Deep Inside (22 page)

He took off his sunglasses so I could see his taunting eyes. I hated his cocksureness. I hated even more the wicked thrill that was passing through me.

“But first,” he said, “why not come aboard and take a quick tour of this beauty?”

Jeremy put his hand out, and I was powerless to refuse it. Like that, I was onboard next to him.

It was a beautiful boat, perfectly kept up. He showed me the opulent quarters below—the dining room that seated eight, a kitchen large enough to prepare gourmet food, sleeping quarters for twelve.

“They don't build 'em like this anymore because they can't afford 'em like this anymore,” he said. “Do you have any idea what the maintenance bill on a boat like this is?”

When I turned to him, he was closer than I expected, and was staring right back at me. I wanted to step back but couldn't. He ran his eyes down my body. I could feel my nipples harden as his vision reached them. I wished I hadn't worn such a revealing silk blouse.

“This is one amazing yacht,” I said, but I couldn't conceal the throatiness in my voice.

He stepped up closer to me.

“The owner is a billionaire who only gets here once or twice a year to sail it down the coast to Cabo San Lucas. It's top of the line and definitely not for sale. However, I know every boat on the Pacific Ocean that is available to buy.”

He paused. Our eyes were locked once again. I flinched as his hand cupped my right breast, then I settled into the sensation.

“But you're not really here to buy a yacht, are you?” he said.

“I know what you plan to do to Tracy,” I said.

He pinched my nipple and moved his mouth closer to mine. “It's none of your business what two consenting adults do together,” he said. “Unless it's you and me.”

“You're going to hang her,” I said. “And I'm not going to let that happen.”

He was so close to me that I could feel the heat from his body.

“She talked to you about the ropes?” he asked. “Hell, I can do anything with ropes that anybody might want. Back in the service I studied with a Japanese master. I can tie you up in any configuration you want. I can twist you up into a basket and lower you down onto my dick until you cry for mercy. I can hang you from the ceiling so that you almost choke while I lick you until you scream.”

I hadn't realized until now that I was pressing my crotch against his muscular thigh.

“But I'm here to serve,” he said. “How you get tied up all depends on you.”

I pulled away from him.

“I will see you put behind bars before you harm one of my clients,” I said.

But even as I said those warning words, I could feel the hungry wet pulse of my cunt, and knew he could sense my need for him.

I didn't fight him off when he pulled me into his arms. I loved the feel of his hard cock beneath his jeans and when his tongue entered my mouth I welcomed it eagerly. I felt my skirt pulled up over my hips and heard fabric tear. My heart was racing and my breath was coming in gasps. In seconds we were on the floor. By my head was another coil of rope.

“How do you want it?” he said hotly. “I can tie your legs wide apart so you have to fight back. I can tie your arms above you.”

I pushed him away and rolled on top of him.

“This is how I want it,” I said.

I unbuttoned his jeans, pushed them down and set free his cock. We kept our eyes on each other as I settled myself down, taking his manhood into me, relishing the feeling of being in control of this sadist.

“You're afraid of giving in,” he said defiantly. “You're a powerful, sexual woman who's afraid of what she wants most.” He continued to fuck me deeply as he talked.

“Because I'm the one in charge,” I said. “I'm a psychic. I know what people want. I read people's minds.”

“Yeah?” he said. “That's pretty sexy. So read this.”

Suddenly he reached up and put his hands on my throat. I felt his fingers close over my windpipe, over my carotid arteries.

Slowly he clamped down. I was no longer in charge. He could stop me from breathing any time.

“Tell me when you're just about to come,” he said, thrusting further into me.

And like that I was on the verge of coming. With my last shreds of consciousness I wondered: Should I tell him? Or should I deny him the satisfaction?

“Oh, God,” I gasped.

It was involuntary. The decision had been made for me. Something deep and intense in me had been touched, and my body was writhing as if it was its own animal, something apart from me. I was just holding on for the ride.

“I'm coming,” I said.

