Sweet and Dirty (10 page)

N
ora admired Ryan’s nude form in the mirror. The mirror’s placement, tilted against the wall to show a long view of what occurred on the bed, pleased her.

Ryan, however, didn’t.

She grimaced. His body was certainly blameless. His missionary positioning as he thrust away showed his strong arms, tapered hips, and muscular legs to good advantage. He looked better naked than clothed; he wore his ironed pants, tight shirts, and trendy jackets with a sly self-consciousness rather than making the clothes an expression of himself.

When he reared back, and his natural blond hair brushed the tops of his tanned shoulders, she watched in the mirror, filling her eyes with the beauty of their bodies joined together.

He made a small sound, and she glanced up in time to catch his moment: eyes screwed shut, mouth the shape of agony.

“Mmmm,” she said, rubbing herself against him, longing for more. He’d been even faster than his usual two minutes. She supposed the dinner engagement prevented her from protesting, this time. Bad form.

Still, she couldn’t stop herself from reaching down, touching his flaccid member. An investigatory stroke.

He pushed her hand away.

She sighed. Maybe later she’d climb on top, the only way she could claim an orgasm with him.

The silk cover felt luxurious under her hand. She let her fingers trail up the bed to the headboard with its conveniently placed eyebolts. Ryan hadn’t shown the slightest interest in using them, or the leather manacles hanging discreetly next to the bed in a mirrored wall case.

Ryan had laughed when she’d suggested it. “I was kidding about the whips and chains being what I need.” He’d flicked the eyebolts contemptuously. “But let’s try out this huge bed….”

She flipped over onto her stomach, watching him dispose of the condom and get dressed. “Why’d you want to come here, to a bondage and breakfast?”

“You’ll see.”

She squirmed on the bed, residual heat from their unsatisfying encounter infusing her body with energy. “Good. For my part, I’m curious. We can explore it together, can’t we? At some point? Otherwise there’s not much good in staying.” Ryan’s contempt—he’d curled his lip at Little Peter when the submissive had curtsied himself out of their room, and she hoped the slender man hadn’t seen it—made her uncomfortable. Their hosts seemed nice enough so far, despite their unusual proclivities.

Ryan looked at her, his gaze traveling over her nude body. Tenderness crept into his expression as he sat on the bed next to her. “Maybe we should go.” He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “We could look at houses again, more seriously this time. And you could watch me practice at Raceway.”

Did he think she failed to appreciate his surprise vacation? “Nah, you went to all this trouble setting it up, and we’re here already. It could be fun. Besides,” she joked, “if I do take that vice president position this might be my last vacation ever.”

She felt his hand freeze, then lift.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Hand cramp.” He swatted her gently on the rump. “You should hop in the shower. Get ready for dinner.”

“You sayin’ I stink?” she protested, mock-fierce, but only got a wan smile in response. She could tell something bothered him, and she suspected it was her promotion. It wasn’t worth the fight to bring
that
up again.

She tiptoed to the bathroom, a huge, tiled affair with a bidet, double sink, and enormous glassed-in corner shower with six different showerheads and attachments. Even if she wasn’t all sweaty, she’d have made an excuse to try out such a shower as soon as possible.

She turned one faucet after another: a waterfall cascade from directly above, forceful needles from the right, pulsating jets from the left (at thigh, belly, and chest height), and a segmented flexible steel protrusion that danced on her fingers when she fondled it, pouring a steady stream of warm water wherever she aimed it.

She lathered up, shampooed, loofahed, then rinsed by turning in a circle with her arms wide open.

Sylvester’s large, graceful body, as he unfolded from the front steps, appeared behind her closed eyelids. He wasn’t even that attractive…. Kind of ugly, she told herself emphatically, even as the driving spray and rivulets of water relaxed her muscles and washed her clean.

His face was too serious, his nose too big and slightly crooked, his hair and brows unkempt. He had large hands. Probably was clumsy with them. Though maybe he wasn’t….

He’d scowled at her more than once. Didn’t he like her? Maybe he was playing some role, the stern-faced Master of the Mansion perhaps. That was it: he was pretentious, she thought with relief at having pinned a fatal flaw on the man. Now she could stop thinking about him.

