by Cole, Harper
And it was kinda funny but he was using me and somehow that made me feel wanted and then I stopped thinking at all because his thick cock was filling my mouth and I had to concentrate just to not gag as he ploughed into me and my pussy was running with juice and when I let my hand stray from his leg to reach down to touch myself, he barked out a refusal:
"No! You will not cum tonight."
I didn't care any longer. I wanted him to cum. I needed him to fill me up and I worked up and down his shaft, as much as I could, though his hands directed the speed and the movement. I pressed my tongue on the thick vein that ran along the underside and licked and sucked, though my eyes were watering and my lips were stretched and hurting now.
"I'm going to cum and you're going to drink every drop," he growled and I had no option because he was buried to the hilt in me now.
Then he was jerking, his hips in spasm and the hot liquid filled me and I swallowed it desperately, eager to not spill a thing.
I was thrown away from him as the cab came to an unexpected halt and I sprawled on the floor, my legs crumpled under me and my knees sore from kneeling. He tucked himself away and stretched, letting out a satisfied sigh, before leaning forward and extending his hand to me.
I hesitated. A moment ago he'd been brutal in his use of me. And now?
"You were magnificent," he whispered. "Well done. You have exceeded my expectations and, indeed, my hopes."
He took my hand and half-lifted me from the cab out onto the sidewalk, and wrapped his left arm around my waist to support me while the feeling returned to my legs. He asked the cabbie to wait, and I realized I was outside my own apartment block once more.
Still my pussy throbbed with need and it made me crotchety all of a sudden. "You're messing with my mind," I said. "One minute you're telling me I need punishing and the next, you tell me I'm magnificent."
"Because both things are true," he said, pulling me to his chest and stroking my hair gently. I grew a little calmer, almost in spite of myself. "I'm not claiming to be in a committed relationship with you. But while we are together I feel a great deal of responsibility and tenderness towards you. Like a father with their errant child, caring can be shown through punishment and chastisement."
"For my own good?" I said, sinking into his words. Maybe this gentle moment could become something more, and bring me the relief that I sought.
"Absolutely," he said, and then he was stepping back, and patting my ass. "Run home now, lovely thing, and we'll play again soon."
Lovely thing? I knew he was toying with me - I tried to fight down my rising infuriation - but he turned from me and hopped back into the cab.
My resolve broke. My need was a physical pain. I screamed out loud, not caring who heard me: "You arrogant asshole!"
The cab pulled away and I hoped he heard me.
And I knew he'd punish me for it, and I knew that I wanted it.
* * * *
I was smitten with him and I knew it, and though I kept saying to myself that I didn't know what to do - that was false. I knew what to do. I was going to run with this new adventure.
And though I went straight to bed, I did not let my hand stray to my pussy. I held that throbbing need close to myself in remembrance of him.
* * * *
I lingered in bed on Sunday morning, stalking Carlee through Facebook and idly reading trashy internet sites, but my cellphone rang and forced me to shuffle through to my tiny living area. This was an expensive apartment in London, financed by my company, and I had been shocked at how small everything was.
Small and illogical. Also, I hated the stupid faucet that had two outlets - one hot, one cold. I hated the plugs that meant I'd had to buy a ton of adaptors just to charge my cell and my laptop. I didn't hate the television as much as I thought I was going to; all the major cable channels were provided, and for the first few nights I'd fallen asleep on the couch with NFL commentary on low in the background, the familiar accents relaxing me.
I didn't make it to the caller before they rang off, and I was kinda glad I'd missed it when I saw it was from my mom again.
I waited a little while and then it buzzed with a voicemail notification. I'd been deleting them without listening to them, but it was odd for her to have tried to call me so many times.
This time, then, I decided I'd listen to it.
I wished I hadn't.
Maybe I had gotten so used to the British accents around me but her voice sounded harsh and shrill. Then again, she'd always had the ability to set my teeth on edge; it was just that I didn't want to hear her, perhaps.
