“Daniel, no.”
He straightens again. Unbuckles his belt. Frees his massive cock, its tip already wet.
“Only say no if you mean it,” he says. “Do you mean it, Bridget?”
I’m spread wide. I feel my lips swell and blush, opening up for him. I feel my juices trickle into the crack of my ass. I’m literally dripping wet.
“Do you mean it, Bridget?” he repeats.
Kat leans back. She’s watching me with soft brown eyes, her usual edge gone missing. Her hand wants to go between her legs, but she keeps it on her thigh. Then she bites her lip, off-center, and looks up at us from downcast eyes, her eyes still mostly on me. I can see how hard the nipples are on her small breasts. A devious part of me — a part I’d never have thought was there until right here and now — wonders how wet she is, and hopes she’ll show me. Show us, while we perform.
Fucking right here, feet away. While she watches Daniel enter me, his cock parting my pink pussy lips to slide inside and fill me.
I’m sure I can smell her.
Kat comes forward. Meets my eyes for a long, long second. She looks down, at Daniel’s hard cock. Then at me again. Then, without breaking eye contact, she reaches down and touches him. Just one finger. Just barely. But it evokes something in me, and I physically shove her away, back against the cushions. I’m angry in a flash, all sexual matters forgotten. But as soon as Kat hits the cushions, smiling, earning the exact reaction she wanted, I realize that sexual matters haven’t been forgotten at all. My body’s enhanced every one. I’m twice as turned on as I was, and now my arousal has an edge. I don’t just want to get fucked; I want to prove a point, to claim Daniel as he’s claimed me. He’s mine, just as I’m his.
Jealousy, Daniel said, is a turn-on.
Kat rocks back, legs up, and slides off her panties. She touches her hairless slit. Daniel doesn’t seem to notice; his eyes are only for me. But still it’s not fair that Kat gets to touch herself while I’m restrained. It’s not fair that she touched Daniel, at all, ever. I want to wrap my lips around his cock and suck away the filth of her transgression. I want him to come in my mouth again, to fill me with proof that we belong only to each other.
I’m still staring at her when Daniel comes forward and puts his mouth on me. I feel his hot tongue paint my pussy from top to bottom, bottom to top. He comes north and flicks my clit. I shiver.
This is so, so fucked up. Daniel is eating me out in front of another girl. I’m getting my pussy licked while one of my friends masturbates, her slender finger sliding in and out. A dying part of me says I should make him stop, as if this hasn’t already gone too far. But then I come, and the room seems to go black, and as the waves seize me and contort me, I realize my thighs have gripped Daniel’s head, that my hands are in his hair, that I’m trying to pull him into me, to suffocate him with my warm flesh.
I pull his head out from between my legs and see that he’s been pumping his cock the entire time. I want to see it erupt, to poke just the head into my pussy and unload so I can watch it drip out from inside me. Daniel’s lips and nose and chin are a mess, covered in my sopping wetness. The sight only turns me on more, and I want to come again. And again and again and again. While Kat watches. While the whole world watches. I just don’t care. Nothing matters. Nothing will ever matter again.
“Fuck me,” I whisper.
Daniel parts my legs the rest of the way. Shoves my dress up the rest of the way. I’m completely nude from the belly button down, and anyone could see us. Kat is seeing us, watching us, watching me. She’s glancing over intently, her own legs open, two fingers of one hand parting her pussy to show the inside while one finger on the other hand briskly rubs her clit, and it’s so weird and so wrong and so against everything I’ve ever learned is prudent and proper — and I don’t care at all.
