Authors: Harper Cole
His hand went higher, right up, pushing between my legs to cup me. I was suddenly uncomfortable.
"Hey, this is a public place, you know."
"On the contrary," he said, whispering in my ear. "This is a very private place indeed."
It was wrong - it was dangerous - for all his talk of politeness and propriety, this was way beyond the bounds of normal behavior. Yet as his strong hand clamped over my pussy and his finger pushed at the thin fabric of my panties, I knew I wanted him to do this.
But I also knew that I didn't want him - or anyone - to know that I wanted him to do it.
I am not totally sure I wanted myself to know it, actually.
His lips began to nibble at my ear lobe and a shiver of anticipation ran down my spine. I reached out and put my hand on his leg, but he whispered, "No, you cannot touch me. Yet."
My hand obeyed even before rational thought had decided what to do. I wrapped my hands around the edge of the couch, clinging on as he worked with confident, sure strokes between my legs. No one looked our way but surely they were aware of what was going on! I found myself arching my back and thrusting out my breasts. If I were going to be seen as some kind of slut, I figured I may as well go the whole nine yards.
Somehow that internal acceptance unlocked something in me. My thighs were quivering now as he rubbed on my clit and I knew my juices were soaking through my panties and my dress.
Look at me,
I started to think, as people walked by.
Look at how debased I really am.
My internal monologue would have shocked me if I'd had much capacity left to think it through.
But instead I was becoming consumed by my own lust. His touch was igniting the fire in me, and rekindling the memories of the previous week. I hadn't even had time or inclination to masturbate lately and now I needed release, and I needed it badly.
"Oh God," I hissed as the heel of his hand ground against my swelling clit. His fingers had pulled my panties to one side and were shoving in and out of my pussy; I could feel the wetness all around my upper thighs. Was I really going to cum, right here? I stifled my gasps, determined not to make a sound.
Please God don't let me scream
, I prayed.
My legs were almost jerking up and down now, and my fingers dug into the plush fabric of the edge of the seat. Just a moment longer-
He pulled his fingers from me, and my pussy gaped. He fished in his pocket with his other hand, and withdrew a large square handkerchief. It was one of those real ones, cloth, not paper. He began to clean his fingers, wiping himself clean with a studied concentration.
. I wasn't done.
And then I understood his punishment and I could have cried with frustration.
So - now what? I struggled to decide on my next move. If I let him know how badly that hurt, he'd be satisfied that his punishment was working.
But that meant admitting that he
been successful, and that idea rankled.
If I played it cool, like it didn't matter, would he seek to punish me in another way?
"Jeez," I said, letting out a long, slow sigh.
"You are magnificent," he told me, as if that would make it all okay again. He pulled the hemline of my dress down. "But please. Do make yourself presentable. Another drink, perhaps?"
I nodded, and blushed furiously as the waitress skipped over. He dropped the stained kerchief on her tray and she whisked it away, returning within moments with a clean tray and drinks for us both.
I didn't know what to say. Where the hell does conversation turn after a stunt like that? It really was easier to just wait and let him take the lead.
He said something about the history of the building we were in; I didn't pay attention. It was enough that he was talking and I could nod and pretend to listen. My whole body was throbbing. I wondered if I could scurry off to the bathroom and relieve myself in the stalls, but I balked at that idea. It felt somehow dirty.
But hell, I was going to have to finish the job somehow, and soon. The pressure in me needed a release.
I drank quickly and he did not; he sipped at his drink, keeping steady eye contact with me, and I knew that he was still playing with me.
And sure, I could have gotten up and walked away.
But I did not. I wanted to play this game, and see where it went, and my heart was pounding with anticipation because I knew this was going to be dangerous now.
My tension and lust did not abate. By remaining there I was pretty much saying to myself and to him that I wanted this, and now I couldn't wait to see what would happen next.
Suddenly he slammed his tumbler down onto the table and turned to me. His eyes were burning with lust and that took me by surprise. He'd been so calm and cool and in control but now I saw that he, too, was stretched out taut as I was.
"You're still here," he said, as if he'd been reading my thoughts.
"Yeah." I licked my lips. It was supposed to be provocative but I just felt nervous. "Yes I am."
He moved up against me, then, his bulk making me shiver as he held my throat and growled into my ear. "You will call me Sir when we are together in lust. And whenever we are together, let me assure you, we will be together in lust."
I didn't quite catch his meaning but I think I could work it out. I nodded slightly, hampered by his hand. "Sure."
"Sure," he said, the word mockingly strange in his accent. "Sure, what?"
"Sure … Sir."
