“So, what now?” I twirled the stem of my champagne glass.
The Cheshire grin returned. He slithered from the chair and dropped to his knees in front of me. His eyes made my face heat unbearably when he looked up.
“I thought we could act out one of our online games.” He traced figure 8’s across my knee then moved higher, letting his fingers slip down my inner thigh.
I tried to steady my breath. My pussy began to tingle with maddening need. “I-I’d love to.” I croaked. “But I didn’t bring protection.”
He dipped his head and kissed the tops of both my knees before he lifted me from the chair. “Oh, don’t worry, I have everything covered.”
Chris Grayson, one of the most sought after men in North America, was my Prince Charming? And now he planned on ravishing me in his dressing room. I almost asked him to pinch me, because I had to be dreaming.
He set me down in front of the long, white makeup counter that lined a well lit mirror. He whispered the proposed scenario in my ear, and I nodded my consent.
“Turn around,” he commanded in a low, husky voice and I obeyed.
I presented my wrists to him, as he requested. He was soft yet rough, seductive yet powerful, as he bound them with his necktie.
“Now, I’m going to undress you.” He paused long enough to feather kisses down my neck. “Slowly, while you watch.”
I shivered, and my gaze glued to the mirror, wreathed in a rectangular halo of soft globe lights. My whole body would soon be on display, and I would observe everything he did to me. My pussy clenched and grew wetter at these thoughts.
He stripped me, but left my polka dot pumps on. My caramel skin shone as he bent me over the makeup counter. My eyes were wide and my pupils were huge.
First he stroked the tense muscles in my back until I relaxed completely. Then his lips and tongue skimmed down my spine. I groaned as warm bliss flooded me and my horniness grew.
Teeth sank into my firm, round ass and I let out a shrill squeal. I watched as his head moved to the other cheek and repeated the process. My skin vibrated with sensation and my legs trembled slightly.
He spread my legs wider and disappeared as he went to his knees once again. I cried out when a hot, wet tongue flit over my clitoris. He licked my outer labia, tugged them with his teeth, then lapped up my juices from my now soaked opening. I moaned uncontrollably as he did so.
His tongue returned to my clit and rapidly flicked this swollen bead, making me come. I shivered and shook atop the makeup counter. I couldn’t believe my wanton release as I watched myself.
Juices dripped down my thighs. He stood once more and stroked my back as our gazes met in the mirror.
His hand slipped to my ass, which jutted high in the air. “You were a very bad girl for standing me up twice, weren’t you, Cindy?”
I knew where this was going. My heart beat harder in anticipation. “Yes, yes I was. I’m sorry.”
He fondled the cheek now, continued to pin me with that sexy stare. I ached for another orgasm, for his cock to fill my pussy. I was greedy for pleasure, and felt totally uninhibited today.
“I think you need to be disciplined,” he leaned down and whispered this into my ear, pressing his sculpted body into mine. “Naughty girls need a spanking and a good fucking, don’t they?”
I swallowed hard. I moaned my reply, “Yes.”
One hand slipped between my legs to fondle, tease, my sex. The other lifted high in the air then whizzed down quickly. It met my ass with a sharp, loud crack. I gasped and jerked against the makeup counter. My cunt walls throbbed wildly. My stomach tightened and my every cell seemed to vibrate from pleasure / pain stimuli.
He massaged the stinging cheek, soothed it until the smarting ceased, then he drew his hand up once more and…
Whack!
I squealed and squirmed. When he massaged my ass and back this time, I couldn’t help myself. “Please, fuck me,” I begged.
He gave a deep, throaty chuckle at this. “Not so shy now, are you, sweetie?” His fingers moved to my sex where he played until I shuddered and came a second time. “Tell me, how many men have you fucked?”
The carnal tone of his voice made me all the hotter. “Only one.” My words were breathy.
“I’ll have to be gentle, careful, then.”
“Not too gentle,” I blurted.
Another sexy laugh. “Gentle at first, until you stretch for me.”