His fingers pressed down slowly as I peaked. I could feel the expertise in them. For a brief instant, everything in the cosmos came to a halt. My breath, my pulse. It was pure peace, pure excitement. Then an explosion erupted from deep within me, from some place that had never been touched. I stared at him with ecstatic disbelief.

And then I saw nothing more.

 

I awoke
between luxurious black satin sheets. I took in my surroundings: the gleaming wooden cabinets, the sitting chair, the little writing desk. I felt a slight rocking and realized I was still on the yacht.

I touched my neck. It was sore. But when I felt the pain, instead of wincing, intense sexual pleasure flooded my body all over again.

Was this what I most wanted from a man? To be choked by him? To risk death in this foolhardy way? I'd come to save Tracy and had lost myself in the process.

But I had never felt more loved in my life.

I'd finally made contact with my erotic nature, and it wasn't pretty. But to my surprise, the feeling that came to me then wasn't tears or shame, it was pride.

I got out of bed and walked over to the small mirror on the door of the built-in armoire. I gazed entranced at my naked body, and at the large yellow bruise on my throat. I touched it as though it was the most precious jewel a lover could give me.

I knew it was a crazed-slut way to feel, but I didn't care.

I peered out the porthole. We were no longer in the harbor, but out on the Pacific Ocean. Nothing was in sight but endless sparkling blue and the last pink streaks of a sunset on the horizon. My mind was indulging in plans for further erotic escapades with Jeremy.

There was a rattling above me. I heard voices outside the room.

“You aren't going to stop me from having what I need, you coward.” It was Tracy. “She fucked me over in the Rochelle Levine case. I would have made a fortune from Rochelle's ex-husband. I'm a better psychic. I told him what he had to do to get away with murder. But that psychic bitch went to the police. And now I want her to hang in the moonlight!”

Suddenly everything that had opened up in me slammed shut. It had all been a scheme. A plan not to destroy Tracy, but instead to entrap me.

I looked around for something to put on. There were no clothes in the room, so I hurriedly pulled a sheet off the bed and wrapped it around me.

“You'll get what you want,” I heard Jeremy say.

And then the door opened. I screamed even though I knew it would be of no use. There was an agonizing tussle, the feeling of the sheet being ripped from me, and then the metallic sound of handcuffs being shut.

My arms were pinned behind me, and I lay on the floor nude. The two conspirators stood above me. They were dressed in their street clothes.

Jeremy picked up a coil of slender rope. Tracy leaned over me, closer and closer. She whispered in my ear, and began running her fingers lightly over my stomach, then my thighs. I writhed in a hopeless effort to escape her touch.

At first the sound of her voice was just a scratchy thunder, then I started to understand what she was saying.

“You supernatural slut. Who are you to play with fate? I studied with Esme, you know. Only I live by her teachings. I tell people what they can do with their future. I leave the choices up to them.”

“You only care about getting your clients' money,” I murmured.

“While
you
think you can save people,” Tracy laughed.

Her fingernails were now lightly, tantalizingly circling my bush. I moaned. How could I want her sadistic touch on my pussy?

“But right now you can't even save yourself. Because my powers are greater than yours,” she said. “Didn't you wonder why you couldn't find out more about me? That's right, I blocked your psychic visions. Didn't you wonder why you could get no reading off of Jeremy? It was because I sent out interference.”

“But him hanging you,” I whimpered. “Him killing you. It was so real.”

“I planted that vision there, you stupid cow,” she whispered, her tongue licking my ear.

I kicked at her. She kneeled down on me, pinning my legs. Her hand pressed down on my crotch.

“It's funny how powerfully you see into other people's sex lives and how little you can see of your own,” she said. “How does it feel to be just a normal ordinary?”

She slipped a finger, then two, between my cunt lips. I could feel that I was plenty wet. She looked up at me with evil knowledge in her eyes, and thrust a finger inside me, then rubbed my clit until I screamed as I violently came.