It’s a symphony of the senses. I feel every whim of the room’s fan-spun air; I can hear Kat’s breathing; I can hear the small, sharp inhales when she touches the right place while watching Daniel hold his cock by the root and tease it against me, rubbing the head up and down, the skin stretched back to make it tighter and stiffer. I feel the give as he moves downward and the head pops inside me just a little, then down and up again as he teases me. I can smell Daniel — a symphony of scents from his products overlaying a natural musk, and it’s all subtle, like my senses are overly attuned, and all I can think is that I couldn’t say how Daniel smells except that he smells like a man, and I know I’d be able to find him in the dark like a huntress finding prey, like a mother finding pups, like one creature finding another that’s hers and hers alone. I hear the blood pulsing through my neck and feel the need to have Daniel inside, and when he finally enters, as I watch Kat tense and come as it happens, her finger quickening then slowing with longer, more deliberate strokes, it’s all I can do not to lose my mind, and then I do, and then it’s all darkness infused with colors, and it feels like I’m floating as I come again, harder, better, my pussy gripping Daniel’s cock as he thrusts.
I look up at Daniel. My peak hasn’t decreased. Not even a tiny little bit. I don’t usually come from fucking, but Daniel’s found all my secrets. He can make me come by rubbing my clit; the mere presence of his cock inside me is enough to make me come that way, too.
I look over at Kat. She has two fingers inside, and she’s staring right at me. We sound incredibly wet together — my fault, from all this arousal — and as Daniel fucks me Kat listens, watching, moving faster, biting her bottom lip. And for some reason this fucked-up situation is the hottest goddamned thing I’ve ever experienced.
I like her watching. I like knowing how badly she wishes she could be the one with Daniel’s hard cock inside her … and knowing that she never will, that the lucky pussy will only be mine.
Something primal grabs me as my third orgasm builds. I can feel Daniel’s cock head throbbing inside me, like he’s ready to blow. I say the thing that occurs to me, as fucked up and filthy as it is, because I want it; I want it in a way I could never describe.
“Come inside me, Daniel,” I say, reaching up again and grabbing the back of his head, balling his hair in my fist. “Come inside me so Kat can see it.”
It’s too much for Daniel — either that or he follows instructions remarkably well. He actually slows before coming, building to a crescendo, and right as it’s about to happen I pull back a little so that only his tip is inside me.
Just enough so that Kat can see it happen. So she can watch him mark me like territory, like a beast declaring what’s his.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Bridget
Daniel never conducts the Ivy/Kylie interrogation for real. I don’t think he never intended to, and that somehow he knew Kat would be game to go along with our little almost-threesome … or perhaps, twosome while a third watches. It thrills me on one hand: that Daniel wanted me badly enough to find a way for us to be as close to alone as possible. But in a quieter way I’m somehow unsettled. He knows all of us so well. He knows me at an advantage, because while I forgot about the young boy from my past, Daniel never forgot about me and has had time to study, to follow in a way that I should, by all rights, find creepy. But he also knows the other girls — and that knowledge comes out of research that borders on clinical, even invasive. Top-secret shit the girls, I gather, don’t even know about themselves. And that’s how Daniel knew Kat would be game. Maybe he even asked her. Just like he’s sometimes buddy-buddy with Jessica, like the time they both showed up at my door. It’ll sour our most recent tryst if I let it. If I get to doubting, wondering how much of this is real and how much is a game.
But the game seems to have been paused, at least for the afternoon. I haven’t spoken to Jessica since we parted in the Great Room, and I wouldn’t talk to Roxy if you paid me. Nobody asks me anything more about the fight, and no new envelopes are slipped under my door.
Same for the next day. And that, I don’t understand. The elimination is supposed to be tomorrow, trimming
us from six contestants to five. I asked Trevor about it at yesterday’s lunch, but he only said that at this point, fighting won’t get anyone kicked out. Then he told me to keep it under my hat, with a sexy little wink, because if word got out that fighting was no longer an ejectable offense, bitches would be painting walls with hair and blood.
What about the test we were supposed to go through yesterday, then? I asked.
And Trevor just touched my arm, smiled, and walked away.
At dinner on the day before the elimination, I’m sitting at a table set for four with Jessica. Kat wasn’t feeling well and left just after the salads. Our three rivals are at their own table. Perhaps deliberately and possibly because they realized there would be injuries if we all had to sit together for meals.
Ivy is still here.
Kylie is still here.
