Pure Paradise (8 page)

“Okay. Have it your way. I could go for another big O. I was simply trying to save you the trouble of hastily struggling out of the panties that will, without a doubt, end up on the floor.”

W
ith a devilish gleam in her eye, Sumi sat on the settee waiting for Lily to appear. Milan sat behind her desk hugging herself, something she did when she was tense. Her mind was on Maxwell and money. It had been a grievous error to loosen her grip on the man to whom she was financially beholden.

Sick with fear, Milan had no interest in viewing sex tricks, but hoped that the entertainment might distract her from her disturbing thoughts and keep her mind occupied until Maxwell resurfaced.

The desk phone rang. Milan grabbed it. Her heart sank further when the receptionist announced Lily’s arrival instead of telling her that she had Maxwell Torrance on the line.

“Send her in,” Milan said dryly.

Lily trotted in, quick and proud, like a prize-winning filly. She wore a skimpy tank top and tight jeans that were low-cut, showing off the youthfully taut skin of someone recently out of her teens. Milan gave her a quick, competitive sizing-up, panning from the dark tresses that fell in lustrous waves down her back and around her shoulders to her pointy-toed ankle boots.

Pilates kept Milan in shape but the nine- or ten-year difference between her and Lily was painfully apparent. Lily didn’t have a drop of makeup on, yet her face was luminous and flawless, her heavy lashes ink black and fluttery. And unlike Milan’s fake butterfly lashes, Lily’s were real.

Lily was a self-assured, frisky little thing with a pretty, doll-like face, bow-shaped lips, pale porcelain skin, and large brilliant blue eyes. Slim and curvy, the hot little number was only about five feet tall with a tinier waistline than Sumi’s, small rounded hips, and disproportionately large and jutting breasts. Stung by instant breast envy, Milan consoled herself with the fact that Lily’s boobs looked like jugs—too large and totally unrealistic. The little bitch had probably been cursed with pitiful breasts as small as Milan’s.

As if Milan and Sumi were paying patrons at a titty bar, the brazen little heifer pulled off her snug-fitting top without prompting and flung it to the lush carpeted floor. She was braless, yet her giant, pink-tipped, white torpedoes, needing no support, sat up high and proud. Apparently feeling that going topless was a sufficient exhibition, Lily kept on her jeans. Milan made a mental note to tell Sumi to inform her assistant that tank tops and jeans were not appropriate attire in the workplace.

Lily threw her head back, arched her back, and fondled her ample bosom. Sumi was drawn to her feet and moved toward her as if magnetized. Though also petite, Sumi was several inches taller than Lily. She ducked her head and softly brushed her lips against each rosy areola. She delivered a series of quick, moist kisses to the rosy tips and then, as if afraid of overindulging, she abruptly abandoned Lily’s breasts for her lips.

The two women kissed, gently at first, and then with more
ardor. Their arms tightened around each other, their bodies swaying together, lips locked in a deep kiss.

Sumi and Lily obviously had the hots for each other. Milan wasn’t jealous in the least, but she refused to be a captive audience to this lustful exhibition. Making her watch was most likely getting the two freaks off. Averting her gaze, she became lost in thought. Her mind began to wander until it found its way back to her miserable predicament. Maxwell! Who would have ever thought he’d be out to get her! She emitted a soft sigh.
Why, oh why, did I banish him? His fortune would be still within my grasp if I’d only allowed an hour or two of shoe-licking pleasure
.

A sudden shrill cry caught Milan’s attention. No longer feisty, Lily looked like a fragile creature, standing still with her arms hanging helplessly at her sides, her head thrown back as if in ecstasy while Sumi viciously twisted her nipples until they became extremely elongated and hardened into fleshy cones.

Milan’s mouth fell open and remained that way for several moments as she watched Lily come out of her trance and grasp Sumi by the shoulders, leading her backward toward the settee. Lying on her back with her knees spread and squirming, Sumi uttered anguished moans while Lily gripped one of her big pointy titties, crouched between Sumi’s legs, and penetrated her with her unnaturally large and conical nipple. Like a big dick with a pointed glans, the firm, torpedo-sized breast glided in and out of Sumi’s tight cunt.

It was an intriguing sight, sending a succession of shivers knifing through Milan’s coochie. And as Sumi had warned, Milan’s juices overflowed, soaking through her panty crotch and wetting the seat of her chair.

