by Eden Myles
“Open your legs, Evelyn.”
“No,” I told him. I pressed my knees together defiantly.
He stood up and looked at me with displeasure. He grabbed a hank of my hair and pulled my head back. He used his other hand to pry my legs apart. I resisted the pressure. I would not give in so easily. He was being a tyrant.
“It’s like I taught you nothing, Evelyn,” he growled, sliding his knee between my legs to keep me from completely closing myself to him. “I am still your gentleman. You are still my courtesan. You’ll open your legs to me now.” He forced my legs apart and his hand found me, three of his fingers teasing my wetness before penetrating me hard and fast. His fingers moved deep into the heat of my cunt so I nearly convulsed around them. I thrust against his invasion, whimpering and begging shamelessly as he pressed inward, widening me and preparing me for what was to come.
He waited to see if I would use our safe word, if I would end our play. I didn’t.
“Who are you, Evelyn?” he demanded.
“Your…your courtesan…” I managed to mumble around the pearls in my teeth.
“Evelyn…”
“Your courtesan…sir.”
“Tell me your desires, my courtesan. Tell me what you want more than anything in this world.”
I tried to think. It was nearly impossible with the way he was fucking me, making me thrash and dance to his rhythm. “I want…I want to serve my gentleman’s needs.”
“When do you want to serve your gentleman’s needs?”
His touch was driving me mad. “Anytime he calls on me, sir.”
“Have you ever come for anyone like you’ve come for me?”
“Never,” I said, and then added, “sir.”
“Do you want me to fuck you, little cat in heat?”
“Very much, sir.”
He dropped to his knees, bent one of my legs at the knee, and rested the heel of my shoe against his shoulder. He kissed and licked at my cunny. He wet my outer labia and then blew them dry. He sucked at my clit, his teeth grazing me, bringing my pleasure to the knife-edge of pain until I bucked and nearly screamed for release. He finally let me come, and I shuddered and jerked spastically in my bonds like some puppet on a string. He let me go and watched me sag, falling as far as I was able to while still hanging suspended from a hook in the ceiling. My heart was ticking along like a clock in my chest and the wetness of my release trickled down my legs. I watched him bring his fingers to his lips and taste my cream. Then he removed the pearls from my mouth, grabbed me by the hair, and forced me to suck off his fingers, shoving them deep into my mouth.
The fierceness of his ice blue eyes pinned me. “If you weren’t tied up, I’d make you suck my cock, Evelyn. I’d fuck that beautiful mouth of yours until you understood your place better. Then I’d fuck that pretty cunny of yours and make you lick me clean.” His gripped my hair, jerking my head back until I groaned with the sensation. “Would you like that, Evelyn? Would you like to suck my cock like the good little courtesan you are?”
I hadn’t seen him like this in years, and my breath caught in my throat even as my cunt dampened further at his words. It occurred to me that everyone I knew outside of the Dollhouse had been married and divorced several times over. Clarissa was onto her third husband now. She wondered what made our relationship tick, what made us so unbreakable, why it seemed we could never get enough of each other, but I couldn’t tell her the truth. I would never tell her about Ian and the Dollhouse and my job as his courtesan. “I would be happy to suck your cock, sir,” I said.
“Would you?”
“Very much, sir.” I even licked my lips for him.
“Who are you, Evelyn? What is your name, your title?”
I didn’t say lover, confident, mother, wife—though I knew all those things to be true. I wasn’t that right now. I said, instead, “My name is Evelyn Sterling. I am the professional courtesan to Mr. Ian Sterling.”
He smiled, then. It was a very predatory smile. “Quite right.”
He undid his trousers so his cock lay fat and huge against his belly. He let me see him. He let me tremble with fear and anticipation. Then he held me against the wall so I could feel his heat and trembling power pressing into me, subduing me. “I want you, Evelyn. Now,” he said.
