by Diana Castle
“Don’t move,” he barked. “Remain still.”
She did as he ordered, his cock hammering inside her pussy. She kept coming. Hard, vibrating, scorching waves, the blood racing through her veins, her heart beating madly in her chest. It felt as if she were never going to stop coming.
“Everett,” she cried. “Oh, god, please, please.”
He pushed her hard against the pole with his hips, her clit pressing against its coldness. “What, Helen? What do you want?”
“Don’t stop.” she gasped.
“Don’t stop what? Fucking you?”
She nodded, unable to speak. Her orgasm was relentless, lashing through her body with a force that consumed her. Her raw, harsh moans accompanied his deep, thick grunts, his wild, powerful thrusts inside her cunt like a counterpoint measure of the most erotic and sensual tones.
“I can fuck you all night, Helen. But I’m in a mood. I want to whip you some more.”
He plunged his rock hard cock deep inside her, his hips snapping firmly against her ass. She cried out and shuddered as she felt him stiffen and his seed boil inside her. He came for a long time, his body rigid against hers. Some of his cum dripped from around his cock where it was firmly lodged inside her, the sticky wetness glazing her upper thighs.
Slowly, he pulled out of her, the slick sensation of his cock sliding between the sore lips of her pussy extremely gratifying.
“You know what to say,” he whispered against her ear.
Yes, she knew exactly what to say.
She gripped the pole, arched her spine, and thrust her buttocks toward him. “More, master. Please.”
She felt him move away from her. Heard the tawse whistle through the air. Felt the hard, burning blow of its straps striking against her tender skin.
Her body jerked hard in response, her mouth open, her lips trembling, a cry of utter ecstasy blooming in her throat.
Pain.
Pleasure.
The world without and her desires within.
Equilibrium.
Blue Kiss
I shouldn’t have ordered. The last thing on my mind is food. I push away my untouched plate of baked chicken, garlic red potatoes and roasted asparagus with pomegranate-lime dressing.
My co-worker cum boyfriend Keith Molale sits across the table from me. He’s nearly done with his dinner; black bass with chickpeas, clams and chorizo.
He looks over at me and frowns. “You’re not eating.”
My stomach tightens and the smell of my food is suddenly nauseating to me. It was my suggestion that we go out to dinner. Now you couldn’t pay me to eat anything that’s on my plate. It’s not the food. It was smelling delicious right up until this moment. No, it’s me. I’ve got too much on my mind to be able to eat.
Keith releases one of his annoyed breaths and places his fork on the edge of his plate. He wipes his hands with his napkin, folds his long fingers together and leans forward, his eyes peering at me from behind his designer tortoiseshell glasses.
Don’t let those glasses fool you. Keith is very good-looking. Black hair, dark brown eyes and that honeyed skin that’s a product of his being Hawaiian, Japanese and, as he likes to say, a bit of haole thrown in for good measure.
He’s also got an amazing body. He used to surf back in Hawaii and was a former champion swimmer, which helped him snare an athletic scholarship to Stanford. But he also grew up on the mean streets of Honolulu where, in order to protect himself, he took up boxing and martial arts.
He still swims and does martial arts so he’s in amazing shape. Wide shoulders, muscular chest and a solid set of six-packed abs that make me drool every time I think about them. Even now I imagine running my hands up and down the firm ridges of his taut stomach then sliding my hands down further and further.
Those sexy brown eyes of his, however, are extremely nearsighted. He could wear contacts but he likes wearing those geeky glasses. Makes him look like Clark Kent. Nerdy spectacles and the body of a god.
“Yvonne,” he begins in that slow, patient tone of voice that means he’s about to lecture someone about something but just sets my teeth on edge. “If you weren't hungry why did you insist we go out to eat?” He glances around the restaurant. “This place isn’t exactly cheap.”
I inwardly cringe. It was my idea to come to this particular restaurant. It’s new, trendy and, therefore, very crowded. And, as Keith has noted, very expensive.
