Getting Naked: A Romance of Bondage and Discipline

by Reese Gabriel

  His dream girl, his goddess made real.

  The veins in his forehead stood out. He was grunting, his teeth bared. As his eyes shut, the first of the spasms hit. He was exploding into her, climaxing in the way they both needed so bad.

  She came again with him, a small, blanketing orgasm that wrapped right round the edges of his. They clung together, with her swinging in the chains, his buttocks pumping, her oceany depths accepting his plunging self. Spurt after spurt injected itself. From her fingertips to her toes, she opened to the taking, the giving, and the knowing.

  He continued to groan against her, holding her tight, letting him hear the tattoo of his heartbeat. Once again, she could dream, extrapolating what might be ... if he stayed in this place, emptied and open. Not filled again, not closed.

  But she could feel it happening already. He was tensing up. Closing down the walls. Damn, it was going to happen again. She was about to get the brush off, and in the guise of yet another woman.

  "We can't do the photos,” he said. There was a crack in his voice. It was harder, much harder for him to pull it together this time. “I'll get someone else. I'll understand if you want to quit. We'll give you more than full pay, of course..."

  She waited for more, a note of regret, some sign that he was hurting, that he felt things, but that he was struggling. What was about men thought they did women a favor trying to be so iron-chested? It never worked, anyway. They came across wooden, at best, more irritating, upsetting and heart breaking than protective.

  What did they think, that women would shatter from the release of their feelings? Did they think the fair sex so delicate? Quite the opposite in Morgan's experience at least. Yes, her father had an iron will and he'd dealt with the hardest medical crises, but her mother had dealt with him and that was way scarier.

  Should she tell Nick who she was? No that would only make it worse. Much worse. He let down her wrists and helped her to the small bathroom in the rear of the room.

  "I'll wait right here for you,” he said, though she knew he way lying.

  Not that he'd leave her unattended. There would be someone there in his place with another large check, she was sure. Nick would never leave her unprovided for. That was the kind of man he was. But what to do when she wanted him and not his provisions?

  At any rate, one thing was sure. She was not going home. Splashing cold water over her face, she smiled at her reflection. The night had barely begun. A second battle had been waged. He'd staved off her advances, but each time he got a little closer to those siege walls and one of these times ... watch out, she'd break through, tumbling all that mortared stone in a heartbeat.

  Literally.

  Chapter Six

  Nick heaved the biggest sigh of relief in the world when the woman closed the bathroom door and locked it behind her. He hated like hell to tell her a fib, but he simply could not remain in her presence a moment longer. He'd made enough horrible mistakes with her as it was. Was this the way his career was going to go? Hands laid on every model, one photo shoot after the other turned into a sleazy sex encounter?

  Who was this masked model, anyway? He would have to find out her name and make sure she was taken care of. Damn it, he'd screwed it all up, taken no pictures at all. He'd taken her; that was for sure.

  She'd been incredible. Like Morgan had been only more open, less inhibited. This one really was a cat, a sleek and silent sex goddess. And she had the gift for fantasy, too. She'd read his desires, and let him realize them. On camera, she'd be beyond good. Maybe the best there'd ever been.

  But what the hell did he know? He was still back on Morgan Baines, trying to figure out how she'd managed to hit his life so hard. It was like back-to-back hurricanes, these two women. And so frigging alike. Would they all seem like this, now? Was every pussy going to be a copy of Morgan's, every kiss and sigh?

  Would he be seeing ghosts the rest of his days? Would he lose his cool, and his load, over every pretty woman who took off his clothes for him, even if it was just a financial transaction? He'd lost perspective. That was all he could figure. It was time to get out of the business. Time to take stock of his life, take some time off.

  Could he find out the phone number of the mystery kitty? He wondered. She'd probably like some time off, too, on some Caribbean island, completely spoiled and pampered with the aid of the money he'd been socking away over the years for whenever he wanted to have a personal life.

