Chimera (18 page)

T
he crowd
at this homegrown shindig is insane. There’s no way Shawn knows all these people personally, and I have to wonder why anyone would invite this many strangers into their home for an intimate sort of gathering, especially on a Tuesday night, but the explanation is clear when we get downstairs.

Shawn’s bottom floor is exclusively for his lifestyle of choice, and is large enough to have his own club of sorts if he so desires. From the looks of it, that’s precisely what he did tonight. He opened the bottom floor and those entrances to those who received a written invitation. According to Ferry, they’re all fully vetted and safe to play, and identities are secure in their knowledge.

Nothing about this situation feels right. My senses are all heightened and the hair on my arms stands at attention. It may just be my anxiety for people in general, but I didn’t feel this way at The Warehouse and I’ve never felt this way at Stone Ground. The difference likely being, I knew at those locations no one expected me to play or even interact for that matter. Ferry makes it clear his expectations are different.

An hour or so into the mix, it dawns on me what is so radically different about this situation than the others I’ve witnessed, although not partaken of. The alcohol is freely flowing here, and everyone seems to be lushly indulging. In an attempt to keep a low profile, I’m nursing a beer in a dimly lit corner, watching the people around me. The women are scantily clad, and some of the men are as well, but all seem to be having a grand time, no-holds-barred. As the night wears on, clothing begins to come off and the equipment goes into use. The crack of a whip startles me, turning to see Ferry yielding the powerful leather. I ponder how dynamic he is in this element. An entirely different person than I typically see, in essence a stranger.

The woman on the receiving end of his blows is a beautiful redhead, with large expressive eyes, pale milky skin without a blemish on it except for the touch of his whip leaving a glowing, rose-colored mark. Each movement is precise, calculated. Even with my limited knowledge, I recognize he’s a Master who spent years honing his skill.

My attention shifts from his arms and his instrument to her; the way her back arches with the contact, the smile on her face, the dazed look in her eyes the longer the scene continues. The way her body moves with each strike enamors me, her breasts sheer perfection, perfect pink nipples, her long form dancing to music no one else can hear. I capture her image in my mind minus the equipment, without Ferry, the leather, or the audience. She’s tall, her body supple but thin, every proportion seemingly perfect, her ass round but not overly, a full D cup that fits her exceptionally well.

Unaware of my own movements, I wander toward them, to the cross she’s strapped to, enduring Ferry’s treatment, she obviously enjoys it. I wait, for how long, I can’t say, when he loses focus and turns to me, smiling. Tipping his head, he indicates for me to come closer. Grabbing a fresh bottle from a guy making rounds in a tuxedo, I shake my head, waiting to see how this plays out between them.

To my knowledge, he hasn’t touched her with anything other than the whip. The few times I’ve seen anyone endure this, they leave the cross utterly exhausted, unable to move, cradled in the arms of their Dom, resting in aftercare he provides. This girl doesn’t. Tossing her head back, her auburn curls cascade down her back, swaying her head from side to side she seems to enjoy the sting I’m sure it brings to her raw skin. Ferry whispers something to her as he releases her wrists, one at a time, causing her to glance over her shoulder toward me.

Her crystal blue eyes lock in on mine. She makes no effort to look away, and there’s nothing uncomfortable about her stare. It’s intriguing, full of something I’m afraid to define. With her ankles freed, she rubs her wrists. As she turns in my direction, Ferry is still talking inaudibly to her. She’s hearing what he says but intently focused on me. The little patch of red fluff just above her pussy catches my eyes, briefly drawing my attention. A little landing strip but otherwise her pussy is perfectly bare. Returning to her face, she’s still focused on me. Ferry escorts her in my direction but still doesn’t touch an inch of her skin with his.

“Bastian Thames, this is Emily Walker.” Our eyes lock as I attempt to acknowledge Ferry’s introduction.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Walker.” I extend my hand, which she takes, gently shaking in formality.

“Emily would like to get to know you better, Bastian.”

His implication knocks me out of my trance, I turn to him in confusion. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes, you did. Emily’s a good friend of mine. We’ve scened together multiple times. She’s interested in getting to know you in order to help you have a good time tonight.”

I give Ferry the,
you must be out of your fucking mind,
look.

