Fluff

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  Mae behaved the polar opposite of Lele Love. Shortly after the mascara make-out session, I informed the director we needed to stop doing her up hooker-style. Amber was a natural beauty and I wanted to enhance that, not conceal it. I managed to persuade the makeup girl to continue the grotesque amounts of eyelash goo. No one needed to know why as I secretly developed a fetish for the streaks when I made her cry.

  And I did that almost nightly.

  She got off on pain; I got off on hurting her. Our relationship balanced and intensified to the point of a daydreamy haze. The only normal sex we had, in front of the camera, which we both welcomed.

  With her being from out of town, I insisted she come stay at my house. We went into the office together and we left together, there was no hiding the truth. The crew knew we had shacked up, and Celeste offered some tricks for covering the evidence of our sins.

  In a way, the fetish became the drug we hid. Celeste enabled it, but she also understood it, being involved in the lifestyle for years. If anyone else had seen, I would have been behind bars.

  I tried to pace us—Amber and I—from having too many rough nights in a row. I liked to skip a night or two, letting the contusions recover and delving into other forms of kink which didn’t involve a whip, a cane, or my palm. But that didn’t lessen the tears in the least.

  To celebrate our one-month anniversary, I took us out to the woods in the truck. I figured we started there, we should celebrate there. I packed dinner and champagne and even bought her flowers.

  She gushed over me and we got shit-faced. We had been making out and dancing close, when she got a hair up her ass to jump off the tailgate in the middle of the night.

  I didn’t get it at the time. I didn’t understand. I thought I had done something wrong, but I had no idea what. Before I knew it, she took off, running into the woods.

  Rushing off after her, I yelled, “What the fuck are you doing? Get back here! You have no flash light! There are bears and coyotes that can attack you!”

  But that was just it. Amber was messed up in a really bad way. Even more twisted than I was. She wanted to be in danger, thrived off being in peril, and relished in the punishment of such. I won’t deny it was fucked up.

  She lured me into her game in an easy move. Through the darkness, she sassed, “You want me, come and get me!”

  She taunted and teased, flirting her way into a risky situation and playing with me. Meanwhile, I got angry. Seriously, pissed off. I had this sweet and tender moment planned for our anniversary and she was ruining it. I didn’t realize it at the time, but this was her form of celebration—catch me and fuck me hard.

  I don’t think she planned on how well I could play her ravishment game under the moon that night. When I snuck up beside her and grabbed her, she flailed, thrashing and scratching at me. “No! You don’t!” she yelled, trying to weasel her way out of my grasp and acting like she needed saving—but not by me.

  I was the attacker.

  My role was clearly defined—capture, seize, take. With her kicking and clawing, I pushed her down to the ground, lifting her dress and ripping her panties off.

  I pinned her hands into the dirt with one hand and unzipped my jeans with the other. I showed no mercy. Ramming my cock into her hard, I pumped her pussy until she wailed. “Fuck me harder, please. Fuck me!”

  The trusting soul shifted to a place of control beneath me as I did the one thing she wanted. Amber was good at seduction and having it her way. Chase me, trap me, act the victim, get attacked, and flip the fucking table—do this, do that.

  And I did.

  Thrusting into her wetness, I groped her breasts, sucking and gnawing on them like a beast. The further I pushed, the more savagery she wanted.

  “Tell me how much you like this my pretty little whore…”

  Her mewing beneath me stopped long enough for her to mumble, “I like it when you fuck me with you big, hard dick, Sir. I like it when have at me. I like it when you own me.”

  “I always own you. You are my possession,” I huffed. “From that beautiful blonde hair to your tight little cunt to those little toes I painted red, you belong to me. You are mine. Only mine.”

  Her hips bucked against mine—wild and feral—a girl in heat, seeking my release. I didn’t know what to do or even how to handle her. Fresh with dew still on her paws, she was a tiger with a vengeance, aching with a primal appetite so nebulous even I didn’t understand how to wrangle her insatiability. I had years of experience with submissives, but Amber arched in a different way. Hypnotic and tranquilizing, she was the end all for my Dom. Without boundaries, we flew free, holding nothing back and trusting with an immortal fear.

