by Tasha Fawkes
Her response is expected; still, it lets me down.
"I realize the age difference can cause some problems, dear," she says, lifting her fork again. "But do what you can to keep her happy, will you? She's adorable, and I like her very much. Yes, she has some growing up to do, but with her social status, her upbringing, and her family connections, this is a good thing."
I’ve lost my appetite before I've taken one bite and place my fork back on the plate. "Mother, I understand how business connections work. Family ties and all that. But to be brutally honest, Karen cares more about the materialistic things than—"
"You have to be patient," she interrupts. "Yes, she's younger than you, but she'll mature. You just have to give her time."
Time. Time will not change Karen. Time will only make her worse; more condescending, more demanding, more annoying. Ashley is only a couple of years older than Karen, but she has her shit together. She has a job that requires not only skill, but the ability to work under pressure, under deadlines. She just doesn't edit for the sake of making sure that all the Ts are crossed and the Is dotted. Ashley works hard with every author to make their books the best they can be. She cares. She’s invested.
Come to think of it, I’ve never even asked Karen what she wants to do with her life. What does she want two years, five years, or ten years down the line? Where does she want to be? She comes from prestigious ancestry, from old family money. Unfortunately, I quickly learned, from my mother no less, that her family money had just about been depleted, which is why Karen's parents’ approached my mother. To make a deal, throwing the family back into the seventeenth century with what my mother called a "merger marriage". I called it something different. A marriage without emotion or affection and disregard of faults. With this marriage, Karen's family will get the money they need, and my mother and the family company will get the political connections that my mother feels we need to move up.
That's what Karen wants. To move up. But move up to where? I have no political aspirations—but maybe she and my mother feel that’s where the 'up' is. As far as I know, my mother hasn't dabbled in politics. Ever. So what is the ultimate goal? It has to be the money. Karen probably bleeds green for all I know. I shake my head. I have to remember that I don't have to love Karen. I can still have my secrets. My subs.
I didn’t refuse my mother's request for me to marry Karen. Why? I still can’t understand it. Is it some pseudo-psychological need in me to finally do something that pleases her, that will convince me that she loves me, or—
I grunt and turn to look out the window. What the hell? I didn’t really care all that much about the entire deal until now. And why is that? Because I read Ashley's manuscript. Saw in her… what? A kindred soul? What a sack full of shit. Still, there it is. The two women are as different as night and day.
When I met Karen for the first time, she had regaled me ad nauseum about the years she attended boarding school in France, her world travels, and her family's ancestry. Supposedly they came over on the Mayflower. Trying to impress me. She tried too hard, and I saw right through it. She was all shiny on the surface and more than easy on the eyes, but I had yet to find any real substance underneath. Sometimes when we went to a function or a dinner, she even spoke with a French accent to fool people, or so she said. To me it came across like she was just trying to lord it over them. Yes, Karen is beautiful, but she is a drama queen; she can be quite pretentious; and to make matters worse, she’s a manipulator. She pouts to get her way with me. With others, she orders, and if she doesn't get what she wants, she makes their lives hell.
When we met, I hinted that I'd had sexual relationships with women in the past. That was to be expected, she'd said, automatically assuming that since we'd met, my dabbling days were over. She merely shrugged and intimated that such was to be expected of men, but after we were married, my dabbling would of course cease immediately. About a week after that, she backtracked slightly and, in not so many words, intimated that she didn't care if I dabbled once in a while, as long as it was kept secret and I didn't develop any kind of a serious relationship with the woman in question.
Once the agreement of our match was settled by our respective parents, she came right out and told me that it didn't really matter to her what I did. But I had already begun to believe that she viewed me as a possession. One to hold but not to cherish. As far as she was concerned, appearances were essential. I know she doesn't love me, any more than I feel anything for her. What I do get from her is that I’m "hers". Basically, if she can't have me, no one else will either.
