by Jenna Elliot
Ace smiles warmly. “Welcome to Command Performance.”
“Mia, this is Ace.” Ethan slips his fingers over my shoulder, his grip firm. Protecting me? Claiming me? “She’s new here. And she’s mine, so move on.”
“Damn shame that.” Ace exhales an exaggerated sigh. “I can already see her served on a silver platter.”
“I’m sure you can,” Ethan says simply. What are they talking about? I can’t wait to tell Emme.
“The court will eat her up,” Ace says approvingly.
Ethan rolls his gaze dryly. “After you eat your fill, naturally.”
Humor transforms Ace’s face, and he laughs, a huge, rolling sound that draws attention from all around us. Suddenly, I’m on display. Gazes rake over me, taking in everything. Appreciative nods. A few people comment on my paint job. Ethan is pleased.
Ace seizes the distraction to reach for my hand, and his dark gaze twinkles. For such a blond man, his eyes are so dark, almost black in the light. “Don’t listen to this brooding artist, Mia. I share. I always share.” He brushes a whisper-soft kiss to my skin. “So, when you’re through with him, you look me up.”
Ethan glares, but there’s humor in his chiseled expression, I can tell. He knows Ace is a total character. Someone with a sense of humor as big as his laugh. And Ace is very fond of Ethan. I’m not sure why I sense that, but I do.
“Don’t you have a party to throw?” Ethan asks. “A crowd to feed, maybe?” He extracts my hand from Ace’s. “If you’ll excuse us, I want Mia to see the interrogation scene.”
Ace lets his fingers linger in the air for a moment, and eyes me with amused remorse. “Better get a move on, kids. Scene’s about to start.”
Then he turns away to greet a woman who appears from the fringes of the crowd. The first thing I notice is that she wears nothing but a chastity belt. The second is that she walks strangely. A disability? Then, she turns in profile . . . Something protrudes from her backside.
My gaze rivets on the knob wedged between her cheeks, a simple device that takes me a moment to place. A butt plug? I don’t know because I’ve never seen one before.
I am so in over my head here.
With his hand locked around mine, Ethan herds me away. As soon as we’re out of earshot, I have to ask, “Was that woman being punished?”
He knows exactly who I mean. “Not necessarily. Delaying gratification makes the pleasure even better when it arrives.”
“Oh.” I feel off balance again, but am still curious. “Who is Ace?”
“The pleasure king.”
I’m strolling around this place butt-naked to show off Ethan’s work. I deserve a straight answer. “In English, please.”
A hint of a smile. “Ace owns the club.”
“And you are friends?”
“We know one another well.”
How well? Ethan seemed more involved in this place than I imagined.
He knows his way around, that much I do know.
11
Mia
I DON’T GET A chance to grill Ethan anymore because he leads me away from the bar and dance floor into an area with a stage.
The set design appears to be an interrogation room. Three plain gray walls. One door. A table and chair. A scruffy guy wears torn jeans and a skin-tight T-shirt that shows off six-pack abs. He sits in the chair with his hands cuffed to the table.
“Is he an actor?” I whisper to Ethan.
Suddenly, Ethan’s hand is at my breast, and he pinches my nipple hard, a wholly unexpected touch that makes me jump. And yelp.
“Shhh.” He puts a finger to his lips.
I can’t believe he just did that. A man to my left frowns as if there’s something wrong with me because I can’t control my reactions.
Since I can’t really argue the point with this stranger without risking another aching nipple, I decide to remain silent, like the rest of the crowd around us. No one talks. The area isn’t just hushed, but eerily silent.
The door on stage opens and a woman in a police uniform strides in, boot heels clicking on the floor. “You again?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The man, her prisoner, stiffens in the chair.
The police officer slams a billy club onto the table, and the sharp noise of wood against wood blasts the quiet. The prisoner jumps. I jump.
