Five minutes―that’s all I’ve got. Watching those big tits bounce up and down with my stroking does something to me. Hell, yeah, I know they’re fake, but they’re big and round, and they’re tits, regardless. It only takes me five minutes to come unglued and, fortunately, I feel her clamp down on my hardness as I finish off. I got mine. She got hers. All is right with the world.
She’s soft and warm in my arms as I cuddle her to me in the big bed. One of her hands comes up, her fingers circling in the hair on my chest. “I’m okay,” she whispers.
“You sure, babe? That was some performance,” I say with a grin. Her eyes aren’t even open, so I’m not sure she knows who she’s talking to or what she’s saying.
“They looked scary,” she says and I almost laugh. Yeah. She knows what she’s saying.
“They did, but they’re also very naughty, and I like them a lot. Nobody’s ever done that with you before?”
She shakes her head gently against me. “No. It hurt so fucking good, Brian.” Yep―she knows who she’s talking to. Subspace is dissipating for her.
“And you took it very well.”
“Sorry for the hand signal,” she says and cuddles even closer into me.
“I’m not. I think you’d had all you could stand, and honestly, you took a lot more than most submissives could,” I tell her, stroking a finger down her cheek.
“Being a porn star pays off in some ways,” she says, then tips her head back and looks up into my face. “Could you just kiss me and at least let me pretend you love me?”
That makes my heart so sad that I could cry. “I do love you, Melina. I love you as a friend and one of the best submissives I’ve ever worked with. Dave loves you too. Every Dominant who’s ever scened with you here loves you for your abilities and because you’re not just beautiful to look at, but you’re a beautiful person.”
I’m not surprised when I see tears coursing down her face. “Then why won’t anybody take me, Brian? Why can’t I get a Dominant to offer me a contract?”
The kiss I place on her forehead carries a meaning she knows well. “Honey, I think what you do for a living intimidates them. They think after what you get every day at work, they couldn’t possibly be enough for you. They don’t understand that it’s fake, that it’s all scripted.”
“Yeah, but the fucking is real,” she says, her voice strong.
“Yeah, and I think that’s the worst part of it. Even if they know the films are fake, the dicks punching into you are real, and those guys are hung. And the average Dominant doesn’t think he can compete with that,” I explain. I know it sounds lame, but it’s true.
“I wish I knew how to do something else. I really do. I’m tired of being alone,” she says and snuggles up even closer, and I let my arms draw her in tight. She needs to be held. All submissives do. All women do.
Well, all except one.
Chapter Three
It’s almost two o’clock when I finally get home. It’s hard to call it that. The apartment doesn’t feel like home yet, but I’m sure eventually it will. After placing the cake I saved for Cirilla on the counter in the kitchen, I drag into the living room, drop onto the brand-new sofa, toe off my shoes, and drop my head backward onto its plush back. God, I’m tired, and I hope this isn’t what my days are going to be like from now on, worn out every night and dragging myself out of bed every morning. At least it’s Saturday, so there’ll be no work.
I haven’t been sitting there for two minutes before I hear a soft click and look up to see Cirilla’s door open. “You’re home, sir?”
“Yeah. Got here about five minutes ago. I’m sorry if I woke you,” I tell her, and I am. Nobody should be awakened at this time of morning by someone coming in.
“Oh, no, I wasn’t asleep, sir. I don’t sleep much. Was it a good evening at the club, sir?” she asks.
“Yes. Very good. Very busy. A lot of people there. Sold a lot of drinks. Melina was there―from dinner the other night?”
She nods. “Yes. She’s very nice and very beautiful.”
“Yes. She is. On both counts.” I sigh. I can’t help it. I’m exhausted. “I think I’m going on to bed. See you in the morning.”
“Yes, sir. Oh, by the way, I got the office all organized,” she says with something that could almost pass for a smile.
“Yeah? Let’s see.” Dragging my feet, I head that way and open the door.
