Fifty Shades of Fairy Tales Omnibus (9 page)

“
Yes sir,” I grumbled around his penis.

Derek Tremblay was the editor-in-chief of the Sudbury Review, a medium-sized newspaper publisher in Sudbury, Ontario where I’d worked for the last three years. I was an acquisitions editor who doubled as a reporter when I first got the job, but after expertly sucking Mr. Tremblay’s cock I quickly moved up the Review’s ladder. He made me his executive editor after we started fucking. I take that as a compliment.

My name is Greg Butler, and I’m a journalist, which you probably already guessed. Well, truth is, these days I don’t go out and get the stories much anymore. I stay in my nice, cushy exec office and edit them. Believe me, it’s still hard work red penning those puppies, particularly when we get a new crop of journalists fresh in from college, but sometimes I miss going out there and getting into my work, too.

However, not a journalist at the Review wanted to cover the yearly Darmoor murder legend story. Though not an old legend, only ten years have passed since the event, it’s well known and just scandalous enough to make the little town it happened in … well … legendary.

So why doesn’t anyone want to cover it? Well, in the past we’d do a boring blanket story. Someone would go down to the archives and pull up all the old files on the murder that happened in the sleepy little suburb of Chestnut Lane, only a fifteen minute drive from my office in Sudbury. Not exactly thrilling reporting, combing through archives and sneezing your way through a decade of dust.

But to get to Hans, the center of this local melodrama, I’d have to go all the way out past Chestnut Lane, into a rural district that was bordered by an old growth forest. No one had gone to interview Hans in years, and he rarely allowed strangers in his home, or so I’d heard.

Hans Muller was a witch who had been accused of murdering his lover. He was cleared of the charges due to lack of evidence, but most of the Darmoor people still think he did it. Hans keeps to himself on a little piece of land at the Darmoor limits. And it looks like I’m going to be his houseguest this weekend.

“
I can’t believe he agreed to it,” I said to myself as I drove through thick Ontario woods, down a rutted dirt road that led to Hans’ Victorian gingerbread home.

I parked outside a place done up in faded mint green with a porch out front that was framed in dingy white latticework. The turned porch posts were chipped and broken in places, and some of the spindles hanging from the rounded windows were missing, but the home still held its strange storybook charm. I couldn’t help but grin as I got out of the car and grabbed my canvas bag from the back of my Honda. Looking at it reminded me of fairy tales my gran would read to us as kids.

I knocked on the dark mahogany door and peered through one of the two windows in the top half of the entrance. Inside was gloomy and lacked light, but I could see someone drawing close through gray afternoon sunlight spilling in via what I assumed was the kitchen.

But no one opened up. I waited. Knocked again. Then I heard a soft yet deep voice say, “Enter.”

So I did.

Hans Muller took my breath away. I’d heard stories. That he was nothing like what you expected. I’d expected an unkempt hermit with bleary, wild eyes and a set of mismatched clothes. What stood before me in the poorly lit foyer was a blond man of medium height who looked like a New York model. Normally I liked my lovers a little less pretty, but there was something in Hans stare that drew me in and refused to let go.

His features were fine, soft. His full lips begged to be kissed. Straight, thick hair was slicked away from his face and just brushed the wide, ribbed straps on the white tank he wore. A simple pair of blue jeans hugged his slender hips. He wasn’t muscle bound, but he was fit. His wide eyes were so light blue they looked like circles of ice.

He looked me up and down, and his face remained unreadable as he did so. “Who are you, and why are you in my house?”

I frowned, scratched my somewhat shaggy eyebrow (damn, they’d need a trim before they poked me in the eye). “Greg Butler. I’m from the Sudbury Review.” I held up my bag. “I’m here to interview you this weekend.”

Now he smiled. The gesture took its time curling his lips, and the look reminded me of a cat carefully stalking a mouse. “Ah, Derek sent you, even though I refused. This shouldn’t surprise me.”

This time I scratched at the stubble peppering my face. “You know Derek?”

He turned away, revealing a firm ass that bunched nicely as he walked. “Yes, we’re … old friends, you could say. He was the first interview I ever allowed.” With one hand, he beckoned for me to follow him into the kitchen.

