Claimed: A Forced Submission Romance (9 page)
Carefully applying her make-up, Sandy strategically overdid her eyes, figuring if she was going to do the deed, she may as well play the part. Notwithstanding, she was sitting, quietly wringing her hands like a forlorn school girl worried about being stood up, when the knock came just before seven.
Brandon’s look, as she opened the door, said all he needed to say. His jaw dropped and his eyes glazed fleetingly as he drew a sudden breath and seemed to hold it. Sandy stood, pleased, waiting for him to finish scanning up and down her dolled up bod. Finally, obviously satisfied with what he saw, he muttered, “You ready?” Grabbing her new clutch purse, which held little more than her key, her lipstick and a bit of cash, Sandy accompanied Brandon through the lobby – and the gauntlet of stares and low whistles – to his car.
The boys erupted into loud cheers and catcalls the moment she entered the private banquet room. Slightly thrown by the tremendous reception, Sandy took only a moment to recover. Accepting a drink, as she determined who the guest of honour was, Sandy strode directly over and laid an electric kiss on the flabbergasted lad. “Well, Damon,” she purred, “last night to cut lose, eh?” With that, she set her glass down and began to dance right in front of him – just for him. Once again Sandy was astounded at how natural it seemed – how natural it was to writhe and twist suggestively in a room full of strangers. The party focused immediately, gathering in a loose circle around her, but she kept her eyes on Damon – focusing fully on his astonished, yet somehow grateful face.
The hoots and whistles faded to appreciative oohs and aahs, as Sandy moved sensuously to the now discernable music. Her understated eroticism gradually gave way to a blatant sexuality that had all eyes riveted. Slowly her suggestiveness became explicit, as she loosened the lace that bound her chest and bared her shoulders with an evocative grace that spoke of carnal delights. When she finally peeled her top off to reveal her silver encased bust, the sexual tension in the room was palpable. Squirming out of her skirt, Sandy could feel the audience’s temperature rise, so as soon as she had daintily stepped from it, she expertly released the building pressure by kicking it up into the groom’s face.
“How did I know to do that?” she wondered as the laughter of friends grounded everyone momentarily. Pushing her target back into a chair, Sandy straddled him and began to rub her crotch on his leg while threatening his face with her bust. After pushing herself up a few times, to create a deliciously false cleavage, Sandy unclasped her bra, letting the cups fall away, and to the collective gasp of the crowd, she pulled Damon’s cheeks hard against her breasts. Encouraged by the growing cheers, Sandy held him there as she reached between his legs to fondle his throbbing erection.
The circle had closed in tight around the lucky groom as Sandy worked at his fly-front with one hand, stroking his face against her chest with the other. At last she felt his tongue tentatively lap at the sweat running down between her boobs. “Oh, you naughty boy,” she squealed, releasing his head and gliding like liquid down to the floor between his knees. She could her a few expletives whispered in amazement around her. “Fuck, I love this!” she admitted to herself, surprised at the strength of her conviction.
Pulling out the poor fellow’s raging hard-on, she slurped it up in one gulp, pushing herself down until she could feel his pubes against her nose. “Careful now,” Sandy warned herself, “gotta try to make this last at least a bit. We wouldn’t want to embarrass him in front of his friends by having him blow early, would we?” Pushing and retreating, sucking and stroking, swirling and nibbling, Sandy employed all the tricks she didn’t even know she knew, to keep Damon, the hapless groom, right on the edge.
The invitation implicit in raising her ass off her heels while she worked, was not missed, and soon Sandy felt her panty-ties being pulled and the tiny triangle of material being drawn across her wet and puffy labia to vanish behind her. Lips and hands played a while at her cheeks until, at long last, she felt someone spreading them, drawing a finger along her slit to check for lubrication. Without missing a beat on the fevered cock in her mouth, Sandy spread her knees to flare her ass. She didn’t wait long before she felt the investigative probing of the large, spongy end of some anonymous appendage. Pushing abruptly into her, the cocksman paused a moment to allow for the crowd’s favorable response, letting her warm interior form to him like a velvet glove, then, with a slap on her buttock he began to fuck in earnest. The force with which he ploughed her channel, over and over, kept her off balance. Only the sturdy tool still pummeling her mouth saved her from being knocked over. While the hunk behind her churned and stabbed with a fierce expertise, the resulting increase in activity pushed Damon, the innocent groom, irrevocably over the edge. With a feral howl, he seized Sandy’s head and slammed it down against his pubes, letting loose a torrent of semen. Sandy felt his climax erupting and thought she was ready, but the strength of his hold on her head surprised her, and the abundance of his ejaculation, splashing off the back of her throat, threatened to drown her. To make matters worse, she had been fighting to keep her own arousal in check but the ferocity of Damon’s orgasm triggered the release of her own. Snorting and gasping and screaming, writhing out of control and pushing back hard against her back-side intrusion, Sandy felt close to passing out, as she heard, yet another voice bellow in triumph, and felt her womb scalded with his seed.