I knew we had scant minutes before we were discovered. I knew it was almost too late. Yet I didn’t care. I knew that servicing my gentleman’s needs was my most important function right now.
He rubbed himself against my seeping opening, then slammed himself inside of me. I struggled to try and adjust to the enormous fullness of him, but he didn’t give me time. He immediately started fucking me hard against the brick wall, each well-timed thrust lifting me up off my feet briefly before pushing my back up the roughness of the bricks and making me cry out. He held my gaze. He fucked me like the courtesan I was so I thought I should cry out at the pain and suddenness of it all, but he knew my body. He knew how to go right to the end of me and pull back before he really hurt me. He thrust, then withdrew, then thrust again, sharper, faster than before, each shuddering impact making me grunt and clutch compulsively at my binds and cry out for him. I fought and thrashed, but in my present situation, all I could do was endure the enormous power of his cock slamming into my cunt over and over.
Finally, he thrust one last time, inclined his head, and bit my shoulder. I immediately stiffened at the fierceness of the bite. All the fight went out of my body. He groaned with satisfaction. He knew the moment his teeth went into me I would stop fighting. All I could do was make helpless mewling noise and wrap my legs around his waist as he held me against the wall and shuddered and came deep inside me, jerking and twitching. My cunt immediately responded by tightening down around him, milking him of every last drop. He put his hands up on the wall to both sides of me and adjusted his weight so he was holding me against the wall with just the front of his body. He didn’t immediately pull out. He loved filling me and then forcing me to hold him deep inside my body for as long as possible.
He kissed me, sucking my tongue deep into his mouth. He licked my lipstick off my lips, the deep red Cherry Jubilee I had applied, a color he had created just for me.
“Please, sir,” I said in between kisses. The scarf was starting to cut into my wrists. “We can’t stay like this.”
“I love the feel of you, Evelyn,” he told me, his voice soft and hoarse and hot against my lips. He was in that reverie again, where nothing in the world existed except for his love and lust for me. “I love mating with you, knowing I’ve filled you. That you’re mine. That we will always be together. I love imagining we’ve begun a new life between us.”
The ushers threw the doors open in the gallery and our guest began filing in. I deliberately looked away from them. I looked only at him, at Mr. Sterling. I wondered what we must look like to everyone—Ian Sterling sexing his bound wife against a brick wall while our collective wetness slowly trickled down my legs.
“Ian…” I began softly.
“Hush, my dove,” he said. It took me a moment to realize I could feel the terrible fullness of him growing inside me once more. It was beginning all over again…
“Ian, no…” I began, but he’d already anchored himself against the wall with me impaled upon his greatly engorged cock, and there was nowhere for me to go. There was no way for me to fight him. He began moving again, slowly at first, little thrusts inside me that gradually built and built toward those immensely powerful impacts I knew him for. In no time at all he was fucking me shamelessly against the bricks again, in plain sight of everyone in the gallery, making me grunt and scream and clutch madly at my binds. He groaned against my throat as he rutted with me, burying himself deep inside all my soreness and wet heat. And then, finally, he came inside me a second time. Finally, he was done.
He pulled out of me and kissed me, touching my face with his fingertips, murmuring his sweetly perverse promises to me even as his seed spilled down the legs. I tried to avoid l
ooking at the terrible scene of all those society people gathered around us, watching us. These were people I could never look in the eye again.
But Ian took my chin and brought my face around so I was looking at him and only him. “Only we matter, my dove,” he said. “You and me and our children.” He stepped back, leaving me bound and thoroughly ravished, and hanging in clear sight of everyone in the room.
I recognized Devon immediately, and Malcolm beside him, holding hands, their wedding rings touching. I recognized the other gentleman and their courtesans from the Dollhouse. They watched me with great, nodding approval. They were huge fans of Ian Sterling’s creative endeavors. “I don’t understand,” I said, sounding hoarse even to myself. “Where are the others?”
