The Satyr

by Tiana Laveen

  She screamed out, clawing at his chest.

  “You just won’t give that orgasm up, will you?” He smiled down at her as the bed rocked hard from his violent thrusts. “I’m going to get it up out of you, no doubt about it. It’s time to let go, Yasmine! Cum on my dick, uppity bitch!” She slapped him hard on the jaw, finding flesh so unyielding, her hand burned. But all he did was laugh.

  And then, she began to shake…

  An alien feeling washed over her. A new feeling. He pressed all of his weight on her, his hips bucking fast and hard as he went in so deep and rough. She wrapped her arms around him, loving his touch, his smell, his horrible, demeaning words … She loved it all…

  But most of all, she loved the pulling sensation between her thighs, the way her pelvis rocked and rolled against his nature, and the flow of her appreciation dripping down onto the bed.

  “I came… Oh my God, I had an orgasm!” She smiled in sheer delight, then gasped when he slid out of her, tossed her on her stomach, ass in the air, and buried himself balls deep inside of her.

  “It’s too much!” Their reflections in a nearby mirror showed the man taking her, his brutal fucking so delicious, her pussy called out his name.

  “You can handle it. You’ve had one. It’s time for multiple. Take this fuckin’ dick!”

  He rammed into her, unrelenting, holding on to her hips to the point of causing pain. She screamed out again, the sensations amplified. “Bottoming you out! Take all of this fuckin’ cock! You like this big dick in your sweet, little pussy, don’t you, Yasmine?! A stranger ramming your pussy, giving you gratification like you’ve never known!”

  “Yes!”

  “Say it!”

  “I love your cock in my pussy!”

  “You haven’t cum with a man because you refused to give in to what you truly wanted. To be ravished! Taken! You need this so bad, baby!”

  “Oh, God, I do! I do!”

  “You’re not in control, Attorney Prince … Raze is! I’m your judge and your jury, and I sentence you to a fucking so good that you’re bedridden, have dreams about my ass for the rest of your goddamn life, and can’t walk straight for a motherfucking week! Ugh!”

  He went deep and paused, his hands caressing her breast as she chased air, trying to breathe and find her voice. A mixture of disgust and passion consumed her. Her pussy rained down her thighs, and she saw stars in her eyes. Her body shook as he deliberately knocked her off her axis. Everything felt amplified—the gentle hand against her clit, the heat of his body against her back, and the slow, precise thrusts inside her pussy with a cock that had her stretched to the point of no return.

  “That’s it, baby…” he said softly, cooing.

  Orgasms wracked her, one after the other, climax after beautiful climax. She trembled so hard that he placed her down, his touch now soft, tender.

  After giving her a moment to rest, he whispered in her ear, “Turn over and play with yourself … Let me see you.”

  This time, she didn’t hesitate. Like a good little girl, she turned over for the man, her back against the pillows, and slipped two fingers inside herself. The intensity in his eyes was almost palpable as he watched her indulge. He began to stroke his dick, the shaft wet and shiny with her juices. Her back arched as she watched him jerk off, the thought of her orgasms from the man flooding her mind once more. Their mutual moans echoed throughout the room. She groaned and sighed, helpless and at the threshold of immense pleasure.

  Moving her hands away from her pussy, he lifted her right leg and placed it over his shoulder, then entered her again, speeding up at each pass.

  “You want me to cum in you, don’t you? You want me to nut deep inside your pussy…” She wanted to protest, to say no, to lie … but she didn’t. She wanted to feel his cum gushing inside of her, to see the faces he made when he released, to hear the sounds of his climax.

  “Yes…” He crushed her lips into a feverish kiss, then her neck and breasts, and the headboard rocked back and forth. She held onto him, knowing it wouldn’t be long. With a roar, he nestled his chin against her shoulder, grabbed her ass in a tight, possessive grip and pounded in her, making her scream and cum all over again.

  “Here it cums, baby!”

