Big Book of Smut (14 page)

"Touch your pussy," Denise instructed in a firm, but barely audible, whisper.

Jacquí's eyes shot open, fear flashing briefly until rebellion overtook it. "I never imagined you'd be the dominant type."

"Don't give me that bullshit. You're getting exactly what you wanted. The sooner you admit that, the sooner we can stop pissing around and get on with it. Now, put your damned hand in your pants."

Denise had no idea if Jacquí had any sexual experience with women. She attended all company functions with a male escort, but that was hardly surprising. Someone as business savvy as Jacquí would undoubtedly have a beard for such purposes. Since they didn't cross paths in other social venues, and Denise didn't partake of the office gossip, she realized knew next to nothing about the sultry beauty's private life. Not that it really mattered in the moment.

She watched as Jacquí unbuttoned her jeans and slipped one delicate hand into them, her wrist remaining visible above the waistband of a pair of brilliant blue panties. "Push your jeans down. I want to see your fingers working. Better yet, take them off."

With her head cocked to one side, Jacquí shrugged out of the tattered denim. She kicked the garment aside and, taking a couple steps forward, propped the ball of one foot on the chair between Denise's legs. Perfectly pedicured toes teased the hem of the skirt as it stretched taut across her spread thighs. The spice-tinged scent of Jacquí's arousal filled the space between them, and Denise licked her lips.

"Continue."

The exhibitionism tested the boundaries of Jacquí's composure, and Denise enjoyed the expressions that flitted across her fair features. At first, her fingers moved tentatively, but soon embarrassment surrendered to intense desire aided by dogged determination. Denise waited until she believed Jacquí to be fully absorbed in her own pleasure before again speaking.

"Stop."

Roughly pushing Jacquí's foot from the seat of the chair, she stood and spun it around. While her hands unknotted her belt, she instructed Jacquí to kneel. Denise repositioned herself on the chair, facing forward, and scooted her bottom to its edge. Trailing the ends of the coarse rope belt across Jacquí's bare back, she said, "You know what to do."

The eyes looking up at her held both contempt and gratitude as their face moved between Denise's legs. A hot tongue pushed her thong into her crevice, and teeth pulled it out. Again. Denise wove the fingers of her free hand through Jacquí's hair and yanked her head up to find eyes drunk with passion.

"Take them off."

Jacquí obeyed and immediately returned her mouth to its task, murmuring her enjoyment as she did so. The first swipe of the rope across her ass caught her by surprise, and she grasped the legs of the chair with both hands as she braced for more.

"You eat pussy like you've done it before," Denise growled, delivering yet another stinging blow. The growing welts on the tanned and toned flesh did as much for her arousal as the oral attentions. Perfection marked by pain. It seemed to stir Jacquí as well, for each blow increased the vigor with which her mouth attacked.

Jacquí used the legs of the chair to pull her face harder against Denise's sex, and the repeated impact of the rope drew forth moans that resonated through her clit. Every time she started to slide into bliss, however, her guard would go up. Still wary of Jacquí's motivations, she couldn't quite relax enough to come. The spanking helped, but she still sensed that she was being used for some unknown purpose—something beyond sex. Jacquí surrendered far too easily, and Denise felt she was missing a critical piece to the erotic puzzle.

Without that understanding, she refused to give Jacquí the satisfaction of making her come. The physical release would only bring emotional vulnerability. Denise realized, in that moment, there was only one outcome that would bring her any measure of comfort.

"Stop."

About the Author

1Take one part Appalachian redneck, one part wet dream, and one part filthy-minded wordsmith. Mix well and serve with chocolate-covered cherries. There you have the one and only Alessia Brio.

Alessia writes all colors and flavors of erotica, from heterosexual to ménage to same sex, and from twisted to humorous to deeply touching. (Sometimes, usually by accident, it even qualifies as romance.)

Her work has earned her critical acclaim in the form of a 2007 EPPIE for Best Erotica (
fine flickering hungers
), a Romantic Times Top Pick (
Coming Together: For the Cure
), and two Next Generation Indie Book Awards for Best Erotica (
Coming Together: For the Cure
in 2008 and
Squeeze Play
in 2009 with partner, Will Belegon) in addition to a plethora of glowing online reviews.

The Internet is both her office and her playground. She can be found online at:

http://www.alessiabrio.com

http://www.twitter.com/Alessia_Brio

http://alessiabrio.blogspot.com

http://www.facebook.com/alessia.brio

http://www.myspace.com/alessia_brio

Traffic was a bitch on I-95, and I knew I'd be late. Some dark-haired asshole who looked like an FBI-type in a Beemer and Oakley mirror sunglasses tried to cut me off when I was three cars away from the tollbooth as I eased off the turnpike onto the interstate. Came within an inch of my bumper. White hot rage shot through me, along with a flushed, hyper-alert sense. No way. I sat in this fucking line for 20 minutes and now Mr. Entitlement USA thinks he can cut me off?

He waved and shrugged, like he was oh-so-innocently asking for a small favor. I shook my head slowly, glad I was wearing sunglasses, too, because the red-hot death ray would have shot out my eyes and burned him to a gristled little crisp.

He smirked and shot forward, tapping my bumper. Fuck you, buddy. My car is crappier than yours and I am insured. You hit me, you're slumming.

I eased up and turned the wheel slightly to the left. No way I was hitting him. Ever vigilant, I made it so that in this game of chicken, I would win. Move an inch, take an inch. Like sex, I was doing to get what I wanted.

Right now.

He backed off and I moved forward, victorious. BAM! Take that. Someone with less determination than me right behind me let him in. I looked in my rearview mirror and realized he was flipping me off.

So I shot him the bird back. Fuuuuuuuuck you, dude.

