by Rene Webb
Wordlessly I lean forward, placing my hand lightly on Lily’s knee. I watch as her heart rate increases, and then slowly evens out. Gradually I inch my hand up her thigh toward her cunt.
“Sir?” Lily’s voice shakes with nerves and her breathing increases. She looks up at me, grabbing my wrist with her hands, attempting to stop my progression.
Pausing for a moment, I caress the inside of her thigh with my fingertips. Gooseflesh appears. Lily shivers involuntarily, and her panicked breathing turns into pleasure-filled panting.
Although she still holds onto my wrist, her grip loosens, and she doesn’t try to stop my journey. The closer I get to her mound, I can feel the heat radiating out from between her firm thighs. I can’t stop my imagination from conjuring up images of the toned muscles grasping me tightly as I pound into her.
Fuck.
My cock begins to take an interest. Sucking air through my nose, I take a deep breath. And relax. This is about Lily’s pleasure, not mine—for now.
She gasps in surprise as I gently pet her bare flesh, slowly running my fingertips along her labia. Lily’s face flushes, her green eyes darken, and her hands tighten their hold as her nails dig into my skin.
Thoughts of her nails clawing my back have my cock stiffening and pressing against my fly. Taking a deep breath, I shove those thoughts aside and focus on the task in front of me. Getting Lily used to my touch.
“Has anyone ever tasted your cunt?” I ask as I slowly spread her lips open and lightly touch her clit. She shivers, and I hear a strangled moan.
“No,” she answers breathlessly as I slide my finger down further and rim her wet opening with a fingertip before continuing to stroke her.
Leaning forward, I wrap my free arm around the back of her chair and rest it lightly on her shoulder. I press a light kiss on her long slender neck and ask, “How did your cum taste earlier?”
Lily shakes her head. She’s unable or unwilling to answer. With every stroke of my finger, her cunt gets wetter and wetter. I dip my digit slowly into her tight warmth and feel the pressure of her nails digging into my forearm increase.
My hand on her shoulder moves down to cup her perfectly proportioned breast. Lily’s heartbeat quickens. I brush my thumb against her swollen nipple and her cunt twitches around my fingers.
“I bet you taste sweet and spicy,” I tell her, continuing to slowly fuck her with my finger as I tease her clit with my thumb. Taking my time.
Lily makes no effort to stop my ministrations. I feel a shiver of pleasure run through her as her body responds instinctively to my touch. The scent of her arousal fills my senses, becoming stronger with every inward thrust, fogging my mind with need.
Pulling my finger out, I push two back in as I stretch her open further. At first, she groans and clutches my arm tighter. I tease her clit with my thumb, and she rewards me with a low moan of pleasure. I pinch her aroused nipple through the starched dress shirt she’s wearing before moving my hand up her breast and onto her shoulder again. Then I begin to slowly massage the back of her neck. Lily’s body soon loosens, relaxing under my touch.
I halt my inward thrust when I reach her barrier, debating whether it would be less painful if I broke through it now or waited. Giving her any pain at this stage could ruin what little trust she has in me, so I pull back and continue to tease her with shallow strokes.
Her breathing has increased along with the tempo of my touch. I lean forward, shifting in my seat as I attempt to alleviate my painfully aroused cock, which hardens more with every uncontrollable moan Lily attempts to suppress.
“Sir,” she cries out, fisting the front of my t-shirt as her hips instinctively move against my hand. Lily’s eyes flair in surprise, and she struggles to fight the pleasure that is overtaking her. The pleasure I’m forcing on her.
“Come for me, Princess,” I command softly into her ear, nipping and sucking on the lobe. “Enjoy what I can give you.”
Lily finally lets herself find release on my fingers, squeezing them tightly as she soaks them with her juices. I watch her face flush with pleasure as she soundlessly comes undone. My cock twitches angrily, but I ignore my own needs.
I don’t stop moving within her or stroking her clit until the final tremors of her pleasure are released. She drops her forehead onto my shoulder and becomes weightless against my chest. I take this as a sign that she is slowly coming to trust me and the pleasure I can give her.
