Thigh High (19 page)

He hoped Carrie bid for him, but he wasn't sure it mattered. His cock filled out to rock hard and his heart pumped fast and furious. The cold fingers stroked his lower back, slid down between the cheeks of his ass and cupped his sac. How could he feel so hot when the hand stroking him was arctic?

S
ilky strokes on his cock continued as Matt gritted his teeth against coming. The guy ahead of him started to move with a slow shuffle toward the door. Sweat broke out on his neck. He wasn't the only man fully cocked and loaded.
What the hell?

He broke away from the wall. The hold on his cock and balls eased and drifted away. He took a couple of steps, then looked back at the age-darkened oak where he'd been. Nothing but the patina of time and the luster of wax marked where he'd leaned.

The idea of being auctioned off as a sex slave turned him on? Fuck that.

It was Perdition House itself. Something weird had been happening to him ever since he walked through the gates.

The atmosphere oozed sex and sensuality and made him randy as a teenager. The whole mansion teemed with sexual imagery. Statuary of lusty satyrs, the paintings of lush nudes, even the old wallpaper looked sexual. Overblown flowers, their petals were folded open. Bulbous stamen sought entrance. The obvious sexual aura was enough to get most men's libidos cranked up.

Wherever this led, his sex-addled brain decided to go along. He'd sort it out in the morning. Surely by then he'd be spent and his brain would kick back in. Til then, he planned to enjoy himself and one Carrie MacLean if he could.

As he followed the rest of the men into the hall, he glanced up to the soaring ceiling. A mural caught his eye, and in the flickering shadowed light from a hall chandelier, he thought he saw the figures move. He blinked, but the light tricked his vision into seeing sex acts.

His blood boiled again as he stared harder, trying to discern exactly what he saw.

Naked circus performers. Trapeze artists, mostly, but he saw a couple of jugglers too. The light and shadows kept up a steady ebb and flow of imagined movement among the painted figures. In shock, he nudged the guy next to him and pointed to the mural three floors above.

Sock man tracked his gaze. “Wow, look at that,” he said, voice hollow with shock.

The college boy on his other side looked too. A low whistle from him drew more attention. Soon the entire group of men was staring straight up.

The painted figures continued to move and writhe, the naked bodies bending and jutting toward each other.

Matt broke out into a sweat as he zeroed in on one couple. She faced away from the man behind her, her arms looped up around the back of his head, making her breasts jut up and out toward a woman's open mouth. The woman with the open mouth dangled upside down from a trapeze swing, while a man had his face buried in her pussy. Matt could swear he saw the guy's head move as he ate her.

The man behind the first woman clasped her ass in his hand and squeezed in a subtle demand for her to open to accept him. The woman on the swing had a man licking her clit while her mouth worked the first woman's nipple. A regular round robin.

Matt blinked. Blinked again. He must have been mistaken because now the tip of the woman's breast was inside the trapeze artist's mouth while the man behind thrust deep into her pussy. Her own hands were now sliding over her clit while her face looked ecstatic with sexual release.

“What the fuck?” sock man muttered. “I swear there's a guy up there getting the best blow job I've ever seen.”

“Where?” Matt couldn't see anything of the sort. He was caught in the whole swinging girl, pussy-eating, tit-licking, doggy sex round. “You see the girl on the swing?”

“No. Mine's a juggler getting deep-throated.”

“Fuck.”

“No shit.”

The whole room heated up as guys all around Matt hitched at their slacks.

Every man there was a walking hard-on.

Faye Grantham, the mansion's owner, cleared her throat, getting their attention. Not that anything she did would go unnoticed.

“I'd like a crack at her,” came a rumbling voice from somewhere in the crowd. A shuffle of agreement went through the group. Matt tried to remember he was there for research, but his throbbing cock told him otherwise.

Faye Grantham was sex kitten hot. Platinum blond hair that looked natural framed an exquisitely pretty face. Wide blue eyes and a pouty red-tinted mouth that invited deep kisses added to her allure. Smooth round shoulders framed a great rack, while a trim waist flared into hips a man could hold on to.

Like a screen siren of the fifties, she oozed sexuality and licentious need. She touched the elbow of the man nearest her. At her touch he came out of his stupor. “Please, come into my parlor.”

Said the spider to the fly.
The strange thought flit through his head like a razor through shaving foam. Then he heard a light female giggle. Matt shook his head to clear it.

The man next to Faye followed her with dutiful steps through a double pocket door that seemed to slide open without her touching it.

A womanly groan of sexual release floated around his head, but he refused to look up at the mural again as he followed the rest of the addled men.

 

Carrie watched carefully as the bachelors entered the parlor, a group of agile, virile guys who all looked like models. Athletic models. Most were younger than Carrie, but some looked to be in their midtwenties, like her. Like Matt, the one she'd met outside.

She watched for him particularly, but he hadn't come through the door yet.

Every one of the men sported a woody, making the whispering women closest to her go quiet. Except for the one who leaned in to the woman next to her and remarked in a stage whisper, “Looks like lunch, girlfriend.”

They snickered, heads together, but the other women around them nodded in lascivious agreement, including Carrie. If she belonged here among the moneyed, hard-working female CEOs, lawyers and bankers, she'd be just as quick to get excited.

She was probably the only woman in the place who didn't want to get laid. But still, being a red-blooded woman with needs that hadn't been met in too long, she looked her fill.

She dismissed as an aberration the embarrassing lust that had overtaken her on the driveway the minute she laid eyes on Matt. Her weekend was not about indulging in sexcapades. Not with Matt or any of these other gorgeous ready men.

