Blue Velvet

by Linnea May

  Her grip around my cock tightens, and I watch as she guides the tip to her core. Warm water is pearling down her spine, parting into streams as the water travels across the bruised curves of her ass. I let her do it. I don’t stop her from moving my cock where she wants it, and I don’t retreat when she leans back, taking in my length, her channel clenching with need. I stand as if paralyzed, watching my toy moan as she takes all of me in, moving her hips back and forth as she fucks me.

  She’s the one fucking me this time.

  My hands dig into her sides. I take over control, pushing her against the wall as I ram my iron-hard cock between her tight lips. She moans, pressing into the wall. Her eyes are closed and her mouth parted, and the sound of frantic breaths fills the shower.

  She’s so fucking wet, so fucking hot. I can feel her muscles tensing around me greedily.

  “I want you,” she breathes. “I want this.”

  I look at her face, a blissful and relaxed expression speaking of the delirious pleasure she finds herself in.

  I’m not going to make it that easy for her.

  She gasps with disappointment when I withdraw myself from her sex, only to mewl in confusion when I guide my cock upwards, teasing her tight puckered hole with the tip.

  “You said I could have any hole I want,” I remind her.

  She nods, and her eyes fly open startled, staring into nothingness as she whispers, “Yes, master. Anything you want. I’m yours.”

  Her cry echoes through the bathroom when I shove myself inside her, stretching her tightness with my entire length in one dominating push.

  “Oh, does it hurt?” I ask innocently. “I’m sorry, my toy, but you asked for this.”

  She alternates between whimpering in agony and moaning with pleasure. I continue pistoning inside her, feeling her tightness closing in around me as I sodomize her more brutally than I’ve ever done to anyone. The shower is still raining down on us, so it’s hard to tell whether some of the streams on her face may taste of salt. She cries out, her face grimacing in pain, but at the same time, she’s leaning into me and begging for me to continue. I fuck her savagely, taking everything she has to give, and demanding more.

  And yet, I’m not taking anything she isn’t willing to give.

  She reaches down between her legs, and while my first instinct is to stop her, I restrain and instead follow an impulse that’s stronger than the will to punish her.

  I don’t allow her to come. I want her to come. I want her to explode when my cock is buried deep inside her tight ass. I want to feel her clenching around me and hear her scream as she loses herself in unfathomable ecstasy.

  She’s enough of a good girl to make sure that I’m not denying her this time by the look she casts me over her shoulder. Her eyes seek and plead with mine for permission as she plays with her clit.

  “Come, toy,” I tell her. “Come for me!”

  Only seconds pass until she obeys my command, her body literally elevating off the floor. She rises up on her toes, letting the rapture flood over her. Her tight body squirms against the tiles. Water splashes everywhere, and her muscles tense, and suddenly I can’t stop myself from following her over the edge.

  She’s still pulsating with need and the aftershocks of her orgasm when I explode inside her, filling her tight hole with cum. She exhales a ragged breath and turns to study me over her shoulder, her green eyes sparkling in triumph.

  22

  Loran

  I haven’t seen my brother in months. That’s not as sad as it sounds. We’ve never been particularly close, despite our small age difference. Despite sharing the same parents, we are very different people who grew up under very different circumstances.

  He’s always been the golden boy in my parents’ eyes, the heir, the prodigy who skipped fourth grade, but who hasn’t really done anything impressive since then. On the contrary. He’d be in prison if it wasn’t for me, and he’d be penniless, too, as would my parents. I don’t think they would ever change their opinion about either of us, even if they knew the full story about what happened. Even if they knew that I was the one who saved our family’s business, that I was the one who made sure we retained our wealth, and that I was the one who not only bailed out my fucked-up brother, but the one who covered up his deed and helped him - and our family’s company - get out of the mess he created, and without any lasting repercussions.

