What She Needs (18 page)

She chose a casual restaurant located on a deck overlooking the ocean, complete with tiki torches. The sun was just beginning to set as she arrived at the Paradise Grill, and a calypso band played on a small stage in the corner.

It was strange to sit down and look around at the other people—couples, friends, again knowing they were all here for extreme forms of sex. But she felt less embarrassed by it now than she had before.

She drank an erotic rum punch while she awaited her food, having chosen a simple barbeque sandwich with coleslaw and fries. If she had the night off, she was going to be low-key about everything, just relaxing and enjoying the downtime. Even if she continued to remain more aware of her body than usual. She wasn’t sure whether to blame it on the nipple rings or on three successive nights of hot sex. But she tried to take pleasure from the awareness more than push it aside—because that’s why she was here, right? To learn to enjoy her body. And besides, she knew more sex was coming, even if it wasn’t tonight.

The food was good without being too filling, so she indulged in a piece of key lime pie for dessert, enjoying the Caribbean music and the vibrant colors left behind in the sky when the sun sank past the horizon.

When the band played a particularly upbeat instrumental tune, heavy on the steel drums, the lead singer—a tall, handsome black man with a light Jamaican accent—encouraged the crowd to dance. “Up on ya feet—everybody.”

One couple took the floor, then another, soon joined by a group of three girls who looked a little tipsy on their heels but appeared to be having a good time. Probably because Jenna happened to be the only person dining alone, the singer—who bore a striking resemblance to Blair Underwood—wove through the tables to offer a smile as he held out his hand. “Dance with me, pretty lady.”

She instinctively waved him away.

But then he cast a teasing look, an
enticing
look, and said with that soft island lilt, “Come now, lady—don’t break my heart.” He laid a dark hand across his chest. “Share a dance with me tonight.”

And suddenly it hit Jenna: She wanted to dance with this man. Because it was a beautiful night and a warm tropical breeze wafted over the deck. And because the music was intoxicating and fun. And because she had on a pretty dress and there was simply no reason not to.

So this time she put her hand in his and pushed back her chair. He led her to the dance floor, where she found the beat easy to move to and realized she was truly enjoying herself. A few days ago? She never would’ve done something like this, simple as it was. Maybe with Shannon, but never by herself. She would have feared looking silly, tripping over her feet or dancing badly, people staring. But somehow, now, none of that mattered.

She danced with the handsome man for the remainder of the song, occasionally daring to smile up into his eyes—which were always on her when she checked, it seemed—and when the music ended, he gallantly kissed her hand and said, “Thank you for the dance, my dear.”

A bit flushed but energized from the exertion, she headed back to her table—only to see Brent sitting there grinning at her.

“How long have you been here?” she asked, sinking back into her chair.

“Long enough to see a side of you I didn’t know was there.”

She lowered her chin thoughtfully. “Maybe I didn’t, either.”

“I like it.”

She smiled, feeling a bit self-indulgent. “I think I do, too.”

“I was afraid last night might have sent you swimming for the mainland, but it looks like you survived quite nicely.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” she shot back at him coolly, as if she hadn’t indulged in ultra-kinky, near-orgy type sex last night.

“I have all the faith in the world in you, Jenna. And I’ll have even more if you assure me you’re no longer aghast.”

She tilted her head, weighing how she felt—for some reason, Brent always made her want to be as honest as possible. “Yes, less aghast. Although . . . it seems surreal. Like something I could have dreamed—even though I’ve never had a dream like
that
before. I guess I’ve begun to learn that . . . I can find pleasure in things I never would have thought possible.”

He gave a solemn but satisfied nod. “Very good, sunshine. And speaking of that, are you wearing what I sent you?”

The mere question made her pussy quiver. “Yes.”

“Good,” he replied simply.

“So . . .” she ventured, “do I have . . . plans tonight?”

He gave his head a short shake, and despite having already feared as much, she suffered a twinge of disappointment. “You get the night off to rest. I just happened to see this vision in blue dancing as I headed home, so I thought I’d stop and say hi.”

She smiled. “I’m glad you did. But where’s home? You live
here
, on the island, right?”

He nodded. “I have a private bungalow up the beach.”

“Wow—sounds nice. I hadn’t thought about what staff accommodations might be like.”

“Only the other owners and I have houses,” he explained. “Everyone else lives in apartments or dorms, depending on tenure.”

She nodded, then let herself smile in amusement. “Tenure. Who knew the Hotel Erotique thought in such lofty terms?”

He chuckled warmly, but changed the subject. “You
will
have some more light homework, though. You’ll find your assignment when you return to your room.”

For some reason, that thought actually pleased her, but she didn’t examine why.

Just then, Brent pushed back his chair, clearly preparing to go. “By the way, just because I saw you accidentally tonight, that doesn’t mean you can take off the special jewelry I sent.”

