Sinful

by Skylar Cross

  I'm not complaining by any means, but does this guy ever wear a shirt? Then again, if I were Damien Cage, I wouldn't wear a shirt either.

  "Hm," I say as I eat a walnut, "I liked it."

  "Is that your best example of a descriptive sentence? Come on, you're writing a book for me here. At least try to impress me, Annika Spenser from MiamiImproper.com."

  I laugh.

  God, I love his cockiness.

  I eat another walnut. I didn't know I like walnuts, but apparently I do.

  "As the sun breathed its final ray of light behind the city," I say, "the neon fortress of Ocean Drive sparked to life as the two hot girls sat on their balcony sipping drinks from tall martini glasses."

  "Now we're talking," he says. "Much better. But get to the pussy."

  "Is that how you want your book? Just the pussy."

  "Look, I'm not a bullshitter. I like to cut through all the wordy crap and get to the meat. The lips. The clit. How did it taste?"

  "Good."

  "You're fired."

  "Okay. Okay. Succulent. Her incandescent mound glistened with girl-flavored nectar."

  "Go on. So far so good."

  "As I took my first slurp of her aqueous wash, she bucked under me, spreading her tasty wetness all over my face."

  Damien has a walnut in his mouth, but he stops chewing and looks at me.

  "I think I'm hard," he says.

  "I think you're always hard," I say.

  "Oooh, good comeback. Points added. So you're a believer in pussy now?"

  I uncross and re-cross my legs.

  "Did I ever say I wasn't?" I say.

  "No, but you had some blocks," he says. "Remember our conversation in the garden?"

  "Yes, I'm... working on that. I have a person I go to."

  "What? A shrink?"

  "Yes, she's very good."

  He leans forward, making a steeple with his fingers.

  "I'm not a big fan of shrinks," he says. "Not against what they do, per se, but sometimes they accomplish exactly the opposite of what they're supposed to."

  "Like what?"

  "Like helping to free people from the control of others. But too often shrinks get them to follow a new form of control based on what some dead guy with a white beard once wrote in a textbook. Achieving balance and all that bullshit. I don't buy into that. I say just get free and let your answer find you."

  I type that into my shiny new Mac laptop.

  "It's kind of like Jasmine," he says. "I never encouraged her to be one thing or another. I only encouraged her to get free and let her answer find her."

  "How does somebody get free who isn't free?"

  "Ass fisting."

  Tingle.

  "No," he says. "Just kidding. Although that is true for some. Depends. It's different for each person."

  "So that's not really your rule?"

  "What? The ass fisting thing? No, that was my answer to a smart-aleck reporter who asked what goes on at my Friday night parties. Next thing I knew it was all over the Internet that Damien Cage's rule for his parties is Everybody Must Get Ass Fisted, sung to Bob Dylan. Don't get me wrong. There's a lot of ass fisting that happens, but it's not for everyone."

  "So what about all that 'see the matrix' stuff you said to me the first day I was here?"

  He smiles and laughs, looking directly into me.

  "I was fucking with you," he says.

  "Jerk," I say.

  "I hear Isabella likes it, though."

  I blush.

  This is weird. I'm uncomfortable sharing details of what I do with one person with another. Let's try to change the subject, Annika.

  "So Jasmine was really bad at picking up girls as a guy, huh?" I say.

  "Terrible," Damien says. "The worst. All effeminate and nice. I tried showing Jason Everton, who she was at the time... how to be more high-status and challenging, which turns girls on. But it just wasn't in him. He was this docile girly-man. So we talked a lot and he realized that deep down he is a girl. And that's that."

  He plops a walnut in his mouth.

  "That's that?" I say. "Just like that?"

  "Well it took time naturally," he says. "She started with panties under the jeans. And she really liked it. Then shoes. Then makeup. Then hair. With each little step, she knew it was right."

  "Is she going to have... you know... surgery?"

  "No, she loves her cock."

  "That's a little unusual. I've known a couple of male-to-female trans persons and they want to change fully."

