Helene Blackmailed (4 page)

She stopped at the door and willed herself to calm down. She knew what it felt like to need sex, and she knew what it felt like to feel sexy, but the way she felt now was something different. She felt entirely sexual and female in a way that went beyond politics and beyond apologies, and it felt terribly exciting and powerful. She was ready to be devastated.

She knocked.

“It’s open,” he called out, and Helene suddenly felt foolish. She prepared herself to be disappointed, but now even her sudden uncertainty served to excite her. She knew that when she crossed that threshold she would no longer be responsible for what happened. She pushed the door open and walked into the dim room, letting the door close behind her.

He was standing up and pouring himself a drink. The room was a suite—the best, she supposed, that the place had to offer. This room was a kind of sitting room with a kitchenette in the back. There was a cheap sofa and a couple of armchairs, a TV, and back by the kitchen, a small breakfast table with one ill-matched captain’s chair. The other chair stood in the middle of the room, looking ominous with ropes tied to the arms and the front legs. Helene glanced at the chair then back at him. She felt a thrill of delicious fear.

The bottle he held was the same brand of scotch he’d brought last time, and there were the same two plastic cups filled with motel ice. He put down his cup and poured her a drink without asking.

“You’re right on time,” he said. “That’s good. Water?”

She nodded. She wasn’t about to play any games.

He ran some water into her glass and handed it to her. When he raised his glass in salute, she tentatively raised hers, too. What else could she do? She remembered the taste of the whiskey from the last time, the feel of the plastic cup against her lip.

He was wearing black wool trousers and a black vest over a gray shirt. Whatever he did for a living with his little camera, he dressed well. She searched his hands for a ring, but he wore no jewelry of any kind.

She gestured toward the chair. “Is that for me?”

“Yes.”

She pulled her eyes away from the chair and looked at him. “I wanted to talk to you,” she said. She still hadn’t moved from her spot by the door.

He cocked his head, prepared to listen, but all her words suddenly left her. She just stood there, her eyes darting from him, to the chair, and back again. Everything she had prepared to say just evaporated and she had no idea of how to begin.

This wasn’t the way she’d imagined it. In her fantasies, she stood there and spoke quite earnestly about her feelings and he sat there and listened to her with understanding and sympathy apparent in his intelligent eyes. In her fantasies, he understood her concerns and realized that she was more than just a sex object, that she had feelings and dignity, and that she was used to a man’s care and respect. In her fantasies, she spoke at length and with honesty about the astonishing things she’d felt the last time, and he listened attentively, then smiled and came to her and took her in his arms. The pictures were involved, too. In her fantasies, they were thrown into the trash, or in some way discarded—burned perhaps—and then he took her to bed and made love to her, different this time, more sweet and loving, though in the end she had the same transforming orgasm.

But this was not her fantasy, and after standing there silently for some moments, all she could think of to say was, “I don’t even know your name.”

“Daniel,” he said. “You can call me Daniel. Now, take off your jacket. We can talk later.”

Helene put down her drink and stepped away from the door. She had expected more. She had expected a caress, some sort of physical contact, but she realized now that she wasn’t going to get it, and she felt the loss as clearly as she would have felt his hand upon her skin.

“Come on,” he said, dropping into a chair. “Take it off.”

She realized then that he was right. They could talk later. Right now she needed to hear his rough, male arrogance, his easy command of her. She needed to be ordered to do simple things she could do, and taking off her jacket was one of them.

She slipped the jacket from her shoulders and folded it up. She threw it down on the sofa.

The blouse was tight. The pleated front exaggerated her bust and the bra she wore left her nipples exposed, to rub and press against the fabric. She felt them now, hardening and growing firmer as she stood there under his gaze. She felt that expectant tightness in her sex and the nervous thrill in her stomach. She loved this.

“Take off your blouse,” he said softly, then, “No, wait. I’ll do it. Yes, I’ll do it for you.”

