by Sansa Rayne
“Just focus on performing like regular,” I say, starting to get annoyed at them both. “Don’t think about it.”
Yasmin’s gaze darts between me and the monitors; she slumps down against her bonds, arms fully extended. “Fine,” she whispers.
Chase wipes the excess oil from his hands, then grabs a red ball gag from a small table. As soon as I call “Action!” he shoves the gag between her lips and tightens it so hard she moans, eyes closing. When he sees this, he spanks her ass with his bare hand.
“Eyes open, slut,” he growls.
I step back and to the side, getting the angle I want of Chase and Yasmin as he approaches her from behind. I zoom in as he lines his cock up with her ass, which glistens from all the lube. Fortunately, once she feels it, she starts to relax. This is the part she knows and likes. Yasmin might not be as crazy kinky as Sibel, but she does enjoy her work.
God, Sibel really is kinky as fuck, isn’t she? I realize.
How far does it even go? What are her limits? Would she want to be taken by two men at once?
Fuck that.
The thought of having Chase there with us turns my stomach. Even if she is into that, there is no fucking way I’m sharing her.
It’s too bad; it would be the perfect answer to this problem. Chase probably wouldn’t care, as long as he got to fuck her.
As I film the scene, Chase pounds at Yasmin, driving his rod deep into her ass, causing her to scream in both pain and bliss as she writhes in her bonds.
He’s defiling her.
She may like it — my subscribers may need it — but that’s the only way to describe the act I’m seeing now. I have to force myself to keep watching, teeth gritted hard. I don’t want to imagine him treating Sibel this way. If this is how he reacts to Yasmin, I assume he’d be ten times worse with Sibel.
When Chase finishes, he pulls out with a loud grunt; his load flows from her spread hole and drips loudly on the hard floor. She moans with pleasure, even when Chase spanks her backside a few more times. Grinning thinly, he pulls up his pants, hefting them up over his hips. He yanks Yasmin’s hair, rousing her from her afterglow.
“You wait here,” he teases. “I’ve got more for ya later.”
She groans, drool escaping from her lower lip. I keep the focus on her as Chase departs, recording an extra minute, capturing the last remnants of her blissful trance.
“Cut,” I say at last. As soon as I’ve set the camera down, I get to work unlocking Yasmin’s wrist cuffs. Chase gets his hands under her to help lift her up once she’s free, but she shakes him off, already able to stand.
“I’m good, thanks,” she says, pulling out her gag.
“Feeling okay?” I ask her.
Yasmin sets her hands on her hips, rubbing the welts on her bottom. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
She accepts a bathrobe, slippers and a bottle of water from Chase. While she drinks, she eyes the cameras and monitors. “So what’s the deal with this Sibel? I don’t know her, do I?”
Chase sits on a folding chair and spreads his legs. His pants are tented — he’s already hard again, just thinking about her, and he doesn’t mind if we know it. “Doubt it. She thinks she’s some kind of-”
“She’s an artist,” I interject, shooting Chase a glare. “Her work is all about sex.”
“But she’s not a ‘porn star,’” Chase mocks, making air quotes with his fingers. “And she’s smoking hot.”
“More like super weird,” Yasmin says, shivering despite her robe. She turns so she can’t see the monitors. “I didn’t know you were into this shit, Chase.”
He shrugs. “I’m into Sibel.”
“Yeah, no shit. My ass feels like I got fucked by three of you.”
He purses his lips, blows a kiss and says, “You’re welcome.”
Yasmin laughs. “And what about you, Pierce? You into Sibel, too?”
“Break time’s over,” I say, picking up the camera. My face is a mask of disinterested professionalism, but my hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop the device.
This was a fucking mistake. It couldn’t possibly have gone any worse.
Fuck waiting, fuck playing games. I need to see Sibel. I need to make her mine. Now.
By the time Pierce calls me, late on a Friday, I’m so out of my mind I nearly cry with relief. It’s been days since I saw him; I haven’t seen Steph either. I’ve gone out for a pair of lingerie photo shoots, but otherwise have stayed in, cooking and exercising and trying to think up a new project.
