Gillian hopped in the car beside him and they drove back to the office.
“I’ll see you at five,” he reminded her as he dropped her by the curb.
“I’ll be there, with all my cronies in tow,” she smiled.
“And don’t be late this time,” he said. “That really pisses me off.”
“You didn’t seem all that pissed this morning,” she reminded him, peering back inside the car.
“Why do you think I fucked you?”
It was weird logic, but she didn’t have time to argue—almost two o’clock and there were meetings scheduled all afternoon.
“See you at five,” and she dashed toward the high-rise and her office.
***
The Bellamy Building was a city monument. Rising into the sky-scape, it was hardly the tallest inside the vast mélange of concrete and glass phallic symbols that surrounded it. But it was one of the most unique. Gillian could imagine ladies in fur stoles and hats with veils, from the 1930’s walking through the great glass doors, spike heels clicking on the marble floor the way hers were clicking now. ‘What a beautiful spread,’ was the first thought that came to mind as she smelled the aroma of cocktails and fingers foods and wine and—she couldn’t quite place it until she saw them with her own eyes—bright red strawberries with long green stems. She’d missed lunch, her stomach suddenly growling, though it wasn’t her stomach in charge when she laid eyes on Mike Bellamy in a tuxedo. He was standing with a group of people some distance away, talking.
Where he’d been hours before—that hole between Gillian’s legs was still damp from him and her. The smell still clung to her pubic hair and there was a layer of dry cum on her thigh. Why was he so damned sexy!
Mike didn’t see her and it was just as well. She needed to take some time to settle herself and have a drink. Just one drink to soothe her frayed nerves, and something to eat for her stomach was begging again.
As she nibbled her food and wandered through the room, she was again captivated by this lovely building. The influence of Frank Lloyd Wright was everywhere in the lines of the woodwork—the ceiling an architectural marvel she could stare at for hours—and the stained glass, and the beveled-edged panes of glass, in the afternoon light shooting rainbows on the walls, beads of fire dancing everywhere on women’s cocktails dresses. At one point it was nearly blinding.
Tiny sandwiches, cheese, several strawberries, a second drink—just another glass of wine—and she was feeling much better, actually enjoying a conversation about the style of the building with a distinguished gray-haired gentleman, with a trimmed goatee, a handsome smile and a tan face. He was as impeccably dressed as the waiters in tails who looked like English butlers—though this man had a delightful twinkle in his eye those passive faces couldn’t approach. She saw the way he noted her attire—without her green jacket—how for just a second he took in the sight of her breasts before he politely commented on the beautiful lobby turned social soiree.
“You’re Gillian Brahms,” he said, when the conversation lagged for a moment.
“You know me, but I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Ronald Dent,” he said holding out his hand for her to shake.
“Oh, my, I should know you. In fact, I thought you looked familiar, but then I haven’t been in your courtroom.”
“I get nasty crimes, and you seem to stay out of that mess.”
“Yes, I made the decision a long time ago to stick with less sensational law.” There was a waiter at her side, a note on a silver tray.
“For me?”
“You’re Gillian Brahms?”
“I am.”
She knew without asking this was for her, much like the one slipped under her door.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said to Judge Dent. Hardly disguising her nervousness, she took the note and moved to an empty corner of the lobby before she opened it.
“2nd floor, outside room #2036, remove your dress. Now. M.”
Heart pounding, she slipped the note inside her purse next to the one from that morning. When she looked up again, Mike Bellamy was making his way through a crowd of people, moving toward her.
“Something wrong?” he asked, once he was well within her public bubble of comfort. Anyone looking at the two of them would know they were close.
“No, nothing’s wrong. But I am a little woozy. Is there somewhere I could lay down for a minute?”
“The ladies’ lounges all have couches.”
She pointed to the corridor.
“Yes, but maybe you want to take the elevator to the second floor,” he suggested, “You’ll have fewer interruptions, unless, of course some of my employees are fucking in the stalls. I’ll have someone check on you in a half hour.”
