by Jones, EB
He nods yes. “Expect she won't be waking up till tomorrow morning down there in her chair.”
“Daddy, how much do you love me?” I look into his dark eyes because I want him to know that I'm thinking about something.
“You know you're my special girl, Darlene. There's no one else like you.”
“Can you tuck me into bed daddy? I'm feeling scared of the dark tonight.” I lead him into my bedroom, holding his hand. I take off all my clothes, even the little pink skirt that he likes so much, and I sit on top of my bed with my legs crossed. “Daddy, show me how you touch me again. One more time.”
He's a good daddy, and he goes to turn off the light. In the dark, he tells me that he has a new game to teach me – he calls it Backdoor Surprise. I can't wait to find out what that means.
Taboo Erotica–Confidential Number
(forced non-consent)
EB Jones
Copyright EB Jones 2013
All rights reserved. This story or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Disclaimer: All characters are fictional. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
“How long have you been having these doubts?” Dr. Renford says. He's wearing ridiculous horn-rimmed glasses. I want to tell him how silly he looks, but I know that's just evading the question.
“I guess...for a long time...maybe ever since we got together.” I squirm in the too-soft sofa, crossing and uncrossing my legs under my skirt. It's uncomfortable to talk about this, but I'm the one paying him. I should at least make an effort. My fiancée and I have been together for five years. We should have gotten married a long time ago, but we just never seemed to find the right time for it. And now, with a wedding date just six months away, things don't seem quite real. I guess I feel like I'm missing something.
“Tell me how that makes you feel.” he says. He's looking at me intently, occasionally scribbling a note on his yellow legal pad. There's a side lamp on a table next to his chair casting a soft yellow light. He's wearing brown leather loafers that look like he got them on sale in the last century. I wonder if he has a wife at home, someone to dress him properly. Probably not, I think.
And seriously...$125/hr and 'how does that make you feel?' is the best question he can come up with?
But it's the right question. “I guess I feel empty. Hollow. Like if I go through with it, get married, my life will be over. It just feels like I have so many loose ends, so many...things I want to try.”
“What kinds of things?” he says. Such a simple question. He cocks his chin up and I see where he missed a spot under his jawline when he was shaving this morning (bet doesn't even shave in front of a mirror).
Here's the problem – I don't want to tell Dr. Renford all the things I want to try, even with the money I'm paying him. So why bother even speaking with him, you might ask? That's a good question. I think it's because I'm hoping to hear him say, 'It's ok, you really should postpone the wedding and take some time for yourself to figure out your life.' That outside affirmation would feel really good right about now. But I don't want to – no...I mean I can't – share the specifics, the what.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm a bad person. Really, I do. It's not that I enjoy hurting people or anything like that. But I think I have a wiring problem in my brain, a part of me that enjoys sexual things that normal folks might find too far out there. And that's really the itch I can't scratch. I've read fantasies, written them down, watched videos, bought nearly every sex toy under the sun (in a plain brown mail-order wrapper of course), but that hasn't solved my problem.
The doctor isn't going to give me what I want. I dodge his question. “I don't know...I guess just things. You know how it is when you feel like all your life options are getting narrowed down to a choke point? That's what this engagement and the coming marriage feel like.”
An artful dodge, if I may say so myself. Vague, yet still providing him descriptive language about my feelings regarding the engagement. Will it be enough?
“I see,” he says. “It looks like time's about up. See you next week? Same time?” I think he looks like a desperate puppy with expensive letters after his name, now.
I lie. “Sure, that sounds good.” But I can always cancel the appointment later if I need to.
I don't bother checking in with the front desk on my way out; they have my billing information on file. I have the rest of the afternoon off from work. I could go shopping, buy groceries for dinner, and surprise Sam with a nice meal midweek. That would be oh-so-domestic and sweet of me as his future wife. And don't get me wrong, I do love him, I really do. But I have a hunger he can't satisfy. Needs that I will never tell him about. I know, he's my partner, soon to be my spouse; I should share everything. But this secret is just for me.
I walk out of the high rise building where Dr. Renford has his office and head up the street toward nowhere in particular, just to walk. It's raw and sunny, with a stiff wind – a typical San Francisco afternoon in the summer. And I imagine that I can feel the weight of the scrap of paper in my jacket pocket. There's a cell phone number on it, scrawled in my handwriting. I've never called it before.
Until now.
***
My fingers shake as I dial. I wait, then on the third ring a woman's voice picks up. “Password please.”
“Desperation,” I say. That's the code word (The instructions online said that you had to supply the code word before they'd continue the conversation.). Part of me can't believe that I just dialed a number that even required a code word in the first place. It all feels surreal.
“How may I help you?” Professional. As though she were taking a dinner reservation at an upscale restaurant.
“I'd like to engage your...services.”
“Very good. I'll go through our questionnaire. Simply provide the answers. Once it's complete, I'll take your billing information and we'll consider the business portion of the transaction complete.”