Of course, trying to force one’s creativity isn’t always very helpful. I’ve never been one to regard art as a mystical force of nature, one that lies dormant until inspiration arrives from the heavens, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to drum up a fresh, enticing idea just because I want to have one. Naturally, most of the time I’ve spent trying to concoct something, I end up thinking about Pierce and his work instead.
The paradox is, if I called him and let him get me off, maybe I could clear my head and have a new idea, but until I have something in mind, I don’t want to contact him.
So I’m unspeakably grateful he chooses to call me and smash my little conundrum like a sledge through cheap plaster.
“Hi, Pierce,” I say, trying not to give away my excitement. “What can I do for you?”
“Come to the warehouse. Wear something tight.”
I bite my lip and my cheeks flush; the warmth stirring between my legs is already soaking my panties.
“That’s not how this is supposed to work,” I protest, though my tone conveys more amusement than resistance.
He doesn’t say anything in response, but I can hear him breathing. Is he thinking about what he wants to say, or is he waiting for me to speak?
“What did you have in mind?” I say, wanting to fill the silence.
“Guess.”
I don’t need to. Part of me wants to get indignant — isn’t that what I should do? Tell him off for being presumptuous as fuck? But I don’t feel like it, not even a little. I take a few seconds to wait and see if he’ll offer up anything else, but all I hear is that calm, steady breathing.
“When?” I ask at last.
“Now.”
Fuck. “I need to shower,” I lie. I’m mostly ready to go, just have to dress, but I need time to think this over.
“So hurry,” he says, and hangs up.
Then I’m in motion, making for my closet to pick out a dress. I realize I lied to myself too: I don’t need to consider anything. There’s no question that I’m going. What I really wanted — or at least, what I wanted to want — is a chance to talk myself out of this, and to remember that I’m not dating Pierce Fucking Williams and I’m sure as shit not working for him. He can’t tell me what to do.
But what’s the point? I know what I want.
—
It doesn’t take me long to dress, text Steph where I’m going, and hail a cab.
Why are you seeing him? she asks.
He messaged me, wanted me to come over, I write back. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything to her about it.
Wait. Are you answering a booty call from Pierce?
Guess so, I write back, suppressing a sigh. I’ll worry about stepped-on toes later, even if they’re my own.
I’m wearing a black, clingy, high-waisted pencil skirt and a matching, sheer, off-the-shoulder top. To complete the look, I tie my hair back in a tight ponytail and don a black velvet choker with a silver obelisk pendant.
I catch the cab driver checking me out in the rear-view mirror more than once, and wonder — not for the first time — what he’s thinking. What does he assume about me, needing to catch a ride this late to such a shitty part of town? Does he think I’m… something I’m not?
Not anymore, anyway.
No, that’s not me, no matter how I look tonight. I may be giving in to my lust, but if Pierce thinks he can call all the shots, he’s going to be unhappy.
Thankfully, he’s standing outside the war
ehouse when the cab drops me off, and once again he’s wearing a light, fitted suit. Considering his stunning physique, he looks like a bouncer outside a secret, exclusive club — at least, I hope that’s what the cab driver thinks is going on.
When Pierce sees me get out, for once the advantage swings back to me. The crotch of his pants rises immediately, and he can’t hide it.
“Come,” he says, showing me inside, though I suspect he’s waiting for me to pass so he can check out my ass in this skirt. I don’t mind, at least until we get past the door. Then I turn to face him.
“Before this goes any further, let’s talk.”
Pierce regards me a moment, then folds his arms in front of his chest. “Okay. About what?” Though he speaks curtly, he doesn’t sound impatient or condescending.
“I wanted to make sure we’re clear that this… arrangement… is about the art.”
“Of course,” he replies, trying to hide a smirk, but I catch it before his lips revert back to center.
“Good. So you’re fine with a transactional approach to our work?” I ask, though my stomach churns.
