I clamped my lips shut. I hadn’t meant to give up that information, not that it mattered.
Yes, it mattered. He’d use it to taunt me at some future point.
“And for the record, I wasn’t in a rage about Tony,” he said, drawing out the name with derision. “I was in a rage because of what you let him do to you. You’re sad, Chere.”
He didn’t say I looked sad, or that I’d seemed sad earlier, during our session. He said You’re sad. Which I guess made sense after the way I’d cried, and all the girly, emotional shit I’d poured into his ears. I didn’t understand why he’d called, or why he seemed to care enough to be upset on my behalf. I didn’t understand what I did for him, or why he wanted another date so bad.
I didn’t understand anything about him.
“Listen,” he said. “I’m going to call Henry and set up another date. You can come if you like. But if you’d rather not, I’ll understand. If that’s the case, I won’t call, and I won’t try to contact you again. But if you come...”
“What?” I asked when he didn’t finish.
“If you come, I’ll give you more poetry,” he said in a soft, compelling cadence. “And I’ve never given poetry to any of the other ones, Chere. Only you.”
The Four Seasons Session
He said he’d try not to scare me. He said we’d go slower. I didn’t know what that meant, but I agreed to another date, and even put on a designer dress for the first time since he’d cut off my Lanvin suit almost two months ago. This was trust, if not friendship. For once, I looked forward to our session with more anticipation than dread.
Well, there was a lot of dread too.
I walked across the glitzy hotel lobby and found my way to the elevators. I’d never met a client at the Four Seasons before. The rooms were ridiculously expensive. I felt like I was breathing in expensive air and walking along expensive ground. The Four Seasons seemed too stately, too old-world-wealthy to use for tawdry sex, but here I was. How did W afford these hotels, on top of what he paid for exclusive access to my services? Who was he? What did he do?
Believe me, I’d tried to figure it out. I’d badgered Henry for any scrap of information, but his mouth was firmly shut. I’d searched design magazines and design firms, and researched modern poets. No dice. I’d pored over fetish websites and personal ads, but there were so many profiles to sift through, and so many men in New York who claimed to be rich and dominant and sadistic. A quick scan of each profile, and I’d know it wasn’t him because the person was trying too hard, or coming off fake, and W wasn’t fake. He was irritating and scary, and unfathomable, but he wasn’t fake.
I tried to convince myself that this compulsion to know about him was only natural curiosity, not some deeper feelings. I had a boyfriend, after all, and W was just a client. He was a very small part of my big and complex life, and the fact that he gave me exquisitely mind-blowing orgasms didn’t mean I was falling in love. Oh, Jesus, don’t let me be falling in love.
I walked down a silent hallway to the fiftieth-floor room. W loved his corner rooms. I checked my carefully applied makeup and smoothed my hair, and knocked on the door. My stomach fluttered with familiar anxiety as the lock clicked and the door swung open. He looked stylish as ever, in dark dress pants and a white starched shirt, slightly open, no tie. I stared at the base of his neck, at masculine muscles and defined tendons.
“You came,” he said.
I looked up to meet his eyes. He smiled as he drew me inside, but it wasn’t a simple, friendly smile. It was a complicated smile, like everything about him.
“Are you being brave?” he asked, and that sounded complicated too, caught between happiness and mockery.
“I’m being stupid,” I said.
“No.”
That was all he said, no, but just like that he was in charge of me and I was scared. He took away my bag and stripped off my dress, barely sparing it a glance. I wore nothing underneath, which he liked.
“Take off your shoes,” he said, running his hands over my skin.
I kicked them off, wondering how W made me feel so much more naked than anyone else. He pinched one of my nipples, holding my gaze, and I was already white-hot, already willing to do anything on earth for him.
He backed away abruptly, releasing me.
“There’s a beautiful view.” His words sounded thick, or maybe my brain wasn’t firing on all fronts. I tried to readjust from his presence and control to this view he wanted to show me. We looked out together at Central Park fifty stories below us. So pretty to look at.
