Women in Lust (20 page)

“Is that hard enough?” he asks. “Confess, or there’s more where that came from.”

“Ooh, I didn’t do it!” I gasp, needing to feel that incendiary crack of palm against rump again. Did it really feel that good? I need backup data.

Backup data arrives on cue. The slow burn radiates outward across the curve of my ass. It really did feel that good. It felt better.

“Oh, come on,” he whispers. “You don’t expect me to believe that, do you? I’ve seen the charge sheet. You stand accused of stiff nipples.” He pulls down my bra cups. The evidence stares him in the face.

“It’s not how it looks,” I insist stubbornly. Another gloriously loud smack reverberates off the lined cotton.

“What do you call this then?” He begins to roll the fat pink buds between ungentle fingers, flicking at them with the tip of a nail, examining them in excruciating detail, even putting his lips to them and blowing.
Oh. That feels good. Do it again.

He straightens up, eyebrow cocked. “Well?”

I want to sob with disappointment. “It’s just a physiological reaction…to the room temperature.”

“My ass,” he says, but it’s
my
ass that gets another spank, harder than the preceding three, causing me to fall forward and land against his chest, my face crushed into his white cotton shirt. “The room’s warm, Ellen. But your nipples are behaving as if they’ve been dipped in ice.” His hand fixes itself in my hair, gently tugging at the roots. “What’s that all about, eh?”

“Ask forensics,” I mutter into his chest.

He laughs out loud and spanks me again.

“I think I need to step this examination up a level.”

My blouse comes off, at least as far as the cuffs, beyond which it cannot travel, then my skirt zipper is dealt with and the protective material abandons my bottom and thighs, leaving them all the more open to Blake’s merciless techniques. He
lays me down on my back, so that he can remove the garment completely. While he’s about it, he takes off my shoes, so that I lie in just a no-cup bra, knickers and stockings. I always wear stockings when Blake’s on duty. Finally, it has paid off.

I pretend to cower when he straddles me, fully suited and ready for the kill, his tie falling into my face. Behind my back, the handcuffs are uncomfortable, but I can’t bring myself to care. I am too busy trying not to fling my legs wide and beg him to mount me there and then.

“So we’ve established that your nipples are hard,” he recaps, using his fingers to determine that this remains the case. It does.

“And I also note that your throat and collarbone are flushed,” he says with a grin. “What do you think that tells me?”

“Hot,” I say. “Heat.”

“Oh, now the room has heated up, has it? From its previous arctic temperature? Come on.” He brushes the backs of his fingers under my chin, down the line of my neck. “You can’t expect me to believe that.”

A little jerk of my pelvis is my pathetic attempt to unseat him. Of course it fails, and he simply bears down on me with all his weight before leaning down to whisper in my ear.

“I know how to prove your guilt, Ellen. Do you want to know how? Or do you want to confess?”

“I’m not guilty,” I shiver, but it’s too late for that.

A hand introduces itself into my knickers, fingers taking bold possession of their contents. My lips are split apart by inescapable probes; they pay particular attention to the swollenness of my clit and the swamp conditions that surround it.

“Oh, you need it,” he confirms, his eyes bright with triumph. “You are so wet, god, and so hot and…guilty as charged, Ms. Carrington.”

I shift restlessly, wanting more, inviting him to rub and push, which he does with alacrity. I am not going to argue this point.

“I’ll come quietly,” I moan.

“Quietly? Not if I have anything to do with it.”

He’s right. There is no way this insistent pressure, this sweet torment, is going to lead to anything other than the most vocal of throes. He pulls down the knickers, pushes my thighs wide and sets to work with all the energy and thoroughness his police training has imbued. His strong hands, capable fingers sliding inside me, test me for stretch and depth, finding the places that make me kick and whimper on contact.

“Open your eyes,” he commands, guessing that I am close. I want to hide from his relentless scrutiny, but he will not allow it. I force them open and when I come, I watch him watching me, enjoying my surrender, relishing the confession my sex makes for me.

“Oh, good, yes,” he smiles, the smile he always gives the crook at the moment of capitulation. “You’ve done the right thing. We’ll take care of you, don’t worry.”

I am speechless, defeated.

