plaything (4 page)

I made sure
to curl my lips over my teeth to protect them as I worked that beautiful tool.
It was a technique I'd been taught by my first boyfriend in an effort to spare
his tiny, hair-triggered prick from would-be scrapes or gouges. He'd read
about it in his step-mom's Cosmopolitan Magazine and an irrational fear of female
dental work was born. He was the only kid I knew who was more clueless about
sex than I was at the time. No wonder we got married the moment we turned
eighteen.

About ten
months into our marriage, my older brother came home from semester break at
college. He'd brought his girlfriend and the two of them stayed in the living
room of our tiny apartment, since our parents wouldn't let them sleep together
under their roof.

That first
night, Duane and I lay in bed quietly laughing as we listened to our guests
gently moaning in unison through the paper-thin walls. Then an interesting
thing happened. Instead of ending in a spastic yelp, it continued on, getting
louder and louder. Our laughter was replaced by genuine confusion as we
listened to the girlfriend moan and gasp so intensely that I wondered if she
was okay. Then I heard my brother tell her what a little "whore"
she was for letting him "fuck" her "cunt" this way. And
instead of getting mad, she actually admitted to it, saying she was
"sorry" and that she "couldn't help it." But instead of
accepting her apology, my brother insisted on spanking her, as if he was
completely innocent in all this! Enough was enough, and I started to get up to
go break up the argument, but Duane caught me by the arm.

"I
think this is just how they do it," he whispered.

"What
are you talking about, he's hurting her," I said.

"I
don't think so," he said, "I think they're just freaks.
Listen."

I lay back
and listened intently as she actually begged him to pull her hair. He must
have obliged because her groans got even louder with each thrust as I heard my
brother's balls slapping against her ass or leg, or whatever the hell they were
slapping against.

A good
twenty minutes had passed and still there was no sign that they would be
winding down anytime soon. My young husband lay next to me, motionless, as my
brother fucked his girl with reckless abandon. Suddenly I started becoming
moist in my panties even though I hadn't touched myself, a first for me. I rolled
over and snuggled up to Duane, placing my hand on his stomach. He did not move
as I slid my young, hopeful fingers under the waistband of his Dale Earnhardt
pajamas and found his four-inch cock standing at full attention. Putting my
lips directly to his ear, I whispered, "Make me your whore." And
with that, his cock lurched and shot three thin spurts of warm cum in my hand.

Now, ten
years after that first miserably failed attempt at being dominated, I found
myself swallowing a loaded pistol in the sincere hope that I was pleasing
my…whateverhewas.

By the way,
don't knock giving a blowjob to a loaded Smith and Wesson until you've tried
it. Somehow, I managed to become completely lost in the moment, forgetting
that the slightest twitch could make each breath my last. Still, after a
minute or so, I slowly opened my eyes to find him smiling down at me once
again. My trembling had stopped, and so had any residual fear.

I opened
wide as he slowly, carefully removed the weapon from my mouth and placed it back
inside the harness.

"Are
you a thug?" I asked, "Or some sort of assassin?"

"Which
do you prefer?" he asked in return, slapping his still-hard cock against
my cheek a few times.

"I like
the idea of an assassin better," I said. "It seems more artful somehow."

"Then
I'm a thug," he said.

I don't know
why I was so shocked when I heard the electric garage door open at the opposite
end of the home. After all, the open house had been scheduled to end two hours
ago, and the Rasmussens were bound to come home eventually.

"Oh
fuck!" I said, scrambling to my feet, "They're home."

"Bend
over," he said.

"What?!"
I asked, my mind on fire.

"You
heard me," he said, "Bend over and put your hands behind your
back."

"But
the Rasmussens!" I protested.

In what
seemed like a single motion he turned me around, pushed my head down to my
knees and literally ripped the purple thong off of my ass. A nanosecond later
my hands were bound behind my back with what was left of the now ruined
panties.

I heard the garage
door come to a stop and the Rasmussen's car pull in as he yanked my skirt above
my ass and parked his cock inside my still wet pussy. Taking my hips into two
strong hands, he fucked me with the entire length of that perfect tool.