Her first impulse was to sound the alarm and call on Royce,
but Milan was so entranced her finger could not find its way to the emergency button that would alert Royce and send him rushing to her aid. Besides, she didn’t want what Royce had to offer. She wanted what Sumi was getting—a silicone titty fuck. Before she made her needs known, Sumi helped Lily out of her tight jeans and she and her assistant switched positions on the settee.

Lily was now on her back with Sumi straddling her chest, talking dirty in Korean, using her snapping pussy to nip at the tip of Lily’s coned breast. Extremely limber from years of studying martial arts, Sumi reached behind her back. Without missing a beat, she doubled Lily’s pleasure, giving her a severe finger-fuck, her probing finger working its way deeply inside Lily’s cunt. Meeting Sumi’s finger thrust, Lily’s hips jutted forward, her body undulating as though it was liquid. Meanwhile, Sumi’s tight little pussy bit and twisted Lily’s flushed nipples, giving her lucky new assistant immense pleasure.

None too pleased that she’d been left out, Milan squirmed in sexual agitation as she swallowed the lump of yearning that formed in her throat. She preferred another session with Hilton’s good dick but would settle for getting her kitty licked by her security guard. Then it occurred to her that Royce’s lumbering ass would take forever to leave his post, ride the elevator, and trudge down to her office to put out her fire. Desperate, she started yanking open desk drawers, looking for a dildo, a vibrator—something to masturbate with. All she found was files and folders. In the middle drawer, she eyeballed a foot-long ruler, gave a lingering glance to a plump pen, but refused to stoop that low.

Then a light bulb went off inside her mind. She rooted through her creamy tan leather handbag and located the phallic-shaped
bottle of Japanese perfume. French manicured fingers caressed the frosted glass and then she slid the container in and out of her vagina until she felt a familiar rush of heat.

Ever the businesswoman, though she was hanging at the edge of an orgasm, Milan reminded herself to tout the dual appeal of the heady Japanese fragrance to her patrons…the marvelous scent and the convenient fuckability of the phallic-like container.

Aiming upward, Milan located her hidden spot and pressed the smooth rounded perfume cap against her G-spot until she felt the big bang. One right after the other, the three women climaxed. A medley of high-pitched sounds denoting feminine release filled the executive office. Sucking in a shivering gasp of air, Milan dropped her head, resting it on the desk.

With sexual relief came a soft peacefulness. A clear mind came next. And then enlightenment, so luminous it caused Milan’s head to jerk up. She looked around her office. Lily and Sumi were gone, having left behind the heavy aroma of pussy and a whisper of perfume. Milan was grateful for the solitude. Her revelation required privacy.

Call it feminine intuition, gut instinct, or clairvoyance, but it was suddenly crystal clear that Maxwell had made a personal visit to Veronique’s dungeon. Milan knew with certainty that within a brief matter of minutes, the seasoned dominatrix had sized Maxwell up. The pasty ghoul smelled money and recognized prey. With her twisted and sadistic mind, Veronique had lured Maxwell into the type of captivity his warped heart had been longing for.

Sure, Milan had treated him miserably, abused him in the
only way she knew how, dispensing verbal and emotional humiliation on a regular basis. In hindsight, Maxwell’s impertinence had gotten out of hand. He’d been silently pleading to be taken to task. But she was not a trained dominatrix and admittedly, she’d grown lazy, never bothering to improve her performance or dress in an appropriate dominatrix wardrobe. She owned no sexy leather lingerie, no zippered latex, and no intimidating chains dangled from her body, clinking and clanging, announcing her menacing approach.

She’d never reprimanded Maxwell with heavy lashes from a cane or whip, nor had she bothered to learn how to skillfully utilize the metal torture devices that she kept on hand and displayed on the lower level, role-playing fantasy room. The numerous devices were merely for show, promising pain and heightening the torture chamber ambience. Sure she’d practiced paddling Royce, but it was more to humiliate him and keep him humbled than to actually cause pain. She was a fraudulent mistress and had been bullshitting Maxwell all along. But now that he’d had a taste of the real thing, how could Milan compete? She wrung her hands in despair.

Holding her chin up, she vowed that the gaunt and ghastly Veronique would not win her prize. She’d rack her brains until she figured out a way get her billionaire out of the hands of that vicious, ugly, and undeserving hag. Pronto!

