An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Helene Blackmailed
ISBN # 1-4199-0493-0
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Helene Blackmailed Copyright© 2006 Elliot Mabeuse
Edited by Shannon Combs.
Cover art by Syneca.
Electronic book Publication: January 2006
This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written
permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-
3502.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales
is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Warning:
The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This book has been
rated E–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.
Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-
rotic), and X (X-treme).
S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.
E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall
word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find
objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated
titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as
“fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.
X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles,
stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.
H
ELENE
B
LACKMAILED
Elliot Mabeuse
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the
following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Taurus: Ford Motor Company
Volvo: Volvo Personvagnar AB Corporation
Helene Blackmailed
Chapter One
The windows of the motel office were dusty and fly-specked. The neon sign was off
and there were weeds growing through the cracks in the asphalt of the parking lot,
nearly deserted now in the late afternoon sun. There were only a few cars here, a big
van, a Volvo, and a Taurus wagon. Helene had her choice of parking spaces. She parked
behind the van where she wouldn’t be seen.
She had come straight from work so she still wore her smart business suit, the one
that turned heads at the office, and the concrete steps felt gritty under her shoes as she
walked up to the second level, her purse clutched in her hand. She was way out of place
in this part of town but she didn’t care about that now. She was flushed with anger and
embarrassment and she just wanted to get this over with and get out of here as quickly
as possible.
She’d left work as soon as she was able to make an acceptable exit from her last
meeting of the day, but even so she was twenty minutes late. Silly, waste-of-time
meeting, something about departmental productivity, the same old bullshit. She’d sat
on the edge of her seat, feigning rapt interest, yet all the time her face had been on fire
and her mind burned with the photos she’d just seen in her email. They’d made her feel
naked and exposed, as if the men and women sitting around her putting up their slides
and giving their presentations could all see right through her, could see her as she was
in the photos, reclining half-naked on her rooftop with her top off, her hand inside her
bikini bottoms, face turned to the side in obscene pleasure as she masturbated. One shot
especially—her heels drawn up and her knees apart, her back arched over the beach
towel as her naked stomach knotted in the throes of a racking, self-induced orgasm.
What the hell had she been thinking?
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Elliot Mabeuse
Room 232. A wooden door whose robin’s-egg blue paint was already flaking off, a
grimy patch around the doorknob. She knocked and nothing happened. A car honked
out in the avenue.
Then from within, a voice said, “It’s open.”
She had expected some sort of sleazy punk, a two-bit type who would think it
clever to engage in something like this, something between a prank and outright
blackmail. But there was nothing young or punkish about the man in the expensive suit
who watched her walk into the darkened room with curious, dangerous eyes.
He was in his forties, maybe older, with that tautness of body that made her think
of the military—maybe an ex-officer, someone in the habit of taking care of himself. He
had dark hair and a beard, both streaked with gray in a way she automatically
categorized as “distinguished”. His eyes were brown and intelligent and not without
humor, but he wasn’t laughing now. Instead he looked at her with cold and wary
appraisal and just a hint of malice.
He was so unlike what she’d expected that she lost her composure, and the speech
she had prepared on the drive over just evaporated under his gaze. He was formidable,
not at all what she’d expected. Someone to be dealt with.
He had a book on his knee, closed now with his finger holding the place. A glass of
whiskey and ice and a bottle sat on the table next to him. She recognized the brand, a
rare and expensive single malt scotch. It was freshly opened. Another glass, empty of
whiskey but also filled with ice, stood by the bottle.
“Close the door,” he said. “You’re late, Helene.” His voice was deliberately patient,
with just a hint of condescension.
“I’m sorry, I had a meeting and I couldn’t get away…” She broke off. That was none
of his business. What was she apologizing for? The man was a blackmailer and a sleaze.
“The pictures are over there,” he said. He nodded to a buff-colored envelope setting
on the cheap dresser on the other side of the room. “They’re prints of course. I have the
originals in a safe place.”
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Helene Blackmailed
She went to the dresser and picked up the envelope. She started to open it and then
stopped.
“Go ahead. Don’t you want to see them?”
Clutching the unopened envelope, she turned to face him. “Who are you?” she
asked. “How did you get these? How do you know who I am?”
He placed his book on the lamp table and sat back in his chair. “Those are rather
moot points, Helene. Let’s just say that when you expose yourself in public like that,
you rather invite this sort of thing. As to who I am, you can just call me the Doctor.
That’s close enough.”
His gaze made her uneasy. At work she had no trouble taking command and the
people under her deferred to her natural authority, but this man was not at all
intimidated. He looked at her as though she were some sort of specimen.
She nervously opened the envelope and drew the sheaf of pictures partway out.
They must be in sequence, for the first one showed her on the roof sitting up and
reaching for her iced tea, her sunglasses on her nose. The story she’d downloaded from
the internet was clasped against her breasts, the pages folded over. Just a girl taking the
sun and doing a little reading. He must have been watching her the whole time she was
up there—half an hour, maybe more.
“Do you always go around invading people’s privacy with your little camera? Is
this a thing of yours?”
He wouldn’t be baited. “I carry a camera with me. It’s part of my job. I shoot what I
see.”
A vision came to her mind of the high-rise under construction across the street from
her apartment, a garish new building with a construction crane rising from it like a
gallows. But she had been sunbathing on a Sunday when no one was working there.
What had he been doing there then?
“You’re sick,” she said. “Perverted.”
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Elliot Mabeuse
He smiled and raised his glass to her in mock salute.
He didn’t seem to be the least bit nervous about this and Helene felt a twinge of
fear. She reminded herself to keep her cool, she was dealing with an unknown quantity.
“What did you expect?” he asked. “And I hardly think you’re in a position to talk,
Helene. At least I have the sense to confine my vices to the indoors, rather than taking
care of myself out on the roof where anyone could see. Or was that the whole idea?”
She felt herself flush and bit back her anger. She reminded herself that the point
was to get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possible.
“All right, all right,” she said. “What now? I suppose you want money or
something.”
He sighed. He leaned back in his chair and poured some of the whiskey into the
second glass. “Drink?”
She mustered her dignity and said, “No thank you. I’m tired. I want to get out of
this rat trap. Now just tell me how much you want.”
“Oh, I don’t want any money.” He smiled pleasantly. “I really don’t need any
money. I want something else. I want your cooperation.”
“Cooperation? What kind of cooperation?”
He stared at her until she felt her stomach knot.
“Oh no,” she said. “No. No way. Fuck you.”
She had considered this possibility, that he might want something sexual, but had
dismissed it as being too melodramatic, and even now as she felt a sudden throb of fear
in her stomach she felt the urge to laugh in his face. It was absurd. It was entirely too
much like a bad porno story, the kind of thing she’d been reading that day on her
rooftop.
He was still looking at her, his eyes patient.
She gave a snort of contempt. “You’re joking, right? You’re not serious.”
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Helene Blackmailed
The laugh had been a mistake. His eyes hardened and he took a slow sip of his
drink and Helene felt her sarcastic sneer die on her lips. “Well then you can just go fuck
yourself, because I assure you that I’m not doing anything of the kind. You can shove
those pictures up your fucking ass!”
She threw the envelope on the bed and turned to walk out.
The Doctor nodded sadly, as if in complete sympathy, and put his drink down.
“Let me tell you how this will work,” he said quietly. The calm and measured tone
of his voice stopped her in her tracks. “The first batch of photos will go out to your
sister back in Ohio, just to show you I’m serious. The next batch will go to your
secretary, Miss Champion. She’ll be shocked, but she’s very loyal so she probably won’t
tell anyone. Well, she is given to gossiping, isn’t she? So maybe she’ll tell just a few
people, like Mrs. Gruber, your boss’ secretary. The next batch will go to your parents in
St. Petersburg and some of their friends back home in Indianapolis, on Douglas
Avenue? And the next batch will go to your bosses and coworkers at Foster Fredericks.”
Helene froze, facing the door. She could see him in the mirror. He was staring at her
and his eyes were full of concern, as if he regretted all of this so very much.
“How do you know all this about me?” she asked. “Who told you?”
“It’s business, Helene,” he said. “Nothing personal. I don’t make judgments. You
gave me a lever, and I just used it. It would be a shame for you to lose that promotion.
And your job.” He held the glass out to her. “Drink?”
She almost laughed. “Look, you’ve got the wrong girl. I don’t know how you found
out all this stuff about me, but I’m not playing your little game. I don’t do ‘sex’.” She
emphasized the word, giving it a little flip of contempt.
It was laughable, really. She hadn’t really thought about sex since college. She’d
spent the last seven years working her ass off, making a way for herself in public
relations, and sex was at most a nuisance, something you had to take care of every so
often like flossing your teeth or going to the bathroom. He’d might just as well told her
he wanted her to run a marathon or solve a quadratic equation.
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He sighed deeply and shrugged. “Well then, I suppose that’s that.” He put her
drink back down on the table and opened his book.
She looked at him curiously. “You’re serious about this,” she said. She said it softly,
as if she were talking to herself.
She looked into his eyes and she could see that he was. “I have the pictures and the
addresses. Stamps are cheap. I’ll ruin you.”
Through the split in the window curtain she could see the bright, afternoon sunlight
outside. Down below a fat man was getting sample cases out of the back of the Taurus,
laughing, talking to someone she couldn’t see. There were two sweat patches on the
back of his white shirt. The neon light in the fly-specked office was on. It all looked so
bright and normal outside. It was all so bizarre.
He picked up the glass and held it out to her again, and Helene found herself
walking over to him and taking it from his hand.
“Why?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Fate. Opportunity. Because I liked what I saw, and I liked what I
found out. And because I want to. And I can. You’re wasting yourself, Helene. Even
you know that.”
The story she’d been reading on the rooftop was about a woman who’d been forced
at gunpoint to strip and service a man, and she wondered if he knew it, like he knew so
much else about her. It had become her favorite fantasy, the idea of being forced and
compelled. The more responsibility she was given at work, the more exciting she
seemed to find the fantasy of having her power taken away from her.