  She was wicked.

  And we were dangerous.

  Peering into her soul that night in amongst the leaves and grime, I found one solid truth to hold onto—the serpentining, risky path we travelled on was nothing more than a collision course. We couldn’t hold up forever; we would eventually collapse or crash.

  But as she blinked at me with eyes of wander and pure bliss, she gently caressed my cheek and whispered, “I love you, Cy.”

  In return, I did the same, holding nothing back for fear of never being here again—not with her, not with anyone. I kissed her lips soft, brushing against them as I breathed into her, “Mae, I love you, too.”

  AMBER

  SITTING ON THE table in the D’s makeshift dungeon, my fingers fuss with the tips of my newly blonde hair. I assume he did an excellent job, though I have no mirror to discern this. The platinum sparkles in the light, catching my eye like radiant glitter.

  My wrists are again bound to the wall. Although I have enough chain to get up and walk around, I ascertain any hope of escape is futile. In accepting my position, I understand this automatically gives him the win. I close my eyes as the emotions betray my mind.

  I really want D to win.

  I just can’t admit that.

  The door opens and I glance up. The troubling thoughts must be clear on my face as he rushes to my side.

  “What’s wrong baby g?”

  His strong and tender hand touches my cheek, rolling the stinging tears down my cheeks. I want to trust with my heart as much as I do my body. I want to give this man everything I have.

  “It’s just been a rough couple days. I can’t believe less than a week ago—I was giving a speech on finding character truths and listening to their voices. Now, I am stuck here, facing a truth I cannot accept and ignoring my inner voice.”

  His warm arms wrap around me in a quiescent understanding. He doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t have to. He gets it—all of it—the running, the denial, the games we jest like children, pulling hair and sharing gum on the playground.

  My thirst for pain surpasses any logic. His awareness of this only encourages my behavior, enabling me to do things I would otherwise deem insane. What girl in her right mind runs naked through the woods?

  His presence provokes me to searching unimaginable lengths just to piss him off and get under his skin—I want him to react.

  I have no excuses. I don’t act like this with anyone else. Never. Only Dale-fucking-Archer infiltrates my entire being with the desire to play with fire, jeopardizing myself with hazardous and precarious notions.

  I have touched myself with thoughts of his hand swatting my ass for fifteen years, coming and screaming his name. To say I am beyond elated to be tethered to a wall in his care isn’t quite enough. I want to be good enough to warrant keeping.

  “I brought you a present,” he says, handing over a jar of Nutella.

  My eyes widen, brightening with an excitement as my toes curl. He remembered.

  I hated eating on the set between takes those weeks in Georgia. The nerves of performing in front of an audience tended to give me butterflies, I admitted one afternoon. He smiled, understanding the problem as he showed me his half eaten jar of peanut butter. I remember cringing and saying something akin to, “Ewww…yuck, no.”

/>   After work, he took us to the store and purchased my first jar of Nutella. Good thing he bought two as I had the first one consumed by the next day.

  His hands twist open the lid as his grins peeks out from under the mustache. I want to kiss him. Leaning forward, I coax his muscled frame closer with a twinkle in my eyes. “I love my hair… I haven’t had it blonde since we…”

  His lips press to mine, hard and demanding, swathing every morsel of my being in his protection. I feel his love ensconce me. I want to drown in this moment, replaying it over in my head the rest of my life. Parting my lips, I invite his lead.

  Without warning, he dips inside, pummeling his tongue into mine in a swirling benediction. The divine kiss seals the unspoken deal. I am his. And he is mine.

  The sacred revelation between us serves as a bridge to my own acceptance. Without him, I have merely been existing—not living. Everything is sweeter from the air I breathe to the brush of his hand. I am alive and electric under his vigil.