"There
isn't time," I protested as both he and my own blissful cunt ignored me.

Car doors
now slammed inside the garage as he, in turn, slammed against my pink, round
ass. Spreading my feet a little wider, I looked down between my shaking thighs
to watch his cock take long, delicious strokes until a wave of girl-juice
drenched his fearless balls.

"Oh
God, you're making me cum you naughty gangster," I whispered.

Just then he
crashed into me one last time as his cock expanded, firing off round after
round, each with just a hint of delicious recoil.

I heard the
door to the kitchen open and grocery bags hit the counter as he slowly removed
himself and zipped up his pants. I stood on wobbly legs and let him smooth my
skirt down over my ass for me.

"Hurry
and untie me," I whispered.

"No,"
he whispered back.

I struggled
to free my hands but it was no use.

"Please,
I begged," hearing footsteps enter the hallway.

He grabbed a
handful of hair, pulled my head back and kissed me on the neck.

"Deal
with it," he said.

My pussy was
still in spasm, taking an orgasmic victory lap as Mr. Rasmussen opened the door
and peered inside.

"Oh,
Lauren, you're still here," he said, stating the obvious.

"Yes,"
I managed, "I was…just showing the house to one last interested
party."

Then suddenly
I realized an opportunity.

"Mr.
Rasmussen, this is…I'm sorry, sir, I don't believe I caught your name," I
said with a smile.

He smiled
bigger and offered me his hand.

"That's
true, how rude of me," he said, "I'm Marcus."

The moment,
like his hand, hung in awkward silence. The mischief in his eyes was so pure
and unapologetic that I wanted to scream at him almost as much as I wanted to
turn around and beg for round two.

I did my
best girlish chuckle and pretended the hand was simply not there.

"I'd
like you to meet Thomas Rasmussen," I said with a sideways nod.

"Oh,
yes," he said, extending his hand to Mr. Rasmussen, "How do you
do?"

Mr.
Rasmussen took the hand, "Marcus, call me Tom," he said.

Oh well, at
least I had a first name. Theoretically.

"You
certainly have a beautiful home," Marcus told Tom, "Lauren here was
just giving me the VIP tour."

"Isn't
she great," Tom gushed, "Janet and I knew we had the right girl for
the job the moment we met her."

They both
smiled at me as if I were a 6-year-old playing the fairy princess in the school
play. Considering my hands remained helplessly bound behind my back, I could
only give a coy little shrug.

As the two
of them made small talk, I felt a slow river of white-hot lava inching down my
inner thigh. I did my best to squeeze off the flow at its source, but my
floodgates were still busy quivering at the moment. By my rough calculations,
I had no more than a minute or two before my skirt would be too short to
conceal just how dedicated a saleswoman I was.

"Can I
interest anyone in a cup of coffee?" Mr. Rasmussen offered.

"That
sounds like just the thing," Marcus quickly replied, "If it's no
trouble, of course."

"Not at
all, it'll just be a few minutes," Mr. Rasmussen said, "But first, I
think I'll stand here a little while longer until the sticky cum reaches
Lauren's knees so that I can see what an inappropriate little slut she has been
and proceed to have her real estate license revoked."

Okay, he
didn't actually say that. Instead he mentioned something about the cedar-lined
closet and double-sink master bath, but in my mind there was really only one
topic of conversation and it was running straight down my leg.

“As a matter
of fact we were just going to have a look at that master bath,” I said. “We’ll
catch up with you and Janet in a moment.”

“Fine,” he
said, turning and mercifully exiting the room.

I
immediately pivoted and shuffled to the bathroom as cum now flowed freely down
both of my thighs. Stopping in the doorway to look back, I waved him over with
just my head.

“Get in
here,” I whispered.

He looked
around, playing dumb.

“Who? Me?”
he asked.

“Oh,
hardeehar-har!” I said, trying not to actually laugh. “Now hurry up before I
get pissed.”

