by Joey W. Hill
Page 9
She’d been wearing a simple black cocktail dress, no rubber club bracelet that gave a clear indication of her status. No jewelry except the silver collar and pendant he’d never seen close up, not until last night. She’d worn a killer pair of strap heels then as now, and the dress’s neckline framed her swelling cleavage in an eye-catching way. Because the dress was snug, he’d had a few tempting glimpses of her ass.
Throughout his scene, she’d stayed riveted on what he was doing. She was a sub; he’d felt it from her like a beacon call, and just the kind of sub he took pleasure in breaking down, breaking open. She’d be a virgin to having her ass fucked, he was sure of it.
By the end, it was almost as if he was performing for her. When he was balls deep inside Myra, listening to her grunt deliciously at the power of his strokes, he saw the mystery woman’s lips part, her tongue touch her lips, a delicate movement of need and yearning. Her fingers had gripped the rail so that he suspected her knuckles were white, and her body was pressed against it. If she’d been closer at that point, he would have told her to lift her skirt, put her fingers on her wet pussy and masturbate for him, show him how wet she was, how she wanted his cock inside of her when he was done here.
After he got his breath back, she was gone. The staff remembered her, said she was a guest, but of course he didn’t pry beyond that, respecting the privacy rules that didn’t reveal names. He’d thought of her more than once since then. If he saw her again, he’d burn down her shields, win her sweet cries and tears of surrender.
Now he was looking at her again. Marcie. She put her other knee up on the car hood and, with a smooth ripple of thighs and buttocks, she was on the Roadster on all fours, her ass facing the camera.
A black velvet bag was in her hand, and she laid it near the windshield. As he watched, she went down to one elbow and put her cheek to the car’s hood. Holding her balance on her knees and that one cheek, she reached back, cupped both hands over her ass. Curving her fingers into the seam between, she parted her buttocks to show him that delicate puckered entrance. As she flexed, he caught the glisten, realized she’d already oiled herself up.
Dipping her fingers into her pussy, she worked them in and out, showing him she was also well-aroused, then she moved her fingers from there into her rectum. The muscles contracted and released, then contracted again, taking her.
He had his hand on his cock, he couldn’t help it. It was straining against his slacks, threatening to split seams. Damn it. He hit the remote on his desk, locking the door, and then opened his trousers. When he put a chokehold on it, it convulsed under his hand.
Removing her fingers from her ass, she reached for that velvet bag. She withdrew an eight-inch dildo from it, an impressively thick size, though still not as large as him. She put it in her mouth, taking all eight of those inches to the hilt, her throat working then relaxing. She worked it in and out, lips stretched over it.
Yes, baby. That’s it. Take my cock. Take all of it. He had to watch this to the end. Then he’d think about the ramifications.
When she had it slick from her saliva, she reached behind her again, parting her cheeks.
Who had seen this footage? Whose eyes did he have to put out? His fist clenched on himself, but not to rub. Something even deeper came to the forefront as she worked it in. She bit her lip, concentrating, trying to relax. She hadn’t done it too often then, and he sensed some tension in her. If he were there, he’d teach her how to relax. Best way to ass fuck a woman fairly new to it was to get them so excited, their pussy so near climax, they were contracting on air, then slide right into their rear entry like butter. They convulsed on a cock like a fist that would never let go, those sphincter muscles strong and sure.
Four inches, five…she had it past the muscles, but it was thick, and he was sure it was burning. But then she had it in to the hilt. As she turned her body, she tried to hold on to her sinuous way of moving. She didn’t realize it made his blood heat to volcanic lava, seeing that sensual impairment, the awkwardness caused by such a penetration.
She made it over to her back, pressing the dildo deep inside of her against the car hood. Slowly, she spread her legs. He drew in a breath as she lifted her upper body, used that gymnastic flexibility to reach down, unbuckle the straps of the shoes. What he’d thought were two sets of buckles, part of the shoe’s design, was an extra set of tie straps on her ankles. She buckled one ankle to the grill. Spreading the other leg out as far as it could go, she fastened it as well. Then she eased herself to her back once again, only now her legs were spread so wide he could see her weeping pussy, the flex of her buttocks as they flattened against the hood, holding that phallus inside of her.
She placed the other hand above her head, curling her fingers around the hood edge at the windshield. She didn’t restrain her wrist, but the way she held it there suggested binding. Then she slid her other hand down her belly. He saw the navel jewelry, that glittering flower, now without a key on it, because he’d taken it, removed it and her collar.
Her breasts were as fucking tempting as any Ben had ever seen. He thought Peter, dedicated tit man who he was, would agree. She was pierced there too, tiny little rings, tempting teeth. The nipples were stiff and large, her back arched as if offering them, begging. He followed the track from that irresistible view down the slope of her abdomen, over the navel piercing, down to where her hand was. Jesus, she had a clit hood piercing as well, a jeweled ring lying against her clean-shaven pussy, glistening with her juices.
