Money Shot (93 page)

“Get up,” Riccardo barked. He tossed the leash at her. “Sit in that chair. No, not like that. You’re not a princess. Leg over each arm.”

The chair was one of two that faced a massive mahogany desk. They were wide, blocky armchairs, upholstered in top-grain burgundy leather. Valerie sat as she was ordered; she was too intimidated not to. She had to slouch a bit in the seat to spread her legs over both arms, and she felt the result in the slight breeze of climate-controlled air brushing over her brazenly exposed vulva. The only thing hiding her nudity was the thong bisecting her slit. On top of that, her breasts threatened to spill out of the tight, low-cut blouse.

No, she
wasn’t
a princess, was she?

Riccardo leaned against the ornate desk, facing her. The view must have been interesting. She dared to look at him. After all, she was the one holding the leash.

She had expected to see a crotchety old man, thanks to his gravelly voice and stern demeanor with his son. What she saw was a middle-aged version of Marcus, taller, leaner, and more powerful. His Brioni suit had to be custom made, because there was no way even a tailored off-the-rack suit could have so perfectly accommodated his broad shoulders as well as his still-trim waist. She could see where Marcus got his looks, though. He and Riccardo shared the same olive skin, chocolatey brown eyes and hair, except Riccardo also wore graying sideburns. His face was more chiseled than Marcus’s too, the severe bone structure softened by full lips.

She loved Marcus’s lips, had found herself fantasizing about them while teaching her philosophy course, back before her life had been turned upside down. What would Riccardo’s lips feel like?

“Marcus did always like them plump,” he said, and even though he was looking right at her, it was as if she weren’t there. “I tried to dissuade him but….” He shrugged. “In the end, who cares what a whore slave looks like? That’s not what he’s going to have hanging on his arm at galas and events, am I right?”

Well, that stung. Valerie could keep quiet no longer. In spite of his imposing presence, her tongue got the best of her. “Now look here,” she said, “I don’t appreciate this sort of treatment and–”

The phone on the desk rang. It was an old-fashioned model with a corded handset, and it looked like it weighed a ton. Somehow it fit the dark, luxe office decor. Riccardo held up a warning finger and Valerie clamped her lips together. He reached over the desktop and picked up the phone. “Yes? Mmhmm. Hold on a moment.” He covered the handset and, walking around the desk to sit behind it, said to Valerie, “You. Finger yourself while I take this call. Bring yourself to the edge, and stay there. Don’t even think of trying to fake it.” He sat and uncovered the handset. “Yeah, this deal had better go through. I can’t lose another billion like last time. I heard Charlie was trying to eat alone. What does the crew think?”

He was ignoring her completely to talk about business. The nerve! He glanced up from his call at her—well, at her crotch—and glowered. She got the message loud and clear, and moved her hands between her splayed legs. She imagined Riccardo’s lips down there, kissing her, his tongue flicking to her clitoris. Pulling the damp strip of thong aside, she pressed the plump tissue covering her clit and felt her pulse quicken. With her other hand, she dipped a few fingers between her labia. They came out slick. She brought them to her nose, both reveling in the clean musky scent of her arousal and slightly ashamed to be doing so.

Riccardo was pacing behind the desk, phone still to his ear, still speaking in that authoritative, clipped tone of his. He caught her sniffing her fingers and smirked before jumping right back into his business discussion.

Valerie ran her hands along her inner thighs from her widespread knees to her vulva, enjoying the feel of the silky skin. With one finger she explored inside her pussy, the engorged walls a warm cushion, and with her thumb she kept slowly pressing on the skin over her clit like it was a magic button. Her hips wanted to thrust, to shove against her thumb, and she managed it somewhat, but her position spread out and up over the chair arms limited her pelvic movement.

No matter. Her body was warm with arousal, her eyes half-lidded, her mouth slightly agape as she felt the rhythmic cycle of stimulation ratchet up her sexual tension with every thumb-press. Her other hand rose to her breasts, feeling her stiffened nipples brushing against the crisp white blouse. She rubbed one, then cupped her hand under the breast and pinched the nipple lightly.

She quickly discovered that when she did this
and
pressed against her clit at the same time, all was right in the world. In fact, the more she did it, the closer she got to coming. Her finger slipped out of her wet hole and toyed with her outer lips as she bucked against her thumb. The wetness from her pussy trickled down her cleft and pooled on the leather seat of the chair. Her ass slid in the wetness, and her legs clenched the chair’s arms to hold her steady.

Her mind grew hazy, its only focus on her ever-increasing pleasure. She was building to her crescendo. The pacing figure in the expensive suit—Riccardo, that’s right, that was his name—paused in front of her as he listened to the person on the other end of the line. Would he let her touch him when she was done? She wondered what those broad shoulders looked like with that Italian jacket puddled at his feet.

She moaned.

Riccardo silently mouthed the word “No.” Then he turned from her and began pacing again, talking into the telephone receiver about what to do with Charlie.

Shit. That’s right. He’d told her to masturbate, to bring herself to the edge…and then to stay there. Why did all these men do this to her? It was absolutely maddening. She could come now if he’d just give the say-so! Easy peasy. Even so, her newfound defiance couldn’t override the weeks of training she hadn’t realized she’d been subjected to. She could no more defy an order from someone Marcus told her to obey than she could murder someone. There was that unspoken promise, not always fulfilled, of reward: of getting to come after all, or earning a privilege like getting to wear panties.

Her finger slipped beneath the hood and rubbed next to her clit. The storm gathering at her core coalesced and threatened to burst, but through judicious management of her pattern of touches, nipple pinches, and hip thrusts, she was able to keep her orgasm at bay, but ready at any moment.