Every sentence ended on a rising squeak as she frantically informed me that "Angie needs you, honey! She's in real trouble! Did you get my messages? We don't know what to do! And there's the children!"
I was being battered by exclamation points. I deleted this message, too, cutting my mom off as she began her pleading for me to call her back.
Angela was my younger sister, and an example of everything that was wrong in the world. She was a lazy, work-shy stay at home mom with a feckless redneck husband called Brian and the worst of it was this: their kids were called Bonnie, Billie and Bobbie.
Oh yeah, wait, and their surname was fucking Baker.
I mean, if you want a stereotype of trailer trash, there it is. Right there.
Okay, so Brian worked a hardware store and he did pretty long hours, too. He had apparently no ambition to get himself out of that dead end job. I don't think he had any kind of college degree; I was sure he was a high school drop-out and so was Angie herself. Hell, she'd popped out her first baby when she was nineteen, effectively ruining her life.
Everything Angie did made me feel sick. Our mom had worked damn hard when we were growing up; she'd left our deadbeat father and worked two jobs to get us through school, which made Angie's actions even more of an insult. She had this sense of entitlement that I just didn't get.
In spite of all that, our mom didn't cut her off or call her out on it. Nope. She kept on supporting Angie, and her brood of stupidly-named kids, and so Angie thought it was okay to live like that.
Still, I tolerated her at family gatherings. We used to live pretty close together and I had helped her out, way back when she was starting out with Brian and she was pregnant for the second time. When she'd gotten pregnant the third time, I started to lose patience. I sent her some condoms and hoped she'd get the hint.
Instead, she'd repaid me by stealing my credit cards and my goddamn identity and running up a huge fucking debt.
She claimed afterwards she'd been too scared to tell me she was in financial trouble.
I mean, what? She was too scared to tell me - so she went and fucking stole from me?
I might not have been delighted at coming to England but it was a promotion and more importantly, it was far, far away from Angie.
And now she was "in trouble" and I had to do something?
Me?
She could go get a job like the rest of us.
Angie tugged at my mind and I realized my face was so tense it was beginning to hurt. I wanted to cut myself off from her. From all my family. It was too complicated.
But it was never that easy, was it?
Chapter Eight - Andrew
I was perturbed about my growing feelings for Jasmine. At first I'd just wanted to have a brief liaison with her. Then I'd wanted to develop a more specific sexual relationship.
Now I was thinking even more deeply about her. I wanted to know about her, not just her body, and that was causing me some concern.
I had never wanted a committed relationship - not the way the wider world pictured a "committed relationship" anyway. That kind of future was anathema to me. I was worried that I'd end up like my parents, living glass-fragile delicate lives separately yet together, individuals caught up in a tentative dance. My father was a bully and a womanizer, and my mother was in and out of therapy and the gin bottle. Yet they stayed married, even though everyone in the high socie
ty that they mingled in knew exactly what was going on.
I was many things, but I was not my father, and I never would be.
Yet still I wanted to have Jas, and own her, and contain her - but then I'd destroy exactly what I admired about her. I wanted to have the essence of her - which was independence. Jasmine was about not being owned, and I wanted to capture that.
The pain of the beautiful paradox, I mused.
She followed my thoughts all day and as Sunday evening rolled around, I decided to phone her.
She picked up right away, and I gave her no room to wriggle: as soon as she answered, I said, "Take off your clothes."
"Andrew?"
"Sir."
She didn't answer straight away. I knew I'd made it clear that this was a sexual situation and I was throbbing with anticipation already. Would she fight me?
"Yes, sir," she said at last. "One moment."
I heard a slithering sound and a fuzz of static as she had to put the handset down briefly. Then she said, "Okay, right. I'm … uh, naked. How about you?"
"It doesn't matter about me. This is about you. Are your curtains open?"
"The drapes? No, it's dark out."
