The Secret Journey

by Paul Christian

  He stepped up behind me and pulled my shorts down to my knees. His hands were on my thighs, gently urging my legs apart, until my knees were trapped by my shorts. I couldn't do anything but submit to him, his eyes still held mine in the mirror. He ran a finger over my clit and up between my labia. It felt so good I couldn't repress a small moan, and perhaps I involuntarily arched my back a bit, pressed back towards him a little. I couldn't help myself, I was wet. He pressed the now slick finger against the tight ring of my anus.

  "Have you ever been fucked in the ass?" he asked, in the same conversational tone he'd used to ask for coffee. I couldn't find the words to answer, and so just shook my head. No.

  "It's going to hurt. It's supposed to."

  His finger was pressing in, lubricating me with my own juices. I closed my eyes, freeing myself from his hypnotism or whatever it was, but it didn't make a difference. His finger in my ass had me paralyzed, probing me like that. It was uncomfortable and humiliating, but I couldn't summon the will to stop him. He was undoing his fly, and then I felt the swollen head of his cock pressing in right where his finger had opened me, so stiff, so hot. I was panting. He slid right into me, and it did hurt, not so much as I’d feared. I felt very full, but also very turned on.

  "You're going to take it up the ass every week, to keep you in your place." His voice wasn't quite so relaxed now, it held an edge. My eyes flew open to find his gaze in the mirror. His eyes weren't kind anymore, they were steely, determined. His hands went to my hips and he began to thrust into me, taking me, claiming me as his in a way I'd never had done before. All I could do was hang on to the edge of the table. His cock swelled further, stretching me, penetrating me deeper, transforming me. If I were going to save myself from being his slave I had to do it now. I summoned all my will power to tell him to stop, but what came out of my mouth was a grunt that sounded closer to "More!" than anything else. He got harder at that, and I knew his orgasm would be huge, flooding my abused rectum with his sperm. If he came in my ass I'd be lost for sure, reshaped into his anal slut to use whenever he wanted to.

  I had to stop him! I formed the word "Stop" in my mind, ran it over my lips, took a deep breath, but this time what I said was, "Harder! Please!" He did as I asked, even as my shocked brain tried to figure out how those words came out. I tried to say stop again, and this time heard myself begging. "Do it hard! Make it hurt!" That was all it took. I felt him swell further, felt his fingers digging into my hips as he came, pumping his sperm deep into my ass. His shoulders flexed, muscles tensed hard in the mirror. I could feel him throbbing so deep inside, see the pain and pleasure in my face right before my own climax hit.

  I never did figure out where those words came from, but now I say them every week when he ass-fucks me. And also when I've been bad and he uses his belt.

  Part Eleven

  Do you know what I miss, honey? I miss hearing your voice, I miss your touch, I miss the thousand tiny intimacies a day that lovers exchange. I miss the look in your eyes when I look at you, the look that says, “I’m yours and you’re mine.” I miss that easy intimacy, and I miss knowing the way you feel about me.

  Which is strange when you think about it, because you haven’t seen me, haven’t met me, and I haven’t met you. And yet it isn’t so strange, because we have lived in each other’s fantasies for years now, we have been there always in each other’s awareness, and if we haven’t known each other’s names that hasn’t dimmed the desire, not one little bit. And now, honey, we have names. I call you honey, and let me tell you what “honey” means to me. It means sticky and sweet and natural. Honey is thick and rich and nourishing, honey is simple, straightforward and honest. Honey is rare and desirable, and like a bear who withstands a thousand stings for a taste of heaven, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my honey.

  Honey – hear it, it’s magical, isn’t it? Honey is the perfect name for you, not your common name, not what your family or your friends call you, honey is just for me. Honey, hmmm, honey. I do miss you, honey.

