Hard

by Lily Harlem

  I took up position at the opposite end of the sunny bench he liked to sit on. My brain fuzzed with excited anticipation. Seeing him up close, for real, with no lens between us was momentous, but I had to be careful not to be caught staring. So between glances at other park-goers minding their own business, I sneaked looks at his profile.

  His jaw was big boned and layered with a heavy dose of black stubble. His lips were thin, his nose a little hawklike. Craggy black brows pulled low over what I suspected were brown eyes. As he studied a newspaper, his head hung forward but not his hair; his hair was short, very short and the hint of skull beneath was foreboding and alluring all at the same time.

  He wasn’t handsome in a traditional way; in fact he was hard-looking, roguish. One might have said a little unkempt but I preferred the description rough and ready. Either way—rough, roguish, unkempt—to me he was perfect because I wasn’t a sweet girl. Beneath my bubbles of blonde hair and dimpled smile I was all about the filth. My fantasies, for as long as I could remember, were dirty and degrading, threaded with disrespect and humiliation and should never have been admitted to, let alone sought.

  Ignoring the new smoking ban, he lit a hand-rolled cigarette, flicking the match to the pavement and sucking on the thin papery end. When he exhaled, the stream of smoke drifted my way. I dragged it deep into my lungs, taking in what had circulated his body and delighting as the woodsy vapors entered me. I fluttered my eyes shut, relishing the moment, and when I opened them again he was staring straight at me. I was right, his eyes were brown—deep, chocolate brown that swirled with delicious, hot sin and a suitable amount of disdain.

  “Hey,” I said, tugging at my glossed bottom lip with my teeth.

  He poked his tongue out of the corner of his mouth and stroked the seam as if capturing an invisible crumb. Turned back to his newspaper.

  A native New Yorker then, typically wary of anyone speaking to him without good cause. That was a bonus, a New Yorker would work for me. In fact, it would suit very well.

  “Do you live around here?” I asked.

  His gaze slid back to me, traveling up my bare legs, over the obscenely short hem of my skirt, lingering for a moment on my braless chest and my protruding nipples before resting on my face. “What’s it to you?”

  Oh my God, his voice. He was not a New Yorker. His grating, sexy drawl held a hint of musicality—European but not English—Eastern Europe perhaps. I’d so not added that into my musings of him, but it was perfect, sublimely perfect.

  “Just making conversation,” I managed, trying to keep cool even though heat was spreading up my back and chest.

  “I don’t want conversation.”

  “So what do you want?” He was a man. There was one thing men always wanted.

  He huffed and drew on his cigarette. The end burned bright and crackled faintly. “Nothing you could give me.” Smoke trickled from his mouth between his words.

  Glancing over his shoulder, I was relieved to see there was no one on the path. What I was going to do next was for his eyes only.

  Quickly I slid my butt around on the bench and folded my legs the way I used to when I was a little girl, ankles crossed, knees sticking out to the sides. My heart pounded and I was aware of my labia peeling apart and cool air washing around my gaping entrance. The sensation thrilled me utterly, and I pushed out my modest chest, resting one arm along the back of the bench, fingers pointing toward him. For all the world acting composed and calm when inside, a turmoil of excited, filthy lust raged.

  His gaze dropped to my bare pussy, exposed and no doubt shimmering with moisture. He appeared remarkably unfazed by my bold display, his expression lazy and languid. But his casual attention was a heated caress, burning into me, licking me as if with real flames of fire. If just his vaguely bored study could have my clit swelling from its hood, I couldn’t imagine what a touch from him would actually do.

  “Are you a whore?” he asked.

  Oh, the way he said the word whore was delicious; his wide mouth seemed to pull out the “r” at the end as if savoring it, playing with it.

  “Do you want me to be?” I asked brazenly.

  He shrugged. “Keeps it simple, I suppose.”

  I twitched the side of my mouth into a half-smile even though I wanted to beam. It seemed I’d just found a man to fulfill my forbidden desires and make all my bad dreams come true. “Then yes, I’ll be your whore.”

