Sexy as Hell Box Set (107 page)

“I’d do whatever you wanted—as hard as you wanted it,” he said, looking me directly in the eye. “While we were fucking. I’d treat you like glass at other times.”

“What if I didn’t want to be treated like glass?”

Someone groaned, obviously getting off on being a voyeur, listening to a private conversation. Although every customer signed a disclosure agreement, I still wondered: Did anyone recognise his voice? Was he worried that they had, that they would? It didn’t seem so, otherwise, why would he keep talking?

“But you do,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re not always like this. You’re a woman who likes it both hard and soft.” He glanced down at his groin. “But I’m far from soft.”

My stomach somersaulted. “You have a way with words. I bet you talk to all the ladies this way.”

“I don’t.”

He gave me a steely glare—that connection again, him trying to convey what he wanted to say without words—and I believed him.

“I have to be careful,” he said. “As you can imagine.”

I could. “It must be difficult. To trust.”

He nodded again and stepped back from the window a bit, into the rose-hued shadows. Lifted his T-shirt then pulled it off. I gasped—couldn’t help myself—at the sight of his bare skin. At the bronze tan, the darkened nipples, and the neat squares on his abdomen.

“Oh, God,” I breathed.

“Flog yourself. For me. And only for me. I can’t see anyone else from this room and they can’t see me. They may as well not be here.”

He popped the button on his jeans, revealing the fact he wore no underwear and a cock that was hard, one that, I imagined, was screaming for me to suck it. I swallowed. Let myself think of how weighty his dick would be on my tongue, how, if I plunged him inside my mouth until his pubic hairs tickled my nose, the domed end would touch the back of my throat.

My mouth watered.

“Just for you?” I asked.

“Yes, just for me.”

Reluctantly, I took several paces backwards, needing the room so that my whip didn’t strike the glass. I usually turned from the windows to perform, preferring to stare at the rear wall and allow watchers to see me strike my back and arse. But tonight I didn’t want to tear my gaze from him. Didn’t want to break the invisible bond between us.

I slid the whip between my legs and held it there, clamped tight. It jutted out like a long, thin cock, the sole leather strand appearing as a never-ending rope of dark cum. My cunt muscles clenched—it wouldn’t take me long to come tonight, not with him looking at me like that, and him mostly naked too. I reached behind myself to take off my black corset, one that had a low back so I could feel every strike of the whip. I dropped it to the floor, noted how Mason widened his eyes, heard the intake of his breath among the other intakes from those watching. I stood in just my thigh-high boots and a pair of leather panties.

“I’m going to flay my tits,” I said. “My tits and my stomach.” I paused. “And my cunt.”

Loud moans erupted, a chorus of them. Normally they’d be a melody to my ears, but all I wanted to hear was his. One long, loud groan that told me he was turned on more than he’d ever been. That my words and the visuals they’d inspired had made his cock grow harder. Had his balls aching, retracting, throbbing.

I took the whip from between my legs and held the handle tightly. I wanted to hit myself with more force than I’d done before. Push myself, hurt myself, make such bright red marks on my skin they’d remain there for the whole time Mason Ward would be away.

I lifted the whip and, as I flicked my wrist and the leather strand flew towards me, I bit my bottom lip.

“Fuck,” he said. “
Fuck!
”

The whip struck my left tit, catching the nipple with delicious ferocity. I cried out at the intensity of the burn—searing, wonderful heat that grew hotter by the second. I wanted more, needed more. I gave it to myself. Over and over I struck, both tits, both nipples, my stomach. The flogging was harsh—just what I needed—and a rush of endorphins surfed through me. Mason took his dick in hand and began a slow but steady push-pull, drawing his foreskin right back so his fat cockhead appeared to inflate. I licked my lips—they’d gone suddenly dry—and continued hitting myself, wishing he was the one doing the hitting.

“Could you do this?” I all but shouted. “Could you hit me just like this?”

I struck my cunt. The pain was as exquisite as it was evil, tearing through my folds, zipping up my channel then back down again to zero in on my clit. Again. And again. So very harsh, so very brilliant.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “That’s it. Just for me. You’re doing it
only
for me.”

And I was. For once I was doing a show for someone other than myself. Oh, I knew men watched, but they didn’t know I
had
to do this, that me being able to flog myself was a gnawing need that ensured I turned up here once a week to perform. That I denied myself this pleasure until my show slot arrived. It was better that way. Sweeter. More intense.

“Yes,” I cried out, slashing at my cunt three times in quick succession.

I was on fire—on fucking fire. As I savoured the strength of the burn—hot, so bloody hot and all-consuming—Mason sped up on his cock. He covered his fingers with his others, a two-handed wank that I took to mean he needed more tightness.

“My cunt,” I said, panting, “would squeeze your cock harder than those hands of yours.”

Groans from the watchers raced out of the speakers, scoring the air with their loudness. I imagined I could single his out—it would be the one that had been louder than the others, ragged, torn from him, hurting his throat as much as the whip had hurt my pussy.

“And my cock,” he said, “would get so hard from it I couldn’t breathe.”

So he was a talker, a man who liked filthy words as he fucked.

“I’d fuck you so hard, hit you so hard”—he panted, ramped up the speed again on his cock—“that
you
wouldn’t be able to breathe.”

I flogged my tits, hit them with such extreme force I lost the ability to suck in air.

“Like that,” he said. “Just like that.”

“Come,” I said, striking my cunt again, the leather strand curling around my thigh then unfurling itself to sway in front of me. “Come.”

I, Mason Ward, started coming, the viewer of one of the most thrilling shows I’d ever had the privilege to watch. The privilege to be involved in. The first streak of cum jetted out of me as I gritted my teeth, intense sensations seeming to rip open my cock and bollocks. I had never, ever come this hard, and I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. But I needed them open, needed to see her, the glorious Julie, coming just for me.

