“I didn’t think you were partial to beds, Rene. Toilets seem more your speed.”
The slick bastard didn’t miss a beat. “That’s for Marie’s sake. She needs the exposure, the humiliation to get off. How about you? What’s your thing?”
“Right now?” I sighed. “That would be a man with about six million in disposable income, a private jet capable of flying to the Pacific at the drop of a hat and a black belt in karate. Some heavy duty mob connections wouldn’t hurt either.”
Rene licked his lips, like a wolf eyeing prey. “You have a smart mouth; I like that.” I traced his eyes to my chest. If not for the loose denim shirt, he’d be seeing a pair of bullets—tips of breasts far more interested in this hard-bodied cretin than was warranted by common sense.
“Don’t you think you’ve kept your little pet waiting long enough?” I hissed, trying for my best viper impression.
Rene reached out, grazing my nipples insolently. I gasped, the heat scorching through both shirt and bra.
“No,” he shook his head, moving his hand to my lap, “Marie likes to have to wait. It makes her feel more…used.”
I tried to catch my breath. I should be fighting the man off, or at least searing him with caustic remarks.
“You will meet me in the lavatory,” he ran his finger across my cheek to my lips. “I will knock three times. You will be naked for me.”
My teeth snapped, too slow to catch him. “Fuck you,” I spat back.
Rene was grinning as he rose—just as smugly as ever, as if my words had meant nothing. He’d come to tell me he planned to fuck me and now he expected me to respond—to go running to the toilet like a collared bitch, a she-slave without an ounce of will or self respect.
I squeezed my thighs together. Rene was back in his own seat, picking up where he’d left off, taking Marie’s lips with the same mouth that he’d used to proposition me, caressing her quivering, perfect belly with the same hand that had touched my breasts, my thigh, my cheeks.
He was a pig, that’s what he was. A pig who’d made me dripping wet, wanting sex despite—or maybe because of all my troubles. What is it about the wrong man, at the completely wrong time and place that leaves a girl creaming in her panties so?
My legs almost buckled underneath me as I rose. I was moving the way you do in dreams. Sort of floating, aware of all kinds of strange details, but not really grasping the big picture. It’s like there’s this voice playing in your head, narrating what you are doing, and though you know it’s you, you’re still watching it from somewhere else.
Watching yourself walk to the lavatory of a commercial jetliner where you are going to take off all your clothes and wait for a man, a total stranger with no respect at all for women, to come for you, to use you for sex. He will knock three times, and you will let him in so he can fuck you, like a whore and slut.
Oddly enough, I found myself thinking of Marie, of this sweet, angelic girl, barely a woman who craved exposure and humiliation, who needed a man who would spank her ass in a crowded airport in front of hundreds of witnesses, who would blatantly prostitute her mouth in the bathroom and whose ideas of sweet nothings was to whisper as he groped at her in line: “Later…the belt.”
And now Marie was going to let him go so he could have intercourse with a dark haired American woman, ten years her elder in yet another bathroom. Would he tell her later how it was, what it was like to put his cock inside me, to slide himself in and out till he released his load into my womb at fifty thousand feet in the air?
Then again, what if he was teasing, bluffing. Maybe he wouldn’t come for me at all. I slammed shut the metal door behind me, painfully thin. Panting liberally under my denim and cotton, my back to the mirrored surface, I imagined a whole different scenario. Rene, having a good laugh, diddling and enjoying his teen honey with her perfect flesh and perfect teeth while the twenty-eight-year-old has-been slut waits like some kind of mindless brood mare.
How long had I been here already? Ten seconds? Ten minutes? Half an hour?
And why couldn’t it be Jeremy Rich in this position; committed to stripping down, so some hunk could give him the reaming of his life. I’d do it to him if I were a man. But I’m not. I’m female, and at times like this that is a damned exasperating fact.
My heart slammed in my chest as I unbuttoned my shirt. There had to be rules against this nowadays—some kind of safety laws. I was liable to end up in the custody of some sky marshal instead of in a warm, sexual embrace. The floor vibrated under my bare feet as one by one I abandoned the sandals. This was reality now—me touching corrugated steel, the humming cigar tube full of passengers, a flying cock.
