“No one ever hurts you?” he asked. “None of your clients?”
He was stroking my leg again, and my pussy. Ahhh. Fuck. “No one hurts me like this,” I said. “No one zip ties me to chairs and cuts apart my favorite outfit.”
“Does anyone ever hurt your breasts?”
I jumped as he slapped first one and then the other, and pinched my nipples between vicious fingers. I tried to writhe away. “Oww! No. No one ever does that.”
“I’m doing it.”
“Fuck you.” The expletive popped out, because my nipples really hurt.
“Fuck you, Sir sounds more polite.”
“Oh, God, stop, please.”
He stopped, but my nipples went on aching. He got up and started rummaging again. I hated that rummaging sound. I hated him.
No, that’s a lie. I was excited. And scared shitless of what might come next.
“Let’s try this,” he said, moving closer to me. He grabbed my breasts, or more accurately, my nipples, pinching each one between his fingertips. It felt bad and good at the same time, thrilling and sexy and yet threatening as he pulled and tugged at them. He let go, and I felt a brush of fingertips. Then I felt the most excruciatingly acute pain, like hot metal skewers being poked into the tender tips of my breasts. While I flailed in my zip-tie bonds, he held me down and afflicted my other nipple with the same ungodly pain.
“What did you do to me?” I screeched. It felt like he’d pierced my nipples, which was so, so against the client rules. “Ow, fuck. Oww. Oh, God, am I bleeding?”
He chuckled. “I only put nipple clamps on you. You’ve never worn nipple clamps? Aren’t you a prostitute?”
Oh yeah, I’d worn nipple clamps before—the sparkly, decorative ones that barely pinched. “It hurts. You put mega clamps on me. I’ll have to go to the hospital.”
“They’re just clamps. I’ll take them off in ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes!”
“The pain will be more bearable by then. Of course, as soon as I take them off, you’ll feel a totally different kind of pain, which is part of the fun.”
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, motherfucker.
“I told you, Chere. I won’t do anything you can’t bear. Hey, that rhymes.”
Motherfucker was rhyming while my nipples screamed in agony. Moving made it worse, so I sat as still as I could, rigid and trembling.
“God, that’s beautiful,” he said in a soft voice. “I’m a sadist, as you might have guessed. I like hurting women, but only as much as they can bear. I don’t break them. Well, not very often.”
Oh, that was comforting.
“Can’t you make me feel good at the same time?” I asked. My pussy was wet as anything. It was clenching as hard as the damn nipple clamps. Where was his cock? I wanted him to put it in me and get himself off, because once the clients got off, the scene was usually over. Please, God, don’t tell me this guy plans to torture me for the whole two hours.
I heard a zipper going down, clothes hitting the floor. Thank you, God. I felt his cock against my lips, and the tang of a candy-flavored condom. My hands made fists as I opened wide. And wider. Jesus. He had a big fucking cock.
“That’s right,” he said as I moaned at his entry. “What a professional. And a cock works great as a gag in a pinch,” he added, tweaking one of my aching nipples.
In a pinch. Ha, perverted and funny.
He drove straight for the back of my throat. When I resisted, he grabbed my hair and made me take it anyway. I protested, making huffing noises when I came up for air.
“You’re not allowed to kill me,” I gasped.
“I’m not killing you.”
“You shouldn’t— We haven’t negotiated anything. Not nipple clamps, not scissors, not deep throati—”
He shoved his cock back in before I could finish my sentence, and I choked and teared up behind my blindfold.
Okay, I could survive this. I’d sucked a lot of cocks, all sizes. I’d had a lot of men shove deep into my throat in the throes of passion. It happened all the time, but I wasn’t usually blindfolded and bound.
Still, in some sick way I wanted to please him. I wanted to make it good for him, and I swear to God, I usually don’t care that much. I mean, I care about getting the client off, because that means we’re finished, but I don’t usually care.
