Torment Me (Rough Love 1)

“You’re not leaving yet.”

“It’s a designer suit.”

“I know. Shut the fuck up and sit still, or I’ll graze you with the scissors.”

His calm voice confounded me. He got through the skirt and started cutting away the blouse. He could have just unbuttoned it. He was doing this out of spite.

“This isn’t sexy,” I spat at him.

“Good.”

“I would have taken my clothes off when I got here, if you’d only asked.”

“I like cutting them off better. Now shut the fuck up.”

One of my favorite lace bras was removed with a snip at the front. The cool air hit my breasts, tightened my nipples to rebellious peaks. I didn’t want to be turned on. My pussy shouldn’t have been clenching at the cool, selfish hauteur in his voice. He cut right up to my collar and then through it. I turned my head to the side because I didn’t want to get stabbed in the neck.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” I said.

“That doesn’t sound very classy. I thought you catered to a finer clientele.”

“I do, usually. I cater to clients who’d never destroy a Lanvin suit.”

His hand replaced the cold metal of the scissors against my neck. He squeezed a little. I could feel his body against the front of me, clothed, not naked. He smelled rich, like power and money. I felt his lips against my ear.

“The only thing you like more than this designer top, Chere, is the feeling of me cutting it off when you can’t do anything about it.”

“That’s not true. And you can’t do this. You can’t bind me with zip ties and use scissors on me, and make me wear this black leather mask.”

“I think I can.”

“You’re not supposed to.”

“Your pimp didn’t say anything about limits. He said I could do whatever I wanted for two hours. Oral. Anal. Fingerfucking. Pussy fucking. Mindfucking. Clothes cutting.” His hand left my neck but he was still close. I reeled from his heat, his presence. “Don’t be scared,” he said. “You’re going to like it. Or remember it, anyway.”

“Jesus.”

When I sucked in a breath, my bare breasts brushed against the fabric of his shirt. I tried to picture how I looked, sprawled back in the chair with my clothes cut open, and how he looked in…whatever he was wearing.

“Why are you still dressed?” I asked, trying to gain control. “When’s this fuckfest going to commence?”

“Are you horny? You want some cock, Chere?”

“Yes,” I snapped.

“Too bad. You don’t get my cock yet. You might not get it at all. You’re kind of a bitch.”

A bitch? That hurt my feelings, and clients didn’t get to hurt my feelings. Clients were nothing, men to exploit. Cocks to service. Whatever. Fuck him. I inched my thighs together as far as I could and sat there, and tried to blank my expression so he wouldn’t see he was getting to me. We were what, fifteen minutes into this scene? I felt wrung out already.

“Oh, no.” He pushed my knees apart again. “You don’t close those legs unless I tell you to. Answer Yes, Sir.”

“Yes, Sir.” You fucker.

He slapped my cheek. Fucker slapped me. “Try again. Nicer this time,” he barked.

I swallowed and leaned my head back. “Is this some kind of BDSM shit?”

“This is kinky shit, yes. I’m waiting.”

“Aren’t we supposed to negotiate first?”

“I’m waiting.”

“Yes, Sir,” I said, like a pussy. “But we’re not supposed to do BDSM scenes, not without talking about things in advance.”

“We’re talking, baby. Otherwise you’d have a gag in your mouth.”

The way he said it, I could tell he really, really wanted to put a gag in my mouth, which was so not what I wanted. The only BDSM I’d ever done with clients was the kind of BDSM where they’re the bad boys and I’m the mistress in shiny latex, standing over them with a novelty whip. I didn’t know how to do this kind of BDSM. I didn’t know how to not be in charge.

I felt his body move in front of me. He took off one of my shoes, then the other. “All right, if you want to talk, let’s talk,” he said. “Ask me your questions.”

“What are you going to do to me?” That was the number one thing.

“I’m going to fuck you, I promise. I know you want my cock. Patience, Chere.”

He kept using my name, rubbing in the fact that he knew it while I didn’t know his. Worse, he kept insulting me. What the fuck? I was Miss Kitty, whore extraordinaire, and he was paying dearly for the privilege of being with me. I wasn’t used to being mocked by clients. I tried to think of some equally cutting response, but I didn’t know where to aim. His confidence seemed all-consuming. If only he was ugly. If only he was toadlike, I could deal with him so much more easily. Maybe he was. I didn’t fucking know!