Good girls didn’t do this said the voice in mine and every other American girl’s head. Only sluts. Or worse.
There was barely room in which to maneuver out of my jeans. If they had cameras…no, I couldn’t go there. I had to unsnap my bra, let my tits free. This thing had a momentum all its own now. Nude and ready for the mile high club: that was my goal, my imagined future. I nearly came as I tugged down the panties. Such a joke of a garment—covering everything yet protecting nothing.
Back at Baldo State, they had a number of uses for feminine underwear, some symbolic, some deliciously and deviously practical. Tying a girl’s hands, for example, the better to keep them out of the way while you enjoy nature’s bounty at one or more of her three available holes. Or, if you prefer your sex objects to be of the silent variety, they can function as a gag, neatly wadded and shoved into her open mouth—preferably with a saturated solution of her own juices.
Bras weren’t any better in this regard. The night before the big game with Central U., Jenn-Jenn convinced the varsity team to leave the two of us hog-tied on the opposing team’s field, bound with our very own bras. I thought we’d never stop coming that night as we rubbed ourselves on the Astroturf. Or laughing.
“Face it,” Jenn-Jenn told me once as we were dressing for a varsity lingerie party. “We were made to please men—it’s in the genetics, not to mention the fashions. Look at me, Rave; what could this getup possibly say except, ‘grab me, knock me over the head, drag me back to your cave and put a baby in my tummy’? Hell,” she’d said, snapping her bra straps. “We even come with our own built in bondage gear.”
I’d beheld the stunning blonde in her pink lace, her body glamorously petite, perfectly proportioned as she posed for me, so devilishly proud of the wispy little bra and panties she would wear under her overcoat to the party. Any number of football players could—and would—use those garments to tie her, display her and subjugate her. How I envied Jenn-Jenn her easy sexuality, the way she kept her dignity, glowing all the more brightly the more men were on her and in her. Slobbering drunk, rude and disrespectful, tearing her clothes, none of it mattered.
Mattered? In truth, it was her life’s blood. Me? I wore royal blue that night, and I fucked just as hard.
My hand was between my legs now, unsuccessfully mopping the whelming flood. Juices dripped down my thighs while my tits were screaming out for attention. Finding the miniature metal seat with the trap door into nothingness, I collapsed. James Dean Junior might not bother to show, but I’d have a good old time just the same.
There was a rap at the door. I froze at the sound. A second followed, crisp, the definitive impact of flesh and knuckle on the thinly layered metal. One more, and…
There it was. Followed by…silence. The blood pounded in my head. Was it really him, or was it some mistake? Would I open the door on some Boy Scout, or unsuspecting old lady? I could kiss my freedom, not to mention my life goodbye in a hurry if that happened. I’d be on the front page of every newspaper; they might as well put a neon sign over me: Attention all Galentano brothers, cousins, aunts and uncles. Come and rub me out for the crimes of my scum-sucking partner.
I put my ear to the mirror-coated door, acutely conscious of my naked flesh, every inch, and every pore. “Rene? Is that you?”
Nothing.
&nb
sp; My blood vessels were going to burst.
Fuck it. I pulled back the door latch, announcing to the world that the room was now vacant. At once, the door collapsed inward. A pair of hands was pushing at me, moving me back, hard against the sink.
“You hesitated in letting me in,” said Rene, re-closing the door and engaging the lock. “Why?”
We were face to face, my skin abutting his denim and leather, soft femininity against hard muscle, the metal belt buckle digging into my lower belly. “I…”
“Never mind,” he spun me round, shoving me against the tiny metal basin. “You must be punished. No pleasure, only pain.”
“Rene, no!”
The Frenchman’s hand collided against my quivering buttocks, igniting waves of heat through my trapped body.
“If you scream,” he pointed out. “We will be caught.”
Bracing my hands on the mirror, teeth clenched, I endured another three blows, each more terrible than the last. Finally, I heard the sound of his zipper and a moment later he was grunting, his hand on my back for support, his thigh wedged against mine for leverage as he began to stroke himself.