  "See, there's groupthink at work again. Jasmine got free so she could be Jasmine, not some definition put on her by some group. Jasmine likes her cock. Jasmine likes to fuck girls. Jasmine does what she wants because she loves herself."

  Tingle.

  "And the great thing was that as soon as she loved herself, boom! girls lined up. It was amazing. It was like they could see that she hated herself before. Once she learned to love herself, they all wanted her. You want her too."

  Tingle.

  Blush.

  Uncross and re-cross.

  "You do," he says. "You should. She's a good fuck."

  "You know, Mr. Damien Fucking Cage Rock Star Sir," I say, "I'm not so sure I like all this telling me who I should be with bullshit."

  "Yeah you do. You like a man who controls. All women do."

  I laugh, but sweat a little.

  "That is total bullshit!" I say.

  He gets up and scowls at me.

  "Stand up!" he says. His tone is commanding.

  I shake a little. I put my laptop on the table.

  "Stand... up!" he says again, almost mean this time.

  I find myself standing up. I also find myself getting wet.

  Why? Can he possibly be right? What is it about a controlling man that turns my twat into a waterfall?

  Damien steps toward me and grabs both my hands. I try leaning away from him but he squeezes my wrists and holds me about an inch away from him, staring into my eyes.

  God, his eyes are amazing! I try not to look into them because I know I'm toast if I do.

  Annnnnnnnnd I'm toast.

  I can seriously feel myself melt under the heat of his stare. With just a command and a look, I'm all his. How does he do it?

  He reaches his right hand under my skirt. His finger goes under my panties and dips into my wetness.

  I gasp.

  But it's a happy gasp!

  I'm in a whirlwind of fear and delight.

  Damien Cage just touched my pussy!

  Another checkmark on my lifelong dream list.

  He takes his finger out of me and puts it in his mouth.

  "Mmmm," he says. "Not bad. You go well with walnuts and green juice. Want some?"

  I don't know how to answer that question. I sense my head just spinning in circles.

  But before I know it, he has two fingers deep inside me again.

  Oh.

  My.

  Fucking.

  God.

  So good.

  He takes his fingers out. God, if he does it a third time I'm going to come.

  He takes his fingers and puts them in my mouth.

  I close my eyes, relishing the taste of me. Funny, I taste different than Isabella. I'm more tart, she's more sweet.

  But now I have Damien Cage's fingers in my mouth.

  Checkmark.

  I suck them like I would his cock. That glorious cock.

  Oh God, when will I get to suck it? Now? Today?

  He pushes his fingers into my mouth hard, deep throating me. I open my eyes and take them in. I feel my old gag reflex try to come alive, but I make it go away using a trick I learned years ago. No problem there, buddy. Bring it on.

  Then his fingers are out of my mouth and he pushes me away.

  Shit!

  I'm in a full-on sweat now.

  He sits down. He eats a walnut like nothing happened.

  "New line of questioning," he says. "Sit."
/>   I'm not sure if I can. I'm frozen in place.

  "Sit," he says. "We have a book to write. Besides, you haven't typed much into that thing. Let's go, c'mon."

  I sit, pulling my skirt down under my engorged cunt. If I don't, I'll ruin his couch. Although he probably has a couch guy too.

  I put my laptop in my lap. I straighten my hair and take a deep breath. Not sure if I can just go back to writing after that. I can't seem to see the screen.

  I should be mad. I should be hopping mad that he's toying with me, getting me all hot and bothered.

  But I love being toyed with. Most guys I've known are desperate and all over me, but this guy has incredible self-control. Such a fucking turn-on. It's like a challenge. Like he's subtly asking me Can you make me horny enough to fuck you?

  "Ask me a goddamned question," he says as he eats a walnut.

  Snap out of it, Annika!

  "Okay," I say, "what is it you want to accomplish with your book?"

  He stares off at the ocean.

  "I want to show people that there are choices," he says.

  I begin to type his words, hoping the activity will stem my flow.

