For once in her life, Simone Leary was going to look out for number one. Just like men did, she reasoned. Which is why she had chosen the black leather skirt from the closet and the short sleeve red sweater top, clingy and low cut. It was her so-called killer outfit, the one Mick had bought her to wear the time he took her to Vegas to wow the high rollers in the casinos.
She'd done her part, sashaying to excellent effect in the ensemble, complete with black leather boots, high heeled and glossy. They'd had great fun, as she looked back on it, though she realized in retrospect, the man had probably lost a good deal more than the two hundred bucks he'd claimed to shell out to the slot machines.
Tonight she was on a gamble all her own. Sim was looking for a man. A man to take her somewhere and fuck her silly, till she forgot about all the other men in her life and all their problems, too. A real man, one with no agenda other a one night stand, pure and simple, no after effects.
She had a buddy, Alvie, who was a bouncer at the Metro. Alvie looked after her and made sure no one gave her a hard time. They had a special understanding, going back to the days when she would go to the club a lot, so that if he were ever to take her hand and lead her, she would go willingly and give herself. He was surprisingly passionate and gentle for such a big, strong man and she never failed to come for him, even if it was only a quickie on the counter in one of the bathrooms.
She liked sucking him best, though, and he would always tease her about how she was trying to drain off his male essence when he needed to go back to work. When Randy had come into the picture, Alvie had graciously stepped back, and anyway, Randy didn't like noisy places so she wasn't around much to begin with.
"Leary,” he plucked her off her feet as soon as he saw her in line out front. “Where the hell have you been?"
"Lost without you,” she nibbled his ear, lost in his powerful embrace.
His biceps flexed slightly under the brown leather jacket as he scanned the crowd. “Where's Dudley Do Right?"
"Randy is history."
Alvie pried her loose, setting her down on the other side of the velvet rope. The special treatment and easy access earned her dirty looks from the rest of the women. “I should have guessed by the outfit, Leary. So you on the prowl or what?"
She flashed a complicated little smile. “Might be."
He shook his clean-shaven head. “We need to talk, girlfriend. You have rebound written all over you."
Simone slapped at his chest. “Since when did you go all Oprah on me? You're supposed to be all excited you can start ravishing me again."
He shrugged boyishly, flashing a glimpse of his left hand. “Sorry, kiddo. I'm out of circulation."
She eyed the wedding band in disbelief. “Holy shit. If anyone was going to die a bachelor, I thought it would be you."
He grinned. “There's someone for everybody, Simone. You'll get your turn."
"Like hell."
"Go get a drink,” he shooed her inside towards the bar. “Let me pretend to work a while, we'll talk later."
"Fine,” she pouted. “But you have to find me somebody to ravish me in your place."
The funny thing was, he did. A half hour later, he was tapping on the shoulder, a dark haired man in tow. Mysterious eyed, with a long, slick ponytail, olive colored skin and a dimpled chin.
"Simone, this is Stavros. I think you guys should talk."
"I am honored to meet you,” he extended his hand, the words rolling off his tongue like a slow, lyric Greek dance.
He was certainly gorgeous enough, but would he present any complications down the road?
"Stavros is visiting from Athens,” Alvie said, picking up on the unasked question.
"I return home tomorrow,” he concurred. “I will be very sad to leave your country."
Bingo. The perfect one nightstand.
"I'm Simone,” she put her fingers in his waiting grasp, the vodka she'd been drinking having emboldened her, along with the presence of her beloved Alvie. “And may I say, the loss will be entirely ours."
The sentimental bouncer slapped Stavros lightly on the back. “I told you she was a jewel. One in a million. Okay, you kids have fun, I'm gonna see if I can find some heads to knock together."
"May I buy you a drink?” asked Stavros.
"Yes,” she swallowed quickly, emptying her glass so she could hold it out to him. “You may."
"You are a beautiful woman,” he declared solemnly as the glass traded hands.
She sizzled at the touch of his fingers. Warm and strong ... and promising. “Thank you,” she managed, her breath quickening.
"Would I offend you,” asked Stavros, “if I told you that I have it on my mind to make love to you?"
Simone did not seem to be able to close her lips. The man had her open and ready, with just these few words. “No,” she shook her head. “You would not offend me."
He smiled broadly, serenely. Putting the glass on the bar, he took her hand and brought it to his lips. “You will not be sorry."
She sighed, feeling the tension drain from her as he continued to kiss the back of her hand. “Stavros,” she exclaimed, wanting to get this out while she could still form coherent thoughts. “May I ask one thing?"
His eyes were moist. “Anything, my sweet. Anything."
Simone shuddered, from her pussy down to her toes as he took her hair and tucked it behind her ears. “I ... I just have to make sure of something ... I have to ask ... a favor."
"Yes?"
"Be selfish, Stavros. Do to me only what pleases you. Make me take my pleasure in giving. It's what I need ... it's what I have to have. If ... if you can't be honest like that, then let me go now."
"I understand,” he nodded. “You wish me to be the man so that you might be the woman."
"Yes,” she hissed, falling into his arms. “Oh, god, yes."