Collapsing limp onto the lap of the groom, Sandy let his softening dick slip from her lips. Closing her eyes for a sec Sandy sniffed and wiped at the cum that dripped from her nose. Despite the pulsing emptiness left by the withdrawal from her cunt, she remained motionless. But the floodgates had opened, the starting bell rung. The rest of the evening was a blur of sucking and fucking, – anally, orally, vaginally or any combination, breathing new life into wilting soldiers, Sandy worked hard – harder, even, than she had for ‘the team’, for this time she had knew was happening – this time she was in control.
And eventually she had drained them all, most twice, some even more. Damon didn’t yet realize the trouble it was likely to cause in his wedding bed the next night. “Eat lots of oysters,” she whispered in his ear at one point. She didn’t know if it worked, but she had heard about it once, and, after all, she was supposed to be the expert. As Sandy retrieved and donned her clothes, and the event wound down, she watched with interest as the men – “Boys, really,” she decided though they were all older than her – watched as the boys buttoned their trousers and gathered their jackets. They all wished Damon good luck, then, though few actually spoke to her, most of them gave her an almost embarrassed smile and nod, as if they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t. “I s’pose, in a way they have,” she realized, thinking that the number of wives or girlfriends who would hear about this was probably pretty close to absolute zero.
Sandy stood aside and watched until, after most of the crew had left, Brandon approached her holding a shoe box sized container in his hands. “Ready?” he asked, a sudden weariness slumping his shoulders. When Sandy nodded, he held out the box and added, “This is for you.”
“Thanks.” Sitting silently next to him, she held the carton primly on her lap the whole way back to her hotel.
As they pulled up, Brandon looked at her and remarked, “It’s late.” Sandy blushed, suddenly aware of what a mess she must be. “I’ll ring for the clerk,” he said rushing ahead to the door. Sandy extricated herself from the car, and moved to stand with quiet dignity, holding her box, as a man finally appeared, shuffling into the lobby. Seeing him coming, Brandon turned to her and said, “Thanks.” He smiled awkwardly, then added, “You were great!” Nipping in to kiss her quickly on the cheek, he fled back to his car as the nightman indicated through the glass that he needed to see Sandy’s key, before he would open the door.
Safely locked in her room, her costume discarded on the bathroom floor, Sandy considered whether to bathe first, or open the box. She opened the box. Eight hundred and fourteen pounds! She couldn’t believe it.
The next morning, waking from a sound sleep, Sandy pulled the soft covers around her as she tentatively let consciousness take hold. Suddenly the recollection of the previous night jolted her into alertness. Sitting up and staring at the non-descript box on the table, Sandy felt herself fill with emotion, but she wasn’t sure if it was despair or regret or joy. How could she reconcile the last few days with the person she had always thought she was? Was she depraved or entrepreneurial? She knew what her friends and family would say. No, on second thought, she couldn’t imagine what her friends and family would say. What could they say? Here she was, sweet, young Sandy Masters, erotic dancer – and slut. No, even she didn’t like slut, “and the erotic dancing,” she argued, “let’s face it, was just incidental. Prostitute, maybe – an old and venerable profession – yeah, prostitute, or maybe all-girl, but not hooker or whore.”
She discussed her position with herself all morning, sometimes silently, sometimes aloud – over the light breakfast room service brought, or pacing the room. It was terrifically confusing. But, in the final analysis, she just liked it – she really liked it. She liked the sex; she liked the power; she liked the money; and she liked the prospect of freedom she expected the money would buy.
Sandy decided, there, in that hotel room in Chelsea, that she could, at least, finance the rest of her British stay with sex. And having made that decision, she went out to the shops to buy a few nice clothes.