She wasn’t kidding. It’s neat as a pin. There’s a whiteboard on one wall, and a big wall calendar on another. One of the prints I had in the office in Cincinnati is up, and all the files seem to be put away. “God, Cirilla, this is incredible. Did you work all evening on this?”
“Yes, sir. I just wanted to get it done. I got all my things put away too, and if you want, I’ll help you with yours tomorrow.” If it were any other woman, I might think she just wanted to see my underwear, but this is Cirilla. She doesn’t give a flying fuck about my underwear.
“You know, I just may take you up on it, depending on how I feel. But I’ve got to get some sleep.” There’s not enough energy left in my body to even say another word. “Oh, and I brought you a piece of cake, courtesy of Dave,” I say and point into the kitchen.
“Thank you, sir.” But just as I open my bedroom door, I hear her say, “Sir?”
“Yes?”
Her voice is small and soft when she says, “Pleasant dreams.”
“You too. See you in the morning.”
“Thank you, sir. Goodnight.”
“Yes. Goodnight to you too.” My door closes and I hear hers close a few seconds later, so I strip off and fall into bed.
To my horror, I lie awake, eyes wide open and chest filled with dread. Tomorrow morning I’ve got to tell her that I checked the schedule and there’s an orientation on Thursday night. And I’ve got a phone call to make too.
Dave will have to take this orientation. I can’t. Not with Cirilla in there. It’s not about her being my employee. It’s about it just being a weird position to put myself in. That’s all it is.
Isn’t it?
* * *
It’s the closest thing to a smile I think I’ve ever seen. “Oh, sir. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It really is.” I’m so glad I’m able to do this for her, and she’s right―it is beautiful. I offered her a BMW, Audi, Subaru, Infiniti, Acura, Cadillac, Lincoln, even a Volvo or Alfa Romeo, but this is what she wanted, and I have to say, it was a great choice. The brand-new, velvet red pearl coat Jeep Grand Cherokee with a Sterling package sits there gleaming in the sun, and it fairly glows. “That was an excellent choice, and I’m glad you took the upgrades.”
“Thank you so much, sir,” she says. “I mean, really, thank you. This is the nicest car I’ve ever had, so thank you.” Her voice is low and almost reverent, and I watch as she glides a hand down the front fender, almost like she’s caressing it. Taking in her reaction makes my chest constrict. She really is grateful, and that gratitude is all over her face and in every move she makes.
“You’re very welcome, Cirilla. I’m glad to be able to do this for you.”
“Oh, sir … I just can’t believe it. I’m afraid to drive it. I might mess it up,” she says, still very nearly whispering.
“Mess it up. It’s yours. If anything happens to it, we’ll fix it and go on. I didn’t buy it for you to stare at. I bought it for you to drive. Matter of fact,” I say, opening the passenger door, “I want you to take me for a spin. Right now. Let’s go.”
Her eyes go wide. “Oh, sir, I don’t think … I mean, do you really want―”
“I want the joy of watching you drive this car. So yes. Get in. Set everything up for yourself and let’s go,” I say again, then climb in and close the door so she can’t argue with me.
It takes her ten minutes of tinkering with mirrors and the driver’s seat to get it the way she wants it, and then she pulls out onto the street, timid as a mouse, and drives about fifteen miles an hour. I struggle to keep f
rom laughing. She really is afraid she’ll mess it up. “Ooooo,” she finally whispers.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. This thing drives … It’s amazing. I mean, really. Smooth as silk.” There it is again―that almost-smile. “It’s incredible.”
“Good. I’m glad you like it.” She’s finally up to thirty-five miles an hour so there’s no one honking behind us and I can enjoy the ride. “It’s almost noon. Want to eat?”
“But, sir, your car …”
“It isn’t going anywhere. It’s just sitting there on the lot. We can pick it up anytime. Where would you like to go?”
“Um, steakhouse?” she says. “Salad bar and baked potato?”