“I’ll pay my share. Don’t I always?” I slide the tip of my index finger up and down the handle of my unused fork. Even though we’re dating, I don’t want him assuming he has to play the chivalrous boyfriend and open car doors for me or pay for my meals.
He frowns harder, probably at the prickly tone in my voice. “I’m not concerned about that. Why are we at this restaurant if you’re not going to eat?”
I tense, a vein pulsing along my scalp. No use putting it off now. My hope that we could first enjoy our meal and then talk was just that. A hope. I wasn’t able to eat and Keith was just going to keep needling me about our having gone out eat and me not eating.
“I want to talk about what happened at work.”
His lips flatten. “We could have done that at your place. Or mine. Saved ourselves some money and some time.”
Yes, we could have done that. But I have no doubt that instead of talking we would have ended up fucking. Keith and I recently started dating and our sex life is in its early stages. Which means we’re fucking. A lot. The sex is good. Real good, in fact, but it also feels as if something is missing. Maybe it’s the stress we’re both under.
Keith and I work for a software company that’s hoping to snare a government contract developing a computer program that would predict the likelihood of an extremist group engaging in wide-spread, catastrophic violence.
I’m the head of the team creating the software. Keith is team leader for a group of social scientists our company hired as contractors to provide the data needed to design the program. Our firm isn’t the only company wanting that fat, juicy federal contract so there’s a lot of pressure on both of us to deliver.
“All right then, let’s talk about what happened at work,” he says.
I pick up where we left off in his office. Michael, one of the members of Keith’s team, deliberately and, in my mind, spitefully held back data. Crucial data my team needed to complete an extremely complex algorithm that’s a key piece to the whole dammed software program.
Keith patiently listens although he already heard it earlier this afternoon. But I want to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. He has a habit of doing that. Forgetting about stuff he doesn’t want to deal with. And he definitely doesn’t want to deal with the Michael issue.
Too bad. He’s going to.
When I’m done, he sits back and folds his arms across his chest. “You still haven’t given me any evidence. Just feelings. I can’t act on feelings, Yvonne. Maybe he was just late providing you with the data.”
I shake my head. “He wasn’t late. You know what Michael’s like. He’s sneaky, jealous and vindictive. He held back that data on purpose.”
Keith shrugs. “Your opinion.”
My mouth falls open. Did I hear him right? My opinion? Seriously? Everyone in the company knows what Michael’s like. He spends most of his time talking about people behind their back. That is, when he isn’t kissing the asses of the managers, supervisors and team leaders. Or trying to get in the panties of every young, available female employee at the company.
“It makes no sense for Michael to deliberately sabotage your side of the project,” Keith says. “To what end? We all want it to succeed. Why would he do something like that?”
“I don’t know why,” I say, although I have my suspicions. I rejected Michael’s greasy advances months ago because he’s a creep of epic proportions. I sometimes wonder if he isn’t looking for a way of paying me back. A couple weeks back I was told by a member of my team that he allegedly said he was going to find a way to
get that stuck-up bitch, meaning me, fired.
But it’s hearsay, and if I voice my suspicions, Keith will just say I’m being paranoid. I hate being called paranoid.
“It’s not my place to question why,” I go on. “All I know is that he deliberately held back critical information. And I’d like to kick his ass for doing so.”
Keith releases a heavy breath. He leans across the table and places his hand over mine. He has big knuckles. Prominent, thick. I imagine those huge knuckles punching someone hard in the face. Someone like Michael. I like running my tongue across Keith’s knuckles. He likes it too. And the things he does to my pussy with them.
“It’s been a long day,” he says in a soft voice. He sounds like he’s talking to someone who’s just been diagnosed with a fatal illness. “Why don’t we table this discussion for now.” He rubs his fingers along the back of my hand. “Let’s go to your place. Or mine.” His eyes smolder behind his glasses. “We could get in some copious amounts of booty sex before we retire for the night.”