“Thanks,” is all I can say. Then, once his hand is out of me and he loosens his tie, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

I put it another way. “What’s my sentence?”

“Your sentence?” He pulls off the tie, unbuttons his shirt with slippery-wet fingers. “Ah. I see. I’d say the punishment should fit the crime, wouldn’t you?”

“Absolutely. But…look, do you mind? These cuffs are really starting to dig into me.”

“Oh.” The shirt is gone, the trousers next on the list. “Right. Let’s…”

He pulls me up by the shoulders and rolls me over on to my
stomach. My arms are still strained but the chunky metal of the cuffs is no longer a distraction.

“So there you are.” His voice is behind me, close to my ear. “Tried and found guilty. Sentenced to a good hard fuck. Bend over the dock, my dear.”

Oh, he is fantastically perverse. My heart flutters with love. How does he know I have pictured this, during long dreary stints in the Crown Court?

I hear the snappity-snap of the condom, then his forearm is under my stomach, manipulating me onto my knees. The restraint of my arms forces my face down into the covers; he will have to hold on to me if he does not want me to crumple down flat at the first thrust.

Of course, he knows this—he seems to know everything—so two hands smack down onto my hips and grip me tightly, preparing me for the first taste of my shameful portion.

“The judge is watching you…everyone in the courtroom is. The stenographer is poised to record every thrust, every gasp, every little squeak that comes from your mouth. The press will have a blow-by-blow account in all the papers tomorrow, and the court sketcher is making sure he gets the curve of your ass… just…right.”

I feel the tip of his cock butt my buttocks, then glide its way around the flesh, stopping for a quick poke between my cheeks before drifting down the crack to its destination.

“Did you hear what the judge said?” he whispers, guiding that fat bulb to the slick entrance awaiting it. “You’re going to be made to come, at least five times a week, for a minimum of two years. No time off for good behavior. No parole. Just plenty of time spent on your back, or your knees, with a hard cock inside you. And it starts…now.”

My lungs inflate and I hold the breath his sudden ingress
prompts for much longer than I should. The feeling of him, inside, filling me with his thick length, is too precious to permit me to focus on anything as mundane as exhalation. I need to take and hold this moment for as long as I can.

He eases into his rhythm, moving slowly at first, taking every opportunity to lean down and fill my ears with more of his fervid imaginings.

“See their eyes upon you. See the furious scribbling and note-taking? You’re front-page news. And the collar is mine. You are my body. I caught you fair and square.”

He tugs on the handcuffs, straining my shoulders, pulling me back so his cock sinks deeper. I imagine the cold sleek wood of the dock, slippery with condensation from my heat. I imagine that I am bent over, in high heels, my skirt rucked and blouse pulled open while the jury stares at my exposed nipples and creeps around the room for a better view of my ass, turning pink from the relentless pounding of my arresting officer. The sketcher captures the moment of confluence between cock and cunt, confident sweeping strokes of charcoal depicting my punishment for the edification of the masses in tomorrow’s papers. He has to get my face right. He has to get that overwhelmed look into my eyes, that contortion of mouth and crumpling of forehead, every shameful lineament of expression.

The thought of it heightens the sensation below, which is already growing with each tiny increment in Blake’s pace. His dick is deadly accurate, hitting all the spots, over and over. His whisper, his thrust, his finger on my clit, his power, my surrender—all of these converge in one moment of frightening intensity, a feeling I don’t immediately recognize as orgasm until the fire of it reaches my belly. I realize that I have not ripped apart at the seams. I am simply coming—coming harder than I have ever done before, and certainly not coming quietly, but coming
nonetheless. What an inadequate verb it seems to describe the experience; somebody really needs to invent a better one.

But not me, and not now. Not while the cells of my brain occupy opposing ends of the universe.

I am almost surprised, on coming round, to find myself in a bedroom and not amidst the majestic trappings of Her Majesty’s Crown Court. Blake has discreetly withdrawn from my well-used pussy and is lying beside me, one slightly shaky hand on my hip.

“What do you think?” he asks, his voice a little dry. He clears his throat. “Was that sentence too harsh?”

