by Diana Castle
The heat rises in my body and despite the fact it’s a cool night, sweat gathers along my neck. Keith is pretty demanding in bed and he’s not shy about being even a bit dominant. Holding my hands above my head while he fucks me. That kind of thing.
But he’s never done this to me before. Been this rough. And in public. Oh, yes, let’s not forget about that.
I look around to see if we’re still alone in the parking lot, but I can’t see much from where I’m squashed down on the hood. I try to loosen my hands from his necktie but it’s snug about my wrists.
“Stop struggling,” he says.
“I will when you let me go.”
He chuckles nastily. “You don’t want me to let you go, Yvonne. You’ve been wanting me to do this all evening. Daring me to.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I?” he said. “All the time we’re sitting in that restaurant and all I can think about is fucking you. Don’t tell me you weren’t thinking the same thing.”
He pushes my skirt up higher around my waist. The soft fabric of his slacks rubs against the back of my thighs. From where I’m lying on the car, I can’t see much of the surroundings. I wonder if there are any security cameras about and, if there are, is anyone paying attention to them.
I doubt it. A friend of mine used to work security in an office building and she told me that no one paid much attention to those cameras. It was only after something happened and the police got involved that anyone bothered with them.
Keith grips my panties and jerks them down my legs. I moan.
“Shhh,” he whispers. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He presses his knee up between my thighs. “Spread your legs.”
I hesitate then does as he says. He shoves his groin against my ass and holds me firmly down against the hood, one hand pressing into my shoulder blades. He uses his other hand to rub those big knuckles against my pussy.
I shudder, my heart pounding, an erotic heat stirring deep inside me.
“You’re wet, Yvonne. Were you wet in the restaurant? Was that why you couldn’t eat? Too busy thinking about me fucking you in the ass?”
“Just because I’m wet, doesn’t mean I’m turned on,” I say, trying to sound as reasonable as I can while I’m face down on the hood of a silver Porsche, my hands bound with a red silk tie and my purple lace tangas dangling around my black pumps.
Keith laughs and continues to grind the back of his hand against my pussy, coating his knuckles with my rather copious juices. “You like it. Don’t ever pretend otherwise.”
He’s right. I do like it, and I’m very turned on, but I’m dammed if I’m going to let on that I find his domineering manner exciting.
At least not yet.
He uses his fingers and knuckles to bring me to the brink of a climax. Then he moves his hand away, leaving me gasping and quivering against the hood.
“Not yet,” he says. “You’re not coming yet.”
“Let’s go home,” I gasp, my voice shaky from the nearness of my orgasm.
“No, we’re going to do this right here, right now. I like it here. And I think you do too.”
“What if someone sees us?”
He grinds his pelvis hard against my ass in answer. He slides one of his hands under my body and up between my breasts. He yanks at the buttons of my blouse, opening it, and sliding his hand inside. He cups my breast through my bra, pinching and pulling at my nipple. It swells, burns and I feel him fumbling behind me with his other hand.
I hear the tell-tale sizzle of a zipper being unzipped.
My heart begins to pound madly. He is seriously going to fuck me out here in public.
Instinctively, I shift my body against his. I’m not even sure if I’m trying to get away or trying to help him. That’s just how confused I am about what it is I want.
He presses me harder onto the hood, subduing my movements. “Be still.”
I stop moving.
He rolls his cock all around the lips of my pussy, eases it inside then pulls it out. He does this several times, coating the head with my juices. Then he proceeds to slide his cock inside my pussy, an inch at a time. Up and deep and hard into my body.
My cheek is pressed against the hood and it’s growing cold, but my body is on fire.
He squeezes and grips my breast as he rams his cock deep inside me, spearing me hard against the car.
My body quivers against his. It feels so damned good that I no longer care if anyone can see us. Truthfully, the thought that someone might be watching is actually turning me on. I roll my bare ass against his groin, his cock sliding deeper inside me.