What the hell did I agreed to? And how in the hell can I tell that to my mother? If I back out now, she'll be humiliated, a subject of gossip, and believe me, I know how fast and ugly gossip travels in this town.
Karen puts on such a good front when we’re around our respective parents. Actually, Karen's parents as well as my mom honestly believe that Karen is head over heels in love with me. She isn't being cruel to my mother. She actually likes my mother a great deal. She said they are two birds of a feather. I believe it.
So, there is the question again. Why did I allow myself to be talked into this? At first, I didn't think it really mattered. My mother would get the political clout she seemed to think we needed—that our company needed—along with another network of potential partners, clients, and associates. She can't possibly think she’s actually doing me a favor… finding me a wife, a partner? I sigh. If she only knew…
"You'll think about it, won't you, Daniel?"
I glance up, not even bothering to ask what she was talking about. I totally spaced out. I nod, offering a small smile. "Of course, I will." That seems to calm her, whatever was talking about, and we both finish breakfast; she with a self-satisfied smile, and me just going through the motions with only one thought in my head.
When will I see Ashley again?
Sixteen
Ashley
I’m back at work, trying desperately to concentrate on my job. I think I've read the same manuscript page five times but my mind keeps wandering. The holidays are over. Time to get back to work. After taking several days off over the holiday season, I’m woefully behind.
Unfortunately, I’m so distracted it seems impossible to focus on editing. I read the words on the computer screen, dotted with red font that substitutes for my red editor's pen, but all I can see in my mind's eye is Daniel. Great. It was bad enough when I had a one-sided crush on him, admiring him from afar. Now? Did I just drop into a rabbit hole? Am I destined to make my life miserable because of my growing attraction to him? Even at that moment, trying to concentrate, I know what is happening.
The newness of our secret relationship is not solely to blame. For me, spending time with Daniel is exquisite. It isn't just the sex either, which, after a few experiments, I found far less intimidating and much more invigorating than I ever imagined. That basement of his…
"Stop it," I whisper, once again forcing my attention back to the manuscript. I can't allow myself to grow attached to Daniel. Impossible. I’m good at keeping my feelings to myself, or at least I am unless I put them down on paper. As in my manuscript, where all my inner feelings have been allowed to see the light of day. On my laptop. If I hadn't left my laptop open, if he hadn't read my manuscript, if we hadn't "indulged" in his basement playroom several times already, I wouldn't be in this position.
I’m not sure which was worse. Admiring him in secret or growing fonder of him with every moment we spend together. Even though I know that my attachment to him won’t be reciprocated, at least not in the way I would like, it’s still better. Being with him is better. He’s fascinating. Handsome with a gorgeous, hard body. But oh, so much more than that. I want to know everything there is to know about Daniel Stone. Not his resume. The person. At the same time, I know doing so is fruitless.
Daniel made no promises. Nothing of the sort. I know that he isn't just mentoring me so that I can write better. I also know I’m not his only sex partne
r. It’s obvious by his experience and confidence in that underground world that he belongs to, and apparently has, for quite some time. And along with that world comes a multitude of sexual partners and subs. I understand that. At the same time…
"Ashley!"
I glance up at Tory's hiss, her eyes wide and one hand, hidden from view by others in the room in front of her chest. Her index finger pointing down the hallway, at the end of which is Daniel's office. My eyes widen when I see him standing near the end of the hallway opening into our large office space divided into cubicles, frowning.
"Didn't you hear him? He's asked for you twice!"
I shake my head to clear my mind, nod in his direction as I stand, ignoring the curious gazes from not only Tory, but two other editors as I cross the main room and approach Daniel, straightening my skirt as I go. Rather proud of my performance, I smile as I approach.
"I'm sorry, Mister Stone, I was embroiled in a manuscript-"
"If you have a moment, I'd like to talk to you about the Jespersen manuscript you edited last week."
