Helene Blackmailed (9 page)

No one else can make her feel like this. No one else can make her do these filthy things and yet make her feel so good about doing them. She spreads her thighs farther, pressing her knees against the sides of the well beneath her desk and sliding her bottom toward the edge of the chair. She can feel her hips starting to hunch convulsively, looking for that male hardness, eager to give, and her own shameless behavior thrills her with its licentiousness. She gives herself to him and in return he makes her feel the way she’s always dreamed of feeling—shameless, totally sexual, and free.

“Oh please come for me!” she whispers urgently. “Come for me, darling. Come when I do, because I’m going to come! I’m so close!”

“Yeah, come for me, Helene! Come on your hand, just the way you do when you suck my cock and play with yourself moaning for me to pump my cum into your hot mouth!”

His words sting her like the lash of an erotic whip and immediately she’s there, she’s going to come. She can see him masturbating, his beautiful, brutal cock in his hand and she knows his mind is filled with images of her, seeing what she’s doing, seeing her playing the slave for him, her legs spread wide, begging to be taken. She has no more compunction, nothing left to hide or hold back, and the sexual part of her, the part that revels in this delicious degradation takes over, throws her aside and bursts free, with nothing between her and her raw, primal pleasure.

She knows what she looks like. She remembers the first porn she’d seen on the internet—a picture of a naked girl in a chair just as she is now, her thighs spread wide, thrusting her open sex toward the camera with such shameless enjoyment that the look on her face made Helene blush. And now Helene is that very woman, thrusting herself out into the room, filling it with the smell of her animal arousal.

“Oh, yes,” he moans into the phone. “You’re going to make me come, Helene! You’re going to make me come! All over your face, your lips, filling you up! Agh! Agh! Ungh!”

Her lover’s coming, ejaculating over his fingers as he talks to her and Helene’s moans rise into a wild falsetto of barely repressed lust. She can almost taste his semen, thick and masculine, like clotted passion. The thought of her own sluttiness possesses her and she thrusts her hips forward as if seeking his phantom presence, his own pleasure wrapping her up and carrying her away. “Oh no! Oh no! Oh! Oh!”

Her voice is soft, breathless and urgent—a confession for no one’s ears but his own—and her orgasm is as wicked and intense as a slap across the face, a sharp little spear of obscene delight tempered by her frustration at not being with him, seasoned by the knowledge of her own lascivious behavior. She’s coming in her office, coming for her phantom lover, surrendering to the red tide of sexual pleasure.

She hears him groaning on the phone as he spills his seed and she gasps in feverish joy, her hips bucking in a lewd pantomime of coitus, wanting his pleasure more than she wants her own yet willing him to rip it from her body with his own selfish ecstasy. The earth seems to quake and mountains tremble as her lover spits his savage release and moans out his pleasure from the other side of town.

* * * * *

The next day she drives to his loft by a roundabout way as she always does. She’s not sure why she approaches him this way and it amuses her. Part of it, she supposes, is playing to a childish guilt that tells her she’s being followed by some phantom conscience whenever she goes to see him, part of it is because it feels naughtier this way, as if by approaching his place from another direction she makes herself someone different as well. She likes driving down streets she doesn’t know, seeing unfamiliar shops, on her way to see a man who might do anything to her. She loves not knowing how she might respond.

He won’t see her every day and she doesn’t know what to make of that. On the one hand it gives the time she spends away from him an almost supernatural normalcy. She’s caught up in her work, in the things she’s used to doing, and yet at the same time she’s never away from him. He’s never more than a thought away and during the day he intrudes with the immediacy of a dream suddenly remembered, taking her breath away with a memory of what he did to her the last time they were together, memories that are almost physical in their intensity.

Reaching into her purse for her wallet to pay for coffee, she stops and catches her breath as something about the darkness within and the feel of the silk lining against her fingers reminds her of his room with the lights out and the way she felt her own need there in the darkness. Passing children climbing ropes in a schoolyard, she remembers the way he tied her wrists together before forcing her to her knees before him. The sight of a coworker from the back, the way his white shirt is tucked into his pants reminds her somehow of him and she has to hide her face in her work, fighting for control.