Tracy kissed my clit, then brought up a glistening finger.

“What a twisted soul you have,” she said. “And until this afternoon you'd had no idea. How does it feel to have your mind read?”

She put her wet finger in my mouth. I could taste my pussy, warm and slick and musky.

“Put the rope around her neck,” Tracy said abruptly to Jeremy.

He slipped a noose around my neck. Tracy took the hemp from him, and yanked it hard. I gagged.

“That's just a hint of what's to come,” she said.

I helplessly followed the two of them down the hallway, up the stairs, and on to the dark wooden deck. It was turning into a warm night as the sun set further. My naked flesh shivered despite the balminess of the breeze. It took all my concentration not to stumble.

I looked down at my body heaving with the last breaths I would ever take and realized that I was as excited as I was terrified. My nipples were hard. My crotch throbbed.

Tracy gestured towards one of the masts. “Tie her up there. Put that box beneath her feet. I want to have a good view of her body as she snaps her neck.”

Jeremy climbed up the highest mast. Why was he being so obedient? What kind of hold did Tracy have on this strong, beautiful man? I watched as his hands prepared the rope. He lifted me up, and set me on the little box I remembered so well from my vision of Tracy's death.

The boat was rocking gently in the placid ocean, but I had to fight to stay vertical. One slip and it would all be over.

“I knew this was your depravity the moment I saw you. I read it so easily,” Tracy said. She and Jeremy began disrobing. “You'll go anywhere sexually, try anything. And you're ready even to try being strangled while you come. The only thing is, you don't want to die.”

There they stood, two magnificent creatures. Tracy was muscular and curvy, showing off her perfect tan. Her entire body was a glowing bronze, except for a pale triangle above her completely waxed pussy.

They approached me, one on each side.

And then I was swimming in sensations as their hands and mouths worked all over me. Between my lips, sliding up my thighs, spreading my buttocks. I staggered and even fell against the noose at one point, but managed to right myself. I was a twisted soul indeed, for the sensations were building in me even as the moment of my death approached.

The action was having its effect on them, too. Jeremy was enormous and hard. Tracy was panting. Still standing, she leaned against the mast next to me and presented her back to Jeremy.

“Fuck me now,” she commanded. “Give it to me up the ass, the way I like it best. And when I tell you I'm about to come, I want you to kick that box out from under her. I want to come while I watch her twitch and die.”

Jeremy took his position behind her. I was seconds from death but couldn't help feeling an agony of jealousy. His dick approached her buttocks. Her body arched in anticipation.

But then there were gurgling sounds. I looked up and saw that Jeremy had his hands around Tracy's throat. She thrashed, but he was much stronger and held her throat tight.

Her eyes began to bulge. She tried desperately to escape his hold, but he pressed her against the mast. She gave one final spasm, and he set her limp body down on the deck.

“She isn't dead,” he said to me. “Only unconscious.”

Tenderly, he put his arms around me, brought out a knife, and cut the rope. He lifted me and set me down on the deck. I staggered, finding it hard to keep my balance.

He slipped the key in the handcuffs and set me free. The night had calmed, everything was okay again. But suddenly a vision filled my brain. It was as though I was outside myself, but somehow rushing forward.

“Look out,” I screamed.

I was seeing the world through Tracy's eyes, and that she was rising up to come after us. Unconscious, she'd been unable to prevent me from entering her mind.

Jeremy looked up, but I could tell he wouldn't be fast enough. I grabbed the heavy coil of rope and swung wildly.

It connected with a thump. There was a groan, a pause, and then the sound of a splash as Tracy's body hit the water. She sank instantly, without a fight. All was silent again.

I felt Jeremy's arms circle me.

“Why'd you save me?” I asked.

“Because you're a sick bitch. And I'm a sick bastard,” he said. “But Tracy—she's just too sick to live.”

“Do you
swear your product is worth ten grand?”