"Open them."
"But I'm-"
"Naked. Yes."
I heard them swish. I hoped she was telling the truth, not trying to trick me. "There you go. Okay, so, where do you want me?" There was a nervous laugh in her voice.
"Have you ever had phone sex before?" I asked her.
"Did I ever - oh, no I did not. This is kinda new to me. I have a webcam-"
"That won't be necessary. Go to your sofa and lie down."
"My - oh, right."
"Sofa, couch, whatever you say."
"Okay. I'm lying down. Do I just wait for you to tell me what to do…?"
I couldn't help smiling. At a distance, like this, she seemed so much more innocent and vulnerable. I wondered why. In person, I was sure she'd be as abrasive and challenging as usual. Now, it seemed she was well out of her comfort zone.
And how much of her day to day aggression was an act?
Oh, she was the perfect little project. My cock hardened and I unzipped myself to free it. "I'm rock hard," I told her. "I'm thinking about your wet pussy. Touch yourself. Spread your cunt lips open. Are you wet for me, yet?"
I didn't imagine she would be, not as instantly as I could get hard, but she said, "I'm getting wet, yes, sir."
"Put a finger inside yourself."
"Ohh…"
"Two fingers. Spread them apart. Now pull them out. What do you taste like? Let me hear you suck your fingers."
She made it obvious that her fingers were in her mouth and I heard the wet sound of her lips. "I'm … I dunno," she said, laughing. "I don't know how to describe that."
"Touch your nipples. Squeeze them. Imagine I'm sucking on them. I'm biting them." As I spoke, I remembered the way her perfect red nubs would harden and extend. My free hand was wrapped around my cock now, as her breasts bounced in my mind. I would have to make a video. Yes, that would be my next project. A video of her masturbating.
"I'm pinching them." Her voice was getting low and breathy, and I could see her in my imagination, one hand clutching her breast, her fingers sinking into the flesh.
"Stroke your clit."
"Oh…"
"Remember how I didn't let you cum last night? You were so wet. So ready. You wanted me inside you, didn't you? You sucked on my cock like you were hungry for it. What about now? Are you hungry for me, now?"
"Oh God, yes, sir, I am. I'm wet…" Her sentences were choppy now, broken up as she had to juggle my orders, and speaking to me. "I wanted you. I want you now."
"Did you bring yourself off last night?"
"No, sir, I did not."
I was impressed. I would have expected her to do that. "Well done. You're only to cum for me, now. Can you do that?"
"Yes, sir," she said, too quickly, not thinking it over. Too hasty. She might regret that acquiescence.
"Push your fingers inside. How many fingers do you have inside your wet pussy?"
"Two, sir."
"More.
"Three … sir."
"More."
"I can't."
"You can. I want your hand inside you, filling in. I know you're flexible … you can do this."
I wasn't totally sure if she could reach down and bend her hand back enough, but I needed her to try.
"Four, sir," she gasped.
I would let her leave it at that. "Well done. Fuck yourself. Fuck yourself hard. I know what you must look like, right now, your wet pussy pink and stretched around your hand, your breasts heaving, your skin glistening. I'm pulling on my cock. I'm going to shoot my load while I listen to you make yourself cum …"
"Oh God…"
"Fuck yourself harder!" My own breath was ragged now as I stroked up and down my shaft. I remembered how she'd sucked me; how she'd let me fuck her face. Now she was naked and masturbating for me. The power rushed through me and I felt my balls tighten. "I need to hear you," I groaned.
"Yes - oh God…" She was panting and her voice was indistinct. She was clearly struggling to hold the phone to her ear as she fisted herself and the knowledge that she was losing control turned me on even more. I was close to cumming.
"Scream it!" I demanded as my own cock finally jerked in my palm and my body tensed as the thick ropes of cum shot out.
"God! Sir!" she was saying, over and over, and I heard her moan and cry and stifle a yell.