  And you, you know my name, from the cover of this book, but you don’t use it. You call me Sir, of course you do. “Yes sir, please fuck me.” “Yes sir, please whip me.” “Yes sir, please hold me.” “Yes sir, I miss you too.” And you do miss me, when we’re apart. Do you wish I were there with you, close enough to touch, to feel, to taste? You do, I know you do, because here you are, so far along in our journey together. We’re so close, honey, and yet so far. And this book, seventy five thousand words squeezed from my soul, this book is my love letter written to you and cast into the world, in the certain knowledge that it will find its way into your hands.

  And how do you feel about me, honey? How do you feel about the way I make you feel? I want you to tell me, I want you to write me a letter, a long letter, an intimate letter. I want to know what I do for you, I want to know how much you want me, I want to know how I’ve captured you like no-one else ever has. Write me, honey, and tell me those secrets you can’t tell your mom or your dad or your best friend. Write me, honey, and let me know that you’re out there, that you’re as real as I am. Write me and show me who you are, my sweet honey, unique in all the world. I don’t need eloquence and poetry, I just need you, just as you are, your words, your thoughts, your feelings, your life.

  Tell me where you work and tell me how you play. Tell me where you're going, where you’ve been, and what you need, and what you dream. I want to know you, honey. I want to know everything there is to know about you, and only you can tell me, and the only way to do that is to write.

  Don’t get pen and paper yet, honey. I want you to lie back and remember first, lie back and think about what it was like the first time we were together. Were you shocked by my directness? I think you were, because where else have you read anything like this? Shocked by it, but intrigued as well, and then aroused. You do need directness, you need to know exactly where you stand, and with me you always know, which isn’t to say I don’t surprise you every time you turn the page. Think back to that first time you stepped through our door, set foot on our journey.

  Remember the way my words washed over you, the way they swept away the rest of the world to leave you and I alone together between these sheets. Remember the rush, remember the blush, as you first realized exactly what I was doing, and then understood that there was nothing you would do, nothing you could do to stop it. Remember how your heart beat faster, remember how you were swept away. You couldn’t wait to be alone with me, could you?

  And now I’m your secret lover, always there at the back of your mind, in that secret place deep inside your mind, where everything is true. It’s amazing how fast that happened, but it did. Remember it all, honey, remember it all so you can tell me about it. Show me with words what you show me with your body. Show me with words what I am to you, what I do to you. Don’t edit, don’t compose, don’t make them fine and eloquent, just make them real, make them true, let them spill across the page. Show me your heart, show me your passion.

  Show me all of you. Write now.

  The Buyer

  I noticed her on Monday, coming through the lobby of my office tower, dressed in expensive style, hips swinging in time to the click-clack of her designer shoes, her purse riding her right hip, her briefcase in her left hand. I met her gaze and held it as she passed. Does she work here? It doesn’t matter. I’m on my way out as she comes in, my day too full to devote time to any woman, no matter how beautiful.

  I noticed her on Wednesday, I'm coming in, she's going out, and this time I watched how she carried herself, shoulders square, head up, moving with a purposeful stride. I had a purchase to plan and by the time it was over and done I had forgotten her again.

  On Friday, early morning, she reminds me, coming in when I was, and I hold the door for her.

  She doesn’t go through, she stops, eyes challenging. “You don’t have to open the door because I’m a woman, you know.”

  “I didn’t.” I stay where I am, keep the door wid
e.

  “No?” She raises an eyebrow. “Then why are you holding it open?”

  “Because I’m a gentleman.”

  “Touche.” She gives me half a smile and goes through, and we walk towards the waiting elevators. “You’re here very early.”

  “I’m always here early.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a buyer.” I push the button for my floor, and she pushes the button for hers.

  “What do you buy?” The doors close and we start up.

  I shrug. “Anything I can sell for a profit.”

  “Such as?”

  “Companies, mostly.”

  “Leveraged buyouts?”

  I nod. “Usually.”

  She smiles at that, reaches into her purse, takes out her wallet, gives me her card. “Let me know if you need some help.”