  Kitty was as good as it would get. Hot, kinky sex, grunting, hissing orgasms, testing all kinds of instruments out on her ass as she moaned his name begging for more. He could just imagine her voice, calling his name, crying to be fucked. It would be a sweet, raspy little voice, made for a sex goddess. She probably had some great name, too, that went along with it.

  Misty or Brandy or Kaley.

  Well, more power to her. She and her name were going to be out of his life. Along with Morgan and any other woman who happened on his suddenly defective self-protection zone. Time was he could smell an attachment a mile away and here he'd found himself wanting more of two different women. And not just their bodies but also their minds. He wanted to know them as people. To know what made them tick.

  What a horrible feeling, to be this ignorant, scared, uncertain. To have other people have all this power over your happiness. How could he have even thought of dating anyone? This was pure trauma.

  Carmen and Merilee were waiting for him when he left the room.

  "How did it go?” Carmen wanted to know.

  "Don't ask,” he grumbled.

  His assistant flashed a significant look to Merilee, who nodded.

  "I think I'll go in here,” said Merilee. “And, er, see if I can do anything."

  Nick furrowed his brow. What was with these women acting so strangely? Had the whole gender gone loopy overnight?

  "Merilee, if you're going in there, make sure you tell the model she needs to go home. We'll send a car. The best treatment."

  "Didn't she do well?” Asked Carmen.

  "She was excellent. I ... didn't like the film, though,” he said. “Can you make sure our little pussy cat in there gets her clothes back, Carmen, and a nice bonus from us?"

  Carmen looked to be biting her tongue. “Yes, sir."

  He knew there was more going on, but he hadn't time to unravel it right this second. There was a banquet to get through. And he'd yet to even straighten out the photo mess. At this point he was going to have to get Wally to cover for him. Talk about eating humble pie.

  One good thing, though. He'd taken care of any hard-on problems he might have. Now he could tolerate the banquet, not worrying about embarrassing public reactions to the erotic dancers. Nothing would have been worse than a hard on in the middle of all that, and with no underwear to shield him, either.

  Yes, he was safe all right. So long as a certain woman in a black mask with feathers and whiskers did not get anywhere near him, that is. Or a certain other woman with chestnut hair and killer green eyes.

  An hour later, Nick was awkwardly perched on his pillows, his King Satyr crown askew on his head painfully counting how many more minutes, or corny acts, skits or awards there could possibly be to this night. The worst part was having all eyes on him, or at least a fair number of them, even during the performances. Ordinarily at these shows he could sneak out early or sleep through the dullest parts.

  Last year's theme had been pirates and captured maidens. Keeping just the one good eye open, he'd managed a good long nap behind his eye patch. Sex was dull and routine; didn't these people get it? It was their business. Who wanted another promotional massage or dildo or another chance to watch a woman bump and grind to tired old heavy metal ballads from the eighties?

  At least the food wouldn't be too bad this year. Finger food, seafood platters and so on. The delicacies were to be served by the models from before, in the guise of slave girls. Of course he was probably going to have the same problem he always did, in terms of the women fighting over him.
Nick was anything but vain, and it mortified him to be made a spectacle of. People frequently treated him as if he'd asked for it when the opposite was true.

  A man in a Roman gladiator outfit announced dinner. He banged a large gong that set Nick's teeth on edge. Immediately the doors were flung open and ancient instruments began to play. Banners were waved and a low cheer went up as the slave girls entered. He held his breath a few moments, checking out each young lady, just in case she should show up. He heaved a sigh of relief as the last of the servers came in.

  The naughty kitten was not with them.

  "And now the piece d’ resistance,” the announcer was calling. Nick tuned him in only halfway. “For your dancing pleasure, the slave girl Shaharazade."

  The doors opened again, this time for a single woman, in red silks, barely covering her athletic form. She was barefoot and belled, and on her head she wore an elaborate mask, with feathers on either side, in the guise of a feline.

  His heart fluttered in his chest.