  The warmth of his cum shot within her. They rolled their hips against one another, kissing and holding on, like lovers do…

  She felt such a connection with this stranger, an arrogant man who loved to fuck. She’d won him, fair and square, and yet, everything he said and did seemed genuine—not some sort of show. She knew an actor when she saw one; she’d represented her fair share of fairytale tellers, liars, thieves, and the like. No, Raze was an asshole, but he knew what he was doing, and there was so much more to him than what met the eye. In fact, there was a strange sense of familiarity.

  They rested quietly against one another for a few moments, then he picked her up and placed her on the floor, on all fours. She stayed that way confused, while he circled her like some vulture.

  “You’ve never been fucked in the ass?”

  “No … uh, like my survey said, it’s just not something I’ve ever done.”

  “Well, tonight, you’re getting the total mean boyfriend experience—bad, good, and indifferent boyfriends fuck their bitches in the ass, baby.”

  She gulped as he dropped behind her with a bottle of lube. She looked over her shoulder and watched him slather his rod with the stuff, then quickly turned around, suddenly seized with concern. He maneuvered closer behind her. With one hand, he held her waist, and with the other, he guided the head of his cock in her ass.

  “Oh shit!” she hissed, not so certain any longer that this was a good idea. The pain was almost unbearable.

  “Just relax … breathe. It only hurts for a minute if you just relax and are with someone who knows what they’re doing. Trust me.” She breathed in and out, slow exhale and inhale, just as he instructed. “See? I’m halfway in now and you probably didn’t even notice.” He was right. He began slow thrusts as he reached around her waist and strummed her clit like the expert that he was. In moments, she almost fell down, folded against the floor as a budding orgasm took her asunder. “That’s it, baby. Just go with the flow … let it happen, don’t fight it.” Pain merged with insurmountable pleasure.

  She trembled against him, yelling out words and sounds she never thought she could utter. He wailed, the sound followed by a grunt as he sent her over the edge, then filled her ass with cum, jerking in and out of her like a piston. As he slowly slid out of her canal, her pussy and ass throbbed with the aftershocks of her orgasm. She watched him rise to his feet, but could only lie there, silent, and come undone, her nerve endings on fire. He turned away and disappeared into what had to be the bathroom.

  Yes, I hear water running…

  When he returned, he picked her up into his arms, then set her down into a warm bubble bath. She couldn’t help but smile when he handed her a glass of wine. Then, he picked up a loofah and began to clean her body. They exchanged no words, but she did catch him glance at her from time to time. She definitely wondered what the hell was going on his mind.

  When he was done, he rinsed her off and dried her with a thick, fluffy towel that smelled like lavender, then handed her a clean new pair of panties, along with a new bra.

  That explains why they asked for my panty and bra size during the survey. Maybe they often get ripped or destroyed.

  They returned to the master suite, and he sat on the bed. Grabbing her skirt, she put her clothes back on, but he remained naked, a cool smirk on his face.

  “So,” she picked up her heels and slid one on, “if I wanted to see you again, how would that be arranged?”

  “You just contact the owner or host, Taz, and ask. She’ll check into my schedule and we’d get you squared away if the feeling was mutual.”

  She nodded in understanding.

  “Is your name really Raze? That’s a strange name if it is.”

  “Normally, I woul
dn’t answer that, but for you, I’ll make an exception. No, that’s not my real name. I have to use an alias. We all have lives outside of here,” he said on a yawn before getting to his feet and putting on his clothes.

  She took note of how slowly he moved—nothing at all like the vigor he had sported previously. It was almost as if he were drawing his exit out…

  “Well.” She grabbed her purse and slung it over her shoulder. “I may be in touch. We’ll see.”

  “I, uh, do private consultations, too.” Her brow rose at that statement. “No money is ever exchanged. I’m not a prostitute. That’s not how this works. In fact, I didn’t get paid for this and never do. I just have an affinity for helping women who can’t seem to help themselves. Every now and again I run into someone I like … someone like you. We’ll definitely be seeing each other again. You can bank on it.” He cast her a wink, then handed her his card and marched to the door, slamming the thing behind him.

  Why would a gigolo have a business card?