He got out of the chair and came to her, and once again, Helene felt him next to her. She smelled his scent, salty and clean, terribly masculine. He filled the space next to her, making her feel deliciously small and powerless. She found herself almost trembling with excitement and she couldn’t look at his face, so she dropped her eyes to his hands and watched them as they went to the buttons on her blouse. He had strong, clean hands and they popped the buttons easily, one by one, sliding them through the holes and tugging her blouse open, taking his time.

When he came to her bra and saw that her breasts were bare, he grunted with a kind of crude pleasure that made her heart hammer in her chest. She hadn’t known how much she’d wanted him to find her desirable or how much she’d needed to arouse him, and now, hearing that little grunt of pleasure, some part of her relaxed while another part swelled with excitement.

Without a word, his head came down as one hand pulled her breast from her little bra. He held her breast up and took it in his mouth and she thought she might swoon at the easy way he took command of her. She reached up and put her hand on the back of his neck, but he stopped.

“No,” he said removing her hand. “You don’t touch me. Like last time, remember? You don’t touch me until I tell you to. Keep your hands at your sides.”

Helene did as she was told and he went back to her breast. He took them both in his hands and squeezed them, holding them so that her nipples were pushed toward each other, and he began to suck and lick them both.

Spears of pleasure pierced her body, and without thinking, she reached around his head again, wanting to hold him in place, wanting to lean on him as he pleasured her.

“I’m sorry,” she said when she realized what she’d done, but he’d already stepped back from her.

He picked up a piece of rope from the chair and came back to her.

“Turn around.”

“No, please,” she said. “I said I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“I know you won’t. Now turn around.”

She stood there as he threw several loops of rope around each wrist and tied them off, making a rope cuff for each wrist. She knew she was insane to let him do this to her. With her wrists tied, she’d be helpless to defend herself against anything he might want to do, but she trusted him and she let him do it. His saliva cooled on her bare nipples as he pulled her hands behind her back and held them there. From somewhere he produced a metal clip and worked it under the strands of rope. When he was done, her wrists were securely bound together behind her back.

Having her wrists tied flooded her with unexpected excitement, and it excited him, too. This was so unlike her, it was almost like being in someone else’s body or watching herself from afar. At work, in all the rest of her life she was the one in charge, she was the one giving the orders, and yet it felt so good to have him take control of her like this. It felt good not to have to do anything but react.

He pushed her back against the wall and leaned against her as he finished unbuttoning her blouse and pulled it from her skirt. His hands played roughly on her breasts, squeezing her, pinching and rolling her nipples, sucking and biting them with selfish pleasure and Helene moaned with an anguished and indefinable joy. Here was the rough greediness she’d missed so much from Jason’s touch. This man touched her not in order to please her as Jason had, but in order to please himself, and that made all the difference in the world.

His bulk loomed over her, his weight rested upon her, and as Helene pressed her chest into his hands their eyes met and his gaze pierced her own, seeing past the frightened woman and past the ball-busting executive and directly into her need. When his lips came down on hers she threw herself into her kiss, finally able to tell him what she’d wanted to say at the start, and what she’d had to say was not that complicated, not that complicated at all.

“You little liar!” he breathed as he pinched her nipple and twisted it. “You love this, don’t you? You love being treated like this!”

She couldn’t say yes and she wouldn’t say no. She longed for his lips on hers again so she wouldn’t have to say anything. Her nipples hurt from his rough treatment and yet ached for more, and below she knew she was a swamp of wet, female need. It was his need for her that did it, the passion with which he took her. It left her dizzy and panting for breath. It made her pussy throb with an empty yearning to feel his roughness on her there, feel his strength between her legs.

He kissed the side of her neck, burying his face there and inhaling the fragrance of her hair and her perfume. His hands slid down her back and cupped her ass. He squeezed her buttocks through her skirt, squeezed them possessively as if they were his. His hands went to her thighs and he began to gather up her skirt in his hands, pulling the hem up slowly over her legs.