With my free hand, I fist her hair and direct her mouth to mine. I need to taste her. Slowly, I tease her lips with my own, stroking them with my tongue. Soon Lily is leaning into the kiss and responding on her own.
Fuck.
Having forgotten my fingers were still inside her snug cunt, she gasps, breaking the kiss when I begin slowly sliding them again through her wetness, reawakening the needful feeling within her. She groans as I pull out my fingers and taste the salty sweetness for myself. Lily’s eyes are glassy with desire as she watches me suck my digits dry, tasting her juices for the first time.
“Fuck. I was right, Princess, you’ve got the sweetest cunt I’ve ever tasted.” Lily’s eyes flare with passion at my words, changing into sparkling emeralds. “I look forward to spreading you out and feasting on you later.”
Still clutching my shirt, she squirms in her chair, and I know she’s aching for me to finger her again, but I won’t. The next time I bring her to climax, I want her to be begging me.
Releasing my hold on her hair, I run my hand along her back, feeling her muscles relax under my touch. Unconsciously, she leans into my chest. Her breathing is still slightly labored and her nipples are hard points against my shirt.
With my free hand, I cup one breast, feeling the soft, warm weight in my palm.
Perfect.
Suddenly there is a knock on the door, signaling that our dinner has arrived. Watching Lily jump at the sound has me burning with anger. Whoever instigated her kidnapping and knowingly put her through this hell will fucking pay.
I stand up, but before walking toward the door, I tuck a strand of her silky smooth hazelnut-colored hair behind her ear, stroking her cheek gently. Lily visibly relaxes against my touch. Progress.
Pulling open the door, I grab the cart from the waiter and, not wanting to let him inside, pull it into the room. There is no way I’m letting anyone from the house near my princess again, let alone see her dressed in only my shirt.
“I hope you’re hungry.” I wheel the cart of covered dishes toward the table.
“Starving.” Lily jumps up and eagerly comes over to inspect what I’ve ordered. I glimpse the first real smile on her face as I pull the metal dome covers off the dishes and reveal the hamburgers and mountains of golden French fries. “I’m not a huge fan of the cuisine here.”
“Meat and potatoes girl are you?” I grin at her. “Seems like we have something in common.”
Chapter Eight
~ Lily ~
“Sit,” the man softly commands. “I’ll serve you.”
Hugging myself, I walk toward him. Grateful once again for the shirt—the shield—he’s given me to wear. Not that the flimsy fabric has stopped him from touching me or making my traitorous body respond to his surprisingly gentle caresses. The way he acted earlier, when he first entered the bedroom with his growly commands and scowl, I assumed—wrongly—that this man would be grabby, rough, and forceful. He is none of these things.
Walking around the table, my back to the room, I am now facing the open bathroom door where I had, all too briefly, sought sanctuary earlier.
A wave of sorrow slowly begins to overtake me, but I force it aside. I can’t let myself think about what will happen tonight, or even tomorrow when the man inevitably leaves me here. I need to live in the moment. Something I’ve been trying to do ever since my father’s sudden death, five years ago. Wanting to live life to the fullest is what persuaded me, along with James’ insistence that I go, to do a semester abroad in London, even if it took me longer to graduate, and
it is what led me to the spontaneous—now disastrous—trip to Paris.
Acting the gentleman, the man tucks me against the table before placing a plate loaded with food and a set of silverware rolled up in a navy blue napkin in front of me. My stomach audibly grumbles as I inhale the delicious scents of fried food and red meat.
“Thank you,” I mumble, years of trained politeness taking over.
“You’re welcome, Princess,” he says, his voice light with amusement.
Ignoring his words, I quickly shake out the napkin and tuck it onto my lap before grabbing several fries. I dip them into the small container of ketchup, take a large bite, and close my eyes, moaning blissfully as the tastes of home hit my tongue.
I can almost imagine that I’m in my favorite diner. The one on Main Street, with its red Naugahyde covered booths, stainless steel tabletops, and mini jukeboxes at every table. Where the waitresses wear poofy skirts and zip around on roller-skates.
