Dominating Jess: A Fantasy Fulfilled Novella (6 page)

And I
loved
it.

No one but myself had
put me into this position. That secret, verboten fantasy I’d always had of a
man with his hips thrust forward, forcing me to take every inch of his huge
cock? That fantasy that I’d always thought was wrong, or bad, was actually,
after all this time, right. Jake was fulfilling it.

And shit, I still
couldn’t breathe.

Every time Jake pulled
back, I breathed in through my nose, using the short second he allowed me to
pull oxygen into my lungs. I panted the air outward through my mouth as much I
could around his cock. I could taste the salt of his pre-come and I struggled
to swallow, again taking him deeper. Above me, I heard him groan, and the sound
made me greedy.

I moved with him now.
His hand was still clamped to the back of my head, but he needed no pressure to
move my face toward him. I bobbed close, away, close, away again. He was
getting nearer to coming—I could feel it in how hard his cock was now,
how his hand heated at my neck. I swore he was bigger now than when he’d first
shoved himself past my lips and down my throat, and I’d thought he was huge
then.

I wanted him to come.
I wanted him to be as far down my throat as he could be, cutting off my oxygen,
when he came. I’d hold my breath, I would let him shoot. I wouldn’t even need
to swallow, he’d be so far down me. My hips rocked as I deep-throated him,
frantically trying to rub my clit on the front of my g-string.

Then he pulled out. I
sucked in a deep breath. Would he come on my face? Hit my breasts with his
load? God, I’d never wanted a man to do that so much. I’d never
needed
it like I did now. I let myself feel the desire as I moaned low in my throat.

“Stop,” Jake said.

I didn’t even know
what he wanted me to stop doing. I was doing nothing but waiting, lip bitten,
and rocking my lower body...

“You will
not
come. Until I make you, you’re forbidden to come.”

I froze, heat rising
through my body from my center. I could wait. I would wait until he came...

But he was putting his
cock away. Still rock hard, still glistening wet, gleaming from my mouth, he
tucked himself into his pants as if he’d been working out and was just putting
away the dumbbell. Like it didn’t matter.

Jesus, it mattered. To
me, it mattered. I wanted to feel him, hot against me. “Please... Can you...?”

A dangerous stillness.
He put one finger below my chin and lifted, as if he could make me stand just
by pulling me from my jaw. And, it turned out, he could. I stood, waiting for
him to lift
 
my hands over the hook
and leave me there again for the room to stare at. But instead, he took several
steps away, hooking the lower leg of a chair with his foot and swinging it back
to me. He put it front of me, the back of the chair closest to my knees.
Without ceremony, as everyone watched, with one hand at my hip and the other at
the nape of my neck, he bent me over the top of the chair. He placed my hands
flat on the seat and growled in my ear, “Don’t you dare move your hands from
that position.”

I wouldn’t. I
couldn’t.

He pushed the chair
forward a few inches. I stretched, bending more at the waist, making sure I
kept my still-hobbled feet together. My ass was in the air, and I thanked God
at least I still had my scrap of panties covering me. At least I could pretend
I had clothes on.

Jake stood in front of
me. My eyes were at his knee level, but I couldn’t help glancing up at his
still evident bulge. Would he push himself into my mouth in this position? I
couldn’t rock my hips, not the way they were being held up by the back of the
chair, so I couldn’t trick him and get off—not that I would, anyway. The
tone of his voice had scared me. But even if I couldn’t do that, I longed to
take him again down my throat.

But instead, Jake took
a knife from a tray the concierge presented to him. A switchblade, with a dark
wooden handle. My mother used to keep one of those in her kitchen drawer. She’d
said it had been my father’s, and that she’d use it for protection if anyone
ever broke into our house. But the only men that came in our house were men she
invited, and I only ever saw her use the knife for opening boxes she got in the
mail from QVC.