"Of course," I say, following him down the short hallway to his office. His expression appears harsh. Am I in trouble? Did he change his mind about us? My mind jumps from one worry to another. Is he going to curtail our secret relationship, or even worse, fire me? I shake my head. Don't be stupid. Nothing is wrong. Our interactions at the office have to continue as they always have. Pure business. I’m quite proud of the work I’d done on the Jespersen manuscript. I can only wait and see what he wants.
I follow him into the office. He shuts the door, locks it, and then practically body-blocks me from entering the room. My back bumps against the door and he raises both hands and places them on either side of my shoulders, effectively trapping me. I stare up into his green eyes, uncertain. Why is—
"Take your clothes off," he growls.
I stare up at him, startled as a flush of heat rises in my chest and travels up my neck until my cheeks flame with heat as well. "Here?" I gasp. "You want me to take my—"
One hand moves quickly, grabbing a handful of my hair. He takes a step closer, his gaze never leaving mine. My scalp tingles. His other hand leaves the door and gropes my breast. I immediately feel a surge of wetness between my legs and my nipples tingle. He wants to—
"I said to take your clothes off. If you don't obey, you're going to pay for your lack of obedience."
My heart skips a beat. He’s serious. He wants to… in his office, in the middle of the day! I know I have to obey, but at the same time, what if somebody—
His grip on my hair tightens. I wince. Without further thought, I quickly unbutton my blouse. He watches my every move. My trembling fingers unlatch my bra, which hooks in the front. His gaze dips from my face down to my breasts, and I feel my nipples harden under his gaze. I waste no time unzipping my skirt, stepping out of my slip-on flats, and divesting myself of my thong. I stand naked in front of him, waiting for his next command.
"Blow me."
Again, it takes my mind a few seconds to catch up with his words. As I stand there, dismayed, his hand moves. A second after that I feel the open palm of his hand slap the side of my ass. I gasp.
"Did you hear me? I said blow me."
Praying that no one will knock on the door, that no one in the outer office had any indication of what we are doing in here, I quickly nod and reach for his belt.
"No."
His grip on my hair forces my chin upward, forcing me to look up at his face. His expression blank, his gaze roams my body. I glance quickly away. He stands so close that I feel the bulge in his trousers.
"Faster."
I glance up again to find him looking at my face, no clue as to what he’s thinking, but my fingers work faster. He doesn't want me to unbuckle his belt, so I proceed to lower his zipper. He remains silent. I reach inside and feel thin fabric. Boxers. I find the opening and reach for his cock. It’s rock hard. I wrap my hand around it and maneuver it upward along his inner thigh until it juts from his pants. I glance down at it, not sure exactly—
Both hands on my shoulders, he pushes me downward. Kneeling. His engorged penis aims straight at my face. His hands leave my shoulders and grab either side of my head.
My heart pounding, I take him into my mouth. For several seconds, he remains perfectly still. I freak a little bit, because I don't particularly like doing this, not with Stewart, not with any of my previous boyfriends, and maybe not—
"Suck harder."
I tighten my lips around his head. I grasp his cock at its base with one hand using a firm grip, slowly stroking and laving his shaft with my tongue while at the same time minimizing the length his dick can reach into my mouth. I have a pretty good gag reflex, and if—
"Let go."
His dick still in my mouth, my hand still wrapped around it, I glance upward. He isn't looking at me, but staring at the door, jaw tight and eyes half-closed. I don't want to let go. I don't want him shoving his cock down my throat. I don't want… should I use my safeword? No. He isn't hurting me, he isn't putting me in any danger, but I definitely don't want… it isn't about what I want. At the moment, it’s all about what he wants. Reluctantly, I release my grip on his cock. I continue to suckle, my hands braced against the outside of his rock-hard thighs. He presses his hips forward, his shaft sliding deeper into my mouth. His head touches the back part of the roof of my mouth. Instinctively, I pull my head back. He growls low in his throat and tightened his grip on my head.
"Don't move."
I still myself and continue to suck, gradually increasing pressure, then easing back, all the while his hips begin to thrust a bit harder, a bit faster. And then it happens. His dick goes too far. He holds my head in a vice-like grip and I panic. The gag reflex kicks in and I barely prevent myself from biting him while a horrid sound rips from my throat. My grip on his legs tightens.