The room was sparse, but filled with state of the art appliances. I saw a state-of-the-art mixer in one corner that looked like it would’ve cost a tidy sum. I’m not much of a cook, but I could tell Hans was a baker of some sort.

That’s when my eye caught the retro arborite table to my left. It was laid with a blue and white checkerboard cloth, and the top of this was filled with gingerbread men. Or, at first glance, I thought they were gingerbread men. I tore my gaze from them for a moment when Hans spoke again.

“
So what does Derek want for this interview, hmmmm?” He sounded both faintly amused and annoyed. “He’s gotten all he’s going to get. I don’t care how many sexy reporters he sends.”

I blinked at that, then grinned. “Why, thank you. Sure I can’t change your mind?”

He walked to one side of the table filled with gingerbread men, crossed his arms over his chest (I think to show off his pecs). “What did you have in mind? If you’re creative, maybe I’ll spill secrets even Derek doesn’t know.”

My eyebrows drew together, becoming a unibrow of surprise. I chuckled and shoved one hand in my khaki dress pants. “Just so happens I took creative journalism in college.”

He moved around the table so fast it was almost spooky. We stood nose to nose, and I could smell a hint of peppermint on his breath. I leaned forward and boldly cupped his cock while he brushed his lips over mine.

“
Then be inventive, and get your story out of me,” he said, before I seized the back of his neck and claimed those pouty lips in a hungry kiss.

I could be an aggressive reporter, but I hadn’t planned this. If bending him over his counter and giving him a good fucking would get the story, my trip might be more enjoyable than I anticipated. It couldn’t be this easy, could it? My cynical side didn’t buy it, but my horny side didn’t really care.

I went to push him down on top of the table, but he stopped me. “No, we’ll ruin my shipment.” He pointed at the arm to arm gingerbread men. “And I won’t have time to bake enough to fill the order if I mess these up. Come downstairs. Let me show you my dungeon.”

A witch with a dungeon? This weekend just went from boring to full of strange and intriguing possibilities.

He led me down a twisted stone staircase that reminded me of movies about medieval times. Sconces on the walls held lamps shaped to mimic old fashioned torches. These lit our way to a arched door made of cherry wood with long, arrowed shaped hinges.

Hans opened up and waved a hand to usher me inside. Once I stepped over the threshold, he flipped the lights on.

I took in the contents of his dungeon, while he filled me in on what he called his treasures. There were red brocade spanking benches sewn with fine gold thread and perched on ornately carved walnut wood frames. Leather collars, some with studs, some with rings for an assortment of leashes, hung on a section of one wall, along with an assortment of whips, paddles, ball gags, and various masks. There was a standing rack and a horizontal one with a combination of leather and chain manacles. The room housed so many toys, as Hans referred to them, there was no way I would see all of them in one visit.

“
Make your choice,” Hans told me, that angelic beauty still unreadable. “The guest gets first pick.”

I looked at him, searching for some trace of something--a twitch of his lip, his eyes wandering in a certain direction--that would tell me where this was heading. What his game plan really was, but the man appeared to be a master at disguising his emotions.

So I pointed to a padded chair, done up in the same brocade style as the spanking benches. It had leather manacles positioned at its legs, but there were no arms on the piece. When Hans strapped me in, he tied my wrists behind my back with a pair of steely handcuffs.

“
Ready to begin?” He stared into my eyes, the ghost of a smile hovering over his lips.

I was now stripped naked, bound, and more vulnerable than I’d been in a very long time. I started to second guess this decision I’d made to get a second rate story. (Okay, and a piece of ass.)

He stood and paced before me, holding something rubber that he slapped against his palm in time with each step. “Here’s how we’ll play round number one,” he said, giving me a bold perusal with those glittering jewel eyes. “For every question I answer, I get to ask a question.” He held up the rubber piece. “And apply a little torment.”

I breathed deeply, bluffed complete composure. “Sounds like a plan.”

He gave a sideways foxlike smile. “Good. Let’s begin.” And then he gave me the safe words to stop my torment, if I wanted to. “Ask away.”

“
Why did you kill your lover, Rebecca Meyer?”