I watched him drop his pants and boxer briefs to his ankles. A massive, veiny cock slapped against the bottom of his shirt. The head was plump and dark pink. It glistened from a sheen of pre-cum. He watched me as he put the condom on, taking his time rolling the sheathe down his long, meaty shaft. I licked my lips and moaned at the torture.
Finally he nudged his thick glans into my seeping pussy. I let out a long groan of release as he did so. He clutched at my hair, yanking my head back as he slowly filled me with every inch of his shaft. My cunt walls constricted around his thrusts, milking his cock of every bit of pleasure it could give.
“So unbelievably tight,” he growled as his thrusts picked up pace.
I stretched to accommodate him. My snug pussy squished as he fucked me harder and I grew wetter and wetter. His cock was curved, so the head easily found my g-spot and pounded, stroked, until a sublime pressure built.
I closed my eyes, lost in the throes of bliss while he played with my clit and made carnal love to me. But they flew open, and I gasped, when he slapped my ass sharply once more. The sting was both pleasant and unpleasant, and it made my sex throb stronger still.
Now he gripped my hair with one hand and the makeup counter with the other. His cock slammed me faster and faster, like he was a great beast lost to his heat now. The intense pressure building deep inside me burst. It felt like I would pee myself, and I let out a shrill shriek as the most intense orgasm I had ever had exploded inside of me, showering me with ecstasy.
He pulled out and went to his knees once more to lick me clean. I shivered and shook and cried, still sensitive from three orgasms. My swollen sex could barely take this further stimulation, and it was so intense I had a fourth orgasm in no time.
He helped me up from the counter and gathered me in his arms. I sat on his lap in the makeup chair, and he reached beside us to grab a box out of a massive, shiny gift bag. He handed me the gift, wrapped in gleaming foil embossed with hearts.
“What’s this?” I beamed.
“Open it and find out.” He winked.
I tore the paper away carefully, like my step mom had taught me. We could never rip into Christmas gifts because she always saved the wrapping for next year. But Chris told me to “tear into it,” so, with a gleeful grin, I did.
I lost my breath when I saw what lay inside. It was an elegant glass slipper with a diamond studded bow at the back. Inside of it was a slip of paper. I pulled it out and opened it.
“My cell and home phone numbers,” he said. “Now you have no excuse to dump me ever again.”
I blushed and grinned, then I kissed him soundly.
Hans & Greg
“I love getting head from a man with a goatee.” My boss Derek sighed out the words and sat back in his chair while I slurped my way down his erection. Through grunts of satisfaction, he continued, “I need you to do the Darmoor murder legend story this year.”
I stopped sucking, wiped a bit of pre-cum from the hair beneath my lip. “No goddamn way.”
He pressed a finger to my lip, then pressed my head full of dark curls back into his crotch. “But I need you to go out there and interview Hans. We need something more this time. More meat on the bones, ya know what I mean?”
I stroked his thick, pinkish brown cock, pulling my mouth away to mock him. “Did you intend to make that terrible pun, or …”
Once more he shoved me down on his spit-shiny glans. “Shut up and suck. People don’t want sleepy little town fluff these days. They want tawdry suburban scandal. Or, in this case, tawdry backwoods sc
andal. You leave after you make me cum.”
“Yes sir,” I grumbled around his penis.
Derek Tremblay was the editor-in-chief of the Sudbury Review, a medium-sized newspaper publisher in Sudbury, Ontario where I’d worked for the last three years. I was an acquisitions editor who doubled as a reporter when I first got the job, but after expertly sucking Mr. Tremblay’s cock I quickly moved up the Review’s ladder. He made me his executive editor after we started fucking. I take that as a compliment.
My name is Greg Butler, and I’m a journalist, which you probably already guessed. Well, truth is, these days I don’t go out and get the stories much anymore. I stay in my nice, cushy exec office and edit them. Believe me, it’s still hard work red penning those puppies, particularly when we get a new crop of journalists fresh in from college, but sometimes I miss going out there and getting into my work, too.
However, not a journalist at the Review wanted to cover the yearly Darmoor murder legend story. Though not an old legend, only ten years have passed since the event, it’s well known and just scandalous enough to make the little town it happened in … well … legendary.
