Sexy as Hell Box Set (106 page)

“Was this back at Eden Street?”

“Yes.”

“So it was the shackles that bind both ankles and wrists?”

“Yes, the chains that come down from the ceiling in the centre of the room.”

“I see.”

“So, finally she released me and just said: Go, slave, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“That was harsh.” There was irritation in her tone, and I hoped it was protectiveness for me that had created it.

“Yes, I felt it was unjust, too, but inside me, there was something else.” I paused. “I don’t know what to call it. It was like a fizz in my temples, a shaking in my shoulders, and my dick, fuck, my dick just needed to bury deep. The pain in my bollocks was excruciating, like they were being twisted by burning hot hands. I couldn’t stand it.”

“Ouch.”

“Yes, ouch. And I’m not proud of what I did next, Mistress.” I curled my hands into fists and watched her eyes flash as she studied me. “But I grabbed Mistress Zara, ripped off her knickers and flung her onto the table. The next thing I knew I was over her, pinning her in place and ready to shove my cock into her cunt.”

“That was very disobedient of you,” Fifi said with a slight gasp at the end of the sentence. “You’re lucky she continued to have anything else to do with you.”

“And I thanked my lucky stars every day that she did.”

Fifi slid her hands down my neck and onto my shoulders. “So what happened next?”

“She was furious. Beneath me she was shouting, cursing, pushing at me to get off of her. But I was almost unstoppable…”

“You mean you…” For the first time Fifi looked shocked.

“No, of course I didn’t. I said
almost
unstoppable. I came to my senses just in time. It was Zara’s words that did it. Her telling me I wasn’t being true to myself and that she wouldn’t be my Mistress if we had penetrative sex.” I swallowed. My mouth was dry. “Because we never have, you know, shagged. Lots of other crazy shit, but not like how
we
have sex—me and you—we never did that.”

“I know, she told me. Now carry on with what you were telling me.”

“Yes. So, I came to my senses, backed off, recoiled into a gibbering wreck. That was when I knew a wild man lived inside me. A man who was mad for satisfaction. I wasn’t as wholly submissive as I thought—”

“Oh, but you are. Never doubt it. You’re the best.”

I glanced away at her kind words. “Thank you, Mistress.”

“You were simply taken beyond what you could tolerate. You should have used your safe word. It was foolish of you not to.”

“But my safe word wouldn’t have got me fucked, and that was what I needed.”

“
Mmm,” she said slowly, running her hands over my biceps as though admiring their size and shape. “So perhaps as well as a stop word we should have a
fuck
word.”

I raised my eyebrows at this novel suggestion. “Really?”

“Yes, if you have this…beast inside you that makes you feel unpleasant, physical pain if you’re pushed too far beyond your comfort zone, then I should know when he’s about to raise his head and make an appearance. I want you to be happy, Carlos…”

I didn’t bother to suppress a quiver of delight at my name on her lips.

“I want you to be happy and satisfied,” she went on. “If we’re to be together, as Mistress and slave, then I need to know you’re getting what you want. The last thing I ever want is to lose you.”

“You won’t, I promise. You won’t.”

She smiled then, and her beauty took my breath away.

“So what do you want to use as your fuck word?” she asked. “Or phrase, whatever suits you is fine by me, as long as you can remember it when everything else has faded into the background.”

I didn’t have to think about that, it just popped straight into my head. “Since we met at Eden Street it can only be one thing.”

“And that is?”

“Adam loves Eve.”

Her grin broadened. “I like it, and what’s more, I’m going to insist that you say it right now, just so we can make sure it works.”

My cock filled with blood, my heart rate picked up. Damn, she was perfect for me.

“Just this once,” she said, hovering her lips over mine, “without a scene, I’ll let you try it out.”

“Thank you, Mistress.” I slid my hands up her legs, my fingertips going beneath the hem of her short skirt. “Adam loves Eve,” I murmured onto her mouth, knowing that I would soon be riding on a one-way ticket to bliss.

The Star

By Harlem
Dae

A Spin-off Short Story from the Sexy as Hell Trilogy

Julie, who features in The Star, is
a character in book #1 of the Sexy as Hell Trilogy. Although she doesn’t have a major role she does have a major impact on Victor and how he perceives people living the BDSM lifestyle. It was judged, therefore, only fair that Julie have her chance at happiness and The Star was born.

Julie just wants someone to love her as she needs to be loved, to whip her as she needs to be whipped. No man so far has had the bottle to dole out pain to the degree she likes it—until The Star comes into her life.

Julie, the name given to me at birth and the one I kept while working. No hiding behind a fake one like Candy or Delicious or Siren. I was who I was and I wouldn’t let anyone try to change me. Not anymore.

Not many people understood me
. I liked to be flogged—hard, harder than you can imagine—and I couldn’t seem to find a man who was willing to hit me like that. Flay me. Make me cry out in pain—in relief. Make me bleed.

I
needed
flogging.

It was hot in here. Sexy as Hell had taken off like a rocket, so to speak, its launch anticipated by many and watched as though a miracle, a place that would shortly reach the stars.

Stars. I hadn’t anticipated that any would visit Zara’s den of iniquity, but they had.
He
had. And he was the stuff made out of dreams, a tall, dark and handsome cliché. I watched him through one of the viewing windows as he swiped a hand down his clean-shaven face, clearly feeling the heat himself. I wondered whether that heat also came from the anticipation of arousal—and of being caught by the press. If he was, it wouldn’t be any of our doing. Zara had a strict no-gossip clause. We weren’t allowed to discuss who came in to watch the sex shows with any outsiders. Everyone was entitled to their bit of privacy, she’d said. Their penchant. And it seemed
his
penchant was watching me.

