tied between the bookcases as Sal pops me with a riding crop and Dom lashes at me with a stock whip. And we ride—these two Masters and I—until the dawn as my body and soul become theirs.
I hear the grunt in the dungeon, and I soar in the memory of the lavish kisses of my Masters. Their ravenous mouths are everywhere—my lips, my neck, my nipples, and my come-filled pussy. The vibration of the king sends a wave of pleasure up through me, and I release on his tongue.
I moan and sigh with the recollection still fresh in my mind. I am not here in this dungeon with these two. And there is no chance I will allow Mitch to dissect the frames Sal has loaded into my mind. I use Mack freely as a shield, but perhaps I am his as well.
He rises up to my lips and kisses me ever so softly. His light fuzz tickles my face, and I open my eyes to see his looking down at me. He is amazed and floored as I am open and adoring. We are some sort of team—he and I—and though it remains undefined, I am okay with that. I will shield him from the possible attacks by a wicked Dominant.
The cell door jars open with a thud, startling us all. In walks a hero I know I can trust. He is big and cunning and might just kill Mitch with one blow.
“Archer…” I whimper.
“Get the fuck outta here now!”
My body is weak as he apologizes with a sincere, teddy bear like gaze. “I am sorry I got stuck in traffic.”
I am up, cradled in his arms and crying hysterically as the team avoids the attack. I do not know what Mitch Daniels came for, and I may never know. But I am safe now, under the watchful eyes of the man my lover trusts as his own bodyguard.
We were spending the weekend together—Dale and I—in a sort of retribution against Sal and Amber’s trysts. He wanted to take me to the cabin, but ran to town for supplies.
“Jack didn’t leave town,” I mutter, knowing he already knows.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s cause he’s fucking the hand.”
“The hand?” I query, uncertain who that is.
“The hand mistress of Juliet,” he informs, uninvolved but ready to strike. “The hand shuffles the papers, but never participates. Sal named her the hand.” I gasp and close my eyes as the news brings a new awareness to the game.
“Mitch found out about Jack and Mierne. Mitch blackmailed Jack to get inside.”
“He made a fucking deal with me?”
With his raging monster trembling just beneath the surface, Dale nods.
“Little girl,” I whisper, cowering into him. “Little girl.”
“I know baby, I know.”
Chapter Twenty
Fuck & Mud
SAL
I LAND AT HEATHROW in the madhouse. If it is possible to imagine Juliet’s biggest bash multiplied by a thousand, that is what St. Patrick’s Day brings to all the leprechauns in London.
I finally manage to find my driver—a nice young chap named Giles, who is incidentally insanely, atrociously gorgeous even by my high standards—and we are on our
way.
In almost six years of doing this, I have never been to any of the other three revered campuses, including Highlandale Hawthorne. I have heard things. Long, sordid tales of pony girls and their cantankerous Handlers with heavy riding crops.
I cannot say I am not excited. This is a fucking fetishist’s taboo dream. A hitch in the system gone awry that imparts itself with a certain enigmatic quality. The who would do that often comes to mind.
Kaci’s best friend, Karissa Banks, that’s who. She studies the full four-year course there only to end up in a ranked position on staff. It is an odd, unusual situation, one in which I am pleased to be garnering the privilege to even witness.
Karissa Banks is Delilah “The Dollmaker” Banks daughter, and our long history and rolls in the proverbial hay have become the source of many smiles. She is a beautiful Caribbean jewel with long ribbon braids and perfect complexion. Her voice offers up a hint of accent that hits my soft spot every time.
She helped greatly in the recovery post-Kaci. Without her tenacious ability to call me out and plan a strategy to rise my mental state out of peril, I likely wouldn’t have made it out of a whiskey bottle. To say I am looking forward to seeing her home turf is an understatement.
We zip quickly out of the city to the countryside. I have no fucking clue where we are. I am so turned around I cannot even imagine getting out of this labyrinth. A couple hours and change in, we arrive outside of the high wrought iron fencing.
Giles pulls up to the small shack and announces our presence gleefully. He seems as happy to be out of the vehicle as me.
As we are admitted through the gate, I inquire, “Do you work here?”
“Uh yes, Sir Lucas,” he replies chipper. “I will be your attendant for the duration of your stay.”
I take a beat and think about this. “…My attendant?”
“Yes, Sir!” he eagerly proposes. “It is my job as lower rank service staff to see to your needs.”
Salt Kissed Love (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 1) Page 33