Jake snapped it open.
My heart froze just like it had when he’d used the knife in the square. But
we’d said on the plane no blood, and he hadn’t broken his word earlier. If he
did break his word, all bets were off. I didn’t know how I’d get out of here,
but I would. Maybe that woman who’d met my eyes earlier would... I bit my lip
and glanced to the right. She was watching, all right, but her eyes gleamed,
her own cheeks flushed. She’d be no help.

As he drew the silver
blade, small and sharp-looking, to my cheek, my breathing started to judder as
if I’d been running for hours. Pressing gently, he scraped the tip of the knife
down to my jawline, and then traced me, as if I were lying on butcher paper on
the ground and he was drawing my silhouette with a pencil. The metal slid, cool
and terrifying, down my neck, over my shoulder, down the length of my
outstretched arm, down my fingertips and then back up to my underarm. Without
lifting the tip, he traced down the side of my breast to my hip, finally
dragging it over the curve of my ass.

I shook as if I were
freezing instead of burning up.

With one quick move,
the tip of the knife lifted from my skin and then I felt it slide hard against
my ass. I gasped. No pain. I must be feeling the back side of the blade. What
then...

And my g-string
snapped.

Holy shit, he’d cut my
panties.

Then the other side,
another snap and a tug.

I had no clothes on.
Nothing to shield me from a roomful of greedy eyes, eyes that treated me as if
I were their own.

“Ahhh,” said Jake
before he laughed behind me. “Oh, my friends. You really must see this.”

What? What was he
laughing at? Did I look ridiculous, ass up in the air like this? Were they all
going to laugh at me again?

“I wish you could see
yourself like this.” A camera flashed behind me. “You really are magnificent. I
knew you had a great body, but I didn’t really think you’d look
this
much like the good whore you want to be.”

I lost my breath again
at his words. I wanted to speak so badly, but I didn’t know what to say. I
didn’t know what I’d be
allowed
to say.

“Look, friends,” he
said, his voice booming. “Look how the whore drips!”

His finger touched the
lips of my pussy, and I made a low, keening noise at the back of my throat.
Slick. I could feel how slick and wet I was. I was swollen. All it took was one
finger barely grazing my slit to bring me to to the point of dizziness.

Continuing in the
voice he meant everyone to hear, he said, “I think you all should come close
and see what I mean. See what a good slut we have with us in the room.” He
translated, and the room broke into sound. Chairs creaked backward, glasses
clinked onto tables, and excited voices rose.

Jake leaned toward me
and said in a lower tone, “Usually I line them up single file. But you? I think
you can take whatever they want to do to you.”

Was it possible for a
heart to race so fast that it would just stop? My calves ached with the strain
of being in an almost downward dog position in the heels. I dug the pads of my
fingers into the seat of the chair, trying to make damned sure my arms and legs
didn’t tremble. I couldn’t help the way I was breathing, as if I were being
pursued, but I could at least try to control the rest of my body. My traitorous
dripping body.

Within a minute, I was
ringed by people. Mostly men, they pushed forward, shoulder to shoulder,
forming a solid wall of bodies. I was tempted to close my eyes, to pretend they
weren’t there. But I heard Jake’s words before he said them:
Keep your eyes
open.
And I did. I could obey in this. I would be brave.

One solid, reassuring
touch, then. Jake’s hand cupped my face as he knelt to look at me. “You’re
doing great.”

And with that, I knew
I would do my best. For him. I wanted to do this.

And for me.

The first touch that
wasn’t Jake’s was abrupt. A slap on my ass cheek, a sudden crack of noise and
stinging pain. Nothing compared to the whip Zee had wielded earlier, but it
landed on tender skin, nonetheless. So far today I’d been spanked and whipped.
Usually all my skin had to put up with was the smooth satin of my Muay Thai
shorts.

