Stealing Simone

by Reese Gabriel

  Mick Gargone was helping with that, wasn't he? And by this time tomorrow, he'd have helped a good deal more, having introduced her to the high class world of sex for favors, spreading one's legs for the advancement of one's prospects. Or make that for his survival.

  Randy was looking totally delicious in jeans and a polo shirt. He wasn't wearing his gun, nor did he have his badge clipped to his belt.

  "Hi, baby,” he crooned, wanting a kiss right away.

  She stood on tiptoes, melting against his lips. “I want to play the game tonight, Randy."

  He hesitated only for a second. “All right, sweetheart."

  Like he'd said, she got him at his best. In short doses, cooperative, attentive, ready to meet her every need. Day in day out, that shininess would tarnish. Or so she had to keep telling herself, those long and lonely nights when she cried not to be alone, trying in vain to convince her woman's heart that it didn't want what it wanted. That it didn't need a man's heartbeat next to it, didn't crave a strong will to guide her and direct her, to say no and fawn all over her and protect her and get jealous and give wings to set her free and all the other things, a million of them, totally contradictory, that a husband could do.

  These were the times when she had to tell herself most strongly that she didn't really love Randy, that he was just filling, or half filling this empty place in her heart that rightfully belonged to someone else.

  As could be imagined, sometimes it was easier to convince herself of these things than others. Sometimes it all made sense and she was real glad Randy was logical, properly scarred and wary from a three-year marriage to the “Wicked Bitch of the West". But there were other times she thought maybe he was just being gun shy, using past experience to play the jaded, confirmed bachelor to a tee.

  The game of control, as they called it, was something that turned them both on enormously. And it always led to phenomenal sex. The premise was Simone's complete submission to her lover's will, beginning with and including all their public contact for the evening.

  Especially thrilling were the moments he would push her, to the very limits of exposure. Her trust and devotion warmed his heart, she knew that, and certainly the fact that he would take the time to dote on her like this, to exercise breathtaking power, stripping her bare, yet using every ounce of his strength to protect her, was something that never failed to make her heart soar.

  Or her pussy drip.

  "Put on the black dress,” said Randy, his voice husky. “You have fifteen minutes."

  "Yes,” she whispered, butterflies birthing in her tummy at the thought of what might happen if she were late.

  Randy's time limits were not to be taken lightly. He'd been known to spank her bare behind, and, of course, he could punish her in public, forcing her to some act of subtle, yet very real humiliation.

  Simone tore off her work clothes. There was no time to hang them up. The black dress, low cut as it was with its short hem and curve-hugging qualities would require different underwear, sheer, black and very feminine. She would have loved another half hour at least to work with her hair and make-up, but she would have to make do, combing through her silky tresses with the antique silver hair brush inherited from her grandmother.

  It brought a little smile to her lips, not to mention a shiver down her spine, as she thought of the times Randy had had her fetch this very hairbrush for him.

  "Down,” he would command, patting his lap, and she would know to lay herself across his lap. This could be an act of punishment from the game, or sometimes just for fun, a bit of foreplay.

  Randy was not a fan of stockings on girls, so she went right to the shoes. A pair of black heels, high, with open toes. They had a little strap on the ankle, which gave her a delicious sense of confinement on nights like this.

  This was certainly what Simone needed right now. She had to know she belonged to someone, at least a little. It was too heartbreaking to have no one, or to try and pour her whole heart into Mick. He already had a wife, and honestly, she knew the limits of his trustworthiness. Hers was not the only wick he dipped into, though he'd deny it till the end of time.

  It was silly, this lying just for the sake of lying. And then there were his ethics problems, his willingness to cheat the employees, and now the illegal gambling thing. Self destructive, that's what he was. What kind of sane man sits down to play cards with criminals? Especially with the bad luck he has.

  She reported back to her date with two minutes to spare. He rewarded her with a gentle, yet possessive hand across the back of her neck and a single kiss.