She’s never been in love like this—with a man she hardly knows, one who refuses to be known and yet one she understands better than she understands herself. At first she fought against it. She wanted to draw him out and know all about him, and though he hid nothing from her, he also revealed very little. She couldn’t get a hold of him in the way she was used to doing with a lover. She couldn’t grab on to him and use him up or get tired of him, and though parts of him became so intimate to her—the look on his face during orgasm, the way he stroked her face and her body when they were done, even the way he put on his pants and shoes afterwards—she couldn’t find a way to master him. Every time she saw him it was like the first time, everything they did together was new, and though the intimacy she felt with him was deeper than anything she’d ever felt with a man, the relationship was entirely sexual. That was the way he wanted it, and to her own dismay that seemed to suit her as well.

He rings her into his loft now and meets her at the door. He’s dressed in black slacks and a white shirt as always. He takes her in his arms and kisses her, a warm, searching kiss of welcome. It’s one of the things she loves best about first seeing him, the way she melts into his arms, the safety she feels despite knowing that he has some ordeal planned for her. His hands slide over her body and she hears the glide of his palms over her clothes, down her back, over her ass, then up to her face. He might caress her cheek, or he might take her hair in his hand and pull her head back so he can kiss her throat. His desire might be tender or it might be brutal, but it’s always there and that first kiss is where she first gets to gauge his mood. Whatever it is, her body rushes up to meet it, eager and ready.

Tonight his kiss is soft and lingering—a long, cherishing kiss—and she knows that he has something new planned.

“Shall I undress?” she asks him. She’s never asked about calling him “Sir” or “Master” or any other affectation of subservience, and he’s never suggested it. He must know intuitively that those kinds of titles would be a mockery coming from a woman like her. He has to earn her respect every time they meet and he’s never failed her.

“No,” he says. “I’ll do it. I have something for you.”

He takes her hand and leads her into the bedroom. There are two boxes on the bed wrapped in black paper.

“For me?”

“Open them. The bigger one first.”

This is how he gave her the leather cuffs he’d bought her and despite the unusual nature of their relationship, it still excites her to get a gift from him. But inside the bigger box, lying on a pad of white tissue paper is a gleaming black leather collar with a large buckle and three silver rings in it.

Helene laughs nervously. A slave collar.

“Okay, wait a minute,” she says. “I don’t know about this.”

“Open the other.”

She already knows what it is. From the size of the box it’s either a single rose or something else, and she knows right away that it’s not a rose.

A black leather whip—a riding crop, thin and supple.

“Daniel…”

She’s holding the collar in one hand, the whip in the other. She’s still wearing her office clothes and she still feels as though she’s in her office personality. These things—the collar and the whip—they belong to another side of her, to someone else. The feel of the leather in her hands is terribly out of place and decadent, as is the lewd suppleness of the whip. Yet as she looks up into his eyes she sees the flash of recognition there because he sees exactly who she is, right through her office persona.

“No,” she says doubtfully. “This is too much, Daniel.”

He grabs her arm and pulls her easily to him and she dares not drop his gifts. He wraps one arm around her, reaching down to grip her bottom in his hand and he kisses her, bending her back and pushing her off her feet. His kiss is full of hunger, of his insatiable need for her. It takes her breath away as it always does when he kisses her like this, but suddenly she kisses him back savagely and aggressively, entirely ready to fight for her dignity. She uses her tongue and teeth and her body to try and keep him at bay as anger floods through her—anger and shame and hot cloying desire.

“Go ahead,” he whispers into her open mouth. “Tell me no. Tell me you won’t do it! I won’t ask you again.”

She feels his breath in her ear, then he stands her up again. She knows that he means what he says. He’s told her before all she ever has to do is say no and he’ll stop. But the words desert her now and she stands there speechless, holding the whip and the collar.

