Brazen (3 page)

The
troublesome man to my right is
unscandalized
and
infuriatingly controlled. His two colleagues are unraveling rapidly, but he’s
fondling himself with a look of such obnoxious placidity that I want to slap
him. Perhaps I will in a little while.

“You may
moan,” I inform the other two, and they waste no time in following my order.
Both are glistening now, and I rub the fluid up and down the length of the
tattooed man’s long shaft. Hidden from view, my own body is priming too,
putting his to shame. As I play with him I think of the trouble-man again.
Again, I imagine him coming up from behind, those hands on my hips.
Again, no regard for the rules and the order of things in my little
kingdom.
That voice, loud and rough, cutting through
the peace, barking orders of his own.
His cock,
cutting straight into my core.

In reality
he’s still sitting beside me, still stroking his hidden erection with a slow
hand. He’s not watching the other two—his eyes are on me. I can feel them. When
I sneak a glance to confirm this, he runs his tongue over his bottom lip,
looking hungry.

The two
obedient men lose the coordination needed to continue kissing each other. I
admire their flushed faces, lidded eyes. I guide my star pupil’s hand and let
it take over for my own on the man in my lap. I watch them jerk each other
until they’re panting and hoarse. The man in my lap comes first, his cream
spurting over the other’s knuckles and wrist. His colleague follows suit
seconds later, and their dicks touch as he releases with a deep moan.

Politely,
they each stand and gather their garments and exit the room with all the
dignity possible in such a situation. In their wake, the air is practically
quivering with the heat and smell of sex. I will tip them very generously.

I’m alone now
with the trouble-man. I turn to face him, and he snatches the breath from my
lungs with those piercing eyes. I try to ignore them. I focus on his
hair—brown, glowing gold around the edges in the candlelight.
A model’s cheekbones.
I wonder absently if that’s his day
job. Then I think of my complementary day job, and of laying him across my bed
and photographing his strong, young body, naked and aroused.
Gritty,
high-contrast black and white, so I won’t have to remember how blue his eyes
are.

“Should I
keep going?” he asks me, and I realize with some surprise that he’s English.
Not posh—somewhere northern and working-class. Manchester or Liverpool, I
guess.

“Don’t
speak,” I tell him. “And yes.” I watch his hand, the tendons in his forearm.
He’s casual and cool, but I can tell from the dark patch on the gray cotton
that he’s ready. He reaches a hand out to my shoulder and I slap it away.

“Don’t touch
me.”

The
trouble-man smiles and he says, “My name is Sean.”

“I don’t care
what your name is,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Don’t touch me, and don’t talk
to me. And don’t make me tell you again.”

“Let me taste
you,” he says, leaning closer and I stand.

“Follow me,”
I say.

I grab a
candle and march through the fourth floor and down a flight of stairs. I hear
the man whose name I’d prefer I didn’t now know behind me a few paces. I lead
him to my room and point to the queen-sized bed. “Lie down,” I say, and slam
the door shut behind us.

He sits at
the edge of the mattress, looking smug.

“I said
‘lie’,” I remind him, and he stretches out across my claret-colored comforter.

I dig two
pairs of nylons out of my hosiery drawer and walk to the far end of the bed. I
yank his hands through the slats of the oak headboard and bind his wrists
together.

“There’s one
rule corrected,” I say. “Open your mouth.”

He does and I
gag him with the second pair of stockings, tying them tight at the base of his
skull.

“Better,” I
say. “Now turn over.”

I have no
clue what the trouble-man’s game is because he seems eager to follow
directions, suddenly. Perhaps he just craves attention. He flips over onto his
stomach, bound arms crossing, and I leave for a minute to fetch myself a glass
of wine and a couple more candles. Outside there’s a flash and a delayed peal
of thunder and I jump, nerves crackling.