He wrapped her in his embrace and for a split second she found herself being the old, naïve Simone again, wishing that he might be staying more than just one night.
A month, perhaps, a year, or forever. But that was foolishness. Men did not offer such things. One good screw was all you could hope for, and that's what she would get.
"Let us go,” said Stavros. “To my hotel."
"Yes,” she demurred, the submission so sweet and natural on her lips. “Sir."
* * * *
Dara looked for master's eyes. Looking to see that he was looking at her, enjoying, approving. Dara lived for master, she was owned by him and she knew that at times like this her naked, slave slut body was pleasing him on account of its being used ruthlessly by other men. If she were not forced to submit, if she did not, out of obedience do the things she wouldn't want to herself, than how could she be truly owned, truly a slave?
This is what it meant to her that master had brought the men home tonight and that now they were being allowed to make use of her exactly as they wished. The Russian in her ass, pushing his penis in and out at will, the Haitian, making her gag as he worked toward a second orgasm in her mouth, neither had sought permission.
Not from her, at any rate. It was master's doing. He had loaned her ass and her mouth, as he might a power tool or a golf club. Sometimes in her cage, she would rub her legs together and come, just thinking of what it meant that she was property like this. That she had no rights, that she could she be beaten for any infraction, or simply at a whim, that she could not sit on the furniture, that every scrap of clothing, every bite of food was at master's discretion and that if she were not fully pleasing, she could damned well starve.
The treatment wasn't as rough as most people might have thought. In fact, she'd suffered lots worse, and from people who weren't supposed to be her masters or mistresses at all. Her master was simply more open and honest with her, and he had real feelings for her, which he was not afraid to share.
And he had taught her to love herself, too. She was not a freak for wanting to be owned. She was not ill or twisted on account of her sex drive being tied
to the need for slavery. She simply was a slave, and he had let her be one and now, for the first time in her life, she was happy.
Oh, there were hard parts all right. But as master liked to point out, everything is like that, whatever path you are on. Pain is a way to maturity and purification. And it must be gone through, not around. The best you can hope for is productive pain. Pain that brings you closer to love and not to hate, pain that is proactive and makes you seek the beloved, not pain that makes you want revenge.
Under other circumstances, taking a huge Russian penis like this would be a horrible desecration. But here, in this way, it was an act of love, a way to show her devotion to master, and for this she was grateful.
So, too, she was grateful that the other penis, in her mouth, was keeping her from screaming. She did not want to scream now. She wanted to surrender, to moan, in beauty.
I'm such a weak slave, she lamented. So unworthy of such a great master. May I be given a hundred cocks, a thousand, to better myself. May I give up the scattered shreds of pride I still hold to from time to time when I think in such terms-as if it is really the “I” that matters.
I love you, master, she searched for his eyes. I want to be a good girl. Master's good girl. Master's good slut.
But when the Russian ejaculated, master was not in the room. Master was gone, off to talk with the other one, the quiet, handsome one, Martin, who always seemed to know a lot more than he was saying.
Dara's eyes flooded with tears. She wanted master to see how she took the Russian's come up her ass. She wanted him to see her, trying so hard.
"What is this?” Said the Haitian, taking sudden dark delight in her sobs. “Is it too much? But this is nothing, nothing at all."
He had her by the hair, forcing back her neck. The Russian had pulled out and now his sperm was starting to drip from her hole. She wanted so bad to cry out for master, but she knew how cross he might become. Who was she to think anything at all concerning her existence ranked an interruption of his day?
"It has been so long,” the Haitian was saying. “Too, too long.” It was the tears he wanted and he licked her cheeks and lower eyelashes to get them.
"A young woman's suffering,” he proclaimed to the Russian. “This is the delicacy I savor. The taste. The look. The smell."
Lucien clamped his teeth down on her nose now, the whites of his eyes beset with ragged blood vessels. It was like being in the grip of a wolf. “Be thankful you are not her,” the man said to dara. “Be thankful you are not the girl we are taking tomorrow."
Dara was glad, except that for the first time it was really occurring to her, as she pieced together the little bits she'd heard here or there, that her master was in on this plan, too, and that he would be having sex with this girl. She knew it was his right, as her owner, to do as he wished without regard for her feelings, but she was still not without her own feelings. And right now, she was feeling jealous.
What if master should like this new woman more than her? What if she became part of his household and dara had to compete with her for master's attention? What if-most terrible of all to imagine-he simply decided to replace the one slave with another? Such things had been known to happen before.
Her first master had tossed her aside over and over, only to make her come crawling back. She would still be there, or in some similar situation, if not for her Master Charlie, her real, forever master.
Yes, that was what she needed to hold onto. Master was forever, and she, as slave, had a duty to keep it that way. And that meant doing whatever she had to with the new woman to make her know her place. Dara would be above her. Dara would be her mistress, and above all, dara would make sure she never, ever tried to sink her treacherous little hooks into the man who held the keys to her body, heart and soul.
Hopefully, a nice talking to would do the trick. If not, there were other methods at her disposal. Far more nasty ones.
* * * *
Stavros was beautiful as a Greek statue. Proud and full of life, looming over her, working his magic, working his will. Simone lay naked on her back, trying to reach up to him using her elbows, but he was giving her no leverage, no room to work. Effortlessly, he took her ankles, wish boning her, forcing her back onto her tailbone.