“Yeah, that’s it.” He shoves me higher onto the hood so that my feet are no longer touching the ground. One of my pumps slips off.
He jerks his cock out of me, breathing hard, his chest mashed against my back.
“Keith, what—?”
I feel him move away. He leaves me prone against the hood of his car, my bare ass exposed to the night, the moon, the stars.
“Yvonne.”
I turn my head around but all I see is a blurred image of him standing just to my right in the darkness. “What?”
“I’m going to fuck your ass.”
“What? Now?” The last time he fucked my ass it was at my place in my four poster queen-sized bed with one of my beige alpaca hypoallergenic pillows supporting my hips as he did so.
He puts his big hands on my rear and rubs it. “Yeah, baby. Now.”
“Keith, I don’t think that’s—”
He spreads the cheeks of my butt apart. The next thing I feel is his mouth on the crack of my ass.
My eyes widen. What the hell is he doing? He’s going to rim me? Here?
He thickly pushes his tongue in and out of my asshole, slathering it with his saliva.
Shit! He’s serious! I wriggle my buttocks to push him off but he holds me firmly against his mouth. And, honestly, it’s feeling real good, his tongue fucking my ass. My pussy swells and I can’t stop moaning, but I shouldn’t have been surprised at his actions.
He’s like that. He can sit in a meeting wearing those tortoiseshell glasses and a Savile Row suit and be perfectly at ease with high-level executives and bureaucratic behemoths. But there was still enough about him of the rough and tumble edge of the streets and the former gangbanger that never failed to make me hot and horny.
He wetly rolls his big tongue around my asshole, coating it thickly with spit. Then he pulls away and grips my hips. Slowly, ever so slowly, he eases the bulbous head of his big cock into my ass.
I groan, my French-manicured nails tip-tapping against the hood of the car, the palms of my bound hands scrubbing the hood. It doesn’t hurt. It’s more like a growing pressure in my ass, but I’m not quite there yet. I’m not quite ready.
“Keith,” I cry.
He freezes and I realize he’s giving me and my ass time to get used to him. I draw in a deep breath then release it. Slowly, I ease my butt back just enough to let him know it’s all right for him to keep going.
He pushes his cock in deeper until his balls are pressed just above my pussy. He pulls his cock out then moves it back in, out and in, out and in, until he gradually builds up speed. He holds me hard by my hips as he reams that thick cock deep into my ass.
“You like it,” he whispers, his cock pile-driving inside my butt. “You like being fucked in the ass where anybody can see you.”
I can only moan in agreement as he rocks me hard against the car, my breasts buffing the hood, my body juddering helplessly.
“Say it,” he grunts. “Say you like it.”
“I like it. I like being fucked in the ass.”
I don’t even know I’m going to come until I do. I cry out, arch my back and slam my ass hard against Keith’s groin. my orgasm ripping through me, my body bucking and squirming from both pain and pleasure.
He slams his pelvis against me, crushing my thighs against the car, his cock drilling deep inside me. Even if I wanted to ge
t away (and I don’t), I couldn’t. He’s gripping my hips, and my body is pressed so hard against the car, that I have no doubt I’ll be bruised come morning.
I squeeze the muscles of my ass hard around his cock. I do a lot of butt toning exercises so trust me when I say I can squeeze me some cock.
He moans, long and hard, his cum spurting deep inside me.
I come again. I wasn’t kidding. I come every time he comes in my ass.
He slowly rolls his hips, milking out every last bit of his orgasm. Then he collapses heavily on top of me, kissing the back of my neck, which, despite the chill in the air, is slick with sweat.
He pushes himself off me. I remain on top of the car, struggling to catch my breath. He slides my panties back up my legs and onto my now pleasantly sore ass. He pulls my skirt down over my hips and adjusts it around my legs. Then, grasping me by the waist, he helps me off the hood.