They’re friendly, and this puzzles me. Why weren’t they kicked out? Why was the restriction against fighting lifted? How are they so completely over their fight? Richard even comes around once, and there’s no tension at all.
The next day, at elimination, I brace myself to go. I’ll have some good money, but not nearly enough. I know I’m supposed to be next; Daniel even sort of slipped and told me that’s how it’s meant to be. All six of us are here, none booted for brawling. And as has been repeatedly said, I’m the least fit. The ugly duckling who never went through her due diligence.
But Ivy is eliminated instead of me.
We meet afterward in Kat’s room. I’ve never been in another private area other than mine, and I’m shocked to find that while my room is a rich approximation of a bedroom, they’re not all that way. Kat’s has a bunch of sex oils, dildos, and vibrators on display like we’re in a sex shop. There’s a sex swing in the room’s middle, and two drapes of lush but strong-seeming fabric anchored in the double-tall ceiling. When I ask Kat what they’re for, all she’ll say is “acrobatic fucking.” And when I ask who here is an acrobat, she says that she is. No one else. The aerial sex drapes are in her room because they’re in her room at home, where she dangles from the ceiling with her hairless boyfriend. “He has face like woman but dick like kolbasa,” she explains, her voice filled with affection.
“Now it’s three against two,” Jessica says, kicking back on the bed, all satin and aggressively stained. I don’t know where she got peanuts from, but I watch her toss one in her mouth now, apparently as a casual counterpoint to her throwaway sentence. I wouldn’t put it past Jessica to carry snacks just so she can casually eat them, showing how cool she is with all of this.
“Why do you think there wasn’t a challenge before the elimination?” I say, thinking of Ivy’s shocked face when, again, Trevor chose me last and left her alone with no rose. “I’m not supposed to tell you this,” — and here I think of the cameras watching and listening, but I don’t care — “but Trevor told me that fighting didn’t disqualify them. He said it wasn’t even a factor, and that if the girls could forgive each other and forget, so could he.”
He. Meaning Trevor. But even as I say it, I wonder if that’s also a lie. I get the feeling that Trevor isn’t making the selections, or at least not on his own.
“No idea,” Jessica says. “But who gives a shit?”
“There was challenge,” Kat says. “Are you not paying attention?”
Jessica and I exchange a glance.
“No there wasn’t,” Jessica says. Then, unconvinced of her own denial: “When?”
“Two days ago.”
“The day of the fight.”
Kat looks at me as if to share amusement over Jessica’s idiocy. When I don’t respond in kind, she rolls her eyes.
“Not day of fight. Fight itself.”
“What, like a boxing match?” Jessica makes a show of putting up her fists for me and Kat. “Because just fair warning, if it comes down to that, I can take you bitches.”
Kat sighs. She makes figure-it-out-faster-you-idiots gestures with her little hands.
“Why don’t you just tell us, genius?” Jessica says. But I’m already putting this together with what happened between me and Kat after Trevor took Roxy and Jessica away, supposedly for an interrogation that never happened back in our group. I hear that word echo as if Jessica said it twice: Genius. I realize I don’t know Kat’s special ability, though Daniel told me that everyone has one, except for me. I remember the unspoken back and forth between Daniel and Kat that I missed, as if they knew something I didn’t. As if Kat was unimpressed while I was fooled, as if Daniel was trying to run a scam that Kat saw through like a freshly cleaned window.
“You have seen Ivy,” Kat says.
“Once or twice,” Jessica says, exasperated.
“Have you not noticed?”
“What, for shit’s sake?”
“She has … how you say? … dissociative disorder. Schizofreniya.”
I sit up. I knew that. But even if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t need a translator to recognize the virtually unchanged word between my language and Kat’s native tongue.
“How do you know that?” Jessica asks.
“I can see. Can you not see?”
Jessica thinks then shakes her head. “Now I can.”
My head swivels. I’m missing more shit, and hating the feeling. How is this so obvious? Did Trevor tell them all, and not just me?
“How can you?” I say.