  And then she read it…

  Her mouth dropped wide open as she stared in total disbelief…

  No wonder he felt familiar. No wonder he used a fake name and was careful about his identity—so very careful. But in this moment in time, he’d opened up. Revealed himself to her, and only her…

  The words on the card jumped at her:

  CHAPTER ONE

  Extra Virgin Olive Oil

  The glass vessel was full of ripped little pieces of paper, colorful Post-It Notes, and scraps of stationery with a green trim. Each one had hand-written words, some with penciled-in barely legible scribbles, others eloquently jotted in black ink depending on his mood, sobriety, and temperament at any given day or time. Some were jokes to elicit a smile or memory from his childhood. Others, words of wisdom, though tinged with whimsical doodles. Yet others were quite serious, landing into offensive territory. Crude. Grotesque.

  Some were dire; a call to action. Nixon stood in his underwear, his black hair still wet from his long, hot shower and opened his bedroom suite’s double closet doors. Drawing the top black dresser drawer open, he carefully picked up the shiny jar, reverently as though holding a newborn. He set it atop the bureau, removed the lid, reached in, and randomly selected a piece of paper for the day as if it were a treat from cookie jar.

  It read, ‘You are a selfish son of a bitch, Nixon. Do something for someone else today that does not benefit you.’ He read it again, grunted, set it aside, and got dressed for his workday, donning one of his favorite Armani suits and a pair dark blue Stacy Adam shoes. Grabbing his keys, he headed out of his apartment with pep in his step, jingling all the way. When he arrived at his office building, he spotted a man he despised.

  This must be my cue.

  It was a fellow attorney he seldom saw as of late. The bastard was a sniveling snitch, a brownnoser, a liar. Nixon had been promoted in the firm, now a partner, and this fucker had done everything in his power to throw roadblocks in the way, smear his name with mendacities when the truth was far more sordid. But it was truth no one knew but Nixon. Nonetheless, Nixon shoved his resentment out of the way and tugged on the man’s sleeve. He offered him no greeting, no pleasant words, but simply removed his wallet from his pocket and took out a gift card for one of the best restaurants in town. It had been given to him by a friend that past Christmas.

  “Here, Walter. Enjoy yourself.” Nixon wanted to vomit as he got onto the elevator and caught the man’s astounded expression as the silo doors closed.

  Five-star place that you had to call at least two months in advance to book…

  He hated Walter with a million passions at that moment. In fact, Nixon figured he despised a good number of people. I understand human nature. I understand most people aren’t shit. He hated weakness in others, found it nauseating. Trying to stop another man’s success was definitely a weakness, and Walter had it in spades. He was a low-level son of a bitch who’d once been at the top of his game, but had let fame and fortune go to his head. A weakling who didn’t take care of himself, but saw the flaws in everyone else. Judgmental to his core. The kind of person that never swam a lap but told professional swimmers how to breaststroke. But there was always a reason for the behavior, cause and effect.

  Nixon also knew that Walter had recently gone through a bitter divorce and the rumor mill had it that his wife had wiped him out clean. Actually, it wasn’t a rumor; they had the documents. The proof was in black and white. The man was now in a house half the size of what he was accustomed to, in a neighborhood less than desirable to boot. A lawyer had gotten beaten in the system, outsmarted at his own game. His young adult kids had turned their backs on him and he was nursing depression from the desolate look in his eyes. Nixon tried to feel sorry for the guy, but couldn’t muster the feeling. Still, he believed that if he followed his gut instinct and the instructions on that little piece of paper he’d written himself the prior year and placed in that jar, maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t be judged so hard by the universe for the bullshit he’d dealt to others in life.