Mr.
Troublesome is as he should be when I return. I set the candles on the vanity
and close the door and perch at the edge of the bed. I sip my wine and admire
his back muscles and shoulder blades in the jerking light. He has his head
propped to one side on his arm, eyes on me, waiting. It’s hard to tell with the
gag, but I think he’s smiling. I take a deep drink and set the glass aside.

“I’m firing
you after tonight,” I say. “You’re extremely disappointing.”

He watches as
I crawl to the middle of the bedspread. I slide my feet then ankles then legs
beneath his hips, until he’s lying across my lap. I feel his hard dick against
my thighs as I run my palm over his ass. He’s excited, and his skin is damp and
warm as I pull his shorts down his hips. I reach my hand between his legs to
fondle his balls for a few moments, teasing him with rough pulls. The weight of
his bare cock makes me ache for something I swore never to do with any of my
beautiful boys.

I hear his
deep, nasal breaths and muffled grunts. I think of how flagrantly he
disregarded the rules of this house—
my
house—and I make him feel every
ounce of my anger when I slap him. The force or the frightening sound of it
jolts his body.

I spank him
until I can see his skin branded red even in the dim light, until his back is
shining with a fine layer of perspiration and his ribs expand and contract fast
and deep. He finally shows me some helplessness, and I relent. I’m not a
powerful woman. I’m average height and of graceful build if I may say so
myself. I was a dancer before I took up photography. I’m fit but not built for
dominance by any stretch of the imagination, though at this moment I feel magnificent
and cruel and masterful.

Our
collective skin is warm and sticky as I maneuver my bare legs from under him,
smoothing my silk skirt back down my thighs. He watches, still.

“Turn over
again,” I say, and I hear a new weight in my voice.

His smell is
potent as he settles on his back. I explore him with my eyes, from his
sweat-matted hair and furrowed brow, down his strained, muscular body to his
long, thick cock. Longer and thicker than I’d prefer for my usual purposes.
A very nice size for other activities, however.
I pull his
underwear all the way off then stalk up the mattress and jerk the gag from his
mouth, letting it lie limp around his throat. Below his stubbly chin, just to
one side of his neck, there’s a mark—a reddish bruise like a hickey. I catch
his eyes and I shuffle to the headboard and reach for his hands. I don’t
release them, but I feel his rough fingertips, the calluses on his left hand. I
sit back down on the covers and study his face.

“You’re a
violinist.”

“Would you
like me to play for you?” he asks, and his voice is as deep and haunting and
melancholy as his chosen instrument.

“Definitely
not,” I say. “I don’t do romance.”

His eyes dart
condemningly to the candles, my wine, to the panes where the rain is pelting.
One window is open halfway and we can both smell the earthy autumn air blowing
in.

“Let me
please you,” he says, and words come out thick and needy, his first real show
of desperation. I need more proof like this. He humiliated me with his
confidence earlier, and I want to hear him beg for forgiveness. I study his
tight stomach, his deepening breathing.

I’m firing
this man as soon as I’m done with him, but I think perhaps the time has come to
take things to another level. He’d never work out as a safe, disposable toy in
my harem, but he might make a fine whore for one night. And I’m goddamn
overdue.

“Fine.”
I slip off the bed and unbutton my
cardigan and unzip my skirt and stand before him in my camisole and panties.
Nothing fancy—I hadn’t planned on anyone seeing me so near to naked. Still, my
bra and underwear match, a nice cream-colored satin set.
Too
good for this man but no matter.

I catch him
licking his lips again.

“Untie me,”
he begs, pulling against the headboard.

“Why?” I ask,
snotty. “What do you want to do?”

“I’ll fuck
you,” he promises, tugging hard. “With my fingers while I eat you out. I’ll
make you come as many times as you want.” A very pretty threat I must admit.

“I’ll bet
your fingers are very talented,” I allow. “But I doubt your mouth has much to
offer. So far it’s given me nothing but grief.”

“Let me show
you. Untie me.”