He shrugged
and did as I requested, pretending to be actually evaluating the bathroom once
inside.

“Nice vanity
mirror,” he said.

I pushed the
door shut with my shoulder.

“Untie me,”
I demanded.

“Is that
granite?” he asked.

I laughed a
little, damn it.

“Look, I
like you,” I said, “But enough is enough.”

He walked
over to one of the double sinks and tested the faucet, still ignoring my urgent
pleas.

“In about
thirty seconds,” I said, “I’m going to have a mess on my hands. A mess most
guys aren't even aware of and probably don’t want think about, let alone
witness.”

He looked up
at his own reflection in the mirror, then over at mine, seemingly weighing my
words.

“You’re
right,” he said, “I’m out of here.”

He walked
right past me and opened the door.

"Please,"
I begged, my eyes welling up.

He turned on
his heels and looked back.

"I know
you're just testing me. Exploring my limits. But believe me, you've found
them, at least for the moment," I said, "I understand that you have
the control here, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I can't wait to see
where all of this goes from here, but right now I just really need you to untie
me."

He walked
back to me as a tear slid from my eye and clung to my upper lip. Kissing it
away, he reached behind and deftly freed my hands with a single tug then placed
the frayed panties in the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

I smiled.

"Take
your time," he said before exiting and quietly closing the door.

As I entered
the kitchen, Tom and Janet Rasmussen greeted me with sympathetic smiles.
Unfortunately, a partial cup of coffee sat cold and abandoned on the opposite
end of the counter.

"He
said to tell you it just wasn't what he was looking for," Janet said as
she poured me a cup of my own.

“Oh, that’s
too bad,” I managed to reply without crying or stomping my feet.

“I know, I
was just telling Tom that if that guy had bought this place I’d have thrown
myself in for free,” she said, “Was that a beautiful man or what?”

“You think
so?” I said.

“Are you
kidding? Did you see those eyes?” She asked.

“Maybe,” I
said taking a sip of coffee and trying not to have an anxiety attack.

So that was
it then. I’d had my chance and blown it. It was back to the old me again. Me
and the Rasmussens sipping cheap coffee in a split-level rancher. Me and Norm
Larson trading phone sex for a quick sale. Me flirting with young baristas
one minute and dodging the pathetic advances of middle-aged dads the next.

What I would
have given to feel ripped panties cutting the circulation to my hands again.
To feel hot cum streaming down my thighs, knees, calves, ankles until this
gentle couple saw me for what I really was: a beautiful and daring plaything
who didn’t belong in their world.

But no, I
had to talk back, questioning the authority of the one man who instinctively
knew my potential. I was a budding Kentucky Derby winner who would never be
saddled; doomed instead to wander the endless plains without rider or
destination.

"We've
decided on breakfast for dinner if you'd like to join us," Janet offered.

"Oh,
no, I'm fine," I said.

"Are
you sure?" Tom asked removing a carton of eggs from the fridge, "I
make a mean omelet."

"No
really, I should go," I said.

Suddenly the
thought of being back at my impeccably designed yet perfectly empty apartment
was more than I could bear. My eyes filled with tears, throwing the world out
of focus.

"Hey,
what's all this?" Tom asked setting down the eggs.

Janet rushed
to my side, "Honey have a seat," she said inching me toward a stool.
"There will be other buyers," she assured me, "You'll see."

"I know
that," I said, "I'm sorry."

"Lauren,
we're in no particular hurry to sell," Tom chimed in, "You're doing
all you can. We understand that it's a buyer's market out there and, really,
we've got all the time in the…"

"Tom,"
Janet interrupted, "Make the eggs, honey."

She reached
for a tissue box and pulled a few out.

"I'm
sorry," I repeated, "It's been a long day."

"Let me
walk you to the door," Janet offered.

I gave Tom a
hug and he asked me to reconsider breakfast.

"I
can't," I said, "I've taken up enough of your evening."

Janet led me
toward the front door, tissue box still in hand. I took a few extras for the
road.

"Hey,"
Janet said placing a hand on my arm, "Look at me."