T
hough she would have preferred to order her dominatrix wardrobe online, there really wasn’t time. Maxwell was prime chattel and it was imperative that she retrieve her valuable possession from the gnarled hands of Veronique, an undeserving and horribly unattractive shrew. Milan would have to act fast if she expected to regain custody of her wayward slave.

Inside a dimly lit sex paraphernalia shop on Walnut Street in downtown Philly, Milan tried on quite a few outfits: a lace-up leather corset, a very revealing leather-strapped teddy, a ribbon-trimmed spandex bustier, a studded leather thong and matching pushup bra, black lace-topped fishnet stockings, stilettos, and thigh-length rubber boots.

Feeling vampish in a black and pink plastic outfit with full-length gloves, Milan sauntered up to the counter and plopped the other items on the glass countertop.

“Need some props? A whip…cat o’ nine tails?” the creepy-looking, elephant-eared clerk asked, his eyes twinkling with sexual mischief as they darted toward a display of whipping devices.

“No, I don’t need any of that.” She had more than enough
flogging implements in the paddling room at Pure Paradise.

“How about a paddle? A lot of fellas enjoy the sting of a good paddling,” the salesclerk recommended, practically frothing at the mouth, his big ears seeming to flap with excitement.

Refusing to be to be lured into fulfilling the creep’s lust for dirty talk, Milan wrinkled her nose as if something stank. Pulling out a credit card, she scrunched up her lips, intensifying her expression of disgust.
Pervert!

Loaded down with six bags of new dominatrix gear including a studded leather glove the creepy clerk had coerced her into purchasing, she exited the shop wearing a pair of “you know you want to fuck me” heels and the shiny, pink-cupped, black plastic dress.

On point and professional, Hilton got out of the Rolls and relieved her of her bags. He didn’t bat an eye at her brazen and outlandish attire.

“Where to?” he asked, closing the back door and returning to the driver’s seat.

Veronique’s so-called “dungeon” was actually housed inside a plush downtown loft. Calling it a “lair” would have been more appropriate. “Eighteenth and Arch,” she absently instructed as she flipped through the pages of
Dominatrix for Dullards
, a yellow-covered, quickie how-to guide. She could have kicked herself for not reading the manual and mastering the techniques back when she first acquired Maxwell.

At that very moment, Sumi, Lily, and Harper were orchestrating the transformation of Milan’s basement into a fully equipped dungeon. Milan had considered taking an online crash course in dominatrix training, but changed her mind. She’d rely on her rage and fury to persuade her into cracking a whip
across Maxwell’s ass. His reckless disappearing act had jeopardized her sense of financial security and for that transgression, Maxwell would be shown no mercy.

There was nothing like the fear of losing one’s assets to get the creative juices flowing. At least a dozen devious ways to inflict pain flitted across Milan’s mind. Once her runaway sex slave was back in her grasp, Milan intended to flog and torture him for hours.

“Mr. Torrance is in apartment 1224. Tell him his true mistress is waiting inside the car,” Milan told Hilton. “If he’s hesitant about leaving, inform him that he’s displeased me and—” she groped for harsh and threatening words—“tell him I said to get his ass downstairs, immediately.” She’d worked herself up and her nostrils flared as she heaved in angry breaths of air.

“Yes, Ms. Walden.”

Milan made a mental note to give Hilton a raise after she’d reclaimed her goods. His humble and professional behavior was greatly appreciated during this very tense and critical time. She felt charmed that he could forgo his cockiness and put her interests first. But then again, Hilton wasn’t stupid. His own survival instincts had kicked in, alerting him that Milan’s loss would affect his lifestyle as well. A two-to-three-hour-a-day job that paid the salary of a ten-hour day, with sexual perks, was nothing to sneer at.

Her desire for Hilton was simmering and not boiling over. The threat of losing money kept her libido in check.

Only Hilton could look stately in a chauffeur’s uniform and cap. Striding proudly, he proceeded to the entrance of Mistress Veronique’s high-rise building and then disappeared inside.

“Please don’t let me be too late,” Milan whispered as if in
prayer. For all she knew, Mistress Veronique could have seduced and tortured Maxwell into transferring his entire fortune to a Swiss bank account in her name. Oh God! She felt so vulnerable. And feeling helpless made her mad as hell.

