DangeroustoKnow

Dangerous to Know

Lily
Harlem

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

Lily Harlem

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…”

“But.”

“I’ll pay you to suck my cock.”

Inside I welled with triumph. The idea of sex as an
arrangement, a transaction, was what thrilled me the most. No emotions, no
strings. A customer, money and a murky act. That was what appealed to me.
Forget candlelit seduction and emotional intimacy, I wanted sleaze, I wanted
filth, I wanted to be used as a sexual object by a rough bloke who took what he
wanted on a very basic level.

“Okay. Where?” I asked.

He glanced left and right, his gaze searching, then nodded
straight ahead. “Down there.”

I looked in the direction he’d indicated. Through the trees
and railings, I could just make out a gap in the buildings. “It’ll cost you
twenty.”

He shrugged. “Whatever.”

Finally closing my legs, I stood. My knees felt weak and my
stomach clenched. This was something I’d been dreaming of, plotting for so
long. Never had I thought I’d find the courage to actually go through with my
foolhardy plan. The man was a stranger. He could be a complete psychopath and
murder me the minute we were out of view. Stuff like that happened to whores
all the time. I’d seen it on the news, read about it in papers.

It was a risk I was willing to take.

Stepping ahead, I turned to make sure he was following. He
was. Sauntering in that menacingly purposeful stride of his that I’d become
totally fascinated by. I also realized now that I was on ground level how tall
he was, a whole head above me, and wide too. If he did set his mind to
subjecting me to a gruesome back-alley death there was nothing I would be able
to do about it. He could squash me as if I were an ant, choke me without
breaking a sweat.

Tugging at my cheap, tarty skirt, I headed for the location
of my first whore experience. As we reached the entrance, he pressed a hand
into the small of my back and urged me into the murky world of New York’s dark,
dingy alleys. The scent of rotting food and urine caught in my nostrils,
underfoot there was trash of every description, and here there was no sunlight.
It was dark, cool, barely even a hint of the bright, civilized world beyond.

As we went deeper the alley narrowed, the walls closing in
around me. The stinking air here was humid and clogged my throat.

“Keep going,” he grunted when I slowed. “I don’t want to be
distracted by anyone. Walk farther down.”

Hurrying, I accidently kicked a bottle. It clanged against a
pockmarked wall and ricocheted into an armored door with a peeling “Keep Out”
sign.

Another ten steps and he tugged me behind a filthy green
Dumpster and pushed my back against the wall. I stared at him boldly,
un-intimidated—or so I hoped, for inside I was a bag of nerves sinking into a
deep well of lust.

His gaze flashed as it connected with mine and he stared,
stared long and hard with his big hands wrapped around my upper arms. His
fingers sank into my flesh and his feet and knees knocked against mine.

My heart beat so fast I feared for its continued survival. I
could barely catch my breath. Was he about to kill me or would he stick to our
deal? Twenty for a blowjob? That was our agreement. That was the arrangement.

“You really want to be a whore?” he asked. His breath was
hot and reeked of tobacco. “My whore?”

Both relief and excitement tumbled in my groin. He was going
to play my game, thank God. I nodded up at him and he leaned against me, his
chest just touching my excited nipples and his steely cock pressing into my
hipbone. He was slightly out of breath—from our fast walk or sexual excitement?

Sliding his hands up and over the balls of my shoulders, he
pressed and urged me down onto my knees. I sank obediently. I wasn’t proud of
the huge glut of pleasure that surged through me at being forced into position
to suck a stranger’s cock for money, but I couldn’t deny it. It was alive,
real, a part of me. It was one of the most erotic things I’d ever done.

As my bare knees adjusted to the gritty, dirty pavement, he
unzipped his pants, revealing snug red boxer briefs.

“I like it good and firm,” he said. “No teeth and make sure
you swallow.” He pulled out his cock and jerked it forward. It was thick and
wide, the domed head deeply colored and the shaft twisted with heavy, bulging
veins.

My greedy mouth watered to taste him. I could smell him,
musty, not fresh from the shower like my boyfriends had been when I’d sucked
them off. No, he was raw male, meaty, overdosed on pheromones, and his cock had
been nestled in those briefs all day. It was what I wanted—a whore didn’t
deserve fresh dick. Sweaty, unconcerned cock was what whores were used to.

I rubbed a hand up his denim-clad thigh and with the other
squeezed his bone-hard shaft.

He groaned and slid his fingers around my nape, urged my
lips against the smooth crown. I gave a couple of tiny, flicking licks into his
slit, delighting in the salty flavor, which reminded me of the sea.

“Just suck my dick, whore, I don’t have all fucking day.”

My desire flared further at his commanding tone and I
stretched my mouth wide and pulled him in. Submissively doing as instructed. He
was a customer, a paying customer. I was here to do his bidding, this was not
about me.

“Ah shit, that’s it, yes, yes,” he hissed.

Dragging my hair into a tight fist, he forged in fast, right
to the back of my throat. Unable to move away, I gagged as the fat mushroom
head filled my airway. But this seemed to excite him all the more. His hips
snapped back then reared forward again, his cock filling my mouth faster,
harder.

My pussy was weeping and clamping. I loved giving head, and
taking it so rough was a delight. He was fucking my mouth with no concern for
what I wanted. Of course, this was exactly what I wanted. But he didn’t know
that—or maybe he did. Perhaps his devil-may-care looks and his lack of charm
had attracted girls with similar disgustingly base fantasies in the past.