Masquerading Hearts

by Blisse, Victoria

  MASQUERADING HEARTS

  A Phaze Fury HeatSheet by

  Victoria Blisse

  Phaze 6470A Glenway Avenue, #109 Cincinnati, OH 45211-5222

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  eBook ISBN 1-59426-948-3

  Masquerading Hearts © 2007 by Victoria Blisse

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Cover art © 2006 by Kathryn Lively

  Phaze is an imprint of Mundania Press, LLC.

  www.Phaze.com

  Also by Victoria Blisse

  Getting Physical Naughty Rendezvous Proving Santa Exists

  I t doesn't matter that I don't know his name; I'll not be calling him again. I'm just going to ride this cock till I'm satisfied. It doesn't matter that I don't know the colour of his eyes, because I'm not interested in staring into them. I just want his hardness slamming into my soft, willing cunt. It doesn't matter who he is. All that matters is revenge: revenge on Jack.

  Jack said he loved me. Jack said I meant the world to him. Jack said I was his soul mate. I believed him. I thought he was the one, you know, the one in the romance novels. Actually, our eyes did meet across a crowded ballroom. It was the office party one Christmas. We'd broken some sales record or other so they pushed the boat out, hired the swankiest room in the town hall and we had a ball, an actual masquerade ball.

  I was in an old, Marie Antoinette get-up: a glorious scarlet ball gown with this very delicate black embroidery around the low décolletage and enough volume in the skirt to deafen a metal head. I felt somewhat like the Michelin man, with big balloon sleeves over my less than delicate arms and skirts that ballooned out like inflated airbags that draped to the floor making me resemble a hovercraft.

  I was standing in a corner, cradling a half-glass of warm rum and Coke and thinking about the buffet when, for some reason I still can't grasp, I looked up. I looked into the brightest, most intense gaze I had ever experienced, and I was instantly smitten. My heart leapt—literally leapt—in my chest, and my nipples tightened as my pussy throbbed. Our eyes stayed locked as he walked towards me. He walked over, and I took nothing else in but the intensity of his stare, the soft sweep of his cheek bones, and the sensual wave of his lips.

  He took me by the hand, and it was as if an electric circuit had been completed. I was charged up, my body prickling with arousal. He never spoke, just led me to the dance floor. We waltzed, spun, and reeled and, without a word as one song melted away into another, his lips touched mine.

  In fact, we didn't talk to each other very much at all on our first meeting. He slipped a card into my hand as he left with his friends, and on it was scrawled his name and phone number. I felt like such a wanton hussy as I realised I'd been with a nameless man with whom I'd never even made polite conversation. It excited me. I should have known it was too good to be true. "Are you okay?" he gasps, and I'm shaken from my reverie. I look down at his screwed up grimace of a face and nod. I pull my most pornlike pout and growl, "Yes, oh yes." For a split second, he looks as if he's not convinced. Then I clench my cunt and his eyes close as a moan spills from his lips, and I know he has forgotten all doubt and is overwhelmed by lust once more.

  He yells loudly as he comes. I cannot quite make out what he says, but it sounds like "Jane!" which isn't my name. Oh well, at least he's not going to get hung up on this fuck either. "Where's my bra?" I ask as I climb off his sticky cock. "What are you doing?" he asks, looking confused. "I'm getting dressed and going home. I've got work tomorrow." "Oh." He pouts as I gather my clothes and put them on. I turn to say goodbye once I pick up my lone shoe from the landing, but he is snoring already. I shut the door quietly behind me and walk.

  "Would you like to get some air?" Jack had asked me after what seemed like the hundredth waltz.

  "Sure, that'd be nice." I'd smiled back, taking the opportunity to catch my breath. He grabbed my hand and squeezed it as he almost dragged me out of the ball room, down the crowded hallway filled with couples making out, and through the door into the cold night air.