The irony of finding herself in that very situation wasn’t lost on her, but this didn’t
feel like her fantasies. She felt remote and far away.
She sipped from the drink. Her head was buzzing but nothing of any practical use
was coming out.
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Helene Blackmailed
“What do you want me to do?” she asked.
“Take off your clothes.”
He said it calmly, deliberately, and once the words were out, it didn’t seem so very
unreasonable. Here in this sleazy motel room with the bright light of late afternoon
seeping through the thin curtains, it didn’t seem unreasonable at all.
“Do you really think I’m worth it?” she asked.
He looked at her intensely for a long moment, then nodded his head. Helene felt a
sudden sharp thrill spear through her body.
He put his book down and got out of his chair, and Helene watched as he came to
her and took the drink from her hand and set it on the table. He took hold of her arm
and pulled her away from the door. He didn’t squeeze her hard, but the strength in his
hand and the way he held her was unmistakable. She felt the blood surge into her face.
“I’m really in no mood to negotiate,” he said. “I’ve told you what I want you to do
and now I’m giving you the opportunity to do it. If you don’t care about the pictures
then just walk out the door and you know what will happen. Otherwise take off your
clothes and stop wasting my time.”
He said it calmly, with complete self-assurance, but in his voice she could hear a
barely suppressed anger that spread heat through her already warm body. It was
something like her fantasy now. It was the anger that did it, and before she could stop
to think about what she was doing, her hands went to the smoothness of her silk blouse
and she began to work at the top button.
He let go of her, and for a moment he was standing so close that she could smell his
cologne and see his chest lifting with his breathing. His clothes were expensive and out
of place in this seedy room, like his book and his whiskey. The knot in his tie was
perfect. He must have taken an inordinate amount of time getting it just so when he’d
dressed this morning, getting ready to come here and do this to her. He took a moment
to straighten it now, then let out a long, slow breath, releasing his tension, as if an
agreement had been reached.
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Elliot Mabeuse
He stepped behind her and she felt his hands on her shoulders. With a start, she
realized that he was waiting to help her out of her jacket, and she reached up and
parted the lapels so he could slide it off her arms. It was a gesture she had performed
countless times in the presence of helpful gentlemen. Strange that she’d never stopped
to think of what else it meant, its sexual connotations.
He folded her jacket and placed it on the dresser, then went back to his chair. He sat
down and steepled his fingers together in front of his chin. “Stand over here where I can
see you.”
She was numb now, her gray silk blouse felt transparent. Inside, her mind was
whirling, but on the surface some sort of shock had set in and she was resigned, even
placid about what she was about to do. Her fingers worked on the next button on her
blouse, the one that was level with her bra, and she undid that, then the next. She
opened all the buttons she could reach, then automatically unbuttoned her sleeves, just
as she would do if she were home alone, changing out of her work clothes.
The Doctor sipped his drink and the ice cubes clinked softly in his glass. Without
thinking, Helene turned her back to him in modesty.
“Face me,” he said sharply, and she stiffened, remembering where she was. She
turned toward him, her face coloring.
She pulled the blouse from her skirt, aware of the smooth silk sliding against her
skin, and finished unbuttoning it. She stood there with the garment hanging loosely
upon her shoulders, arms at her side, her chin up.
“Remove it,” he said.
She was wearing a good bra—dove gray and sheer, the cups edged in lace. With her
last check she had splurged and bought herself all new underwear as a gift to herself, a
taste of the high life that her coming promotion would bring. Now she was aware that
this sexy lingerie might give him the wrong idea about her—make her appear to be the
kind of girl who dressed like this beneath her work clothes just to keep herself aroused.
But there was nothing she could do about it now.
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Helene Blackmailed
She shrugged the silk blouse from her shoulders and felt it slip smoothly down her
arms. She caught it and placed it on the dresser.
Her breasts were high and firm, and the cups of the bra molded them into smooth
hemispheres and crowded them together, creating a shadowy cleavage. She glanced
quickly down and noticed that her nipples were quite visible. The sight of her own
nakedness aroused her in a suddenly unfamiliar way.
She forced herself to raise her face to him, summoning what pride she could, and
she was mildly disappointed to find him examining the photographs he held fanned
out like playing cards in his hand. He chose one and threw it on the bed, face up.
“I like this one particularly,” he said. “Don’t you?”
Helene automatically crossed her arms over her breasts and glanced at the photo. It
showed her on the towel, her back arched, her hips lifted from the blanket with such
force that she was supported on her very toes. Her knees were spread, and she had one
hand down the front of her bikini bottom, the other down the back where she’d been
pressing her fingertip against her asshole, indulging in a fantasy of anal sex, something
that had always fascinated and horrified her in equal measure. In the photo her eyes
were closed, her mouth open in a silent scream of sexual fulfillment. It must have been
taken just at her moment of orgasm. She liked to let herself go when she masturbated,
moaning and thrashing and playing the part of an out-of-control sexual animal. In her
dreams she was a shameless whore no man could resist. Now she looked at the picture
of herself and her cheeks burned hot with shame. She didn’t recognize the woman.
“The skirt,” he said.
The picture had quashed any last argument she might make. She unbuttoned the
skirt and opened the zipper, then stepped out of it and laid it on top of the pile of
clothes. Then, without his saying anything, she hooked her thumbs under the elastic
band of her slip and slid it down her legs. She stepped out of it and tossed it onto the
pile, brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen into her face and stood up, dressed only
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Elliot Mabeuse
in her shoes and stockings, her black garter belt, and her bra and panties. Had she
dressed specifically to seduce someone, she couldn’t have done a better job.
She stood up tall, trying to hide her embarrassment under a gloss of pride, showing
him she wouldn’t be intimidated. She knew instinctively that while he could do what he
wished to her body, as long as she kept her pride of spirit he could not get to her. It
would be a hollow victory at best.
But when she saw the look in his eyes, she felt a sudden thrill of shameful
excitement run through her body. His eyes had a hunger and a look of raw lust such as
she’d never seen in a man, and the idea that she was the focus and reason for that look
made her nipples harden perceptibly against the sheer fabric of her bra.
“Walk,” he said. “Walk over to that doorway and then come back.”
It was no more than three steps. Helene kept her back straight, pulling her
shoulders back, but it was as if she’d suddenly forgotten how to walk. She was
painfully aware of her own near-nakedness and the female roll of her hips, the feel of
the fabric of her bra against her aroused nipples and the slide of her silky panties
against the globes of her ass. She was aware of every sensation, the way her shoes
pushed her ass up and out and lengthened her stride, the air as it moved past her arms.
He smiled softly, his eyes glowing. “You’re a hot bitch, aren’t you? I knew it when I
saw you on your rooftop. Sensual, sexual. Is there someone in your life?”
“Yes,” she lied.
Really there was only Jason, a guy from accounting she went out with occasionally,
who might be good for a movie or a roll in the sack but who was tedious in the extreme
when it came to any sort of nonsexual interaction. The fact was that outside of her
masturbation, she had no sex life, and now suddenly all those feelings of sexual neglect
were churning within her, threatening to escape. She knew he could tell she was lying.
“All due respect, but it seems to me that your young man is not giving you the kind
of attention you deserve,” he said. “Otherwise we wouldn’t have that.” He nodded
toward the picture on the bed. “Would we?”
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Helene Blackmailed
Helene said nothing. She couldn’t meet his gaze, and so her eyes were drawn to his
groin. He was hard. The front of his trousers bulged and the outline of his enormous
cock was plainly visible. He made no attempt to hide it, in fact, he seemed almost to be
showing it off, and suddenly it was as if there was third presence in the room, someone
impatient and menacing.
Helene felt a flutter of nervous excitement in her stomach and she tried to remain
calm but her breathing increased. She was no stranger to sex, but still, she’d never
engaged in anything quite so cold and impersonal, so devoid of affection or any sort of
intimacy, and being forced to parade around for his sexual enjoyment was humiliating
and yet terribly arousing at the same time.
“It excites you, doesn’t it, Helene?” he asked her in a low voice. “Showing off for
me like this.”
“No,” she answered quickly. Too quickly.
He smiled. “Don’t lie to me. Your nipples are hard. I can see them from here. I’ll bet
if I put my fingers between your legs I’d find out you were wet, wouldn’t I?”
The thought filled her with heat, and she tried to look at him without seeing him, as
if she could see through him. It was true. She had felt her own lubrication as she’d
walked, but she was damned if she would admit it.
He shifted in the chair, sliding his ass down and spreading his legs, displaying
himself—an arrogant, male gesture.
“I trust you can see what you’ve done to me, can’t you?” he asked. “In fact, you
haven’t been able to take your eyes away, did you know that?”
She would have blushed had her face not already been so red with shame and
excitement. She hadn’t been aware that she’d been staring, but she had. She’d been
almost entranced looking at his cock, and now she tried to compose herself. She looked
at his eyes and caught that predatory gleam there again, so she looked away, studying a
cigarette burn in the carpet at the side of his chair. Even as she tried to hide her gaze,
she could feel her nipples reaching for him. She heard him laugh.
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Elliot Mabeuse
“I wasn’t wrong about you.” he said. “You’re a gorgeous woman, but you’re a
tramp too. Not that you’d ever admit it, not that you’d ever act on it, but this excites
you, having a man look at you like this, having this power over you.”
“No,” she said again, automatically. She was sinking again into that strange,
trancelike lethargy—boiling on the inside, while on the surface everything was like a
languid, erotic dream. Her heart was hammering and she could feel her breasts rising
and falling with her deep, steady breathing. She felt his eyes on her like a lover’s caress.
“Take off your bra,” he said softly.
“No. I can’t. Really, I can’t.”
In an instant he was out of his chair. Helene gasped in alarm as he took her and
spun her roughly around so that her back was to him and she felt his fingers on the
clasp of her bra. She raised her hands to stop him, but then thought better of it and
clasped her hands over her breasts, holding the garment in place. All that sexual need
she’d repressed for all those long years suddenly flooded her body and threatened to
overflow, invoked by his rough male touch. She felt him unhook her bra and hold the
straps apart, and then pull tight, using them like reins to pull her back against him. The
hard log of his cock pressed against her ass and made her bite her lip to keep from
groaning out loud.