  The impossible possible with the corrupt sins of our distorted relationship forgiven – an undeniable truth of us. He is my drug; I am his addict. As his lips devour my own, I embrace the plausibility that the opposite is also true. I never saw that before. I always imagined him bothered by my frisky eighteen-year-old. Reckless and wild, I believed I was a pest to his sensible, stoic nature. I was wrong.

  So very wrong.

  His kiss stirs my soul to a place of grounding, a sanctuary to hold my sanity. We part away from one another with the spellbinding magic drifting between us.

  “You know I am in love with you, right?” He grins as his fingers takes a giant dollop of the goo to my lips.

  “I do know that, D. And you know what I have done to prepare for this?”

  Offering his finger, he nods. Licking and sucking his finger, I can’t imagine not having Dale in my life. Not trying doesn’t exist. I have to give my all. He is my hope and my future whether he’s chasing me in a field or finding a slow burn passion in the sheets. I have to do this—for him.

  For us.

  With the leather cuff attached to my wrist, I clank the chains as I plunge my finger into the sticky, decadent spread. Lifting my finger, I offer him a taste as he hands me the jar.

  “No, baby… You go right ahead. Let me watch you eat.”

  The words hang in the air, alluringly risqué. Enjoying the spread, I watch as he pulls forth the chair. His maddening gaze causes a craving to pulse inside of me, deep like my own heartbeat. My hands shake and veins throb as I look on. His legs spread in a militant, masculine way, cocking his hands behind his head with a confident, seductive gaze.

  I drink in the sight of him, full of a delicious goodness. Rejoicing in the treat of my favorite food, I am captivated by the actions of this man. His hand drops low, and I notice the protrusion tucked inside of the denim. I flicker my eyebrow up, hinting with a dash of my nasty to his naughty. He gives me a half-smirk and unbuttons his jeans. The moment spirals beyond my control as he takes over.

  “This is so much better with this view,” I quip.

  He chuckles, unzipping his fly as his cock springs forth. I am beholden to this man—his calloused beauty etched into my torn heart. He mumbles a warning, “Don’t stop eating now. I am getting off on watching your lips wrap around those delicate fingers.”

  “Would I do that?”

  “You might,” he banters, stroking his shaft in earnest. “You are my dirty little slut.”

  “I want to be your cumpot.”

  He laughs enthusiastically, unexpected by my sheer honest and brazen answer. “Baby, you can be whatever you want to be. As long as you – be – it with me.”

  “I love it when you talk dirty to me, D,” I confess, setting the jar down behind me. His dick is massive, glistening with pre-cum and making me want to ride him nice and slow as he calls me names that should make me want to slap him. Instead, all I want is to come like a banshee, screaming his name.

  I am twisted, deviant, and fucked up beyond repair. And that is okay, Dale likes me broken. He appreciates me for who I am and doesn’t wish to change me. He doesn’t want to alter me or send me to therapy or tell me how messed up I am that I like it rougher than most men can handle.

  Most men are not Dale Archer.

  He handles me like his property.

  My hand eases between my thighs, finding my slick slit and wishing he would come fuck it raw. He won’t. We are playing this game – his way – with his rules. I understand participating in such binds me to a completion. I cannot walk off the game board just because I don’t like the way it’s going. Which at times, like now, sucks ass.

  He shifts his hips to the edge of the chair. In having several inches up above him from the table, I realize if I spread my legs, I can give him the perfect view of his target. Moving slow, I scoot to the edge, widening my thighs to straddle the table.

  “You are such a bad girl…” he smirks.

  Returning the smile, I ask, “Is that a bad thing, Sir?”

  “No,” he growls from deep within his throat. “You want me to hit that?”

  “Target practice,” I say, biting my lip.

  Pumping his cock, he snorts, “You realize who you are asking to aim, right?”

  “Oh, yes… Mr. Archer, I know exactly what I am asking you to do.”

  “I am so gonna spend the rest of the day buried balls deep in you,” he threatens.