Milan swore to herself that if she got her slave back, she’d stop being lazy. No more Ms. Nice Guy. Her insults, public humiliation, and insistence that he service her with his tongue were far too tame, not nearly severe enough punishment for such a despicably deceitful slave.

As much as she dreaded the inconvenience, there was no other way around the task. She’d have to work up enough stamina and develop creative scenarios while dispensing cruel and harsh physical discipline. Oh, God. Her life had been so carefree…cursing at him, belittling him, and demanding that her shoes and pussy get licked was the extent of the effort she’d put into being a mistress. Now she had to work for Maxwell’s devotion. It was so not fair. Damn that horrible Veronique. The woman had ruined her cushy lifestyle.

Anxiety ridden, she lowered the window and craned her neck, peering inside the building. She could see Hilton. She shook her head in apprehension. Usually, looking at Hilton made Milan’s stomach tighten with yearning, but not now. That he was still yakking on the phone and hadn’t yet made it up to the loft was making her tummy flip with fear.

What the hell was the problem? From her vantage point, Hilton appeared to be scowling in frustration and gesturing frantically, like he was having a hard time getting Veronique or her sidekick to be reasonable.
Shit. Shit. Shit
. The operation was not going well at all. Unable to bear witnessing Hilton return to the car in defeat, she rolled up the window, closed
her eyes, and imagined the kind of torture she’d put Maxwell through if she was fortunate enough to get him back in her clutches.

That damn Maxwell was going to pay dearly for causing her such a high degree of agitation. Red hot anger engulfed her. At that moment, she was furious enough to do Maxwell the kind of harm that could put him in the hospital…or kill him.
Hmm
. Getting hit with a murder charge was not a pleasant thought. She took a deep, refreshing breath and decided she wouldn’t lay a hand on Maxwell until her some of her rage dissipated.

Antsy, Milan checked her watch and peeked at her cell phone. It was a simple mission. Capture and seize! Why was Hilton taking so long? Biting her bottom lip, she imagined Hilton barging in the loft and Veronique and her muscular cohort, BodySlam, overpowering him, killing Hilton, or enslaving him for life. People committed lesser crimes for less money. With billions at stake, who knew the lengths Veronique would go to.

Unable to concentrate, she put down the training manual and then took a deep breath, trying to relax in the well-cushioned back seat of the Rolls. She couldn’t. On pins and needles, she leaned forward, eyes riveted to the brightly lit lobby. With her fingers and toes crossed, she waited anxiously for Hilton to deliver her benefactor. Hopefully, Maxwell would return with his financial status intact.

Five minutes later, a grim-faced Hilton returned to the car. “I spoke over the intercom to a man and asked to speak to Veronique. He told me that she wasn’t available. Then I asked to speak to Maxwell Torrance and he put a woman on the phone.” Hilton took a deep breath.

“And?”

“I demanded that she let me speak to Mr. Torrance. The woman burst into laughter and said that Mr. Torrance was tied up.” Obviously distressed, Hilton rubbed his chin. “Think we should call the police and report that Mr. Torrance has been kidnapped?”

“No. I’ll handle this,” Milan insisted, sounding bolder than she actually felt. Opening the back door herself, she stepped out of the Rolls. Hilton opened the driver’s side door, but Milan motioned for him to stay inside the car.

Despite a feeling of panic and foreboding, she swept inside the building like she owned the place. She approached the lobby phone and picked it up. Ignoring the anxiety that coursed through her, she took a deep breath and then pushed in Veronique’s apartment number.

“Hello!” Veronique chortled.

Milan winced. There was triumphant laughter in the bitch’s despicable gravelly voice.

“You have something that belongs to me,” Milan stated calmly. “And I want it back.”

The threatening tone in her voice was unmistakable and very real. She suddenly realized that if Veronique didn’t release Maxwell, she’d have to get ghetto on that ass and take her property back. Apparently Veronique didn’t know who she was messing with. Milan could fight and she didn’t need any manmade paraphernalia; she’d whip that bitch’s so-called dominant ass the good old-fashioned way. She’d forget about keeping up appearances and resort to her housing project days. Yes, Milan was ready to handle her business. If she got close to Veronique, Milan was prepared to kick off her stilettos, snatch off her earrings, slather some Vaseline on her face, and commence to whipping some Goth ass.