For years, Dad and I would go there, just the two of us, for our bi-weekly father-daughter dinner. He traveled a lot for work, so every two weeks it would be just him and me, hamburgers, French-fries, and strawberry milkshakes. We would talk, laugh, and catch-up on what we missed in each other’s lives while we were apart. Dad would describe all the places he’d seen, and I’d regale him with the latest school gossip. I have not been able to bring myself to go back there since his death.
A low growl next to me forces me back into my grim reality. I shove the remaining handful of fries into my mouth, pushing back the overwhelming feelings of suffocation and loss, and focus on the satisfyingly familiar flavors.
“Good?” the man asks, pulling out the chair next to mine and sitting down. So lost in the past, I had not noticed that he’d arranged the rest of the table with drinks and his own overloaded plate.
I nod and swallow thickly, adding wistfully, “All I need is a strawberry milkshake.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He tosses his napkin back onto the table and moves to stand up. “I would’ve ordered you one.”
“No. It’s fine. Don’t.” I reach out and grab his wrist, firmly ignoring the spark of comfortable warmth that passes through me. The last thing I want is to owe this man anything.
“Whatever my princess wants, she gets,” he states firmly, pulling out of my grasp and moving toward the phone.
“I want to go home,” I mutter under my breath, staring down at my plate and trying to control the sudden tidal wave of emotions—helplessness, fear, and loneliness. Not wanting to cry, I grab the burger and take a large bite, trying to push everything out of my mind, especially the man’s words.
My princess.
I don’t want to think about how many times he’s called me that, or the way he utters the words. Behind me, I hear him grab the phone and speak in clipped, annoyed tones. So very different than the growly caress the man uses when he says those two words: my princess.
“It should be here shortly,” he states firmly. I feel the brush of his pants against my leg and his solid warmth as he settles himself back into the chair next to mine.
Focusing on the food in front of me, I ignore the conflicting emotions this man is creating within me. Fear. And desire.
“Did they make it medium-well, as I ordered?”
I look up to see him scowling down at his own plate, his dark eyebrows scrunched up and his mouth thin. I have the sudden urge to kiss away his annoyance. Shaking myself from the thought, I give him a small smile and nod.
“Good.” He picks up his burger and takes a large bite. I watch the thick cords of his neck strain and flex as he swallows. The insane desire to lean over, kiss his pulse, and breathe in his warmth overcomes me. Ignoring my own insanity, I grab more fries and attempt to focus on their wonderful salty, greasy, crunchiness. I can’t help but stare transfixed as the man’s tongue peaks out when he licks his lips, cleaning them. He grabs his beer.
“God, this is fucking awful,” the man says, putting his beer bottle back on the table with a thud and glaring at it in disgust. “I don’t know what that is, but it isn’t beer. Tastes like piss.”
“You’ve drunk urine?” I find myself asking in between bites.
“Urotherapy is supposed to have many health benefits, including curing cancer,” he states, lifting his water glass and gulping down a third of it.
Eww!
If this man really has drunk urine, I’m seriously going to rethink finding him attractive. He must see the look of revulsion on my face because he grins.
Leaning over, he takes his napkin and wipes ketchup off the corner of my mouth before admitting the truth. “Don’t worry; I’ve never actually drunk piss. Not even during a drunken game of dare at university.”
I smile and return to my perfectly cooked hamburger. We eat in comfortable silence for several minutes until a knock on the door startles me again. The man stands up and places a gentle, calming hand on my shoulder. But when I look up, he’s staring down at me with a dark expression.
I watch as he yanks open the door, grabs the silver tray from the waiter, and then slams the door shut in the waiter’s face. When he turns back around, his face is clear of emotion—a placid mask.
The pendulum swing of his emotions leaves me feeling unmoored and insecure. Even though none of his anger seems to be directed at me personally, it’s unsettling to witness. After watching him this entire evening, one thing seems to be clear: he has no desire to be here. Then why is he?