She’s aware of the relationship they have, though she never calls it by name. She knows he loves to tie her up for sex and she loves it too. But this is something different. This at last gives it a name and it’s a name she doesn’t want to think about. She is, after all, a successful and accomplished woman used to giving orders and having them obeyed, a powerful and respected executive in her company, a woman on the fast track.

“Get undressed, Helene,” he says softly.

The name is submission, and how degrading it seems! But the name doesn’t capture his expectant attitude or the thrill in the pit of her stomach, or the thick atmosphere of sudden tension in the room. It doesn’t describe the look in his eyes—the same look he had when he’d first made her undress for him those long weeks ago—that almost uncontrollable hunger.

She drops the whip and the collar on the bed and her fingers go to the buttons on her blouse. She feels the silkiness of the material under her fingertips and the tension in the fabric caused by the thrust of her breasts. She feels the heat of his eyes on her and she begins to unbutton her blouse.

He comes up and puts his hands on her shoulders but she can’t meet his eyes. For the first time ever she tries to resist his kiss, motivated by some perverse stroke of pride, but he forces her, taking her hair in his hand and pulling her head back until she cries out in protest, a strangled “No!” But then his mouth is on hers, and despite her misgivings she feels herself melt against him. She’s no match for the hunger he has for her. As always, it pulls her down as if into a swift, dark current of her own need. She can’t deny him what he wants, not when he wants her so badly.

He kisses her, and as he does he reaches around to the back of her skirt and unbuttons it, finds the zipper and pulls it down. A tug at the waistband and the skirt slides smoothly down her legs, landing in a puddle around her shoes.

She’s wearing no slip, no panties, and he digs his fingers into the globes of her ass, pulling them apart and pressing his groin against her. Helene feels the rough wool of his trousers, the head of his cock poking her through the fabric. His level of arousal stuns her—he’s never this hard this quickly, but now he’s throbbing against her and he wants her to feel it.

His fingers slide down between her buttocks, giving her chills, and then a finger presses softly against her rectum. He’s touched her here before, but he’s never done anything more, never even suggested it, and it’s a place she doesn’t want to go. She’s willing to be naked for him, to be tied up and taken by his incredible passion, but she’s always been passive about it. This—the collar, the whip, the finger at her ass—is more than he’s ever asked of her and she doesn’t know if she’s willing to do that, to be that much a party to her own degradation.

She puts her arms around his neck, taking advantage of this opportunity to hold him—something he rarely allows and she waits to see if he’ll stop her, but all the time his lips are against hers, his tongue working in her mouth. He towers above her and she has to put her head back for his kiss, arching her back and thrusting her hips at the blunt head of his cock. His finger presses, exploring her, testing her and then he lets her go.

Helene is panting, breathing hard. Whenever he lets her go like this after a kiss she feels terribly naked and exposed. His fingers go to the buttons of her blouse, working down from the top, and Helene’s work from the bottom up until they meet in the middle and he leaves her to finish undoing the garment. He slides the blouse down off her shoulders and takes her in his arms again, pushing her back until her naked bottom hits the edge of his dresser. Cologne bottles tinkle softly.

He holds her there and presses against her and Helene is conscious of her total nakedness and the way the fabric of his clothes presses against her skin. This is something like a dream she’s had, this feeling of being totally naked with a clothed man. It makes her feel open and vulnerable and entirely subject to his pleasure, obligated and bound to please him. It reminds her of an old girlhood fantasy of hers, of being made to service a man, and when he kisses her again Helene puts her hands to his cheeks in a kind of entreaty, begging him to be kind to her yet hoping he won’t be. When he reaches up and takes her wrists in his hands they both stare at her fingers, which are trembling.

Daniel goes to the bed and picks up the collar.

“Turn around,” he says. “Hold your hair away so I can buckle it.”

She’s ashamed at the way she’s shaking as he slides the cool leather against her throat and buckles it in place. When he finishes she just stands there for a moment, feeling what it’s like to be owned, for that’s what she is now, there’s no mistaking it. When he turns her around and embraces her, pressing his lips to the smooth black leather, Helene just lets her head fall back in helpless surrender. She’s no longer her own woman to command. She’s already given herself to him.