Except she couldn’t.

She opened her eyes. The windows were steaming up.

What if he appeared in the bathroom? First as a faint shadow beyond the steam, then more solid as he approached…then opened the glass doors to the shower?

She smiled at the thought of her own fear and startlement, and his bestial expression of lust. He’d enjoy her fear; it would stimulate him. He’d already be naked, his cock enormous, rigid, and intimidating as he stepped inside, knowing she had nowhere to run.

Water pounded her from all sides. Nearly all sides. Her eyes half closed, she reached for the flexible steel attachment, warmed now by the constant strong flow of water. She aimed the flow between her legs.

Gasping at the sudden sensation, she saw him in her mind’s eye more sharply than before. She turned slightly, and when needlespray assaulted her erect nipples, she whimpered. In her fantasy, Sylvester smiled cruelly at the sound.

He moved more quickly than she’d have thought possible, pinning her against the warm, wet shower tiles. He held her arms above her head, sealing her mouth with his palm. She was terrified, but more terrified to try to escape, to scream and have him hurt her, even though she could feel the powerful brute pawing at her roughly, parting her legs. She could feel her body slide against the slick tiles at her back, the sharp stings of spray as she tried to evade his rough touch, struggling against the assault. She heard herself pleading for him to stop, to let her go, crying out as she felt the insistent probing between her legs when he thrust against her. She heard all his contemptuous, foul curses as he shoved his cock inside, hurting her and yet filling her exquisitely at the same time, and she came under his fierce, relentless plundering….

…and staggered as her knees went weak in the shower, alone with the sensation that went on and on.

She replaced the steel hose on its holder and let the gentle waterfall cascade over her again, washing her wicked thoughts away.

Her heels clicked on the smooth wood floor of the hallway as they passed room after room. “This place is huge,” she said again.

Ryan nodded but didn’t respond. He looked resplendent in a blue button-up shirt and slacks that fit his physique to perfection. He’d shaved, too, and she could smell the familiar scent of product in his hair.

He’d looked at her with approval when she’d appeared in a low-cut raw silk evening gown and strappy high heels. She’d decided to wear her hair down, and she enjoyed the feel of it whispering against her back as they followed Little Peter’s directions to the vaulted great room and its adjacent dining room. She wanted to pause and examine the ceramic and painted wood masks hanging on the hallway’s walls, and the framed erotic photos too, but Ryan urged her forward with a warm hand on her elbow.

Good thing she wore heels so frequently at work, she thought with a twinge of annoyance as Ryan rushed her. Her feet would be aching otherwise. The Sultan Room evidently claimed one of the farthest spots from the center of the home.

When they arrived, she forgot all about her feet. She made a small sound of admiration at the double-sided fireplace in the center of the room, not to mention the grand piano perched on a carpet on one corner, the movie theater–sized television against the wall, or the exquisite yet entirely comfortable seating groups scattered everywhere. One group of three people conversed over by the piano, much too far away to hear.

Who were they, and could any of them boast an intimate relationship with Sylvester? Not that it mattered. She was an engaged woman, she reminded herself.

The scent of good food and freshly baked bread wafted to her.

She spotted a pool table, and two game tables. There were even chaise lounges just begging for people to stretch out with a good book, positioned under lamps with Tiffany glass and Craftsman details. Soaring ceilings bisected by enormous beams from which descended half a dozen lazily rotating ceiling fans. Colors were neutral, with jewel-tone accents. A chef’s kitchen that looked torn from the pages of a home-improvement magazine was clearly visible at the far end.

“Wow,” she breathed, taken a little aback. For a lair of sexual deviants, the place struck her as amazingly tasteful. And comfortable. Weren’t there supposed to be manacles attached to rock walls, people running around in leather masks, things like that?

As if in answer to her unspoken questions, an authoritative thud of boot heel drummed against the floors, and a woman strolled up to them. Nora couldn’t help staring. If Ryan sneered at this woman, Nora would kick him. If the woman didn’t first.