“Look,” he said, and Helene opened her eyes to see that he held her facing the
mirror over the dresser.
She saw herself standing there in the middle of the room, his face looking over her
right shoulder like an evil spirit, that hot, predatory gleam in his eye.
“Put your hands down at your sides and look,” he said. “I want you to see this.”
Helene forced her hands away from her breasts. Again, she couldn’t look at his
reflection, so she looked at her bra as he slowly relaxed his grip and drew it down and
away from her breasts, pulling the thin straps down her arms.
She watched transfixed as the wispy garment left her body and her breasts came
into view, her traitorous nipples puckered and apparently ready for anything. His big
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Helene Blackmailed
hands held the flimsy garment as he drew it down and away from her, revealing her
nakedness, then dropped it on the floor. His empty hands came up, his fingers spread
wide and he took her breasts in his hands, pulling her against him once more.
“Oh God!” she moaned.
The sight of his hands on her in the mirror finally set it off, and she felt her own
desire surge through her body with such force that it actually made her knees weak.
The way he held her—so possessive, so greedy. She raised her hands and gripped his
fingers, thinking to pull his hands away, but his arms were like cast iron, immovable.
“Don’t,” he hissed at her with sudden anger. “You don’t touch me unless and until
I tell you to, is that understood? Now put your hands down.”
To her own embarrassment Helene nodded weakly and dropped her hands. It was
just as well. Her fingers were shaking with need. The way he touched her was as if he
were the real owner of this body, as if he knew what it was for, not her—as if he had a
better use for her than anything she could think of.
“Now just watch,” he said. “I want you to see this about yourself.”
She raised her eyes reluctantly to the mirror where his big hands covered her
breasts. He stroked her, sliding his fingers along the cones of her breasts and Helene felt
her eyelids fluttering closed in helpless pleasure. He circled her nipples with his
fingertips, all the while keeping her pressed against him so that she could feel his
furiously hard cock throbbing against her ass. She watched as he took her nipples
daintily between his thumbs and first fingers, and then squeezed.
The discomfort became pain, a pain that shot through her body like a bolt of
lightning and struck her deep between her legs, making her cry out and jerk in his
embrace. He let go of her nipples but still held her tight as Helene was suddenly
panting for breath. She could feel herself gush with wetness, as if she’d just been
wounded. Her own response shocked her.
“Don’t do that,” she gasped. “Please!”
She could see him grinning behind her.
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“Hurts, doesn’t it?” he asked. “But you like the way it hurts.”
“No. No,” she said, fighting the urge to pull his hands away. “I don’t like it. It just
hurts.”
He laughed. “You can stop pretending now,” he said. “We both know what’s going
on here. You’re excited as hell, aren’t you? You’re a hot little piece, and you’ve made
your entire career out of teasing the boys, out of using your sex to get what you want,
with your hot little suits like the one you wore here today. You dangle yourself in front
of their eyes and then cry ‘foul’ when somebody reaches for you, don’t you? Well,
you’ve made this bed, Helene, and now you’re going to get fucked in it.”
“No, stop!” She pushed back against him, trying to get away.
This had gotten entirely out of hand. She had been willing to take off her outer
clothes for him, but this had gone beyond that, and he was showing her things about
herself that she didn’t want to see. She’d been willing to strip. She’d even have been
willing to let him have sex with her if that’s what he wanted, but now he was playing
with her mind, with her own understanding of herself, and that frightened her.
She felt a sudden surge of hatred for this man, for the things he was doing to her
and the things he was making her feel—his arrogance, that he was so absolutely right
about her. She would never admit it, but it had felt good when he’d pinched her
nipples. It had hurt, but on the other side of the pain there was something that thrilled
her to her core. And just like the pain, her sudden hatred for him had another side too,
one she was afraid to look at.
“I’ll scream,” she said. “I’ll scream and call the police. I don’t care about your
damned pictures. Just let me go now!”
He made no move to release her though.
“I’ll show you,” he said.
He was still standing behind her. Her arms were drawn up to cover her breasts, her
hands balled into helpless fists. With his left hand he reached around her and took her
right forearm, encircling her with his strong arm and holding her pressed against him.
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Helene Blackmailed
She watched nervously in the mirror as his right hand came down and slid over her
smooth stomach and over her silky panties, heading for her pussy.
“No,” she cried, fighting furiously against him. “No, damn it!”
His finger touched her between her legs, and she felt a jolt of feverish electricity
shoot through her body. She reached up with her free left hand and dug her nails into
his forearm, trying to hurt him, but he ignored her. He managed to pull the crotch of
her panties to the side and his fingers dipped into the pool of wetness between her
thighs.
“Oh God!” she moaned in shame.
She knew she was soaking wet. She’d been lubricating since he first made her strip,
and now her pussy was swollen and dripping like an overripe peach. She felt his finger
splashing around in her wetness and sneaking its way easily inside her, playing on the
edge of her opening, and she could just feel his grin of self-satisfied male victory as he
held her.
“Tell me, Helene,” he whispered in mock concern. “Are you always so wet? Do you
always walk around with your pussy dripping like this?”
She couldn’t answer. There was nothing to say, besides, his finger was sliding in
greasy circles around her clit, forcing her stomach to clench in hot, eager spasms that
brought little grunts of obscene pleasure to her lips. She tried to turn these into sounds
of protest, but she wasn’t fooling anyone any longer—she was on fire to be touched and
taken like this.
He stood there holding her and playing with her as her struggles grew weaker and
more halfhearted, and then finally ceased. Her protests turned into sobs of surrender as
she shuddered in his grasp. He held her tight, leaning back slightly so that her body
was extended. She was suddenly aware that she’d unconsciously spread her legs for
him and was working her hips against his hand, pushing back at him and trying to
entice him to enter her, to put his finger where she needed to feel it. She thought she’d
die of embarrassment but she couldn’t seem to stop. It was as if he spoke directly to her
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body, and she was merely a horrified observer clinging to his arm, her eyes closed so
that she wouldn’t have to witness her own degradation in the mirror across the way.
All those years of denial had caught up with her and her nerves were stretched
razor-thin, aching for his rough touch. His strength and her helplessness ignited the
repressed lust within and her thighs trembled, licked by the greedy flames of
impending orgasm.
Then suddenly he let her go.
“Take off your panties,” he said.
He went to his chair and began to quickly but calmly remove his clothes, taking off
his shoes and loosening his tie.
Helene felt dizzy, as if she might fall. “No,” she said.
He gave her a look of mild surprise but he didn’t stop undressing.
“No,” she said again. “Not that. I won’t.”
He dropped his pants and stepped out of them then skinned off his briefs. Helene
saw his massive cock spring into view, long and thick and as proud as a rampant
stallion, standing out from between his shirttails. Her throat went dry.
He came over to her and took her easily by the back of the neck, pushed her down
over the dresser so that she was forced to bend over, her breasts pressed against the
cold surface, her ass in the air. He held her easily like that with one hand on the back of
her neck and with the other, he yanked her panties down her legs, ripping the thin
fabric and leaving them tangled around her thighs.
Helene gasped in fear at his sudden violence, but before she could do anything he
began spanking her with flat, angry blows, hitting her like a disobedient child and
making her flesh vibrate and jiggle. She was completely outraged, speechless, so
shocked that she just leaned there and took it before she could even think to do
anything. But there was nothing to be done. His hand on the back of her neck was like
iron and her hands were trapped beneath her, useless.
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Helene Blackmailed
He slapped her with the flat of his hand and each slap was like a pistol shot in the
room—a sharp, flat sound accompanied by her squeal of pain and outrage. All she
could do was wiggle and roll her hips, trying to escape the blows, and all that did was
distribute the spanks all over her trembling ass cheeks until her entire bottom was red
and on fire with masochistic heat.
She screamed, a snarling, feral sound of violation, but he didn’t stop. His fingers
dug into the back of her neck and the blows rained down upon her and through the
haze of shock and outrage Helene became aware of a new sensation. The shaking and
jiggling of her ass communicated itself to her already-aroused pussy and lit a fire
there—a fire that burned deep and began to glow with hot incandescence. Her skin
burned and each sting from a blow melted into the molten liquid at her core until she
was burning with need. She needed to be touched and filled. She needed him.
And he needed her too. He was hitting her not out of anger but out of lust. She
could feel it in the way his spanking hand lingered for a brief moment on her hot skin,
the way his other hand trembled as he held her down. Not because it took any
strength—she had stopped struggling after the first few blows—but because of his own
need for her. He wanted her, and that’s what this was about. This man wanted her so
much he was shaking.
There was no possibility of her escaping now, and moreover she no longer wanted
to. When he let go of her neck and stepped back she stayed where she was, bent
submissively over the cheap dresser. The violence and humiliation of the blows echoed
through her body like the fading tones of a gong, the feel of his trembling hand still on
the back of her neck. She lay there panting, with her chest pressed down on top of the
dresser and her knees locked, her buttocks thrust lewdly into the air, red and burning
from his lustful punishment.
“Touch yourself,” he now ordered her. “Reach down between your legs and play
with your pussy. Do it, Helene!”
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With an abject groan of acceptance, she reached back between her legs and ran a
manicured nail down her wet slit. She was totally exposed to his gaze and in the mirror
she could see him behind her stripping off his shirt, getting ready to fuck her. He
looked like a Greek god, like Zeus himself with his thick curls and salt-and-pepper
beard, a dark and furious glower on his face. His cock stood out before him like the
god’s own thunderbolt.
Helene felt no shame now, no compunction. He’d won and she was the spoils. He’d
been right about her, just as he’d said, and suddenly she felt an overwhelming urge to
show him just how right he’d been, show him what a slut she really was. It was just like
her masturbation fantasies now, but this one was real, and at last she didn’t have to
hide herself from anyone and play the demure princess. He knew that deep inside she
was a shameless whore and she knew it too, and now she wanted to prove it to him.