“I told you what would happen if you came back here.” The officer is a tall woman, but slender. Light brown hair is pulled back from her face severely, revealing delicate features and a full mouth. The knife-point creases of the uniform only showcase her femininity, which is an odd contrast to her demeanor. No nonsense. Formidable. Even I hold my breath as she moves around the table with a few sharp strides and drags the billy club between her prisoner’s shoulder blades.
She bends over and says against his ear, “Do you want to feel this stick up your ass?”
“No, ma’am.”
She runs the club down his back, aiming for the body part under discussion through the fabric of the T-shirt. Then she circles the club around to the front, resting the club dangerously close to his crotch.
My eyes widen. I’m so tense, I wobble on my heels and grab onto Ethan for support. This isn’t my kind of thing. I’m not sure I even want to stay.
As if sensing I’m about to bolt, Ethan whispers, “He has a safe word.”
Not an actor. A willing participant in a performance.
“Stand up, unzip, and drop them,” the officer orders, her voice slapping the silence again.
The prisoner’s hands tremble as he awkwardly works his zipper with the handcuffs. He keeps his head low, doesn’t seem to care he’s got an audience.
Or maybe he does. When he shoves down his jeans, leaving them in a tangle around his ankles, he reveals red boxers with black hearts. His dick tents the fabric.
Okay, so he’s into this. I’m not. This scene is too . . . raw. It’s making me edgy. But it’s like a car wreck. I can’t drag my gaze away.
Neither can anyone else. When the officer yanks down the boxers to expose the man’s pale butt, the crowd issues a collective gasp. The shorts flutter down around his ankles to join the jeans, fabric restraints just as constricting as the handcuffs.
“Bend over the table,” she orders. Wedging the billy club between his thighs, she swings it back and forth, the tip dangerously close to his dangling balls, each stroke coaxing him to spread his thighs wider.
I can see the shadow of his asshole even at this distance. His balls wobble. The handcuff chains clink. The officer strokes the club up and down the crack between his cheeks.
“Do you want me to ram this stick up your ass?” she asks for a second time, still working the wood along his crack. Up and down. Up and down. “Do you?”
My breath stalls in my chest, and suddenly I’m terrified for this guy.
“No, ma’am.”
She arches around him as if she’s lining up to gain leverage. “But you’ve earned your punishment, haven’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You broke the law on purpose.” Her voice accuses, a fiercely-seductive coo. “You deserve to be punished.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I wince as she presses the head of the club between his cheeks, not deep enough to penetrate, only to threaten.
The man flinches. His dick bobs so hard I get a glimpse of it between his thighs. He’s rock hard.
“This punishment scares you, doesn’t it?” she chides, a tone dripping contempt.
She pushes a little harder.
The man makes a strangled sound, but gets out the words, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. You deserve to be scared.” She gives another thrust for good measure, and the man’s ass muscles clench.
“Whatever pleases you, ma’am.”
She likes his response. Her expression softens almost imperceptibly, and I know she’s enjoying this scene, too.
She’s not the only one. The crowd is riveted, gazes aimed at the stage. But not Eth
an’s. His gaze is on me.
I can’t do anything but stare into his eyes, so aware of my nakedness, his nearness, the erotic scene playing out in front of us. His hand brushes my bottom, the merest glance of warm skin against skin, but my mouth parts around a surprised breath.
He presses a finger to his lips again, cautioning me to silence, while he slowly draws another finger along the crack of my butt, one touch that stokes embers of excitement that had banked during our parade through the crowd. I manage to keep my mouth shut, but a tremor rocks me from head to toe.
He sees. And he’s pleased. Approval eases the corners of his mouth as he returns his gaze to the stage. For a moment, I can only stare up at him, so overcome by the intensity of the moment, by the arousal swirling inside me.
I’m turned on by this scene, too.
And I’m never more aware of this than when his finger eases between my cheeks, mimicking, just the slightest pressure against an impossibly-sensitive place.
I gulp in a shocked breath. My ass clenches.
He smiles now. And lets his hand fall away.
It takes another few seconds for me to realize Ethan’s touch was nothing more than a well-aimed assault on my senses. A premeditated attack. Now, as I watch the scene play out on stage, I respond. Not as a spectator, but a participant.