Helene lifted her head and pressed it back against the wall, biting her lower lip against the maddening tickle of the fabric moving up her thighs. She’d worn no slip and she could feel the cool air on her naked flesh as it was exposed by the rising skirt. She knew her panties were already damp and that he would feel them, but it hardly mattered any longer. She had ceased pretending that she felt anything other than intense sexual arousal at his touch. She no longer felt shame, or rather, the shame she felt at giving herself to this stranger was part of the fuel that fed her fire, part of the excitement.

The hem of her skirt slid higher, above the tops of her stockings now, and higher still as he gathered the fabric around her waist. He was sucking at her breasts as he raised her skirt and Helene braced herself for the feel of his fingers at her crotch. She knew it was coming, yet even so, she wasn’t prepared for the blast of shuddering satisfaction she felt when first he touched her there and pressed the slick fabric of her panties against her sodden flesh. She had waited days to feel this again, to be touched the way he touched her, and she groaned with deep pleasure and jerked involuntarily as he claimed what was already his.

He kissed her as his fingers moved the wet fabric to the side and slid along her crease, and when he slid one fingertip inside her she clenched her eyes tight and bit his lip just as she would have bitten her own to keep from crying out. The feel of his hand on her was electric, like the fit of some key made only for her. She had no idea of how he managed to make her feel this way, how he stole her will and turned her into a vessel of such terrible sexual need. She only knew that he had somehow figured her out, that he knew her better than she knew herself.

“You’re soaking wet,” he said to her, whispering into her ear. “I haven’t even done anything to you yet and you’re just dripping. You love this, don’t you? You love everything I’m doing to you.”

“No,” she gasped. “No. You’re wrong!”

He leaned back so he could look at her. “Is that right? Well, we’ll see. We’ll just see about that, won’t we?”

He held the crotch piece of her panties to the side and slid his finger into her, his thumb pressing against her clit. Helene crumpled against him, the pangs of her desire too much to bear. She tried instinctively to grab on to his shoulders but the ropes held her wrists fast, driving home the extent of her helplessness. He reached behind her and seized her hair, pulled her head back and held her up like that. She grimaced against the pain as his finger continued to fuck into her.

Her blouse was completely open and her breasts exposed on their little shelf-bra. Her skirt was up around her waist, and the lewdness of what he was doing to her, the easy way he took total control of her body flooded her with helpless excitement. She was close to orgasm and they both knew it. He could feel her losing control of her body.

“Look at you,” he hissed at her. “You’re about to come, aren’t you? You’re going to come standing there, just from getting finger-fucked like some high school tramp!”

Helene fought against it. She had little dignity left, but what she had she couldn’t just give over to him like this. She reached out and bit his shoulder, frantic in her lust.

He snarled in anger and jerked away.

For a second, she thought he might slap her. She had bitten him hard, desperate to make him stop, and she braced herself for the blow, but it never came. Instead, he took her arm and pulled her away from the wall.

She stood in the middle of the room with her wrists tied behind her as he pulled first her blouse, and then her bra, down her arms. He pulled her skirt back down enough that he could get to the zipper and open it, then tugged it roughly down her legs, holding her up with one hand on her arm. Her panties followed, and she was forced to twist this way and that as he yanked the sodden garment down her thighs and threw them aside.

“No,” she said. “Wait, please. Not like this…”

He stopped and looked at her in her sudden agitation. His eyes were flashing again, filled with his hunger for her, and once again his gaze left her powerless. Once again she was naked in front of him and almost helpless in her need. Her nipples were hard and distended, her shaven pussy gleamed with her own juices, and still she asked him to wait.

“Wait?” he asked her. “Wait for what? What do you want, Helene? Violins and flowers? Do you want me to romance you and sing you love songs? Is that what you want? Come here!”

He pulled her roughly toward the chair and thrust her into it. Shoving her head down to make her lean forward, he lifted her arms over the back of the chair and then sat her back up. He tied her wrists, in their tangle of clothes, to a rung between the rear legs, forcing her shoulders back and her breasts out. He made her spread her thighs, pressing them against the armrests of the chair. He used the attached ropes to tie her knees to the arms of the chair, then tied her ankles to the legs in front, leaving her spread open, exposed and obscenely vulnerable.