She was filled with a fierce, female pride. She was no match for his strength and his
male power, but she had power of her own—the power of her own sexuality and
desirability which made him every bit as weak as she was now. She slid her finger up
and down her empty and hungry slit with obscene deliberation, smearing her wetness
around, spreading herself open with two fingers and showing him what she had for
him, what she was. In the mirror she could see his eyes grow wild with hunger and
pure, naked lust, and she wanted to laugh with joy for the sudden freedom she felt.
He came into her savagely, just like she wanted, fucking into her so hard that he
lifted her feet off the floor. He reached beneath her, grabbed a breast in one hand and
dug into her pussy with the other, finding her clit and forking his fingers around it,
rubbing her in rhythm to his powerful thrusts. Helene arched her back to take him
deeper and covered the hand on her breast with her own, feeling the strength in his
fingers. She reached down between her legs and showed him where to touch her, and
then gasped, shocked by her own savage joy as his own hand took over and did to her
what she’d always wanted a man to do—take her, use her. He dug his fingers into her
tender flesh and punished her, insisting that she yield up her pleasure to him. All the
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Helene Blackmailed
while his big shaft sluiced in and out of her cunt with desperate male fury, wanting to
possess her and make her his. He stuffed her full and then pulled out, leaving her
aching for him, and the fury of his pistoning cock sent her higher and higher into her
own dizzy heaven of lust.
Helene dared a glance in the mirror and saw him standing behind her, leaning back
slightly, the big muscles on his chest hard and filmed with perspiration, a look on his
face of satisfaction mixed with mild disdain, the look of a haughty conqueror. It was the
disdain that did it for her, that look of arrogant satisfaction that caused an emotional
thrill to burn through her body, bringing her to the very edge of a shattering orgasm
because she knew that he’d been right about her, that he’d been right all along. It was
no accident that she’d been out masturbating on her roof when he’d caught her, fucking
herself with her fingers while she dreamed of a man shoving his hot cock up into her
ass, showing her wantonly to the world. It was no accident that she’d come here and
stripped for him, let him bend her over the dresser and spank her ass, and then fuck her
within an inch of her life, as if she were a common whore.
It was who she was, and who she’d always known she was. And as she clenched
her eyes tight and bit down on the ferocious sweetness of her thundering orgasm, it was
all she wanted to be.
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Chapter Two
By the time Helene collected herself and, brought her seething emotions under
control, her blackmailer was gone. He’d no sooner finished with her than he’d cleaned
himself up with a damp towel and dressed, standing in front of the mirror to tuck in his
shirt and knot his tie. Helene lay naked on the bed with the spread pulled over her,
trying to collect herself and think of something to say that might somehow redeem
herself—in her eyes at least, if not in his—but absolutely nothing came to mind, so she
kept quiet, hardly daring to look at him as he dressed.
Her orgasm had left her weak and trembling and terribly ashamed. She’d already
been embarrassed by the photographs of herself masturbating on her roof, and then
humiliated that he’d been able to use those photographs to blackmail her so easily into
having sex with him. But worse than either of these was the shame she felt over the
shattering orgasm she’d just experienced, an orgasm the likes of which she’d never
known. The ferocity and totality of her release had shocked her and left her stunned
and speechless, and he’d been witness to it.
As she lay there in her shame and confusion, she realized that all she’d thought she
knew about sex was nothing at all. Compared to what she’d felt under this man’s
hands, her previous sexual experiences had all been no more than the mere bodily
friction. This stranger and blackmailer had taken her farther and higher in twenty
minutes than anything else in her life had ever taken her, and he’d done it with no more
love or regard for her than he might feel for some stranger on the street. She didn’t
know what to make of it.
He came over to her as she lay in the bed and looked at her and she looked away,
knowing she wouldn’t be able to stand it if she saw any hint of male arrogance in his
eyes. But he wasn’t gloating.
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“You can have the pictures,” he said, nodding toward the manila envelope on the
dresser. “I have the originals on disk.”
He leaned over and gave her a totally unexpected kiss on the forehead. She felt the
burn of his lips as he put on his coat and straightened the collar, then walked to the
door where he stopped with his hand on the lock.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said.
The moment the lock clicked shut behind him, the tears began.
She sat up in bed and wept, not knowing why. It was if all the emotion from her
orgasm had been dammed up inside and now it all spilled out.
She thought about the way he’d taken her, the things he’d made her do—how he’d
made her undress before him and walk so he could watch her, how he’d touched her,
the selfishness in his touch, the way he’d used her. She thought about how he’d made
her masturbate as he fucked her from behind, leaning her over the dresser, and the
shameful pride she’d felt. He’d fucked her like an animal, not even giving her the
respect of taking her face-to-face. She still felt his hands upon her breasts and her hips
and the angry spear of his cock inside her. And she thought of the way he’d squeezed
and pinched her nipples at her moment of climax, how that pain had sent her screaming
over the edge, coming with him inside her, coming with a depth and a ferocity like
nothing she’d ever known before. And with her shame came a flood of arousal again.
She was horrified.
She got up out of the bed and ran to the shower. She turned the water on as hot as
she could stand it and she washed. She washed her breasts, pussy and body wherever
he’d touched her. She washed her face and her hair. She stood under the steaming
spray, washing and crying until her skin was raw.
* * * * *
“Jason?”
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“Hey! Helene! How are you, baby! You know, I was just thinking about you?”
“Were you?” she asked into the cell phone. “That’s sweet. Listen, I was wondering
if you’d maybe like to have dinner tonight? My place?”
She was stuck in traffic on the Portnoy Avenue exit, a route she’d been taking home
for the past three days, ever since it had happened. By getting off here, she missed the
construction on Division Street and, moreover, it took her past the motel where they’d
met. She told herself it was faster, really, even though it was a bit out of the way, but
she also wanted to see the motel again. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but
she just had to see.
“Tonight? Really?” There was a bit of a dead spot as she went under the cloverleaf
but she picked up his signal soon enough to hear him ask, “…occasion?”
“Nothing special. I just haven’t seen you in an awfully long time and I thought it
would be nice to get together.” She tried to put a hint of sexual playfulness into her
words, but it didn’t come off with quite the right tone. Still, it was close enough for
Jason, who never needed much prodding.
“Sounds great,” he said. “But hey, don’t blame me, you’re the one who’s always
working. What time? Eight?”
“Eight would be perfect.”
“Red or white?”
“White, I guess. I’m making salmon.”
“Great. Need anything else? Dessert or something?”
She was coming up to the motel now and she wanted to get off the line. “No.
Nothing else. Just bring your usual gallant and charming self, Jason. Got to go now.
Traffic’s opening up.”
She clicked her cell closed before he’d even rung off, and she dropped it on the seat
so she could put both hands on the wheel and hang on, as if she might be unexpectedly
sucked out of the car. She got into the right-hand lane and slowed down.
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Helene Blackmailed
The same old parking lot. More cars this time. There were no people about, and she
was alarmed at her own sense of disappointment. But then, what would he be doing
here again? He certainly didn’t make a practice of blackmailing women into sex at this
motel. With a dismay that surprised her, she noticed that the door to their room on the
second level stood open. She couldn’t see into the dark interior, but as she watched, a
short, dark woman in a maid’s outfit came out stuffing a pillow into its case. Helene
exhaled with relief.
She chided herself for her misplaced sentimentality. She’d been raped in that room.
If rape was sex against your will, then she’d been raped, hadn’t she? Once again she
thought of stopping and going into the office and trying to find out if they knew
anything about him—his name, his license plate number, anything.
She was embarrassed at the hungry tug she felt in the pit of her stomach. She had
expected to hear from him by now.
She stepped on the gas and drove off.
* * * * *
Helene hadn’t really planned on making dinner, but the market always had good
fish and Jason was no gourmet anyhow. She bought salmon steaks, capers, fresh
rosemary, lemons, new potatoes and frozen green beans. A bag of salad, a loaf of
French bread, some ice cream, a six-pack of Jason’s favorite beer, and she was done.
The first few days after it had happened, Helene had walked around in a daze,
avoiding people. She knew what the books said about rape, that shock was the normal
first reaction, so she thought she might perhaps be in shock. That’s why she felt no
horror, no sense of outrage, and she had dreaded the day that it would wear off and
she’d have to deal with the anger and depression that would be the second stage, but
strangely that day never came. Instead, as the reality of what had happened sank in, she
found herself seeking out people and company, looking for something. Calling Jason
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had been an act of some desperation, but he seemed to be the closest she could find to
what she wanted now.
But not close enough, she realized later. Dinner had been sufficiently good so as not
to raise his suspicions, but Helene couldn’t wait to get him on the sofa in front of the
TV, where most things started between them. Jason put his arm around her. He kissed
her and she kissed him back. His hands went to her breasts and she unbuttoned her
blouse and leaned back for him, but she knew already that it wasn’t right, it wasn’t
what she wanted. Jason was as sweet and considerate as always, but now that wasn’t
what she wanted at all. He was too gentle and deferential, too timid and polite. He’d
learned some new moves since they’d last been to bed together, but Helene could tell
that’s just what they were, moves learned from some magazine article or book. His new
techniques annoyed her, and as he searched industriously for her G-spot she got more
and more frustrated. She didn’t want to be manipulated, she wanted to be taken. She
wanted to be taken and fucked.
His tongue flicked at her nipples and she grew embarrassed for him when she
realized that he was tracing out the letters of the alphabet on her skin. She stopped him
at “K” and tried to show him how to pinch her, how to treat her rough. He did what she
wanted, tentatively, but it was still no good. Passion can’t be faked, and Jason was
always a conscientious lover but never a passionate one. She thought she might have
orgasmed—at least she experienced what she had always thought was an orgasm up
until her encounter in the motel—but no sooner had he finished on top of her than she
wanted him gone so she could use her memories and her hand to give herself what
Jason couldn’t.
