by Violet Blue
I’m down on my knees before you reach me. I’ve got your filthy, paint-stained work pants open in a split second, and I reach in to pull out your cock. When I take it into my mouth, it’s only half-hard. By the time it reaches the back of my throat, it’s hard all the way.
I feel a quiver go through you as I swallow your cock. You moan softly as I pump it into me, feeling the sawdust and fragments of plasterboard abrading my knees, tearing my stockings. The roughness of the environment turns me on even more, as do the smell of fresh sawdust and the street noise so close to us, making me feel exposed and vulnerable as I suck you. Vulnerable to humiliation, because I know if you get caught you’ll be in big, big trouble. Supervisor or not, you’re not supposed to be doing that. That knowledge sends a surge of excitement through me as your hips begin to rock back and forth, pushing your cock deeper into my mouth, deeper into my throat. I caress your balls with my fingers, coaxing you into greater thrusts, fucking me as I kneel in front of you.
You grasp my hair and pull me back gently; my mouth keeps working, inches from your glistening cockhead, my tongue aching to touch you more, my throat open and hungry for your shaft. I look up at you, at your beautiful dark eyes.
“I’m going to come if you don’t stop,” you tell me. “I want you on the counter.”
You gesture toward the skeletal beginnings of a built-in kitchen island. Obediently, I stand up and bend over it, leaning fully on it so my legs leave the ground and my ass hovers in the air, my legs dangling helplessly and my pussy exposed. Now that I’m higher, off the ground, I’m acutely aware of the unfinished windows, bare emptiness facing what will be the back yard, what will be the side. The street noise excites me; almost anyone could look in, if they just walked onto the unprotected site.
“Close your eyes,” you tell me, and I do.
I’m full of surprises; I guess you know that. But I don’t think I gave you enough credit for being the same, because what I feel next sends a shiver through my body.
You’ve grabbed some rope. You wrap it around my wrist and start to tie me to the island.
I hear myself gasping; I feel my whole body tensing as I realize that you’ve pushed this so much further than I intended to go. I feel the sharp pang of fear deep in my body giving rise to a slow pulse of desire as I feel you quickly, expertly knotting the rope around my wrists, tying me to the skeletal frame of the unfinished kitchen island. I don’t struggle at first; I feel safe with you. Then, when I test the bonds and feel how tight you’ve tied them, I feel a rush of excitement and fear mingling deep in my pussy. It floods wet and I can practically feel it dripping down my inner thighs. When I pull against the bonds, squirming and struggling, you grab firm hold of my leg and that excites me more. Forcing my legs apart, you quickly tie first one ankle, then the other, to the framework of the island.
When I test the bonds again, I find myself immobile. I’m helpless, bent over, ass in the air, spread, vulnerable. Anyone could walk in here and have me. And you know it.
As I squirm, I feel my hard nipples rubbing against the rough plywood under me. They hurt a little from the roughness, but strangely I don’t mind it. I want it more. The more I squirm, the more my nipples ache and tingle. Meanwhile, I feel your hand on my ass—and it’s not empty. You’re holding a sander.
You barely press at all as you draw the sandpaper slowly down the backs of my thighs, then over my smooth, slim ass. I catch my breath, overwhelmed with sensation: the dusty smell of the ropes, the sharp tang of sawdust and plywood, the scent of your sweat-soaked, unwashed body, the sound of the street so close by, the cool breeze through the open framework of the house. The heat of my pussy as you bend close to me and put your mouth against the back of my neck.
“I’ve been wondering how to reward my men for working so hard,” you growl into my ear, and my back stiffens, my pussy flooding with heat as you torment me. I feel one hand grinding the sandpaper very lightly against my ass and thighs, the other hand pressing against my pussy and clit. Two fingers enter me, and I gasp. “A monetary bonus just didn’t seem like it would satisfy them. How kind of you to provide the perfect reward for a hard day’s work.”
The heat rises in my pussy as I push back onto you, your fingers pumping me as your growl intensifies, your breath hot and the smell of your sweat close in my nostrils.