Better yet, she’d keep her heels on and stick a size ten stiletto up that flat ass. She could imagine herself scratching up Veronique’s pasty face with her long acrylic nails, and then she’d bite the mound of the hag’s dowager’s hump with her full set of healthy teeth. Yeah, she’d get real ghetto up in Veronique’s loft if she didn’t quickly turn over Milan’s personal possession.

“He’s my property now, he offered himself to me,” Veronique said contemptuously.

“You’re misinformed. Maxwell Torrance serves only me. Look at the collar he’s wearing. It clearly states that he is my property!”

The crude woman coughed into the phone—a horrible, hacking cough. Finally, she cleared her throat. “He gave himself to me,” Veronique said. Her voice was so grating, it made Milan wince.

“That man you’re holding hostage belongs to me! There’s a collar around his neck that bears my name.”

“Not anymore.”

Milan gasped in shock. “What do you mean? No one can remove his collar. It’s locked. I have the key.”

“Like I said, he’s not wearing any collar. My man BodySlam’s pretty handy. All it took was a pair of wire cutters to free Torrance from your flimsy bondage.”

Milan bristled, hating having to hear Veronique’s nasally voice refer to her wealthy human property by name.

“He’s been whipped, fucked in the ass, and at the moment he’s resting…strapped down. Bound and gagged.” Veronique gave a wheezy sigh. “He looks happily miserable as he attempts to develop a tolerance for pain and my special brand of punishment,” she taunted. “So take your fake-dominatrix ass back to your vanilla world of fantasy dungeons and delightfully playful torture toys. People like you make a mockery of a very serious lifestyle.”

“You’re right,” Milan conceded. “And if you’re the superior dominatrix you claim to be, then you won’t mind allowing Maxwell to tell me to my face that he prefers you over me?”

Veronique wheezed into the phone for a few unpleasant moments and then abruptly hung up. A buzzer sounded, granting Milan entry to the other side of the locked glass door. Her mind racing as she crafted numerous seizure scenarios, Milan stepped inside the elevator and rode to the twelfth floor.

BodySlam opened the door. Big, bald, and virile, he was even more imposing in person than when she’d viewed him on the monitor. Watching him spank Mrs. Tamburro from the safe confines of her cushy office was…um, sexy. Standing face-to-face with the sadistic brute was terrifying.

Milan gulped. “I’m here to see Veronique.” Surprisingly, her voice came out strong and steady.

He gave a snort, loud and threatening, challenging her to run as fast as she could to the safety of her waiting car. But the thought of bungling her mission and leaving empty-handed encouraged Milan to stand tall, boldly matching BodySlam’s scathing gaze.

BodySlam’s suspicious eyes gave her a quick once over, rapidly scanning Milan from head to toe. After a final grunt of displeasure, he stepped aside and allowed her admittance inside the loft.

Milan interpreted BodySlam’s throaty utterance as defeat.
Aha!
She’d made the cut. She’d impressed him with her sneer, her hot-pink and black plastic dress, and her ultra-sexy boots. She wanted to give herself a big fat kiss for pulling off the look and demeanor of an authentic dominatrix. Strutting with a newfound sense of power, she followed BodySlam into the
main room, which had the customary furnishings of a typical home: sofa, chairs, tables, lamps, tasteful art adorning the walls. No whipping posts, blood spatters, or any signs of torture and brutality.

Veronique, milk white and ugly, sat in a black leather chair watching a game show on TV. Her long, skinny legs were outstretched, her body language crude and masculine. Severely vexed at having her show interrupted, the hag glowered at Milan.

Milan’s eyes wandered back and forth, inquisitively. Which of the two had introduced Maxwell to anal sex, BodySlam or Veronique? Veronique looked mannish enough to strap on a dick. But even with all his muscles and seeming virility, it was quite possible that BodySlam was a down-low brother. It was a hard call. Milan shrugged. Maybe they were a tag team, taking turns butt-fucking the traitorous billionaire. For his treachery against her, Maxwell deserved far worse than a bloody asshole.

Veronique took note of Milan’s outfit. Standing tall and proud, Milan stared her down, forcing the woman to blink.

“He’s in the back room,” Veronique told her; then she rose.

She and BodySlam escorted a confident and boldly strutting Milan down a corridor. Unflinching, Milan strode into the torture room, rolled her eyes at the many dungeon-devices. The chink in the armor had been detected when she made Veronique blink.