She went back to cataloguing the new arrivals, keeping a professional eye sharply tuned for a likely target for an interview. The one with threads of silver at his temples looked bored, as if he'd been doing this too long. She pegged him for thirty or so and too jaded to be free and easy with what he said. He looked most likely to see through her facade, so she dismissed him.

She didn't want to lie about why she was here, or even about who she was, but she had no choice. Telling the truth under these circumstances would get her kicked out.

Bidding on one of the younger men was the way to go. Someone eager to please. Someone who wasn't Matt. She couldn't trust her reaction to him, not after she'd wanted him to throw her into the rosebushes and take her like an animal.

No way could she bid on a man who made her feel like that!

Three or four likely candidates showed up as the men trailed in. Young, randy, hot. A couple looked feverish with arousal. She doubted either of them would give her time to ask one question, let alone several.

But still, the frat boys who needed tuition money would be the easiest to get information from. She'd need documents to back up her story, and from the scraps of information she'd gleaned, she knew there had been questionnaires filled out and health certificates required. These young men with their cocks at full attention would be so anxious to get their rocks off, they wouldn't notice Carrie's questions. Maybe they would even provide her with the documentation she needed.

Until she'd walked through the mansion's gates, sex had been the furthest thing from her mind. Right now, sex was front and center. Her pussy twitched. Her breasts felt heavy and warm. A familiar drumbeat of need pounded below her waist. Her panties moistened with a slick release, and she tightened her thighs in response.

“Whoo,” she said to no one in particular, “it's warm in here.”

The woman beside her nodded. “The heat always cranks up when the men arrive,” she said with a salacious grin. She looked ready to pounce.

“You've been here before?” Carrie whispered.

“Three times. Best sex I've ever had. These men are ready, willing and able.” She sighed dramatically. “There's mine now.” She nodded in the direction of the men filing in, and Carrie noted the man. Tall, with olive skin and shoulders the width of Texas, the man wasn't Matt. She gave silent thanks. But it was easy to see why the woman was salivating over the guy. The other woman shifted forward, blocking Carrie's view.

To see around her, Carrie stepped back to lean against the wall to watch and wait for Matt's arrival. She shouldn't want to see him again, but she was only human and he was gorgeous. Even the odd glare and shifting shadows created by the moving headlights on the driveway hadn't been able to hide that fact.

Heavy velvet drapes cushioned her back, but a cool draft nipped at her ankles from beneath the material. She turned to check and found the source of the draft was a bow window behind the draperies. She should move toward the fireplace across the room, but the thought vanished as quickly as it entered her mind.

Besides, a cluster of women already stood by the fire taking up all the room. Oddly, most of them had their hands on the mantel. Their faces looked dreamy and needful.

A low heavy weight pooled in her belly, bringing another gush of sticky moisture. The drumbeat of need rose in tempo to a tattoo. Insistent. Thudding. Dangerous.

The parade of men continued. The women around her gauged each of them on their physical attributes. The tattoo of arousal rose to crescendo inside her.

Frantic thoughts dashed through her head. One of these men would do.
Any of these men would do,
her fretful mind whispered. She glanced over her shoulder at the vague thought.

Silly. Nothing there.

She shifted and reminded herself that she, Carrie MacLean, soon-to-be hard-hitting investigative journalist, was hot on the trail of a big story. This weekend was all about getting the goods on the so-called bachelor auctions being held by Perdition House's owner, Faye Grantham.

Grantham thought herself clever hiring a combination of financially strapped and perennially horny college students and male escorts for weekends in her family mansion. Under the guise of contributing to charity, the wealthy women who came out to the mansion paid highly to use the men for their pleasure.

She held on to that thought before it, too, winged away. She dredged up more of her plan, desperate to remember why she was here. This article would take her out of the bush league world of fluff and entertainment pieces and into the big leagues of journalism.

As heat coursed through her and she moistened again, she sucked in a deep breath. This weekend was not about getting laid! It was about getting to the truth and exposing it. Her editor had promised her story would go above the front page fold. Placement there would get her noticed. She tried to fill her mind with dreams of the
New York Post
and
USA Today,
but failed.

Sexual need took over and drowned out her plans for the story. Her ambitions were swallowed by a tidal wave of lust.

All she could conjure was an image of herself spread eagle on a bed with this gorgeous parade of men feathering their fingertips down her arms, her breasts, across her belly to the tops of her thighs. Cold, firm fingers delved into her slick pussy making her hot and needy. What an odd sensation. Cold making her so damn hot!

She squirmed and closed her eyes because the fantasy invaded her entire body. She fought to open her eyes but sank back, enveloped by the heavy velvet drapery folds.

She no longer cared about being watchful or how the parading men looked as her fantasy sprang to life behind her eyelids. The sensation of fingertips, feather light, dusted along her arms, circled the sensitive flesh on her inner elbow. Oh God, that felt good. Sexy and sensual, the fingers moved down to her palms and traced more lines there, making her hands clench in resistance. In need.

To touch and be touched. Like this, cool and warm, cold and hot and oh-so-right. Carrie had never experienced slow and steady touches and temptations. Fast, bucking sex was more what she was used to.

Fast and hard…and not particularly good for her.

But this! This felt incredible.

And all from her own mind.

But it didn't matter; the endless brushing of fingers continued, all over her body. Inside and out. She reacted with a shiver as several light touches brushed down her back to the tip of her tailbone. Her ass cheeks warmed under the gentle swirling sensations.

Her pussy moistened, her clit plumped, her outer lips softened in readiness for a man. She tried once more to open her eyes, but her lids were too heavy. She moaned lightly, swept up in the wildness of her imagination.