I was rewarded with a kiss again, hard and deep and swift that left me gasping. Then he pulled away and hauled me to my feet. Before I could think, or protest, he was hurrying me out the door and down through the club, waving at the staff; I hadn't seen him pay for anything but no one seemed concerned.
I was more bothered about the stain of my own juices that I knew would be apparent across the back of my dress, but I was dragged on, relentlessly.
He talked as we went.
"You are magnificent, Jasmine Turner," he said, a long monologue pouring from him as we elbowed through the crowds to the exits. "Beautiful, intelligent, fiery and stubborn. Flawed and intriguing. I could fight you all day and all night and never get tired of that. You have depths that I want to swim in. I want to make you scream with pleasure and with pain and back to pleasure again. I want to show you your own soul; I want to reveal the places within that you don't yet know exist. And I do this for my own pleasure as well as yours. And now…"
We stopped on the sidewalk and he waved for a cab. He'd drunk too much to drive us anywhere, and I was suddenly struck by his law-abiding nature, underneath it all. I nearly smiled.
"And now," he continued, as we slid into the back of a traditional London cab, "now it is time for my own pleasure."
He pulled me around and pushed at me, sending me to my knees on the spacious floor of the cab, facing him. I didn't dare to look down at what I might be kneeling in. My hands gripped his thighs as I looked up at him. I knew what he meant me to do. I wondered if he would command it.
Some strange new part of me
him to command it.
I think I wanted to find out if I'd fight him or if I'd simply obey. Because I kinda wanted to do both.
The cab moved in fits and starts and I knew the driver would be able to see what we were up to. Andrew had spoken to him as we had gotten in, but I didn't hear what he said. I had no idea where we were going - or if the cabbie had been told to simply drive around in circles for a while.
"Now unbutton my trousers and suck me," he said.
I don't know if it was nerves or alcohol but I giggled when he said "trousers" because he sounded so British.
His hands suddenly clasped the side of my head and pulled me forward roughly. "You stayed with me. You got in this taxi. Now do what you have agreed to do."
I hadn't - had I? Yes, I had. I knew what this entailed. Still, I fought him briefly, almost for the look of the thing as he dragged my face toward his crotch.
My heart was hammering loudly and when I shifted position, my slippery panties slid next to my skin, and I was reminded of my arousal. And when I pulled his cock free from his pants, my pussy resumed its earlier throbbing. God, I wanted that monster inside me.
That didn't seem to be his plan, tonight. He was hard already and maybe he had been for some time. I leaned forward, pushing my body between his thighs, and he squeezed me which sent a thrill right through my ribcage and down my spine. Suddenly I wanted him to squeeze me harder - hurt me almost - make me feel as much as it was possible for me to feel.
Was that what he meant about pleasure to pain and back to pleasure again? I wanted to know.
I needed to know.
So I pulled back and he grabbed my head again, his fingers knotting into my hair, and jerked me onto his cock so that my mouth had no option but to close over him. His thighs gripped me and his hands moved my head back and forth; this wasn't any kind of blow-job. This was a face-fucking and I was merely the object. The receptacle. I was being used.
And it was kinda funny but he was using
and somehow that made me feel wanted and then I stopped thinking at all because his thick cock was filling my mouth and I had to concentrate just to not gag as he ploughed into me and my pussy was running with juice and when I let my hand stray from his leg to reach down to touch myself, he barked out a refusal:
"No! You will
I didn't care any longer. I wanted him to cum. I needed him to fill me up and I worked up and down his shaft, as much as I could, though his hands directed the speed and the movement. I pressed my tongue on the thick vein that ran along the underside and licked and sucked, though my eyes were watering and my lips were stretched and hurting now.
"I'm going to cum and you're going to drink every drop," he growled and I had no option because he was buried to the hilt in me now.
Then he was jerking, his hips in spasm and the hot liquid filled me and I swallowed it desperately, eager to not spill a thing.
I was thrown away from him as the cab came to an unexpected halt and I sprawled on the floor, my legs crumpled under me and my knees sore from kneeling. He tucked himself away and stretched, letting out a satisfied sigh, before leaning forward and extending his hand to me.
I hesitated. A moment ago he'd been brutal in his use of me. And now?
"You were magnificent," he whispered. "Well done. You have exceeded my expectations and, indeed, my hopes."
He took my hand and half-lifted me from the cab out onto the sidewalk, and wrapped his left arm around my waist to support me while the feeling returned to my legs. He asked the cabbie to wait, and I realized I was outside my own apartment block once more.