As simple as that. Almost too easy, I think.
“Type of fantasy?” she says.
“Non-consent...forced sex.” I swallow as I say the words. It feels so dirty. But I can't make myself say the R word. Even if that's my fantasy. I wish I could hide during this conversation. I'm still standing on the sidewalk, and I feel so exposed. But the people walking past me don't have a clue and couldn't give a fuck. I need to remember that.
“For this fantasy, you'll need a safe word,” she says. “We recommend something simple, easy to remember. Finito usually does the trick.”
“Ok, finito. I'll remember that.” I can't imagine using the safe word. I am paying for this to happen to me, after all. Does that make me a bad woman?
“Type of partner? Male, female, other?”
“Male. And if he can be tall and muscular – ”
“ – I assure you, miss, that all our men are of the highest physical and professional caliber.” She seems so certain of herself.
I have to think when she asks her next question. “With or without protection?” I am on the pill, and it feels so much hotter when there's no condom in the way. But I'm not sure, maybe that's too extreme. I don't even know if these guys are –
She reads my thought. “All of our men are tested, miss. I highly recommend unprotected. For the experience.” She speaks as though she's used her own company's services before. And why the hell not?
“Ok, yes. No condom.” I feel giddy now. I'm already trying to imagine how this is going to work. Where is this guy going to find me? What will he look like? How will I know it's him? That's part of what makes this so damn exciting. I can feel my slit moisten. I'm also afraid. I've never actually done this before.
“How soon are you ready for the experience?” she says. “We have men available right now.”
I could still hang up the phone. I haven't given her my credit card number
yet. I could go home to a normal life, indulge my fantasies only in my mind. But somehow I know that's not an option. If I don't go through with this, I'll always wonder. And I'm not a fan of regret, ever. I'm going to take the plunge. And there's no better way than diving in head first, right?
“Now. I'm ready now.” I feel my pulse in my toes now. It's a potent mix of excitement and fear.
'Very well,” she says. I hear typing, then she takes my physical description and billing information.
“How will he find me?” I ask.
“We use your cell phone signal,” she says.
It's all very cloak and dagger. Then the line goes dead. I realize that I've just paid a random stranger I haven't met yet to force me into sex. And I don't even know what he looks like.
***
I walk another block, then turn onto a side street. There's a French café ahead. I order a double Americano then take a table inside, to escape the wind. There's a young couple at one table, holding hands. At another table I see an older man with a newspaper and a coffee. He doesn't notice me. One man works the bar, looking bored and stealing glances at a soccer match on a small TV mounted behind him.
I wonder what I've just set in motion. At any moment, a man is going to come up to me, tell me to come with him, and force me to submit. The fantasy makes my clit ache as I focus on it. I'm sitting at a corner table, and I start to wonder if anyone would be able to see me if I slipped my hand down my skirt, then under my panties.
I'm not the masturbates in public type of girl. Not at all. But this urge is overwhelming. I haven't met the guy they're sending yet, but I'm getting wet just thinking about it. I wonder where he'll take me. In the meantime, I decide that I like this little café. Maybe I'll let him find me here; the customers don't seem too nosy. I like the view, too – there are big windows opening up into the street. Next to the bar, I see a short hallway leading to the bathroom. And the chairs are comfortable.
I see a man walk in. He's wearing an Italian suit and sunglasses. My pussy tingles at the sight of him. Is this is the guy? He looks like he walked straight out of a men's fashion ad. He orders an espresso and I see him take a seat at the bar. He doesn't look over at me. I want him to look at me. If he's the guy, then he could certainly be doing a better job of coming on to me. He takes off his sunglasses and puts them next to his cup.
The ache in my clit is throbbing, and I think about satisfying it – just this once. No one would notice. The thrill of touching myself in public would get me off, for sure. I move three fingers under my panties and begin to draw small, slow circles around my clit. I inhale deeply as I feel my longing build, a slow, steady flame growing brighter under my touch, the moisture building. But I'm curious. If this man in the tailored suit is the guy, my hired gun, I want to know why he hasn't even made an effort to notice me.
I decide to change course, taking my hand out of my panties, feeling flushed in my face. I'll approach him.
***
What's the best way to come on to a gorgeous guy you think you may have paid to force you into sex? It takes a second to wrap your head around that, right? The lady on the phone said I'd know when it was time, but I can't say that I know right now. I would love it to be this guy, absolutely love it, but I'm not sure it's him. Hell, I'm not even 50% sure.
Want has a curious way of overruling reason, though. I leave my corner table and join him at the bar, taking the stool next to his. I order an espresso this time. He's looking into his now empty cup.
“Hi, my name is Laura.” Not smooth, I think.
“Vittorio,” he says. He shakes my hand, and when he looks at me I can feel his stare burn into my flesh, examining every curve of my chest, then tracing a path down my legs. The attention makes me redden in my cheeks. “It's nice to have the company of a beautiful woman.”
Finally he notices, I think. About time.
