Bound by Lust (5 page)

But Josh was all business. “That's going to change. A pussy was made to be filled. From now on I forbid you to do your workout, or even more important, touch your clit in any way, unless you have something inside. A zucchini will do. No, I have a better idea. I want you to buy yourself a dildo. Six inches long—about my size—no monster that will stretch you out. And get something nasty with veins and a ball sac so that if someone finds it they'll know exactly what you do with it.”

I flinched at his words but knew I would obey.

“I want you to carry it around in your purse at all times. You'll never know when I'm going to text you with an order to practice your exercises in the ladies' room at work. I want my assistant coach close at hand to help you.”

“I don't think a dildo will fit in my purse,” I protested weakly.

“Buy a bigger purse then. Okay, enough rest for the rookie. And put that cap on straight. Show respect for your organization.”

“Yes,
Sir
,” I barked out, grinning as I yanked the visor forward.

“I don't need any attitude, Missy, or you just might get cut from the team. Now squeeze me as fast and hard as you can, a sprint to home plate.
A-one and a-two
….”

Thus far, Josh had kept his hands chastely at his sides, but now he took one stiff pink nipple in each hand and twisted them between his fingers in time with my next contraction.

I shuddered as a jolt of pleasure shot through me. Instinctively I clamped down on him, rocking my hips lewdly. The pressure of his groin on my very swollen clit left me gasping.

“Is it okay if I, um, have an orgasm while I'm working out, Coach?” The word
coach
trailed off into a moan.

“It's more than okay, baby,” he purred. Suddenly one nipple was swimming in the heat of his mouth, and he was tug, tug, tugging it with his lips, and I was sliding right into home plate, clit first, the howl tearing through my throat louder than the crowd at AT&T Park.

The start of spring training had indeed been tough, but I had to admit it was growing on me.

My cell phone beeped discreetly. As I expected, it was a text message from Josh: “Xrcises at 3, send pic, CJ.”

I glanced guiltily around my cubicle, not that anyone was likely to be spying on me. And if they were, they'd have no clue what had just transpired. But I knew well enough Coach Josh was instructing me to go to the ladies' room in twenty minutes, plough myself with his “assistant,” snap a picture with my iPhone, and email the evidence to him post haste.
Not that I don't trust you
, he told me,
but I think you're ready for an exhibition. Besides, you've never sent pictures like this to another man, have you?

I had to confess that I had sent someone a picture of my
tits once—what woman hasn't?—but never anything quite this risky. Yet somehow I trusted Josh. I caught myself shifting my weight in my chair. My panties seem to have bunched up in my slit, and the friction was highly distracting.

Could I make it all the way until 3:00?

I sat up tall in my chair and tried to focus on the report in front of me. Or more accurately,
failed
to focus on the report. All I could think about was how heavy and sensitive my breasts felt, how the fabric of my bra was chafing my nipples. And how my butt crack tingled expectantly, too, as if my back door remembered Josh's promise that next week we'd focus on anal sex of every variety.

The text on the screen before me began to swim.

The truth was Josh's spring training had made me into a sex fiend. We'd gone from doing it three or four times a week to getting off several times a day—at least I did anyway. We always warmed up with me doing toning exercises on his cock until I climaxed. Sometimes I'd be exhausted from the effort, but he always pushed me on to a second challenge and sometimes even a third. He'd already painted my skin from forehead to toe with his semen. He'd taken me in dozens of new positions, including on every piece of furniture and countertop in the apartment and in the shower. He even pushed me up against the wall in the entryway with the door left open just a crack so that a passerby might catch us—which made me come extra fast and hard.

You might think a woman would get tired of so much sex, but my appetite and stamina were, on the contrary, increasing to meet his demands. Now I felt deprived if I had fewer than three orgasms a day. No doubt about it, no other man I'd known could rival Josh for determination and ingenuity in—and out—of the bedroom.