The room was pretty to look at, too. There was a polished wood desk beside the window, and a leather upholstered chair, and across the room, a wide king bed with smooth white sheets. But all I really wanted to do was look at him.
What’s your name? Who are you? His blond hair was dark and light at once, and his blue eyes could seem dark and light too. So many things had become dark and light in my life, good and bad at the same time. Like my boyfriend. Like escorting. Like W. I supposed this whole “view” thing was his attempt to go slower and be easier with me. I didn’t like it because it was fake.
I turned away from the window. “Well, I’m here,” I said. “What are you going to do to me?”
“Will you let me tie you to the bed?”
“You’re asking?”
“I’m asking if I can tie you to the bed. After that, you have no more say in what I do to you. And you probably won’t like what I do to you.”
That sounded more like him. “What if I say no? That you can’t tie me to the bed?”
That smile again. “I guess I’d try to convince you to let me.”
“With words?”
He shook his head, slowly. Seductively. When had I begun to find the threat of him so seductive? I glanced back at the door.
“You won’t make it,” he said. “And you’re naked. They frown on naked women tearing through the halls of the Four Seasons.”
I moved first, toward the door, because I knew he wanted me to. He grabbed me around the waist. Not gently. This wasn’t a game. I knew if he got me tied to that bed he was going to do everything in his power to make me regret my life choices, like the choice to fight him when I knew it would only make him excited.
He hauled me over to his briefcase and somehow managed to open it and extract some rope while I flailed and clawed at his face.
“Let me tie you up,” he said. “Be a good girl.”
I was not a good girl. I was a wild, fighting girl, and I was thrown across the bed so hard it knocked the breath out of me. Before I could regroup, he was on top of me, straddling my ribs. He corralled my arms and looped the rope around my wrists five or six times, leaving a tail. Then he leaned over me, his crotch pressed to my face. I moved my head, searching for air, but all I got was gabardine and balls. His hard shaft pressed against my cheek, over the bruise Simon had put there two days ago.
I didn’t want to think about that now.
“I can’t breathe,” I yelled with what little air I had left.
He moved back, leaned down and grabbed my chin. “Maybe I don’t want you to breathe.”
“Jesus. No matter how nice you are to me, it always ends like this.”
He frowned. “You have no idea how it’s going to end.”
While he was suffocating me with his cock and balls, he’d tied me to some tether point in the headboard. I yanked hard. Nope. Nothing. When I kicked my legs he held them down.
“Be still. You’ll stay where I want you to stay. You should know that by now.”
More rope, more brutal force to capture my legs and bind them together. He wound rope from my knees to my ankles and fixed the end somewhere under the footboard. I was bound tight, barely able to turn or stretch. So much for him trying to be less scary.
He undid his zipper and took my face in one of his hands, and shoved his cock into my mouth, or more accurately, my throat. I choked and tried to sit up, but I wasn’t going anywhere. I gr
oaned and sucked him. The bondage took away my choice to comply.
“That’s fucking hot, when you groan like that,” he said.
He played with me for ten minutes at least, pounding into my throat, rubbing his balls on my face, demanding that I lick or kiss or nibble or suck. He pinched my nipples with excruciating force whenever I did it “wrong.” No matter how much I writhed and tried to get away, I was stuck, a prisoner to his will. When he finally shot his load in my throat, I was relieved, not turned on. Well, I was a little bit turned on.
“That was nice,” he sighed, sitting on my chest.
“Your vision of nice and my vision of nice are so different,” I whispered. “Also, you’re crushing me. Please get off me.”
“Shut up.” He drew a finger across my drool-covered lips. “Jesus, you’re a mess. So sloppy and wonderful.”
“Your vision of wonderful and my vision of wonderful—”
He clapped a hand over my mouth. “One more word, and you’ll be gagged for the rest of this session. And that won’t suit my purposes at all.”