She made some transparent excuse to get him out the door, then went into the
bedroom, trying to recreate the rude, hungry feel of her blackmailer’s hands on her. She
put on the same shoes she’d worn, the heels lifting her ass and making her feel sexy and
obscene as she leaned over her dresser and spread her legs, letting her breasts hang free
beneath her. She tried to recall his hands upon her, remembering the hard, insistent
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Helene Blackmailed
excitement she’d felt in his touch as he’d slid his fingers down to her cunt and pried her
apart, then found her excited clitoris and rubbed and pressed against it in rhythm to his
fucking, demanding she come, pushing her beyond where she’d ever been. She tried to
recapture that thrilling feeling of not being able to escape, that certain knowledge that
he wouldn’t let her off with the minor frisson of pleasure that had always served her as
orgasm. He’d insisted that she act the slut, demanded that she give him her whorish
pleasure, and she remembered her sheer joy in being taken and fucked by a man who
knew her for what she was. Her fingers dipped into her cunt with lewd ferocity, and at
the last minute she captured her nipple between thumb and forefinger and bore down
hard, letting the spear of pain nail her to her orgasm. She came with a clean and vicious
joy that was almost just enough. Almost, but not quite.
* * * * *
It was Wednesday morning at work, a week to the day since the encounter, when
her phone rang at 10:30 a.m.
“Hello, Helene,” he said. “It’s me. The Doctor.”
It was as if his voice reached out and touched her through the phone, pushing her
back into her chair. She’d been leaning over the papers on her desk, now she sat up
straight and her eyes flicked nervously around the room, as if he might be in there with
her. Her eyes went to the clock on the wall and she stared at the red second hand as it
ticked slowly around.
“Yes?” she said. She didn’t know what else to say.
“I want to see you again. The same place, but room one-twenty-one. Tonight.”
“I can’t. I have work,” she heard herself say.
“Yes, I know,” he said dismissively. “You always have work. Be there at eight
o’clock. Wear your work clothes. I like you in your work clothes. And wear that same
lipstick you wore that day. It looks good on you.”
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Elliot Mabeuse
“Wait,” she said. “Wait…listen. I need to talk to you. There’s something I… I need
to talk to you. How can I get a hold of you?”
She heard a silence on his end of the line and she was afraid she’d overplayed her
hand.
“Well, you can always go back out on your rooftop and leave me a message.” She
could hear him smiling over the phone. Then he got serious again. “You can talk to me
tonight. Just be there, and don’t try anything stupid, all right?”
“No. I won’t. Nothing stupid. I…” She wanted to tell him, but how could she? What
could she say? That she’d missed him?
“Eight o’clock. Room one-twenty-one. It’s a suite.”
Helene fumbled with a pen and a piece of paper, even though she knew she’d never
forget that room number if she lived to be a hundred. “All right. Room one-twenty-one
at eight. All right. But wait,” she said. “Wait.”
“Yes?”
Her fingers were holding the phone so tight her knuckles were white.
“Tell me what you’re going to do to me,” she said. “Please. I want to hear it.” She
felt herself color and her feeling of humiliation mixed with a sudden surge of almost
unbearable nervous excitement.
Now she heard him laugh, an easy, relieved laugh. It humiliated her terribly, but
she bore it, eyes closed, gripping the phone. He’d thought she was going to make
trouble, and now he was relieved.
“Sure,” he said. “Why not?” He lowered his voice a notch and said, “I’m going to
fuck you, Helene. I’m going to strip your clothes off you and make you get down on
your knees and suck my cock. Then I’m going to tie your wrists behind your back and
throw you down on the bed and eat your pussy ‘til you come like a little whore. I’m
going to eat you until you beg me to fuck you, ‘til all you can think about is getting my
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Helene Blackmailed
big hard cock inside you, and then I’m going to teach you what a slut you are. We’re
going to find out together. Won’t that be fun?”
* * * * *
She took off work early, begging out with a headache and missing the usual
Wednesday productivity meeting. She went shopping for new underwear and
stockings, and then she bought some new shoes as well. She bought three new sticks of
lipstick. She went home and showered and shaved herself smooth. She dressed, then
changed her outfit, changed her underwear. She tried to eat but the food wouldn’t go
down. She poured a glass of wine and then decided she didn’t dare. She was already
dizzy.
The man was a blackmailer and a rapist. And yet—the things he’d made her feel.
And he’d kissed her forehead before he’d left too. Surely that meant something.
* * * * *
In her agitation, Helene bumped a car in the parking lot as she pulled into a space.
Thank God the alarm didn’t go off, and she gave it only a cursory look as she jumped
out, looking for the door one-twenty-one.
She didn’t wear what he’d told her to wear, not really. Instead of wearing office
clothes, she wore a charcoal gray, pinstripe suit that was several years old and a size too
small to wear to work. It made her ass look great, which was why she couldn’t wear it
to the office anymore. She wore a tight, white blouse with pleats in the bodice, also too
snug for work, and beneath she had on the new, white panties and matching shelf-bra
she’d bought that afternoon. She’d given it a lot of thought and decided that he was a
white-underwear kind of man, that black was just too blatant for him. Or maybe she
wanted him to think that she was a white-underwear kind of girl? Perhaps she wanted
to come off as being more virginal and pure, as if she could convince both of them that
she really was being forced into this. The lewdness of the white shelf-bra was just what
she needed to give the lie to that fiction. She wanted her clothes to give the message that
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Elliot Mabeuse
she herself wouldn’t do anything, but that there was no limit to what she would let him
do to her.
She stopped at the door and willed herself to calm down. She knew what it felt like
to need sex, and she knew what it felt like to feel sexy, but the way she felt now was
something different. She felt entirely sexual and female in a way that went beyond
politics and beyond apologies, and it felt terribly exciting and powerful. She was ready
to be devastated.
She knocked.
“It’s open,” he called out, and Helene suddenly felt foolish. She prepared herself to
be disappointed, but now even her sudden uncertainty served to excite her. She knew
that when she crossed that threshold she would no longer be responsible for what
happened. She pushed the door open and walked into the dim room, letting the door
close behind her.
He was standing up and pouring himself a drink. The room was a suite—the best,
she supposed, that the place had to offer. This room was a kind of sitting room with a
kitchenette in the back. There was a cheap sofa and a couple of armchairs, a TV, and
back by the kitchen, a small breakfast table with one ill-matched captain’s chair. The
other chair stood in the middle of the room, looking ominous with ropes tied to the
arms and the front legs. Helene glanced at the chair then back at him. She felt a thrill of
delicious fear.
The bottle he held was the same brand of scotch he’d brought last time, and there
were the same two plastic cups filled with motel ice. He put down his cup and poured
her a drink without asking.
“You’re right on time,” he said. “That’s good. Water?”
She nodded. She wasn’t about to play any games.
He ran some water into her glass and handed it to her. When he raised his glass in
salute, she tentatively raised hers, too. What else could she do? She remembered the
taste of the whiskey from the last time, the feel of the plastic cup against her lip.
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Helene Blackmailed
He was wearing black wool trousers and a black vest over a gray shirt. Whatever he
did for a living with his little camera, he dressed well. She searched his hands for a ring,
but he wore no jewelry of any kind.
She gestured toward the chair. “Is that for me?”
“Yes.”
She pulled her eyes away from the chair and looked at him. “I wanted to talk to
you,” she said. She still hadn’t moved from her spot by the door.
He cocked his head, prepared to listen, but all her words suddenly left her. She just
stood there, her eyes darting from him, to the chair, and back again. Everything she had
prepared to say just evaporated and she had no idea of how to begin.
This wasn’t the way she’d imagined it. In her fantasies, she stood there and spoke
quite earnestly about her feelings and he sat there and listened to her with
understanding and sympathy apparent in his intelligent eyes. In her fantasies, he
understood her concerns and realized that she was more than just a sex object, that she
had feelings and dignity, and that she was used to a man’s care and respect. In her
fantasies, she spoke at length and with honesty about the astonishing things she’d felt
the last time, and he listened attentively, then smiled and came to her and took her in
his arms. The pictures were involved, too. In her fantasies, they were thrown into the
trash, or in some way discarded—burned perhaps—and then he took her to bed and
made love to her, different this time, more sweet and loving, though in the end she had
the same transforming orgasm.
But this was not her fantasy, and after standing there silently for some moments, all
she could think of to say was, “I don’t even know your name.”
“Daniel,” he said. “You can call me Daniel. Now, take off your jacket. We can talk
later.”
Helene put down her drink and stepped away from the door. She had expected
more. She had expected a caress, some sort of physical contact, but she realized now
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Elliot Mabeuse
that she wasn’t going to get it, and she felt the loss as clearly as she would have felt his
hand upon her skin.
“Come on,” he said, dropping into a chair. “Take it off.”
She realized then that he was right. They could talk later. Right now she needed to
hear his rough, male arrogance, his easy command of her. She needed to be ordered to
do simple things she could do, and taking off her jacket was one of them.
She slipped the jacket from her shoulders and folded it up. She threw it down on
the sofa.
The blouse was tight. The pleated front exaggerated her bust and the bra she wore
left her nipples exposed, to rub and press against the fabric. She felt them now,
hardening and growing firmer as she stood there under his gaze. She felt that expectant
tightness in her sex and the nervous thrill in her stomach. She loved this.
“Take off your blouse,” he said softly, then, “No, wait. I’ll do it. Yes, I’ll do it for
you.”
He got out of the chair and came to her, and once again, Helene felt him next to her.
She smelled his scent, salty and clean, terribly masculine. He filled the space next to her,
making her feel deliciously small and powerless. She found herself almost trembling
with excitement and she couldn’t look at his face, so she dropped her eyes to his hands
and watched them as they went to the buttons on her blouse. He had strong, clean
hands and they popped the buttons easily, one by one, sliding them through the holes
and tugging her blouse open, taking his time.
When he came to her bra and saw that her breasts were bare, he grunted with a
kind of crude pleasure that made her heart hammer in her chest. She hadn’t known
how much she’d wanted him to find her desirable or how much she’d needed to arouse
him, and now, hearing that little grunt of pleasure, some part of her relaxed while
another part swelled with excitement.
Without a word, his head came down as one hand pulled her breast from her little
bra. He held her breast up and took it in his mouth and she thought she might swoon at
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the easy way he took command of her. She reached up and put her hand on the back of
his neck, but he stopped.
