Hard (4 page)

This is sublime, but you know that. I
can’t
even begin to tell you how rock hard my cock feels,
how the pulses going through it are also pumping through my body.
It’s
like I’m full of fuck—does that even make sense? Like
every bit of me
is geared
to fucking and nothing else
can get in. Breathing, emotions…no, none of them can get a look in at this
moment. All I can feel is streams of cum jetting out of me and the spread of
pleasure zipping up and down my cock, darting down the strip between my balls
and
arse
, and pulling my bollocks tight.

I
can’t
stop my
pelvis from jolting.
It’s
making me jab my cock into
you with juddering pokes, and God, you’re coming again, aren’t you? Having one
of those back-to-back orgasms where the first
one’s
fading and the second one’s just starting. I know from experience this one will
be shorter but so violent
you’re
likely to bite me
harder than you are now.

Shit, here it comes, your cunt clamping
around my cock, you lifting your
arse
off the bed,
pushing your clit into me and writhing so the skin above the root of my dick is
rubbing you the same as when you play with yourself.

I’m
looking down
at you now just in case you did have it in mind to bite harder. All I can see
is you, a star-shaped woman balancing on her shoulders, her middle section off
the bed, going wild, thrashing against me.
You’re
screaming
out, words I don’t understand, but I don’t think I need to know what you’re
saying. That is the language of you having gone insensible, all from a fuck
where
you’ve got
your fantasy of being a used whore.
Why the hell
haven’t we done anything like this before? Why
haven’t we felt this all-consuming, crazy passion where only sex matters and
the feelings
we’re
getting?

It sounds like
you’re
sobbing but you’re not. I know exactly why
you’re
doing that, could do it myself but I’m too wrapped up in watching you come hard
and fast. This one’s raw,
isn’t
it, raw and painful in
its pleasure.
I’ll
keep going until you’re done, but
your cunt’s sucked every bit of cum out of me and I can’t give anything more.

Slick, you feel how slick your pussy is? With
both of our cum inside you,
I’m
having no trouble
pushing into you, pulling out. My balls are throbbing as you lower your
arse
back to the bed, my cock aching, and the little
tremors of aftershocks that are shivering through you are transferring to me.
It’s
as though we’re joined, both experiencing the same
sensations.

That’s
it, you rest
now.
I’ll
pull out, undo your wrists and ankles. Set
you free so we can stay here for a while, you wrapped in my arms and legs, me
kissing your forehead, your mouth,
your
cheeks. Yes,
you close your eyes and let me look after you.
I’m
all
you’ll ever need.

And like I said earlier, the customer is
always right.

If you enjoyed
Hard
try
Dangerous
to Know
by Lily Harlem – the first chapter is right here for you to enjoy.

Blurb

For too many
years
I’ve hidden a sinful, erotic craving in the darkest corner of my soul. Within
this deeply buried sliver, shameful fantasies rule and images—seedy, degrading,
filthy images—burn through the dark of night and hold my dreams hostage.

Luckily, the center of my whore obsession is
keen to play my slutty game. I know nothing about him, other than his taste,
touch and smell, but
that’s
how I want it, because of
one thing I’m certain—this man is dangerous to know. But despite the risks, in
the very heart of New York, in open view,
I’ll
tempt
him with my wares, show him my skills and prove I’m up for the job.

An
Exotika
®
contemporary
erotica
story from
Ellora’s
Cave

DANGEROUS TO KNOW

Chapter One

Peering through binoculars, I cursed the
spring growth on the trees below my apartment. Most New Yorkers enjoyed the
onset of the warmer seasons, but for me these burgeoning leaves were a
hindrance to viewing the man at the center of my dark obsession.

I
didn’t
know his
name, or even what his voice sounded like. All I knew was that he spent a lot
of time hanging out in the small park eighty feet below my window. Most
often
he was alone, moving his thumb over his iPhone or
reading a newspaper, but occasionally he met people. Other men, men who looked
decidedly shifty, a bit like him, men whom I
wouldn’t
want to run into in a dark alley—or maybe I would.

He’d
sometimes talk
on the phone, his hands shoved deep into his jean pockets. Occasionally he
frowned and gnawed at the inside of his cheek as though irritated by what
was being said
. Once he looked up, straight at me, as if
he’d
felt the binoculars burning down on him.

He
didn’t
come back
for a whole two weeks after that day.
I’d
gone about
my very average life as usual, running the ophthalmology outpatient department
at Bellevue. Well, I say running—
I’m
the head
receptionist and although I have no actual medical qualifications, without me
it all goes haywire. Taking a day off sick is always a nightmare.

I’d
almost given
up hope of seeing him again when suddenly he appeared. The day was gray and
dull. He wore a short army-green jacket and a battered trilby-type hat.
That’s
when I’d decided before the month was out I’d go and
introduce myself. It was time to get the ball rolling.

And now the last day of May had arrived,
which meant I
couldn’t
put off my self- imposed
ultimatum any longer.

Locking my apartment, I took the elevator
then sauntered out into the spring sunshine. I wore a tight red vest top, a
short purple skirt, silver stilettos and not a scrap of underwear.

Several young men shouting to one another
whizzed toward me on skateboards. I paused to let them by before stepping into
the park. It was, as usual, relatively quiet. A few dog walkers and a couple of
teens sauntering along. I glanced about. There he was, just where he’d been
five minutes ago when
I’d
decided to make my move.