Oh God, I hoped that didn’t mean his purposes included more blowjobs. Or chokejobs, as I’d come to think of them. He got up and went to the bathroom while I waited, still tied to the bed. I wondered if W ever had gentle, caring sex. I wondered if he’d ever tried it, just once.
He came back and cleaned me up in a relatively gentle manner, kissing me and wiping all the drool from my chin, neck, and ears. I stared at him, because I wasn’t supposed to talk, but I wished he would talk to me. I wished he would connect to me somehow, with something beyond his cock.
He finished wiping me off and tipped a water bottle into my mouth. I spit some of the water out to keep from drowning, and he went back for the towel, blustering about what a mess I was. As he sopped up the dribble, he took the opportunity to hurt my nipples some more. The truth was, he loved reducing me to the level of a drooling, helpless victim.
And we were only about twenty minutes into this scene.
He stood and went to his briefcase, and dug out his phone. While he scrolled through messages, he unbuttoned his shirt and scratched his chest. My God, so freaking sexy. His cock spilled carelessly from his fly, all his beautiful masculinity flaunted in profile. Sadly, I couldn’t do a thing about it. Just take off the pants, I thought. Take it all off. Let me look.
He stroked his half-hard cock, ignoring me completely. There was something about the careless, confident way he stood there that fired my desire. I was drooling harder now than I’d drooled during the blowjob. I shifted on the bed, pressed my legs together the slightest bit. Of course he noticed.
He threw down his phone with that smile again. Why was he so damn happy today, when he’d been such a bastard the session before? Not that I trusted that smile, or even believed it signaled happiness. It might just as easily signal disaster.
He reached in his briefcase and pulled out a blindfold. Damn it.
“You should be resting,” he chided in his evil-Dom voice. “Maybe this will help.”
I shook my head, for all the good it did me. He circled my head with the black length of silk and tied it a bit to one side, so I wouldn’t be resting my head on the knot.
The darkness and helplessness took me right back to our first session, to the nerves and WTF feelings that had consumed me. I wanted to tell him about those feelings but I couldn’t. I just wanted to say one word: Remember? But I didn’t dare. I hated being gagged, and I couldn’t bear it on top of the bondage and blindness. I made a soft, urgent sound instead, and was rewarded with a slap on the cheek.
“Quiet,” he said.
That was it. Quiet, and then he left me to stew in my horny, dark world, wondering what would come next. More slaps? More face fucking? Nipple clamps? My legs were tied together, which kind of limited what he could do to me fucking-wise.
As I lay there, still and bound, I listened for his movements. I listened for the door (I didn’t want him to leave) and the zipper of my purse (I didn’t want him to root through it) and the sound of his clothes hitting the floor (because that probably meant something else was going to happen). I listened and waited but I heard nothing for long minutes. Was he playing on his phone? Looking out the window? Staring at me?
I thought he was probably staring at me. He’d trussed me up on the bed, his whore-in-waiting, and now he was studying me, thinking up the best ways to screw with my head. His silence frightened me.
Why was I here, allowing myself to be terrified? Why did I let him take over me this way? But I knew why. For the orgasms. I didn’t drool earlier because of his beautiful body, but because my body remembered what his body could do.
At last I heard movement and—yes!—the whisper of clothes being pulled off and thrown over the chair. I heard him take steps toward the bed and stop. He tugged at the rope holding my legs and then released the tether point. He unwrapped my lower legs, then ran his fingers along the places the rope had been. I drew in a breath as he caressed my sensitized flesh. How could his barest touch make my whole body shudder?
I pressed my legs together, dreading the next touch but wanting it too. I wanted to protect those vulnerable parts between my legs but I also wanted him to force my thighs open and take me, because no one else made me feel the way he did.
“Why are you shaking?” he asked, running a hand over my tensing muscles. “You’re allowed to talk now. I want to hear what you’re feeling.”
“I’m scared,” I said. “I’m worried. I don’t know what you’re going to do next.”
“Ah, but you don’t have to know. That’s the fun of it. I could tell you right now what I plan to do, but then it wouldn’t be as exciting for you when I do it.”