“No,” he said removing her hand. “You don’t touch me. Like last time, remember?
You don’t touch me until I tell you to. Keep your hands at your sides.”
Helene did as she was told and he went back to her breast. He took them both in his
hands and squeezed them, holding them so that her nipples were pushed toward each
other, and he began to suck and lick them both.
Spears of pleasure pierced her body, and without thinking, she reached around his
head again, wanting to hold him in place, wanting to lean on him as he pleasured her.
“I’m sorry,” she said when she realized what she’d done, but he’d already stepped
back from her.
He picked up a piece of rope from the chair and came back to her.
“Turn around.”
“No, please,” she said. “I said I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
“I know you won’t. Now turn around.”
She stood there as he threw several loops of rope around each wrist and tied them
off, making a rope cuff for each wrist. She knew she was insane to let him do this to her.
With her wrists tied, she’d be helpless to defend herself against anything he might want
to do, but she trusted him and she let him do it. His saliva cooled on her bare nipples as
he pulled her hands behind her back and held them there. From somewhere he
produced a metal clip and worked it under the strands of rope. When he was done, her
wrists were securely bound together behind her back.
Having her wrists tied flooded her with unexpected excitement, and it excited him,
too. This was so unlike her, it was almost like being in someone else’s body or watching
herself from afar. At work, in all the rest of her life she was the one in charge, she was
the one giving the orders, and yet it felt so good to have him take control of her like this.
It felt good not to have to do anything but react.
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Elliot Mabeuse
He pushed her back against the wall and leaned against her as he finished
unbuttoning her blouse and pulled it from her skirt. His hands played roughly on her
breasts, squeezing her, pinching and rolling her nipples, sucking and biting them with
selfish pleasure and Helene moaned with an anguished and indefinable joy. Here was
the rough greediness she’d missed so much from Jason’s touch. This man touched her
not in order to please her as Jason had, but in order to please himself, and that made all
the difference in the world.
His bulk loomed over her, his weight rested upon her, and as Helene pressed her
chest into his hands their eyes met and his gaze pierced her own, seeing past the
frightened woman and past the ball-busting executive and directly into her need. When
his lips came down on hers she threw herself into her kiss, finally able to tell him what
she’d wanted to say at the start, and what she’d had to say was not that complicated,
not that complicated at all.
“You little liar!” he breathed as he pinched her nipple and twisted it. “You love this,
don’t you? You love being treated like this!”
She couldn’t say yes and she wouldn’t say no. She longed for his lips on hers again
so she wouldn’t have to say anything. Her nipples hurt from his rough treatment and
yet ached for more, and below she knew she was a swamp of wet, female need. It was
his need for her that did it, the passion with which he took her. It left her dizzy and
panting for breath. It made her pussy throb with an empty yearning to feel his
roughness on her there, feel his strength between her legs.
He kissed the side of her neck, burying his face there and inhaling the fragrance of
her hair and her perfume. His hands slid down her back and cupped her ass. He
squeezed her buttocks through her skirt, squeezed them possessively as if they were
his. His hands went to her thighs and he began to gather up her skirt in his hands,
pulling the hem up slowly over her legs.
Helene lifted her head and pressed it back against the wall, biting her lower lip
against the maddening tickle of the fabric moving up her thighs. She’d worn no slip and
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Helene Blackmailed
she could feel the cool air on her naked flesh as it was exposed by the rising skirt. She
knew her panties were already damp and that he would feel them, but it hardly
mattered any longer. She had ceased pretending that she felt anything other than
intense sexual arousal at his touch. She no longer felt shame, or rather, the shame she
felt at giving herself to this stranger was part of the fuel that fed her fire, part of the
excitement.
The hem of her skirt slid higher, above the tops of her stockings now, and higher
still as he gathered the fabric around her waist. He was sucking at her breasts as he
raised her skirt and Helene braced herself for the feel of his fingers at her crotch. She
knew it was coming, yet even so, she wasn’t prepared for the blast of shuddering
satisfaction she felt when first he touched her there and pressed the slick fabric of her
panties against her sodden flesh. She had waited days to feel this again, to be touched
the way he touched her, and she groaned with deep pleasure and jerked involuntarily
as he claimed what was already his.
He kissed her as his fingers moved the wet fabric to the side and slid along her
crease, and when he slid one fingertip inside her she clenched her eyes tight and bit his
lip just as she would have bitten her own to keep from crying out. The feel of his hand
on her was electric, like the fit of some key made only for her. She had no idea of how
he managed to make her feel this way, how he stole her will and turned her into a
vessel of such terrible sexual need. She only knew that he had somehow figured her
out, that he knew her better than she knew herself.
“You’re soaking wet,” he said to her, whispering into her ear. “I haven’t even done
anything to you yet and you’re just dripping. You love this, don’t you? You love
everything I’m doing to you.”
“No,” she gasped. “No. You’re wrong!”
He leaned back so he could look at her. “Is that right? Well, we’ll see. We’ll just see
about that, won’t we?”
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He held the crotch piece of her panties to the side and slid his finger into her, his
thumb pressing against her clit. Helene crumpled against him, the pangs of her desire
too much to bear. She tried instinctively to grab on to his shoulders but the ropes held
her wrists fast, driving home the extent of her helplessness. He reached behind her and
seized her hair, pulled her head back and held her up like that. She grimaced against
the pain as his finger continued to fuck into her.
Her blouse was completely open and her breasts exposed on their little shelf-bra.
Her skirt was up around her waist, and the lewdness of what he was doing to her, the
easy way he took total control of her body flooded her with helpless excitement. She
was close to orgasm and they both knew it. He could feel her losing control of her body.
“Look at you,” he hissed at her. “You’re about to come, aren’t you? You’re going to
come standing there, just from getting finger-fucked like some high school tramp!”
Helene fought against it. She had little dignity left, but what she had she couldn’t
just give over to him like this. She reached out and bit his shoulder, frantic in her lust.
He snarled in anger and jerked away.
For a second, she thought he might slap her. She had bitten him hard, desperate to
make him stop, and she braced herself for the blow, but it never came. Instead, he took
her arm and pulled her away from the wall.
She stood in the middle of the room with her wrists tied behind her as he pulled
first her blouse, and then her bra, down her arms. He pulled her skirt back down
enough that he could get to the zipper and open it, then tugged it roughly down her
legs, holding her up with one hand on her arm. Her panties followed, and she was
forced to twist this way and that as he yanked the sodden garment down her thighs and
threw them aside.
“No,” she said. “Wait, please. Not like this…”
He stopped and looked at her in her sudden agitation. His eyes were flashing again,
filled with his hunger for her, and once again his gaze left her powerless. Once again
she was naked in front of him and almost helpless in her need. Her nipples were hard
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Helene Blackmailed
and distended, her shaven pussy gleamed with her own juices, and still she asked him
to wait.
“Wait?” he asked her. “Wait for what? What do you want, Helene? Violins and
flowers? Do you want me to romance you and sing you love songs? Is that what you
want? Come here!”
He pulled her roughly toward the chair and thrust her into it. Shoving her head
down to make her lean forward, he lifted her arms over the back of the chair and then
sat her back up. He tied her wrists, in their tangle of clothes, to a rung between the rear
legs, forcing her shoulders back and her breasts out. He made her spread her thighs,
pressing them against the armrests of the chair. He used the attached ropes to tie her
knees to the arms of the chair, then tied her ankles to the legs in front, leaving her
spread open, exposed and obscenely vulnerable.
The sight of her in the chair seemed to inflame him, and he came to her and took
her hair in his hand and pulled her head back. He stared into her eyes and saw her fear
and excitement, then his lips came down on hers and he kissed her, kissed her long and
hard as his free hand plundered her body, playing with her breasts and her belly,
dipping down between her legs, squeezing the soft skin on the inside of her thighs, as if
he just couldn’t get enough of her.
“No,” he said. “You don’t want that romantic stuff. You think you do, but this is
what you really want. You want to be taken, don’t you, Helene? You want someone
who’ll take you and do what they want with you. That’s what you want, and that’s why
you came back to me, isn’t it?”
She was too confused to speak, too confused and too incredibly aroused. The ropes
on her arms and legs were simply the most erotic thing she had ever felt in her life—the
way they held her tight and spread open for his pleasure. It was degrading and
embarrassing, but at the same time it was terribly arousing, almost more than she could
stand.
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Daniel pulled her hips forward in the chair, as far forward as the ropes would
allow, then he squatted down in front of her. He extended his middle finger and ran it
over her lower lip.
“Suck it,” he said softly. “Suck it and get it good and wet. I want to show you what
you are.”
Helene whimpered. She opened her mouth and sucked his finger inside, grateful
for the contact. She sucked him deep, swirling her tongue around his finger, thinking
that if she could make it good for him he’d give her something more substantial to suck
on, something she wanted very badly.
But it didn’t work. He pulled his finger from her mouth and trailed it slowly down
her body and over her stomach, over her navel, down to her hairless sex.
“Watch me, Helene,” he said. “Watch what I’m going to do to you.”
She couldn’t have moved her eyes had she wanted to. She saw his finger part the
baby-soft petals of her sex, saw the coral-pinkness of her most intimate flesh, saw his
finger poised with just the tip inside her, and then he pushed it up into her.
“Oh God!” Helene moaned and closed her eyes.
It was not the feeling of his finger inside her so much as it was the way he took her.
It was the most simple, inelegant, sexual gesture, adolescent in its artlessness, and yet so
lewd and primal. Man penetrates woman. Man takes possession of woman, not with his
cock but with his hand, his finger. It was the exact opposite of everything Jason had
done with her, and it was a thousand times more arousing.
“Look,” he said. “Open your eyes and look. I want you to see this.”
She looked down and saw her stomach contracting sharply with little spasms of
pleasure as he rolled her clit around with his thumb. It was so mechanical, as if she
weren’t even a human being, as if she were some sort of machine or instrument. She
saw his finger emerge, shiny and coated with her own lubricious secretions, and she
saw his eyes, gleaming with lust as they studied her degradation. Her shame excited
him. It excited her as well.