He didn’t say anything, and I wasn’t physically capable of saying anything. I felt powerless in a way I’d never experienced before. I got the feeling he wasn’t fucking my face because it felt good for him, but because it felt scary for me. He yanked my hair when I tried to lean away from him, pulled it so hard I yelled, at which point he shoved his cock right back into my open mouth. He was so badass, so good at this. My throat hurt. My hair hurt. My nipples were killing me.
I wondered what he looked like. I wondered so hard.
I started to drool and imagined it dripping down onto my cut-open blouse. I couldn’t stop the drooling any more than I could stop the tears leaking out of my eyes behind the leather mask.
When I was sure I couldn’t bear for him to drive into my throat one more time, he pulled out. I felt his shoulders against my knees as he crouched to free my ankles. Snip, snip, goodbye zip ties. Okay, fuck me now. Please be quick.
But I knew he wouldn’t be quick. He liked playing with women. He enjoyed tormenting them. I’d learned over the years to read clients like books. The title of W’s book was Take It, Bitch.
He removed the clamps next, then grabbed my thighs, yanked my legs apart, and tilted me back in the chair. While my previously-numb nipples came alive with the biting pain of re-invigoration, he drove inside me balls deep.
And I can’t say how, or why, but after he drove into me two or three times, I experienced the most powerful orgasm of my life. It was a shaking, twisting, sobbing, protesting orgasm, because there was no way I enjoyed this. There was no way that pain and pleasure could mix so exquisitely, while he filled me up with his rough, thick cock. No way. Oh God, yessss…
His mocking laughter barely registered as I gritted my teeth and rode out the aftershocks. I was lifted out of the chair and carried, still impaled, still orgasming, across the room. He pushed me back and I braced to hit the floor, but I landed on the bed. He came over me, driving my bound hands down into the mattress. I fought to escape him; my pussy felt too hot and sensitive to have him inside. But the more I fought him, the more powerfully he fucked me.
“I want you to come again,” he said.
I shook my head. I was still recuperating from the previous orgasm, still trying to deny the scintillating pleasure lighting up every nerve.
“Yes,” he said in his commanding voice. “Again. This isn’t over until you do what I want.”
“I can’t come again.”
“Why not? You like pain. You like force. You like getting your throat fucked.”
“No!”
He was wrong. I didn’t like those things. I was Miss Kitty. Meow. I liked being petted. I liked pretty things. I liked calm, sensual encounters where sex-starved men worshipped me and eased their cocks into me and contentedly got off.
Unlike them, he was intense. Demanding. His cock invaded me while his fingers played over my clit. I may have mentioned this earlier...he knew his way around a clit. He used the perfect touch, not too hard—because I was still sensitive—but not too soft. I threw my head back and shook it back and forth. Meow, motherfucker. This is not me.
But that didn’t matter, because I was going to come again. My pussy felt like a living, blooming thing, like it had been dead all these years and he’d just now brought it to life. He was the Resurrection Man. Or the Erection Man.
I writhed on the bed, trying to fight him, because when I fought him, it felt that much more exciting.
“Come on. Come again, damn it.” He slapped me, a firm, stinging crack across my cheek. It hurt way more than the first time he’d slapped my face. It also made my second orgasm explode.
I thi
nk I cried nooo, but he said yes, and kept a grip on my shaking thighs. It occurred to me that I was experiencing the most powerful climax of my life, and I still had no idea who was inside me, or what he looked like, or why the hell he found it necessary to slap my face.
While I pondered this craziness, he cupped my cheeks, put his fingers right over the place he’d slapped me, and kissed me.
My pussy still pulsed around his cock, and now his lips were on mine and his tongue was in my mouth, and my hands were bound behind my back, and it was like he was inside me everywhere, making me feel more female and excited and sexual than I’d ever felt in my life. In my dark, blind world, his pleasure and scent transformed me. His rough kisses grounded me, but made me feel like I was flying at the same time. I didn’t want the blindfold off anymore. I wanted it on. I wanted to hide and exist in this world forever.
I trembled while he came, because he fucked me so intensely. He didn’t make any sound at all, just ground against me and pressed his cheek to mine. I felt completely possessed by his fucking, and strangely pleased that he came so hard.