When the officer withdraws the club, I hold my breath as she circles her prisoner. Resting the club under his chin, she coaxes his head upward, until she looks him in the eyes.
“You think you can please me?” she asks, and I wonder, too.
“It would be an honor, mistress.” He’s pitifully eager and it embarrasses me.
Her brows draw tight with a frown. “You want to pay for your crimes by making me cum?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“With your tongue?”
My pussy clenches. I’m dizzy with the awareness swirling deep inside. My legs grow molten under me. My skin glows clammily, caressed by the heat of all the bodies pressed close. The unfamiliar exposure to the air-conditioning whenever someone shifts their position. Every nerve ending along my skin begs for attention, each separate and needy, the way the prisoner begs to please his fierce captor.
And I want to see what will happen next. Arousal swells as if I somehow connect to the action. On stage, and within the crowd. Our anticipation. My anticipation. Our need. My need. Our pleasure. My pleasure.
The officer removes the club from her prisoner’s ass and sets it on the table with a thud.
“Eyes on me,” she orders.
He pivots his head to the side, along with every one of us in the audience, who also obey her command. Then she performs a careful striptease, fingers working each button until the shirt falls away to reveal lush breasts that are nearly tumbling over the edges of a lace bra. Who expected such a militant woman to be wearing peach lace?
Not me, for sure.
Shaking out the shirt with a few sharp snaps, she drapes it neatly over the back of the chair. Then she unbuckles her belt with deliberate motions, sliding the leather strap through each loop, painfully slowly, lengthening the moment until every eye follows . . . Crack.
She snaps that belt against the criminal’s ass with an unexpected and skillful stroke. Another collective gasp as he bucks hard, almost comically, as his hard dick swings wildly with the motion.
His face transforms into a mask of desperate agony, and a welt appears on his pale skin almost instantly. I remember Ethan’s words about pleasure-pain.
Suddenly, Ethan maneuvers around, so he’s no longer beside but behind me. Bracing his legs apart, he rests back, so I’m forced to lean against him. His crotch is hard against my back. He likes what’s going on, too.
Is he imagining me at his mercy the way I can suddenly imagine him at mine? Would he be this eager to please me?
Is that what he intends when his hands circle my waist, grazing sensitive skin while we watch the officer set the belt aside and unbutton her pants?
She rocks her hips gently to ease the pants over her hips, revealing a barely-there thong that matches the bra. In a move that can only be intended to entice, she bends over to retrieve them from the floor, treating the audience to a prime shot of her bottom with the lace wedged between her cheeks. Then with the same careful deliberation, she lines up creases and folds her pants, before draping them over the chair.
She considers the welt blooming on the prisoner’s ass, giving us a chance to enjoy the sight she makes while stroking a palm along the welt, as if soothing away the ache.
Then she flips the thong off her hips and lets it slide down her legs to the floor. Stepping neatly out of the circle of lace, she cracks her hand against the prisoner’s ass, the sound ringing out in the breathless silence, mingling at once with his groan of pleasure-pain.
“Hands on the table palms up,” she commands.
I’ve never seen anything like the expression on this man’s face, agony and excitement together, such a desperate mix. He twists his wrists around awkwardly in the handcuffs while the officer uses the chair as a stepstool to climb onto the table. She lowers herself in an agile motion until she’s sitting on his open palms. Handcuffed, his hands flatten and fill with her ass.
“Kneel,” she orders.
He does so awkwardly until he’s trapped by her weight, the uncomfortable position that has him helplessly bound by the jeans constricting his ankles. All I can see is his bare ass and legs, below the hem of his T-shirt, the welt on his skin and the nearly-naked officer poised erotically over him.
She spreads her thighs. She’s clean-shaven like me.
“Eat me, Munch.” She issues the command, and I can hear the sound of her anticipation and realize the prisoner isn’t the only one enjoying the game.