My heart sank. So that’s what he meant by pain and no pleasure; he was going to come on my red-hot punished ass without touching or penetrating me. Shades of Jeremy’s games, when he’d bend me over the desk, take down my designer panties and ejaculate over my goose-pimpled skin while watching the closing quotes from the NASDAQ. Me, bare breasted, my tits squashed against the latest printouts, stifling the moans while on the other side of the glass wall our staff pretended not to notice.
“Mmm, that’s it, slut,” he intoned approvingly, his heated voice returning to its natural Gallic roots. “Oui, oui.”
I moaned in frustration as the jets of thick, warm fluid erupted over my back and buttocks. I’d been used. Again. Without another word, having finished himself off, Rene wiped his sweaty palms in my limp, unfurled hair and re-zipped himself.
A series of clicks—the opening and shutting of the door—announced his departure, and that was that. Naked, my flesh covered in Rene’s jism, I had been left to clean up myself.
I swore I would feel nothing, but as I moved to clean myself with a thick stack of pre-folded paper towels, it came to me. A whisper in my ear, a voice in my head, recounting what a slut I was, and how dirty and disgusting it was, and what a stupid little fool I’d been, with Jeremy Rich and pretty much every other man I’d ever allowed to screw me.
But the voice wanted more than my shame. Whether it was Rene’s subconscious will or my own, I don’t know, but of their own will, my trembling fingers moved to scoop as much as I could of the offensive, woman-impregnating substance as I could reach off of my ass and onto my hand. Fingers trembling, I tasted it then, putting it on my tongue, flicking it over the roof of my mouth. Eyes closed, I shuddered, feeling so absolutely weak and delicious—like I was being fucked, controlled and humiliated all at once.
Down went Rene’s tasty load as I sucked greedily on my glistening fingers. Hungry for more, I reached around again to my backside. Every precious drop I could get to, I recovered now, one hand moving back and forth from my ass to my mouth, the other buried in my crotch, stroking my clit. Over and over I came this way, all the while picturing his face, that arrogant grin, from the first time he’d laid eyes on me, like he knew I would be doing this. Degrading myself, serving as his de facto whore, like Marie, or maybe worse, because the man had never even asked my name or bought me dinners or flowers.
Eventually Rene’s jism was gone and I was, too. What to do now? Smiling wickedly in the glow of a sudden, dark, inspiration, I dressed myself and returned to my seat. As I suspected he would be, Rene was feigning sleep, arms folded, head on his strong chest. But the well sated, post-orgasmic Marie was watching me, warily as ever, and that was good enough for my purposes.
I saved the gesture for just the right moment, licking the visible bit of semen I’d placed prominently on my lips just as I readied myself to sit down. Little Marie’s expression was priceless: shocked, wounded eyes and pouting lips that belied her earlier bravado. I continued to smile about it all the way to New York, delighting in the fact that I knew something that Rene, for all his Svengali-like powers over the fair sex, did not.
Marie was not just playing sex games with the boy. She was in love with him, and that was going to be his undoing, sooner or later.
Chapter Two
All right, so I can be a bitch sometimes.
Handing Rene my cell number right under his girlfriend’s nose on the way off the plane was definitely over the top. The thing is, I’ve never been outdone by a man before, and I wasn’t about to have happen now. Nor was I ready to forgive little Marie Antoinette’s contemptuous stares all the way to New York like I was some piece of stale meat and she was a freaking queen.
I made my move as we deplaned, stopping just in front of the pair at the doorway of the Seven—Whatever—It—Was jet, making a point of holding up the line as I handed him the little folded paper, decorated with a high gloss, lipstick kiss.
“Call me,” I told him in flawless French, “if you ever want a real woman.”
One last look at the fuming half-child Marie for fun and I was sashaying down the ramp. I’m not sure what if anything they might do to me, but I resisted looking back, making a point of walking as quickly as my flimsy sandals would allow.
My mission now was to find Jennifer. In the old days, back in ancient times when you could meet people at the gate, I’d have been smothered by a million Jenn-Jenn kisses before I could draw a full breath of stale, terminal air. As it was, I’d have to find her somewhere on the other side of security, flirting among the baggage carousels or catching a quick smoke with one of the captains in the flight lounge.
