Helene Blackmailed (8 page)

He gave her nothing. He rammed himself deep into her still-trembling pussy, riding roughshod over her quivering nerve endings and filling her with his massive shaft again. He was incredibly hard and he fucked her savagely, knocking the breath from her body, intent on nothing but getting his own selfish pleasure from her, and Helene, after a moment of discomfort, gave herself to him. She could scarcely refuse. Her wrists were tied behind her back and he kept his hands behind her knees, keeping them pressed against her breasts as his hips slammed into her and he grunted in feverish bestial pleasure.

She loved his violence. She loved it because she knew that she was the cause, that his savagery was an expression of his need for her and all his rough male power and strength were channeled into driving his maleness into her, beating her with it just as he’d beat her with the whip, assaulting her femininity and making her yield it up to him, everything she had.

When he came, he reared up off her body, holding himself above her on his strong arms and she watched his own surrender on his anguished face as she felt his cock throb inside her, giving himself to her as well, spending all that fury into her in those few, precious warm spurts.

* * * * *

Afterwards came the tenderness. He was no crueler than she was and so there was no way to avoid the intimacy that such transforming sex brought about between them. After he untied her arms he took her in his arms, still catching his breath after his orgasm. Helene, battered from his lust and full of satisfaction, pressed herself against him, hiding in the shelter of his encircling arms. Now at last she got to touch him, got to kiss and taste his skin and try to tell him what he meant to her.

“You never called work,” he said.

“No, I didn’t. I will, I will. Just not now. In a minute.”

For the present she was fascinated by his lower lip, the turn of his nostrils, the bridge of his nose. She sent her fingers to explore him and then pulled them back, uncertain.

He smiled. “It’s okay. You can touch if you want.”

She wanted to ask him who he was and how he knew so much about her, how he knew just what she wanted, but for now his profile was enough for her.

“You’ll stay?” he asked. “You don’t have to go back.”

“If you want me to. If that’s all right with you.”

He laughed and heaved himself up on his elbow and looked down at her.

“You’re not my slave, you know. It’s not like that.”

She hadn’t known. She still wasn’t sure what to make of this relationship or what they were to each other. For now all it was was a feeling inside, a feeling of total satisfaction when she looked at his face and a feeling that all she had given him had hardly been enough.

He sat up and looked at her. They were both still naked and the afternoon light outside his bedroom window gave her the luxurious feeling of playing hooky from work. He ran his hand down her body then he stopped at her thighs, which were marked by raised welts from the whipping. He touched them gingerly, his face clouding with concern.

“It’s all right,” she said. “They don’t hurt.”

He moved out from under her and down the sofa, then bent and kissed her thighs. To Helene it was like she’d been struck again, the same ferocious lash of desire.

“Oh no!” she whispered. “Don’t!”

But it was obvious that his kiss stirred him as well and he stretched himself out on the couch and began to kiss and lick her thighs, making her stomach jump in an alarming manner, and faster than she would have thought possible she went from her drowsy sense of satisfaction to a raging, fiery need. She reached down and grabbed his hair, whether to stop him or egg him on she wasn’t sure, and he grabbed her wrists and pulled them away. He held them tightly and got up on his knees.

“I love that about you,” he said. “How hot you get. It drives me wild!”

Helene flushed with embarrassment and pride. He held her wrists down against the sofa as he made her open her legs and she was forced to lie there as he licked her—long, teasing swipes on the tops of her thighs, then the insides—soft kisses and nibbles against her swelling sex and Helene let herself go, let herself be swept away by his passion for her. She arched her back sharply and waited for the pleasure of her next orgasm.

Chapter Four

Work, life, and the crowds of people in the street as she walks to work in her sensible business suit. Helene’s normal existence, now seen through the lens of her newly aroused passions and the wonder of what she feels when she’s with him and when she’s alone with her memories of him. He’s made her new, he’s made her a wonder to herself—her sensations and her emotions, the shameful things she does in his presence, the greedy and wonderfully selfish things he does to her.