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Helene Blackmailed
“I’ve got all night,” he said. “And you’re not going anywhere. I’m going to sit here
and play with you until you come on my hand, Helene. We’re both going to sit here
until you come.”
“No,” she said. “Fuck me. Make me do what you want. I can’t stand it like this.” It
was too degrading, being manipulated like her body was some sexual toy.
“Sorry.” He leaned forward and planted a kiss on her open pussy. “I want you to
come right here. Tied in this chair like a little tramp. I want to watch you. I want you to
see.”
He put his finger back inside her, then two fingers, and he began to fuck her with
them as his thumb manipulated her clit. His gaze went first to his fingers moving in and
out of her open pussy and then up to study the expression on her face.
Helene threw her head back. She pulled at her bonds but they were too tight. She
tried to close her thighs but the ropes held them open. There was nothing she could do
but sit there and let him finger-fuck her. She felt his gaze on her, boring into her, seeing
into her and seeing her helpless pleasure, and he was right. She was a whore. She was a
slut who was going to come from this man’s fingers inside her. She was going to
provide him with entertainment.
She fought it. She fought her own escalating arousal, the feeling of shame that
inundated her and threatened to drown her in its red heat. His fingers continued to
pump in and out of her, working inside her pussy, coldly, mechanically with the steady
inevitability of a machine. It was more than she could bear, and the more she tried to
fight off the rising tide of excitement, the more surely it came thundering down on top
of her. She was going to come.
In all her life, only once had Helene climaxed against her will. Only once had she
been made to give in to her body’s own need for relief, and that had been with this
same man when he took her before in this same motel in the same way—intent on his
pleasure and with no regard for her own. And now it was about to happen again as she
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sat in this chair being rudely manipulated, a slave to his obscene touch and her body’s
savage demand for the release of orgasm.
“Oh God!” she moaned. “Oh God!”
She bit down on the end of the last word as she felt it start, coming up from her feet
and down through her scalp. She arched in the chair, a galvanic current of unbearable
pleasure coursing through her body as every muscle went rigid and trembling.
He felt it too, saw how red she got as she held her breath, her body clenched too
tight for breath, unable to do anything but come. He reached out and took her nipple in
his hand and squeezed it, knowing just how to season her pleasure with pain and send
her over the edge. Helene burst through herself like a butterfly from its cocoon, sailing
through the air on wings of obscene, sexual surrender.
* * * * *
He untied her from the chair but kept her wrists lashed together. She leaned on him
as he walked her into the bedroom, where the king-sized bed consumed much of the
space. She was shaky from her orgasm, but not as shaky as she pretended to be as she
leaned against him and felt the comfort of his arm around her.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she asked him as he led her to the bed. “Wasn’t
once enough? You’re never going to stop, are you? It’s going to be one week after
another, anytime you want. Anything you want to do to me.”
He took off his vest and stepped out of his shoes, and as he unbuttoned his shirt he
turned to her.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked. “Do you? We can make this the last time right
now, if that’s what you want. We can finish up right now and you can walk out and
never see me again.”
Helene squirmed on the bed, trying to find a more comfortable way to lie on her
bound hands. Although she had exaggerated her weakness, her orgasm had been
powerful and had left her feeling weak and drained, yet still she wanted more—not just
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more sex, but something else. There was something she wanted from this man,
something like respect, or maybe just understanding, something she couldn’t put her
finger on.
He slid his pants and shorts down over his legs and took off his socks. He was
painfully erect, and though she’d seen her share of hard cocks in her life, she’d never
seen one so terribly eager, so aggressive. Seeing this evidence of his desire for her gave
her some consolation even as her mouth went dry at the sight of him. So hard, so angry
and engorged with blood.
“I forced you the first time,” he said, “because I could. Because I knew something
about you. You don’t know me, and it doesn’t much matter now, but I did business
with your company, sizeable business. I was even introduced to you, but you don’t
remember. You were too busy and I looked different then. But because your company
wanted my business, your bosses were rather free with their information about you.
Darryl Foster, in fact, talks too much, especially when he’s had a few, and he has quite a
crush on you, Helene. Strictly paternal, I’m sure. You turn quite a few heads in that
office.”
“What’s your name?” she asked, sure that she would remember the name they did
business with even if she couldn’t recall his face.
“Never mind that. That’s not important now. What is important is that I saw a
woman who was wasting herself. I saw someone I wanted. Then, when I saw you on
your roof, I saw a way to have you.”
“You stalked me? You followed me! That’s how you got those pictures!”
“I was there on legitimate business reasons, which is more than you can say for
what you were doing up there on your rooftop.” He smiled. “And anyway, what does it
matter? What matters is that the last time we were together, I saw you for what you are.
I know you, Helene. I know all about you now.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” she said. “You don’t know what you’re
talking about.”
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He picked up two pieces of rope from the nightstand. There was rope all over the
place. He must have spent some time getting ready for her.
“No?” he asked. “Well, we’ll see.”
He took her ankle in his hand, wrapped three turns of rope around it and tied it in a
cuff as he’d done to her wrists, then did the same to her other ankle. He rolled her over
onto her side and untied her hands, then pulled off the tangled mess of her bra and
blouse and threw them aside. Helene finally made a token show of resistance. She tried
to pull her arm free but he held on to her wrist with a steely grip. He gave one good
warning tug and she went limp. She was no match for his strength.
“Put your knees up,” he said. “Do it!”
Excitement and fear again. It was his stock in trade. She was on her back, and now
she drew her knees up as he’d ordered and he pulled her wrist down to her ankle and
fastened them together with a clip of some kind. She flexed her arm, testing the
connection as he did the same to her other arm.
When he finished he stood up quickly, like a calf-roper who’s completed his tie.
Helene was helpless now, her wrists clipped to her ankles, her knees up. She fell over
onto her side to hide her shame.
“Do you now what a sexual submissive is, Helene? Do you know anything about
BDSM, dominance and submission?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She was tugging at her bonds,
the feeling of her captivity making her terribly excited again, making her pussy drool.
“Most people think that a submissive is some sort of doormat,” he said. “Someone
with no self-respect or self-esteem, but nothing could be further from the truth. Rather,
it’s a woman who’s so highly sexed that she needs more than what most people settle
for—more passion, more desire, more intensity. That’s what the ropes are for, not to
punish you or hurt you, but to hold you still while I can take you to that level of desire.
Do you understand what I’m saying?”
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Helene Blackmailed
He knelt on the bed at her feet and picked her knees up so that she rolled onto her
back.
“When I told you loved being treated like this, you said ‘no’, didn’t you? But we
both know that was a lie. Outside of here you’re Helene the hard-ass, executive-bitch.
Inside, with me, you’re something else, aren’t you? Now show me. Let me see what you
really are.”
He parted her knees and she didn’t have the strength to stop him. He pressed them
down toward the mattress and lowered his head. She saw him open his mouth and his
tongue come out and he made contact with her pussy. Helene cried out as if he’d struck
her.
“No! God! Stop!”
But he didn’t stop. He licked her pussy, sliding his tongue between her labia and
working his way up to her clit, and when he let go of her knees Helene made no move
to close them. He ate her like he was famished for her, like he just couldn’t get enough,
and she’d never felt anything like it. She’d had oral sex before. Jason especially always
wanted to do it for her, but Jason was so tentative and controlled in what he did. This
man ate her for the selfish joy of feeling her flesh in his mouth. He ate her like he
kissed—with the same wild abandon, the same greediness and hungry, selfish pleasure.
He ate her in a way that showed her that he loved her body, and it took her breath
away.
She might have come, she couldn’t be sure. The entire feeling was so intense, and
all she knew was that at one point when she had turned completely to liquid down
there—to a sweet, buttery syrup—his mouth left her and he loomed over her, on his
knees, like a barbarian conqueror.
“Fuck me,” she begged. “Oh God, fuck me!”
He came inside her all at once, filling her completely. He immediately began to fuck
her hard, brutally slamming his hips against her, holding on to her shoulders to keep
her in place to take the savage thrusting of his cock.
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Elliot Mabeuse
Beneath him, Helene twisted in her bonds. With her wrists tied to her ankles, all she
could do was raise her knees to her chest and cradle him as his hips pummeled against
her. His big prick spread her open, reaching deep up inside her, driving the breath from
her lungs in a series of animal grunts and cries.
He went wild on top of her, his hands all over her body—on her ass, her breasts,
pulling her hair to make her tilt her head back for his smothering kiss, pinching her
nipple and reaching down to press urgently with his fingers against her clit. Helene had
never known such wildness in a man, and with a deep thrill she realized that he was
every bit as excited as she was, that his need for her was just as great as hers was for
him. He might be the master of the ropes and of what he made her do, but inside, he
was as helpless as she was. They were in this together, and it was his desire for her that
drove him on—it was his desire that made him tie her up and fuck her like this.
She heard his masculine groans of pleasure as he thrust deep into her womanliness.
“Take it, Helene, take my cock! Take it inside you and get ready for my cum. I’m going
to come inside you, Helene, you’re going to make me come. Take it! Take it all!”
She threw her head back and her mouth opened in a smile of breathless ecstasy. She
pulled hard at the ropes, never wanting them to let go, never wanting to be free again,
just as she felt his big cock swell inside her and he thrust into her hard and began to
come, pouring his hot ejaculate into her.
As if a switch had been thrown, Helene was launched into her own orgasm, an
orgasm of both body and soul, rich and obliterating. She screamed, her scream echoing
off the walls of the cheap motel room and she seemed to leave her body and join him in
his rapturous fury, his cum mixing with hers and filling her with incredible heat.
* * * * *
He gave her his number. He gave her his number at work and his cell phone
number and he gave her strict instructions on when she was allowed to call him. When
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she called she would let the phone ring once and then hang up and he would call her
back. She was not to call him for anything frivolous.
He gave her a list of things she was to purchase, clothes and underwear and sexual
toys. He told her where to find them online. The list included whips and spankers,
vibrators and clips for her nipples, chains and cuffs. She was to keep these things at her
home in their original box until he opened them.