Later, descending to the lounge after a light supper in her room, Sandy looked like elegance personified. She moved into the smoky room with a confidence she’d previously been unaware of. Heads turned as she made her way to the bar. “This is good,” she said to herself.
“A paid sex toy?” she mused, sipping thoughtfully on her wine and inspecting the recollections of the previous evening’s events once more. “A sexual therapist? Erotic entertainer? Geisha?” Even a careful examination of her own feelings revealed little more that she could grasp onto.
Sandy could now see, these five years later, that the gnawing uncertainty about choices made and not made during those few days would probably never completely go away, and while all those early experiences didn’t exactly scar her, they certainly altered her social perceptions and interactions. That being said, in the intervening years, she had often thought it “a very fortunate happenstance,” swirling the term around her head like a familiar fine wine.
But then and there, sitting in the lounge of a respectable hotel in Chelsea, swirling her wine around her glass, she asked herself, “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
Before she could answer herself, a well-dressed gentleman of maybe thirty-five or forty rose from his table and moved onto the stool next to Sandy. “Hi there, gorgeous,” he said in a strong New York accent. “I couldn’t help hearing your accent, or lack of, when you ordered your drink. It’s nice to meet a fellow American.”
“I’m Canadian, actually.”
“Is that right?” he countered, and launched smoothly into a friendly, if somewhat probing conversation. Sandy suspected that it was the prelude to a pick up, but – or maybe, so – she accepted his pleasant patter, being only slightly evasive as necessary. Eventually, after buying her a couple of drinks, he leaned over conspiratorially and asked, in a voice heavy with desire, “How much would it cost me to buy your company for the night?”
“Two hundred and fifty pounds,” Sandy replied without missing a beat – basically pulling the figure out of the air. She held his gaze, interested in his reaction; careful not to reveal her inexperience.
“Hmmph.” He looked at her intensely, trying, she felt, to make her reveal her hand, but she held it close to her chest, willing an indifference into her silent stare. Finally he blinked. With a smile, he said, “I think you just might be worth it. Come with me, Alexandra.” Taking her hand he patted it, pleased with his contrived familiarity, and his apparent success. “I’m in twelve sixty-two.”
“And so,” she thought, as she entered the elevator, “begins my career as a call girl.”
Returning to her own room the next morning, Sandy felt okay – no, she felt better than okay. The evening had been quite pleasant. They had, at first, just chatted over drinks. “I’m going to have to be very careful in the future,” she noted to herself, for she was not used to so much booze and had felt rather tipsy far too early in the evening. Although she felt a little wobbly while she undressed, the client had, nonetheless, loved her performance. And he, Petrov, had remained a gentleman all night. He had shown great control during the initial felatio, and the intercourse on the bed had been traditional – undemanding, mellow and calm. Later, while trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to get him up for a third round, Sandy had gotten somewhat more vigorous. He accepted her ministrations eagerly, if somewhat bemused, and, when she finally had to admit defeat, he cradled her, calling her his dear, wild, little minx. They fell asleep entwined, and woke fresh, with Sandy, anyway, not feeling the least bit of regret.
After breakfast, Petrov said, “It’s so nice of you to leave the money thing until last. Most of the girls I’ve ever met, in cities all over, demand payment up front,” then, after he’d counted out the cash, and handed it to her, he leaned in and kissed her. “You’re something special, you know. An absolute doll. Thanks.” Oddly, Sandy felt herself blush at his compliments, and with a quiet goodbye, she slipped out the door.
“Thirteen twenties,” she counted, as she waited for the elevator. “Yeah, he was nice. I didn’t think he’d rip me off.” But she thought about what he had said – about others girls taking their payment in advance. She’d have to keep that in mind – play it by ear, maybe, depending on the client.
Later that week, after a couple more lucrative evenings, Sandy decided to move closer to the heart of London. It had barely been a fortnight since she had arrived in Britain. My how things had changed. Notwithstanding, she packed up her belongings, neatly folding even her old traveler’s backpack, placed everything neatly into her new, matching luggage set, and took a cab into London proper. She was amazed at how easy it was. Installing herself in a rather majestic old hotel, she hardly waited at all until the flow of traffic found her. Young studs, killing time; rich bachelors, looking for solace; weary old travelers; and hungry businessmen. Sandy loved it – the excitement and the diversity.