THE WATCHER
(A Dark Romance)
by
Tara Crescent
Text copyright © 2014 Tara Crescent
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
My editor Jim takes the comma-filled words that emerge from my keyboard and shapes it into a story worth reading. As always, my undying gratitude.
Special thanks to Paul vonKarmann who also edited this story, and whose comments in the margins provided many a chuckle.
Both Jennifer Bene and Richard North generously took time from of their own writing to beta-read Watcher for me. Their suggestions were infinitely helpful and this is a much stronger story for their efforts. I cannot thank them enough.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue: The top keeps spinning…
Epilogue: The top stops spinning…
A Note from Tara
About Tara Crescent
Books by Tara Crescent
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Never on a Sunday: Stephanie Rice has her sex life all figured out. She fucks six different men on six days of the week. Monday is the Chef. Tuesday, the Technician. Wednesday is the Playboy. Thursday, Mr. Buttman has his way with her. Friday, she has an appointment with the Doctor, and on Saturday, the Dominant works her over.
On Sunday, she normally does laundry. However, on this particular Sunday, her worlds collide. All six men find out about each other, and they are determined to give Stephanie an evening she will never forget.
Prologue
Do you know that scene in Inception, the one where the top spins so that Cobb can tell whether he’s in a dream or not? If the top keeps spinning, he’s still trapped in his dreams. If it stops, he’s drowning in reality.
I have my own version of this.
In the real world, I’m an aspiring young fashion designer who lives in New York and revels in every pulse-beat of the city that never sleeps. I never knew my father and my mother has early onset Alzheimer’s. She’s only fifty-three, goddammit. I can never say those words out aloud without being physically angry at how fucking unfair life is.
She lives in a nursing home in my hometown, Akron, Ohio. I visit her religiously every other weekend, even though I have precious little money for the airfare and even though she doesn’t recognize her own daughter.
When Alzheimer’s strikes in a person as young as my mother, you know what they tell the children? Get tested. Alzheimer’s has a genetic component. This could be me. My mom’s memory started fragmenting when she was in her thirties. I have two years to go. So I bury myself in work, indulge in transient pleasure and don’t allow myself things like love. Because when your mother doesn’t remember her only child’s name, you are given an object lesson in how fleeting love is. How ephemeral. Filled with the potential to slash open your heart and expose your soul to the icy wind.
To dwell on it would be to break under the weight of the pressure. Instead, I seek refuge in the other world I live in. A shadowy world. One with the dank brick walls of a dimly lit dungeon, the muffled clanking of rusty chains and the drip of a leaking tap in the corner. A world in which strange men use me for their pleasure, indifferent to my own desires. Yet I permit the violations each and every time. This world frightens me and arouses me and I can’t tell which emotion is the predominant one.
These are my two worlds; my two divergent paths.
I am clad in a black leather bra and black lace panties and I’m fairly confident neither garment is going to stay on for very long.
Out of the shadows, two men emerge and move towards me. They are shirtless. They wear pants, though their flies are open, and their cocks stick out, erect, engorged and ready. Cruel lust gleams in their cold gazes. These men are perfect strangers, yet for the next two hours they have the right to use me as they will.
My only safety comes from my own safe words and the ever-intent green eyes of the Watcher. He looks at me now as I fight the urge to panic and flee. Soon, I tell myself, the pain will turn to pleasure.
That’s not perfectly true. Not anymore. The pain doesn’t turn into pleasure. It turns into numbness. My body responds to the stimulus, but my mind stays blank.
“Do you submit?” The Watcher speaks the ritual words that will indicate my willingness to continue with the session.
The top starts spinning.
I kneel on the floor and lower my head, holding out my hands in a gesture of surrender. “I submit.”
“Good.” This is the leaner of the two men. He has dark hair, and his face is covered with stubble. His voice is tinged with an Irish accent. “Let’s get you ready then, love.”
The other man, the one with the short blond hair, doesn’t speak. He is broader and his physique is a lot more intimidating, all hard, bulging muscle. In his hands he holds a coil of black rope. The first man lifts me up easily, as if I were weightless, and sets me down on a vinyl-covered bench. A pair of scissors appear in one of their hands and both bra and panty are snipped away, the scraps of fabric tumbling to the floor.
The men begin to wind the rope above and below my breasts, so that my flesh reddens and bulges towards them. My hands are tightly tied behind my back, my wrists somehow fastened together so I can’t pull them forward. A bright red ball gag is dangled near my lips and my mouth falls open automatically. I am so well-behaved.
In his corner, the Watcher watches. When I can’t speak my safe words clearly, I can mumble them through the gag, and he will hear them. Or I will shake my head vigorously from side to side and that’ll serve as my safety signal.
I’ve never yet used a safe word. I’ve wanted to, but something has always kept me silent. Perhaps I keep quiet because I know the Watcher is watching. Perhaps I want to put on a show for him. Perhaps I want him to be as aroused by me as I am by him.
The top keeps spinning.