  I’ve already fucked up. I did it to get forgiveness from something or someone I am not even sure exists. Well, at least I tried. Good luck, Walter. It’s cheaper to keep her…

  Several days later…

  The second glass of merlot was tipped so the liquid would slide to the back of his eager throat, burning so good as it went down. He lusted for the flavor as his mind swam in the soothing salve of a good time. He smacked his lips, then polished it off, the last drop the very best of all. That all too familiar warmth flowed through his veins and the alcohol did its thing. Inhibitions he never knew he possessed, glinted and faded away amongst the crowd while drunken gods and goddesses whirled in the deep end of the watering hole. Electronica instrumental music played in the bar with pink and blue fluorescent lighting, Chicago’s one and only, ‘Raven’s.’ Nixon’s gut clenched as he fell into another fit of laughter. He’d been cracking up all night, so much his skull throbbed. He wouldn’t dare discuss what he’d seen and heard before he’d left the office. Most simply didn’t have the stomach for it.

  “Hey! You’re cheating, Nixon! Cover your eyes!” Charlotte, his long-time friend, bellowed.

  “They’re closed.”

  “No, they aren’t. I can see you looking!” she yowled in her shrill feminine voice.

  “How can you tell? I have some sorta eye condition according to you. You told me I must wear contacts, remember? You said that nobody has dark blue eyes naturally.”

  “Faker.”

  “Just pretend I can’t see you, Red. You say I ignore you all the time, anyway.”

  “Bastard!” The woman smirked before turning to navigate the tables and standing patrons, her long, strawberry blond hair flowing behind her like a superhero cape.

  “I know you’re still looking! Cheater!”

  “I am not cheating. Run your fucking ass on. Hurry up.” He nonchalantly waved his fingers, then covered his eyes as the music vibrated within his very soul. The overwhelming, perfumed scent of his palms stunned him. He’d been hugging and giving cheek pecks to various women he knew that night so he’d ended up covered in tones of musk, citrus, and gardenia—but regardless, he didn’t budge.

  “Don’t peek!” his friend bellowed from a distance as his other friends cackled.

  Why did I agree to this shit?

  The woman sounded as if she were scurrying away while they played a drunken game of Hide and Go Seek. 10… 9… 8… It was silly, but it was tradition whenever one of their own had a birthday party. All in all, the shit was in good fun. I’m ready for another drink. Let me hurry and get this over with.

  When he got around his friends, he’d unwind, relax, let the chaotic work week slip away like freshly pumped cum between a pair of fleshy pussy lips. As a medical attorney in Chicago, his job was stressful to say the least. He was known as a wrecking ball, a keen, slick legal shark determined to squeeze every dime on behalf of his client. He had several billbo
ards up around Chicago advertising his services, as well as radio and television ads with paid actors pretending to be him, of course. He much preferred pulling the strings behind the velvet curtain than being center stage. Besides, there was too much at risk. Someone had to draw a line in the sand. Despite the offers of local celebrityhood, he favored keeping his private life, well, private.

  “She’s gone! Chase the rabbit!” one of his friends yelled, tearing him away from his deliberations.

  “I’ve still got time on the clock.” He kept his eyes closed for a bit longer, pleased that his buddies were participating, too. They allowed him to take a much needed load off.

  Truth be told, he looked forward to these whimsical intervals, a break from the mundane. An aromatic sweet smell overwhelmed him then. Ahhh, the perfume again. This time, he picked up a mandarin note. Then rich vanilla… He exhaled a ragged breath.

  “Time’s up!” he hollered as he opened his eyes and slid off the bar stool. His buddies, Eddie, Harper, and Tex, chuckled as they held their respective drinks, watching him move about the place in search of his red-headed friend with the 38DD boobs. Rolling up his sleeve just so, he took calculated steps forward, looking all around like a cheetah on the prowl. He’d known the lady for years, a fellow attorney who’d been married to a quack, an ambulance chasing doctor he despised.

  Yeah, those kind existed, hungry to get their hands on patients and make a big fucking deal over a sprained ankle. Being a medical attorney, he’d run into all sorts: The crooked cops that were being paid to lie at accident scenes and in court rooms; medical practitioners that had fucked up and removed the wrong damn toe but blamed it on an anesthesiologist… Pretty much the gamut. Charlotte’s ex-husband was low on the totem pole. Jokes circulated about him like nobody’s business. They’d bumped heads more than once, and Nixon just wasn’t the sort to lie back and take it.