A red rubber mask covered her hair and the top of her face, leaving exposed her wide, red-lipsticked smile. A long, dark braid of hair lay against her bare back. Her clothes were outrageous, from the leather cutout bra notable for the rouged nipples emerging like offered candy, to the cream-colored rope dress that began at her muscular ebony neck and ended just above her tall, metal-studded boots.

Ryan, for once, seemed completely silenced.

“I’m White.” The woman offered a long-taloned hand to Nora.

Nora shook it, unable to control her glance at the woman’s deep brown skin.

“My name,” the woman laughed. “White. Purity of heart. Absence of darkness. Black is over there.” She indicated a pale woman leaning over the breakfast bar and into the open kitchen. A narrow blond braid trailed from under her white hood and half mask. Her backside, high and firm like a boy’s, was packed neatly into a shiny black latex skirt. Black’s choice of boot mirrored White’s, tall and metal studded. Delicate silver chains encircled her back, leaving the front to Nora’s imagination. “Wickedness of heart. Glory in darkness. And you?”

“Gray, I suppose.” Nora remembered her recent fantasy, felt a flush of shame. “Dark gray, maybe.”

“Your name, silly. What’s your name?”

“Her name is Nora. I’m Ryan. Pleased to meet you.” Ryan shook her hand briskly, eyeing her gumdrop-red nipples.

“Hungry?” White’s eyes twinkled.

“Uh…”

“Dinner’s about to be served. If you’ll follow me.” Without waiting for a reply, she preceded them into the dining room.

With its vaulted ceiling, potted plants, and two gilt-framed leaded windows with a view of lush ferns and maple trees, the elegant dining room was fit for royalty. An intriguing piece of art hung from a beam near one end of the table: what looked like a curled-up human form encased in a stretchy translucent pink material.

All of it was merely a backdrop to the people already seated at the table.

Her gaze darted to Sylvester, then away.

“Sit where you wish,” said White. She circled the table to place herself on one side of a man who smiled a welcome to them both. Black had already claimed the seat on his opposite side.

He patted both Black and White on their masked heads.

Nora felt Sylvester’s presence so strongly, it was as if the very air vibrated around him. She knew where he sat—at the head of the table, of course—knew he watched her, but couldn’t yet bring herself to look at him.

She sat at the middle of the rectangular table, and was glad for Ryan’s presence when he sat next to her. Now, if Ryan could be trusted not to be rude to these people, and if these people could be trusted not to act like freaks and weirdos, she might be able to relax. Maybe even enjoy dinner. She appreciated the good food smells wafting from dishes being served by Little Peter and a female service submissive, who glanced at Nora with a shy smile when setting a silver-encircled china plate on the lace placemat before her.

“That’s Kitten and Little Peter,” the man across from her said. “You’ve met my Black and White, I gather?”

Before she could answer, a lovely woman appeared in the doorway and simply stood there for a long moment. Her long, sleeveless black velvet evening gown clung to her curvy body in just the right places, and her upswept auburn hair and luminous pale skin seemed just another work of art lit by the window’s green twilight and the room’s soft lighting. Until she snapped her fingers, and both Kitten and Little Peter abandoned serving duty to prostrate themselves before her.

“Mistress Kiana,” the man across from Nora protested. “Really. They were serving dinner.”

For her part, Mistress Kiana looked at the service subs at her feet. “Rise. Speak.”

Immediately Kitten said, “I’m sorry for not immediately attending to you, Mistress Kiana.” Little Peter belatedly added, “I’m sorry, too.”

“Tsk, tsk. Kitten, fetch a rubber gag. The one shaped like a penis,” she called after the scurrying sub.

Only then did she address the man across from Nora. “Master Andre, you’re aware this one”—she gave a hand gesture to Little Peter, who knelt—“is still in training. After I spent so many hours cooking this meal with only minimal assistance from Kitten, I don’t intend to suffer the slightest disrespect from either of them. This correction will only take a moment.”

Kitten reappeared holding a length of leather, with a fat, stubby rubber likeness of a penis jutting from the middle.

“Insert it into Little Peter’s mouth,” Mistress Kiana commanded. “Buckle it closed.”

Kitten did.

“Very good. Little Peter, as a service submissive, your only goal in life is to give good service. That includes being aware at all times where your owner is, and addressing her properly. Do you understand how you failed me?”