Torment Me (Rough Love 1)

I heard him shed his clothes, heard the rip of a condom wrapper. I tried to call on Miss Kitty’s glamour and equanimity as he shoved gracelessly into my mouth. His fingers molded around my scalp, not grasping, just holding me where he wanted me. It was so hard to give a civilized blowjob without your hands. I tried to control the depth of his thrusting. I moved my head and hummed against his length. I tried to make it classy.

He wasn’t having classy.

“Don’t try to be cute,” he said. “I don’t want your pretty whore tricks. I want to use you. I want your body to be mine. Do you understand?”

His fingers moved against my hair, my cheeks, my ears, manipulating me for his own pleasure. How could I not understand? My hands were bound behind my back and I couldn’t see anything. His cock was my entire world, his smell and the smell of the fruity condom. It didn’t belong, that happy, fruity condom smell. I wished it was just his smell. I wished there wasn’t a rule about condoms.

I wished I wasn’t having these thoughts, because holy hell. Bareback was dangerous. Bareback meant you were worthless, and Miss Kitty wasn’t worthless.

I took him deeper, focusing on the blowjob, focusing on my job, which I’d worked damn hard at over the years. He was just a client, and I had to serve him for two hours. I couldn’t let crazy thoughts start freaking me out. I took him deep in my throat until I gagged. I tried to be “his,” which meant accepting his hard thrusts and letting the drool leak out of the corners of my mouth. I didn’t use “whore tricks,” and I was finally rewarded with his guttural bark and deep, thrusting sigh.

Did I dare hope that was it? That his frenzied nut in my mouth would be enough to satisfy him for this session? He took his time drawing away from me. “Stay there,” he said, when I sat back on my heels. “Don’t move. Don’t get up.”

Shit. I suspected the blowjob was a mere aperitif. It had been fifteen minutes, maybe, since I knocked on the door. One hour and forty-five minutes to go. I heard water running in the bathroom. Strangely, my freakiest customers were also my most fastidious. A moment later I heard him return, and felt his hand beneath my chin. He tipped my face up and swabbed the drool that was drying in the corners of my mouth and along my neck.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome.”

“Can I take off the mask?”

“No.”

Argh. I shook my head like I could somehow dislodge the straps. He was off again, running water, clinking ice into a glass. What the hell was he doing? Why wouldn’t he let me see him? Or see anything? But I knew why—because it kept me perpetually on edge.

When he grabbed my face again, I didn’t feel it coming. He put a glass to my mouth and said, “Drink.”

What was he holding against my lips? What did he want me to drink? Might be water, might be battery acid. It turned out to be something alcoholic. I choked and sucked in a breath.

“What is that?” I gasped.

“Scotch. Be civilized, for God’s sake.”

He tipped the glass up again and I drank, because my other option was to drool it all over the front of me after he’d just finished cleaning me up.

“I don’t really like the taste of liquor,” I said.

“I don’t really like the taste of pussy, but we’re all adults here. Stand up.”

I tried to be graceful about it. I probably failed. “Where are you taking me?”

“Nowhere scary.” His arms guided me forward until he sat me down on the bed. He pushed me back and I relaxed into the clean-smelling sheets. Breathe in. Breathe out. My mouth tasted like scotch now instead of the flavored condom. He kissed me again, open-mouthed. Why did he kiss me so much, when his main goal was to hurt me?

“W,” I said against his lips. “You’re so strange.”

He pushed my legs open and fondled me. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” His fingers slid through my wetness, teasing my clit. “Chere,” he said, mimicking my earlier statement, “you’re so horny.”

Yes, that was a fact. I was a horny, confused, scared call girl being groped by a person I still hadn’t laid eyes on. I couldn’t get comfortable. When I shifted and drew my legs together, he tsked and pushed them apart.

“Leave them open.”

I sighed. “You make it very hard for me to do my job properly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I’m supposed to be beautiful and alluring, and sexy. I can’t do any of that when I’m trussed up like some hostage.”

His lips grazed my ear. “I think you’re most beautiful and alluring when you’re trussed up like a hostage. Open your damn legs.”