How many times was it truly a transaction? How many times did I swallow air and belch, fighting back nausea as I told myself this is just who I was? And how many times did I want to kill myself for not hating it as much as I should’ve?
“Are you sure you’re fine with it?” Pierce counters.
“Yes,” I snap, though without the conviction I want it to have. “By being here, I’m helping you with your artistic endeavor. So I expect you to help me with one of mine.”
Pierce unfolds his arms and sets his fists against his hips. Head cocked at an angle, his eyebrows rise in a curious slant. “You do?”
“That’s right.”
Pierce nods, rubbing his chin with a finger. “Sure. What do you have in mind?”
Crap.
“I’ll tell you more soon. I’m still working on it.”
“Of course,” he says, stepping forward until he looms over me. He sets his hands on my shoulders. “I’ll be happy to help you in whatever way you need.”
“Thanks,” I say, shivering with anticipation as his hands slide down my sides. They don’t stop until he’s reached my ass, which he squeezes through the fabric of my skirt.
“Good. Then let’s get some work done.” He swats my backside, making me yelp, then takes my hand and drags me into his dungeon. I run to keep up, my heart starting to race. The sting of his hand against my rear radiates a wave of pleasure that makes my toes curl in my shoes.
When we get to the dungeon, I see the cameras and monitors are still there, though the table he strapped me to is gone, replaced by a much smaller device. Consisting only of a thick metal pole with a series of metal cuffs set on a single plane, I realize it’s some form of stockade, and more than capable of rendering me completely helpless. Right away, I notice that the rings face the series of monitors directly: if my neck is meant to go through the central ring, I will be at eye-level with the screens, and unable to look away.
“Oh shit,” I mumble.
Pierce chuckles.
Off to the side, I see he has a long table set up with an extensive selection of sex toys, as well as snacks, beverages, spare camcorder batteries and SD cards.
However, as I take everything in, I smell something oddly sweet. “Is that perfume?” I ask.
His smile fades and his body stiffens for a moment. “I filmed here yesterday,” Pierce admits.
Before I can stop myself, my arms lift in incredulity and I blurt, “What the fuck? You fucked someone else here?” I’d just gotten through telling him this wasn’t a relationship, so I shouldn’t care; yet, I can’t help feel jealousy spread through me like venom.
“I was behind the camera,” he says, voice soft and steady. “The act was performed by my associate. You met him, that night at the gallery.”
“But you did it here, in a place for us.”
Pierce sighs. “Yes, I created this studio for us, but since you’ve reminded me multiple times that we are not a couple, I didn’t think you’d mind. Unless you feel a strong connection to this place, in which case I could leave you here to enjoy it on your own.”
Now it’s my turn to sigh. I turn around, not wanting to face him. He’s right — what he does outside our “partnership” shouldn’t matter to me. It does, though, doesn’t it? Is that why he smirked when we were discussing the ground rules — because he knew I was trying to convince myself, rather than him?
“No, that’s not what I want,” I say, turning back to him. “You were doing your job,” I add, though it’s not what I actually meant: You didn’t fuck anyone.
“Do you think you could keep this place for just us?” I ask, looking at the monitors.
Pierce steps around me and leans down to kiss my forehead. “Gladly, pet. Now you have thirty fucking seconds to strip, and then I start ripping clothes.”
He spanks my ass again for good measure, kicking me into motion. I throw off my top and pull down my skirt as fast as I can, revealing that I left my apartment without wearing panties.
“Naughty girl,” Pierce says, seeing my body so quickly bared. “Maybe for these meetings I need to establish a dress code.”
“You’re upset I came commando-style?” I ask, clasping my fingers behind my back.
He smiles. “Have you ever been gagged with your own worn panties?”
“No,” I say. A surge of warmth and wetness spreads between my thighs at the thought, though it carries with it some dread as well.
“Wear them next time,” says Pierce, beckoning me over to the stockade.
Next time.