Simone whimpered in protest, an indignant little huff. The sound was very female and very, very impotent.
As it turned out, the man was keeping true to his word, honoring her request. Stavros was being the man, though what she hadn't anticipated was that he would interpret this first and foremost as an invitation to turn her own expectations on their ear.
Instead of forcing her to his pleasure, he was using his mouth on her.
"Please,” she cried as his tongue dove yet again to undo her. “Don't..."
"It is my desire,” he licked his lips of her juices. “I give you no choice."
She balled her fists, tiny and helpless. He was going to bring her to orgasm, his tongue like a tiny little cock, massaging her clit, finding exactly the angle and pressure to turn her insides to jelly.
"I ... should be ... pleasing you...” she gasped.
"But you are. You are showing me your womanhood. You are opening to me, as a blossom. Priceless and beyond compare."
"No, Stavros,” she shook her head, truly not intending to sound so pitiful. “I'm a slut ... my boss fucks me ... he pays me..."
"No. You are a lady, always. Any disgrace you endure is the fault of those men who dishonor or neglect you."
They were fine words, but hardly applicable.
"I play ... dirty games,” she continued her near orgasmic confession. “I like to be treated ... like a slave."
Stavros released her ankles, shifting himself with gymnastic perfection into a missionary mount. “Repeat after me,” he pushed his cock to her silky depths. “I am a female. I honor and accept all the things within me..."
She mouthed the words, marveling as he proceeded to turn all the shames of her heart into genuine needs, things to be proud of even.
I am a lover, I am a fighter, I am a daughter and a mother, I am a goddess and a slave, a witch and a whore, I am a queen, I am the source of life and I am the wicked fears of every man...
Wherever he got the words from, they were pure poetry.
"Stavros,” she hung on the brink. “Tell me what to do."
"What do you want to do?” He teased, his cock throbbing inside her but not moving.
"To ... please,” she cried. “To ... belong."
He held her as she wept over the realization. It was not enough to seek her femininity, to look for that special man to fill her empty places. She herself must first become those empty places. She must open and yield ... the beautiful, weeping flower.
So lonely.
Lost without her counterpart, the strength to her weakness. She tried, one last time, to force the matter, to make something happen.
Own me, Stavros. Make me yours. Be hard and cruel, so I know it's true. Make me beg. Beat me ... a little. Make me crawl.
If he heard the silent plea of her heart, the meaning of her clutching fingers, he gave no response.
"Together,” he sighed. “Let's come together."
She knew right then, he was not the man for her. A gentleman, yes, a man with a noble heart who would make the right woman a wonderful husband. What she needed, however, was vastly different, vastly harsher, spicier and ultimately more alive.
It seemed an impossibility. To be captured by love. Overwhelmed by softness. Mastered by devotion. In her life she'd only known pieces of it, a little from Randy, a bit from Mick, and now, from Stavros, another little shard.
Surely they added up to something ... to someone?
"You were good, my sweet,” he murmured, nestling in beside her.
She held him; thankful for the comfort he'd given in the lonely night. She wished him well in his search, really she did. But it would never be the path she was on. “Thank you, Stavros, you were good, too."
Actu
ally, he'd been a little too good, though there was no way she'd ever get him to understand. The best she could do was send him home with good memories and good wishes to Greece. Hoping in turn, a few might come back to her.
* * * *
Mick had been sitting in his office all night waiting for the phone call from the Karkhov's. He wasn't sure quite what they would say, how men like that would operate in this type of situation, though, he could be sure it would not be pleasant. He'd stood them up. Worse still, he'd stood their clients up, or partners, or whatever it was you called the men who were scheduled to fuck Simone.
If he were lucky, they would just take the business and leave him with his head. Though that was unlikely. A lesson had to be taught, an example made for any others foolish enough to try such a damned fool thing. Falling in debt and then fucking up the only chance to come clean.
He already owed them money and now he owed them pussy, too. And what he had to give them was exactly nothing. Nothing for the Karkhov's, and nothing for his cheated employees, either, or his long-suffering wife, and certainly nothing for Simone. He would miss her. More than anyone else. Shit, what did that say exactly? Was it love, all those things he'd felt, all those fights, all that time they'd spent together? Is that why it had been such a roller coaster ride with her, making him, on the one hand happier than he'd ever been in his life, and yet at the same time, filled with exasperation and fury?
Maybe he ought to have made a run for it, with her. She would have gone, he was sure of it. That's why he'd chased her off, so she wouldn't get any foolhardy ideas of trying to follow him.
That wasn't possible. Not anymore.
Taking the pistol from the drawer, he laid it on the ink blotter. This was supposed to be a coward's way out, but if that was the case, than why was it taking every ounce of strength to get to this point? Why had he been skirting around completing the deed all night? Why afraid to just put the barrel to his head and pull the trigger?
It's what everybody wanted. All those people who hated him. Charlie Jenkins and the rest of the staff, his own wife, and now Simone. They'd all needed to go on with their lives.
Stealing Simone Page 6
