by Livia Grant
Klara whispered the words, “I’m sorry, sir,” between shaking breaths.
“Lick them clean.” He took her by the hair, pulling her forward until she’d slipped from her squat, falling hard to her hands and knees.
Fingers wet with urine, feeling the cold tile leach away any warmth, she sobbed a single protest. “No!”
“Princess won’t obey,” Will barked to the swarm, singling one man out. “You. Show her what happens to bad girls.”
There was a zip before warmth splashed her back. Klara cried out, trying to back away from the stream of piss. Will held her by the hair, blocked her retreat with his grip.
It was dripping down her back, between her butt crack, tricking over thighs, calves, Klara gagging between shouts of, “Stop!”
More men were invited to join, and they took no time saturating her until it was dripping in her hair, running in her eyes. Mouth pressed tightly closed, Klara found she could hardly breathe. She could smell it, taste it, and was going to throw up right there.
Everyone has their breaking point, and hers was reached the second Will threw her head back and ordered, “Open your mouth.”
He had his cock pointed right at her face, aimed, ready to defile her.
Eyes wide, she panicked the second a few drips dribbled from the tip. Klara fought him off in earnest. “Red! RED! SPENCER!”
It stopped with such precise timing, the room gone deathly quiet—all that could be heard was Klara’s dry heaving turning to sobs as she huddled over in the puddle. She had her hands over her ears, shaking so hard she couldn’t make her legs push her away from the mess.
“Help her up.” It was Owen. Who he was speaking to Klara didn’t know.
The instant she felt hands, she shrieked, cowering away. “DON’T TOUCH ME!”
“Give her a moment.” A new pair of shoes showed up in her line of sight. They were brown, scuffed, and clashed with the yellow piss on the tile. Whoever it was laid a towel over her back.
Gathering it around her like a shield, Klara bawled, unable to lift up her head.
Everyone had heard her scream red, scream his name. Every remaining scene had stopped as per protocol. But, he had not been able to get to her before she’d scrambled from the floor, bolting towards the women’s locker room.
It was Owen who Spencer unleashed his wrath upon. “What happened?”
The Dungeon Monitor frowned. “The scene escalated quickly and Klara safeworded.”
“Escalated quickly?” Spencer swung his head towards Will, eyes flared, teeth showing. “What did you do to her?”
Tucking his dick away, Will zipped his fly and shrugged. “I broke her. Looks like we lose.”
Spencer saw red, lunging forward only to be caught by Owen’s full weight.
“I observed the whole scene. Mr. Coleman was aggressive, but he didn’t break any rules. Neither did any of the men participating.”
There were others standing on the tile, others who had lined up and added to the mess on the floor.
Growling, Spencer pushed Owen off, and fought the urge to crack a fist into Will’s jaw. “You saw how she reacted when the men in your last scene ejaculated on her body. How could you invite strangers to urinate on her? You knew it would push her too far.”
Will dropped the casual façade. “Spencer, I’ve not exactly enjoyed playing the third wheel to your unrequited crush. Why you put that woman in a position to fail, yet follow her around like a lost dog, I can’t say. What I can say is that it was you who pushed her into something she wasn’t ready for. You’re the reason she didn’t safeword the instant the ball landed on watersports. She had to learn play is not about winning, it’s about self-discovery. And you have to live with the guilt for not teaching her that yourself.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He knew far more than Spencer might like. “Without this job she can’t pay for her brother’s tuition. Did you know that? She was whoring herself out tonight for him. It might have been safe, it might have been consensual, but it wasn’t sane. You drove her to do it, Spencer.”
Spencer ground his teeth. “Do not call her a whore.”
Standing his ground, Will crossed his arms over his chest. “She only just told me before the scene. Had I known, I would have never agreed to partner her. This was a lesson for you both.”
“Don’t think this is over, Coleman.” Spencer shoved past, heading straight for the women’s locker room. “I’ll deal with you later.”
Chapter 12
Spencer could hear her crying from behind the shower curtain. He’d invaded the women’s locker room, shooing off the few inside as if he had a right to be there. He didn’t, but he couldn’t stop himself at the sound of Klara’s grief.
They weren’t the tears earned by a whipping, they were the whimpers of a traumatized woman. Pulling back the curtain, he made out the shape of her body in a thick cloud of steam. Klara was standing under the spray, the water turned all the way to hot. Arms wrapped around her body she had her eyes screwed shut, shaking like a leaf.
Pulling off his jacket, he let it fall on the floor behind him, and called to her. “Klara...”
Her lip was trembling, and though she opened her eyes, she didn’t say a word.
Fully dressed, he walked into the water with her, reaching around her body to adjust the spray from scalding to warm. She shielded her breasts and met his eyes, but it wasn’t in defiance. It was in surrender.
She’d been reduced to nothing. She had lost.
White dress shirt sopping wet, Spencer ignored the water and reached for the shampoo dispenser on the wall. He filled his palm and brought it to her head.
While she cried he washed her hair. “There is nothing wrong with you, Klara. You are not unclean.”
The lathers smelled of lavender. Spencer worked it into her scalp, standing under the weight of her projected distrust.