  “Just mine?” He pulled on his cigarette, but this time when he blew out, the smoke shot from his mouth in a thin stream.

  “Yes.”

  I rubbed my hand over my chest, tweaking my hard nipple. His gaze followed my movement then slid over my right shoulder. I heard footsteps.

  Someone was coming.

  He glanced back at me, as if daring me to stay in my exposed position. Always one to rise to a challenge, I kept my legs spread. Willed my knees to stay apart and my pussy bared. I was desperate to clamp my thighs together—as a rule, I was not an exhibitionist and had no desire to flash my cunt to any old Tom, Dick or Harry. But I could and would do this—it was a means to an end.

  In my peripheral vision a woman appeared. She wore a cerise cardigan and walked a pale-brown boxer dog. She didn’t pause as she stepped past us, nor did she look back and notice my bare pussy. Well, why would she? It was broad daylight, this was a park, why would my intimate female flesh be on public display?

  He raised his eyebrows and I had a sudden rush of accomplishment. I’d surprised him—clearly he’d thought I’d tuck myself from view. Good, I liked to be a surprise. Being predictable was not in my nature, well, not in my whore-self’s nature anyway.

  He placed his newspaper on the bench between us and took a last drag of his cigarette before stubbing it under his black boot. “I’m not really one for fucking whore’s pussies, even pretty ones, but…”

  “But.”

  “I’ll pay you to suck my cock.”

  Inside I welled with triumph. The idea of sex as an arrangement, a transaction, was what thrilled me the most. No emotions, no strings. A customer, money and a murky act. That was what appealed to me. Forget candlelit seduction and emotional intimacy, I wanted sleaze, I wanted filth, I wanted to be used as a sexual object by a rough bloke who took what he wanted on a very basic level.

  “Okay. Where?” I asked.

  He glanced left and right, his gaze searching, then nodded straight ahead. “Down there.”

  I looked in the direction he’d indicated. Through the trees and railings, I could just make out a gap in the buildings. “It’ll cost you twenty.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Finally closing my legs, I stood. My knees felt weak and my stomach clenched. This was something I’d been dreaming of, plotting for so long. Never had I thought I’d find the courage to actually go through with my foolhardy plan. The man was a stranger. He could be a complete psychopath and murder me the minute we were out of view. Stuff like that happened to whores all the time. I’d seen it on the news, read about it in papers.

  It was a risk I was willing to take.

  Stepping ahead, I turned to make sure he was following. He was. Sauntering in that menacingly purposeful stride of his that I’d become totally fascinated by. I also realized now that I was on ground level how tall he was, a whole head above me, and wide too. If he did set his mind to subjecting me to a gruesome back-alley death there was nothing I would be able to do about it. He could squash me as if I were an ant, choke me without breaking a sweat.

  Tugging at my cheap, tarty skirt, I headed for the location of my first whore experience. As we reached the entrance, he pressed a hand into the small of my back and urged me into the murky world of New York’s dark, dingy alleys. The scent of rotting food and urine caught in my nostrils, underfoot there was trash of every description, and here there was no sunlight. It was dark, cool, barely even a hint of the bright, civilized world beyond.

  As we went deeper the alley narrowed, the walls closing in arou
nd me. The stinking air here was humid and clogged my throat.

  “Keep going,” he grunted when I slowed. “I don’t want to be distracted by anyone. Walk farther down.”

  Hurrying, I accidently kicked a bottle. It clanged against a pockmarked wall and ricocheted into an armored door with a peeling “Keep Out” sign.

  Another ten steps and he tugged me behind a filthy green Dumpster and pushed my back against the wall. I stared at him boldly, un-intimidated—or so I hoped, for inside I was a bag of nerves sinking into a deep well of lust.

  His gaze flashed as it connected with mine and he stared, stared long and hard with his big hands wrapped around my upper arms. His fingers sank into my flesh and his feet and knees knocked against mine.

  My heart beat so fast I feared for its continued survival. I could barely catch my breath. Was he about to kill me or would he stick to our deal? Twenty for a blowjob? That was our agreement. That was the arrangement.