She screamed, grabbing at her
knicker-covered cunt as though she didn’t quite know which part of it to touch first. Those leather panties covered her slit from view, but I imagined her to be sopping, her hole spasming, her clit aching for attention.

She dropped the whip. Yanked her panties down. They fell to her ankles, reminding me of leather manacles around her shiny PVC boots. Did she like being tied up, or was whipping her only need? I had the urge to find out, to know more about this woman.

She dug one hand inside her panties, shoved what looked like four fingers inside herself then used two from her free hand to grind circular movements over her clit.

More cum surged from my cock. She cried out again, staring at me, watching me as I bucked my hips and fisted myself so hard, urging out another spear of
jizz. My chest constricted, and I panted.

“Beautiful,” I called out. “That’s what you are, fucking beautiful.”

My balls drew upwards, and my dick throbbed painfully, warning me that any more violent tugs on it would have me regretting my ferocity later. Reluctantly, I eased off, slowing my jerks. She frigged herself until her whole body shook. She was amazing, the kind of woman I needed, unafraid of her sexuality, unafraid of sex full stop.

Christ, my cock and balls ached. I let go of myself, spent and with the need to slump down into one of the chairs beside me. But I wouldn’t. I remained standing on quivering legs, regaining control of my breathing and listening to her pants, her waning cries as she rode out her orgasm.

Fuck, she was a sight to see, her long blonde hair swinging, her cheeks flushed, her fingers glistening from the wetness of her cum. I could just break through that glass there and suck her fingers, stick my tongue inside her cunt and drink her juice until that was all I could taste.

She moved her hands away from her pussy, letting them dangle by her sides. And she stared at me harder, chest rising and falling, covered in red welts that might make another man wince. Not me. Fuck, I loved them, the way they were so vivid against the rest of her porcelain-like skin, a brand that screamed to me, made me want to take a whip in hand and flog her myself.

“When will you be back?” she asked breathlessly. “I need you to come back…”

Did she? Had she come harder than she had before? Because of me?

“You’ll see me sooner than you think,” I said, tucking my tender cock inside my jeans and zipping up. Still looking at her, I bent and felt blindly for my T-shirt. Put in on, losing sight of her for a second, pleased to see she was still staring at me once I’d shoved my head through the neck hole. “Much sooner.”

I’d been toying with the idea of approaching her when she left this place but so far had respected her privacy. She was at work, and me accosting her outside might not be welcome. But the way she’d looked at me tonight, the fact that she’d spoken to me…well, it might have been an invitation. Her way of telling me it was all right to step over the line. I’d be stepping over it all right. How could I not? She’d appeared in my sex-driven dreams, raided them of anyone else, stealing prospective stars away and ensuring only she took centre stage.

I had to have her. Already thought of her as mine. Foolish possibly—she might well have a boyfriend or husband—but if I didn’t at least try, I’d never know.

She strode towards the glass, pressing herself against it, her tits spreading, flattened, half an inch away yet maddeningly out of reach. Her skin around the welt marks blanched, highlighting the streaks where she’d inflicted pain upon herself. I stared at them, wondering if her cunt was throbbing, aching, puffy from having been struck. I wanted to lick it better, soothe the undoubtedly ravaged flesh. Eat her out until she came again, less intensely, languidly, her legs draped over my shoulders, inner thighs tight either side of my head.

“After,” she whispered. “Please, after…”

I nodded, backed away to the door, not wanting to stop looking at her but at the same time eager to get my arse outside and into the car park. I hadn’t cleaned up my cum and didn’t care, had no idea where it had landed either. I wrenched my gaze from her and left the room, pelting down the corridor then into the reception area. I had to let them know I was done, be shown out the back way by some man named Carlos. The owner had insisted I be escorted directly to my car for my safety. Good of her, and one of the reasons I kept coming back here. Anonymity, especially for me, was key.

The black-haired receptionist glanced up from her perch behind the desk. Fifi, I thought she was called. She had a nail file in one hand and exceptionally sharp-looking talons on the ends of her fingers. Her eyes were heavily rimmed with kohl, and as she narrowed them, her whites and irises all but disappeared.

“Ready to go, are you?” she asked, leaning forward to stab one of those talons at a button on the desk.

“Please,” I said, feeling ridiculous that I’d sounded breathless.

“Everything all right?” she asked, frowning.

“Yes, thanks, I just need to…to go now.”

“Right you are. Carlos won’t be long.”

She lowered her gaze to her nails and continued filing. I liked that about her, the way she acted as though I wasn’t who I was. Like she didn’t care. And maybe she didn’t.

“How long?” I blurted, not wanting to have to wait a second more.

“Bloody hell, Mr Mason, give Carlos a chance, will you?” she said, not bothering to look up. “He might well be in the toilet or in a meeting with the boss.”

“Right. Yes. Sorry. It’s just that, I have someone I need to meet and I kind of can’t wait. She’s—“

I stared at Julie, who stood in the doorway that led to the corridor, dressed in skinny black jeans and a red T-shirt. The hem rested just above her navel, and the ends of whip marks showed on the flash of skin between that and the waistband of her jeans. As livid as the scarlet of her top. I blinked, the heat of almost being caught in expressing how she affected me flooding my cheeks.

Fuck.

“I’ll take him out the back,” Julie said, gaze riveted on me. “I’m going there anyway.”

“All right,” the receptionist sighed out, her words sounding as though she’d said them from far away. “So long as that’s okay with Mr Mason. But if Zara finds out Carlos didn’t do it—”

“I’ll tell her,” I said. “I’ll say it was all right.”

Julie smiled, a barely there smile that said so much.

Christ, I wanted her in the worst way.