It was pure, delicious torture. Her head lolled back in the chair, and her moans formed unbidden. She heard a
click
and looked up. Riccardo stood before her, arms crossed, looking down at her, a bemused look on his face.

“Please,” she moaned, hands still working, pelvis still moving on the wet leather, climate controlled air still whisking across her hot pussy.

It was worth a try, wasn’t it?

Riccardo snorted. “Stop,” he commanded.

Valerie stopped, leaving her hands where they were. Her core ached with desire, and she felt utterly bereft, her near-orgasm taunting her both physically and mentally.

Riccardo gestured. “Stand up.”

She stood, and in an instant he grabbed and spun her around to face the chair. It was the first time he’d touched her and she felt a thrill from his grip on her arms. He shoved her face down into the seat where her pussy had just been. “Do we leave a mess?” he growled.

Her nose and cheek wet, surrounded by the heady scent of her own juices, she said, “No, sir.” He was standing behind her, and she felt the pressure of his stiff cock against her backside.

He pulled her back upright and clapped her on the back jovially. “Good girl. Remember that next time.” Grabbing the leash, he strode towards the door. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Valerie moved to straighten her blouse, which hung crookedly, exposing her areolae, and wipe off her face. “Leave it,” Riccardo barked, yanking on the leash and forcing her to stumble to keep up.

That in itself wasn’t an easy job, as Marcus had become enamored of the shoes she’d worn as guest of honor at his frat party recently, and insisted on her wearing the same style all the time now. They were high, strappy heels, which was bad enough for a philosophy professor used to wearing loafers, but on top of that each shoe had a tiny padlock on the ankle strap. She’d joked with Marcus that she’d cut her way out of them if she grew desperate, right through the leather straps. He’d invited her to try, and she’d discovered that the straps were filled with a Kevlar-like compound and could not be cut, at least not easily.

So Valerie minced along behind his aggressive stride, the leash occasionally tugging on her collar. He led her through spacious, tastefully-decorated hallways and rooms, her infernal shoes clacking against the parquet floors, and out the back door. They ran across no one.

Outside, she carefully picked her way across a large patio of landscape bricks, the shoes’ stiletto heels threatening to catch in the bumpy terrain. Riccardo never looked back, only slowing his stride a bit. It was a warm sunny afternoon, and the air was still and heavy. She felt the tacky residue of her own juices on her inner thighs rubbing together as she walked. The leather collar was warm on her neck, the leash leading from it a constant reminder of who was in charge: whoever held the loop at the end.

Now they were traipsing across a lush green lawn. From what Valerie could see when she wasn’t watching her feet to keep from twisting her ankle, the grounds were a few acres at least. The yard was hilly, with some trendy native-plants landscaping, and tall hedges and trees in the distance, presumably bordering the property. The upper stories of a few homes were visible through the foliage. She wondered if anyone could see them walking around out here.

Riccardo didn’t seem concerned. When he neared a large oak tree, he slowed beneath its shade and turned around, reeling her in by her leash. “Wanton slut,” he said. “Walking around half naked like that.”

He reeked of the sort of men’s cologne that’s marketed to older men as chick bait, spicy and sharp at the same time. Valerie didn’t care. She was too busy being mesmerized by the movement of those full lips and their contrast with his sharp facial features.

“That wasn’t my idea,” she said.

He ignored the impertinence, his attention drawn below her waist. The hem of her skirt had gotten tucked up into the waistband while she was splayed out in the leather armchair masturbating, and she hadn’t noticed. Well, that explained why the walk had been cooler than one would expect from the oppressive weather.

“God, will you look at that fat pussy,” he said, shaking his head.

This was worse than winding her up and not letting her come, and forcing her to tramp across his yard led on a leash. She could take that. Mean was something else.

“I bet there’s nothing to it,” he continued, “but being soft and mushy.” He shortened the leash more, pulling her forward until she was nearly touching him. Then he tossed the leash over her shoulder and behind her. She wanted to touch him, mean and all, to throw that suit jacket open, kiss his chest…. He cupped her vulva with his palm, rough fingers against her damp outer lips. His voice went quiet. “And…welcoming.” His dark eyes gazed into hers as his finger slipped between her folds, and it was as if she were back in that leather armchair, horny as hell all over again.

“Ohh,” she managed, unable to form words, her knees weak. She touched his chest and he didn’t complain, so she threw her arms around his neck, an anchor for her jellied limbs.

“Whore,” he growled. His one hand still cupping her pussy, his finger still shoved inside her, he wrapped his other arm around her lower back. In a swift movement, he lifted her up and half carried, half shoved her back into the enormous tree trunk behind her. They crashed into it, sandwiching Valerie between Riccardo and the tree, with her impaled on his finger.

It wasn’t a soft first kiss. Nor was it gentle. Driven by need, Valerie pulled his head down, her lips smashing into his, their fullness yielding to her, opening, tongues mingling. His finger drove into her eager slit, and his other hand pressed against the side of her face, possessive. She smelled something beneath the loud cologne, an animalistic musk: his sexual desire, raw and acrid. His suit, ludicrous out here in the heat, caged his skin, kept her out. Her hands stroked his hair, the back of his neck, felt the stubble on his cheek.

She pulled away from the kiss finally, away from the smoky taste of his mouth, and held him close, burying her face in the silk shirt covering his chest. He pressed his entire body against hers, holding her tight against the tree, and cupped her face in both hands. His lips met hers again, less violently this time, brief and tender. “Stay here,” he said, his voice raspy.