Need Me – Being Trevor’s Toy
Charlotte DeCorte
Published by DelSin Publishing, LLC 2012
Need Me – Being Trevor’s Toy
Copyright 2012 by Charlotte DeCorte
All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from DelSin Publishing, LLC. DelSin Publishing, LLC and the author assume no liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Credit: Viorel Sima
Cover Design: CGM Web Designs
Table of Contents
Need Me – Being Trevor’s Toy
About Charlotte
Other Works
Need Me – Being Trevor’s Toy
I dance across the stage, legs kicking out perfectly and body in perpetual motion. The crowd is a dark, blur. Hundreds of people are watching as I entertain them with my beauty and my pain.
Only one man understands this and he is out there watching.
I know he appreciates my talent, seeing me as his personal ballerina. He sees himself as gracious by allowing me to share my body and my pain on stage for all to consume.
And he is.
My beautiful, dark, damaged Trevor is gracious. He’s generous in all things and I find myself trembling, not from exhaustion, but from anticipation. I can’t wait to climb into his limo and feel his body against mine. I hope I’ve pleased him tonight through my adages, jetes, and grand allegros. Once upon a time I danced for the crowd, basking in their adoration and believing it my due.
Now I dance solely for Trevor.
I smile broadly when I reach my final mark and bow. The crowd thunders its appreciation. I can’t help but search the darkness. I hope to catch a glimpse of his crimson tie splashed across a blinding white shirtfront like blood. My patience is a lie as I accept the applause along with my fellow dancers.
Backstage is the familiar controlled chaos. Air kisses, laughter, and champagne flow heavy. I give a few words to the local paper, stopping to take a photograph with the reporter and another dancer. We laugh and congratulate one another, blissful at the performance’s obvious success.
Opening night is a dancer’s special labor and delivery—the sweat and agony culminates in a beautiful performance made all the more sweet because of the countless hours spent in labor.
I’m not so far gone that I can’t still appreciate the splendor of what I’m blessed to do. I’m so lucky to have this life, to be a professional dancer and have all those hard-earned lessons pay off big. My heart is full and I am happy.
Still, I’d trade it all for Trevor in a second.
Finally, I’m able to slip away. An enormous bouquet of red roses awaits me in my tiny dressing area. I lose precious moments smelling their intoxicating sweetness. I’m reminded of myself when I see them—soft, thorny, and living in a suspended state of beauty fated to wither away.
It’s nothing. I’ve always been morbid. I can’t help but see the darkness behind the light and be drawn to it.
With a final fragrant sniff, I turn away from Trevor’s roses and quickly change out of my costume. The costume supervisor’s assistant comes by and plucks it out of my hands for spot-cleaning. I’ll wear it again tomorrow night and for the next nine nights afterwards. Although I enjoy my work and my good fortune, I’ve already shoved dancing out of my mind.
Trevor’s been on the Continent, doing what he does best—making lots of money. He’s a self-made man with lots of large companies interspersed with a few pet projects. His properties are spread all over the world and he’s in possession of several bank accounts fat enough to support and staff them completely.
And although he’s only been gone for eleven days, I’ve missed him fiercely.
I’ve missed being on my knees. I’ve missed the feel of his hands in my hair as he thrusts into my open, wanton mouth. I’ve missed the fullness in my cunt and the branding in my ass.
I’ve missed his come dripping out of all my holes.
I know myself to be vulgar. I don’t think of us in flowery language. What we do and who we are together is raw, stripped of pretense. So I can’t help but use words like cock, cunt, and ass. I wouldn’t even if I could. I am reduced to a shameless state with Trevor.
I am not the pretty ballerina of sugarplum dreams. I am the sinister otherness waiting to be pounced on in the woods, hands spreading myself wide to be devoured by the wolf while sending the huntsman on his way with a curse.
I’m obsessed. I’m doomed by my obsession and I do nothing to stop it. At least not anymore.
I scrub my face bare and do my best to clean the sweat off my body before changing into my street clothes. I leave my hair in its severe style and slip into a little black dress and black heels. As I’m applying black eyeliner and dark red lipstick, I hope I look as pretty for him off-stage as I do on.
My stomach flutters. It’s silly but I feel like a school girl on her first date. Trevor holds that much power over me. It’s never enough. I never tire of him even if I should.
Nervous yet giddy, I slip on my red cashmere swing coat, pocket my small wallet, pick up my enormous bouquet, and leave. My feet cut through the crowds, sidestepping the shifting, milling make-believe sea of satin, crystal, and sequins. I’m all smiles and waves, begging off one celebration over another. Several dancers gift me a sly smirk. They know the reason for my speed. I must’ve mentioned it a dozen times this week. Not overly descriptive but more of a normal, lovelorn sigh that everyone can interpret as “Oh, I miss my boyfriend. I can’t wait to see him again.”
“Don’t pull a groin muscle, Rebe.”
I laugh and toss off a jaunty salute. What else can I do when I’m so damned eager to do everything short of pulling that particular muscle?