  I never told them anything about it, because it wouldn’t change a thing. I don’t need anything to change, and I also have to consider the deal my brother and I made. He knows some shit about me that I don’t want exposed. He knows how I spend my free time, about the easy and ever-changing string of girls, the prostitutes, about the twisted things I do to women. He’s the only person on the planet who wouldn’t be surprised to find my toy chained up in the basement. It’s what he’d expect of me. I’m the sick one, the black sheep who was dumb enough to get caught paying a girl for sex before I was even legal, while he’s the one who brought home a picture-perfect girlfriend who is now his wife and pregnant with their first child. He may be a criminal and a loser when it comes to business, but unlike me, he’s playing the role of heir to a wealthy and reputable family perfectly. And no one will ever know the truth about either one of us.

  Because as long as I keep my mouth shut, so will he. That’s the deal.

  Unfortunately, it also means that I have to rush to his aid every time he gets into trouble. I’ve told him numerous times that I won’t be able to do this for the rest of his life and there’s a limit to what I can do to help him. Tax fraud is a serious offense, especially on a scale as large as this. If you draw attention to yourself once, you’re never above scrutiny again. I don’t know why that’s so hard for him to figure out. He’s like an impatient kid, always feeling that he’s being cheated on by everyone else.

  “Paying your taxes is not the same as having money stolen from you,” I tell him for what must be the thousandth time. We’re sitting in a dimly lit booth at an Italian lunch place in the city. He’s dressed in a dark gray suit that makes him look older than he is, while I opted to wear casual attire, the same pair of jeans I wore when I was with my toy, when she had her lips wrapped around my cock. The memory makes me smile.

  “Yeah, yeah, you’ve mentioned that more than once, Loran,” he retorts, rolling his eyes at me. We’re both sipping Scotch on the rocks. I always enjoy a cold and spicy drink after a good fuck, but I don’t think he’s drinking for the same reason.

  “And trust me, I listened to you. I’ve paid my dues,” my brother continues. “This isn’t even about taxes, it’s about a simple mistake made by my accountant. I tried to fix it the proper way, I really did. But these idiots are so fucking stubborn - it was a simple delay due to a miscalculation, causing them to dig into my assets again, something they wouldn’t even have done if that delay hadn’t occurred.”

  “And you want me to cover for it,” I say. “Again. You want me to take the rap for something you messed up.”

  “No, that’s not what this is,” he insists. “I just want to transfer some of the assets into your name for a while, just to secure the money until this ridiculous investigation is over.”

  “So, you simply want to unload the problem onto me?”

  He looks at me indignantly, even though I should be the one who’s insulted by his dumb proposition.

  “That’s not exactly-”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what it would be,” I interrupt. “Look, it was different to help your sorry ass out when you were dumb enough to gamble our family’s money away-”

  “I didn’t gamble the money aw-”

  “Yes, you did, and don’t you fucking interrupt me, big brother,” I hiss.

  He sighs and rolls his eyes at me again, but he knows I’m right. Even he knows that he depends on my help and wouldn’t be the smartest idea to aggravate me any further. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and looks at me expectantly, arching his eyebrows in a way that’s freak
ishly similar to our father’s expression when he was annoyed with us. I haven’t seen his face in a very long time, but I will always remember this particular look.

  “I don’t know why we are even discussing this,” I say. “Just pay the damn penalty and make sure your accountant doesn’t fuck up again.”

  He lets out an exasperated sigh. “Have you seen how much money that is?”

  I nod. “Yes. It’s quite a sum.”

  “Quite a sum!” he repeats. “This totally destroys our plans.”

  “Your plans?”

  “Carol,” he says, now in a lower voice. His voice always loses vigor when he starts talking about his wife. “She had some things planned for the house. And we wanted to buy a vacation home...”

  “That’ll have to wait,” I say, unimpressed.

  He huffs. “Yeah, easy for you to say, Mr. I-own-half-of-New-England.”