“How about if I just leave you here and let them use you for as long as they like? We wouldn’t get much work done this afternoon, but I’m sure they’d work twice as hard tomorrow.”
I moan softly, writhing in the bonds, pushing back onto you as hard as I can as you finger-fuck me. Your cock still juts out of your open pants, still moist with my spittle, still hard. When you ease your fingers out of my pussy and toss the sandpaper away, I know what’s coming.
“Think you could handle that?” you ask me. “There are fifteen of them.”
That sends a shiver through me as you position yourself behind me, your cock finding the slick furrow between my pussy lips without delay. You enter me in one hard thrust, and I’m so open I take all of you, gasping as the curve of your cock hits my G-spot. I squirm and try to press back onto you, but your weight bears me down, and the bonds keep me firmly in place. As you start to pound me, my nipples rub raw against the plywood, through the thin silk of my camisole. My hips press into the edge of the wood; I can feel my flesh scraping, but I’m not worrying about splinters. I’m imagining all your workmen fucking me, even as your cock begins to plumb my depths faster and faster with each thrust.
“Come on,” you sigh. “You don’t mind contributing a little extra to the family business, do you, honey?”
Your cock is hitting exactly the right spot; it always does when you fuck me in this position. From behind, I mean—you’ve never fucked me in a construction site while I’m bent over a half-done counter. But you know what angle is the perfect one to shove your cock into me, and your cockhead is rubbing me in just the right place to make me—
Come.
But I don’t, yet, not quite; you seem to sense I’m closing in on it and slow down just enough to keep me hovering on the edge.
“Say you’ll do it, honey,” you say, tormenting me with the slowness of your thrusts. “Say you’ll let my men use you.”
I want to come so bad I would say anything to make you fuck me harder. “Oh god,” I gasp. “Of course I will. Of course I will. Anything you want.”
“All of them?”
“All of them,” I whimper, straining against the bonds and trying to force myself back onto your cock, harder. “Every last one. I’ll fuck them all…oh god—”
You start pounding into me again, the head of your cock striking my G-spot in exactly the way it takes to send me over the edge. You grip my slender thighs and hold me down as you ravage me, your cock pumping deep into my cunt and wrenching my orgasm from me.
“Oh god,” I moan. “I’m going to—”
Then I do, uncontrollably, your cock savaging me with every thrust, invading me, possessing me. I come so hard my eyes go dim, my whole body goes numb except my exploding clit, my throbbing pussy. I moan, helpless, not even caring who on the street can hear me, bound and naked, getting fucked in a kitchen where rich people will make their California Cuisine. Toward the end I hear myself screaming, as the intensity of my orgasm gets to be more than I can handle. And still you pound me, forcing me to handle it, forcing me to take it, forcing me to experience the most intense orgasm of my life. An orgasm so intense I’m afraid, for a moment, I’m going to pass out.
Then I hear you moaning, feel your cock clenching, feel the thick flood of semen that spells your release. I moan softly, savoring the feel of wetness that comes when you fill me. I lie there, immobile, bent over, exposed, bound—your slave. A bonus for your men, or whoever else you want to possess me.
You slip out of my pussy, your cock softening in its post-coital satisfaction. A thin stream of your come starts to leak down my thigh; it makes me shiver to feel it.
&nbs
p; You make short work of the knots on my wrists and ankles. You help me down off the counter and hand me my skirt. My arms go around you and you hug me close, kissing the top of my head.
“What,” I say. “No bonus for your men?”
“Nope,” you tell me. “I’m keeping this one all to myself.”
THE 9.30 TO EDINBURGH
Carolina John
Alison didn’t usually travel first class. But the timetable informed her that the journey from London to Edinburgh was going to be exceptionally long, and, if her past experience of train journeys was anything to go by, exceptionally tedious. So she thought she’d treat herself to a bit of luxury for a change, especially since she’d been working hard all week and hadn’t had a break from the city for six months. Now she felt that she deserved to pamper herself a little.