Once my breasts and arms are tied to his satisfaction, the blond man turns his attention to my legs. I’m kneeling with my ass resting on my heels and the blond man nudges my knees open till I’m spread wide, displayed for their pleasure.
The two men crowd around me. The guy with black hair stands behind me and I feel the cold metal of his belt buckle at my right shoulder, an icy contrast to the heat that radiates from the erect cock grazing my neck. . His hand closes around my right breast, squeezing the orb and pinching the engorged nipple. His fingers trail down my abs, then find my pussy lips. His touch is sure and intent as he cups my mound.
Behind the ball-gag I fight to quiet my moans.
The blond guy is directly behind me. I can feel the heat emanate from his body as he grinds his cock against my back. Out of the corner of my eye I see a shiny chrome anal hook dangling from his fingers. The ball at the tip of the hook is the size of a table-tennis ball.
I can’t help myself. I moan in anticipation.
“You are such a little slut,” t
he man with the black hair says. “Aren’t you?”
I don’t look at the Watcher; I nod my head at the man who has spoken. He’s right. I am a slut. I get off on being treated like a sex toy for the pleasure of these men. Already my body is betraying me. My pussy is slippery and wet with desire, and my nipples are erect nubs, begging to be played with and bitten.
The fat head of a cock rubs on my nipples and precum trails from its tip onto my breasts. I can see the liquid glisten under the lights. I am so aroused by the idea of these men rubbing their precum into my skin.
The man with the dark hair reaches out and his hand encircles the back of my neck. He pushes me onto his cock and I start to tip and fall forward. His hands are quickly around my shoulders, partly to steady me and partly to position me to his satisfaction. I am still balancing on my knees, but my shoulders make contact with the bench, and the vinyl is cool against my cheek.
This is the moment the blond man has been waiting for. I feel the ball of the anal hook press firmly against my asshole. He just holds it in place and pushes and my sphincter, which has seen plenty of training in the last few months, opens up on cue and swallows the ball. It nestles in me and each time I twitch, I can feel it move inside my body.
I am almost feverish with arousal.
The top keeps spinning.
The blond man’s hand is on my pussy lips. In my head there’s only room for one thought and that’s a fervent plea to be touched. I need hard strokes. I need a fat cock splitting me open. I need firm hands on my thighs, holding them apart even if I want to writhe away. I need hard slaps to keep me in line.
I need to see the same wild desire in the eyes of the Watcher. I need him to do all these things to me and more. But the Watcher has a role to play here and it is not to participate.
The briefest of touches on my pussy and then I’m lifted up like a rag doll once again. I’m positioned on my knees and I can feel the anal hook shift deep in my body. My pussy gushes in response.
The man with black hair moves directly in front of me, cock in hand. He moves his hand up and down the shaft while keeping his eyes on me. “Are you ready to suck cock, little slut?” There’s a trace of mockery in his tone but I don’t care. My eyes are fixed on the bead of precum that has formed. I want to reach out with my tongue and lick it clean.
Fingers unbuckle the strap of the ball gag, which falls forward on the seat. I pay it no mind. I’m being pushed down on the cock in front of me and all I want to do is suck.
The noise of sex fills the room. I’ve always thought of it as a very distinctive sound - a retching, gagging, slurping noise that sends arousal spiking painfully through my body. My pussy aches for contact and I clench tightening muscles around the hook. I bounce up and down on the bench trying to see if I can rub my pussy against my heel. It’s shameful and humiliating, but at this moment I’ll do anything to get myself off.
“Stop that.” The blond man speaks, his voice sharp with rebuke. A stinging slap on my ass expresses his displeasure. “It is not up to you to decide when you get to come, little slut.”
I want to apologize, but my lips are wrapped around the dick. The man with the black hair is relentless. His cock shoves in and out of my mouth, thoroughly face-fucking me. I feel a thrill of need entwined with no small measure of fear. As the cock slides in and out, breathing becomes difficult. I pull back just a little, coughing and spluttering for breath, but he is unimpressed. “Suck it,” he orders.
The top keeps spinning.
There’s a wicked gleam in his eyes now. He pulls his dick out of reach and fists it in his hand again. “Do you want this?” he asks lazily.
I nod. Yes. Taking him in my mouth keeps my focus off my own need and the way the hook shifts in my ass every time I move.
“Then come get it,” he invites me, moving around the bench to a different side. I shift and shuffle on my knees, unsteady without my hands to support me, trying to chase a cock. My cheeks flush with shame as I feel the gaze of the Watcher on me.
“Come get it,” he says again, as if I’m a dog invited to play fetch.
As I move, I see the blond man move behind me. His fingers spread my ass cheeks apart, squeezing and kneading them as I bob my head on the dick in front of me. Then, he starts spanking me, rhythmically, keeping time with the thrusting of the cock in my mouth.
Every time the dick escapes my mouth, I need to ask permission to start sucking again. “Can I have it back, Sir?”