The voice saying these words is bruised and sullen—and very, very familiar. Whose voice is it? Well, let's just say that you'd recognize the name. Let's even say that you've seen his muscled, bad-boy good looks splashed over many magazine covers. Let's also say that he's starring in one of the summer's biggest blockbusters. A professional macho movie stud, in other words.

The sad truth is he's also one screwy dude. In fact, he's one screwy dude who can't get it up for anyone else on the face of the planet. That's right—he only gets hard when he's looking at himself in the mirror. Imagine if his fans knew this.

Well, surprise surprise, his wife is one unhappy dame. She's threatening to divorce him—or worse, fuck around, which would naturally make it into every tabloid and bring his stud ranking down a few notches.

We've got a problem.

But, enough. I won't tell you who my customer is. In my business, discretion is the prerequisite of all prerequisites. My customers don't want anyone knowing anything about what they buy from me.

What do Marita and I get out of these arrangements? Enough to keep us cozy for the last few years in a three-bedroom house in Los Feliz.

So I let my handsome client pace around warily. He has his nerves to attend to, after all.

What my customers get from me is one-of-a-kind pleasure tools. “Dildos” are what they're generally called, somewhat unclassily.

You may have heard about the ones I sell. Every few years, rumors start up about “voodoo” dildos. Little articles and blind items show up in gossip rags and tabloids. They're soon destroyed by skeptics and scientists, who prove that—like Sasquatch or aliens—no such thing is possible. Or even can be possible.

Shows you what they know.

Because the fact is that magical dildos do exist. I know. My partner, Marita, and I make them. And we sell them.

What makes them miraculous?

It's this: they make the person being fucked feel like she—or he—is being fucked by a real cock.

Tell me: do you actually read the catalogue copy on those dildos you order over the Internet? I didn't think so. Well, most of them are made from polymers. The better companies make them from high-grade silicone that can be warmed up, reused if washed carefully.

That's where our product is different. Our dildos not only look handsome, they feel alive inside you. Ours aren't dildos that wind up in a cardboard box on a high closet shelf. Ours are dildos you dream about, the way you look forward to a lover.

“I was told by Jackie Keller that your dildos are unlike any other,” my poor, unhappy Movie Star says, brushing back his fabled long, blond hair.

“Jackie should know,” I say. “Thanks to our dildos, she's made a lot of women very happy.”

At that he relaxes. He takes the beer I offer, and sits down on the sofa.

“Good for her. You know, I like the new predatory female studio executives,” he says. “I don't know why some guys have problems with them.” He takes a thoughtful swig. “So bring on the product.”

I give him a ravishing smile. “Marita!” I call out.

My business partner—who's also my lover—saunters out from the other room. She makes quite an entrance through the Art Deco doorway, cradling a leather case in her hands as though carrying a religious relic.

“Holy fuck,” the star whispers, settling heavily back into the couch.

I'm figuring that if he could get hard about anyone besides himself, it'd be Marita right now. Not the bitch back home who calls herself his wife.

The sight of Marita never fails to excite our customers. Her presence and her aura have been a big part of our success. Cascading black hair…a precision five-seven body…slim, curvy legs that make you dream of exploring what's between them…

The recipe? Largely a mystery. As far as she knows, there's some American Indian, some Italian, some Caribbean. There may even be some Swedish. Let's just say that her olive complexion is flawless, and that her light blue eyes gleam in the midst of all this exoticism in the most startling ways.

Marita sashays across the living room floor, smiling wickedly, enjoying the way all eyes are on her. She sets the sumptuous black leather case down on the glass table before our Movie Star.

“Charmed,” he says, shaking Marita's hand and doing his roguish best to look deep into her eyes.

Marita opens the case.

“Whoa,” he says, inhaling deeply at the sight of the enormous flesh-colored dildo inside.

“We call this one the Astronaut,” Marita says, her eyes flashing. She walks over to the sofa and sits down on the arm. Her hip—well, her butt really—presses up against the Star's bicep. He darts his eyes at me, evaluating the situation. Then he reaches into the case and picks up the dildo.