I took up position at the opposite end of the
sunny bench he liked to sit on. My brain fuzzed with excited anticipation.
Seeing him up close, for real, with no lens between us was momentous, but I had
to be careful not to be caught staring. So between glances at other park-goers
minding their own business, I sneaked looks at his profile.

His jaw
was big boned and
layered with a heavy dose of black stubble
. His lips were thin, his nose
a little
hawklike
. Craggy black brows pulled low over
what I suspected were brown eyes. As he studied a newspaper, his head hung
forward but not his hair; his hair was short, very short and the hint of skull
beneath was foreboding and alluring all at the same time.

He
wasn’t
handsome
in a traditional way; in fact he was hard-looking, roguish. One might have said
a little unkempt but I preferred the description rough and ready. Either
way—rough, roguish, unkempt—to me he was perfect because I
wasn’t
a sweet girl. Beneath my bubbles of blonde hair and dimpled
smile
I was all about the filth. My fantasies, for as long as I could remember, were
dirty and degrading, threaded with disrespect and humiliation and should never
have been admitted to, let alone sought.

Ignoring the new smoking ban, he lit a
hand-rolled cigarette, flicking the match to the pavement and sucking on the
thin papery end. When he exhaled, the stream of smoke drifted my way. I dragged
it deep into my lungs, taking in what had circulated his body and delighting as
the woodsy vapors entered me. I fluttered my eyes shut, relishing the moment,
and when I opened them again he was staring straight at me. I was
right,
his eyes were brown—deep, chocolate brown that
swirled with delicious, hot sin and a suitable amount of disdain.

“Hey,” I said, tugging at my glossed bottom
lip with my teeth.

He poked his tongue out of the corner of his
mouth and stroked the seam as if capturing an invisible crumb.
Turned back to his newspaper.

A native New
Yorker then, typically wary of anyone speaking to him without good cause.
That was a
bonus,
a New Yorker would work for me. In fact, it would
suit very well.

“Do you live around here?” I asked.

His gaze slid back to me, traveling up my
bare legs, over the obscenely short hem of my skirt, lingering for a moment on
my braless chest and my protruding nipples before resting on my face. “What’s
it to you?”

Oh my God, his voice. He was not a New
Yorker. His grating, sexy drawl held a hint of musicality—European but not
English—Eastern Europe perhaps.
I’d
so not added that
into my musings of him, but it was perfect, sublimely perfect.

“Just making conversation,” I managed, trying
to keep cool even though heat was spreading up my back and chest.

“I don’t want conversation.”

“So what do you want?” He was a man. There
was one thing men always wanted.

He huffed and drew on his cigarette. The end
burned bright and crackled faintly. “Nothing you could give me.” Smoke trickled
from his mouth between his words.

Glancing over his shoulder, I was relieved to
see there was no one on the path. What I was going to do next was for his eyes
only.

Quickly I slid my butt around on the bench
and folded my legs the way I used to when I was a little girl, ankles crossed,
knees sticking out to the sides. My heart pounded and I was aware of my labia
peeling apart and cool air washing around my gaping entrance. The sensation
thrilled me utterly, and I pushed out my modest chest, resting one arm along
the back of the bench, fingers pointing toward him. For
all
the
world acting composed and calm when inside, a turmoil of excited,
filthy lust raged.

His gaze dropped to my bare pussy, exposed
and no doubt shimmering with moisture. He appeared remarkably unfazed by my
bold display, his expression lazy and languid. But his casual attention was a
heated caress, burning into me, licking me as if with real flames of fire. If
just his vaguely bored study could have my clit swelling from its hood, I
couldn’t
imagine what a touch from him would actually do.

“Are you a whore?” he asked.

Oh, the way he said the word whore was
delicious; his wide mouth seemed to pull out the “r” at the end as if savoring
it, playing with it.

“Do you want me to be?” I asked brazenly.

He shrugged. “Keeps it simple, I suppose.”

I twitched the side of my mouth into a
half-smile even though I wanted to beam. It seemed
I’d
just found a man to fulfill my forbidden desires and make all my bad dreams
come true. “Then yes, I’ll be your whore.”

“Just mine?”
He pulled on
his cigarette, but this time when he blew out, the smoke shot from his mouth in
a thin stream.

“Yes.”

I rubbed my hand over my chest, tweaking my
hard nipple. His gaze followed my movement then slid over my right shoulder. I
heard footsteps.

Someone was coming.

He glanced back at me, as if daring me to
stay in my exposed position. Always one to rise to a challenge, I kept my legs
spread.
Willed my knees to stay apart and my pussy bared.
I was desperate to clamp my thighs together—as a rule, I was not an
exhibitionist and had no desire to flash my cunt to any old Tom, Dick or Harry.
But I could and would do this—it was a means to an end.

In my peripheral vision a woman appeared. She
wore a cerise cardigan and walked a pale-brown boxer dog. She
didn’t
pause as she stepped past us, nor did she look back
and notice my bare pussy. Well, why would she? It was broad
daylight,
this was a park, why would my intimate female flesh be on public display?

He raised his eyebrows and I had a sudden
rush of accomplishment.
I’d
surprised him—clearly he’d
thought I’d tuck myself from view. Good, I liked to be a surprise. Being
predictable was not in my
nature,
well, not in my
whore-self’s nature anyway.

He placed his newspaper on the bench between
us and took a last drag of his cigarette before stubbing it under his black
boot. “I’m not really one for fucking whore’s pussies, even pretty ones,
but...”