Teeth chattering, Klara muttered. “Your shoes are getting wet.”
A smirk came to the corner of his lips. It was so like her to mouth off.
Spencer moved closer, the back of her head cradled in his hands, and pressed his lips to Klara’s forehead. “I’m sorry. I am sorry for everything.”
“You’ll catch a cold.” A hit of annoyance colored her complaint.
“Klara, I don’t give a fuck about my clothes being wet.” He was smiling, forceful and gentle all at once. “Tilt your head back so I can rinse out your hair.”
She obeyed, closed her eyes, and let the stream of water sluice the bubbles down her body. Spencer was very thorough, taking his time to massage her scalp until the tears stopped and a bloom of color began to return to her cheeks. When her hair was clean, he attended the rest of her. First he cupped her cheeks, using his thumbs to stroke her skin, rinsing soap away with a soft touch. He washed her neck, shoulders, working downward until he had to take her wrists and pull them from her breasts.
She let him do it, let him expose her chest, but started crying again the second he moved to wash them.
“Shhh. Come here.” He pulled her into a strong embrace, Klara sobbing on his shoulder clinging to the wet cotton of his shirt. While she purged he soaped her back, taking time to massage the welts and forming bruises. “You were so brave. I was the coward, Klara. I need you to be brave a little bit longer.”
Hopeless, she whimpered. “I didn’t win...”
Untangling her clinging arms, Spencer met her eye. “You won the moment you walked in the door.”
It was as if she hadn’t registered he’d spoken, Klara desperate to be heard. “Jack Varens won’t take me back. He made calls to his friends. No good bar in D.C. will hire me. I don’t know what else I can do to show you I can belong here. Please...”
“Take a deep breath, sweetheart.” He nodded when she complied. “Good. Another one.”
Lips shaking she did everything he told her to, calming a little more with each heartbeat.
Taking her arm, he lathered
from shoulder to fingertips, mirroring the movements on the other side, all the while softly smiling down at her.
The flat of her stomach he stroked in large foamy circles, her hips, buttocks, going so far as to kneel at her feet so he might soap up each one of her legs.
A large bruise was forming under her right knee—one Spencer knew she had not received in any of the other scenes. He put his lips to it, felt her stiffen, and glanced up like a penitent child.
“This was my fault.”
She shook her head. “Will pushed me down.”
“It was my fault, Klara. I should never have fired you. I should never have said the things I said to you.” His face was one of utter shame. “You’re right. I was a jerk from the day we met. You weren’t supposed to come in and be beautiful and wonderful and funny... not when I couldn’t have you. I acted like a child denied a toy.”
He’d gone to kissing the soft skin near her navel, kneading his thumb from her knee to her hip. “Will you forgive me?”
“No.”
He was undaunted by her petulance, smirking again as his fingertips trailed closer to her inner thigh. “How about now?”
The last thing Klara should have been feeling was arousal, the twinge and her subsequent gasp when he’d ghosted a touch near the place between her legs, too nice.
Spencer purred the words like butter melting over hot bread. “Klara, you’re a very bad girl, and I like you that way.”
Will Coleman had wanted a good girl. A Princess. It had not fit her at all.
Having heard Spencer say bad girl, her pussy fluttered, her clit thrummed, and Klara all but moaned.
Spencer stood in a fluid motion, urging her back through the spray until the warm wall met her back. Broad chest pinning her where she could not get away, he smirked down at the wide-eyed troublemaker and promised, “I’m going to show you how to be bad, when to behave—I am going to punish you and reward you, and you’re going to like it.”
“You’re an asshole, Spencer.”
Leaning down, he breathed over her mouth, “I know,” before setting claim with a hungry kiss.
There was no civility in the way he devoured her mouth. Hands claiming flesh, pulling her hips flush to the growing erection in his trousers, Spencer growled into her mouth that she was his.
When his fingers hitched her thigh upward, so his groin might rub against the place his cock longed to be, Klara threw back her head. Tearing at his belt, yanking down a stubborn zipper he stood there half dressed, soaking wet, cock in hand.
Brushing the slippery mouth of her cunt, he hesitated. Vasectomy aside, there was no condom. He’d have to leave her there to get one, forfeit the moment he might never achieve again. The only way to own her was to finish what they’d started. “I want to fuck you. Klara, tell me I can.”
She was breathless, impatient, bearing down on him without thought.
She’d sunk halfway down his length before he found the will to groan, “I don’t have a condom. You need to give me permission.” Gripping the flesh of her breasts, he pinched her nipple hard enough she stilled, adding, “Or I can make you come by other means.”
Her complaint was immediate. “If you’re going to call me a bad girl, then you are going to fuck me. That should be the first rule.”
One hint of her sass and he drove home, stealing her breath and growling, “Bad girl.”
She was putty in his hands, Spencer meticulous thrust by thrust. He knew exactly what would make her eyes roll back, clawing at her breasts while gently rocking in and out of her pussy. This was a woman that fed off both hard and soft. She’d want to be challenged and cuddled.
There would not be any other way to keep her attention.