  “You really want to be a whore?” he asked. His breath was hot and reeked of tobacco. “My whore?”

  Both relief and excitement tumbled in my groin. He was going to play my game, thank God. I nodded up at him and he leaned against me, his chest just touching my excited nipples and his steely cock pressing into my hipbone. He was slightly out of breath—from our fast walk or sexual excitement?

  Sliding his hands up and over the balls of my shoulders, he pressed and urged me down onto my knees. I sank obediently. I wasn’t proud of the huge glut of pleasure that surged through me at being forced into position to suck a stranger’s cock for money, but I couldn’t deny it. It was alive, real, a part of me. It was one of the most erotic things I’d ever done.

  As my bare knees adjusted to the gritty, dirty pavement, he unzipped his pants, revealing snug red boxer briefs.

  “I like it good and firm,” he said. “No teeth and make sure you swallow.” He pulled out his cock and jerked it forward. It was thick and wide, the domed head deeply colored and the shaft twisted with heavy, bulging veins.

  My greedy mouth watered to taste him. I could smell him, musty, not fresh from the shower like my boyfriends had been when I’d sucked them off. No, he was raw male, meaty, overdosed on pheromones, and his cock had been nestled in those briefs all day. It was what I wanted—a whore didn’t deserve fresh dick. Sweaty, unconcerned cock was what whores were used to.

  I rubbed a hand up his denim-clad thigh and with the other squeezed his bone-hard shaft.

  He groaned and slid his fingers around my nape, urged my lips against the smooth crown. I gave a couple of tiny, flicking licks into his slit, delighting in the salty flavor, which reminded me of the sea.

  “Just suck my dick, whore, I don’t have all fucking day.”

  My desire flared further at his commanding tone and I stretched my mouth wide and pulled him in. Submissively doing as instructed. He was a customer, a paying customer. I was here to do his bidding, this was not about me.

  “Ah shit, that’s it, yes, yes,” he hissed.

  Dragging my hair into a tight fist, he forged in fast, right to the back of my throat. Unable to move away, I gagged as the fat mushroom head filled my airway. But this seemed to excite him all the more. His hips snapped back then reared forward again, his cock filling my mouth faster, harder.

  My pussy was weeping and clamping. I loved giving head, and taking it so rough was a delight. He was fucking my mouth with no concern for what I wanted. Of course, this was exactly what I wanted. But he didn’t know that—or maybe he did. Perhaps his devil-may-care looks and his lack of charm had attracted girls with similar disgustingly base fantasies in the past.

  His breaths were sharp above me. A drip of dense fluid landed on my tongue, a promise of what was to come, and I lapped it up. In my heightened state, I was aware of my knees suffering painfully on the sharp concrete so I shifted and he allowed me to move back onto my haunches and press my spine against the wall. Instantly my own lubrication slid down the cleft of my pussy. It trickled to my anus and sat there, sopping, forming a drip that became increasingly heavy then ran down my buttock.

  I kept my mouth firm, sucking as much as I could, oxygen allowing. With my lips I hugged his shaft, and my tongue was a long, wet slide of muscle for him to jack against. When he let out another groan, I searched for his balls, found them firm and packed tight in his briefs. Through the material I cupped them, squeezed and massaged, my fingertip straying behind to touch his anus.

  “Dirty fucking whore,” he grunted, shoving to the back of my throat with extra gusto.

  My head hit the wall and I gagged, painfully. His cock thickened and grew, and I knew it was about to erupt. His whole body went still except for the faintest of trembling in his retracting balls. Fighting the urge to pull away, I braced for the flooding. Then it was there. He jerked out and shoved in again, his semen jetting into my mouth, filling my cheeks, soaking my tongue and gushing down my throat.

  “Ah yes, fuck, yes,” he rasped on a sharp inhale before pulling his cock out.

  I released his balls and he stepped back. In a flash he’d tucked himself away and tugged straight his t-shirt. Only his hoarse panting gave any indication of the fact he’d just come.

  Staying squatted, I stared up at him through the dim light. My legs ached. My back and head were scratched from the gritty wall and my lips and jaw were numb from the stretching and pounding I’d just taken.