“Seriously, Bastian. The only interest Emily has ever had in me has been the whip. I’m not her type. Most men aren’t if you get my drift.”

I have seconds to make a decision, see where this goes, against my nature, everything I’ve always been, a random encounter, a lone evening. Or I can play it safe, and walk away from what could prove to be a very pleasurable night because I’m a relationship kind of guy. Sylvie flashes through my mind, smiling, encouraging me to live my life, take the bull by the horns and fuck the shit out of it. Just this once. Then I see Sera; she’s too busy looking at someone else to notice me. Decision made, I accept Emily’s hand, and follow her lead.

E
mily has spent
a considerable amount of time in this house. She knows the layout well, the twisting paths, the maze of hallways, the conglomeration of rooms. She knows them all. She doesn’t talk much other than to tell me she’s staying in a room at the end of the hall for the week. She’s in from Los Angeles but doesn’t mention why, and I don’t ask. She hadn’t bothered putting clothes on walking out of the party. I trail a step behind, still holding her hand as I watch her ass sway with each step she takes. Utter perfection. I’ve studied the female form, painted hundreds of picture-perfect bodies, but hers—holy hell, she’s stunning, flawless from an artistic view. My dick apparently thinks so as well.

Reaching our destination, I stop in the doorway, unsure of where to take this. So much for any confidence booster Zane might have been trying to instill. I stand like an awkward teen virgin. Beer bottle in one hand, I stuff my free hand in my pocket and lean in against the doorframe. I watch her move as she pulls the pillows and the comforter from the bed, throwing them on the floor opposite the door. She comes to me, encouraging me inside the room as she shuts the door behind me, and seals us off from the rest of the party. I down the rest of the beer before I set the empty bottle on the dresser. Her hands find the hem of my shirt, she lifts it over my head, my bare chest heaving in anticipation. The pads of her fingertips skim my sides, chills rise on my forearms. The emotions flood my brain all at once, on the verge of publicly becoming a pussy. I push them back, knowing that having sex is like riding a bike. The fact that it’s been over six years really should be insignificant.

I allow her to explore while I enjoy the feeling of an intimate touch again. Palming my chest with her hands, her fingers run through the hair, trailing down to the top of my jeans. Her touch is soft, complaisant, gentle. Adding her mouth to the mix, she begins to pepper my skin with delicate kisses, first at my neck as she works her way down my chest. I don’t realize she undoes my jeans until they fall from my ass to the floor, pooling at my feet. I kick my shoes off, stepping out of the puddle of fabric. Her caress suggests something familiar. With no face attached to my aggressor, I can imagine her to be whomever I choose. Oddly, it’s not Sylvie behind my closed lids lighting up my imagination, but Sera. Unwilling to allow her that head space, knowing she chooses another man, I force my eyes open to see the woman in front of me, going down on her knees.

With my dick in her mouth, she looks up at me the moment I look down at her. My confidence soars with her submission, the position of power, towering over her. Eyes wide, she begins to move but holds my stare, looking for approval, indications of what I enjoy, what feels good. Still unwilling to speak for fear my voice might crack, I squeeze the hand she has wrapped around my cock with my own, stroking along with her so she knows the amount of pressure to apply. A moan escapes my lips as she swirls her tongue around my tip, flicking the underside. The warmth, the wetness, the suction, all threatens to send me over prematurely. My hand begins tangling in her hair, reluctant to pull her off. I wrap her long hair in my hands, guiding her back. She releases with a pop.

Lifting her elbow, I encourage her to stand and turn her back to me, remembering the lashing she took earlier. “Does it hurt?” The first three words I manage to say come out as a croak instead of intelligible language.

“It stings in a good way.” She adds a coy smile to her words.

“Do you want me to try to keep from touching it?”

Shaking her head, she coos, “Not at all. It heightens my experience.” I wonder what kind of
experience
she’s expecting in this pity fuck Ferry has so graciously arranged for me. She watches my eyes for a moment. “Quit overthinking this and just enjoy it.”

“It’s been a long time.”

“I know your story. That’s why Ferry chose me. I’m more of a switch than a sub and tend to prefer females to males. I like to sub for men who administer pain. My understanding is you need someone to tend to your pleasure. Just allow me to do that.”