“Don’t change the subject,” I snap.
His dark brows shoot up in surprise.
I wince. What is wrong with me? Why am I being so snippy with him? His suggestion regarding booty sex sounds really good. He recently started fucking me in my ass and, after I got used to it, I have to say I like it. I like it a lot. That smutty, raunchy feeling when Keith’s dick is drilling deep in my ass is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I come every time he fucks me that way.
Plus he’s looking damned good tonight. He’s wearing a charcoal gray suit along with the crimson silk tie I gave him last month to celebrate our five month anniversary of dating. He hardly ever wears suits, preferring casual business attire at work and jeans and t-shirts when he’s off, but he had a meeting late this afternoon with some high-level government officials regarding his side of the project and he came straight to the restaurant from that meeting.
I can’t help but imagine ripping off that tailor-made suit and revealing the hard, muscled body underneath. Lately, I’ve been having these kinds of violent thoughts. Him ripping and tearing at me and me clawing and scratching at him, our clothes in tatters on the floor, and the two of us madly fucking like a pair of sex-crazed animals.
I sometimes wonder if these savage imaginings might have something to do with the project we’re working on. I’m a software developer and, although, there are creative aspects to what I do, I mainly deal with logic and analysis. But since I’ve been working with Keith and his team of social scientists, I’ve had to learn about violence and what causes people to commit such horrendous acts.
I’m not a violent person, and I’ve only had these kinds of brutish sexual yearnings with Keith. I don't know why I want him to do these things to me. But I do. I’m just too scared to tell him. I’m afraid he might think I’m some kind of crazy slut.
I force myself to push away the image of him brutally pounding his cock inside me and me cumming hard beneath him, my body squirming insatiably under his.
If I don’t stay on him about Michael, I know exactly what he’ll do. He’ll brush it aside, and I worry that he’ll do it because, like a lot of men in these supposedly liberated times, because I’m a woman he doesn’t take me seriously as a co-worker. And, since we’ve started dating, I’m beginning to fear he might even take me less seriously. We’re fucking, but that doesn’t give him carte blanche to just dismiss any concerns I have about the job.
I slide my hand from under his. “My team is going to be a week, possibly even two weeks behind because of Michael’s antics. I want you to reprimand him.”
Keith frowns, sits back and firmly shakes his head. “Not without concrete evidence.”
“There is no evidence. You know there isn’t.”
“Then you’re just being paranoid.”
I grind my teeth, heat flushing through my body. I hate being called paranoid. I hate it because nine times out of ten when people use the word they don’t even use it correctly.
I get up from the table.
Keith looks up at me but remains seated.
“Are you going to do something about Michael?” I bluntly ask him.
“Not without evidence other than your feelings.”
I pick up my purse. I know I’m leaving him with the bill. The bill we usually split. The bill for my uneaten portion of the dinner.
Let him pay it.
I leave and walk down the street to where his car is parked. Because all the parking spaces near the restaurant were taken, Keith parked a few blocks over in an empty lot.
I reach his car, a silver Porsche 911. Then I remember he has the keys. I sigh and lean against the passenger door. Maybe I should just call a cab. Go home and sleep off whatever the hell is bothering me. There’s a chill in the air. I briskly rub my arms and wish I’d brought a jacket with me to dinner. All I’m wearing is a blue silk blouse and a slim black skirt.
A dark figure approaches. The restaurant is located in a newly developed part of downtown so the area is still mostly made up of warehouses, meaning there isn’t anyone around.
A sudden, instinctive fear rises inside me, making my teeth snap together. But as the figure draws closer I see that it’s Keith. He doesn’t look happy.
“If you’re angry about the bill, I’ll pay my share,” I say before he can open his mouth.
“It’s not about the fucking bill. What is wrong with you? Leaving like that?”