“I dated a shrink once. He had a copy of the DSM manual at home, so I got bored and read it.” Jessica then spools off a bunch of technical medical and psychiatric jargon about schizophrenia at me as if she’s reading, like she’s memorized the book, and this is information that should be at every educated girl’s fingertips.
“But — ” I start to say.
“Oh,” Jessica says. “Are you saying … ?”
Kat nods.
“Her naps, you mean. In the Great Room?”
“Of course.”
Jessica hits herself in the side of the head. “I can’t believe I missed it. And I’ve looked through a lot of security footage, too.”
I feel myself frown. How has Jessica been able to look through security footage? The only place I know that would have it is that little room that Daniel seems to run, where I called Brandon with a face between my legs.
“Will you just tell me what you’re talking about?” I snap.
Both girls look at me. Jessica speaks first. “They set her up, Bridge. Ivy talks in her sleep. So she must have had a dream about Richard, and the hidden mics heard her talking about it, so they knew.”
I wait. Then, annoyed, I say, “And?”
“Well, you heard what I said about schizophrenia — ”
“Pretend I’m an idiot, Jess.”
Jessica looks at Kat. “She confuses reality with fantasy. Richard must have pulled Kylie into the Great Room just before we came in, at the appointed time for our ‘test.’ But there never was a test. Kylie making out with Richard, probably unknown to Kylie, was the test. And when Ivy came in and saw them … ” She trails off, shrugging.
I let the image rattle around inside my head. Ivy leaped on Kylie as if she were truly having a romantic relationship with a man who’s here only as a hired stud. To a normal person, it would be obviously absurd. But to Ivy, if Kat and Jessica are right, it would make perfect sense.
Kat figured it out first, in time to play along and get me laid in our faux-threesome. All it took for Jessica to realize it now, was a nudge. I was there all along, but still they had to explain it to me like a kindergartner.
Yet I’m here, and Ivy isn’t.
I should be glad, but the unspoken realizations ring in the back of my mind.
If that was the test, then the game has changed, and our masters are now playing dirty.
But perhaps more troubling, what’s obvious to me but apparently not to Kat and Jessica is the oddity of the test being designed only for Ivy — a test, it seems, she somehow failed.
They’re targeting us, one by one.
And now
more than ever, it’s personal.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Daniel
Trevor grabs me by the lapel and says, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
I swear, for a bulletproof system, everyone seems to think I have way more influence than I should, or can, or ever could.
“I’m going to the courtyard,” I say.
I pull again, but Trevor’s grip on my arm is tighter than I thought. I’m much bigger than he is, but Trevor is scrappy-strong. Part of his upbringing, I suppose, always fighting who he is — always struggling to prove himself in new ways because he never had to prove himself in the ways most of us need to. I can sympathize. I fought more than I should have, too. I owe my physique to childhood torment, to pain I couldn’t expunge. Every fiber inside me, other than what’s strictly necessary to move my bones, is Bridget’s doing. I built myself into something she’d desire so that I could never let her have it. So I could use my body to punish her. And today, with all I know, I can see it for the shell it is. Just as I can see what Trevor truly wants from me and what he’s afraid of, as if he were made of glass.
That’s the problem with my line of work. The more I study and the more I design experiments like this one, the more people become automatons. I see every person for who he or she is, including — reluctantly — myself. I used to ask questions about free will versus determinism, but I don’t anymore. Now I know that of course we have free will, to do what our biology and collected pasts determine we do.
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m sorry, Trevor. I don’t.”
Again, I pull past him. The girls are waiting, and today it’s another of them on trial. Any one of them might go. There are limits to what I can and can’t control. The programmers, in their tamperproof wisdom, saw to that rather abundantly.
But Trevor still holds my arm.
“Don’t fuck with me, Daniel.”
I turn. We’re both dressed casually in jeans. The analytical part of my brain wants to make something of it, beyond the fact that we dress well for events and down for everyday wear. It’s totally random and up to whim. But it’s so hard to believe in chance these days, and to not believe we’re dressing this way for a reason, rather than because we want to.
Burning Choice (Trevor's Harem #3) Page 8