He moved. I flinched. I felt him settle against my front, not crushing me this time, but lying above me. He pushed my thighs apart with his knees, pinning me down, not that I’d made the first attempt to escape. My arms were still tied above my head. He kissed the sensitive underside of one of my forearms. I turned my face, seeking his warmth.
“You smell so good,” he said. “Like vanilla and woman. Not that you’re very vanilla anymore. Do you like this, Chere? Do you like being tied up, subject to my every whim?”
It took me a moment to admit it. “Yes.”
“Yes, Sir,” he corrected softly.
“Yes, Sir,” I said. “I like it.”
“Do you want me to kiss you?” He said it so quietly I could barely hear.
“Yes, Sir.”
I flinched when his lips contacted mine, not because he was rough, but because I didn’t know when to expect the kiss. He licked my lower lip and kissed me again, sweet and sultry. I could feel his hardening cock between my legs. I arched to him, needful, wanting. He chuckled.
“Not yet, my little plaything. My captive. Let’s make out for a while.”
Just like that I was a captive, and he was my Master, implacable and in charge. I squiggled in frustration and his arm came around my waist with a quelling sound.
“You can’t get away,” he reminded me. “The most you can do is flip over, although I wouldn’t recommend doing that unless you want to be fucked in the ass.”
He poked his cock against me again. He was so thick and hard, already ready for round two. He gripped the blindfold so it was tight against my eyes, and then he grabbed my hair and pulled it, and kissed me at the same time. I moaned at the dissonance of pleasure and pain.
“You want that now, don’t you? Since I mentioned anal, you want me to flip you over and ream your ass, you little slut. You love when I hurt you.”
“No, Sir,” I lied. “Please don’t.”
“You don’t get to choose. Shut the fuck up.”
He shut me up with his lips, his kisses that grew hotter and more insistent. I whined as he yanked a fistful of my hair. The harder he pulled, the more I ground against him. No one else had ever made out with me like this, rough and painful and soft and tender all at once.
“I’m not going to hu
rt you,” he said against my ear in a hoarse whisper, and at the same time he said he wasn’t going to hurt me, his fingers tightened around my neck.
I turned my head. I wished I could see his face. Did he look angry or loving? Was he going to kill me or just scare me?
“You’re hurting me,” I rasped.
“Calm down and let me choke you.”
My body was making involuntary motions to get away. My arms jerked. My legs strained. My neck lengthened under his hands and blood heated my face. “Please don’t,” I begged. “Please, Sir...”
His grip loosened. I gasped in air at the same time he kissed me. It felt like he stole my breath. “Please,” I said, and I didn’t even know what I was pleading for.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said again. “Do you trust me?”
“No,” I cried, just before his grip tightened on my neck again. I fought but he held me down. Next I knew, I woke to the sound of frightened keening and realized the sound was coming from my own throat. I panicked because I couldn’t see. Oh, God, I couldn’t move my arms.
W said my name, stroked my cheeks and kissed me. “Okay, you’re back. It’s okay.”
I calmed, and remembered the hotel room and the blindfold, and the bondage.
“Please don’t do that,” I pleaded. “Don’t make me pass out like that.”
“Why not?”
I felt too weak to yell at him. Instead I whispered, “What if I don’t wake up?”
“I’ll make sure you wake up,” he said against my lips.
He started kissing me again, but I couldn’t enjoy it any longer. While one hand stroked my hair, the other still rested around my neck.
“You said you would try not to...to scare me,” I said when he let me come up for air.
“I told you I wouldn’t hurt you.”
Because of the blindfold, I couldn’t tell if he was willfully fucking with me, or if he honestly thought he wasn’t hurting me. I suspected it was a combination of both.
“You might kill me,” I said, so aware of his fingertips against my throat.
“I would never kill you,” and this time he said it like he meant it. “I just want to kiss you.”
Torment Me (Rough Love Part One) Page 15