I try to stand, but I’m still woozy from my orgasms so my legs are wobbly. I fall against him and he quickly puts his arms around me.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
I nod, my face pressed against his chest. I feel his pulse drum-beating against my cheek.
He slowly strokes my hair. “I’m sorry.”
I lift my face and look up at him. The light from that solitary light pole is reflected in the lenses of his glasses.
“Why are you apologizing?”
He clears his throat, his brown eyes anxious. “I don’t know what came over me. That was some fucked up shit.”
“No, it wasn’t. I liked it.”
He frowns. “You did?”
I press myself harder against his chest, gripping his white twill shirt with my fingers. “Couldn’t you tell?”
“Well, yeah, but....you’ve never let on you liked it rough.”
“I wanted to. I was just afraid.”
He nods and I see the understanding in his eyes. He glances around. I follow his gaze. The parking lot is empty, the streets deserted.
He looks back down at me. “If someone saw us, I could get arrested.”
I smile. “Can’t have that. Don’t have any money on me to bail you out. Let’s get out of here.”
He smiles back. “Agreed.”
He holds onto me as if he fears I might shatter into a million pieces. I cling to him, enjoying the sensation of his being so attentive. He opens the passenger side car door and helps me inside. He even buckles my seat belt. Sitting on my ass, I grimace a bit, but it’s fine. I’m okay. Actually, I’m more than okay.
He gets in the driver’s seat then leans over and kisses me. A wet, warm, lingering kiss that tells me the ass-fucking was just the appetizer. I might not have eaten dinner at the restaurant, but tonight I’m going to be the recipient of a full-course fucking.
“What about Michael?” I ask as Keith turns on the ignition, the Porsche smoothly purring to life.
He doesn’t answer at first, and I wonder if he’s planning on not discussing Michael anymore this evening..
He drives the car out of the parking lot and onto the street. Then he places his hand on my thigh and eases it up towards my pussy. “I’ll take care of Michael in the morning.”
I nod, satisfied, then open my legs wider.
Elementary, My Dear Sir
“In here, Ma’am?”
Lady Rowena Fairchild glanced at her maid’s stout reflection in the brass-framed mirror on her dressing table.
Mary’s near-sighted eyes regarded her mistress doubtfully and her plump lips were twisted in what was clearly a sign of disapproval.
One of Rowena’s brows arched sharply. Heavens, but her maid could be so trying at times. A sweet girl, to be sure. Tidy, prompt and devoted to her duties. But she also spent far too much time concerning herself with what she considered proper versus improper behavior. Especially as it regarded her mistress.
Rowena, however, had no time for Mary’s displeasure. The inspector was here. “Yes, Mary. Bring Inspector Maxwell in here.” She brusquely waved for her maid to leave.
Mary did so, closing the bedroom door behind her.
Rowena sighed and looked at herself in the mirror. Her blonde hair hung heavy and loose about her slender shoulders. Blue eyes, a bit shadowed from lack of sleep, took in the pale green dressing gown she wore.
It was late in the morning, but her maid had not yet opened the heavy burgundy drapes. The gas lamps in the bedroom tinted the rose-patterned walls and heavy furniture in a warm, intimate glow.
She knew it was the very height of impropriety for a woman, especially a widow, to receive any caller, much less a man, in her bedroom. But ever since she had been arrested and put on trial for the murder of her husband, Lord Edmund Fairchild, decorum was more of a luxury for Rowena than a necessity. And now the man who had investigated her husband's murder and arrested her for it was paying a social call.
She reached for the sterling silver and cut crystal bottle of perfume on her dressing table. It had been a gift from her barrister in celebration of her acquittal. She opened it and applied some of the heady fragrance to her body. She closed it and placed it back on the table.
There was a knock at the door.
A small smile curled about her lips.
“Come in, Mary.”
The door opened and Mary stepped into the room. Behind her loomed the figure of Inspector William Maxwell.
Rowena looked at him in her mirror.