  He pulled his wallet from his back pocket. Plucked out two tens and dropped them. They fluttered to the ground and landed at my feet next to a grimy rubber glove and a blob of blackened gum. As I looked at them, a new trickle of moisture slipped over my perineum and sent a shudder of bliss, pure wicked bliss, snaking up my spine.

  Without another word, he turned and disappeared around the front of the Dumpster. The sound of his boots banging on the ground echoed between the tall walls until eventually they faded. Still breathing hard, my body felt on fire. I was so turned-on I was dizzy. I’d been used as a sexual object. I’d given pleasure, upheld my end of the bargain and been paid. My pussy was thrumming—it needed attention. Standing, I gripped the rim of the stinking Dumpster and began to fret and pinch my clit with my other hand.

  It took only a couple of nudges to send me skyward. I’d been hovering on the brink the whole time I’d been sucking off my client, and now it consumed me, hard and fast. As I came I shoved three fingers into my soaking pussy so it had something to grip, and cried out as my body shuddered through shock waves of pleasure. They ripped into my core, tangled in my soul and filled every cell.

  I knew in that blissful second that I wanted to be a whore again—soon.

  Dangerous to Know by Lily Harlem is available from Amazon. You can find out more about Lily and all her books on her website.

  For your enjoyment, here are the first four chapters of The Contract, a BDSM super-novel by Natalie Dae

  Chapter One

  Now

  ‘How do you feel about losing your identity, Lisa?’ my counsellor, Stephan, asked, sitting on his side of a desk in what was formerly someone’s living room.

  He operated from a house in Headington, Oxford, on the rising road that led to the John Radcliffe hospital, and I was thankful a bus stopped right outside it. Walking up that hill would have been a killer on my muscles, would serrate my nerves too. Anyone could be watching me.

  ‘I’m angry,’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t you be?’

  ‘Of course I would.’ He nodded, a lock of his grey hair bouncing against his pale forehead. ‘Anger — that’s good, in the right doses. It’ll see you through, you know. Help you fight to get your old self back.’

  I thought about my old self, Rebecca Matthews, and how my life had been reduced to this. Me sitting on a leather office chair once a week, swinging on it occasionally when Stephan asked questions I found difficult to answer. Living in a new city, far from everyone I knew, just so I could be termed ‘safe’. I wasn’t, didn’t think I ever would be, but you never knew. The people I was h
iding from hadn’t found me in the time I’d moved from London and might not bother to try to find me now. Still, you could never be too sure, could you? And as long as they were out there, I had to stay here.

  ‘And what about your appearance?’ he asked.

  ‘What, having to cut all my hair off and have it short? I don’t like it. I have to have it trimmed too often, which means going to the hairdressers over the road from my flat, being vulnerable while they sort it out. I’ve got the hang of dying it myself now, but I don’t like the fact that my eyebrows are dark and my hair’s blonde.’ I laughed at such a trivial dislike. ‘But hey, what does it matter what I look like now?’

  ‘It matters a lot if it’s making you unhappy.’

  ‘I suppose. I can hardly grow it again, though, can I? Or go brown like I was before.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. You could grow it a bit, maybe dye it red.’ He laughed. ‘There are times when you get angry, red hair would quite match your mood.’

  ‘Sometimes I don’t think I’m angry enough,’ I said, staring out of the window behind him at a back garden that had perfectly trimmed hedges instead of fences and a lawn made for sunbathing. ‘Sometimes I’m just too tired of it all and don’t want to fight.’

  ‘Do you feel, if you gave up and became a recluse, like you told me you wanted last week, it would be letting them win?’

  I shrugged. ‘Yes, but it’s all so difficult. I’m getting there, I know that, but there’s still such a long way to go.’ I lifted my hand, waving off what I knew he was going to say. ‘I know, Rome wasn’t built in a day.’

  He chuckled, and we sat in companionable silence, him waiting for me to go on, me waiting for him to ask another question, and he did when three or four minutes had dragged past and the view outside had become boring.