Ian smiled as he fixed my hair and dress so I was more openly on display to everyone. “Ah, well, that showing is an hour, my dove. This showing is for Dollhouse members only. And you are my great art.” He grinned at me wolfishly.
And left me hanging there for the next hour.
***
THE DOLLHOUSE SOCIETY: RACHAELA
By Eden Myles
***
BOOK 1: THE RULES OF ENGAGEMENT
“My pet, I have exciting news for you,” Wolf said when he stepped into my office that Monday morning.
I flinched and stopped dismantling the storage box on the desk in front of me. The box contained about two hundred file folders, covering contracts from over seven years ago in the company. I sighed. It was only Monday, seven o’clock in the morning, and already I was annoyed with this week. I hated it when Wolf called me pet. It made me feel like a child when we were nearly the same age, both of us in our late thirties. He poured himself into my power chair, steepled his fingers, and waited for me to ask about his exciting news. I was seriously starting to hate the sight of Wolfgang Beck and I questioned why I had ever taken him on as my partner in the company.
I stopped attacking the box and looked up. He knew I would, of course. It was almost like he counted on me giving in first. Like he was playing some game, only I didn’t know the rules.
He sat there, staring at me, virtually glowing. He wore a dark Italian suit with creases so sharp they could have drawn blood, complete with tie and a waistcoat that hugged the width of his chest and the slimness of his waist like he had been sewn into the clothes just that morning. He was the only man I knew under the age of sixty who regularly wore a waistcoat to work. His hair was a shocking white-blond color, almost surreally brilliant against his ruddy, sun-baked complexion—the end result of icy Germanic genes left to warm under an African sky. He wore his hair long and knotted at the nape of his neck so it twitched when he walked like the tail of a cat.
The first time I’d met Wolfgang Beck, I’d thought he was ugly, like pieces of different men all sewn together, the slim, rangy body of a male stripper, the hard, blade-like face of a cutthroat Wall Street man, the silvery, faintly amused eyes of a thirteen-year-old boy who had just gotten hold of his first Playboy magazine. He normally spoke with a soft, lilting, faintly mocking voice, but he could turn all majordomo in the boardroom in seconds. I half-expected to see him come to work one day with a bullwhip coiled over one shoulder. With Wolf, nothing seemed to fit correctly, and yet it all came together somehow to produce a man who was not exactly classically handsome and yet somehow unforgettable.
Wolf pressed his lips together in a little smirk. He never smiled, only smirked. I figured he was going to throw a curve ball my way. He’d been doing so for the past six months since our partnership had begun, making me scramble to keep up with him as he reorganized the company so it ran like a smooth, fast, efficient locomotive. In the beginning, I’d thought he was just another billionaire playboy messing around. I knew better now. He genuinely loved doing business, he loved the company, he loved the magazine, and he was very good at what he did, which only made me hate him more. “I may have found a courtesan,” he said when he could contain himself no longer.
I stared at him a long, hard moment, thinking maybe he was joking. “Excuse me?”
“I haven’t asked, just yet. And it may take some time for her to decide, but I believe I may have found the one.” His phone went off, probably a call from some celebrity he knew, but he ignored it. This was more important to him than any celebrity.
I was acutely aware of the energy he put off, and of the nice, solid barrier of a desk between us. I felt a prickle of rage, which only ignited my anxiety. I took a deep, calming breath and said, “I don’t know that I want to hear anything about that Dollhouse nonsense…”
His face changed, sharpening in that way he had. It reminded me of the time he promised me an exclusive interview with Oprah Winfrey for the magazine. I hadn’t believed him, of course—why in hell would Oprah give an interview to an African-American men’s magazine?—yet he managed to pull it off and our sales had tripled in less than a month. “This is about the Dollhouse, yes. If the girl says yes, I’ll finally be an active participant in the Society. I’ll be able to play. I wanted to share my potential good news with you, Rachaela. We are friends, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” I answered cautiously. I’m happy you’ve found a little sex slave to play with. I turned my attention back to dismantling the box, stacking file folders on the edge of Wolf’s desk. One of our longtime photographers was insisting his contract had expired and the rights to his shoot had reverted. He wanted to resell it to Ebony magazine, our number one competitor, but I knew better. I knew he was locked in for ten years. We just had to prove it. And right now, I really wasn’t interested in hearing about Wolf’s kinks.