  It was her. His kitty cat.

  A woman was on her knees in front of him, offering him a bit of spiced meat. He shooed her away, his eyes riveted. She looked incredible. She could so easily be Morgan. He'd had them both and in his mind they'd fused.

  Probably the wine he was drinking didn't help.

  The dancer was heading straight for him, not surprisingly. He was the king, the satyr of the evening. Her job was to please him, to titillate. Would any limits be put on her behavior? These events had gotten pretty raunchy in the past. Actual sex was not unusual. And why not? There were beautiful bodies, and few inhibitions. You didn't do adult entertainment if you were scared of sex.

  Speaking of which, the kitten had no particular inhibitions in front of this crowd. There were over a hundred all together, the guest lounging on their pillows, being served by eager models. It was clear any one of these men would happily take her to bed and the women, too. You could almost smell it in the air, the raw energy and desire as cock after cock sprang to attention and pussy after pussy yielded in glorious fragrant readiness.

  More than one of the men was already opening his robes and/or pulling up his togas as a signal for female attention. They wanted their cocks sucked, as if they really were these ancient Roman libertines they pretended to be. Wally had a little blonde licking his short stubby cock while another fed him grapes, his head inclined on huge red satin pillows.

  He was in his element. With his golden sandals and laurel leaves behind his ears, you could picture him as Nero, fiddling while the city burned. Nick was burning, too. The others had no clue what he was dealing with. This beauty who was approaching him had an effect so much deeper than a quick fly by night hard on. He was deep into her, his heart thrumming. He wanted to leap up from this foolish fake pose and grab her.

  Tossing her down in his place, to be ravished.

  She gave him this smile, hooked and wicked. She knew what she was doing; she knew the capability she had to drive him out of his mind. For a second she just stood there, her one hip thrust out, her hand pressed to the red silk, translucent. It was all clearly outlined, the full nipples, the neatly trimmed bush.

  He shifted, trying to conceal his erection. He could hardly believe he was so hard again so fast. And he was even hornier than the first time. If she got much closer, it would end up a lost cause. One of two things would happen. They would connect again sexually, or the king satyr would be making a rather unceremonious run to the bathroom. Assuming he made it there at all. If not, he'd be ejaculating right here, in front of all these people.

  The music started and the sex kitten lifted her arms over her head. She moved her hips immediately in time to the Arab sounding beat. Her breasts strained at the silk, her belly pushed sweetly. Oh, this wasn't good, not at all. Those pretty bare feet, bangled now, just like he'd imagined Morgan as his harem girl. That neck, arched gracefully. This was such an extraordinary woman, you could tell. Her carriage, her pride, not just a woman to fuck but also one to love. She had everything going for her.

  Why was she in erotic work? He'd made a mistake before trying to equate the two of them as over and against Morgan. It was Nick himself who was the outsider, the one with no depth. He could never appreciate a tenth of what they were capable of.

  She continued her movements, as if under the touch of invisible lovers, hands on her breasts and hips, on her buttocks, hands grabbing, demanding, teasing. He could see her heart racing, the excitement in her eyes. All he could think of was matching that heat, bettering it, bringing her to the point of total vaporization. Their sexes linked, this time with her arms wrapped around him, too, their bodies so tight, pouring sweat, fused as they call each other's name, her mask off, her face smothered in his kisses as he rams himself for one final push, the mother of all climaxes.

  Damn it. Time to get the hell out of Dodge. She must have sensed what he was going to do, because she managed to reach him at the exact time he made it to his feet. Before he could push her away, she was underneath the robe, taking his cock in her hand like it was hers.

  He wanted to struggle more, but a man really can't be expected to have too much willpower at this stage of his neediness. All too gratefully, he let her wrap her lips.

  "No time...” he moaned softly.

  She understood the meaning perfectly. He was going to come and there was nothing he could do to hold it back. Like a soft, gentle vacuum, she took him into her silkiness. Form fitting, warm cheek pockets tongue working him; everything together, perfect; the rhythm, the woman, the time.