But you couldn’t do that anymore, either. Smoking, that is. And besides, Jenn-Jenn was engaged. Again. This time, she had assured me during our brief phone call, it was for keeps. The guy was rich; I knew that much from her offer to send a private plane for me. Beyond that all she’d said, in typically effusive, ever sensual blonde talk, was that her honey was straight out of a fairy tale: the best lover and provider any woman could ever dream of.
I’d believe that when I saw it. Jeremy Rich had seemed pretty dreamy, before I got close enough to see the scales and claws under his wings.
And so here I was, straight off the red eye, somewhere between midnight and dawn, my fate in the hands of the notoriously naked city. One tale among—what was it now? Nine million? Where would Rene and Marie be going? I wondered. Would they head off to some hotel, or did he have other plans for her? A hotel room would allow him to ravish her in private and to follow through on his promise—or was it a threat—to punish her with his belt. Then again, in the airport, or out on the street, there were other games they could play. Dirty, nasty ones.
Exposure and humiliation, Rene had said. That was Marie’s game.
And what is yours? he’d asked me, in that thick hot voice of his. The words went down my spine with a shiver; from the flush in my cheeks to the burning in my reddened behind. Lost to my thoughts now, I took my place at the carousel, watching the unclaimed suitcases spin, wishing I could claim a new life as easily as one could a valise.
“Rave, sweetie!” Jenn-Jenn’s shrieking voice was unmistakable as was the rapidly increasing volume which indicated she was headed for an open armed collision with either me or the conveyor belt, whichever came first.
I turned just in time to intercept her, my newly retrieved suitcase in hand.
“Honey, you don’t know how much I’ve missed you,” breathed the petite blonde into my collarbone as she subjected me to the bear hug of my life.
“Me, too,” I agreed, wondering how long I could make it without oxygen.
Abruptly she pushed me back, and gave me a careful scrutinizing. “Here, let me look at you! Oh, Rave, you look gorgeous as ever.”
“Fat as ever,” I grimaced, lamenting as always my lack of a size zer
o supermodel figure.
She gave me the eye. “Honey, please. You could give a corpse wood and you know it.”
I blushed good-naturedly. Jenn-Jenn was the only person in the world I’d ever let compliment me without a fight. “You look good, too,” I deflected. “If only I were a man.”
Jennifer Leighton, who at one point last year was Jennifer Carleton and who would soon be Jennifer Somebody-Else threw out her left hip and fluffed her hair in a classic bombshell spoof. “Thanks, Mr. President. Why don’t you come up and see me some time?” the one-time runner-up Miss Texas drawled, mixing her Marilyn with her Mae West.
I laughed, the tension spilling out of me like a waterfall. It was the first good bout of hysteria I’d enjoyed since the stock price of Metrix Global, the biggest piece of my investor’s portfolio had disappeared off the bottom of the chart along with Jeremy Rich.
Jennifer blinked now, looking innocent as can be in her pinstripe skirt suit, her sunny yellow hair straight and silky, cut to her shoulders with delicious little bangs. “Was it something I said?”
I shook my head. “You’re still the original blonde joke, you know that, Jenn-Jenn?”
“Really? Oh, well. Enough about me.” She swooped in and took my arm as simultaneously a tall, silk suited man moved in to my other side to assume possession of my suitcase. “You’ve been through hell, and we’re going to get you out. Don’t mind Rolf; he works for my fiancée.”
I got a load of the broad shoulders, the piercing gaze, the sharp, Olympic swimmer lines. Rolf was a bodyguard by the looks of him. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, with a rugged, square chin. The perfect model of Aryan purity.
“I had a lot more things, but I was in a hurry,” I said lamely as we walked down the corridor, as though I had to justify my lack of more substantial luggage.
“I’m just glad you made it,” Jenn-Jenn grabbed at my arm, looking up at me like a small child at Christmas. “Is it really true what you said that men from the Mafia are after you? I watch The Sopranos, you know, every week.”
Own This Body Page 2