“You live in town?” I say. I see that his shoulders are broad, and he has chiseled facial features that make me think maybe he's a professional athlete. Or independently wealthy with a cadre of personal trainers and chefs.
“No, just visiting. A game,” he says. “What you call soccer here in America.” I notice his foreign accent (Italian) and pat myself on the back for guessing right (I should know, I spent a semester in Florence during college.).
I uncross my legs and lean toward him, pouting my lips slightly before giving him a wide smile. I know I'm coming on to him now. It wasn't what I'd envisioned, but hell, I'll go with it. Just his cologne smell makes me ache for his cock.
He regards me with a half amused smile, then looks away. Snubbed. I can't fucking believe it, but he just blew me off. I finish my espresso, put two dollars on the table as a tip, and get up to go to the bathroom.
What a dud. I'm pissed.
***
At least this bathroom is clean – the help put out a vase of cut lavendar, the walls are done with warm pastel colors, and the vintage mirror says high-end provençal. I wash up, then open the door to leave. Vittorio is standing a few feet away. I give him a cold stare. He smiles back, amused perhaps, with a hint of menace.
“All yours,” I say as I walk past him. Suddenly I feel two strong hands grab me, one on each arm. What the –
Before I realize what's happened, he's spun me so that my back is facing the wall in the small hallway. My arms are up, his hands pinning my wrists against the wall. He's pressed himself close now, almost touching my chest with the breast of his white suit.
“You thought you could just come on to me like a little whore, didn't you?” he says. “Don't think I didn't smell the cunt juice on your fingers after you shook my hand. You wanted this, didn't you?”
I don't know what to answer. In fact, I realize that I can't speak. He's immobilized me, my heart is pounding, and I'm incapable of speech. He takes my arms down and twists them behind my back. I wince in pain. He turns me around, back toward the bathroom door.
“Walk,” he says. “You're going to get what you deserve.”
My heart is pounding now. I feel it in my chest and my toes and my head. There's fear there, too. I'm not sure this was supposed to be the guy. It looks like I just pissed off some random Italian soccer player. And I don't know what he's capable of.
“I could scream,” I say. I watch him turn to lock the bathroom door. We're alone. Then he faces me.
“I could make you wish you'd never opened your mouth, you little cunt. Now on your knees.” He walks toward me until my back is up against the bathroom wall. I have nowhere else to go. His hands move to his pants with mechanical efficiency, and he unzips them. He pulls out what must be a thick, ten inches of cock, pulsing with his animal lust. It's hard, and he wraps one hand around it.
“If you suck this well enough, I won't have to hurt you,” he says. I open my mouth, then feel his fingers grab onto my hair as he pushes my mouth roughly onto his meat. He thrusts forward, shoving his cock toward the back of my throat. I feel the need to gag, then cough up mucous. He pulls out for a brief moment to admire the thick coating of saliva on his cock, then shoves it back down my throat.
“That's right, you suck this cock like a good little princess,” he says. He fucks my mouth hard. When his shaft enters my mouth, I wrap my tongue around the firm, pulsing flesh. I feel the urge build once more in my clit, the throbbing ache. The need for satisfaction. I feel dirty; this encounter is so clearly wrong, but I can't help feeling more sexually charged now than I ever have before.
I look up and see him tilt his head back and moan. He has two days of stubble on his face, a roughness that only serves to make him more alluring. I crave his thick cock. My slit is wet, sopping wet with my juices.
“You look like you have a tight little pussy,” he says. “Let's see how tight.” He takes his thick shaft out of my mouth and pulls off his suit jacket, button down shirt, and pants. He's wearing only briefs and a t-shirt now, and I appreciate the sculpted bands of defined muscle that I can see through the tight t-shirt. He pu
ts his hands on my waist, turning me roughly until I'm facing the wall. “Face right there,” he says. “And don't move.” I brace myself against the wall with my arms, waiting for what's next.
I feel him behind me, close now. He lifts up my skirt with both hands, and then I hear a tearing, feel a brief sting from the stretch of the fabric, as he rips my panties away from my body. Just like that – gone. My wet slit feels empty, but nothing about this encounter says it was planned. I'm certain that I'm getting forced into sex by the wrong guy. And it is the most marvelous sensation ever.
He takes what he wants. That's what is getting me off.
First he's close, and then I feel his cock spread my slit open as he dives into my tight little pussy. He stretches out my walls, fills my cunt with his meat. I moan out loud, so loud that I wonder if the people in the café hear me. He begins to fuck me from behind, and I feel both of his hands close around my throat. I've never been choked before. Never felt the sensation of strong fingers wrapping around my carotid artery and windpipe, never felt so exposed and vulnerable. He squeezes just enough to heighten the sensation of flying, of diving and turning and dancing so close to my own orgasm. I think that I see my vision begin to close, to fade to black, and my body lives only for the sensation of feeling his cock fill me up, and then he relaxes his grip and oxygen floods my awareness with knowing.