The prisoner dives at her pussy. His dick bobs crazily, so tight and stiff, and her breasts bounce with the motion until I just know they’re going to tumble out over the lace bra.
And I’m fascinated.
The crowd around me lends an intimacy to the moment as well as an edge of voyeurism that makes everything dicey and spicy. I’ve never seen a man go down on a woman. It’s strangely erotic.
Or maybe that’s only my reaction to the way Ethan’s hands feel on me as he thumbs the undersides of my breasts leisurely, a rhythmic whisper of sensation that makes my nipples peak into hard tips, makes me dazed by my arousal.
Sounds of the officer’s pleasure ring out over the breathless crowd, tiny gasps of indrawn breath and the wet noise of the prisoner’s mouth working her skin.
“Harder. Faster,” she snaps at him, and when he doesn’t obey quickly enough, she spears her fingers into his hair and directs his motion. “Faster, damn you. Faster.”
Her words are rough and raw and the sound filters through me, makes me arch into Ethan’s hands, wanting to feed my own growing ache.
The criminal never stops licking and sucking his captor. He never loses his erection. She lets her eyes flutter shut closes and clings to his hair. She pants harder and harder, and the sound fills the quiet. I know she’s going to cum, but I’m the one drawn so tight I forget to breathe.
Until Ethan pinches my nipples hard. A current shoots through me, makes me arch back against him, but my moan is drowned out by the officer’s groans of pleasure as she rides the prisoner’s face, grinding against him as she moans out wave after wave of her orgasm.
I’m vibrating inside, outside, every nerve alive with the need for relief. I nestle back against Ethan, hoping to encourage him to touch me more, but he only goes back to stroking the undersides of my breasts, his gaze riveted on the stage.
But I can feel his smile.
“Clean me up,” the officer commands. She pats the prisoner’s dark head, which bobs rhythmically as he obliges her with deep strokes of his tongue. “That’s a good boy.”
Then she arches backward, resting her weight on her arms, providing the audience with the mother of all crotch shots.
“Would you like me on my knees
in front of you?” she asks.
The poor guy can’t even reply. In profile, I see his face glistening with her juices. His mouth works, but nothing appears to be coming out.
“Do you want me to take your dick in my mouth?” she coos at him, stroking damp hair back from his face.
I’m breathless again, waiting for this poor guy to stroke out right in front of me. His dick looks like it’ll explode.
“Do you want me to suck you, bad boy? Do you want me to make you cum?”
Finally, a sound squeaks past his lips, then all the hopeful desperation of reciprocation that he has most definitely earned in my opinion.
“If it pleases you, mistress.”
Good for him! I wanted to applaud, but that would mean moving, and moving would mean interfering with the feeling of Ethan’s thumbs against my skin, feeling that wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy the swelling ache between my own thighs.
The officer only strokes more hair from her prisoner’s temple, an almost tender gesture. “Well, sucking you off doesn’t fucking please me.”
With one move, she shimmies away from him, swings her legs gracefully over the side of the table.
With a groan of abject misery, he lays his cheek on the table where she had just been, and another pitiful moan resounds over laughter coming from some insensitive jerk in the audience.
The officer picks up her clothes and prances her nearly-naked self away with quick steps, vanishing through the doorway and leaving her prisoner alone on the stage, handcuffed and tangled up in his jeans, his dick swollen and his ass red, his soft sobs echoing through the dark.
Then, the lights come on, and the audience erupts into applause.
I fling a hand to my face to shield my eyes from the blinding light, practically vibrating by the shock of sound that deafens my overloaded senses. The last thing I worry about is who can see me in all my painted glory.
No, the only thing I want to know is how fast Ethan can ease this devastating ache inside me.
12
Ethan
MY GIRL’S ON fire after watching the interrogation scene. As the audience breaks away from the stage, heading off into the club to find the next diversion, Mia twists around in my arms, hands slipping around my waist, hips grinding to see if I’m as turned on as she is. Of course my dick is hard. I’ve been hard since the moment I painted her sweet pussy. Not that I’ll admit that. Sub has never been my thing.