  "They can do more with their lives than they can imagine," he says. "They don't need a panel of judges to approve of them and tell them what they can and can't do. They don't need a church or an identity group to approve of them and tell them what they can and can't do. They only need to free themselves and let it find them."

  "Damien Cage's rule number one," I say as I type. "Free yourself and let it find you."

  He smiles.

  "And you wonder why I picked you for this project," he says.

  "Why are you so passionate about this topic?" I say.

  His gaze drifts far away. He gets up, folds his arms, and moves over to the window.

  "Because I want to reach people. I want to make my time here worthwhile, not just being another run-of-the-mill rockstar. Too many people lock themselves in a prison of no hope, waiting for others to save them when all they need to do is to decide to save themselves. But instead they drug their brain cells into a mind-numbing stupor. Pills, booze, needles. Might as well be dead."

  I see an opening and take a chance.

  "Is that what she did?" I say.

  He looks at me like I broke something. I get scared, temples pounding, like he's going to get mad.

  Uh-oh.

  But I see him get control of it, pain on his face.

  "I'm not ready to talk about that," he says.

  He just looks at me, affirming it. He knows I read him correctly.

  Then the wall goes up. I see it.

  "Time for your second lesson in getting free. Up!"

  Damn, I was so close. I so want to know who this chick was... or is... who has the power to put that pained expression on his face! Not to mention sing Far Away with enough power to melt a thousand girls' hearts.

  Must be some chick.

  But it'll keep. I'm all for my second lesson in getting free.

  "Follow me," he says.

  I take off my glasses and put them on the couch next to my laptop and hipster satchel. I get up and begin following him.

  He turns full to me and stops. I almost bump into him. He's looking down at me with a cruel stare.

  "Glasses," he says.

  It takes a second to sink in, but I go and retrieve my glasses.

  "On," he says.

  "But they're only for reading," I say.

  "Then read while we walk."

  He turns his back to me, pointing at the tattooed quotes.

  I put my glasses on and follow him. I lean forward and finish reading the one I couldn't fully get when I was here last week:

  "To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment." - Ralph Waldo Emerson

  "Why am I not surprised you have an Emerson quote on your back?" I say.

  "Quiet, slut!" he says. "This is your lesson in submission. You will submit to me."

  "What did you just call me?" I say, the feminist in me a little angered.

  "A slut," he says. "Because that's what you are. A whore. A tramp."

  I feel a well of anger rising in me. We've reached a set of stairs. He walks up. I stop at the bottom level. Sunshine and humid outdoor air pour down from above.

  "I'm not a slut," I say. "I don't appreciate your talking to me like that."

  Halfway up the stairs, he stops.

  Uh-oh.

  He turns around, his chiseled tattooed chest coming back down to the bottom level again.

  His deep blue eyes are severe yet hypnotic. I could stare at them for a thousand years.

  He grabs my arms roughly, spinning me and pressing me into the wall. I gasp.

  I feel his hot breath on my ear as he growls in a whisper.

  "You are nothing but a goddamned piece of meat. You like to fuck. You're a whore, a slut, and a tramp all rolled into one. We all are. I'm a goddamned slut too. I fuck. I fuck a lot. I lost count how many cunts, mouths, and assholes I've been in. It's okay. It's freeing. It's good to be a slut. When you embrace the fact you're a slut, you're free. Because we're all sluts."

  My head is spinning. This is incredibly erotic and exciting, but it also pisses me off.

  I'm no goddamned slut!

  He pulls my wrists together, yanking me away from the wall and pushing me up the stairs.

  I find myself on an outdoor patio built into the house. A round table with an umbrella and four cushioned chairs sit in the sunshine. It looks down over the pool area with the naked nymphs.

  "Strip," he says.

  "What?!" I say.

  "Do as I say."

  I've never been more conflicted in my life. I hate being talked to this way, commanded and treated like a piece of meat.

  On the other hand, I love being talked to this way, commanded and treated like a piece of meat.

  "Strip!" he says, his tone much more menacing.