It was only 2:45, but I was desperate for relief. I grabbed my
handbag and hurried down the hall, my gaze focused straight ahead to prevent any colleague from hailing me for a friendly chat.

I purposely headed for the ladies' room at the far end of the hall and dashed inside, heaving a sigh of relief to find it empty. I slipped into the handicapped stall—there were no handicapped employees in my company as far as I knew—and hung my bag over the hook. My new purse was roomy enough to accommodate my dildo and other “exercise” equipment Josh deemed necessary.

Hands trembling, I unzipped my slacks and pushed them midway down my thighs, my damp panties nested inside. I extracted the dildo from its carrying case, a large, quilted makeup bag, and pulled a condom from the inside pouch. I'd discovered the hard way the challenge of washing the thing off afterward in public—best to stuff the condom in the sanitary napkin receptacle and do a proper job at home.

Fortunately, I'd been able to find the perfect six-incher, thick in girth with a ball sac base, at my local woman-friendly sex shop. I'd chosen the “caramel” over “vanilla” because it matched Josh's olive skin. I always felt especially naughty when I rolled the condom over the glans of the fake cock, as if I were cheating on him with another man. When I confessed this to Josh, he teased me that at least I was having safe sex with his second-in-command.

We'd hired a highly able assistant, if I do say so myself.

I positioned the head of the dildo at my entrance and eased it inside, sighing at the satisfying pressure. I was getting addicted to this feeling of fullness, to the implacable resistance as I squeezed my muscles around the shaft. I gave my clit a few flicks and pushed the tool in deeper.

Then I remembered I was supposed to take a picture. I
fumbled in the outside pocket of my purse for the cell phone, one hand holding the dildo firmly inside of me. I switched to camera mode and held the phone, lens side facing me, at groin level. The photo was a little fuzzy, but the obscene content was clear enough: two naked thighs, a hint of pink slit beneath a neatly trimmed bush, the base of the brown cock protruding from my hole, a manicured female hand gripping the balls with assurance. I scrolled down to “send as an email” and typed in the first character of Josh's address. Of course he popped up immediately—he always did—and I pressed send, stifling my laughter.

But soon enough I was lost in lust again. My jaw slack, my eyelids heavy, I pushed the dildo rhythmically in and out with one hand while diddling my clit with the other.

“This is you, Josh. I'm fucking your cock now, and I'm going to come around it,” I whispered, just as he'd instructed.

My muscles were so accustomed to the drill that I could usually come with a few minutes of squeezing and a lot of fantasizing. I thought about Josh slapping my ass when I didn't massage his cock hard enough, sending my pussy into helpless spasms of delight. And about how he'd marked every part of me with his hot mouth, his expert hands, his creamy jiz, and his cocks, one flesh, one silicone. I really did belong to him body, mind, and soul, yet at the same time I felt more in control of my desire, more
me
, than ever before.

My cell phone beeped again. I was right on the verge, but I paused to check the message.

“Cum for me.”

And model rookie that I was, I did exactly as he said.

It was the last Saturday in March, and Coach had me in
bed on my hands and knees, my buttocks thrust out, my forehead pressed into the pillow. I wore nothing, except for a sassy orange 2010 World Series MVP Edgar Renteria T-shirt, which, nonetheless, was hiked up to expose my breasts.

“Are you a winner, Erin? Are you willing to go all the way?”

“Yes, Coach,” I breathed, wiggling my rear involuntarily. Josh hadn't yet laid a hand on me, but I already wanted it bad.

“This week we have one final area to master—your ass. And what a magnificent example of a female posterior it is. I could just stare at it all day long.”

I whimpered. I hoped to hell he'd do more than stare.

“Of course, first we must determine what needs to be accomplished. Has anyone ever touched you back there besides me?”

“A little.”

“Explain.”

“A couple of guys, they put a finger in. But it didn't feel that good. I like the way you just tease the outside better.”