She could be bound by those four rings. A collar around her neck, chains leading to her nipples, navel, clit. Chains that could be tightened and tugged to fold her over, increase the discomfort, helplessness, focusing her on her Master’s desires, heightening his pleasure and her own…
She tugged on that clit piercing and moaned, arching up farther, thrusting out those beautiful tits in a way that would compel any straight man who saw this to jack off. Ben understood Randall’s comment about disciplinary action now. There was no way the guard monitoring the cameras had missed her doing this. But he wouldn’t put it past Marcie to have done her research, to know which on-duty guard would be most likely to hold off calling it in right away, unable to resist indulging in a little late-night adult cable entertainment.
Or more likely—given that K&A security were smart and well-trained—the man in question had realized within the first thirty seconds this was an intentional message for Ben. As such, he’d made the judgment call, decided to simply monitor her, making sure she intended no vandalism, and then reported it to Randall after the fact, earning the disciplinary action as a matter of form only.
Either way, she’d taken a calculated risk, one that had panned out.
She rocked against her touch, her lips pressing hard together. Fingers dipping in, coming out, smearing more fluid against her cunt. She was saying something, urging herself on, and when Ben recognized the words on her lips, his cock convulsed hard in his hand, demanding to spurt his response.
Please, Master…let me come. Let me serve you. Master… Master… Then, Ben…please. Master.
He traced her face, her body. Pre-cum trickled down his shaft, dampening his fingers, making him tighten his grip once more. He couldn’t. This was…he was going to shake her until her teeth rattled. Security or not, she was all by herself in a parking deck in the middle of the night. If some vagrant had stumbled on her, or anyone…
She slowed then, so near climax her body had to be sheened with perspiration. Now she stretched out both her arms, a clear message of submission. She breathed deep, drawing herself back from that edge. She wasn’t going to come, because he hadn’t been there, hadn’t given her permission.
That realization hit him hard in the chest as she at last let go of the hood. She probably had red indentations in her palms. When she pushed herself up, he saw her hair had come down, a twisted, dark tail against her neck.
She
opened the tie on one ankle, moved more stiffly to do the other. Turning onto her hands and knees once more, she reversed the provocative process, sliding out the dildo until the head released with that sudden pop that made her convulse, press her thighs together. He could see the tracks of her arousal on her thighs. That tight rosebud entry point flexed as it released the phallus, such that he felt that impact all the way to his testicles.
Tucking it all in the velvet bag, she took out a handkerchief and wiped what appeared to be some drops of her arousal off the hood, then tucked that away as well. Turning to face the camera fully, she dropped to her knees and bowed her head. Then she picked up the coat, slipped it on her shoulders. Tossing her hair back, combing through it with her fingers, she managed to walk away with that same sauntering confidence she’d shown in his office earlier in the day when she’d been teasing him. When she reached the stairwell door, she even threw the same sassy look over her shoulder.
Speak of the devil. His gaze lifted as he heard the tap of heels outside of his door. A moment later, his intercom buzzed.
“I’m here, Mr. O’Callahan. ” That sultry purr. “So is your nine o’clock. Are you ready for Mr. Alexander?”
That effectively brought him up short. Clamping down on a variety of responses, he tucked himself back in, ejected the security footage to lock it in his middle desk drawer and tore open a sanitized towelette to clean his hands. He was proud to find his voice was even, controlled when he responded. “Yes, Marcie. Send him in. ”
Fortunately, Don Alexander was a no-nonsense sort who preferred to get straight to business. He wouldn’t question why Ben didn’t rise from his desk for a morning handshake. If Don knew where his hand had been, he’d probably thank Ben for the lack of courtesy.
The legal muscle for one of their latest in-process acquisitions took a sprawling seat in Ben’s guest chair and unlatched his briefcase, already firing off the info he was here to get. Ben knew what he needed, had it ready, so his gaze slid to the view outside his door while Don did his required diatribe.
Marcie’s desk was at a diagonal angle to his door. She was wearing another one of those straight, tailored skirts, only this one was a little higher and had several short, coquettish slits in the front that layered like flower petals. When she adjusted her seat, he caught a glimpse of the lace top of her thigh-high stockings. As if she was unaware of his perusal—yeah right—she ran her finger beneath the skirt edge, flipping up one of those layers to check the hold of the—holy God—garter holding the stocking in place. Her hair was twisted up in a soft, loose style, and today she wore a lightweight sleeveless turtleneck in a pale blue color. The long stretch of fabric from throat to hips drew a man’s gaze right to her generous breasts. He could discern the puckered state of her nipples. A faint impression only, something that could be explained away by the well-air-conditioned office, instead of inappropriate attire, but he’d put money on the fact her bra was so thin it allowed that subtle effect, while keeping those heavy breasts up nice and high.