“They better have made it correctly.” He places the large strawberry milkshake in front of me and moves his beer to the other side of the table.
“Thank you.” I reach out and take hold of the tall cold glass. A white straw pokes out of a watery pale pink liquid. Taking a large sip, I look up to see him watching me with a furrowed brow.
“It’s delicious,” I lie, not wanting this man to know it’s possibly the worst milkshake I have ever had. He doesn’t need another reason to be more annoyed than he already is, and I don’t want to risk that he’ll start taking it out on me—physically.
“It fucking better be,” he grumbles, taking his seat next to me once again and going back to his meal.
The supposed milkshake tastes like they used frozen yogurt instead of ice cream and fat-free milk. It is nothing like the extra thick ones with their generous helpings of whipped cream on top that I used to get at the diner back home. Again, I try to brush thoughts of the past aside and live in the moment.
“Here, you can have mine.” The man places his small container of ketchup next to my plate. “I prefer oil and vinegar.”
“Thank you,” I reply, and find myself commenting, “That’s very British.”
“I went to Cambridge,” he tells me. “And then spent several years working in London.”
“My cousin went there,” I tell him softly, my heart suddenly aching for my family.
Do they even realize I’m missing?
Are they looking for me?
Grabbing the milkshake, I take another large sip, ignoring the watery flavor as I swallow and try to push down the tightness that has spread into my throat. Over the past weeks, I have deliberately avoided asking myself these questions, knowing it would leave me slipping into despair. Something I have to avoid at all costs if I have any hope of surviving, of escaping.
“What was your favorite thing about Paris?”
“Paris?” I ask, staring down at my half-finished meal.
The man’s question startles me; I almost forgot I had ever been to Paris. I had barely begun exploring the city when my nightmare began.
“Yes, Paris. What did you enjoy most while you were there?”
I look over to see his face full of genuine interest.
“The croissants,” I tell him, grinning slightly—remembering the crisp, flaky, buttery croissants we had our first morning and how they melted in your mouth.
“You sound like my little sister,” he tells me, and a grin flits across his face.
“You
have a sister?” I find myself asking. How could this man possibly be here in a brothel buying women and have a younger sister at home?
“Yes,” he answers with a finality that doesn’t allow for any further questions; instead, he redirects the conversation with one of his own. “Did you get to the Louvre?”
Having taken another bite, I simply nod my head in answer.
Janice and I had braved the insane line at the Louvre to catch a glimpse of the famous paintings we had only ever seen in our art history textbooks.
“What did you think?”
“Seeing the Mona Lisa was a little anticlimactic,” I admit, nibbling on another fry.
“It is, isn’t it!” he exclaims, putting his glass back down on the table with a resounding thud.
I can’t help but smile at his overly enthusiastic response about something so mundane.
“It’s only worth the visit if you do a private tour,” he adds, and then he begins telling me all about his last visit. It sounds like he saw a lot more of what the museum has to offer than I did. My heart skips a beat when he casually remarks, “I’ll take you sometime.”
A swell of hope fills me, but then reality crushes it. People say things they don’t really mean all the time. I need to focus on our conversation here in the moment, not what could be in the future.
The man is clearly intelligent and cultured, knowing all about the artists, the architecture, and the history of the Louvre itself. After going weeks without having anyone to talk to, our conversation is oddly comforting. I find myself asking him questions, wanting to know more about him and his interests. We segue into other topics, such as our favorite films, foods, and his favorite American microbreweries—one in Vermont in particular. Although he avoids anything too personal, like his name, he answers me and seems just as interested in keeping the conversation flowing.
I’m struck suddenly by how oddly date-like our dinner has become, and even more confused by this man’s odd behavior. Ever since we sat down to eat, it seems like he wants to get to know me. Almost like he wants to be friends. I highly doubt that this man lacks friends. So why does he care whether or not I’m a fan of Harry Potter? Incidentally, I am, having grown up reading the books and seeing the films. He claims to have taken an online quiz that sorted him into Gryffindor, but I’m not sure I believe him. He’s clearly a Slytherin.