She stands at the curb waiting for the light to change. She’s showered, perfumed, and her makeup is perfect—smooth and hardly visible, making her look delicate and flawlessly composed. Her clothes are new and fresh. Her skirt is smooth and tight across her thighs and her jacket hangs over her shoulders and breasts with just the right amount of cling, the fabric expensive enough so that she’s aware of its weight and caress as she turns to glance in a store window or stop for a light.

And yet within her clothes Helene feels her body like a new and exquisite instrument tuned to some vital current that accompanies her constantly these days. She has the ability to recall the feel of his body on her at any time, the hunger of his mouth on her breasts or neck, the flat pain where he slapped her ass. Her body is like the earth plowed up and turned over fresh by his desire. She feels permanently marked, branded with his identity and his need for her. Her skin is as alive as fresh scar tissue.

As she steps off the curb, she holds her head erect. She stands straighter now than she used to, the posture of a woman with pride, a woman aware of a secret strength within her. The tops of her stockings grip her thighs high up where the skin is soft and sensitive and caress her with every step. Her skirt draws tight against the muscles of her legs and she feels the way the fabric slides across her bottom, translated through the smoothness of her slip. She is naked beneath the slip and she’s aware of that too.

It’s a wonder to her how her submission to this man has made her so proud and sure of herself, but that’s what it is. She has been places with him that most women never go and never dream of going. She has been tested and emerged triumphant and she feels her triumph every time he takes her in his arms and crushes her to his body, losing himself in his desire for her, unleashing his violent need for her. She’s experienced the feeling of being entirely female for him, of being entirely vulnerable and accepting to him, and by giving herself she’s gained a measure of self-possession that amazes her.

At work she’s crisp and efficient and no longer agonizes over decisions or situations that would have suffocated her with worry and anxiety only brief weeks before. She has a new perspective on things and realizes that her work is only a small part—a very small part—of who she really is. “Janey, Paul, that’s enough for now,” she says now, sitting in her office, holding her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “Write up the notes for the proposal and get them to me as soon as they’re done. And close the door on the way out.”

“Business?” he asks over the phone.

“Yes. Nothing important. I’ve missed you.”

She hears his smile over the line and feels it like a caress. She’s immediately aware of her body.

“Yes,” he says. “I’ve missed you too. I’m missing you right now, Helene. I need you.”

She closes her eyes and smiles. His words are like a breath that blows upon the little smoldering fire that are her feelings for him, a fire that always burns, that now flares with sudden flame. She feels herself glow in the warmth of that fire.

“Did you dress as I said?”

“Yes. Nothing on but my slip. Underneath, I mean.”

“And stockings?”

“Yes.”

“Open your blouse.”

She can’t repress a smile. He’s so bad. “Daniel, I’m at work.”

“Is there anyone else there with you?”

She looks at the empty chairs and at the closed door. “No. I’m alone now.”

“Then open your blouse.”

It’s a game and she knows she doesn’t have to play, but his wicked request excites her. She lifts her fingers and idly strokes the bare skin between her breasts where the lapels of her blouse fold open, the place where she puts her perfume. Her finger just touches the soft top of her breast.

“All right,” she lies. “It’s open. Just the top button.”

“No. The top three, Helene. I want you to touch yourself.”

For a moment she feels as if he’s somehow caught her in her lie but then she realizes that he can’t possibly know what she’s doing.

“All right. Wait.”

Although she’s only playing with him, she feels her body suddenly come to life, her nipples begin to stiffen. It’s so wicked to be doing this at work with the sounds of her coworkers right outside her door. She slides her finger along the smooth slope of her breast, the part she’s watched him run his mouth over so many times as she stood there for him, her wrists tied behind her. She can again feel his selfish pleasure, the greediness of his mouth against her flesh.

“Are you doing it? Are you touching yourself?”