“No, no, that won’t be necessary. I’ll be back down here before that. I just need a moment.”
He nodded and let her go.
Thankful that maneuver was so easily accomplished, Gillian was on the elevator just minutes later, with an excuse that should keep Mike Bellamy an arm’s distance away for a good while—hopefully long enough to please whatever master needed her right now.
Room #2036 was at the end a long corridor, though it was still in sight of the elevator and a dozen offices—should some industrious employee be working through the merriment below and happen to wander by. She wouldn’t accomplish this outrageous disrobing without her heart beating almost out of control. Yet, removing her dress under these dangerous circumstances made her every desire for the club’s command play her sex like a magical instrument. Breasts, thighs, and ass were tingling, her skin was flushed and even her nipples felt prickly, as if some man had just nibbled them with his teeth.
Unzipping the slim sheath at the back, Gillian looked in either direction, finding her hands almost refusing to follow the instructions. What if from around the corner…
Her head was pounding hotly, her lips wet with desire, her tongue tasting cum. She could already smell her own by the time her dress was at her hips; the aroma of old sex clung to the fabric, now shaken loose as she removed it.
As she stood nearly naked before the office door, she wanted to press her hand to her crotch, but couldn’t; and for one long minute, she stood in a breathless vacuum of fear and painful arousal.
“Close your eyes,” she heard the male voice behind her. Where had he come from? She was about turn around but the man sensed the impulsive move.
“Don’t look around unless you’d like to be paraded like this downstairs,” he threatened her.
She closed her eyes, clenching them so tightly they couldn’t be pried apart.
He unhooked her bra and it fell into his hands. Now except for her heels, she was standing exposed in the second floor hallway, totally nude. A hand pressed her firmly at the small of her back, and Gillian almost stumbled from the force of the sudden shove as she entered the room.
When the door closed behind her, she could tell it was dark inside—as though a blind had been pulled down over her eyes. She hardly needed to keep them closed, but she did, regardless.
Hearing the shuffling of feet around her, she realized that there was not one, but several men, in the room with her. Pairs of hand began to grope her body, but their touch was purposeful. She found herself shoved forward, her crotch pressed against a table, her hands guided toward a bar in front of her.
“Hang on,” she was ordered.
While someone pawed her breasts and another man beneath her manipulated her clit, a third pair of hands was burrowing between her rear cheeks, hunting for the dampening hole between her labia. Once finding the hot vessel, he plunged his dick inside and screwed her heartily. Her breasts bounced, the dangling flesh fondled and pinched, her nipples tweaked and squeezed until she had to cry—but then that cry was mostly sexual. Beating into her until he came, grunting almost meanly, the man switched places with one of the others, and a second dick slipped inside. The rough fuck repeated, as this man grabbed her ass and forced his big prick
until it hit her womb, making her cry.
“Hush!” A man at her ear spoke softly, though with the steel of nails behind that whisper.
She clenched her lips together and took the pain of the long, fat dick. It seemed to swell within her, grow more hard, and press more meanly where there just wasn’t room to go. The pain of it made her senseless, made her move briskly in an uncomfortable unison, as though her willingness would ease the discomfort and turn the screwing sexual. It was not until this man was out of her cunt, his cum dripping on her ass, that the orgasm began for her. The third man wasn’t kind to her either, but he had a way with his hands—he’d been the one toying with her clit. Now, while reaching around to pinch the tiny erection inside her labia, his manageable prick fucked her as soundly as the others, and she tensed with a biting spasm.
She murmured nonsensical things, yesses and ahs, and ohs, quietly spoken.
When he finished, this master didn’t move. But pressing his fingers to her mouth, she licked them, smelling herself as she’d smelled Mike that morning after the same kind of screwing.
“You like being used, bitch?”
“Ah, yes.”
“And you want more, don’t you?”
“I do.”
There were hands again all over her. “And you belong to us, is that right?”