“Earn it,” I
say. I climb onto the bed and crawl to him, crawl over him, making my way up
his body, letting his erection rub against my belly and the friction tightens
my pussy like a greedy fist. I hold the headboard and hook one calf under his
shoulder, then the other until I’m locked tight against his face. I feel his
hot breath warming me then his tongue tracing the crotch of my panties. I moan
unintentionally. It’s been so fucking long.

I make him
work through the fabric, and he finds the swollen nub of my clit easily. The
satin grows wet, feeling as though it’s dissolving. His tongue teases and his
lips suckle until I’m drenched from both of us. It feels so good it hurts, the
pleasure a tight, hard streak running through my body, buzzing and impatient.
Every stroke of his tongue sends waves of desire pulsating up from my core. I
need more.

Reaching
down, I yank my panties to one side and then he’s there. His caresses are
slippery and hot and firm.
Hungry.
I adjust myself and
let him taste what he’s coaxing from me. He laps up the juices with harsh
little grunts, and as his tongue begins to spear me I make a terrible mistake.

“Sean,” I
moan. His tongue thrusts deep and the tip of his nose
grazes
my clit. I say it again, and it feels like the most forbidden syllable in the
history of sex.

His mouth
pulls away as much as it’s able. “Untie me,” he pleads. The words heat my
tender skin.

I hesitate,
and he laps at me. “Please,” he says, and licks me again. “Please. You won’t
regret it.”

I already do,
but I reach over and claw at the knot in the nylons. All his tugging has made
it impossibly tight, but I don’t have the patience to leave his mouth and
search for a pair of scissors. He senses how frantic and useless my efforts
are, and he tugs harder. He pulls and fidgets until the material stretches to
let one hand slip out then the other. He’s on me in a flash. I’m flipped on to
my back without preamble and he’s above me, our heads suddenly at the foot of
the bed. His hips push my thighs wide and his cock presses along the length of
my lips, a flimsy strip of drenched satin and cotton my pussy’s last defense.

“Don’t,” I
say, even as I feel him reaching down. He adjusts his dick so he’s pressing
into my entrance, straining against the fabric.

“How long has
it been?” he asks.

“Fuck you.”

“Tell me,” he
whispers into my neck, and he kisses me there. No one has kissed me in a very
long time. His hips thrust him into me over and over and I want to cry out, the
desire is so violent, the
need for his penetration like
withdrawal from the cruelest drug imaginable. His roped arms are locked at my
sides, his chest pinning me to the mattress. “Tell me,” he murmurs again.

“Almost five
years,” I admit.

“Do you want
me?” he asks.

“I hate you.”

“I’ll make
you scream for me,” he promises, and he pulls away. All at once the aggression
is over. He steps to my bedside table and brings me my glass.

I sit
cross-legged and sip the wine and watch as he picks up the tall cheval mirror
from beside the closet and carries it to the middle of the room, centering the
bed in its reflection. He takes my glass away. When he comes back, he pulls me
by the ankles to the edge of the mattress. He sinks to his knees on the floor.

“You better
be good,” I say. I scratch my nails across his scalp and grasp a fistful of his
short hair.

I feel his
fingers at my hips, and he tugs my panties off. His rough palms push my thighs
wide and hold them there. As his head lowers I feel the vapor of his breath on
my skin. Five years…

I study his
body in the mirror, his muscles lit warmly by the candlelight. Powerful arms,
hands holding me open, that gorgeous, ripe ass, toned back and shoulders. I
want to know him, suddenly. I want to know why he’s here and who he is and what
he likes and how his body came to be so perfect. I want to see his face as he
comes. I want to see him cry and hold him tight. Most of all, I want my sanity
to return.

“Tell me your
name,” he says softly. His eyes dart across my wide-open center.

“Go to hell.”

“I want to
say it when I take you later,” he murmurs, and a hundred fantasies flash across
my mind. Sean closes his eyes and brushes his stubbly cheek against my inner
thigh, looking transcendent. He seems to understand the balance I crave, that
impossibly narrow tightrope stretched between dominance and submission.