Hmm. “So you’re saying you want me to wear it until . . .”

“Until I see you again. Tomorrow evening.”

He looked arrogantly content with his answer. But her dance with her new Jamaican friend had her feeling a bit bolder than she sometimes did with Brent. “I
could
just take it off, then put it back on before I see you.”

“You won’t,” he said, completely certain.

She tilted her head. “What makes you so sure?”

“You’re an obedient little student, Jenna,” he said, his voice still all confidence as he met her gaze, “and you do what I say.”

She still wanted to fight back. “Maybe I’ll surprise you.”

“You already have. Every day since we’ve met. But you’ll still do as I tell you.” Then he leaned in and spoke lower. “Because you’ve begun to figure out that I know what I’m doing and that it all brings you more pleasure than you’ve ever known. Plus—you like pleasing your master,” he added with a wink, then stood and walked away.

Jenna followed Brent’s instructions, and such bold, naughty thoughts came more easily than they would have before her arrival here. She thought through the sex partners she’d known in her life—a handful of guys, all of whom she’d felt deeply about. And she’d loved the way their cocks had felt inside her, yet . . . she’d often felt timid around the appendage, too. It was so . . . foreign compared to anything on a woman’s body. And she’d been utterly shocked the first time she’d seen one—in a movie actually, as a young teenager, with Shannon, who’d insisted on watching R-rated films on cable when her parents were away one winter day.

Of course, she’d long since learned to appreciate the merits of a penis. But the truth was, she’d honestly felt more enamored of
Brent’s
cock in the few short days she’d known him than in any she’d had before. It was so big, downright majestic looking, like one more ultra-strong, sure part of him. And he used it so damn well, too.

When he’d demanded she suck it in the middle of the night, the command had excited her and she’d instantly embraced her task. Which, now, struck her as odd since going down on a guy had never been her favorite activity. It was something she’d done to please her lovers, and she’d taken satisfaction from their pleasure, but she’d never taken
personal
,
physical
pleasure from the act—until last night. She’d
wanted
to get up close and personal with Brent’s magnificent shaft.

In addition to thinking about cocks, though, Jenna also found herself thinking about breasts, nipples. Her own. She’d felt ridiculously erotic showering in the nipple rings—which seemed content to hug the pink peaks pleasantly tight without ever growing uncomfortable.

And sleeping in them—in a cami and boy-short panties—kept her in a slight but constant state of arousal all night. She had vague dreams—of Brent, and harem girls, and hard cocks—and she woke more often than usual, repeatedly finding herself reaching up to touch, to see if the tips of her breasts were
still
hard,
still
encircled, and they always were.

The next morning, as she donned her bikini, she found herself again enjoying the kinky look of her tits in the mirror. And as she took a lounge chair at the pool, it titillated her to know she wore the rings beneath her leopard print, and that they likely made her nipples protrude even more than usual through the tight Lycra. Every time she spoke to an even remotely attractive man—a waiter at the pool or anyone else—her pussy surged with the mere thought of how hard the guy would get if he knew about her hidden jewelry.

She tried to read more of the Civil War memoir, realizing she’d barely read thirty pages in five days. Yet she simply couldn’t concentrate. Her pussy tingled too pleasantly from the effect of having worn the nipple rings for nearly twenty-four hours now—and from simply feeling sexy in her bikini, her body stretched out across the chaise in the sun.

So she simply soaked up the rays, drank a couple of erotic rum punches, ordered a sandwich for lunch from her spot by the pool, then returned to her room by five, as Brent had instructed.

Walking in, she found a large black gift box on the bed, tied with red ribbon. A black envelope rested on top.

As usual, she couldn’t bear to open the envelope first, going straight for the box. Standing there in her bikini, she briskly untied the ribbon, yanked off the lid—and gasped. Inside rested an elaborate outfit of black leather. The main item: a boned leather corset with thick shoulder straps, but the molded cups for her breasts looked tiny. Next she encountered a pair of black fishnet stockings—then realized the corset possessed garters. Digging deeper in red tissue paper, she drew in her breath upon discovering a pair of high leather boots with the same stripperlike platform heels she’d worn with her Catholic schoolgirl outfit. And then—oh, dear God—she came across what appeared to be a black leather . . . collar, decorated with silver rings, and two matching . . . cuffs, to be worn on her wrists perhaps? Underneath it all lay a black vinyl trench coat—to wear over the naughty outfit when leaving her room, she supposed.

The truth was—by the time she’d examined the whole outfit, her heart beat like a drum against her chest. Despite Brent’s warnings, she’d not thought much about what lay ahead—which was just as well, since she couldn’t have imagined . . . this.

Barely able to think straight, she tore into the envelope to extract an invitation, this one on thick red paper, printed with black ink in a rather menacing-looking font.