  “Probably,” I agree, assessing the situation. “But right now, you are committed to this game”

  “I fuckin love you, Amber Rosen,” he says as his hand falls away. He stands up, kicking over the chair. He makes quick work of undoing my restraints and grabbing me. We impact the wall with a decided thud against my ass, and he is inside of me in mere seconds, pounding into my drenching, greedy puss.

  “You want me to talk fucking dirty to you,” he whispers as his hips slam into mine.

  “Yes… Yes, I do,” I moan, rising my hands above my head and locking my fingers together.

  “You don’t have a choice about this, you know that right? You are going to be my dirty little whore for the rest of your life….”

  The naughty thought is there in his words, but so is something else. My hands droop to my sides as my lust dissolves into pure fear.

  “Don’t you dare shut down on me, now,” he threatens. “Get your fucking hands up.”

  “But…” I complain.

  His mouth zips to my nipple, biting hard and sending a searing pain through me. The burn is so good, I cannot resist his command as I lift my arms.

  “That’s a good girl. Let me fuck you like I want to…” His thrusts pin me to the wall as he sticks it to me like a monster whose only motive is getting off inside of me. “Let me love you like I need to… My wicked little woman.”

  I feel the moment pass as my hands grip his shoulders. He is strong with firm, corded muscles. My hand drifts, lingering in his chest hair. His blue eyes flare with a passionate resolve, and I witness this love breathe alive between us. His movements lurch forward, swelling our bodies to a place of serenity where we coalesce. I cannot resist this man—his words, his actions, his love. I surrender and fall prey to his predator, allowing him to take me wherever his salacious thoughts summon.

  “In front of our friends and family,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. “I am going to marry you in a church one day.”

  My mind freezes, incoherent with the notions of his wish. Like a carrion on a corpse, I pick it apart in bites I can handle. “Church?”

  “Yes. You will wear white, my virgin slut. I will wear black with a leather vest, your Sir.”

  I am so emotional, I want to cry, but instead laughter erupts from my lips. I concur, “The ultimate fetish bride and groom.”

  “Exactly, princess. Now, stopping worrying about the wedding like I know you are and come on my dick, my future Mrs. Dale Archer.”

  Letting go, I quench his shaft, getting drunk on his love. It is so good. When he comes
– spewing deep inside of me – my eyes grow heavy with a need for sleep.

  And he surprises me again as he carries me in his arms to the sofa bed in the other room.

  * * * *

  Five weeks into my stay in Georgia, I woke up alone in his house. Cy left a note on the pillow. It was Saturday and we weren’t shooting, but he had a meeting with the editorial staff over lunch. He encouraged me to make myself at home. Considering I was sleeping – naked in his sheets – I think I managed to accomplish that.

  In an exclusive neighborhood, his house sat indistinguishable from the others. No one seemed any the wiser that it was owned by a porn star. I spent the morning as any eighteen-year-old girl would, sliding on the marble floors in my socks and raiding the fridge for yogurt. I searched for ice cream, but sadly found none.

  After an hour, the empty house seemed too large, too quiet, too much. In the great room, I flipped channels on the tv, turning on a movie and listening to it echo through the house. I went from room to room, checking it all out. Leaving no door closed, I checked out closets and bathrooms, and places I probably shouldn’t have been.

  Finding his office, I slipped inside and rocked in the oversized leather chair. Paperwork scattered across the desk, but I behaved—no snooping for me. If there was something he wanted me to know, he would’ve told me in time.

  I took a bath in his enormous garden tub and enjoyed the water jets. I tried on his clothes and paraded in front of his full length mirrors. With his dress shirt on and no bottoms, I noticed the bruises—black and blue—on my thighs. Although they were an award I wore proudly, part of me knew they were bad—wrong—and completely fucking off. Examining them closely, I sat on the bathroom counter and ran my hand over them.

  I accepted my mom didn’t give a shit years ago. But I wondered if I had more than a sperm donor for a dad if he would care. Would he go after Cy to defend me from what was ultimately my fault? And how long would Celeste continue to cover our remnants of the night?