I’d asked, discreetly of course, whether he viewed anyone else.
Fifi, who’d taken Carlos, Zara’s slave, under her wing—and into her bed from what I could gather—assured me he hadn’t. So it seemed I had a bit of a fan, someone who had visited for six weeks now and had wanked himself to coming—coming when I did.

That had pleased me, what with my liking for him, that he’d held off, waited until I found my release before he had his. It didn’t mean anything, I realised that, but it would be nice if it did. Who wouldn’t want the star of the latest blockbuster movie lusting after them? Who wouldn’t want to indulge in dreams that he was interested in them?

I wanted him to lust after me. And I indulged.

I stood in the darkness of the showroom, able to observe him owing to the soft pink glow coming off one of the wall lights. It gave the illusion he was blushing, and seeing as he always depicted hard-nosed gangster types in films, I found the image quite endearing. Mason Ward, blushing. Now there was a thing.

If only I could make him blush for real.

I sighed, preparing myself for my show. I wanted to get going yet at the same time I didn’t. Once I started, time would do that thing it always did, tick-
tocking away, taking me closer to the end and him leaving. Me wondering whether he’d return at the same time a week later, stupidly relieved when he did. I’d asked myself whether it was just infatuation with someone famous, and I suspected for the most part it was, but there had been that special connection last week, and I couldn’t ignore that.

He’d stared at me just before he’d come, really stared at me, as if he’d been trying to tell me something. At the time I’d believed that was the case, but as the week had worn on, I’d convinced myself it had been fanciful thinking on my part. Now, though, now that he was staring into the showroom in the same way, seeking me out in the darkness, I wasn’t so sure fanciful had been right. Was he looking for me, wanting me as much as I wanted him? And if he were the type to want to watch a show like mine, did it mean he might be the one to flay me the way I needed flaying?

No, that definitely
was
fanciful.

I sighed again, closed my eyes and gripped the whip handle tighter. I needed to begin. I could hear the other customers shifting around, no doubt wondering why I hadn’t started on time. And then there would be
Fifi, waiting for me to dip my head so she knew it was time to switch on the showroom light. She was manning the front desk tonight. I couldn’t keep her waiting.

And so I bowed my head.

The lights came on to an orchestra of
ahhs
from the men in the viewing rooms—men who had possibly waited for days, months in order to get their sexual fix. I snapped my head up and stared through the window of room three, at Mason, who stared right back.

It
was
there, that connection, I hadn’t imagined it. Like a tangible thing, it pulled at me, luring me forward until I stood right in front of the glass. Zara had had the genius idea of creating the showroom in the shape of a semi-circle. With me standing here, all the other men could see me without a problem. But I wasn’t interested in them. No, Mason Ward was the one who held my attention, all six-feet of him in his blue denims and nondescript white T-shirt.

I glanced him over, taking in the size of his arms—all brawn and muscle, tanned from his recent film location. The Maldives, apparently. Then I shifted my focus to his chest—a chest that strained beneath that T-shirt as if it wanted to break out. I wondered if he wanted to strip off, to show me himself, a private viewing just for me. A girl could dream…

“You come here to watch me?” I asked.

My voice would have filtered through the speakers, filling room three and his ears. I never spoke to customers—never—but something inside had given me the courage to do so tonight. I wanted interaction with him, one-on-one time, and as that wasn’t likely outside these debauched walls, I’d have to take it when I could.

He nodded, his black hair not moving. Short as it was, I wasn’t surprised. It was cropped close to his head, the cut of a man in the forces. In his previous movie it had been quite long, and I had an idea he’d possibly had it cut for his current role. What that was had yet to be revealed in the papers or in TV interviews.

Not that I was stalking him.

“And you like what you see,” I stated—no question mark, I knew he did.

He narrowed his green eyes, and at first it gave me the impression he was weighing up his options. Was it safe to reply? Would I engage him in conversation then go running to the first journalist who would listen to my story? But he smiled, maybe reminding himself of Zara’s no-gossip clause, telling himself that he was protected here, under contract.

“I do,” he said softly. “And I’ll miss you.”

I cocked my head, couldn’t stop a frown from forming. “This is your last visit?”

“For a while.”

Oh. That deflated me more than it probably should have.

“Then I’d better make it worth your while, hadn’t I. Give you some memories to take with you until you come back.”

He smiled—God, that melted my heart and gave me hope; false hope, probably—then licked his lips. And that sent a spear of longing straight to my cunt. I bit my bottom lip, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

“That’s a memory right there,” he said. “You, biting your lip like that.” He leant forward, nose almost touching the glass. “You do that when you come.”

Oh, fuck, he knew exactly what to say to a woman.

“You’re very beautiful,” he said. “But then I suspect you know that, don’t you.”

No, I didn’t—didn’t see myself as beautiful at all. Except for my scars. They were the parts of me I loved. They were trophies of sorts, me being able to express who I was and what I needed. My back was a mass of criss-crosses, some raised, some just faded whip marks, but every single one of them were reminders of the time I’d finally stopped telling myself that being whipped was wrong. That wanting to be whipped was wrong. It wasn’t, not if it made me happy. And it did. All that was left was for me to find a man who had the bottle to do the whipping.

“Could you whip me?” I asked. “Could you see yourself flaying my back, my arse, my thighs? Do you have the guts to whack me as hard as I whack myself? Or do you see me as a wilting flower, someone to be cherished, treated like glass, my needs ignored?”

Where the hell had the courage to say that come from?