Valentine's Day Sneak Peek

Why not, it's Valentine's Day, right? Enjoy a little romantic sneak peek from the chapter currently in progress. Did I say romantic? I meant explicit. But hopefully, romantically explicit. Or maybe explicitly romantic. You decide.

***

            “Because it’s Christmas,” he says. “And I’d like to spend the evening with an equal.” Then he laughs and all the sternness melts away, he visibly relaxes, rubbing the back of neck. “But I guess I’ll settle for spending it with my superior.”

            “Hardly.” Stepping close, I draw idle circles on his chest. “Are you sure?”

            “I could ask you the same.” He takes my hand. “You’ve given your consent. I’ve thought a lot about what I’m going to do. I’m just worried I might go too far.”

            I consider this. “Well then, why don’t you show me?”

            He grins. Not long after, we’re back on the sofa. I’ve slipped on a short red skirt and a tight, long-sleeved white top, sparkly with sequins. Meanwhile, he’s grabbed a pair of beers from the fridge and queued up some entertainment. Mr Connor’s about to let me in on his fantasies: he loads up his favourite porn and streams it to the tv.

            It’s an exceedingly surreal experience. Like, sure, I’ve watched porn with a partner a few times. But it’s rare, right? Normally, it’s a very personal thing. In fact, it’s not really my thing at all. I don’t have a problem with it, I’ve just never really needed it. And so, sitting there next to this man, watching his sexual fantasies made flesh by a mix of professional actors, digital generation, and amateur couples is—weird. We’re sitting rigidly apart, and he’s red-faced as he hits play.

            The girl on the screen is sexy—slim, with well-formed boobs, tattoos down her arm, long hair, piercings. Soft-lit, candles in the background. She trails slow kisses up the reclining form of an anonymous man. She begins her fervent, ten-minute worship of his cock. Her enthusiasm steadily grows. His face is never shown, but his pleasure is audible. Finally, she dives down, deepthroats him balls-deep and his fingers curl into the bedsheets, her throat moving in silent waves as she swallows. Smiling, she faces the camera and a little cum dribbles from the corner of her mouth.

            We watch it in silence, together. At the end, I’m profoundly confused, I’m aroused imagining myself the faceless man, shooting my load, can feel that ball-clenching ecstasy of release; but I’m also the girl, tits swaying, hair brushed to one side, his heavy musk in my nose. “I—don’t know if I can do that end bit,” I admit. “I’d probably gag.”

            In the next video, there’s a man in a suit, smoking a cigar, drinking whisky, some kind of mafia don or corporate big shot-type, it’s not clear. He’s sat in some dark-panelled study with his high-heeled trophy wife in a too-tight dress. There’s some pure am-dram bullshit between the man and woman before a maid enters with drinks on a platter. It’s not long before the sexy maid’s bent over his lap. The man spanks her, ties her arms behind her back, fucks her face until he sprays his load over her impressively heaving bosom. The wife watches and plays with herself before ordering the maid to clean up. Smiling, the servant scoops the cooling cum off her tits and licks her fingers clean.

            Mr Connor looks over at me. He’s a little red in the face but it’s not really embarrassment anymore. An impressive erection tents his jeans. I give it a little pat. “You like that?” He nods, I take his hand and lead him upstairs. I pull my suitcase out of the wardrobe and show him the outfit I didn’t unpack: the French maid uniform Julia gifted me. I’ve got the corset, black stockings, white petticoats, apron and cap—all of it. I hold the corset up against my torso, grin and look up at him through half-lidded eyes. “What do you think?” His speechless excitement makes me laugh. “I was going to surprise you with this tomorrow, you know, clean up downstairs wearing this. But since you’re in charge, I wouldn’t want to presume….”

            “You’re wearing it,” he says.

            That kind of breaks the ice for us and back downstairs, we’re a lot more open about the porn he plays. In the next one, some kind of poorly acted home invasion scenario, the girl ends up tied to a chair, blindfolded and gagged. I tell him I’m okay with that but found the gag painful after too long. He takes that under consideration. “I’ve got a bit gag,” he says. “We can try that instead.”

            After that, an office scenario: there’s a deadline, the boss is working late and so’s the secretary, and it hews so closely to yesterday evening we both chuckle a little uneasily. But the man’s a lot rougher that Mr Connor. He tears off the girl’s skirt, mauls her tits, grabs her by the neck, pulls on her hair. We pause the video and he takes my hand. Is that what you were thinking, I ask, yesterday at work, when I came into your office? Yes, he answers, but not without your consent. We return to the screen, frozen image of a half-naked woman bent over an office desk, heels thrusting her ass high in the air. Would you have let me? he asks. No, I say, not yesterday. Tomorrow? he asks. My breath catches in my throat. Yes, tomorrow, I say.  He plays the video. The man grabs the woman from behind, his massive cock pointed at her ass. He grabs her by the ponytail, forces her head back, while grabbing her roughly by the waist and then pushes into her asshole. My grip on Michael’s hand tightens, he winces in pain. He stops the video, looks at me. No anal? he asks. For a moment, I can’t breathe. I let go of his hand, clutch my neck. He waits, tucks a stray coil of hair behind my ear. I need to hear you say it, he says. But I don’t say it. I slow my breathing. Eventually, I force myself to say, you can try.

            “Remember your safe word,” he says.

            The next is a slow, extended showcase of bondage, an erotic and elegant display of rope-skill. It goes a long way towards calming me as I watch the meticulous skill of the man on screen. With sensual care and patience, the man ties the girl, her arms, long coils of soft rope drawing wrist and elbow and upper arm together, binding her limbs to her long, braided hair. This long line is then woven into crosslines that tie her arms to her torso, wrap around her breasts, and then downwards, until her legs, too, are bound. Soon, she is suspended in the air by these ropes. She wiggles sensuously in suspension. There is no possibility of escape. There is no indication she wants to escape. She is a beautiful object of art on display, the contrast of red rope against her dark skin, the woven pattern, and the blissful calm of her beautifully made-up face. Mr Connor looks at me. I hesitate. I find the woman’s helplessness alluring. There is also something terrifying in the idea of being so utterly powerless and at another’s mercy. I gnaw my lower lip for some time before giving a single, hesitant nod.

            Then we watch another soft-lit, professionally filmed production where the man slowly undresses the woman down to exquisite lingerie. They kiss and stroke each other, and he leads her to the bed. She lies on her back. He slips a blindfold over her eyes, then binds her wrists and ankles to the bedposts. Spread-eagle, she wiggles in erotic ecstasy as he teases her. I hold Mr Connor’s hand, watching breathlessly. The man tickles her with a brightly coloured peacock feather, traces lines down her slender belly, brushes her bald pussy. I draw Mr Connor’s fingers to my lap, slide them up beneath my skirt and moan as his finger brushes my pussy through silky panties. No doubts, this time: Yes, please, let’s do that one, I pant. Are you sure, he replies as on the screen, the man retrieves a long, flexible wand from beneath the bed. A crop, and he lays a few, swift strokes across the woman’s flank, her breasts. She writhes on screen, strains against her restraints and my arousal instantly ebbs. He brings ice to her nipples, and then hot wax, and she flinches with every drip. Eventually, he mounts her, muscular ass raised high before entering her in one smooth, powerful thrust. She cries out in one shuddering moan, and again several times, and he relentlessly pounds her until they climax together.

            “You still sure about this one?” Mr Connor asks.

            And in a very small voice, I answer, “yes, please.”