“Yes,” she lies, but already her body is betraying her, responding to his voice on the line. She may think that she’s fooling him by not doing as he says, but she’s already aroused, and not from her touch. Rather it’s the realization that he can make her do what he wants her to. She’s already lost.

“Touch yourself,” he says thickly. “Not your nipples. I want you to draw circles around your nipples with your finger. With your fingernail. You know what I mean. The way I do with my tongue.”

Helene feels the hairs on the base of her neck prickle. Her door is closed but still, this is where she works. She can feel his passion and need for her, feel it like heat from the phone, licking at her. She’s already lost, so why not?

She switches the phone to her left hand and opens the top buttons of her blouse.

“Hold the phone up near your face,” he says. “I can’t hear you.”

“But I didn’t say anything,” she answers, caressing herself with two fingers.

“I know that. I want to hear you breathe.”

She smiles again and holds the phone to her nose up so he can hear her breathing, already getting deeper as her finger finds the soft margin around her areola and scrapes against it. Her nipple rises to the invitation, telling her of her body’s own willingness to do as he says.

“Are you doing it? You are, aren’t you? I can hear it in your breath.”

“Yes,” she breathes. “Yes, I’m doing it.”

“Is it getting stiff?” he asks. “Are your nipples getting hard, Helene?”

“Yes,” she says, not lying now. “You know they are.”

“Good. Now get up and pull your skirt up around your thighs.”

“Daniel, really!”

She loves saying his name. The way it rolls on her tongue is exquisite. “It’s lunchtime and everyone’s walking around. Someone could come in.”

“No one’s coming in. Besides, you’re behind your desk, aren’t you? No one can see. Do it.”

“Darling, I can’t!” she protests. “You know how I get! People will know.”

“You said they leave you alone at lunch. You’re just stalling, being selfish. I need you to do this for me, Helene. I need to know you’re all mine.”

She looks nervously at the door, gauging the sounds outside. Playing with her breasts for him was one thing, but this is something else. Still, she’s already come to work without any underwear and why had she done that if she hadn’t been expecting something like this? Fear fights with her growing arousal.

“Wait,” she says.

She puts the phone down and rolls her chair away from the desk. With her eyes locked on the door she grasps her skirt and slip and pulls them up over her thighs, gathering the fabric up until she can feel the cool air against the bare flesh where her stockings end. She sits back down, feeling the leather of her chair against the backs of her legs and she rolls herself in tight against the desk.

“All right?” he asks. “Did you do it?”

“Yes.”

He laughs, not maliciously but with pleasure.

“But you have to tell me,” she asks. “Are you… I mean, are you—?”

“Am I masturbating? Yes. I have my cock in my hand right now, Helene, and it’s hard. It’s so hard for you it hurts and I’m thinking of what a good little slave you are and I’m beating off, sliding my hand up and down my hard cock, pulling the skin back and forth.”

“Oh my God,” she gasps, closing her eyes. She can clearly see his massive cock in his hand, the head a wild, angry pink, a drop of lubricant gathering on the tip.

“I need you to come for me, Helene. I need you to come so I can come. That’s why I need you to play with your pussy. I need for you to come with me.”

“I don’t know if I can,” she says. “There are people around.”

“I need for you to try, Helene. You don’t want me to just waste it, do you? Is that what you want? Should I just hang up and go beat off over the toilet?”

“No, no, darling.” She bites her lip, thinking what a waste that would be, his fierce, beautiful orgasm gone for nothing. “That’s not what I want. All right, but please hurry. Someone might come in.”

“Then do it now. Touch yourself. Touch your pussy.”

Helene reaches down between her legs and delicately strokes her naked labia. They’re compressed in a tight little pout, but already she can feel her pussy filling with blood and beginning to open like a flower.

