Torment Me (Rough Love 1)

And maybe, just maybe, W would respect me more, and start to admire me, and fall in love with me…

No, no, no, no, no.

That was the big complex thing I thought about the most as I stared out the window at the vast city around me. If I stopped escorting, what would happen with me and W? I had to talk to Henry before I started making any plans. My contract forbade me from contacting former clients for one year from termination of service, but Henry was a human being, and maybe W was a special case. He’d paid Henry a lot of money, way more than a typical client, so W might be able to talk Henry into releasing me from my contract so we could still see each other.

But that was assuming W would want to see me outside the agency, that he would want to keep dating me outside our neat, clean, no-strings-attached escort relationship. As I made these plans, and dreamed and schemed, some small voice in my head kept pleading, but Chere, he’s never even told you his name…

I went to meet him at the Carlyle Hotel exactly one week after we’d shared the burger at the Mandarin Oriental. I put on my favorite black dress, made myself pretty because I owed him, and I wanted to make him happy. He met me at the door and he didn’t look happy. He was in one of his moods.

“I want you to wear this,” he said, holding out a leather eye mask like the one I’d originally worn.

Nooo… I’d waited all week to see him, to look at his beautiful gold-blond hair and his muscles, and his scrutinizing eyes. I’d waited all week to drool over his body and experience his delicious violence. I was rested and energized and I wanted to see him, but he put the mask on me anyway, fastening it extra tight.

The ball gag came next, pressed against my lips. This time I did say no, and I stuck out my tongue and tried to back away from him. That earned me a slap, which rattled me enough for him to overcome my resistance and strap it on.

This wasn’t how I’d wanted this session to go, but I knew if I hung in there, I’d be rewarded with orgasms and poetry. Please let me survive whatever he has planned.

I felt his hands on my jaw, and then he wrapped something around my neck. At first I thought it was his belt and I started to panic, but then I realized it was a collar. He buckled it in the back and then yanked at the front of it. I stumbled and moaned behind the gag. A slave collar? That was something new. His mood, his voice, his hands, all of it felt new. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see his expression, and I couldn’t ask how he was feeling.

I heard his pants unzip, detected the rustle of clothing coming off, and then I felt his hands under my dress. He pushed me back on the bed and lifted my skirt. Please, please, kiss me there.

But he didn’t. He took off my panties with an irritated sound—they were so beautiful, those panties—and tugged apart my thighs. Now, please, now, go down on me, you magical pervert.

But no. I felt some sort of leather band or cuff circle each of my upper thighs. He buckled each side with a tiny clink. New, so new. I didn’t understand all this equipment.

“Give me your hands,” he said.

He put cuffs on my wrists too, and then attached each hand to the cuffs on my legs.

“Stand up,” he said, hauling me to my feet.

I tugged at the cuffs, trying to find my balance, but my hands and arms were bound for the moment. I couldn’t move them more than one or two inches from my side. If he pulled me off balance, I’d go flying. If he hurt me, I’d have no way to stop him.

I felt him yank at the front of my dress, over each of my breasts. For some reason, I imagined he was going to put clamps on me over the fabric. Then he pulled tighter. I heard the whisper-soft sound of scissors cutting fabric.

Shit. I squirmed and moaned, but he grabbed my face and told me to be still. He yanked on my bra next, and snip snip snip. He released the fabric and I felt cool air on my nipple. He did the other side next, cutting a hole through my clothes to expose the tip of my breast. Part of me hated him for ruining my beautiful dress but part of me was fascinated by this objectification. I wondered what I looked like, standing there with my stiff tits peeking from the fabric.

I knew what I felt like. I felt vulnerable and scared, and so excited. When I shivered, he twisted a handful of my hair.