  "Good girl,” he murmured, the vaguely condescending praise liquefying her on the spot.

  Simone wanted to be that good girl; she wanted to have that clear place in a man's life. A strong man who wanted her and needed her, on his terms.

  Right now, more than anything she wanted to tell this man she loved him, but as always, she held her tongue. That would not be pleasing. That would not be a good girl.

  Randy picked the restaurant, not telling her till the valet was opening her door for her. She was primed and electrified, her lover's hand having rested on her naked leg for the entire trip. She was on edge, alert, so alive, the way she always was when they played the game. There was no telling what he might order her to do or when. She'd half expected to be ordered to tend his bulging erection with her mouth, but apparently he was saving that, and her, for something else.

  It wasn't a cheap place, the Louis Jardin Steak House. Especially on a cop's salary. That wasn't her place to say, though. She'd made that mistake once, objecting on a control night to how much it was going to cost him, and she'd ended up being had in the alley behind the restaurant, her back against a brick wall, her legs wrapped around her waist as he slammed himself into her willing pussy.

  She'd whimpered, afraid of being caught, but he'd just growled about how he was a cop, and that was that. Thoroughly fucked, put in her place, she followed him inside, allowing him to order her the most expensive item on the menu.

  Tonight he wasn't ordering her a meal at all.

  "The lady isn't very hungry,” Randy told the white shirted waiter. “She'll nibble off my plate."

  Simone felt a rush of hot helplessness. She was starving and he knew that. But whatever nourishment she got would be off the end of his fork, at his whim. Her breath quickened, as she thought how she must be extra pleasing in order to win her dinner.

  "Was it a hard day today, darling?” She asked.

  He waited for the bread boy to deposit his basket. Presently, their water glasses were filled. Simone did not touch hers, but remained focused on him.

  "Not so bad,” he fiddled under the napkin for a roll. “Other than having to waste half the day in court.” Randy buttered the roll and took a bite. “Want some?"

  "Yes,” she whispered. “Please."

  He held out his hand, allowing her to lean forward. She met him with delicate teeth and eager, grateful eyes.

  "What about you? Did Mick try and get any more schemes out of you to cut commissions?"

  "I went over mileage for him, found discrepancies. He also had me calculate what he would save cutting everybody back two percentage points retroactive to January."

  Randy snorted. “That bastard sure takes advantage of you. Christ, you're doing CPA work on a secretary's salary."

  She smiled weakly. “I don't mind so much."

  There were things Randy didn't know about her work. Her life. Like how she helped her deadbeat brother, her new salary and the things she'd started letting Mick do to her to keep him out of jail.

  "You're too good for him,” he shook his head. “Too damned good. But you're not too good for me, are you?” His blue eyes twinkled as he shifted gears. “In fact with me, you're downright bad, aren't you?"

  Her cheeks flushed. “Yes, Randy."

  He let her have another bite. A small one. Followed by a drink of water, sipped from his glass. A woman at the next table over, a dowager with blue hair w
as making eyes, but Simone didn't care. She was with her man. And he carried a badge, so the old prude could stuff it.

  "Go into the ladies room, Simone. I want your panties off. I want you to masturbate for five minutes. No orgasm allowed."

  She swooned at the sound of his voice, so commanding all of a sudden, from gentle and concerned boyfriend to no nonsense lawman.

  Simone felt her nipples tighten. She was more than ready for him sexually, even without the masturbation. In the back of his car, in the alley, right here on the floor if he wanted her. “Yes, sir,” she replied, throatily.

  Making her way like this under Randy's orders was like being drunk. She could hardly stand upright. She felt giddy, aroused and completely out of her element. She was on her way to play with herself, in a public bathroom. For the amusement of a man.

  And she couldn't have been happier.

  There were three women at the mirror, debating the virtues of various kiss proof lip-glosses. She sensed they wanted her input, but she was on a mission. Couldn't be helped. A quick passing nod, and she was in the stall, the last one in the row, next to the handicapped.