  I read it. I’ve heard her name before, and her credentials are impressive. “Perhaps I can use you.” I take out my own wallet, give her my card. “Come by my office and we’ll see.”

  “What time?”

  “Seven, tonight.”

  “Do you always work late, too?”

  “Always.”

  She nods, smiles, as the elevator stops and the doors open for her floor. “Well, I’ll see you then.”

  I go through my day, calls and meetings, opportunities gained and lost, and at seven PM the night girl calls from the front desk.

  “Your seven o’clock is here to see you.”

  I look up. It takes me a moment to remember the name on her card, though her face is unforgettable. “Send her in.”

  I get up as she comes through the door, shake her hand, usher her into the plush leather chair across from my desk.

  “Thank-you for coming in so late.”

  “We do whatever we have to do for our clients. That’s what makes us the best.” She opens her briefcase. “I spent some time researching your operation this afternoon. I think there are four key areas where we can…”

  I hold a hand to stop her in mid-sentence. “I’d like to buy your jacket."

  "My jacket?" Her face registers surprise. "Why?"

  "Does the reason matter?"

  "I can't sell it, it's matched to the skirt."

  "Of course you can sell it. Name a price high enough to cover a new skirt as well."

  "Seriously?"

  "I never joke about deals."

  "Fair enough." She names a price. It's high, but then her suit is custom tailored, and she deserves a profit. I open a drawer, count out hundred dollar bills. She takes them, takes off her jacket and hands it over. I write out a receipt. One grey designer jacket, used, purchased at 7:10PM. I add the date, fill in the amount. “Sign here please.”

  She laughs and takes my pen, “I doubt you’ll get a tax deduction.”

  “Probably not.”

  "I hope the rest of our deal is this easy."

  "I do too." I smile and put the jacket in the bottom drawer of my desk. "I'd like your blouse too, please."

  “What?” She looks at me in shock.

  “I’d like you to give me your blouse.”

  Her face is suddenly hard. "I sold the jacket, not the blouse."

  "So name another price."

  She stands up. “I think I should leave.”

  “If you think so.”

  “Do you have any idea how rude that is?” Her briefcase closes with a sharp snap. “I thought you were a gentleman.”

  “All’s fair in love and business. How much do you want for it?”

  She snorts derisively. “It’s not for sale.”

  “Everything is for sale, the only question is price.” I start counting out hundred dollar bills. “I’m thinking of a number. If your blouse is on my desk before I reach it, we have a deal.” I start counting the money out, slowly, steadily.

  She looks at me, cold and hostile. “I’m not a prostitute.”

  “I’m buying your blouse, not you.” I keep adding bills to the pile, one by one.

  “Who do you think you are?” Her voice is still angry, but she hasn’t left yet.

  “It doesn’t matter who I am. It doesn’t matter who you are. All that matters is whether we can make a deal.”

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

  “I have to, to do what I do.”

  She nods slowly, considering at the growing pile of money. I'm adding to it more slowly now. “Just the blouse?”

  “Just the blouse.”

  She looks at the pile. I add a hundred and wait. After a long pause I add another. It's already twice what I paid for her jacket. A longer pause, and then another.

  “Okay,” she says at last, and starts undoing buttons. I stop counting and watch while she shrugs it off. Her breasts are high and firm, well rounded beneath her white lace bra, and her large nipples poke through the sheer fabric in tempting outline. She tosses the blouse on my desk. “I hope that’s worth it.” Her tone is half mocking.

  “It is.” I take the blouse, dump it into the bottom drawer of my desk, then push the stack of bills over to her, appreciating the view. “Very nice.”

  She sits down again, takes the cash, riffles through it, and puts it in her briefcase. “I think that was the easiest money I ever made.” She leans back, perfectly comfortable half undressed. She's knows the power of her figure, and she's enjoying this tangible validation of it.

  “Deals only work if they’re profitable for both sides.” I make out another receipt, and she signs it.

  "I agree, now to get back to the key points I've..." She trails off as I start counting out another pile of money. “What’s that for?”