I burst through the back exit, overcome by my eagerness for a moment. The limo is waiting just as expected. I want to run to it, mouth parted in a welcoming smile while I cry tears of joy. Instead, I walk in a sedate fashion. Mustn’t appear unladylike in public. I nod my head politely as Trevor’s driver Mr. Hay gets out and holds the rear door open. I seat myself across from the silent man waiting inside, careful to secure my precious roses beside me.
“Hello, Rebecca.”
His patrician British accent pours over me like liquid silk. It’s the first thing I noticed about him when I first met this strange, wonderful creature two years ago at a local fundraiser. There’s nothing in the world like hearing his voice rasp in my ear as he tells me to “fucking open your legs wider, you little slut.”
Its divinity is only surpassed by the sound of Trevor hissing my name while comes all over my tits.
I think of all this and far more dirtier things as I greet him with a soft “Hello, Trevor.”
His gloved hands are relaxed, one on his lap and the other on the leather seat. The black overcoat is immaculate. I feel my lace panties dampen when I catch sight of his tie. Trevor only wears this color for me. It’s his sole, public concession to his commitment to me. Only a wedding ring could outshine it.
Trevor’s dark hair is perfectly combed back as always. My hungry gaze finds his and I lose my breath for a moment. He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen and I feel it each time I see him like a fist to my gut. I’m breathless.
Truthfully, Trevor’s features might be a tad too refined for some tastes and his skin a shade too pale. I don’t care. He’s perfect to me. I l
ove how his handsomeness is a throwback to a time when men were openly and unashamedly as beautiful as women.
Sometimes I think he’s a little prettier than me.
“I trust you have been well, Rebecca?”
“Yes. Thank you for asking, Trevor.” We are so civilized at the beginning.
Later we will devolve into our primal sides, covered with slick bodily fluids and ravenous for more. I know tonight I’ll tongue his ass while fisting his shaft in my well-oiled hand. He’ll do the same to me as I’m crouched over his face, hands on the wall and mouth open as I pant his name.
For now, we are perfectly well-behaved people.
He looks at me a moment more before shifting his attention towards the brick wall outside the tinted window. Even so, I’m still caught in his grasp. I always think of sapphires when I see his eyes. They shine with a hue too pure to be real yet they are. I wonder if he notices their beauty or are they taken for granted as something expected for the elegant man who, on the surface, has everything?
As if he knows the speculative thoughts tramping through my mind, Trevor looks at me and doesn’t look away.
The limo glides forward for him, backwards for me. I sit there silently; all the inane things I think I will say to him evaporate in the chill of his intense regard.
I feel his stare like a living thing. It slides down from my severe, scraped back hair, across my painted doll’s face, and further down my well-dressed body.
Trevor doesn’t compliment me on my appearance. He merely takes it in, a man surveying his possession and looking to see if it’s maintained its appearance.
Or maybe to see if it still is worthy of being his possession.
Perhaps I’m perverse. Spoiled by male attention, I find his distance arousing. He knows this about me, just as he knows all my little secrets. I tried to keep a wall between us at the beginning. I never wanted him to see how much I needed and loved him, how he dominated my entire being. I couldn’t bear the thought of being so vulnerable.
I didn’t stand a chance.
Trevor picked me apart, finding all the chinks in my armor, and used them against me at one time or another. He’s utterly ruthless that way.
I should hate him. Maybe I do in an impossible world.
Clever Trevor knows exactly how much affection to bestow on me. He knows all my favorite things. He knows what sets me off. He knows what makes me cry.
He knows exactly how much pressure to use when he sucks my clit to make me come immediately.
Trevor is dangerous. I know it, honestly I do. I should stay away from a man who has the power to easily destroy me.
But as I already said—I’m obsessed. I can no more leave Trevor than I can stop breathing. The end game on both is the same. I would exist no more.
Dramatic, isn’t it? It’s in my nature. I am a creature created to exist for drama.
Trevor’s stare lingers on my ruby mouth. I wonder if he imagines it wrapped around his long, thick cock? I know I already do. I like it best when Trevor fists it in his hand while gathering my hair in a loose ponytail with the other. Wrists locked behind my back I am completely vulnerable to his pillage. I can only remain on my knees, jaw relaxed and lips wet as he fucks my mouth to his satisfaction.
I keep my legs crossed at the knee and squeeze my thighs. The pressure only teases my pussy but it will have to do for now. Trevor would never do anything so gauche as to make love to me in his limo or have me make love to him with my mouth.
I suggested it once and suffered the withering effects of his narrowed stare. It was terrible; like Death come to life. I had never known how much I could be reduced to a pleading, babbling mess by one censuring glare. Trevor punished me for the first time that night. Before he had spanked me with his hand and belt but it wasn’t punishment. It was foreplay and a sharing of abundant emotions.
What happened when I angered him that night was anything but foreplay.
Trevor bound me to a padded table and gagged me. He then proceeded to use my holes thoroughly. He didn’t let me come once. Afterwards, I got dressed while crying hysterically, mind awash in the vivid burn of rejection. Trevor sent me off with a slap to the face punctuated by a stern warning, “If you want to act like a whore, be prepared to be treated as one.”