“Well, we'll have to send those ‘inept penetration with a finger' guys down to the minors. Did anyone, including yourself, ever insert another object? A dildo, a butt plug, a tampon? Or, perchance, one of your favorite zucchini?”

“No, jeez, that's really pervy,” I blurted out.

Josh gave me a quick slap on my buttock. I yelped, but more in pleasure than pain. The sudden smack reverberated through my body like a hot, undulating wave.

“Your physical conditioning is progressing nicely, but your attitude still needs work. Anal pleasure, even involving our good friend, the zucchini, is as much a beautiful expression of eros as making love in the traditional way.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied meekly, although I still thought ass play was wicked—and incredibly hot.

“Did anyone ever fuck you there?”

I hesitated.

“Come on, out with it.”

“Once. My college boyfriend, Matt, he just nagged me until I said yes. He used Vaseline, and it was messy and hurt.” I grimaced into the pillow at the memory.

“Sorry to hear that. I definitely have a few ideas about how to reeducate your poor little back hole.” Josh's voice was suddenly gentle. And so was the touch of his finger as he circled my anus lightly. The sphincter contracted gratefully. I felt the sensation in my chest, too, a warmth that seemed surprisingly pure.

“Last question. Has anyone licked you back there?”

“Never,” I sputtered.

“Have you ever licked a man's ass yourself?”

I choked out an “Um, no.”

“Well,” Josh said, “we have a lot of ground to cover this week. We'll start slow, though. Your ass needs some serious loving and appreciation. So this morning I'll rim you and give an introductory demonstration of proper finger techniques.”

“Ah,” was all I could say. My belly was on fire, and my ass was blushing as red as my face. Josh was going to put his lips to me back there? His tongue even? Then I really would belong to him, every last naughty bit of me.

“Do your squeezes, Erin, but focus on the muscles in your anus. They need to be strong, too.”

“Yes, Coach,” I mumbled into the pillow. Josh's program had made me into quite the sexual athlete, and I had no doubt I could climax however and whenever he commanded.

As I clenched and released, a finger began to stroke my valley delicately. In spite of the beguiling stimulation, I did my best to concentrate on my repetitions. But Josh circled the rim, round and round, until I fell forward on the mattress in a quivering heap of delight. Then he drew back.

And slapped me right on the hole.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, fucking fuck,” I groaned.

“Hey, are you okay?” Josh was suddenly all concern.

“Yes, yes. Do that again.”

Chuckling softly, he spanked me half a dozen times there, methodically, striking the perfect balance between pleasure and pain.

“Push out now,” he said. I had one last pang of shyness—how could I ever do something so
bad?
—but then again I wanted to give myself totally to him. Then he would indeed have penetrated me everywhere: my cunt, my mouth, my fantasies—and now my most forbidden place.

The next sensation was an exquisite warmth and wetness. He really was licking me. Was there anything as nasty as this? Yet, as he soothed me with soft little laps of his tongue, the whole lower half of my body, from waist to knees, melted and floated right off the bed. I'd never felt anything like it before.

I was still flying when he pulled away once more.

“Keep squeezing, Erin. I want you to come with my finger up your ass. Are you turned on enough to do it?”

“I am, oh god, I'm so turned on.”

“Then repeat after me—this is a beautiful act of love.”

“
This is
…wait, you're kidding, right?”

“I won't touch you again until you say the words.”

A harsh but effective coaching strategy. And so I began to babble.

This is a beautiful act of love, a beautiful act, a beautiful
…

Instead of a tongue, though, my next visitor was a wetted finger that caressed the ring of muscle several times as if to reassure it, then wiggled its way carefully into the opening.

A beautiful act of love
…

The finger rested there patiently as if to say, “Let's get to
know each other and be friends.” I squeezed it hungrily, for my body now knew the magic of his presence. The man I loved was inside of me, intent only on my satisfaction. Another finger slipped forward to find my clit. My thighs began to shake.

“That's a good girl. Milk me. Make my finger a tool of your pleasure. And say the words, Erin. Say the words until you come.”