  I had not even a second to gather my thoughts; his lips plastered themselves to mine the moment we got away from the doorway. My back thudded against the cold wall, the prickly bricks pressing into the flesh of my back that was showing through my dress. His hands slipped up and down my waist, emphasizing the concave curve between my breasts and hips, tracing over the tightened bodice of the corset that was keeping all my convex curves from spilling out and spoiling my hourglass figure.

  His lips were heavenly hot, transporting me to levels of rapture I'd never before experienced. He kissed me. That sentence is so woefully inadequate yet paradoxically spot on. I felt like his lips were caressing me all over. My flesh tingled and zinged with arousal, and I just wanted to fuck. I've never been promiscuous; I've never had the chance. Straight laced parents and cruel name-calling through school persuaded me I was not sexy. It took a few years at university and a night filled with stolen snogs for a drunken dare to show me that men did actually find my curves attractive. It took a year-long relationship with an old friend to show me I was a sexual being and a second of a hot kiss with a stranger to make me wet and wanton.

  "Oh, fuck," he'd gasped, as our lips parted for breath. "You're sublime." He continued to kiss me from my lips to my cheeks then he slipped sensually south down the long slope of my neck. As he sucked upon the ripe flesh of my cleavage, I knew I should protest but I couldn't. I even helped him haul my breasts up and out of the low cut top so he could feast upon their flesh. He nibbled my nipples as they hung outside my clothing. I should have been worried about my work colleagues copping a look at me with my tits out, but I wasn't. All that was on my mind was fucking him.

  I reached out with my hands as soon as I remembered I had them and slipped them down over his waist to his taut buttocks. Those old fashioned tight pants give real opportunity to grope a man. My squeeze elicited a deep rumbling growl from between his puckered lips. "Yes, I want to feel your arse," he whispered in my ear then pulled me forward. "What are you doing?" I giggled. "Copping a feel." He replied, standing behind me and pushing me over one of the concrete bollards blocking cars from parking down this dark alley.

  My hands cupped the hard, cold post as my upper body fell forward, my tits hanging and swinging in the bitter cold air. I heard the rustle then felt the lifting of my skirt and underskirts. At that moment, I regretted wearing my big knickers but it did not seem to deter him in any way. I remember the coldness hitting my buttocks seconds before the flat of his hand did. I was shocked and turned on by the impromptu and brief spanking I received.

  "Dirty girl," he whispered, dipping a finger into my pooling honey, "that turned you on."

  "Fuck me." I hissed desperately. It was the signal he'd been waiting for. It was the consent he needed and as the nasty phrase dropped from my lips, he slipped his exposed cock between my buttocks.

  Even now, as I walk away from another unsatisfying drunken fuck, I get wet remembering that first fuck. Yes, it was short but, hell, it was sweet. Jack hammered into me hard and fast, and I needed no other stimulation to come. My senses were in overdrive, and feeling him using me in such a deliciously naughty way in such a public place was just orgasmic. It set a precedent, and I'd lost track of the number of tim
es we'd fucked or played around in public or semi-public since.

  Fucking bastard left me three months ago. Well, correction: I threw his sorry arse out three months ago after I saw him with that blonde bimbo. She was barely legal and barely clothed when I found them fucking behind the White Lion. I'd found his mobile phone on the coffee table and decided to take it over to him, as I knew he was out with the lads and he'd need it to call a cab later in the evening. I'd heard his voice as I walked up to the pub's door and so went round the back to investigate.

  I stood still and watched for a good few minutes before spinning on my heel, throwing his phone to the floor in disgust and striding determinedly home. He'd not moved in officially, but I had some clothes of his in my wardrobe, his toothbrush in my bathroom, and some of his CDs in my collection. I bundled up the lot in a black plastic bag and dumped it on the front doorstep with a note stuck to it. It's over, you cheating bastard. Then, I cried. I cried and I cried. I cried as he thumped on the door begging my forgiveness. I cried when I woke the next morning, alone. I cried when I found the note pressed through my letter box. Then, I got angry.

  I'm so sorry. Laura, I love you, I didn't even know her. I need to explain what happened to you. It's not what it seems. Please, give me another chance.