  Surreptitiously, she snuck down her black underwear. It was wet and fragrant. There was a chance Randy might gag her with these later, either for a spanking or else as part of a bondage experience. She always came twice as quickly tied down, a fact he liked to tease her about as often as possible.

  "If I'd have known from the beginning,” he chuckled, “I would have just dangled my handcuffs in front of your face to get you to bed instead of blowing all that money on movies and restaurants."

  It was true, Simone got off on everything that had to with chains and domination. If she weren't afraid to appear too much of a slut to the basically straight laced cop, she'd be begging for those cuffs every night. And a lot more besides.

  As it was, she took what she could get. Which included control nights.

  Simone's pussy ached and burned at her own touch. She wanted so badly to move directly to climax, placing her finger expertly over her clit the way she always did by herself, conjuring her dreams and fantasies of conquest by strong men.

  But her finger was not her own tonight. Nor was her pussy. It was Randy's and this was his game. She did it for him, because she loved him and because...

  Oh, god, she was too close. She was at the brink. She would never be able to hold back, not with as much stimulation as she'd had today. Damned Randy for making it all feel sexy. Even what she had to do tomorrow night for her boss had a pleasuring edge to it now. The idea of surrendering her body to strangers. Stripping for them and performing. Dangerous men, maybe even killers who were used to taking from women whatever they wanted.

  Just how much was her cunt worth to Mick's creditors? And her ass and mouth? Would they knock off a flat amount from his debt? Or maybe even write the whole thing off? She wasn't worth that much was she? Prostitution, that's what they were talking about. A crime. Something Randy and his colleagues locked women up for.

  She shivered, gaping the lips of the pussy she was about to sell, or trade, or whatever you called it. For Mick. His living sacrifice. If only Randy would take that kind of offering from her. If only he would allow her to abase herself and show that much love. She'd do it. Crawl on her hands and knees at the snap of his fingers and serve whomever he wished.

  She'd fantasized at times about some of his buddies. The other cops, with bulging biceps and fucked up home lives. And handcuffs. Sometimes she thought of them all, at once.

  What a little slut she was, just like her mother feared. Too ripe of a body, too prone to male exploitation. Though she still tried the prayer and rosary route sometimes, she was coming more and more to admit that she did not mind being a sex object. So long as someone took responsibility, accepting her and loving her for what she was.

  A woman, but not like those other images of femininity her mother could have wished on her. Nun. Mother. Madonna.

  She tried to imagine what those ‘creditors’ of Mick's had seen when they looked at her. They'd stripped her with her eyes, no doubt, and tried her out. Men and boys had been doing that to her since she was a teenager. What could she do? There was little recourse for a female in a society like this. Except to demur, to blush, to run away.

  Or give in. To the bad girl within.

  How long had she been in this stall? She'd lost track of time. In trying to avoid orgasm, she had likely broken another rule. Taking too long. Randy would punish her now, for sure.

  Her pelvis pushed against her hand. She couldn't help it. She was a bad little girl, and she was going to be punished. Twice as bad for this...

  The orgasm was deep and shattering. Totally, wickedly satisfying, most especially for the edge it left her on. Her hands trembling, she cleaned herself up and smoothed her dress back down. The panties she stuffed in her purse.

  Simone wasn't even sure if there were people at the sink or in the anteroom. She washed her hands in a fog and walked back out into the noisy, color filled atmosphere of the steak house. On her mind at the moment was only one thing. She was going back to the table to face the music. To accept her just desserts for disobedience. For failing to conform to her lover's control.

  Part of her prayed he would be swift and merciful, while another part-one that seemed to be growing inside her day by day-hoped for exactly the opposite, that he would be slow ... and ruthless.

  * * * *

  Charlie Jenkins’ wife was waiting for him, naked, on her knees, head to the floor. She'd been like that for one and a half hours, having been required to put herself into obeisance at exactly six o'clock each evening. She was not allowed to move from that position until she'd either kissed his shoes upon his arrival from work or else received a call on the cell phone saying he would be late.