Fuck. I lay still, breathless, satisfied, knowing there might be more, but not really caring. Whatever. I’m yours. Whatever your name is, whatever you look like.
“Please let me look at you,” I whispered. More than anything in the world, I wanted to see him.
“No.”
A minute later he pulled away, got up off the bed, leaving me alone in the center of it. I turned on my side and curled into a ball. I was still partly dressed, the top of me, anyway.
“Will you unbind my hands?” I asked.
“Yes. Just before I leave.”
“Now, please.”
“No, because the first thing you’ll do is take off the mask so you can see me.”
He was right. I would do that.
“Are you someone famous?” I asked. “Some famous politician, or movie star?”
“Yes.”
The way he said yes, I knew he was lying again, yanking my chain, shoving my desire to know him back in my face.
“Whatever,” I said bitterly. “I don’t care. What does it matter? What does anything matter?”
“Are you PMSing? Shut up.”
He was such an asshole, such a jerk. So good in bed. I hated him. Hate, hate, hate. I lay there honing my hate, hoping he wouldn’t want anything else from me now that he’d come.
The bed dipped and he was back, lying behind me. He was dressed again, smelling of understated but yummy cologne. I felt his lips against my nape.
“How am I going to go home without a skirt?” I asked.
“Shut up.”
“I can’t just traipse naked through the W Hotel lobby and out onto the—”
His hand closed over my mouth, firm fingers muting me. Big hands. He was either a big person, or he seemed big because he was so aggressive and mean.
“You’re mean,” I whispered against his fingers.
He kissed my nape and my earlobes, and my shoulders, and my spine. His lips were warm and strong, and his face was smooth, just a hint of stubble. I hated him, but this was kind of pleasant after all the violence. His fingers massaged my hips and ass.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
I couldn’t say thank you, since one hand was still over my mouth, and I couldn’t return the compliment, since I couldn’t see him, but in my mind W was dark and seductively handsome. In the twilight of my orgasm, my whole body relaxed. I think I was half asleep by the time he leaned away and said, “I’m going.”
Going...no. “I need clothes,” I said.
“I’ll send up clothes. Next time, bring something to change into. And you can have this room for the night, if you want to stay here.”
“I don’t.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
“And there’s not going to be a ‘next time.’ Forget it. No way.”
He made a soft, mocking sound. “Was it that bad for you?”
Was it? No. He was the bringer of violent and shimmering orgasms. But... “You cut up my favorite outfit.”
“Jesus Christ.” It was the first time he’d really raised his voice, and it startled me. “Your fucking outfit. I’ll bring a replacement to our next session.”
“You won’t be able to find a replacement. And we’re not having another session.”
“I know where to find one, even if you look shitty in that color. Come on.”
He hauled me off the bed and guided me across the room, and left me there. I heard a few more sounds while I stood, blind and shivering, trying to see his actions in my mind. Shoes on? Snapping a briefcase? The whisper of a necktie? I jumped when he touched my arm. His other hand wrapped around my neck as he held me against him.
“Listen, Chere. I like you. You’re reckless and conflicted. Your body is perfect and your breasts are real. I want to see you again.”
I leaned as far away from him as I could. “No.”
“And next time,” he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken, “you will bring the eye mask, and extra clothes.”
“I’m not going to see you again.”
“The correct answer is Yes, Sir.”
I stood very still with my lips clamped together. After a moment he put his hand against my cheek. He’d slapped that cheek—twice—but this was a caress. “Don’t be an angry hooker,” he said. “I adore you.”
I felt metal against my wrists, and my hands were cut free.
“Don’t touch that mask until you hear the door close,” he said. “The fantasy’s better, anyway.”
What fantasy? He shouldn’t flatter himself, but I stood where he left me and did as he instructed. I didn’t move until I heard the door’s latch click into place. My fingers reached up to the mask and then fumbled behind my head at the buckle. I wanted it off, but in some way I was afraid to take it off. I didn’t know what I’d see. Shreds of my clothing? The walls drenched in blood?