  So he was fucking a stranger and that was meant to make it all better? I'd been a bloody stranger when he'd fucked me, and we'd been going out for six months when I discovered his indiscretion. It had been an intense six months, too. He said he loved me on the second time we met, and I believed him. He said I was all he ever wanted after a month, and then all he ever needed the very next day. He bought me sweet gifts out of the blue, wrote me poems and love notes, and generally wooed me. He made me feel so special, more special than I'd ever felt before.

  Then he fucked someone else, and it all crumbled away into insecurity and lies. I've not spoken to him since that day. I have an answer machine filled with his voice and a pile of unopened letters with his return address on them, but I closed up my heart that day and I'm keeping it closed. My legs? Well, I find they still open. Tonight's secondrate fuck is by no means the first since Jack exited my life. In fact, I've been fucking at every opportunity to do so in hopes that Jack will see me picking up a guy and feel some fraction of the pain I felt that night when I saw him balls deep in a blonde. * * * * Electric is my favourite place to pick up fucks. It's one of those nightclubs that people describe as a "meat market." Everyone is eyeing up everyone else, clothing is brief, and the room is permeated with sexual tension. The flashing lights, the disco ball, and the dark coloured walls are all a bit past their best, as is the DJ, but the booze is cheap and the pickings are good. Virtually every person in the joint is drunk, from slightly tipsy—which is my end of the spectrum—to falling over, and every state in between.

  I've had my eye on a couple of lads, students I think, for the last ten minutes or so. They're on the dance floor and they're migrating between groups of girls, gyrating with them and attempting to garner kisses. They're fairly good looking guys but a little aggressive for the young girls they're targeting, and so their obvious gropes are getting them pushed away. I'm thinking about trying them out. I've always fancied a threesome. However, they've not even looked at anything older than university-aged, and I'm a good ten years older than that. I'd really rather avoid rejection, I think I may have to look out for a new target.

  As I'm scanning the crowd for other promising and less challenging men, my eyes light on a very familiar figure and me heart squeezes and throbs painfully in my chest. It's Jack with the lads. They're all bouncing around and yelling, so they must have already had a skin full. No girls tagging along, so maybe it's a lads' night out. I down what is left of my vodka-soaked lemonade and stride to the dance floor. I'm going to show that man just what he's missing.

  I move with the beat, long strides that sensually stretch my legs, showing their maximum length under my short skirt. I fix my eyes on the two young guys and push my way through the gyrating crowd to reach them. I slip between their hard bodies making sure to push my bottom back and press into the crotch of one and display my breasts to the other.

  I needn't have worried about being rejected; their hands are already all over my body. The guy behind is grinding slowly into my ass, his hands on either hip, pulling me closer into the growing bulge at his crotch. The one in front of me has hands on my sides, just cupping my breasts, and his body is pressed in close to me. I'm literally sandwiched between two hard, young bodies. I feel Jacks eyes upon me and look up. It's crazy that we still have a connection; that I can feel his eyes resting on me, making my pulse race.

  I meet his gaze and smile. You know that smile a cat flashes you when it's just eaten your dinner and is now reclining in your chair? Well, my smile is just like that. Take that, cheater. Seeing his look of recognition, the confusion, and finally the dark flicker of pain in his bright, joyful eyes brings a deep sense of satisfaction for a moment, but then the emptiness fills the pit of my stomach again and I feel the need to inflict more pain, much more pain than he caused me.

  I turn back to look into the eyes of the lad groping my breasts, and he smiles at me. I lean in as if to whisper in his ear but instead I press my lips to his cheek. Slowly he moves his head so my lips slip around to press against his. His breath is harsh with rough spirit and sweetened with a hint of cola. His kiss is practiced, confident, and proud and matches mine for intensity. I flick an eye open and Jack is still there, but he's not watching. He's grabbed a young girl and is engaged in sucking all the life from her body via her mouth.