I guess there’s not much point in questioning whether or not we’ll keep doing this, is there? Stepping forward tentatively, I stare at the stockade with some trepidation. The height of the restraints appears adjustable, which is a relief, and also enticing. He could lock me in it standing up straight or force me to bend over and stick out my ass.
However, he opts for something more complicated.
“Hands behind your back,” he orders.
While I comply, he grabs two short, black leather belts from his supplies. He fastens them tightly around both my legs, one above and one below my knees, forcing them together. Once finished, he picks out a wooden pole about a foot long with cuffs on each end. I have to focus to keep my balance as he spreads my feet apart and locks the cuffs around my ankles.
Now finished, he takes my hands and holds them, helping me stand. “Move,” he says, gesturing toward the stockade. He laughs when I opt to hop my way over, rather than waddling. It’s a fair reaction: my choice leaves me feeling no less humiliated than I imagine the other would have. My cheeks flush as I look down at my naked body and struggle to move.
Once we reach the stockade, Pierce opens the restraints and positions my neck and wrists into the matching slots. I moan a little bit as each of the locks click shut, sealing me in the device. With the pole out in front of me, I lean a little until he fixes the height a touch, making sure I’m standing without straining my neck or lifting on my toes. Yet, the position is still slightly difficult to maintain, thanks to the odd position of my feet and knees.
“You look lovely, pet,” he says, staring shamelessly. “Helpless and submissive.”
My blush deepens; I feel exactly as he described, unable to prevent him from doing with me as he pleases. “Thank you, sir,” I mumble.
Pierce steps back, then circles me, examining me from every angle. On his second pass, he turns on each of the cameras, and one-by-one the monitors blink into life, displaying me from each angle.
Oh, holy fuck.
I do look good. My core aches with need as I watch myself squirm and struggle against my bonds.
Pierce peruses his table of toys and picks up a magic wand vibrator. “Have you used one of these before?”
“Yes, sir,” I answer, suppressing a laugh. I’ve burned out more than one.
He takes the device an
d slips the handle between my thighs, positioning its large, white bulb flush against my clit. “Hold it there,” he says. “Be good, and I’ll turn it on.”
“Yes, sir.”
He reaches for his flogger, but then his hand keeps going, settling on a brown, rolled up whip instead. It unwinds as he lifts the hilt into the air, and when he tests out his swing, I shudder in place, imagining the pain its impact will have.
“Have you ever been whipped, pet?”
“No, sir.” Sweat gathers at my brow. I feel wobbly, and my legs would no doubt be shaking were they not so tightly bound together. The vibrator wiggles around, I’m clenching it so hard, not wanting to let it drop.
He holds the end of the whip against the hilt, forming a loop; he runs it across my quaking stomach, letting me feel the cool, smooth leather. I try to shy away, but can’t, causing me to whine softly. Pierce grins, then lets go of the whip’s end and steps behind me.
After a moment, I feel the lash caress my bottom softly. I can see on the monitor that Pierce is barely moving the whip at all. Tensing for the real swings, I look to the table’s toys.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Sibel?”
“Can I have something to bite down on?” Isn’t that what people do when they’re getting whipped?
Pierce laughs at the unexpected request. “I wasn’t going to thrash you hard enough for that, pet. Maybe in time, when I know you can handle that much pain.”
“Okay,” I say.
In response, Pierce takes his first proper swing with the whip, giving my ass a sharp sting. I yelp from the sudden burn, twitching in place.
“On a scale from one to ten, how badly did that hurt?” he asks, rubbing the spot with his palm.
“I don’t know.” How am I supposed to tell?
As if hearing my thoughts, Pierce whips me again, with just as much force as the first time. I grunt, struggling against my bonds. Yet, the sensation is already fading. I could take a much harder hit than that, couldn’t I?
“How much was that?” Pierce asks again.
“A four,” I say. “Maybe a… a five?”
“Four, maybe a five,” Pierce repeats, nodding. “Call it a four and a half. So you think your pain tolerance is a lot higher than that?”