“The thing's alive!” he screams, dropping it. “I could feel it react to my touch. Like it was growing harder.”

“That's because it was,” Marita says. “But that's no reason to be scared. It just wants to play.”

She picks up the dildo and strokes it. “Come on, Astronaut. Fly us into outer space.” She flicks the tip of it with her tongue and the dildo gives a tiny quiver and gets larger. “See?”

She hands the dildo to our client. “Now it's your turn,” she says to the Star.

He shrinks away, still wary. “I want to use it on my fucking wife, not go gay.”

Marita takes his hand and catches his eyes. She's got him mesmerized now. I get up and massage his shoulders while she takes his fingers and puts them in her mouth. It's like we're pacifying a virgin, and I can feel his shoulder muscles relax.

I watch as Marita presses the dildo into his now-willing hands.

There's a hush, and a gasp. And then he says to the dildo, “Hey, buddy. You're okay.”

He runs a finger up and down the thing's quivering vein, and the gesture makes me wonder how he treats his own dick during those hours in front of the mirror.

He gives us his famous studly grin. “I got an idea. How about a demo from the two of you?”

We shake our heads.

“Just an idea,” he says. He shakes his trademark locks and turns cold eyes on us. “You know the deal,” he says. “Absolute silence. Backed up by armies of lawyers.”

“Goes both ways,” I say. “You don't talk about us, we don't talk about you.”

He relaxes and circles a finger around the rim of the dildo's head. “Nice! If this doesn't shut my wife up nothing will. And I think I'll have a little fun with it myself.”

I pull out a black leather crotch harness and hand it to him. “You'll need this. Made for us by a verrrrry famous Italian designer whose work has been worn by Oscar winners. On special consignment.”

He gets up, pays us with cash. I see Marita's eyes flicker excitedly. She counts the bills, nodding when she finds there's ten grand.

The Star puts the case under his arm. At the door, he turns. Is it true what they say about your dildos?” he asks. “The gossip is that you've got some kind of voodoo thing going on.”

I see Marita's eyes flare up.

“Gossip,” I say, pushing him out the door while giving him the admiring squeeze all stars expect. “People should know better than to spread rumors.”

 

“The cops
are going to come down on us,” Marita says. “I know they are.”

“Oh, you're just paranoid,” I say, doing my best to be fond rather than exasperated. This girl is one high-strung babe.

To be honest, because of Marita's moods and fears, I've kept the business more underground than I'd really like to. I see opportunities for franchises, catalogues—big money. But Marita will have none of it. Flying under the radar is the only way for her.

We're in our bedroom. She's lying on her back in pale blue lace underwear that accentuates the color of her eyes and sets off her olive complexion. I stroke her hair.

Marita isn't calmed by my touch. She mutters some of those voodoo chants she's attached to and nervously jumps up off the bed. She fetches a skinny brown cigarette and puffs frantically on it.

“I've been in jail,” she says, pulling her hair back into a knot, then letting it fall around her shoulders. “You haven't. And I don't want to go back.”

“I'll handle it,” I say. I get up, take her in my arms and bring her back onto the bed. I pull her thong aside and run my tongue over her beautiful ass.

“Are you going to handle the Sisterhood, too?” Marita says. “They aren't happy, either. The oath I took was I'd never use the power they gave me to make money. There's talk of a high counsel. There's talk of action being taken.”

Strange soft words escape from her lips. Ones I've never heard before.

“I never wanted to use my power this way,” she says. “It was you who made me.”

 

I know
you're wondering. Well, Marita and I met through my ex-boyfriend, Albert. He was a high roller, one of those guys who likes to impress his male friends with the money he's making and the women he's fucking.

In other words, Albert was an alpha male.

I started out my professional life as arm candy for alpha males. One after the other, since I was eighteen.

Let me tell you about alpha males. This is a little something everyone knows and no one says. Even if an alpha male is straight, he isn't really into pussy. That's not his real thing. Alpha males are always,
always
looking for a chance to compare dicks, and prove theirs is the biggest and the best. They're more into impressing other men than they are into fucking women.