Still my pussy throbbed with need and it made me crotchety all of a sudden. "You're messing with my mind," I said. "One minute you're telling me I need punishing and the next, you tell me I'm magnificent."
"Because both things are true," he said, pulling me to his chest and stroking my hair gently. I grew a little calmer, almost in spite of myself. "I'm not claiming to be in a committed relationship with you. But while we are together I feel a great deal of responsibility and tenderness towards you. Like a father with their errant child, caring can be shown through punishment and chastisement."
"For my own good?" I said, sinking into his words. Maybe this gentle moment could become something more, and bring me the relief that I sought.
"Absolutely," he said, and then he was stepping back, and patting my ass. "Run home now, lovely thing, and we'll play again soon."
I knew he was toying with me - I tried to fight down my rising infuriation - but he turned from me and hopped back into the cab.
My resolve broke. My need was a physical pain. I screamed out loud, not caring who heard me: "You arrogant asshole!"
The cab pulled away and I hoped he heard me.
And I knew he'd punish me for it, and I knew that I wanted it.
* * * *
I was smitten with him and I knew it, and though I kept saying to myself that I didn't know what to do - that was false. I knew what to do. I was going to run with this new adventure.
And though I went straight to bed, I did not let my hand stray to my pussy. I held that throbbing need close to myself in remembrance of him.
* * * *
I lingered in bed on Sunday morning, stalking Carlee through Facebook and idly reading trashy internet sites, but my cellphone rang and forced me to shuffle through to my tiny living area. This was an expensive apartment in London, financed by my company, and I had been shocked at how small everything was.
Small and illogical. Also, I hated the stupid faucet that had two outlets - one hot, one cold. I hated the plugs that meant I'd had to buy a ton of adaptors just to charge my cell and my laptop. I didn't hate the television as much as I thought I was going to; all the major cable channels were provided, and for the first few nights I'd fallen asleep on the couch with NFL commentary on low in the background, the familiar accents relaxing me.
I didn't make it to the caller before they rang off, and I was kinda glad I'd missed it when I saw it was from my mom again.
I waited a little while and then it buzzed with a voicemail notification. I'd been deleting them without listening to them, but it was odd for her to have tried to call me so many times.
This time, then, I decided I'd listen to it.
I wished I hadn't.
Maybe I had gotten so used to the British accents around me but her voice sounded harsh and shrill. Then again, she'd always had the ability to set my teeth on edge; it was just that I didn't want to hear her, perhaps.
Every sentence ended on a rising squeak as she frantically informed me that "Angie needs you, honey! She's in real trouble! Did you get my messages? We don't know what to do! And there's the children!"
I was being battered by exclamation points. I deleted this message, too, cutting my mom off as she began her pleading for me to call her back.
Angela was my younger sister, and an example of everything that was wrong in the world. She was a lazy, work-shy stay at home mom with a feckless redneck husband called Brian and the worst of it was this: their kids were called Bonnie, Billie and Bobbie.
Oh yeah, wait, and their surname was fucking Baker.
I mean, if you want a stereotype of trailer trash, there it is. Right there.
Okay, so Brian worked a hardware store and he did pretty long hours, too. He had apparently no ambition to get himself out of that dead end job. I don't think he had any kind of college degree; I was sure he was a high school drop-out and so was Angie herself. Hell, she'd popped out her first baby when she was nineteen, effectively ruining her life.
Everything Angie did made me feel sick. Our mom had worked damn hard when we were growing up; she'd left our deadbeat father and worked two jobs to get us through school, which made Angie's actions even more of an insult. She had this sense of entitlement that I just didn't get.
In spite of all that, our mom didn't cut her off or call her out on it. Nope. She kept on supporting Angie, and her brood of stupidly-named kids, and so Angie thought it was okay to live like that.
Still, I tolerated her at family gatherings. We used to live pretty close together and I had helped her out, way back when she was starting out with Brian and she was pregnant for the second time. When she'd gotten pregnant the third time, I started to lose patience. I sent her some condoms and hoped she'd get the hint.
Instead, she'd repaid me by stealing my credit cards and my goddamn identity and running up a huge fucking debt.
She claimed afterwards she'd been too scared to tell me she was in financial trouble.
I mean, what? She was too scared to tell me - so she went and fucking
I might not have been delighted at coming to England but it was a promotion and more importantly, it was far, far away from Angie.
And now she was "in trouble" and I had to do something?
She could go get a job like the rest of us.
Angie tugged at my mind and I realized my face was so tense it was beginning to hurt. I wanted to cut myself off from her. From all my family. It was too complicated.
But it was never that easy, was it?