I swore I’d never, ever, ever, ever see Trevor again. He was lucky I didn’t call the police and report him. Hell could freeze over and pigs could fly. No man was worth that kind of humiliation.
Strange thing humiliation.
Do you know what the messy, funny thing about humiliation is? It’s that it can turn into thwarted desire just like that.
During the days following, I began to think of my ordeal with a strange longing. Trevor had reduced me to an object and a significant part of me liked it. Perhaps, liking it isn’t exactly accurate. I was drawn to the memories.
I tossed and turned at night, angry and confused that each time I fingered myself I couldn’t help but think of Trevor snapping his hips against my backside, buried deep inside my tender pussy before leaving to stretch my tiny asshole.
He possessed some part of me that night, breaking it off and locking it away so I could never retrieve the missing piece. I’m sure of it. It was the first time I had ever broken down completely in front of him. Awful as it was, I still went with him the next time he came for me.
I never tried to have sex with him in the limo again. I never sat next to him in there either.
Trevor also never apologized. His black-and-white thinking didn’t allow for it. I was clearly in the wrong by trying to expose our intimacy to the driver or anyone on the street. I had to be corrected. End of story.
Yes, this is the man that dangles me on a string.
He’s arrogant, prideful, and cold. He rarely tells me he loves me. He’s gone more often than not. He always has to be in control. He thrives on it, needing dominance over all things big and small.
Yes, I’m smitten and should be ashamed.
We arrive at his building without fanfare. Trevor exits the vehicle and holds out a hand for me. I take it, savoring the feeling of his warm leather glove against my bare skin.
Trevor purchased the penthouse forty floors above us a year and a half ago. No matter how posh, he tired of us having to use hotels every time he visited. I reflexively refused to let him buy me a townhouse and he refused to sleep with me in the same apartment where I, as he put it, “entertained previous lovers.”
It didn’t matter that I offered to buy a new bed and sheets. I even said I’d replace all the furniture. He declined and never step foot in my Garden Hills apartment.
I should’ve been offended. The woman I was before Trevor would’ve been. I would’ve cursed a blue streak and probably broken a dish or two. I also probably would’ve slapped him while hitting him with my purse.
I did none of those things. I understood his objections. Just the idea of sharing the same bed he had shared with other faceless women made me nauseous. I could barely tolerate knowing there were others before me in his life, much less use the same things they did.
Trevor, obviously, excluded.
I’m surprised Trevor didn’t push on the townhouse issue. Sometimes I wonder if I misread the meaning behind his gesture. Was there more to it? Was it his way of making things more permanent?
I’ve never found out.
When my lease ended, I sold or donated all but my most precious belongings and moved to an apartment complex down the street. Trevor visited but still whisked me off to his place.
We enter the enormous lobby, giving our pleasant greetings to the doorman and concierge. I hold my flowers against my chest like a reigning beauty queen. My smile is just as pretty and false. I feel nervous as we enter the empty elevator. Trevor hasn’t said a word to me in fifteen minutes. I have no idea what he’s thinking.
As always I wonder who will I encounter when we exit onto the private top floor? Will it be a satyr intent on hedonistic pleasure or will it be a harsh master
bent on keeping me under his polished shoe?
Or rarer yet, will it be the vulnerable little boy hidden beneath a near-impenetrable wall of impeccable manners and tailored clothes? One who will lay naked and rest his head on my lap and let me hold him as he wasn’t held as a child? One who has cried only once in front me but blinked away his tears too many times to count?
I was thoroughly seduced by the uncompromising dominant. I was permanently captured by the tortured man hidden beneath.
Does it make me sick that I yearn for those quiet moments when he is bare and wrecked? I hope not.
Trevor is the great love of my life and I believe I am his.
I have to believe that because otherwise…it just doesn’t bear thinking.
I’d lose my mind if none of this were real. If I was just the pretty ballerina he fucks to pass away the time and too stupid to know any different. If Trevor mind-fucked me for the amusement of seeing how far I would go to win a love that simply wasn’t there…no. It’s not possible.
The elevator opens. He removes his key from the number panel before taking my arm in his. Our steps echo in the cavernous marble foyer as the silver doors closes behind us. As always, my gaze is drawn to the floor-to-ceiling glass. The brilliant skyline sparkles in night shades of blue, yellow, and red. Maybe later we will take to the wraparound balcony, snuggled in our warm robes as we gaze up at the stars.
I hope so.
“There’s a vase in the kitchen.”
It’s my cue to put my flowers away. I smile and leave him without another word. We are a quiet couple, aren’t we? Not much chit-chat I’m afraid. At least not at this juncture. Trevor has to feel his way around me to speech again. I’m nothing but patient and well used to it by now.
Familiar with his sleek, modern kitchen as my own, I open a lower cabinet and find the heavy crystal vase. As I go through the motions of preparing the water, I wonder if I preoccupy his thoughts as much as he does mine.
I know I won’t have the courage to find out anytime soon.
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