So why doesn’t anyone want to cover it? Well, in the past we’d do a boring blanket story. Someone would go down to the archives and pull up all the old files on the murder that happened in the sleepy little suburb of Chestnut Lane, only a fifteen minute drive from my office in Sudbury. Not exactly thrilling reporting, combing through archives and sneezing your way through a decade of dust.
But to get to Hans, the center of this local melodrama, I’d have to go all the way out past Chestnut Lane, into a rural district that was bordered by an old growth forest. No one had gone to interview Hans in years, and he rarely allowed strangers in his home, or so I’d heard.
Hans Muller was a witch who had been accused of murdering his lover. He was cleared of the charges due to lack of evidence, but most of the Darmoor people still think he did it. Hans keeps to himself on a little piece of land at the Darmoor limits. And it looks like I’m going to be his houseguest this weekend.
“I can’t believe he agreed to it,” I said to myself as I drove through thick Ontario woods, down a rutted dirt road that led to Hans’ Victorian gingerbread home.
I parked outside a place done up in faded mint green with a porch out front that was framed in dingy white latticework. The turned porch posts were chipped and broken in places, and some of the spindles hanging from the rounded windows were missing, but the home still held its strange storybook charm. I couldn’t help but grin as I got out of the car and grabbed my canvas bag from the back of my Honda. Looking at it reminded me of fairy tales my gran would read to us as kids.
I knocked on the dark mahogany door and peered through one of the two windows in the top half of the entrance. Inside was gloomy and lacked light, but I could see someone drawing close through gray afternoon sunlight spilling in via what I assumed was the kitchen.
But no one opened up. I waited. Knocked again. Then I heard a soft yet deep voice say, “Enter.”
So I did.
Hans Muller took my breath away. I’d heard stories. That he was nothing like what you expected. I’d expected an unkempt hermit with bleary, wild eyes and a set of mismatched clothes. What stood before me in the poorly lit foyer was a blond man of medium height who looked like a New York model. Normally I liked my lovers a little less pretty, but there was something in Hans stare that drew me in and refused to let go.
His features were fine, soft. His full lips begged to be kissed. Straight, thick hair was slicked away from his face and just brushed the wide, ribbed straps on the white tank he wore. A simple pair of blue jeans hugged his slender hips. He wasn’t muscle bound, but he was fit. His wide eyes were so light blue they looked like circles of ice.
He looked me up and down, and his face remained unreadable as he did so. “Who are you, and why are you in my house?”
I frowned, scratched my somewhat shaggy eyebrow (damn, they’d need a trim before they poked me in the eye). “Greg Butler. I’m from the Sudbury Review.” I held up my bag. “I’m here to interview you this weekend.”
Now he smiled. The gesture took its time curling his lips, and the look reminded me of a cat carefully stalking a mouse. “Ah, Derek sent you, even though I refused. This shouldn’t surprise me.”
This time I scratched at the stubble peppering my face. “You know Derek?”
He turned away, revealing a firm ass that bunched nicely as he walked. “Yes, we’re … old friends, you could say. He was the first interview I ever allowed.” With one hand, he beckoned for me to follow him into the kitchen.
The room was sparse, but filled with state of the art appliances. I saw a state-of-the-art mixer in one corner that looked like it would’ve cost a tidy sum. I’m not much of a cook, but I could tell Hans was a baker of some sort.
That’s when my eye caught the retro arborite table to my left. It was laid with a blue and white checkerboard cloth, and the top of this was filled with gingerbread men. Or, at first glance, I thought they were gingerbread men. I tore my gaze from them for a moment when Hans spoke again.
“So what does Derek want for this interview, hmmmm?” He sounded both faintly amused and annoyed. “He’s gotten all he’s going to get. I don’t care how many sexy reporters he sends.”
I blinked at that, then grinned. “Why, thank you. Sure I can’t change your mind?”
He walked to one side of the table filled with gingerbread men, crossed his arms over his chest (I think to show off his pecs). “What did you have in mind? If you’re creative, maybe I’ll spill secrets even Derek doesn’t know.”