"Now lick your hand clean," I said, still struggling for breath, as every part of my lower body tingled with release. I'd unleashed such a torrent of cum that I'd caught myself by surprise; I'd assumed that the previous night's blow-job would have emptied me somewhat.
And even now, I still thrummed with need. I'd cum, and so had she.
But I wanted more.
* * * *
I terminated the call abruptly so that I could get cleaned up. I had hoped it was like scratching an itch, and that now I'd be able to go to sleep, and wake refreshed on Monday morning, ready for a new week at work.
But even in the shower, I felt unsettled. The phone sex had turned me on, and reminded me of what I wanted - all of her, at my mercy, spread out before me, needing me, begging me.
My cock was stirring again. I hadn't been this rampant since my teenage years. I towelled off quickly, and went back to my smartphone. I'd call her again, and arrange for her to be naked and waiting for me; I needed to see her. Tonight.
But this time she didn't answer. I waited ten minutes, in case she was showering as I was, and called again.
No answer.
It was only nine o'clock.
I pulled on some jeans and a clean shirt, and went out to my car.
* * * *
The street-level door that led to the communal entrance lobby of her building was propped open with a brick. Handy for me, perhaps, but pretty poor security. I rode up in the silent lift, wondering if she'd ever get used to calling it that. Or, if she settled her in the UK, would she stubbornly hang on to her American words? They sounded better in her accent. If she tried to use English slang, she'd sound strange.
I could hear her voice in my head. It made me smile. I was still smiling as I stepped out into the corridor and along to her door.
Which was also standing open.
There was a dent just above the handle, and a scuff mark at the bottom of the door, as if it had been kicked. I was immediately on the alert, and I paused, straining my ears. There were two flats on each floor of this building, and most of them were inhabited by hard working professionals who were often away on business.
Convenient, then, for anyone with nefarious intentions - as looked likely here.
There was no sound at all. Still, I went in carefully, as silently as I could. I knew I could handle one and maybe two men in a fight, if they didn't have weapons.
Her living room wasn't a bad size, by London standards. Th
ere was a rumpled impression in the sofa, and the cushions, and for a moment I could picture her lying there.
I had to clear my head. I crept to the kitchenette, but it was empty - so too the bedroom and the bathroom.
Back in the living room, I stood, baffled. There obviously had been a break-in. Had she been here? Where was she now? Had she run for safety? Where were the police, then?
The police. I pulled out my phone and rang them.
Chapter Nine - Jas
"Motherfucking piece of shit!"
I was hoarse from screaming but I would not stop. I rolled around in the back of the van, kicking at the sides and the rear doors, but it was useless. My cheek hurt from where I'd been punched, and my arms were pinned behind my back, duct tape holding my wrists together firmly.
I'd just gotten out of the shower. I pulled on some baggy sweat pants and a sloppy sweater. I wasn't tired, so I planned on putting on a movie and chilling out for an hour or two. The night was pretty young, yet.
As I had stepped out of my bedroom, running my fingers through my wet hair, the door had blasted open and two large men in black clothing had jumped in. I was screaming right away but one of them just slammed his fist into my face and I hit the deck through shock more than pain - the pain didn't hit me till a moment later.
By then, though, I was face-down on the floor and being trussed up like a turkey.
I couldn't tell one dude from the other; both were thick-set, beefy guys with black coats, black hats, and black jeans. One of them clamped his hand over my mouth so hard I could barely breathe, and certainly couldn't bite him, and he lifted me up as easily as if I'd weighed ten pounds. They carried me right out of my apartment and rode down in the elevator as if this was perfectly normal. What the hell would happen if someone saw us? Would they just knock the witness out? What?
But Sunday night was a dead time around here, and I don't recall that anyone noticed as I was pushed into the back of a low, small white van and the door slammed shut. I kicked frantically but I couldn't pop them open, and then we were moving and there was nothing I could do.