  He hadn't told her he was going for drinks with some buddies from his bowling team, but that was her tough luck.

  "Clean yourself up,” was all he said when he saw the pool of yellow liquid around her on the tile. Graphic evidence, indeed, that she had stayed put just as she'd been told.

  "What's for supper?” He asked when she came back out of the bathroom, the piss cleaned off of her, her naked body wet and dripping from the cold shower she'd just enjoyed.

  "Lasagna, master,” said the slave girl, dara, his twenty one year old wife and consensual chattel. “If it pleases you."

  She'd put herself back on her knees, at his feet at the dining room table, awaiting his whim. If he wished, he could whip her for wetting the floor, but he had other things on his mind.

  "Go get it, then. And be quick about it."

  The dark haired girl sprang to her feet, the bracelets on her ankle jingling. He watched her firm, healthy sized ass jiggle all the way to the kitchen. Dara was in a bad way when he found her, having just been beat up by a guy she met online who'd claimed to be a “master". What he was was a psycho piece of shit who preyed on unsuspecting women.

  A friend of a friend, who had the same sexual interests, had connected them and it had been love at first sight. Charlie was tough on the young woman, and he didn't apologize for that. She received regular whippings and her comings and goings were completely and totally controlled. But she had a roof over her head, and far more important than that, she had, for the first time in her life, limits and consistency and someone who had her real interests at heart.

  Okay, he took things out on her sometimes. She shouldn't have had to suffer like a dog on the floor because he'd had a shit meeting with his shit boss today. He made a mental note to make it up to her. Maybe an ice cream or a chance to sit on the couch for an hour or so one evening.

  Charlie's dick surged as he contemplated the power he had over the girl. It was his aphrodisiac, the secret to his sexual prowess more and more as the years passed. Once upon a time, with his first two wives, he could get off just on the vanilla stuff, hugging and sucking tits. Then again at seventeen, a good gust of wind was enough to keep him rock hard for an hour.

>   If only he had a hard on for money. Like Gargano. That son of a bitch could squeeze gold pesos out of a Mexican's ass. It burned Charlie to think how the bastard was going to gangbang them all-him and the rest of the sales staff. Okay, he had a couple of “irregularities” on his expense sheets. Hell, that wasn't a tenth what the company already owed him from back when old man Gargano used to cheat him, though. Not to mention what junior had been up to.

  A thirty percent reduction already, and now the man wanted more. And to top it all off, Charlie had to be the one to break the news to the boys.

  It was that bitch Simone Leary. Her fault twice over. First for sticking her nose in everybody's business and second for being a fucking drain on the payroll. That's where the fucking money was going. For a hot piece of ass for the boss. Everybody knew it, too.

  Although there wasn't a goddamned thing anybody could do about it.

  Dara bounded back into the room, her face beaming. Why couldn't all women be like this? Happy with the simple things? A nice collar, an occasional pat on the head? Women like Simone had to be totally sexually frustrated, that's all he could think of. Or lesbians. Which was the same thing in his mind.

  Too bad he couldn't give Simone a little taste of humble pie. Not to mention get back a little piece of what was being taken out of his mouth every pay period.

  "I love you, master,” dara whispered, head lowered as she placed the plate of food in front of him.

  He ran his hand over her full, hanging breast, pausing to twist her nipple just because he could. “Go and get the cane, sweetheart. Wait for me on the bed."

  Dara shivered just a little. The cane was something she never got used to. It left the deepest, nastiest welts and it made her cry each and every time. It was for these reasons he used it so often. There was also the fact that she had no right to stop him-which was a rush in itself.

  "Oh, master,” she whimpered as he moved to torture her other breast. “Has dara been a bad girl? Is she being punished?"

  "No, baby. Master's just tense, that's all. Hard day at work."

  She was visibly relieved. “Thank you, master. Thank you for using your slave to relieve your tensions."