He’s cursing. Great. That means he’s pissed. Keith grew up on the mean streets, was even once a member of a gang, but he’d gotten himself off those streets and into Stanford, so he hardly ever slipped back into the crude vernacular of his youth. Except when he was pissed. He took his time getting to angry, but when he did, most people knew to step lightly around him.
I wasn’t most people.
“I don’t like being called paranoid,” I say. “When you call me that, it means you don’t think I know what I'm talking about. But I do.”
“Okay, you’re not paranoid. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to reprimand Michael.”
I grind my teeth. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder if men just naturally stick together. Some kind of masculine predisposition that makes them assume that if a woman brings a complaint against a fellow employee who just happens to be a man she’s just being a bitch or is in a mood or she’s paranoid.
“Why are you defending him?” I cry, unable to keep my pain at what I see as his disloyalty out of my voice. “You don’t even like him!”
His jaw hardens. “He’s on my team.”
“But you didn’t even pick him. He was assigned to you. And now you’re acting like you don’t have the guts to make him accountable for his actions.”
Keith scowls, his eyes blazing behind his glasses. "It’s got nothing to do with guts. He’s on my team,” he repeats.
“Fine. If you’re not going to do something about him then I’ll go see Don.”
Keith and I usually try to work out any disagreements between our teams on our own. I don’t like him doing end runs around me with the project manager, and he doesn’t like it when I do it either. But I don’t care. I will go see Don in the morning.
I turn away and place my hand on the door latch, waiting for Keith to activate the key to unlock the car.
Instead, he grabs my arm and spins me around to face him. He hardly ever puts his hands on me except when he wants to fuck.
Surprised, I try to shake his hand off me.
He squeezes my arm harder.
The lips of my pussy flutter and something inside me ignites. The harder he grips my arm, the wetter I get. I realize that I like the pain. It’s hot and sweet and it makes something inside me want to claw at his face. Instead I pull back my other arm and slap him.
Hard.
We stare at each other in the darkness and silence of the night, both of us measuring the other’s anger. Wondering where this is going. Wondering how we’ve come to this. I’m very much aware we’re alon
e. There are no other sounds but the passing of cars in the distance. The only illumination is from a single light pole in the parking area and the faint glow of a few of the windows in the surrounding warehouses. Either someone is working late or cleaning the buildings. I doubt anyone is looking out the windows this time of night.
Keith keeps one hand about my arm. The other he uses to rip off the tie I’d given him. He grabs both my wrists and quickly binds them with the necktie. Grabbing me by the shoulder, he turns me around and places me face down on the hood of his Porsche, my arms above my head, the fingertips of my bound hands pressing against the coolness of the metal. He pushes the skirt I’m wearing up past my hips, exposing my ass to the night air. He roughly knees my legs apart and, leaning over, presses his body on top of mine.
“Is this what you want, Yvonne?” he growls, his breath hot against my ear. “Is this what you’ve been baiting me to do? Fuck you like a slut?”
The air feels cold against my ass and my upper thighs. I have a very strong awareness of the pulse of my heart. It’s pounding within my chest, which is pressed against the hood of Keith’s car.
Is he right? Is this what I want? Is it what I’ve wanted since we started dating?
The sex we have is pretty vigorous. We’re both in good shape so we have no qualms about trying out all kinds of sexual positions. But is Keith right? Is this what I’ve wanted all along? To be, as he says, fucked like a slut? And what does that mean exactly?
I wriggle against him, but all I’m doing is digging my ass deeper into his groin. His thick cock settles between the cheeks of my rear. “I want you to do something about Michael.”
“Michael.” Keith sneers. That pussy.” He sticks his tongue in my ear and wetly rolls it around.
“Stop that.”
He ignores me, slathering my ear with his tongue. He slides his mouth down my neck, his body pressing me harder against the hood. “I’ll take care of Michael when I’m good and ready. But not before I take care of you.”
