Uncovering Lily

by Rene Webb

  It is safer for everyone if she is just another tart to them. Part of the exorbitant entrance fee went toward anonymity with the management. When Robert arranged our night out, he assured me that no one but those in attendance—who I already knew—would know who I was.

  Lily leaves the room for several minutes, and when she returns with a platter of crab cakes, I smile as I watch her quickly devour one. Having taken several myself, I know how delicious they are.

  After spending entirely too long fending off the other women who are throwing themselves at me, their nauseating perfume making me dizzy as they invade my space and attempt to grope me repeatedly, I decide it is time to figure out a way to get Lily alone.

  Rising, I walk over toward the man standing in the corner who is watching everything. After a quick conversation and an exchange of even more money, my entrance fee didn’t include private entertainment, I walk back to finish my drink assured that Lily would be waiting for me in a room upstairs when I’m ready.

  Picking up my glass, I take the final sip. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as the overseer roughly grabs Lily’s arm and pulls her aside. No doubt he’s telling her that she has a customer for the evening. He walks away from her, and Lily looks around the room seeming nervous before quickly leaving.

  It is growing late and several of the men, Robert included, have started drifting away upstairs with the women. They say goodnight with overly aggressive handshakes and promises for future meetings. I sit and bide my time, not wanting to seem eager or complicit in their activities. Silently observing.

  Chapter Three

  ~ Lily ~

  “Stand,” a steely American voice growls from the shadow of the doorway; the sound is quickly followed by the finality of the door banging closed.

  I scamper off my knees to stand on the bearskin-inspired rug at the foot of the large metal bed frame. A mountain of a man steps forward into the dimly lit room. My heart pounds in a tattoo of fear as he comes forward, towering over me.

  Instantly I recognize the sinfully good-looking man, with his shaggy jet-black hair, golden eyes, full lips, and scruffy eyebrows. The custom-made dark gray suit he’s wearing hugs his body perfectly and a blood-red tie offsets it with a similarly colored swatch of fabric in his breast pocket.

  Downstairs with the other million and billionaires, he seemed so bored and disinterested. While the rest of the men were groping the other women, pulling them into their laps and demanding services; he sat there with a cold, indifferent stare. I watched as he brushed aside the advances of some of the more aggressive women. Pushing them off his lap, grabbing the wrists of wandering hands, and ignoring their presence. The man fascinated me.

  I have been held captive in this house for nineteen days and counting. During all that time, I have never seen a man come in and not partake of what was offered—what they had paid for. I have learned that the women get a bonus if one of the men requests a room with them.

  The group this man was with had been relaxing in the large communal lounge downstairs. Whenever I enter that room its muted lighting, dark colors, and lingering stale odor make my stomach clench. Here they smoke cigars and drink expensive top-shelf booze.

  As usual, the men started out their evening by discussing business in small groups over hors-d'oeuvres and cocktails. Several days ago, one overindulgent sweaty man had complained angrily to the overseer about my serving them during their meeting. Because I understand English, unlike the other girls, he thought I could be a corporate spy. If only! Since then, I have, happily, been relegated to working behind the bar and in the kitchens during the first portion of the evening.

  Once any backdoor corporate deals are made, the real entertainment begins, and I am back serving drinks, food, and working hard to avoid being groped. I have tried my hardest to blend into the background. Even though I stand out dramatically from the other women, it’s surprisingly not too difficult. Despite my green eyes, wavy light-brown hair, and translucent Irish skin, along with my curves and five-foot-five-inch stature which sets me apart from the native population, most of the men ignore me. And I couldn’t be happier.

  It was while I served this man that I took the opportunity to observe him, and against my better judgment, I found him attractive. For some unknown, insane, reason I felt an invisible pull toward him. I hate myself for it. I don’t want to feel drawn to a man who would spend the GDP of a tiny nation so he could visit a Hong Kong brothel.