“I do.” She was so sure of herself, there wasn’t another possible sexual thought in her mind. Someone was at her clit, sucking it. Another hand toyed with her anus, fingers moving on slick cum juice inside the dark hole. Feeling her breasts bounce and her ass mauled, she cried softly for more. One orgasm was not enough and they knew it. Out of body, in her body, lifted, caressed, annoyed, slapped … murmur after murmur … delirious, thighs tickled … belly fondled … rising, always rising … the pulse was rising higher about to explode. At the edge … the edge … the edge again … and higher … higher still and then nothing …
The hands vanished the way fog gives way to a morning sun—leaving only traces in the air of where it might have been. In her body the sensation lingered, but not attended to, the erotic pulses slowly slipped away.
One of the men threw her the ivory dress so she felt it hit her back. Her bra followed. Then, her purse landed with a thud at her feet. Once the door opened and closed she realized she was alone.
Gillian was woozy, her stomach grinding. The ache in her cunt drove her mad. Hearing footsteps in the corridor, she instantly thought of Mike looking for her in the ladies’ room down the hall. What would he think when she came up missing?
There was an overhead light that turned on at the wall by the door. Florescents. She’d almost rather dress in the dark than by the glaring yellow/white glow of these, but without them she couldn’t see anything. It was easy enough wiggling her way back into the dress. But there was still heat between her thighs, smoldering, her cunt aching as though it had been abandoned. She couldn’t touch herself. As much as her body demanded it, she was almost afraid to.
Her masters were purposely using her and leaving her body deserted, needing more. They wanted her to need them, and so she did. This seemed like far too little, when she wanted so much more of them. But at least until they called on her again, it would have to do.
With a little luck, she’d escape downstairs, her brief disappearance unnoticed. Would she be able to tell who her lovers had been? Which was the first driving fuck, and who was the fat prick that almost ripped her apart, and who was the man with the heavenly tongue and the style of sex that she would like to enjoy again and again?
Running her fingers through her hair, hoping it was not too mussed, she peeked out the door and quickly scooted toward the ladies’ room to finish adjusting her clothes. Except for the a drifting absence in her eyes—always the result of great sex—her cheeks were slightly flushed, but there were no other suggestions about her last hour. She recalled as she took the elevator to the lobby floor an incident in Kate’s McPherson’s diary—the one in the grand house with the grand stairs, in the dark with a dozen hands mauling her friend. Perhaps this was intended as the same kind of fuck, and yet, except for some vague similarities, their experiences with the club were hardly the same. Whoever was directing her initiation was moving her rapidly. Perhaps soon she’d get a glimpse of another master’s face, and if she was lucky could look into the eyes of the mysterious “M”. He was a scoundrel, she decided, either that or a very unyielding man. He was certainly very astute about her sexual needs. She wouldn’t recuperate from this ordeal until she was at home in bed, sober, dreaming of the hands and cock, and three men’s cum left inside her half-pleasured cunt.
“Are you all right?” she heard Mike’s voice behind her. After ten minutes back in the mix, she was almost back to normal, and thankfully, her heart didn’t suddenly start racing when she heard him speak. At least she was thinking sanely.
“Oh, yes, I’m fine. I was looking for you.”
“I’m here to be found,” he replied, jovial as ever.
“I wanted to talk, perhaps tomorrow. The partners and I have some interesting ideas for proceeding with your lawsuit.”
“Good, that’s good,” he nodded, noting that the conversation had reverted to business, Gillian taking on a more formal air despite her flushed and slightly rumpled appearance.
Letting anything else between them drop for the night, she then wandered off, speaking again to the distinguished Judge Dent with the graying hair. If she’d been bold at all, she would have suggested that Mike screw the last cum from her cunt—the one that still lurked on hold between her thighs. But she was just too tired, in need of another drink, a few more strawberries and a long night’s sleep.
Chapter Twelve
“Want another beer?” Thad had just ordered himself his third, the cool draughts going down easily at the end of the day.
Mike shrugged. “Think I’ve had enough.” He was nursing his second.
“Your new member behaving herself?” Thad asked. He’d been more than a little anxious about Gillian Brahms despite his trust of Mike Bellamy’s ability to instruct submissive women.