He freezes. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, not wanting to look up at him. I don't want to see anger or annoyance. I feel embarrassed, but I can't help it. So, I kneel there, his cock in my mouth, my tongue hesitantly rolling over his head. He says nothing but he lets go of my head.
Wanting to please him and make up for the fact that I gagged… actually gagged… I continue the momentum while he stands perfectly still. I worship his thick, pulsating cock with my tongue, suckling for a second, then using my tongue to stroke along his length. I pause to suckle again on his head gently, even once or twice nibbling softly at the tender, glistening flesh there. I make a humming sound deep in my throat, but they come out more like passionate moans, which they actually are.
My own desire surges. My breasts ache for his touch, as does my pussy, gently contracting and relaxing in much the same rhythm as my mouth along his cock. I continue to moan, not because he asked me to, but because at this moment, I’m supremely happy and self-satisfied with myself. I can't believe I’m doing this; giving Daniel Stone a blowjob in his office while just outside the door my peers work away, none the wiser. He shifts and his hands clasp my shoulders.
"Get up."
I release him from my mouth and immediately stand, looking up at him. His pupils dilate, he stares down at me and then gestures with his chin toward his desk.
"Go stand beside my desk, facing it."
I do as he demands, but not before I glance down at his engorged shaft. It’s dark, throbbing, pulsing with a life of its own, the veins threading along its surface filled with pulsating blood that causes that shaft to do a little dance of its own. His head glistens with moisture. I walk over to the desk and stand with my back toward him. He approaches from behind.
"Bend over and grab each corner of the desk with your hands.”
I face the narrow side of his desk and do as he asked, my body tilting slightly forward.
"Back up,” he commands.
His hands on my hips, he forces my feet to move several inches back.
"Spread your legs."
I do and hear him move toward the window. I h
ear a zipper and then a rustling sound. He kneels and grasps my left ankle and wraps something soft around it. I hear a clinking noise, and then realize what he’s doing. A leg spreader. It’s maybe twenty-four inches long. In a matter of seconds, the cuffs are placed around my ankles. I lean over the desk at a forty-five-degree angle. He adjusts my positioning to exactly how he wants me. Occasionally I feel his cock brush against my thigh or my ass. My wet and throbbing pussy aches for him but he takes his time. The anticipation is killing me. I want to tell him to hurry, but I can't. He’s the Master. Not me.
I hear him shuffling nearby, then the sound of tearing. The snap of plastic. Another surge of wetness moistens my slit as I realize he’s slipped on a condom.
"This room is soundproofed," he says. "But I don't want you to make a sound. Do you understand?"
I nod, swallowing. He had his office soundproofed? When? How— What is he going to do? Why would I scream—
In one, swift, powerful thrust, he enters me from behind, surging deep into my wetness. It’s so hard, so fast, and so unexpected that I can't prevent the gasp that escapes my throat.
"I told you to be quiet!" he hisses.
A hand reaches under my arm and grabs my breast, squeezing. I wince but keep quiet. Several seconds later his grip eases and his fingers tweak my nipples. Touch gently and then grope again. Pain, pleasure. Pleasure, pain. Not blinding hot pain, just enough to awaken my nerves. His hips thrust forward forcefully. Even through the fabric of his trousers during that brief contact, I feel his heat, the occasional brush of his legs against the back of mine. Despite my awkward positioning, I feel my own desire burgeoning. Every time his cock fills me and he dives deep inside, I feel as if I’ll burst.
He remains perfectly silent, only his hips moving. His breathing grows harsher and deeper. He pushes down against my upper back, so much so that my face is nearly pressed onto the surface of the desk. I desperately want to let go of that desk, to reach back, to touch him, anywhere, but I don't dare. And then, with two final thrusts, I hear the soft, rumbling groan rumble upward from his chest.