  Plus, this man needing the house’s services makes no sense—like at all. Unlike some of his companions, who clearly weren’t going to get a woman unless they paid for one, he could easily go to any bar or club and attract a willing woman.

  During the several hours we were all downstairs, I found myself watching him closely and making a mental list of everything I learned. One discovery I made was that he likes his scotch with only one ice cube, not the three or four that usually fill a glass. He also seemed to enjoy the mini crab cakes, if the amount of them he ate was any indication. Having stolen several of them myself, I would have to agree they were delicious. The house has an amazing restaurant-style kitchen and a chef that caters to any of the client’s tastes, no matter the time day or night.

  The man also seemed to only be on friendly terms with the short, pudgy man who had accompanied him. The rest of the gentlemen, like the girls, he mostly ignored, though several of the gentlemen clearly wanted to impress him. The man’s face had been a cold mask of indifference the entire evening.

  I had briefly wondered if he was married, not that it stopped any of his companions from enjoying themselves. When I handed him his drink, I noticed a lack of a wedding band. This could mean nothing, since not all men wear bands, but if my husband looked like this man, he would be wearing a huge one—telling the world he is taken. Maybe he’s gay?

  This is the first time that any man has requested me, and I never imagined it would be this man stepping through the door. I’m surprised. The entire time we were downstairs the only words he said to me was a polite “thank you” as I served him. He barely even looked at me. Why did he request a room with me?

  If I’m honest with myself, I’m a little—a lot—relieved. He’s at least not old, fat, or a disgusting combination of the two. And I admit, begrudgingly, that he is sinfully attractive. The thought of this man touching, kissing, and penetrating me doesn’t make my skin crawl or my stomach bubble with acid. It scares me, but maybe if I close my eyes, I can pretend we met during a night of clubbing and this is all my own choice. Or maybe not.

  The overseer told me to wait in this room kneeling properly liked I’d been taught, and I was to do whatever the man told me to, or else I’d get another—worse—beating. My sense of self-preservation is high, which is why I’ve done exactly what I was told—for now.

  I figure the more I play along, the longer I survive and the greater chance I have of figuring out a way to escape. Fighting this man would only make things worse. It’s much harder to escape when you’re bruised and broken. I learned that the hard way.

  From the way he’s looking at me there is no question what he wants. His eyes are sparkling with pleasure as they take in my scantily clad body. Definitely not gay. The heat of his stare has my traitorous body reacting.

  The man steps closer, invading my space, and his warm spicy cologne fills my senses, something I had not noticed downstairs. He reaches out and fists my hair tightly, forcing me to look up into his golden eyes.

  “Your name?” His voice is deep and commanding.

  “Lily,” I manage to answer, my voice quivering in fright.

  “Lily what?” The man shakes my head slightly as if trying to knock the answer out it.

  “MacKay, Lily MacKay,” I gasp out.

  His grip on my hair loosens, and he takes a half a step backward. The man’s gaze is transfixed on me, and what was once an emotionless expression morphs into a tight scowl.

  I have never noticed a man’s eyebrows before. His are dark, full, and exp
ressive, telegraphing his every thought and emotion. Right now he is both angry and confused.

  “Who are you?” I ask, mustering courage I don’t really possess.

  “You can call me, Sir,” he states coolly. A ghost of a smile flits across his face and then it’s gone, replaced by his eyebrow-scrunching scowl—a scowl I’m trying my hardest not to find attractive.

  Chapter Four

  ~ Lily ~

  “How’d you come to be here?” he asks with slow precision. The frown lines on the man’s forehead deepen, and his fingers flex in my hair, tightening his hold. I gasp as the pull of my hair becomes painful.

  Unsure how to handle the situation or the man, I decide to answer truthfully, “I-I was kidnapped three weeks ago in Paris.”

  Then with a wave of panic, I sputter out, “My family would pay a lot of money to know where I am.”

  “Do I look like I’m in need of funds?” His voice is almost casual, conversational, lit with humor and the fingers in my hair relax, loosening the tug on my scalp. “What were you doing there?”