  Our eyes meet across the table, and it’s as if we’re reliving the ubiquitous rivalry of our entire upbringing in that moment. I don’t even blame him for any hostility he might feel towards me, because I wouldn’t want to be in his skin either. My parents never expected anything from me, I never felt the same kind of pressure that he was put under from the day of his birth. They paid little attention to me, leaving me with a kind of freedom that he never got to experience. The fact that I’ve also been seen as the “troubled kid” my entire life and only managed to gain their attention when I did something wrong, is an entirely different story. A story that doesn’t have a bearing on him, because it’s not his plight.

  “Why does a single man even need so many houses?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. “I mean, I know you’re swimming in money, even compared to me or our parents, but-”

  “It’s called making smart investments in real estate,” I lecture. “It’s a way of securing your wealth without getting in trouble with the government.”

  He casts me a dark look. “Still. So many houses? And you live in half of them and aren’t even renting them out. What the fuck are you doing with them?”

  “That’s none of your business,” I snarl. “You’d better focus on your own shit. Do what I told you, and if your accountant keeps messing things up for you, or you feel you can only save your ass by getting in trouble with the law again, don’t come crawling to me.”

  I get up from my seat, a motion followed by a miffed expression on his face.

  “Oh, and I’m always happy to help you find a better accountant - or give you some advice on legal ways to manage your money,” I say, before turning around and walking away from him.

  I don’t have to look back to know that his angry stare is following me all the way out the door.

  23

  Ruby

  A week and a half. More or less, I’ve spent the entire past ten days holed up in this basement, without internet, without TV, without any kind of entertainment or human contact except for him.

  It’s no wonder that I yearn for him to come back every time he leaves the room. I hate being left alone in here because there’s absolutely nothing to keep my mind occupied. I try not to sleep too much during the day, but I find myself napping constantly, wrapped in fine silk bed sheets, yet sleeping on a mattress on the floor like a prisoner. I’m wearing my bracelet now, and he hasn’t asked me to take it off. I’ve noticed that he’s careful never to touch it or let it become tangled up in the rope or cuffs when he restrains me.

  We’ve fucked every single day, often more than once, and as much as it takes a toll on my body, I can’t deny how much I crave it, how much I crave him. He’s so good at playing me like an instrument, and he has trained me well within a short amount of time. I don’t know if I’m giving him what he wanted from this, but I sure as hell know how to please him through the most simple requests.

  By now, he has come up with certain positions that he wants to find me in every time he walks into the room. I expected him to want me on my knees, because that’s what clients usually ask for, but he’s different. He wants me standing, preferably naked, with my arms at the side of my body, my head held high and my eyes focused on him. That’s another thing I noticed. He barely ever tells me to lower my eyes or forbids me from looking at him. I’ve had many men try to put me in my place by using such commands, but it seems he can never get enough of my eyes taking him in.

  I’ve asked him for make-up more than once, because I feel lost and oddly exposed without it. I can’t remember the last time I went without wearing any make-up for longer than a week. It must’ve been when I was a child. Making up my face has always been an important part of my daily routine and something I loved doing, not just for myself, but for the men I entertained. I love the effect that a well-applied mascara can have on your eyes, and your expressions. Despite my red hair, my eyelashes have always been comparably dark, but not as thick and black as I would have liked. I feel like I’m looking at an entirely different person every time I see my reflection in the mirror, now that I’m here with him and bare of any added color on my face.

  He says he doesn’t like make-up. He keeps saying the same things over and over again. He wants me bare, naked, exposed, and fresh-faced.

  “It’s a privilege to see a woman in her natural state,” he once said. “Your eyes tell me so much more without that heavy frame around them.”

  “But isn’t that what attracted you to me in the first place?” I asked. “The fact that I was so dolled-up. A perfect fuck doll, you called it.”

  He nodded. “Yes, but only because I wanted to strip all of it away from you and reveal the person underneath.”

  He’s an odd man, that’s for sure. But I’m still not convinced if he’s dangerous or not.