  “Your skirt.”

  She looks at me. “You’re quite the piece of work, aren’t you?”

  I meet her gaze, still counting. “I know what I want, I know how to get it.”

  “You should know, I’m not wearing underwear.”

  “No?” I raise an eyebrow.

  “Just garters.” She gives me a sly half-smile. “I think that should raise the price, don’t you?”

  “It’s a single-bid auction,” I answer. “You’ll never know if I’ve changed my offer.”

  “I have confidence that you will.”

  I don’t answer, I just keep adding bills to the pile, each one coming more slowly than the last. Her hands go unconsciously to the button at the waist of her skirt, her fingers playing with it, nervously. When I see that, I know she’s mine, it’s just a matter of time now. She nibbles her lip, nervous. She’s wondering how high I’ll go. She makes a lot of money, but there’s a lot of money on the table, enough that she wants it, and she doesn’t want me to stop before she takes it.

  I keep my gaze on her face. Greed and fear, those twin demon-gods of the market, fight for the upper hand in her eyes. She wavers, licks her lips, looking at the money, at me, at the money again. To her credit she holds out for a very large sum indeed, but finally the button comes free, the short zipper slides down. As advertised, she isn’t wearing any underwear. The straps of her garter belt form an attractive frame for the triangular thatch of her pubic hair, and her expensive stockings earn their price in the way they show off her long, smooth thighs. She picks up the skirt from the floor, puts it on the desk. I drop it in my drawer with her blouse and jacket, and slide the stack of hundreds over to her. She takes it and puts it in her briefcase with the rest, then sits back down in the chair, crosses her legs, and manages somehow to maintain the same professional poise that she had fully clothed.

  I present her with a third receipt for her signature. “Now what?” she asks, challenging.

  “Now I want you to stand up, bend over, and put your nose right here.” I tap the edge of my desk in front of her.

  She shakes her head. “No. I’m not going that far. I’m not a prostitute.”

  “Then I won’t insult you by offering money.”

  She smiles a cool smile. “It’s been an interesting game, but we’re finished now. Is there anything else I can do for you
? In a professional capacity?”

  “No, just stand up and put your nose where I told you to. I want to see your cunt.”

  Her smile vanishes. “I think I will be going after all.”

  “As you wish.”

  She stands up, puts out a hand. “I’d like my clothes back, please.”

  I laugh a small laugh. “They’re mine now.”

  “I don’t think you understand.” Her eyes are suddenly angry. “This game is over, and I want my clothes back.”

  I shake my head. “You sold them to me, at a very generous price. I’m keeping them.”

  Her lips compress into a thin line, and she comes around the desk. There’s a brief moment when she realizes she’ll have to bend down to open my bottom drawer. She compromises by squatting, and I watch as she pulls at it to find it locked.

  “Open it.” Her voice is tight. “Now.”

  I shake my head again. “No.”

  “You want your money back?” She goes back around the desk, grabs her briefcase, snaps it open, tosses the stacked bills on my desk. “There’s your money.”

  “No.”

  She looks at me, her hard, angry eyes boring into mine. “You want a profit, is that it? You tell me how much, I’ll write a cheque.”

  I shake my head again. “What I want is for you to bend over, right here, so I can see your cunt.” I smile. “Or rather, more of your cunt.”

  She sees where I’m looking, and reflexively moves a hand in front of her crotch. “This isn’t funny.”

  “No, it’s business.”

  “I’ll scream rape.”

  “Suit yourself.” I hold up the receipts. “Here’s my proof that it isn’t. I’ll sue you bankrupt for false accusation.”

  “You won’t win.”

  “You won’t either, and the case will be very public. How much is your reputation worth?”

  She looks at me, long and hard. “You son of a bitch. You god-damned son of a bitch.”

  I shrug. “I didn’t get where I am by playing nice in the sandbox.” I point to my phone. “Feel free to call someone.”