Besides, the train company that had recently bought the line was particularly concerned with the business of attracting customers—especially the kind who could afford to pay extra for a better class of service. Consequently the train company was pioneering a return to luxury compartment carriages for long journeys, restricted to first class passengers, of course. And when Alison saw the pictures in the brochure depicting comfortable seats in spotless air-conditioned compartments with adjustable lighting, personal stereo, and plenty of leg room, she handed over the extortionate fare without demur. It would be good to have a change from the clinical, brightly lit carriages that held sixty people and didn’t allow the passengers room to stretch their legs out under the narrow tables. And a small, cozy compartment would be much more intimate—if the right person got on the train to share it with her.
She’d managed to avoid going up to Edinburgh at Christmas and the Millennium—so she’d actually saved some money by waiting until she had a good reason to visit her family. And hearing Aunt Moira’s will being read by her solicitor was a very good reason indeed—especially when she thought that she might just inherit a few thousand pounds at the very time when she desperately needed some cash. Alison wasn’t exactly broke, but her money was “tied up” in various lucrative but complicated business ventures that she knew would eventually reap rewards but that didn’t allow her the freedom to spend what she wanted when she wanted to. The trouble was that Alison was the type of woman who needed rewards immediately.
Alison was a NOW person.
At twenty-four she reckoned she’d had enough of saving for what she wanted in life. Now she should be able to have what she wanted when she wanted it. And that went for everything—clothes, holidays, clubbing, meals out, and of course, men. She’d thought that she wanted Mike. Probably because he’d flashed his money around and had bought her all the other things that she’d also wanted. But now she had grown tired of him, and part of her yearned for a change of partner. Someone exciting who didn’t treat sex as though it was an activity you had to indulge in once a week in the missionary position when the lights were out.
“Fuck me!” she had once screamed at him at two o’clock in the afternoon.
“Don’t be crude, Alison,” he had replied coldly. “I’ll make love to you later—when we’re in bed.”
Alison had read stories in which the heroine was shagged everywhere, including the kitchen sink—and she craved the excitement of an impromptu liaison in an unusual place. The idea of a good fuck on the train appealed to her, but it didn’t seem likely in reality. How many people would really take advantage of a situation like that? This wasn’t a paperback novel—this was reality.
Mike hadn’t liked the idea of her going to Edinburgh without him. But then, Mike didn’t like the idea of her doing anything that might exclude him. Family business excluded him because he didn’t know her family. Alison would have excluded him anyway—because she didn’t want his “I-know-it-all” interference. He was arrogant, boring, and predictable—and when she came back, if she came back richer, she would dump him once and for all. In truth, it was only his money that attracted her. His stupidity in believing that she was in love with him had enabled her to use his money to finance her beautiful Belgravia flat in her own name, in effect signing his departure from her life. Alison was intelligent and sharp as a razor, and she needed an attractive man whom she couldn’t fool. She needed someone as astute as herself. Anyone foolish enough to let her get the better of him deserved her contempt, in her opinion.
Unfortunately, today, as she had predicted, there were no intelligent and attractive men on the 9.30 to Edinburgh. In fact, to her annoyance, she had the compartment completely to herself. And so she opened her fashion magazine and sat back to read it, half-contented with her own company and yet half-yearning for male company. Outside the window the countryside flashed past in a blur of greens, greys, and browns—dull, predictable, and unattractive.
Like Mike.
She sighed. If something exciting didn’t happen soon, then this was going to be one hell of a boring journey, she thought sadly.
And then her predictions were proved wrong. Attractive excitement suddenly arrived at Birmingham’s New Street Station. And for Alison nothing would ever be the same again.
The man and woman who entered her compartment oozed sex appeal and intelligence. Before they entered she heard the pleasant, educated voices in the corridor outside her compartment and she was delighted when they stopped at the sliding door. At last, she thought. Someone to talk to! But, with her usual coolness, she pretended to be engrossed in her magazine as they came in, looking at them surreptitiously from beneath her dark lashes. Her first impression was dark suits, Monsieur Rochas cologne, and expensive perfume. She also noticed that he carried a copy of the Financial Times and she hefted a black leather briefcase.