  The black hearts on my bracelet tinkle against each other when I jump up from my mattress when I hear his steps approaching the door. Judging from the amount of light coming in from the outside, I’d guess that it’s late afternoon or early evening, about the regular time for him to show up to bring me something to eat for dinner. I’m pretty sure he’s using some kind of delivery service, because the dishes he serves are pretty exquisite, though not as fresh as a homemade meal would be.

  I stand in the expected position, opposite the door, wearing nothing but a white negligé he gave me. It’s the only item of clothing I received from him that is somewhat sexy, even though it’s not much more than a very short nightgown with lace that shows off my legs and my tits equally.

  I’m surprised to see him enter the room with empty hands. He’s looking very sharp, however, wearing suit pants and a white dress shirt that hugs his broad frame perfectly. His short hair is gelled up, and he’s freshly shaven, a look I haven’t once seen on him since I got here.

  Surprise must be written all over my face. He’s smiling when he approaches me in his usual calm, confident manner.

  “See, this is the kind of thing I would miss if your face was masked by make-up,” he says, caressing my cheek with the tip of his finger. “That subtle change of expression, that startled glow when you see something you didn’t expect.”

  He leans forward and greets me with a kiss, something he rarely does. My body’s reaction is a clear telltale sign of how well he has me trained. There’s more than just butterflies fluttering through my middle. I can’t believe how much I want him, and how much that desire overpowers any aspiration for freedom I might have otherwise.

  “Are you on your way to a date?” I tease, appreciatively scanning his get-up from head to toe.

  “I guess I am,” he says, and my heart almost sinks for a moment before he extends his hand to me.

  I cast him a quizzical look, but slowly accept his offer by taking his hand. Even after all that’s happened between us, his touch still feels exotic and exciting, causing my heart to speed up immediately.

  I hold my breath when he leads me toward the door, unlocking and opening it as if it was the most normal thing to do. I’ve never walked up these stairs on my own. The only time I ever made it out of this basement was when he c
arried me upstairs after I’d dissolved into a crying mess. I was barely conscious enough that day to remember it.

  “Are you letting me go?”

  The words slip out without thinking, and I immediately regret saying it. He squeezes my hand and pulls me up the remaining steps as he reaches the first floor before me. His grip is so intense that it hurts.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he hisses in a sudden change of demeanor.

  “I’m sorry, I-”

  “Don’t get any ideas, toy,” he interrupts. “Come.”

  I stumble behind him as he pulls me into an open living area that is right next to the stairs. He only gives me a few seconds to gawk at the beautiful living area, its light white and gray tones, and a modern fireplace surrounded by a seating area with white leather furniture. It all looks so chic, but yet simplistic and not lived-in. It doesn’t seem like he spends a lot of time in here.

  He drags me over to a dining area that separates the living room from an open kitchen. The table has a glass top and sleek black legs, just like the chairs set around it. The table has been set with exquisite silverware and modern china for two people. The whole set-up would warm my heart, that is if he wasn’t manhandling me so harshly right now.

  “Sit,” he commands, pointing to one of the chairs with a table setting in front of it.

  I follow his order and notice something black lying on the floor right next to the legs of the chair. Curious, I try to figure out what it could be, but he’s faster than me. As soon as I’ve taken my seat, he goes down on his knee next to my chair and fetches the item that’s lying at my feet. I hear a clicking sound at the same time I feel something closing around my right ankle.

  Cuffs. Those are leather cuffs, connected to a metal chain. I instinctively jerk back when he snaps the other one around my left ankle, ultimately tying me to the chair. I yank at it, just to see how much leeway I have, and realize that it’d probably be quite easy to untangle the chain from the chair. But that’s not what this is about, anyway. The cuffs are locked with a little key. Even if I was to get away from the chair, I wouldn’t be able to do more than scoot along in tiny steps, as the chain is too short to allow me to walk.