“She’s as untrustworthy as I expected her to be,” he answered, eyes smoldering as he thought of her, “as devious, as charming, as witty and in need of a paddle on her ass as any submissive we’ve had in years.”
“You’re sure you’re going to win this one over?”
“I have her won,” he said, smirking merrily. “I’m even screwing her on the side.”
“Really?” Thad was slightly shocked. “And she doesn’t know who you are?”
“Of course not.”
“So, in truth she’s being a disobedient, underhanded slut.”
“Exactly. I have her law firm working for me. And the scheme’s an object lesson. I wanted to know exactly what kind of woman I had, and she’ll realize it herself soon enough.”
“You are a devious SOB.”
“Never denied that,” he agreed with his friend.
“So, describe her for me?” Thad said. Loosening his tie, he leaned into the bar, taking a long drink of the frothy substance from his ice cold mug.
“She knows what she wants, and will get it because she has the knack of wooing me while she’s breaking every rule. I think she’ll be in love with me, and still committed to the club, and somehow that won’t bother her.”
“You’re talking love awfully soon.”
“Why not? You fell in love with Kate.”
“But I didn’t lose my objectivity.”
“And I haven’t lost mine. She’s a gamble, but I wouldn’t have started this if I didn’t think it would pay off.”
“If you didn’t believe there is the heart of a submissive lurking somewhere deep in her controlling little bones?”
“That’s right. And it’s there. Every time I look at her I see it in her face. She can’t refuse me in her club fantasies, and she can’t refuse me face to face. The intimidating persona is just an act.”
“So, when do you spring the tr
ap?”
“I’d like to let it go on indefinitely,” Mike mused, “but I suppose the end of the next week. I think three times is enough time to catch her being unfaithful. By then, she’ll have too much invested in the club and me both to do anything but quiver front and center between my legs and beg forgiveness.”
Thad relished the picture and the beauty of this man’s creative genius. He toasted him tipping his glass for another drink.
“And how is your Kate?” Mike asked.
“Actually, I’m on vacation from my wicked slut. Seems that she needs a good dose of Vitorio. All this punishment has struck quite a chord with her—a distant one perhaps, but until it’s played out—if it ever is—she needs to confront it head on.”
“He’s an evil man,” Mike recalled the ruthless dominant from memory.
“No different from you, just a little more straight forward. I feel kind of sorry for Gillian, being sideswiped this way. But I hope you’ll get her expression on video tape. It should be priceless”
Mike nodded. He’d never been quite so joyful about any new member, but perhaps that was because he was falling in love this time, and he didn’t plan to stop the feeling. Thad, of all his fellow masters, certainly understood that.
Chapter Thirteen
Kate sat on the porch of the villa staring down the portico, toward the lazy vineyards in the distance, toward an arbor of summer flowers just now erupting from small buds. She smelled the fragrance of new roses, despite the fact that the rose garden was beyond her view.
The memory of her first hours with Vitorio was still fresh with her—the pain of it still rippling softly through her limbs. She’d been driven until she was weak and had to sit for a time to recuperate. Vitorio had been kind enough to allow her this time alone.
When they arrived in his small Fiat, they pulled into the half moon drive before the elegant country estate, Kate’s eyes widening half in wonder, half in horror, her loins pounded hotly. They had said little as this Italian master careened wildly through the hilly countryside along the narrow roads. Now reaching their destination, he didn’t invite her inside the house, instead they strolled about his property. Vitorio pointed out with pride his vineyards and roses, the winery, the stable, and the dapple gray mare that was with foal, and his old cow, Moo. Kate chuckled hearing him coo like a child to the animal, noting the tender fondness he showed as he caressed the cow’s soft flank. Ambling slowly toward the back of the property, Kate breathed the smell of ripening berries, the luscious fruit clinging to the vines. Vitorio plucked several plump berries and fed them to her one by one, with a sweet smile on his lips. The berries were still tart, though the flavor burst on her tongue.
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