I take that to heart. I don’t worry about the role I should play or what I should be doing. I succumb to the pleasure of the moment, not thinking one second beyond exactly what’s in front of me. It may be reckless, but my dick is throbbing and there’s a beautiful pink pussy waiting for me.

Emily asserts a little more of herself, realigning me with the bed as she encourages me to sit. I do as silently instructed. She wiggles her way between my legs, and forces me to spread them wider to accommodate her. Back on her knees, she works to rectify the damage our conversation has done to my erection. It doesn’t take long with her manipulating my balls and stroking my cock. When my head passes those supple lips, I lie back in bliss. It’s selfish and greedy, but the need to allow a woman to physically take care of me is all-consuming. I can’t think beyond my dick in her mouth. When she reaches for something, it barely fazes me. When I hear the tear of the wrapper, it dawns on me, she’s going to fuck me, not just suck my dick. A lazy smile spreads across my face when I try to sit up to help but she pushes me back down.

“Just enjoy, Bastian.” And I do.

She rides me like she’s in a damn rodeo, her pussy tight and warm, blissfully so. Nearing the apex, her movements get stronger, faster; she’s a goddamn pro. My face flushes, as my entire body tenses, my ass clenches, and every thought in my head leaves, as if the lights go out in my brain. They flick back on when the spasms in my body take over and I unload into the condom. She doesn’t stop until I’m motionless. My heart pounds as though I was the one just working out, and by God, she worked out.

Opening my eyes, she’s still sitting, poised on my dick. I focus on her red tuft of hair and her pussy bright pink and puffy. I have zero desire to get to know her, to cuddle her, or even want to see her again. It was good. I enjoyed it, and now I just want to go.

Jesus, I’m a self-centered, narcissistic, prick.

I don’t even know if she got off and frankly, I don’t care. When she climbs off, I assume she goes to the bathroom to clean up but comes back with a warm washcloth. She removes the condom from my now flaccid cock and wipes away the mess before disposing of the rubber. Out of nowhere, she appears with a cold bottle of water and tosses a throw over the lower half of my body before she dons a silky robe from behind the door.

Taking a seat in the chair in the corner, I tilt my head slightly to see her. She really is a beautiful woman. “You’d look gorgeous on a canvas.”

Her demure smile tells me she assumed it was the compliment I intend it to be. “Do you use models? Your work doesn’t look like still life. It appears to come from the recesses of your mind.”

“No. I don’t but that doesn’t mean I don’t paint from inspiration. Have you seen my work?”

“I’ve known Ferry for many years. A person can’t be involved in his life without knowing those he deems important. So yes, I’ve seen a lot of your work. Ferry speaks very highly of your talent. He thought you were great many years ago and was saddened by your sudden flight from the community, but my understanding is since your return everything about both you and your painting is completely transformed. I can’t wait to see your latest work at Le Musee Friday.”

I sit straight up. “Ahh, shit. You’re a collector?” Nervously, I find my hand in my hair, pulling on it in frustration.

“Bastian, really, calm down. I’m a woman who loves sex and art. They can’t be exclusive of each other so why pretend like they are. We’re consenting adults. I’m thrilled to have been able to share some pleasure with you as your work has shared with me over the years.”

In a pathetic attempt to change the subject, I blurt out, “Who’s your favorite artist?” How fucking elementary school can I get. Why not ask her what her favorite color is? Or hell, just get the fuck up, dress, and leave. Why do I feel the need for obligatory conversation?

Because I’m a socially awkward moron.

She sits up, eager to have the conversation. “Hmm…I’m really into photography, I love Ansel Adams, kind of trite I know but I have a thing for clouds and his black and whites just give the sky so much depth. I get lost in them. But I love Kandinsky, Tarkay, Klimt, O’Keefe. It’s all about color for me, and yes, I realize the idiocy since I love black and white photography. There are tons of local artists around LA I follow as well. I try to make it a point to pick up an original piece any time I go on vacation. I frame some of them but most stayed wrapped in tubes. My trinkets from my travels.”

“Are you involved in the art community for a living?”

“No. My husband’s a very successful businessman. I don’t work.”

I spit a swig of water across the room. “Your what?” Wiping my mouth, I add, “Did you say your husband?”