  “I was studying abroad in London. I only went because, I-I wanted to see the glass floor of the Eiffel Tower,” I ramble, my heart rate increasing and my breath catching as the horrible memories come flooding back to me.

  Being dragged into the alley behind the nightclub.

  Thrashing. Kicking. Pain. And then blackness.

  Waking alone. Trapped.

  Janice, one of my new friends I met in London convinced me that spending part of our Easter holiday in Paris was just what we needed. The plan was that our days would be filled with sightseeing and gorging on pastries and cheese, while our nights would be a combination of dancing and booze; the perfect way to break through the stress of the semester.

  “Did you get to see it?” the man wonders aloud, letting go of my hair and placing his hand lightly on the nape my neck. For some crazy reason, the deep slow tenor of his voice calms me.

  “No,” I answer softly.

  The man takes several steps backward, and I quickly cross my arms in front of my chest, creating more distance between us. Hugging, protecting myself—in vain.

  I watch as he removes his suit jacket, tossing it onto the end of the bed as he speaks, “Someday you should. It’s spectacular.”

  My eyes are transfixed on the man as he reaches up and begins to tug on the tie around his neck, loosening it.

  “How many lovers have you had?” With a final rough tug, the tie comes free.

  The question startles me, and I take a shaky step backward as the man steps toward me, shoving the tie into his pants pocket.

  “What?” I ask softly, casting my eyes to the ground.

  How do I answer that question?

  Or more importantly, what answer does he want?

  “Look at me,” the man snaps. I jump, my heart racing violently as I look up into his stony face. “How many men have fucked you, willingly or otherwise?”

  I forcibly swallow the lump in my throat. It takes every ounce of self-control not to look away. His brows are furrowed, and his dark golden eyes are burning into me. I want to look anywhere else. I want to hide.

  “None,” I manage to squeak out.

  “The truth,” he growls annoyed, taking a quick step toward me. I instinctively backup until my knees hit the bed. I’m trapped.

  The man grabs my hair again, painfully tugging my neck back as he leans over me.

  “I want the truth,” he whispers coolly, the softness of his voice scarier than any screaming madman.

  “I’m-I’m telling you the truth,” I stutter, barely holding back my tears.

  “We shall see,” he says softly, loosening his hold on me and taking several large steps backward. “Strip.”

  “What?”

  The man’s answer is to silently cross his arms over his chest and raise his eyebrows, giving me an I’m waiting stare.

  My hands shake as I quickly unzip the ultra-short black pleather mini skirt. The plastic sticks to my skin despite the AC as I push it down and let it fall to the ground. Next, I unhook the black and white trimmed corset, breathing in a sigh of relief as it drops to the floor.

  Looking up, the man’s intense stare burns into me with a ghost of a pleased smile on his lips. He’s enjoying this. Enjoying me.

  I should be disgusted. Revolted. Afraid. Instead, the idea of being able to make this stoic man smile fills me with confidence, muting my fear considerably.

  Reaching behind my back, I unhook my bra, letting it slide off my arms and onto the pile on the floor.

  “Stop,” the man commands as I begin to tug off my remaining barrier—the red G-string. “Come here. I’ll unwrap the rest of my present.”

  Realization suddenly hits me and my stomach clenches. I’ve been given to this man. To enjoy.

  “Come,” he repeats, crooking his finger at me.

  I cross my arms over my naked chest and, with unsteady steps, move closer to stand in front of the man.

  His warm hands run lightly along the skin of my upper arms before reaching down and uncrossing my forearms. I brace myself for his touch to be rough and bruising and am shocked when he gently cups my breasts in his hands and teases my nipples with his thumbs. His hands are rough and callused, nothing like I would’ve expected from a millionaire playboy. I gasp in shock as pleasure floods through me.

  “Beautiful.” He pinches and twists my nipples, making them hard, and I find myself leaning into the pleasure.

  All too soon, he’s sliding his hands down my body until they are resting firmly on my hips.