Leaving her mouth, he licked and bit down her neck. At her ear he began to describe how her pussy felt squeezing tight around his cock, how he’d imagined it, the things he wanted to do to her in filthy detail until she began to come, scratching at his back when her knees buckled.
It was a fulfilling, perfect orgasm—not blinding or burning through her, but nurturing the places that were raw and lonely. Spencer let go, joining her the second he heard her cry out his name. From the base of his spine glorious tension gathered, shooting from his tight sack right down his throbbing shaft, until he was spurting white hot come deep inside his bad girl.
He was panting, forehead to the tile, Klara trapped between his shuddering body and the wall. “Klara, will you go out to dinner with me Friday night?”
Soaked through and through, Spencer still deep inside her, Klara began to chuckle. “Can I pick the restaurant?”
“No.” There would be no negotiation once she consented. He would take her out, dress her in red, and show her all he could offer. Spencer kissed her breathless, demanding, “Say yes.”
Giggling, she teased. “I’ll have to ask my boss for the night off. He can be pretty unreasonable.”
Grumbling a lust drenched warning, Spencer cautioned, “You have until the count of three to say yes. One.”
It was her turn to kiss him. Arms around his neck, it was softly done with a whispered, “Yea, boss, I’ll go out with you.”
“I would have tied you up and thrown you over my shoulder if I had to.” He met her eyes, running his thumb over her lips. “Now I’ll save the rope for after dinner.”
The End
About the Author
Addison L. Cain was born in sunny California, but found herself drawn to dwell in older, history-rich places. Japan, Ireland, Qatar, and now Washington D.C., Addison is always on the move, always eager to immerse herself in new cultures and people. Her stories reflect the antiquities she loves: deep and sometimes very dark. Driven to push her characters beyond the pale, Addison’s books are not for the faint of heart.
An alumni of California State University Fullerton, she earned a degree in Japanese and spent years in Asia studying indigenous Japanese religion. Primeval forests and worn pathways have led to her obsession with gardening. Her Great Dane approves, loping around the yard and getting into mischief. Unfortunately the cat has to watch from a window, and because Addison is a total sucker for his sad golden eyes, he gets hours of belly rubs and too many treats.
Where to find Addison Cain:
Website - http://addisonlcain.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/AddisonlCain/
Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15164484.Addison_Cain
BookBub - https://www.bookbub.com/authors/addison-cain
Other Books by Addison Cain
The Alpha’s Claim Series:
Born to be Bound: Book One
Born To Be Broken: Book Two
Reborn: Book Three
The Irdesi Empire Series:
Sigil: Book One
Sovereign: Book Two
Anthologies:
The Dark Forest: A Collection of Erotic Fairytales
Historical Romance:
A Trick of the Light
Available Summer 2017:
Alpha’s Control Book One
Unbroken by Maren Smith
A Black Light: Valentine Roulette Novella
by
Maren Smith
Chapter 1
Abby knew how late she was, not because she couldn’t stop checking the time, but because the nearest parking garage was completely packed. The local joke was Congress must be in session. Having spent the day shuttling back and forth from the airport to various hotels in the area, she knew it was going to be a busy conference week. Great for her paycheck. Not so great when it came to trying to find a parking spot.
“Come on, people,” she muttered as she wended from one level of the underground garage to the next. “Take a freakin’ cab, already.”
She checked her watch again. Runway wasn’t open tonight and Black Light’s Valentine’s event wasn’t advertised to start for another fifteen minutes. She still had time, but crap, crap, crap! She was going to have to run the half block that separated this garage from the
psychic shop that fronted as the entrance to tonight’s BDSM club of choice. She never should have taken that last pickup. Airport runs always took longer than expected, but regardless of her holiday plans, it was hard to turn down a paying fare when she didn’t yet have next semester’s full tuition in the bank.
She wasn’t the only late arrival cruising up and down the sloping aisles in search of a vacant spot. The headlights of a big black SUV lit up her side mirror as it crept around the corner, slowly cruising down as she was coming up on the opposite side of the garage.
“I see you, you big jerk,” she said under her breath. She knew that SUV. She knew the driver too. Frankly, she didn’t like either one of them.
The SUV sped up just a hair and Abby’s reaction was instantaneous. She hit the gas, reaching the end of her aisle a good ten seconds before he did. That’s when she saw it: a narrow wedge of a parking space between two oversized trucks, one of which hugged the passenger-side line while the other’s rear driver’s-side tires were slanted a good four inches over.
“Ha!” She stomped the gas, romping it around the close corner and sliding—tires squealing as she hit a patch of black ice—into the waiting space just a car’s width ahead of the black SUV, which promptly slammed its brakes to keep from running into her. Safe, sane and always play-by-the-rules Newton hadn’t been going as fast as she had and so didn’t slide, but before she grabbed her purse off the passenger seat, unbuckled her belt and stepped out of the car, his window was rolled down.
“Seriously?” he demanded, hooking his elbow out the window. Gripping the top of the steering wheel, he frowned at her. It was winter. Although only a quarter to eight, the sun had long gone to bed and the sky was black, but the dim amber of the overhead lights lit up the disapproving frown that pulled at Newton’s mouth. “Packed as this place is, and that’s how you drive?”