His face stiffened then soured. There was no doubt I’d hit a raw nerve. “I didn’t kill her.” He looked me straight in the eye when he said this, and I believed him. “But I know who did, and I took care of him a very long time ago.”

I’ve met a lot of liars in my line of work, and I can tell when someone’s bullshitting me. Hans’ face was stark with honesty and pain. I felt compassion for him in that moment, even if he had me at a disadvantage.

Then the fox smile returned, wiping away all traces of pain as he leveled that penetrating gaze on me. “Now, my turn.”

He knelt before me and showed me the rubber apparatus he held. “This is a cock ring with a ball plug. First, I’m going to get you nice and hard, then I’m going to put the ring on and keep you that way for as long as I want.”

A deal was a deal, and it didn’t sound like a terrible proposition to me, so I leaned back and let him have my semi-erect cock. “Do your best.”

Those blazing eyes gave me one last sexy stare before he dipped his head to my glans and licked the smooth, pinkish brown head. I sighed and my stomach tightened from the contact. He lapped at my hole, sucking up my pre-cum like it was sweet icing. I moaned and let my head fall back on my shoulders.

His hand grasped my shaft tight after he lubed me up with long, catlike licks from my balls to the ridge beneath the head. My breathing grew shallow and rapid as he pumped me slowly, twisting his spit-slickened hand as he did so. Then he tugged on my balls with his teeth, sucked the sac deeply into his mouth, before he slid the cool rubber ring over my throbbing hard on.

He stopped touching my cock and I groaned in disappointment. The ring was so tight it felt as if it strangled my penis. But the pressure at the base was pleasant, too, and the rubber ball swept over my scrotum when I moved, heightening the sensation.

“
Now, my turn.” He grabbed my chin roughly, arched an eyebrow as he forced me to stare deep into his eyes. “Are you fucking Derek?”

I blinked, surprised by his inquiry. “Does it matter?”

His sexy smile returned and he shrugged. “Not really, but I’m curious.”

“
Yeah, I am.”

He tapped his chin with one finger as he dropped to his haunches in front of me. Now, he was clad in nothing but leather pants and stylish leather boots with silver accents. It made him look like a cross between sexy rocker bad ass and modern dungeon master.

He tugged the ball hanging from the cock ring, sending sensation through my throbbing erection. And there would be no release until he removed the ring and let me cum. The toy was designed to keep me hard for as long as he desired.

“
Are you two lovers?”

I shrugged. “We’re convenient. Derek wants sex without strings, I want to climb the journalism ladder. It’s mutually beneficial.”

He nodded. “Makes sense.”

Then he dipped to his knees and yanked on the ball again while plucking at my sensitive sac. I grit my teeth when he told me I wasn’t allowed to scream, yell, or moan until he told me so. It felt so good, but a part of me questioned my sanity for letting myself be so vulnerable with a stranger. And one who was accused of murder at that.

“
Your turn,” he finally said after he’d tortured my scrotum and cock until they burned and pulsed like mad.

The need to cum overrode all my thoughts, but I gathered enough brainpower to say, “Who did kill Rebecca?”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re not ready to know yet, and I’m not ready to tell you.” He smoothed his strong, thin hands up my hairy thighs. “Now, raise your ass for me.”

Briefly I thought of using the safe word, of getting out of here and putting some distance between me and this eccentric witch. But as I looked down at his hand cradling the ball on the end of the cock ring, I grew more curious as to what he planned on doing with me next.

So I did as he instructed, lifting my butt off the cushioned seat. He gripped one buttock and held me there, then his head dipped between my legs and his tongue flit out, hot and wet, over my crack.

I moaned loudly in response and he stopped, admonishing me for breaking the rules. He made me wait, demanded I beg. I panted once his hands returned to my cock, and his tongue pressed into the soft, lightly haired flesh covering my balls.

He licked lower, teasing my perineum and then tugging on it with his teeth. I had to hiss air between my clenched teeth to hold back my scream. It was ecstasy and agony all rolled into one, and the combination had my brain sparking like mad.

His tongue trailed lower, and he lapped at my crack and opening thoroughly, using teeth here, too, making me arch my hips with each yank on this tender flesh. Finally, once my anus was well lubed from his saliva, he pushed the ball plug deep inside my rectum.