The slap was followed
by another, a different hand, a heavier one. Then, before I could catch my
breath, it was followed by a flurry of blows, many hands reaching forward to
hit me. I kept my eyes on the ground in front of the chair, trying to keep
myself still. I focused on one pair of shoes in particular. Brown leather
wingtips, dusty at the tip. If I could just keep my eyes on those, just keep my
breathing even, I could handle this.

One particularly large
hand landed with force right on my exposed pussy, the first time anyone had
slapped me there. It hurt, yes, but it also brought me so close to coming that
a tortured scream ripped from my throat. Quivers raced from my core to the top
of my head, leaving me heaving. The same hand hit me again, and my clit,
apparently so engorged it was completely exposed, almost exploded. I didn’t
know how much more of that feeling I could take without collapsing. I prayed to
something, anything, that the hitting would stop, and I wished at the same time
that a fusillade of strikes would rain down, bringing me to orgasm.

I was so beyond turned
on that the shoes in front of my eyes began to look erotic. I focused on the
way one lace had a frayed end though the rest of the shoes were in excellent
condition, then on the curve at the instep. A hand, smaller and cooler, traced
my bottom before landing with a surprisingly smart smack on my cheek. I stared
harder at the shoes as I felt a pinch at my waist, and fluttering fingers at
the back of my knee. A hand attached to someone I couldn’t see, just out of my
line of sight, weighed my right breast as if he were going to purchase it,
squeezing as if testing for ripeness. I felt the liquid connection between my
nipple and my clit, and just as I thought he was going to let go, the man
twisted my whole breast, wringing it with his fingers dug deeply into my flesh.
Another person scratched the skin of my stomach with sharp fingernails.

Hands, fingers, palms,
everywhere. Every piece of my exposed skin was being touched, caressed,
flicked, smacked. Tested. I was being tested by all of them. Someone leaned
against my hip for a fraction of a second as he was jostled by the crowd (it had
to be more than thirty people now, all pressing forward, toward
me
), and
I felt the shape of the thin, hard cock in his pants.

The shoes. If I
concentrated on memorizing those shoes, I would get through this. They were
solid, real, in front of me. Something of the regular world. Something I saw on
an everyday basis. Just shoes.

The crowd in front of
me parted. I watched the shuffling legs, and the brown wingtips moved to the
side.

“How do you find her?”
asked Jake.

A chorus of
yes
and
very nice
and words I didn’t understand filled the air.

“Good, good. Do you
see, though, how distracted she is?”

I wasn’t! How could I
be distracted? As Jake said the words, I felt someone’s hand behind me cover my
pussy, cupping it warmly. One small finger—a woman’s?--slid into me just
the slightest bit. Maybe only half-an-inch, but with how rigid my clit was, I
almost came apart. I found the wingtips, just to my left, and studied them with
concentration.

“Do you see how she
focuses on Marco’s shoes?”

Murmurs of assent.

“I think she’s too
focused on them. That’s not what a whore should be focused on. A whore should
be focused on only one thing—making the people around her happy. Marco,
what would make you happy?”

Marco said something I
couldn’t understand. The crowd responded with a communal bark of laughter and
the sound of assent.

“That’s what I was
hoping you would say. Give her your shoe, Marco.”

Fingers reached down
and untied the lace on the left shoe. Damn. Would he hit me with it? Where?
Would it smack as hard as the flat palm that had just struck my back thigh?

But instead, Jake took
the shoe in his hands and crouched in front of the chair I was still bent over.
He held the wingtip in front of me. “You see this dust, whore?”

I nodded quickly.

“Make it shine.”

He didn’t mean...oh,
God. He did. He wanted me to use my
tongue
on that shoe? The piece of
leather that had undoubtedly been stomping who knew where for God knew how
long? My mouth?

And even as I
recoiled, feeling a surge of nausea, I was also drawn forward. My tongue,
almost of its own volition, darted out of my mouth, toward the shoe.

“Good slut,” said Jake
in the same tone he used when he praised my skill at liar’s dice in our bar.
“Taste it now.”