No, none of that, just a clean and empty luxury hotel room. The bed was made and my shoes were arranged neatly beside it. My skirt and panties were gone. I pulled the two sides of my blouse closed. He could have just unbuttoned it. Asshole. At least my jacket was in one piece.
Jesus, what had just happened?
I went to the window and looked out from the eighth floor, like I could pick him out from the people below. Nope. I could pass him on the street tomorrow and I wouldn’t know him, but he would know me. I found that idea horrifying.
I went into the bathroom and took a thirty minute shower, and washed all of W off me. Every slap, every kiss. By the time I got out and put on the robe, someone was knocking on the door. Thank God he’d come through with the clothes—a casual dress and scarf from a boutique across the street. The pale amber-beige looked perfect with my light brown eyes. I still had no panties. Fuck him. Good taste didn’t make him any less of an asshole.
I got dressed, put on my shoes, and took one last look around the room at the W Hotel.
And for some reason, I made sure the mask was tucked in my bag before I left.
In Between
I left the hotel and took a cab to my place in Tribeca. I needed my boyfriend. I needed normalcy and safety, and the knowledge that the date was really over. I needed home.
I didn’t usually let clients rattle me, but on the way up to our loft on the third floor, I admitted to myself that I was rattled. Nothing terribly bad had happened. He’d hurt my nipples, yes. He’d slapped me. He’d called me an idiot. He’d also kissed me and given me insanely strong orgasms. My brain was officially exploded. And my pussy...
“Simon?”
I put down my keys. The loft was dark, but that didn’t mean anything. Sometimes Simon painted in the dark. Other times, he waited weeks for the perfect light to work on a painting. Maybe he was out with some friends.
I hated when it was quiet like this.
“Simon?”
I walked through the living room, past the kitchen and the big cement table a friend had given us l
ast year. Simon’s studio was in the back, near the floor-to-ceiling windows. I found him sprawled on the low couch against the wall, a paintbrush still dangling from his fingers. A few fresh drips mixed with the history of drips on the rough concrete floor.
He was working on something huge, twenty feet long. All his works were huge, although some were huger than others. This one took up an entire wall. Dark ochre and aquamarine streaks mixed with black, a frenzy of heavy color on the canvas. It was striking, even if I didn’t get it. I’d never gotten Simon’s art, but I loved the artist.
I loved him enough to let him sleep. I watched him for long minutes, feeling my soul calm. He looked so innocent, like an angel. The first time I’d met him at a friend’s party, that’s what I thought. He’s an angel. Long, wispy black hair, coal black eyes, an aquiline nose, and dark brows that had arched skyward when he looked at me. All he needed was wings. He’d touched my white-blonde hair while I stared at his night-black hair. We’d stayed up talking that entire first night, and spent the following day in bed.
When was the last time Simon and I had spent an entire day in bed? Life. It got away from you.
I tried to take the brush from his fingers without waking him, but he stirred and smiled at me.
“Baby, you’re back.”
“Don’t wake up,” I said.
He stretched and looked at me. Blinked. “You look pretty.” He reached to touch my breasts, but they still hurt, and he was high. I nudged his hand away.
“Don’t wake up,” I said again. That had become our life, Simon not waking up. He said he needed the narcotics for his art, the pills, the coke, the syrup, whatever he was taking on any given day. I’d have to lecture him later, because he wouldn’t remember anything I said to him now. You can’t change him, my friends said. You can’t fix him. You have to wait until he hits rock bottom. The thing was, most of those friends were also operating in a drug-fueled haze.
His eyes closed. I stood and left him, and dropped his paintbrush in the solution with the others.
I went into the bedroom and took off the dress W had given me, balled it up and tossed it on the floor. I hung up the jacket, even though the matching skirt had been destroyed. What did it say about me, that out of everything W did, cutting up the skirt seemed the worst offense?
Torment Me (Rough Love Part One) Page 2