  He put his hand on her smooth shoulders. This too felt like a perfect fit. She was warm through the silk. He wanted her whole body against him, with him, connected for impending climax. Every bit of him was pushing to orgasm inside her delicious mouth. He grasped the back of her head. Her hair was luxuriant, even tied back under the mask. She had a scent, too, like jasmine or wild flowers. Perfume mixed pure female essence.

  Oh, god, he was coming in her mouth. Pouring his full issue. Would she take it down? Yes, she was swallowing him, drinking in gulps. And she didn't even know him. What kind of woman did that? Was it only to impress him because he had his own studio? He didn't think so. He wouldn't believe it if anyone had told him.

  "Who are you?” He croaked, releasing the last of his come inside her mouth. “I have to know."

  She was still sucking him, enjoying the last of his essence. Impulsively, he reached for the mask, pulling it away from her head. The woman looked up at him, guilt and fear mixed with the desire on her beautiful features.

  No wonder their bodies were alike! What an idiot he'd been!

  "Morgan, what is the meaning of this?” He took his cock away, depriving her of her suckling toy.

  She left her mouth open, eyes wide in shock like she hadn't expected to be caught. Did she honestly think she'd get away with such a thing?

  "Nick, I—I...” Her eyes dissolved in water. She was up off her knees like a shot, heading for the exit.

  "Morgan, wait!” He caught her at the door. “In here, we need to talk."

  He took her back into makeshift photography studio. Wally had changed things around, having made use of the whips and rack and a pair of comically large dildos. The man was classy as always, Nick thought sardonically.

  "Let go of me,” she demanded. “You have no right to take me against my will."

  "Why not? You took me!"

  "What are you talking about?” She demanded. “I did no such thing."

  "You performed fellatio, without my knowledge."

  She gave him the look he probably deserved. “You seemed pretty aware to me, unless you make a habit of fucking women's mouths in your sleep?"

  He frowned. “I didn't know it was you. You misrepresented yourself."

  Her eyes narrowed. He could see the wheels turning in her head. “Well I didn't say it wasn't me, did I? Did you even ask?"

  "Ask?” He exclaimed. “Why would I ask? Why would I even conceive of the poss
ibility such a devious, diabolic ... ridiculous plot?"

  "Well, you should have figured I would try something like this,” she insisted, making the whole thing sound like his fault.

  "You're really unbelievable,” he laughed, not a trace of humor in his breath. “Do you know that?"

  "You're pretty unbelievable yourself. Why didn't you just talk to me and tell me you've been thinking about me so much? Why didn't you just call me so we could sort things out?"

  "I did tell you,” he reminded. “Every last bit of it in this very room."

  "But that doesn't count, because you thought I was someone else."

  He threw up his hands. “Why am I even having this conversation? We are getting nowhere."

  "Because you won't admit you're wrong,” she pointed with her finger.

  "About what? I don't even know what the hell we're talking about."

  "Well that's for you to figure out. When you do, you call me."

  Right. Like he was ever going to let himself in for this misery again, never mind she'd just given him the best blow job of his life.

  "Tell you what, how about if we cut our losses and both just walk away while it's still just a minor disaster and not a full fledged cataclysm?"

  "We fuck like clockwork, Tremaine. We hit balls back and forth like Ebert and Roper. That's chemistry, not disaster."

  "Ebert and Roper do movies, not tennis."

  "See?” She beamed. “That proves my point. Look how naturally you argued with me?"

  "That's because you're crazy Morgan and I just happen to be sane. Nothing real special about that."

  She reached up to kiss him on the lips, a quick and potent pucker. “I think I love you,” she said triumphantly.

  He felt like a blow had just been delivered to his solar plexus. “That's absurd, Morgan."

  "Why? How can you say I don't?"

  His head was throbbing. He needed air quick. “Because love takes longer than that. We don't know the first thing about each other."