  Pulling away from the kiss with an audible slurp, I turn around and plant my lips upon the lips of the guy who's been grinding into my arse for the last few minutes. I feel the hard bump of the other guy's cock pressing into the soft flesh of my ample bottom, and I wrap my hands around my new prey, pulling him in close, and encouraging him to run his hands up and down my sides, brushing over my breasts.

  I feel hands cupping my buttocks and, as my skirt is so short and my underwear so brief, I can feel the big, soft hands on the bare flesh there. I moan, but the moan is absorbed by the impassioned kiss I'm engaged in. I know that if Jack is watching right now, he'll be able to see the hands on my arse and it makes me smile wickedly. I'll give him something else to look at, too. I want him to be in turmoil, complete and utter heartbreaking turmoil, just as I have been over the last few months.

  I slip my hands down from the fit lad's back to his bottom. I pull him in closer and squeeze. He groans. I feel it through the kiss, and I grind myself against his crotch. The hand behind cracks down on my buttock and thrusts me harder against the crotch of the guy I'm snogging. I hear a whisper in my ear.

  "Want to take this somewhere more private?" I feel the breath caressing my ear as the hand squeezes my bum.

  "Yes," I reply, "after one more song." I flip round to face the speaker. "I like my foreplay in public, you see. It gets me hot. Feel."

  I brazenly grasp his hand and press it down over my stomach and under the waistband of my skirt, into wet, sticky material wedged between my thighs.

  "Very hot." He gasps, rubbing his fingers up and down my slit, as I reach behind me and grab the hard crotch that is there.

  "I do get both you guys once the song is finished, right?" I look over my shoulder and back again as the two friends eye each other over my shoulder.

  "Of course," the one behind me says, probably relieved he's going to be involved in the action.

  "Sure." The guy with his fingers in my slit shrugs, happy to be getting laid, and drunk enough to not be worried about sharing a woman with another man.

  "Wonderful," I purr, turning so I have one guy facing each shoulder and simultaneously reaching out and laying a hand on each chest. They rub against me as the conversation ceases, each pressing their hard cocks into my flesh whist I watch Jack rubbing up against this blonde, who seems to be less than pleased by his wandering hands. Take that, bastard. I'm the winner ton
ight.

  Why don't I feel like I've won? As I walk out to the taxi rank, a young hunk on each arm, I feel numb. I should be excited. I should be anticipating hot threesome sex. But all that is on my mind is how tired Jack looked, how there were bags under his eyes, and how he looked leaner than usual. Did that mean he was missing me, too? We join the queue at the rank, one guy's hand on my arse, the other round my shoulders. "Hope we don't have too long to wait," one mumbles. "I'm worth it though." I grin and they laugh, nervously. I hear a familiar voice behind me and look round to see Jack with the blonde piece. His arm is round her shoulders, obviously helping to keep her upright. I hope she pukes on his shoes then passes out on his floor. It'll serve him right!

  As we shuffle forward, coming closer to the head of the queue, I hear a horrible retching noise behind me, then I feel something disgusting splash up the back of my legs. I spin around, my anger flaring.

  "Look what your drunken slut has done," I hiss and fix Jack with a glare. "Hey, I'm sorry, but there's no need for that." "I have puke up the back of my legs. I think there is a need for it." I

  snap. "I've got a handkerchief…" One of the guys accompanying me

  proffers a while square. "Thanks." I take it off him. "Now you or your drunken slut needs to

  clean up the mess you've made." "I'm not a slut." The girl looks at me, her eyes glassy with booze. "Really?" I gasp. "Well, I am sorry. You are with the lying, cheating, deceptive bastard who used to be my boyfriend before I found him shagging some bint behind the local pub. So, my view point may be a bit skewed."

  She moves her drunken gaze to Jack. "Is she telling the truth?" she slurs.

  "Well, technically," his cheeks are flushed, his eyes lowered, "but I can explain."

  "Fuck off." She hisses and turns on her heel narrowly avoiding crumpling to the ground, and unsteadily heads back to the nightclub.

  "Well, thank you!" Jack fumes. "I can't believe you were calling her a slut when I saw the cavorting you were doing with these two boys in there."