  With one hand, the man grabs the thin band of the G-string and pulls; it breaks with a snap. He rips the other side and the small triangle covering me flaps down, revealing my recent and painfully naked and waxed sex.

  The women in the house had enjoyed watching me subjected to the torture of having my pubic hair ripped out by the roots. They had jabbered away as they held down my ankles for the old crone who was in charge, laughing and jeering at my tears.

  Lifting his hand off my hip, the man walks around me and I feel more naked than I ever thought possible. I jump when he thrusts his large hand between my thighs and cups my delicate flesh, commanding, “Spread your legs. I want to see if you are a liar.”

  “I’m not,” I stupidly snap at him, resulting in a stinging smack against the bare flesh of my pussy. Why couldn’t he spank me on the ass like a normal person?

  Slowly I widen my stance, opening my legs, my heart racing at how vulnerable I am now. Not that I wasn’t before, but this feels worse for some reason.

  I’m naked. Alone. And opening myself up to this man.

  One of his hands moves to grab my ass firmly in his palm, holding me steady. With the other, he raises two fingers and places them on my lips. I open my mouth wordlessly, and he thrusts them inside.

  “Suck,” he growls, his golden eyes sparking with desire.

  I do what I’m told, trying to ignore how good his salty masculine skin tastes, and pretending not to imagine or wonder what sucking another part of his anatomy would be like.

  “Enough.” The man pulls his fingers from my mouth. His eyes widen with shock when I nip at the tips of his fingers in retaliation, and I see another hint of a sexy smile.

  He moves his hand down to my pussy and spreads my lips, using his saliva soaked fingers to probe my entrance.

  “You’re fuckin’ tight,” he groans, slowly forcing not just one but two thick fingers into me.

  “Please,” I gasp, grabbing onto his forearms, the strong thick muscles briefly distracting me from the burn of being stretched and invaded.

  “Relax,” he snaps, squeezing my bottom roughly.

  “Sir. Please,” I groan as his fingers continue their inspection.

  “You weren’t lying,” the man says casually as his thumb pushes its way between my outer lips. My body jerks when it hits my clit. He begins caressing it gently with his calloused digit. My traitorous body responds, relaxing under h
is spell. The man’s fingers are still inside of me, and I can feel myself aching in places I didn’t know existed.

  “How come no one’s ever fucked your gorgeous body before?” he asks conversationally. I look up into his face, which no longer seems cold. With every gentle stroke against my clit, my body is betraying me.

  “I never met any man I wanted touching me,” I admit breathlessly.

  “Do you like me touching you?” he whispers lazily into my ear as he nuzzles my neck.

  Before I can answer, he slowly slides his fingers partially out of my sex, before sliding them back in, all the while continuing to tease my clit.

  “No,” I lie as my sex floods with pleasure, wetting the man’s fingers with my cream.

  “Liar,” he replies amused, continuing his ministration. “Well, I certainly enjoy touching you.”

  I attempt to swallow a moan as his fingers begin to increase their rhythmic movement and tighten my hold on him as pleasure overtakes my body.

  “Sir.” I cry out, not being able to stop myself as my hips buck greedily against his hand.

  The hand fondling my ass moves up my back and into my hair, fisting it and directing my mouth to his. He nips my lower lip, and when I open, he takes over. His tongue probes my mouth in the same manner his fingers are possessing my sex.

  My heart is pounding, and I’m breathless as he ends the kiss. The man takes his fingers, wet with my juices, and places them on my lips. His eyes spark with passion as I obediently open my mouth and suck them clean, tasting my own salty-tang for the first time.

  I melt further. Fuck!

  The man pulls his hand away from my mouth, but not before I’m able to take another nibble, and his eyes flash amusement.

  “You’ll be begging me to fuck you before the night is out,” he tells me confidently. The man moves his hand out of my hair and down my back to caress my ass lightly while the fingers I had just sucked grasp my breast.

  “No.” I shake my head in denial and attempt to step back—away from danger. “Never.”