He was not much older than her own twenty-six years. According to her solicitor, the inspector’s rise through London’s Metropolitan Police Force had been nothing short of meteoric.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with thick dark hair, and chocolate colored eyes—that should have been as warm and soft as a fur wrap but instead were sharp and cunningly icy—the inspector was a fine specimen of the male species.
It was a shame, therefore, he was as cold and dispassionate as any man she had ever met.
He held his black derby in his hands, his long fingers holding firmly onto the brim. He was, as always, spotlessly dressed in a charcoal-colored wool sack suit. Gentleman he was. but he never failed to make her think of some caged jungle creature. Controlled, inhibited, constrained and yet, if the cage were to open or the bars to disappear, what lawless savagery, long repressed, would eagerly leap forward.
Her stomach fluttered at the sight of him, as did the lower lips of her quim. She imagined she could smell him, even from where she sat. The rich warmth of his skin and the pungent, alluring musk from underneath his arms and between his thighs.
She’d spent a little time, before she married her husband, unleashing the beast that slumbered beneath the decorum, good manners and gentlemanly airs of most men of the upper class. It had helped to pay the rent if nothing else. But now she ached to free the wild, fierce beast she suspected lay beneath Inspector Maxwell’s frosty, stony exterior.
She rose from her chair and turned towards him.
His eyes widened when he saw how she was dressed, but no other expression showed on his handsome, austere features.
“You may leave us, Mary.”
The maid glanced uncertainly between her and the inspector.
“Go, Mary. It is Inspector Maxwell after all. I will be perfectly safe with such an esteemed member of London’s police force. I can assure you of that. And please take the inspector’s hat.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
Mary took the derby from the inspector, dipped a quick curtsy then left the room, closing the door behind her.
Rowena and Inspector Maxwell regarded each other cautiously from across the blue and red carpet. All during her trial, she had been mindful of his glacial presence in the courtroom as he waited for all his hard work concerning the investigation of her husband’s death to culminate in her conviction.
However, instead of a guilty verdict, the jury had come back with not guilty.
Even now, weeks after the trial, she could still hear the riotous shouts and cries that erupted in the courtroom at the Old
Bailey at the jury’s pronouncement. And she recalled that at that moment she happened to turn and look at Inspector Maxwell.
His dark eyes had burned with such thwarted fury that it had sent a violent chill down her spine. And, not surprisingly, in light of her carnal appetites and the savagery of his blistering gaze, a moistening in her quim.
She had not seen nor heard from him since that day.
“Would you like a refreshment, Inspector?”
He glanced disdainfully around her opulent bedroom. “If you had wanted to offer me something to drink, Lady Fairchild, you should have thought to welcome me in a more appropriate setting.”
She smiled as she walked over to him. “I wasn’t talking about something to drink.”
He frowned but, as she expected, chose not to respond to her coquetry. Instead, he stared at her as if she were some puzzle he was determined to solve or some strange creature he planned to dissect in order to learn its secrets.
“Very well,” she conceded. “If you didn’t come to pay a social call, why are you here? Have you come to arrest me for some other crime I didn’t commit? Embezzlement? Treason? Pickpocketing, perhaps?”
His mouth tightened, which was a shame because he had such kissable lips. “But you did commit the crime, Lady Fairchild. You did kill your husband.”
“I was found innocent of that charge, Inspector. As you yourself witnessed.”
His handsome face flushed at her reminder. “That is true. But the guilty have sometimes gone free.”
“Just as the innocent have been imprisoned. Or executed. Fortunately, in my case, such a travesty of justice was averted.”
He shook his head. “A travesty did occur, Lady Fairchild.” He took a step closer to her. “I don’t know how you did it but somehow you beguiled that jury into finding you innocent.”
“Beguiled them?” Rowena laughed. “I fear you give me far too much credit.”
“You were once an actress. Therefore, it is not beyond the realm of possibility that you somehow used the skills you practiced upon the stage to equal effect in that courtroom.”