And Albert? He was the most alpha of the guys I'd dated. He started out a kid in the Valley, but now, at only thirty-seven, he was part owner of a hotel in West Hollywood. It also had a bar and restaurant. It was one of those hot L.A. spots that serves crappy food and for reasons I'll never figure out, attracts the models and money crowd. He was also into producing music and movies. As for his play time, he did the usual alpha-male things: skied, raced his yacht, gambled for high stakes, flew his own private jet.

Albert's hotel restaurant was the kind of place where dozens of young women would parade around practically naked while guys sat together at tables and made deals.

The day we met, I came in on the arm of my then-boyfriend, Ron. He and Albert were business rivals. Ron also owned a hotel. He wanted to check out Albert's.

He strutted in with me on his arm, and his posse following. I wore a single-shouldered, tiny silk dress that kept trying to fall off my body. I recognized Albert from magazine photos—he dated supermodels and actresses, of course. He was at the bar flirting with a waitress, but I could tell he took note of me.

Ron loved entering with me, loved seeing the way Albert noticed. And there was envy written all over Albert's face. I'm amazed the two boys didn't just drop their pants right then and there and compare dicks in front of the entire world.

But instead Albert stayed cool. During our cocktails, he had a waiter deliver a message along with my Jack Daniel's. Nothing poetic, mind you. Alpha males consider that wimp stuff.

Albert cut straight to it: “I want to fuck you in the downstairs bathroom. Meet me there in two minutes,” his message read. Meanwhile Ron and his friends never noticed what I was reading. And as for me? Hell, I knew Albert's real target was Ron.

That didn't matter. You see, Ron was fucking around on me with a married A-list actress. I liked the idea of getting back at him.

I excused myself from the table and made a high-heeled exit through the bar. Okay, actually what I did is let my dress strap slip a little too far and expose a breast while I passed Albert's table.

But I clattered with class to the bottom of the stairs. I felt a hand on my arm. I turned to face Albert. I was startled by how boyish—yet cruel—his features were. I liked the boyishness. I liked the cruelty, too.

He dragged me into one of the plush bathrooms, yelled at a bunch of women to leave, pushed me back against the sink, lifted the hem of my dress, and went down on me.

There wasn't a lot of skill in what he did, to be honest. But I've always been a girl who's able to tune into what's genuinely erotic in a situation. And even if Albert wasn't the best, I still liked the revenge I was getting on Ron. I pulled Albert's head into my crotch as I came, grinding away at his face.

Albert grabbed my hair, turned me around, and fucked me from behind. As he banged away, I watched his expression in the mirror. He never once looked at the reflection of my face. He did look down at my ass, to see his dick move in and out of me.

“Ron should see us now,” he said, over and over again as he pumped into me.

I found his words kind of sexy.

“Fuck you, Ron,” Albert said, as he whirled me around again, and set me on my knees. I gave him the blow job he was asking for. As he came, he grunted, “No rival comes into Albert's hotel and gets away with it. Fuck you, Ron, do you hear me? Fuck you!”

His come tasted bitter as it slid down my throat.

“That was a really big load,” I lied. “Ron doesn't shoot nearly as much as you do.”

“Oh yeah?” said Albert.

Moments later we walked upstairs, hand in hand. Albert stared victoriously right at my boyfriend.

“Oh yeah, Ron,” Albert muttered. “I'm getting hard all over again from your humiliation.”

Ron bolted from the table and rushed towards Albert, trying to knock him down. A couple of bouncers threw Ron out of the hotel. The rest of his group followed quickly.

 

For the
next year you could say that Albert and I were an item. Don't make anything too romantic out of it.

I certainly didn't.

We seldom fucked in his home. What was the point? Who'd know about it? What he really liked was for us to go out with his group of male friends, and then in the middle of dinner he'd whisk me off to the bathroom.