“You don’t sound happy,” Wolf said in an accusing way. “This is very important to me, pet. One of the reasons I came to the States.”
“Jesus,” I breathed. “I’m sorry if I’ve insulted your favorite sex club.”
“It’s not a sex club. It’s an exclusive gentleman’s club.”
“Gentleman’s club, then. I’m happy for you, Wolf, thrilled you’ve finally found the one.” I worked at not rolling my eyes. There were a hundred exclusive “gentlemen’s clubs” in the city of New York. All you really needed to get into them was a healthy appetite for sex and a lot of money, both of which Wolf had. Why he was tying himself down to just one club with a lot of weird and outdated rules and regulations, I had no idea. On the other hand, it was none of my business what Wolf did with his free time. “If that’s everything, then I really need to get back to finding that contract.”
He grabbed my hand as I was reaching into the box for another file folder. The strength in his fingers surprised me. I stopped dead in my tracks. Until now, Wolf had never touched me. He had thrown plenty of offers and double entendres my way, and I had successfully deflected them all. I knew he was a cad. You didn’t dress like he did, look like he did, or flaunt your weekend sexcapades unless you were. I also knew that a smart girl never gets involved with a cad. I’d done that with my ex-husband Jerrel, a professional golfer with an ego as big as the package in his pants, maybe bigger. I’d gotten that T-shirt. I wasn’t going back.
Wolf’s eyes flashed beneath his winged brows, the color of storm clouds on a rainy night. “Rachaela, my pet, you don’t understand. You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited for this. I should like you to meet my future courtesan. As my partner and best friend, I should like you to approve of her.”
***
Blaze Magazine was doing remarkably well up until the end. Then the Great Recession rolled in, and my elite, African-American men’s magazine—a magazine that I’d dedicated over ten years of my life to, a magazine that had once been called the black man’s answer to Playboy—had started falling apart. It was a simple enough equation. People were losing their jobs and mortgages. They were turning to the internet for their fixes. Print couldn’t compete.
On the day I realized I was facing the very real possibility of letting some of my staff go—people I had known and worked with for years, people who were more like family than coworkers t
o me—one of my longtime photographers called. Malcolm told me he and his partner Devon were throwing a holiday soiree at their Upper West Side studio apartment. I’d been in no mood to party, but my daughter Asia insisted I go. She said I needed to get out and clear my head. There are times when I think Asia knows me better than I know myself. I finally gave in, which is how I wound up meeting my partner Wolf.
I’d dressed down in a simple holiday-red cocktail dress. Nearly all of Malcolm’s friends were gay; it hardly seemed worth the trouble. I was there less than ten minutes before a tall, rangy blond stranger started hitting on me. He wore a dark suit and carried a cane with a wolf’s head on it. He spoke with a singsongy British accent I could not place. When I finally got Malcolm aside, I asked him who let the British Viking in who thought he was Barnabas Collins. Malcolm laughed and told me I’d just met the “big bad wolf,” as he and his friends called Wolfgang Beck. He was a South African Namibian of German descent, and one of the bigger landowners in what Malcolm called “The Colony”—a small collection of German immigrants who had taken over Namibia to the late 1880’s to forestall the British encroachment of the region. Malcolm said Beck owned over one billion head of cattle, a vast, one-hundred-thousand acre game reserve for the rich and very bored, and at least three different gold ore mines. He regularly employed over ten thousand people both in Africa as well as in the United States.
I immediately disliked Wolfgang Beck just a little bit more. If it was one thing I’d learned, it was that if you follow the money, it always leads you back to the rich white guy.