All the fancy restaurants we have in the city and she wants to go to a steakhouse with a salad bar? Grand. Well, okay, cupcake―whatever you want, I almost say out loud. “Um, I think there’s one around the corner down here, if it’s still there. Right there by the pink sign,” I tell her, pointing, so she turns the corner carefully and there it is, that same old steakhouse. “Yes. Still there. And look―they’re really busy. Must be pretty good,” I point out.
“Yes, sir. Looks good to me.” She rolls the SUV into the parking lot and pulls into a space, but when she steps down on the brake, it engages immediately and throws us both forward. “Oops! Sensitive! I’ll have to get used to that,” she says. “Sorry, sir.”
I just laugh. “It’s okay. It’ll take you a little while, but you’ll get used to it.” As we walk across the parking lot to the door of the restaurant, I can’t help but notice that her mood seems lighter. Good. That’s what I was going for. I’m going to crack that hard shell yet.
To my utter amazement, the food is really very good. They have this huge bar of all kinds of stuff, but I order a steak, and as I wait for it, I get a salad and watch her as she piles things on her plate. She’s still not extremely talkative, but we have something that would almost pass for a conversation during dinner. Sure, we’re just talking about work and the apartment, but it’s something. It’s better than the radio silence she usually gives me.
When we finish, we pick up my car at the lot and before I get in, I say, “See you at home.”
“Yes, sir. See you back at the apartment,” she replies, almost like she’s covertly correcting me. Does she mean it doesn’t seem like home? Or will it always be just an apartment because I’m there too? I ponder that question all the way back.
As soon as I walk in, she meets me in the living room. “So should we work on your room, sir?”
“Are you sure you want to do that? I mean, don’t you have some things you need to do to your room?” I ask, thinking she couldn’t possibly be finished.
She just stands there, emotionless. “No, sir. I’m all done.”
Okay. I’ll bite, I think. “Well, then, let’s see it, shall we?”
“Yes, sir.” I watch as she makes her way toward the bedroom door and then follow, waiting while she opens it. As it swings inward, she motions for me to enter.
I can’t help it―my jaw drops. It’s gorgeous. There’s wonderful and intriguing artwork on the walls, classy drapes, beautiful bed coverings, and the furniture is perfect. Without asking, I make my way to the bathroom.
The towels, the flower arrangement, the furniture, the artwork … all exquisite and tasteful. Yes, it’s a little feminine, but honestly, I wouldn’t feel out of place there. “Wow. I mean, you really did a great job, Cirilla. Really great job,” I say quietly, still in awe. It looks like a high-dollar interior designer worked the place over. “Where did you get all this stuff? When?”
“I found it all online and had the store deliver it. I’m glad it looked just like it did in the pictures or I would’ve been in trouble,” she says, fingering one of the towels almost like it was a priceless work of art.
“Well, you did a great job. I guess you’ll have to help me with mine. It looks … bachelorish,” I say and chuckle.
“Not a problem, sir. I’ll see what you’ve got and then I’ll go from there. May I?” she says as she heads toward my room.
“Sure. Go right ahead.” Can’t wait to see this. The waiting is the hardest part.
“Oh, my,” she says as she gazes around. “It’s kind of … stark. That’s the word I’d use.” Her eyes question me. “Did you buy any artwork or anything for it?”
“No.”
“Do you want some?”
I snicker. “If you can make it look as good as yours, then yeah, by all means.”
“No problem, sir. I’ll get on it tomorrow.” And I know she means it. When she gets ready to do something, she throws herself into it. “But first, I think you need to get things put away in here.”
I just nod. “That much is true.”
She just stands there, and so do I. It’s like a waiting game, her waiting for me to tell her to get at it, me waiting for her to offer. We stand there, awkwardness enveloping us, until she finally says, “I’ll help you if you want, sir.”
“Yes. I want. But I’ve got to go to the club tonight.” Then I remember, “Oh, by the way, I checked the schedule. There’s an orientation Thursday night. I can sign you up if you want to attend.”
“Yes. I do. Thank you, sir. And if it’s okay, could I go tonight? I’d like to see what’s going on, make sure I’m still interested.”