My eyebrows drew together, becoming a unibrow of surprise. I chuckled and shoved one hand in my khaki dress pants. “Just so happens I took creative journalism in college.”
He moved around the table so fast it was almost spooky. We stood nose to nose, and I could smell a hint of peppermint on his breath. I leaned forward and boldly cupped his cock while he brushed his lips over mine.
“Then be inventive, and get your story out of me,” he said, before I seized the back of his neck and claimed those pouty lips in a hungry kiss.
I could be an aggressive reporter, but I hadn’t planned this. If bending him over his counter and giving him a good fucking would get the story, my trip might be more enjoyable than I anticipated. It couldn’t be this easy, could it? My cynical side didn’t buy it, but my horny side didn’t really care.
I went to push him down on top of the table, but he stopped me. “No, we’ll ruin my shipment.” He pointed at the arm to arm gingerbread men. “And I won’t have time to bake enough to fill the order if I mess these up. Come downstairs. Let me show you my dungeon.”
A witch with a dungeon? This weekend just went from boring to full of strange and intriguing possibilities.
He led me down a twisted stone staircase that reminded me of movies about medieval times. Sconces on the walls held lamps shaped to mimic old fashioned torches. These lit our way to a arched door made of cherry wood with long, arrowed shaped hinges.
Hans opened up and waved a hand to usher me inside. Once I stepped over the threshold, he flipped the lights on.
I took in the contents of his dungeon, while he filled me in on what he called his treasures. There were red brocade spanking benches sewn with fine gold thread and perched on ornately carved walnut wood frames. Leather collars, some with studs, some with rings for an assortment of leashes, hung on a section of one wall, along with an assortment of whips, paddles, ball gags, and various masks. There was a standing rack and a horizontal one with a combination of leather and chain manacles. The room housed so many toys, as Hans referred to them, there was no way I would see all of them in one visit.
“Make your choice,” Hans told me, that angelic beauty still unreadable. “The guest gets first pick.”
I looked at him, searching for some trace of something—a twitch of his lip, his eyes wandering in a certain direction—that would tell
me where this was heading. What his game plan really was, but the man appeared to be a master at disguising his emotions.
So I pointed to a padded chair, done up in the same brocade style as the spanking benches. It had leather manacles positioned at its legs, but there were no arms on the piece. When Hans strapped me in, he tied my wrists behind my back with a pair of steely handcuffs.
“Ready to begin?” He stared into my eyes, the ghost of a smile hovering over his lips.
I was now stripped naked, bound, and more vulnerable than I’d been in a very long time. I started to second guess this decision I’d made to get a second rate story. (Okay, and a piece of ass.)
He stood and paced before me, holding something rubber that he slapped against his palm in time with each step. “Here’s how we’ll play round number one,” he said, giving me a bold perusal with those glittering jewel eyes. “For every question I answer, I get to ask a question.” He held up the rubber piece. “And apply a little torment.”
I breathed deeply, bluffed complete composure. “Sounds like a plan.”
He gave a sideways foxlike smile. “Good. Let’s begin.” And then he gave me the safe words to stop my torment, if I wanted to. “Ask away.”
“Why did you kill your lover, Rebecca Meyer?”
His face stiffened then soured. There was no doubt I’d hit a raw nerve. “I didn’t kill her.” He looked me straight in the eye when he said this, and I believed him. “But I know who did, and I took care of him a very long time ago.”
I’ve met a lot of liars in my line of work, and I can tell when someone’s bullshitting me. Hans’ face was stark with honesty and pain. I felt compassion for him in that moment, even if he had me at a disadvantage.
Then the fox smile returned, wiping away all traces of pain as he leveled that penetrating gaze on me. “Now, my turn.”
He knelt before me and showed me the rubber apparatus he held. “This is a cock ring with a ball plug. First, I’m going to get you nice and hard, then I’m going to put the ring on and keep you that way for as long as I want.”
BDSM Mega Boxed Set Page 18