“Oh, Bastian. Don’t be so naïve. My husband knows exactly where I am and what I’m doing. That includes you. We have a marriage of, let’s just say, appearances. My father had what David needed. Money. Lots of money. I was never interested in men, other than the occasional playmate, and my father wanted assurance I would be well taken care of. It just so happens, David isn’t into pussy so our marriage is beneficial for both of us. David got the money he needed when my dad invested in his ideas, I got a husband, and David got a trophy wife. Don’t get me wrong, he’s my best friend and I love him dearly, but lovers we are not.”

Totally intrigued by this arrangement, it’s my turn to lean closer. “How does that work?”

“He travels a lot and his lover is his right-hand man; they’re both very masculine and no one suspects anything other than they’re good friends and business partners. Because he travels, I spend a lot of time with my girlfriends. It’s all very public but no one presumes anything is awry because we truly do adore each other. We just don’t really have sex and aren’t
in love.
It works for us. Anyway, he knew Ferry asked me to meet with you and asked me point blank what my intentions were.”

“What the hell do you tell your husband your intentions with another man are?” Shock and awe.

Laughing, she reminds me. “Well, when you’re basically a lesbian, not much. I told him I planned to help you move past the road block but more specifically, to suck your dick and fuck you senseless.” Even when she was nude she came across as a refined, high-class, well-bred woman; hearing
suck your dick
and
fuck you senseless
from her mouth just doesn’t fit. But God it was hot watching her lips form the words.

We sit in silence as I contemplate the fact I just fucked another man’s wife, who’s a lesbian, and don’t remember her last name. When the quiet becomes more than I want to hear, I get up to put my clothes on. She rises, helping me with each piece. It’s a shame she’s not into men because God knows she certainly knows how to care for one. Assisting me with my shirt, her robe falls open, exposing her full front. I don’t try to stop myself.

My hand cups her breast, kneading it, tweaking the nipple. I bend down to take it in my mouth, biting her peak ever so slightly. Her gasp forges me on. The other hand reaches around to her back, gently tracing the marks Ferry left on her. Her skin flushes red as she moans her obvious approval. Her tits are like sirens calling to me, I want to palm them, suck them, stick my fucking dick between them. I’d nurse from this woman if she’d let me.

Finding the small of her back, my hand roams over the roundness of her ass, between her legs, where she’s dripping wet. The desire to taste her becomes overwhelming. Scooping her up, I lay her on her back and spread her legs wide, opening her up like a flower. The petals are in full bloom, all shades of pink and red, swollen from the blood flow, smooth, silky. Her scent is tantalizing. Inhaling deeply, I memorize the way she smells right before I carve into stone the way she tastes.

There’s an art to eating pussy and anyone who tells you any different is a liar and likely not any good at it. I paint my masterpiece with my tongue in her folds, using the entire pallet of colors. Right before she climaxes, she hands me a condom from her robe pocket. Adorning my throbbing cock with her sheath, I plunge into her taut cunt again, driving, owning her pussy one last time. Picking her legs up with my elbows under her knees, I use her weight for leverage. With her ass off the mattress, her back shifting endlessly with each thrust on each one of those whelps that brings her to a higher place.

With one of her hands clutching her breast, rolling the nipple between her fingers, and the other trying to detonate an atomic bomb on her clit, I feel her building. The heat inside gets more intense as the muscles begin to tense. Her mouth gapes open but nothing comes out. When her head tilts back and her eyes roll behind her lids, I let go, pounding hard enough to break her. She screams loud enough for everyone in the house to hear but instead of it stopping me, it encourages me to take her until every last drop releases and every twitch of every muscle has stopped. When I finish, this sweet little body is going to have a hard time standing up, much less walking. Once my body has stilled from the intense orgasm, I gingerly pull my cock from her. She’s glistening from her own juices.

With this happy ending, I take my leave after tucking her in for the evening. She’s a sweet girl but it’s nice to know there are no further expectations, no awkward exchange of phone numbers. It was one night, just enough to remind me of what I’m searching for. Not the sex, but an intimate exchange, a connection. Happiness. Sera’s face flashes in front of me as I walk back to my room. I see Ferry in the hall, a woman on each arm. He gives me the typical guy acknowledgment, the upward nod, as he opens his door and escorts them in. I close mine simultaneously.