“That’s not something usually allowed, but …” I stand there for a few seconds before I blurt out, “Oh, what the hell. You can come. But you’ll need to be discreet and aloof.” What the fuck am I saying? She’s the queen of aloof. There shouldn’t be a problem.
“Yes, sir. I understand.” There’s a little hesitation before she asks, “So you’re going to be leading the orientation, right?”
“No. That’ll be Dave,” I tell her. It’s supposed to be me, and I don’t want to admit it out loud, but if she’s going to be in the orientation, there’s absolutely no fucking way I’m leading it. None. Nope. Not happening. I’ll have to tell Dave he’s just got to do it one more time. “Okay, well, I’ll probably be leaving about five thirty. Think I’m gonna watch a little TV before I get ready to go.”
“Do you want me to start working on your room, sir?”
“Sure. Knock yourself out,” I say, waving behind me as I walk out and into the living room, leaving her behind in my room. I’m not tackling it today. It’s been a good day―why ruin it with that mess?
At five o’clock, I turn off the TV and head toward the bedroom, forgetting completely that she’s in there. When I step through the doorway, I’m amazed.
There’s a pile of empty boxes as tall as me, and she’s in the middle of the room, looking around for more stuff. “Holy hell,” I whisper. “You’ve really been busy.”
“Yes, sir. If you don’t like the drawer arrangements, you can change them, but at least it’s all out of the boxes.”
“Uh, yeah. No problem. But I’ve gotta get ready to go. Are you wearing that?” I ask, pointing to her frumpy dress and flat shoes.
“Is there something else you’d like me to wear, sir?” she asks, her voice small and innocent. Ohhh, I’d better not answer that with what I’m thinking.
“No, no. That’s fine. No problem. Just checking. Okay, so I’ll meet you in the living room in thirty minutes?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be ready.” As she scurries out of the room, I think about how she’d look in a corset and thong and … Nope. Not going there. Stop it, Zimmer! I tell myself. But I don’t stop it.
Matter of fact, I beat off in the shower. That wasn’t what I’d intended to do, but the occasion arises, so yeah, it happens. While I’m going at it, I try hard to think about Melina, or any of the other subs I’ve worked with, or my old girlfriends in college, or any other damn woman I can come across in my memory, and yet my mind keeps going back to Cirilla. Why? What is it about her that’s got my attention and holding it so tightly? I’m panting quietly by the time I shoot my load, and if I don’t get my ass in gear, I’m going to be lat
e. Of course, she’ll let me know I’m late, so there’s that little detail.
Sure enough, I step into the living room to find her waiting, and I don’t know whether to burst into laughter or shake my head. She’s got her hair up in a bun―a fucking bun―and instead of her typical flat shoes, she’s actually wearing a pair that look like orthopedic oxfords. My god. How old is she? All I manage to hold myself together long enough to say is, “Ready?”
“Yes, sir,” she says and uses an index finger to press those ugly dark glasses back up her nose. “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Are photos allowed at the club?”
My eyebrows have to be interwoven with my hairline. “No! Absolutely not! Never! We don’t allow that at all.”
“Good, sir. Just checking,” she says and rises to join me.
That was an odd question. Does she really think someone would be taking a picture of her? Maybe to make some kind of weird meme? That would be the only reason I can think of.
We take my Beemer convertible to the club and I park in the back. I point to the office as we walk past. “That’s my office. If you need to get away from the common area, this is a safe place for you. Just make sure I know where you are.”
“Yes, sir.”
As soon as we step into the large room, I move in behind the bar. She’s wandering about, looking around, and then asks, “So where should I be?”
Pointing to a conversation area across the room, I answer, “Probably over there. That’s where most visitors stay.”
“Can I get up and walk around a bit?”
“Sure, but wherever you are, make sure I or whoever might be manning the bar can see you. Very important,” I admonish.
“Yes, sir.” I’ll say one thing for her. I love the way she doesn’t argue with me about anything.
Completely Mine: Bliss Series, Book Four Page 5