She looks around the room—the familiar filing cabinets, the sofa and coffee table strewn with layouts from this morning’s meeting, the pictures on the wall. She feels her skirt and slip, bunched high around her hips, the bare skin of her thighs and cunt exposed to the dark office air beneath her desk. She thinks of her coworkers heading out for lunch while she stays behind masturbating for his voice on the phone, giving him pleasure and her shame and disbelief at her own lewdness is like a fire. The feel of her fingers on her cunt in these surroundings is wildly incongruous. She starts breathing faster. She lifts the phone so the speaker can catch the sound of her breath starting to rasp between her open lips.

“Yes,” he says. “That’s it. Play with your pussy! That’s my pussy, isn’t it? I own it, it belongs to me. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if someone came in. Then they’d know how you are with me, what you’re really like, how you beg me for it. Would you like that? Would you like for them to know?”

“No,” she moans. “It’s just for you. I only do it for you.”

“Yes,” he says. “You do it for me. You’ll do anything for me, won’t you, Helene? Even masturbate in your office like this.”

“Yes,” she says. There’s a little rising catch in her voice as she releases the word, a little sob of excitement. Her fingers start pressing harder and now she feels the sticky wetness between her lips. He shames her as he always does and her shame feels good, like surrender. Her pussy is starting to ache, a hungry want she feels throughout her body but mostly in her breasts and pussy, her lips and even in her fingers sliding in the open furrow of her distended sex.

“I want you to put a finger inside,” he says. “See if you’re wet and tell me. And hold the phone up. I want to hear you when you fuck yourself.”

A little groan escapes her throat as she slides a fingertip between her labia and inserts it into her pussy.

“Yes,” she says. Her voice is ragged and trembling. “I’m wet. A little. Is that good?”

“Yes it’s good. I love it when you’re wet, when you can’t control yourself. I love it when you get all hot and excited like this.”

Her mind is filled with the image of him looking at her the way he does, his jaw set, that look of anger and contempt in his eyes that communicates his lust. It’s a look that always thrills her and it’s the look she always associates with him—either looking like he’s so aroused that he’s ready to strike her, or with his head thrown back in rapture as he ejaculates for her, giving her his pleasure.

The thought of him ejaculating makes her shudder anew and in her excitement she forgets her role as his plaything.

“Are you close?” she asks. She has an image of him with his big cock in his hand, pumping it as he listens to her, picturing her as she is now playing the tramp for him, and she wants so badly to make it good for him. “Are you getting ready, my darling?”

“Am I close to coming? Is that what you want to know?” he asks.

“Yes!”

She can hear the wicked smile in his voice as he asks her, “Is that what you want, Helene? Do you want me to come now while you play with yourself?”

“Yes! Please.”

“Then ask me. Go ahead and tell me what you want me to do.”

It’s too much. Helene’s head is back against the chair, her fingers working hotly at her pussy, her eyes closed then opening to dart a swift glance at her office door. She can’t bring herself to say it, not here, not in the place she works.

“What, Helene? Ask me! Say it!”

It’s like diving into cold water—or water that’s boiling hot. She takes the plunge. “I want you to come for me. I want you to come while I play with myself for you.”

There’s a slow, easy laugh from his end and she knows that he has himself under complete control. He always has himself under control, making her beg and plead, always under control until he gets to that point where he lets go and unleashes the full fury of his lust upon her. The thought of him in his need couples with the image of her own obscene acquiescence and immediately sends her excitement up to the very edge of orgasm.

“How do you want it, Helene? Do you want me to pump it real slow? Or should I do it fast, like I do when I come in your mouth? You know, like when you’re on your knees, watching me. The way you whine in your throat, begging me to give it to you.”

She knows what he means. She whines like that now, overcome with desire to taste him, to feel his male hardness between her lips, taste his salty musk on her tongue. She puts her middle finger and ring finger together and slides them into her pussy while she flicks at her clit with her forefinger. Her door is paper-thin. Someone might come by at any minute to ask her to go to lunch and then what would they see?

She doesn’t care. She’s his now, using her own hand to deliver herself to him over the phone. Her pleasure is lewd and obscene, degrading in its way, but it’s a degradation that thrills her, the humiliation of showing her need.