“Do you mind if we join you?” The woman’s voice was throaty and sensual, and she looked every inch the professional businesswoman in her tailored pin-striped suit with a knee-length skirt and soft, grey silk blouse. She smiled, flashing a set of pearly whites that any Hollywood dentist would be proud of. Alison smiled back.
“Not at all,” she replied. “I was beginning to think that this was a ghost train.” The woman’s companion smiled and nodded slowly.
“I’ve thought the same thing every time I’ve travelled on this line,” he said, looking straight into her eyes. Alison’s heart missed a beat. He was everything that she’d ever thought attractive in a man—tall, dark, muscular, and intense. His hair was very short and his wide, mysterious eyes were the colour of rich milk chocolate. As they bore into her flesh she shivered with excitement, self-consciously smoothing her long chestnut hair back from her forehead. This man exuded exoticism and passion, she thought. It was a pity that he was with his—wife? Girlfriend? Well, it was just tragic that he had another woman with him. Alison crossed a nylon-clad leg and ran her fingers over her thighs, glad that she had worn the black silk skirt that clung flatteringly to her figure, enhancing the curves of her buttocks. He looked at her legs and flicked his tongue over his lips. She hoped that he had glimpsed the lacy tops of her stockings as she had slid one leg across the other. It might just make him wonder what else she was wearing. Her pale-green blouse was slightly see-through, and she noted with satisfaction that the stranger was now staring longingly at her breasts. Perhaps his companion was just a business colleague, she hoped. One thing was sure, though—Alison wanted this man sexually. Really wanted him.
“You’re a regular traveller, then?” she asked as he took the seat opposite hers and placed his companion’s briefcase under the window.
“Yes,” he replied. “Sarah and I often have to visit clients in Scotland.” He cast a glance to his blonde companion and Alison’s heart leaped as she realised that she was, as she had hoped, just a colleague. “But after a while travelling can become really tedious—and we do all we can to try to make the journey as interesting as possible,” he added. Sarah nodded, her eyes flashing knowingly at her companion before settling on Alison’s hot face.
“Absolutely. And I can honestly say that we’ve had more than our fa
ir share of fun on some of the journeys. Outrageous fun, in fact.” She glanced meaningfully at her companion and then back to Alison. “This is Max, by the way. And you are—?”
“Alison. Pleased to meet you, Max and—Sarah, is it?”
Sarah smiled warmly and nodded, then glanced out the window. The train was pulling away from the station and nobody else had entered their compartment.
“It looks as though we’re alone until York,” she said. “The train doesn’t stop again until then.” Max grinned.
“I wonder what we can do to amuse ourselves for three and a half hours?” he mused, his long, tapered fingers drumming restlessly on his lap.
“Max hates to be bored,” explained Sarah to Alison, who was finding it increasingly difficult to drag her eyes away from the man opposite, who was now staring moodily out the window. For a moment he reminded Alison of Heathcliffe in Wuthering Heights—dark, handsome, brooding. Then Sarah went on, “Sometimes I have to help him to amuse himself,” she added, turning to him and beginning to stroke his thigh. “Isn’t that right, Max?” Max nodded.
“Quite right,” he agreed. “And you always do it so beautifully Sarah. Like now. Did I ever tell you that you have a wonderful touch?”
“Many times, darling,” she murmured.
He closed his eyes and Alison watched as Sarah’s hand moved farther and farther up his leg, stroking slowly and sensually until it reached his groin. Her eyes widened. Surely they weren’t going to start groping each other right in front of her? These were respectable business colleagues, she thought. Any minute now they would realise that what they were doing was just not socially acceptable.
“This helps him to relax, Alison,” murmured Sarah apologetically as she began to caress his penis over the well-cut dark grey trousers. “But this helps him even more.” With one deft movement she unzipped his fly and slid her hand into the opening, where it remained, caressing and teasing the penis that was hidden from Alison, but that she suddenly wanted desperately to see. She could just make out the outline of it, long and fat. Much bigger than Mike’s. She gasped. This had happened to her in dreams before—but had never even been hinted at in reality.