And then he proceeded to follow me. Fine. Whatever. We were trapped in gridlock for the cloverleaf onto I-95, so I pulled out my makeup case. I always ran out the door a few minutes late, so I'd learned to prioritize. Powder, blush, mascara, lipstick. Done. I'm sure in a few years I'll need a hell of a lot more makeup, but at 21 the worst I need is a little undereye concealer if I party all night and come into work a little hung over.

Not true today, though. I got what I needed last night. My boyfriend, Darren, finally put out. That man has a tongue that could lick the moon if he really tried. Damn. Too bad he has to drink a six pack before he's willing to go down. My clit appreciated the effort, and it was a nice change from our boring, vanilla sex. I mean, missionary position is nice once in a while – what woman doesn't like to have a broad man's back to grab onto and scratch when she's screaming and coming like a freight train with a full load – but every single time?

If I climbed on top of him and rode his pole he practically yawned. Getting that tongue to flick my pussy took a ton of alcohol. And when I suggested using a strap-on last night, that had, apparently, been the last straw for poor old Darren. His baby blue eyes had bugged out of his head.

“Lindsey, you're nuts!” I'd never seen a person actually spring out of bed, but Darren managed it, naked and loopy from the beer. We hadn't even had intercourse yet; he'd finally gone down on me and I'd been moaning with pleasure just a few seconds ago.

“No – it's just a thought. I figured we could be adventurous.”

“By shoving a plastic dick up my ass?” Now he was scrambling into his jeans. He yelped – catching some pubes in his zipper as he rushed. I bit my lip to stop myself from laughing.

Ah, damn, I wasn't going to get his cock in me now, was I? “Well,” I crooned, climbing across the bed on all fours, letting my breasts dangle and rub against the sheets, sending tendrils of lust down to my increasingly-wet pussy, “everyone has fantasies, you know? I just thought I'd – ”

“No fucking way, Lindsey. I'm done. It's bad enough you want me to – ” he waved vaguely at my crotch – “put my mouth on, on
that.
But now you want to be the man and fuck me with a dildo you wear around your waist? You need to see a shrink.”

Now I was pissed. “If anyone needs a shrink, Darren, it's you. If you have to liquor up in order to, well, lick her up, then you might be gay. Go find a nice bar with men and explore a little. Have a nice life.” I'd been screaming the words as he walked down my apartment hallway and slammed the door just as I said the word “life.”

And that had been my night. The end of a weird 6 weeks with Darren.

So no undereye concealer today. I'd gotten off and ended a relationship. Today was about being reborn, cleansing myself, and just breathing. It was Friday and I had decided at the last minute, before running out the door, that I would go on a little trip, alone, to my parent's cabin in Vermont. Packed up some good erotic romance novels, my sex toy collection, and some Junior Mints, all neatly crammed into my laptop bag. Sitting in a cabin, watching porn and reading some good, raunchy shape-shifter crap was my idea of a cleanse.

This asshole in the Beemer kept following me as I pulled off the interstate and went down the back roads to the office.

And then pulled into my parking lot at work.

He parked in a spot right by the main door. The spot that said “Reserved for the Vice President of Marketing.”

I was the new marketing assistant.

Oh, shit.

The asshole in the Beemer was my boss. Mark.

* * *

All I was trying to do was get to work on time. The damn turnpike is always crowded, but there's always someone at the front of the line who will let me in. A $50,000 contract at work was at stake; if I was late and lost the client, I'd lose my job.

I drove up past the 40 or so cars in line and figured I'd edge in. And then I saw Lindsay, the new marketing assistant, in her little red compact car. Damn. It's like the universe read my mind. Just this morning the alarm clock had woken me out of a hot dream, with Lindsay the leading lady. She was only six years younger than me, and that auburn hair drove me wild. Were the silky curls leading to her womanhood auburn, too? Could my tongue blaze a trail through that blazing hair? My cock pushed against the zipper of my pants and I shifted in my seat.

Surely she'd let me in – she knew how important this client meeting was. I eased my dad's Beemer into place and tried to get ahead of her.

No dice. So I stared at her, hoping she'd recognize me. When she finally looked at me, her cool gaze turned me on even more. Rich hair the color of copper pipes, with painted lips so full they could take on my erect cock – and more. Her pert nose rested perfectly under a pair of sunglasses, skin the color of new milk. And I could see a hint of breast in her cleavage under the suit jacket she wore, unbuttoned and hanging under her seat belt. And beneath the steering wheel I knew those long, lean legs were pushing pedals, while my hand wanted to reach down, slide up her calf, over her thigh, and stroke her off.

My hand actually reached for my own damn thigh and nearly unzipped my pants and stroked off right then and there. Instead, I clamped down on my own steering wheel and smiled at her, then shrugged.

She shook her head “no.” Ah, come on! I shot her a nasty look and beeped my horn, a friendly tap. She turned away and grabbed her steering wheel.

So it was going to be like that, huh?

Winning games of “chicken” was my specialty. I tightened up and pushed forward, inches at a time, trying to get her to let me in. She fought back, though, and I tapped her with the BMW's bumper. My parents would kill me if I cracked it, though. I'd have to let Lindsay win.

This time.

She got through and I flipped her off reflexively, not even thinking about it, but she saw me and returned the bird. A flash of anger and arousal filled me like a balloon at a helium tank. Could she piss me off even more?

Could I want to fuck her even more?

We'd settle this at the office. Maybe it was time for a performance review for Ms. Lindsay. A very detailed, intimate performance review. And as long as we took care of things after hours, it would be fine.

Wait – no.
Down, boy
. You're a VP now. Twenty-seven years old and a fucking VP. No piece of ass, no matter how intelligent and hot, would derail that.