  Before I know it, I'm naked. And oddly happy about it. Heart pounding. Pussy dribbling.

  I guess I do want to be commanded by Damien Cage. Maybe submission is freedom.

  I look down at the nymphs. All three of them have arranged themselves so they can watch.

  What the fuck?

  "Girls," says Damien, "Annika here doesn't think she's a slut."

  All three girls laugh.

  "We're all sluts," says number one.

  "Tiffany and Karina?" says Damien.

  "Oh, I'm a slut," says number two, Tiffany I assume.

  "Me too," says Karina.

  "I think Annika here needs to be taught a lesson. Come up and help!"

  Now I'm getting scared. The naked blonde nymphs? Really?

  I should run. I want to run. But something keeps me here. Something in me wants this.

  Damien walks over to a tool chest. He opens it up.

  Oh God! He has rope.

  I'm beyond excited now.

  Excited? Really, Annika? Why does this excite you?

  Damien spins me around, takes my hands behind my back, and begins binding me with the rope. I feel myself drifting on a sexual cloud.

  Kind of like in the oak-paneled room the night of the party. Waves of sensuality. A sense of letting go, of pure freedom. All my desires floating and spinning around me.

  Satan, says my mother's voice. It's Satan on Earth.

  Shit.

  I hear the girly giggles of the naked nymphs as they arrive on the outdoor deck. Amazingly, this excites me.

  Why amazingly? I've already fucked one girl this week. Why am I surprised that three naked girls are turning me on right now?

  But I don't want three more girls! I want Damien!

  Then, something hits me. I have Damien. This is all Damien doing something to me. In a way, I am having him right now. His focus and concentration is on me, teaching me this lesson. Once I realize this, I let go.

  "First we need a safe word," says Damien. "You know what a sa
fe word is?"

  "I've read Fifty Shades," I say.

  "So you do. Pick one."

  "Tattered Angel."

  He smiles.

  "Now pick a safe sound. This is in case you're gagged."

  Oooooh, gagged.

  Tingle tingle fucking tingle.

  I make a noise like a warning buzzer.

  "Fine, whatever," he says.

  He finishes binding my wrists. I pull on them to test it. Yep, I'm really bound. I am so wet now it isn't even funny.

  But I still don't get the whole "submission is freedom" thing. How is binding somebody up freedom?

  Damien pulls one of the chairs over, lifting my legs up onto the seat cushion. I'm now kneeling on the chair, my hands bound behind me. He grabs my hair, forming a pony tail. He pulls on it, holding my head in place.

  "Slut Tara," says Damien. "Inspect Annika's face."

  A blonde puffy muff with a pierced clit and a tiny rose tattoo appears in front of me. It's soon replaced by a beautiful face, tanned with light little freckles, lots of streaming blonde hair. The eyes look directly into mine.

  Tara removes my glasses and puts them on the table. She stares even more deeply into me. Then she kisses me. Our tongues swim together.

  "Whore Tiffany," says Damien. "Inspect Annika's pussy."

  Oh, God!

  I'm not sure what's going on behind me but I feel a tongue on my clit.

  Warm moist licks send me sailing up into the sky. So good.

  Oh yeah!

  Now I'm really letting go. I suck on Tara's tongue and move my hips a little to help out Tiffany.

  "Tramp Karina," says Damien. "Inspect Annika's asshole."

  Oh God, no! I'm not ready for this!

  I buck a little. I feel Damien tighten his grip on my hair, holding me in place.

  Relax, Annika. You cleaned yourself out before you got here, just in case. You should be okay.

  But I did it for Damien! He's the only one I want up my butthole!

  Or is he?

  I feel a tongue on my rosebud.

  Oh God, yes!

  It's deep inside me.

  So fucking good to let go!

  God, I have three people inside me right now. Three strangers. Gorgeous girls.

  Tara, Tiffany... and... what was the third one's name?

  Damien lets go of the binds that hold my hands.

  Then I feel a blindfold go over my eyes. Where the fuck did he get a blindfold? Maybe one of the girls handed it to him?