“No.” I try to move my wrists. He takes the hint and uncuffs me. “Not at all. I think I got off lightly.”

“Oh.” He laughs tiredly. “You’re not going to appeal then?”

“Not unless it’s for a stiffer sentence.”

I have my stiffer sentence. I have it most nights. Believe me, when the choice is available, I will always opt for the hard way.

W
hen I see him eyeing me from across the room, my stomach drops to the floor, and I wonder if he knows. Will he betray me if he does? If so, will he do it quietly, or will he make sure everyone knows what I’m up to? I contemplate leaving quietly by a side door, but before I have a chance, he sidles up to the bar next to me. I stand frozen to the spot, close enough that his arm, hard muscle beneath soft cotton, brushes mine, even though the bar isn’t crowded.

My pulse is a drumroll hammering against my throat. Surely he must see it. In the mirror behind the bar I can see his sideways glances taking me in. I try not to squirm, while I take a mental inventory: jeans, loafers, tits strapped tight beneath my oversized shirt. My best friend, Alex, coached me. He says I’m good. He says my disguise is flawless. But then he never thought I’d actually go through with it, and it certainly never occurred to either of us that I might have to make a run for it wearing a strap-on.

I’m still trying to figure out what gave me away when he turns to me and nods to my barely touched beer. “What are you drinking?”

“Bud,” I say, trying to wrestle my heart back into its proper spot while he orders for both of us. Then just when my nerves have nearly settled, our drinks arrive, and he turns to me and offers a half smile. “You come here often?”

Jesus, is the man actually hitting on me? Before I can respond, his face reddens and he curses under his breath. I’m taken by how young he seems. “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right. What I meant is that I’ve never been here before, and I’m just wondering if it’s a good place. For a drink, I mean.” He reddens again, lifts his beer and nearly chokes on his first gulp. Stupidly, I pound him on the back before I catch myself. I clear my throat and step back. “You all right there?” My voice is a low contralto. Sexy, I’ve been told, but a bit mannish. Tonight I’m counting on it.

I take a long drag from my beer and pretend to be interested in some boxing match on the muted big screen. “My first time, too,” I say. “Just checking the place out.”

He heaves a sigh and offers a sheepish grin that makes him seem extremely boyish, though I’d guess from the smile lines around his eyes, he’s not as young as he looks. “I’ve never done this before.” He gulps most of his beer and orders another for himself and for me.

“You’re nervous,” I say, wondering what I’m going to do with three Buds.

“Aren’t you? I mean you seem a little, I don’t know. Out of place.”

He has no idea!

He leans an elbow on the bar and turns to face me. I’m struck by the long lean lines of him; not quite, but almost cowboyish
beneath denim and cotton. He’s not actually any taller than I am, but the illusion of height is there. His blond hair is unruly around his cheeks and down over one eye, making me want to reach out and brush it aside. His stance is open, vulnerable. His gaze rakes over my body, and I shudder in response. When his eyes meet mine, the blush crawls back up his throat, where I can see the drumroll of his own pulse, but he holds my gaze. “I’ve never done this before,” he repeats in a half whisper. It’s not exactly pleading I hear in his voice; it’s something closer to curiosity and embarrassment maybe. But there’s no doubt about what he wants.

I don’t know what possesses me. I only came here to observe. But here I am giving him an equally hard once-over, which he endures stoically. There’s no missing the beginnings of a bulge in his jeans. Then I step closer and speak next to his ear. “You want me, you do exactly as I say.” Jesus, what the hell is in that beer? Whatever it is, I finish off one for courage, wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, then turn and walk out the side door into the alley with a hell of a lot more bravado than I actually feel. In my peripheral vision, I see him gulping his own courage, then he’s right behind me, so close I can feel the heat of him. At the door he slips a condom and a small packet of lube into my hand, and my pussy gets twitchy and my stomach does a flip-flop.

For sure, then. This is what he wants.

Outside, I don’t let him kiss me. I don’t even let him touch me. Complete control is my only hope of pulling this off. I can’t even allow myself to think about the utter madness of what I’m doing. I nod to his jeans. “I want to see.” I’m trembling too badly to manage the technicalities of freeing his cock myself, though he’s shaking pretty badly, too.