“That’s good.” I hear the approval in his voice. “There you go, my little slut. Incomplete without a cock in your mouth, aren’t you?”
“Yes Sir.” I flush with shame as I utter those words. I peek at the Watcher. Nothing. Absolutely no expression.
“Dick in your mouth and fingers in your cunt.” These words are spoken by the blond man as he pushes two large fingers inside my slippery wet pussy. He doesn’t need to thrust them in and out - I do that hard work for him as I bounce up and down on the cock in my mouth.
Spanks across my ass. Nipples squeezed and pulled and pinched. The hook wriggled and rotated so every inch of my anal passage is stimulated. I’m shivering with need and animal lust. Every hole in my body is filled. A cock in my mouth. Fingers in my pussy. An anal hook in my ass.
“Tie the hook to her hair,” the dark-hair man suggests to the blond one. He seems the more dominant of the two. I see the blond man grin at that idea and he quickly complies.
Now, every sensation is magnified a hundredfold. When my head bobs on the cock, the ball is pulled deeper into me. When the blond man adds a third finger to his assault on my pussy, I feel so full I think I might explode.
“Can I have it back, Sir?” I ask as the cock once again slides out of my mouth. He slaps my cheek a few times with his fat dick, leaving a mixture of drool and precum on the side of my face. Behind me, the blond man pulls his fingers out of my pussy and wipes his fingers clean on my ass. For emphasis, he smacks me once he’s done. A sharp burst of pain radiates from that spot.
“Keep asking,” the black-haired man orders. His cock keeps hitting the side of my cheek. “And stick out your tongue like a panting, begging little slut.”
I pant. I stick out my tongue. I beg. “Please can I have your cock, please can I have your cock, please can I have your cock…?” My words are jumbled together in one string of need.
I want to come so very badly. But the blond has been careful not to stimulate my clitoris. The pleasure I need, the pleasure I crave - it is being withheld from me.
I whimper and plead. There’s a haze in my brain. All I can think about is how badly I need to come.
“Down, bitch.” The blond man’s hand is at my back, and he pushes me forward. I unbalance and fall on my shoulders, and the blond man takes advantage of my splayed open pussy and pushes his dick into me.
If I told you I heard the sound of the condom wrapper tear, I’d be lying. I should pause and ask. Safety first, right? The thought doesn’t even cross my mind. I have no idea if he’s using a condom or not but it doesn’t even register that I don’t know. I’m too far gone. All that exists is my steady begging for a climax.
The spanks on my ass are swift and hard. Each thrust rocks me forward on the bench. The man with black hair closes his fingers around his cock and watches as the blond man fucks me hard. “Tight cunt,” he chokes out. I wonder if he can feel the ball in my ass on each thrust. Does it feel good as his head grinds against the thin barrier of skin separating my anal passage from my vaginal one? It feels good to me. Intense. The stimulation is almost painful but the thought of stopping doesn’t even occur to me.
“Did someone tell you that you could stop begging?” The hard words are a startling contrast to the Irish lilt. The man with the black hair looks displeased and I realize that my chants pleading for his cock have stopped, replaced by whimpering and moaning.
“Can I please have your cock in my mouth Sir?” I correct myself and begin that mantra again. “Please Sir, please will you us
e my mouth?”
He lets me plead for a few minutes, watching me with mocking eyes. Then he sits down on the bench and grabs me by the ropes wound around my body, lifting my shoulders up to rest on his lap. His cock rubs against my chin.
“Find it and take it in your mouth,” he orders.
I try. It takes effort to lift myself and push down on his cock, distracted as I am by the way the blond man’s balls are slapping against me, by the way my pussy is being stretched open, by the stinging pain in my ass as his palms strike against them repeatedly. But I manage. My mouth again closes over the cock, and I suck.
In time, I feel them come. The blond man grunts and grabs my hips, grinding deep into me as he climaxes. The black-haired one makes me work for it. I bob my head repeatedly on his dick, my jaw aching and my throat raw before he too explodes and I swallow strands and strands of ejaculate.
Finally, they untie me and I lie there on the bench, on my back, with my legs spread open. “Please,” I beg them. “Please make me come.” I need them to do this for me. I need their touch on my clitoris. I am only seconds away.
They look at each other. “Toss for it?” one of them asks, pulling a coin out of his pocket. “Loser gets to make the slut come?”
I flinch, as if they physically hit me. Shame washes over me. The loser gets to touch my pussy and make me climax? The loser? I should get up and get out of there. I should never come back to this dungeon again. I feel shame. I feel numb.
I lie there with my legs open as the coin is flipped.
The top keeps spinning.
Three months ago, I was a fashion designer in New York, nothing more. I juggled work and frequent flights home to sit at the bedside of my mother. I had secret cravings to be taken and used, but don't we all have secret sexual desires?
How did I get here, you ask? What is the path that takes someone who exists in the real world and brings her here to this shadowy place where only lust dominates? For that, we must turn the page…
The Watcher (A Dark Romance) Page 1