And he gave her what she wanted. He held her in his arms afterwards and kissed
her with such tenderness that tears came to her eyes and yet, despite his tenderness and
despite her tears, his kisses aroused her shamelessly and her savage desires rose
insistently to the surface yet again. His every touch reduced her to a state of devastating
need.
He fucked her again. Knowing what she wanted, he tied her hands in front of her
and fucked her as she stood leaning over the dresser on her forearms, just as he’d done
in their first session. He watched her as she looked in the mirror so she could see her
own face contorted with lust and sexual satisfaction, or shift her gaze and see him
behind her, thrusting his cock into her, grimacing with lust and pleasure and
satisfaction, looking for all the world like some pagan king glowering in judgment over
the mortal kneeling before him.
And when he came, once again her body flowered open to him. She opened to him
as she had never opened to any other man and again the depth of her orgasm amazed
her. Only this time she was filled with joy as well, knowing there would be more,
knowing that this was only the beginning.
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Chapter Three
She was something now between a lover and a slave, somewhere between triumph
and surrender. When she left the motel this time she wasn’t quite sure what she was but
she was certain that she was something new. At a point in her life when the world had
seemed to have run out of surprises she had amazed herself with her own capacity for
pleasure, for her ability to feel things she never thought she’d feel. She was frightened
and uncertain, but she was more alive than she’d ever felt before, and she held on to
that with all the tenacity she possessed. She astonished herself.
She sat in her SUV in the darkened garage beneath her building staring at the backs
of her hands. She could feel the growing soreness between her legs, and she
remembered again the look on his face when he’d come, that look of wild triumph and
helpless surrender, the strength in his hands as he’d pulled her back against him and
reached deep, as if he wanted to touch her very soul. She had been tied and helpless,
but she had triumphed. He had moaned her name as he came and had reached down to
kiss her and she had felt his need, his love for her. All his fury and raw male power had
come down to that, that sweet, throbbing surrender between her legs, the sound of her
name on his lips.
When she got inside she went immediately to her computer and found an adult toy
site that featured high-end sex toys. She’d been there before, idly browsing through the
creams and vibrators and shaking her head in disbelief, but now she sat and made a list
of everything he’d told her to buy, her fingers trembling with such unimaginable
excitement that she could scarcely write. She found herself leaning forward, studying
the screen, looking at the bondage equipment, the cuffs and collars and leather wear,
the nipple clamps and whips, and everything she looked at she thought, “Yes, that’s for
me. I want that.”
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The next day at work she felt wildly alive and aware of things as she hadn’t been in
years, as if some old skin had been sloughed off. Part of it was simple residual
excitement from last night, but part of it was what she now knew about herself. She felt
like a schoolgirl with a secret, and when he called her at ten-thirty that morning she felt
the kind of excited anticipation she hadn’t felt since junior high.
She took his call at her desk, immediately dropping what she was doing and
swiveling in her chair to look at the pure, late-summer light shining on the buildings
across the way. The sound of his voice made her feel small and secret, and her chair, her
office, suddenly seemed very large and strangely foreign.
He invited her to a late lunch, though given their present relationship it could
hardly be called an invitation, and just the sound of his voice made her aware of her
achy emptiness and her need to see him again. He gave her the name of a nearby
restaurant and after he’d hung up she sat there a moment, savoring the lingering echo
in her body from the sound of his voice. Then she attacked her work recklessly and with
less deliberation than she should have. It suddenly seemed so trivial.
Meeting him in public meant she would be able to be with him and talk without
worrying about falling under his sexual spell and losing control of herself again, and
she wanted very much to put this relationship on some sort of firmer footing than the
merely physical. She slipped into her coat at exactly ten minutes to one and told her
secretary she’d be taking a late lunch. She walked out into the crowds of downtown
people with her head high and full of ideas.
But once again her composure seemed to vanish when she entered the restaurant
and saw him sitting at a table toward the back. He’d chosen an old and venerable
Chinese restaurant, one left over from the days of elaborate, tropical cocktails and
Cantonese food, red and black lacquerware and dragons painted on the walls. The sight
of him sitting behind the white tablecloth and the thought of what he knew about her
made her feel weak and uncertain and yet ringing with a nervous hunger for his
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attention again. For all her achievements and responsibilities at work, she suddenly felt
very young and vulnerable. It could hardly be love, she knew, but she was at a loss to
know what else to call it.
He stood up when she approached the table and smiled a kind of secret lover’s
smile. He came around to hold her seat for her, something no man had done for her
since her junior prom. She barely remembered what to do.
“Well,” he said, and all Helene could do was nod in agreement.
She felt his eyes on her and felt them beneath her clothes as well, and again there
was that feeling of shame and excitement that so bewildered and intoxicated her. It was
a feeling of being both worshipped and controlled, and once again she found that she
could think of no way to put into words what she wanted to say.
“Did you order those things I told you to?” he asked, after the food had come.
“I ordered some of them last night. But I was too tired. I’ll finish this evening.” She
was afraid of displeasing him, but he seemed to take no notice.
She ate little, her appetite having fled, but she studied him as he ate. Away from the
motel he was civil and polite and even friendly, though she sensed there was a barrier
there that wasn’t hers to cross. He made small talk mostly, telling her of his dealings
with her company, and when he told her the name of the outfit he’d represented, she
was dismayed to find that she remembered it only vaguely. A real estate development
firm was all that came to mind. The deal had passed through her hands only briefly.
Finally she got up the nerve to ask, “Tell me, this is all so strange to me. Do you
meet many women like this, I mean—” His eyes were on her, sharp and penetrating.
“Excuse me,” she said, backing off. “I don’t mean to pry…”
“No I don’t,” he said. “In fact I’ve never done anything like this in my life. I noticed
you, of course. I noticed you when I first came to your office and several times since. I
became quite preoccupied with you, Helene, but the truth is if I hadn’t seen you on
your roof and if I weren’t being transferred, I certainly wouldn’t have engaged in—
What? You seem upset.”
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“Transferred?”
He sat back and smiled, gratified at her response. “I have the option of refusing the
transfer. I have enough seniority. They can send someone else should my affairs keep
me in the city. As it is, I have no intention of leaving.”
She’d embarrassed herself and now she brushed some hair back out of her face and
said, “I’m sorry, but you have no idea of what all this has done to me. I hardly know
what I’m doing anymore.”
“I’m aware of that,” he said. “And I’m aware that you must wonder what happens
next and about the kind of relationship we have now.”
Helene said nothing, but her answer was apparent in her eyes.
“For now, we have what we have,” he said. “I’ll be honest with you. I’ve never
really engaged in this kind of thing with a woman before. I never thought I’d even want
to engage in this kind of thing, but you bring something out in me, Helene, something
I’ve never experienced. My initial plan was to try it once and then I’d be gone no matter
what happened. Clearly this has gone beyond my little blackmail game. Leaving’s no
longer an option for me. I mean—”
He looked down at the tablecloth, searching for words. “You’ve brought something
out in me that I never imagined I possessed from the first time I laid eyes on you in that
room. You make me want to do things to you, Helene. Things that I hardly understand
myself.”
“That’s all I can say about it,” he said. “That, and that everything I do with you is
an expression of how I feel. I don’t have to think with you, Helene. Everything I want to
do it seems that you want me to do to you. Everything that excites me excites you too.
Do you know how rare that is? How free that makes me feel?”
His words were simple and she wasn’t sure she understood all of them, but the way
he spoke, the intensity in his voice, that was enough. She nodded her head.
“Yes,” she said. “I understand. That’s how it is for me too. It’s all so new to me. I
just never imagined.”
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He waited for her to continue, but she didn’t know what else to say and after a
pause he leaned back and signaled the waiter for the check. The man nodded and
walked back to his station to calculate their bill and as he did, Daniel reached forward
and covered Helene’s hands with his own. She’d been sitting with her hands together in
front of her and now it was a simple matter for him to cover both wrists with one hand.
He grasped her wrists and pulled her arms toward him just a bit, just enough to let her
feel his easy control of her and Helene felt a sudden surge of wild desire as she saw her
pale, thin wrists in the grip of his strong hand.
It lasted only a moment and then he let her go. She sat back, feeling her body
throbbing with excitement as the waiter placed the check in front of him and withdrew.
Daniel looked the bill over casually and paid with a credit card but her defenses had
been breached. He stood up and held her coat for her and his hands lingered a little too
long on her lapels as she slid into it. She hated the way he made her lose control. It
made her feel so childish but she loved it too.
They walked outside and at the first alley he pulled her off the curb and walked her
down the narrow canyon, holding her arm tightly, almost pushing her along until they
reached a sheltered alcove—a rear delivery door of green-painted metal set back behind
some trash cans. The brown bricks of the old buildings enclosed them and the fire
escape over their heads threw barred shadows across his face as he pushed her back
against the door. She knew what was coming, she could already feel his hunger in his
touch.
Out of sight of the downtown street he covered her body with his, pressing her
back against the door, grabbing her hair and pulling her head back savagely. Once
again Helene found herself sinking into his whirlpool of need for her. His lips came
down on hers and her mouth was already open for him. His passion pounded down
upon her like surf upon a beach and he bore her down with him so that everything
faded away, all the traffic sounds and car horns and the squealing of the elevated train.
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She was aware of nothing but the delicious heat of his mouth and the desperate hunger
of his hands—one on her breast, the other holding her head still for his kiss.
When he released her she felt as though her legs might buckle beneath her.
“Do you have to go back?”
She looked up at him from where she huddled back against the door. Her need for
him had blossomed within her like some huge tropical flower.
“No,” she said. “I can call back sick.”
“Then do it. My place isn’t far from here.”
* * * * *
She was breathless with desire and he walked her along so quickly that she almost
had to skip to keep up as they dodged through the downtown crowds. They were like
two people taken suddenly ill and in the elevator on the way up to his place he turned
to her as soon as the doors closed and took her face in his hands, pressing her back
against the wall and letting her feel his hardness as he kissed her with that same
blinding passion he’d shown her outside. Helene was gasping and almost staggering as
he propelled her along the short hallway to his front door.
His place turned out to be a converted industrial loft with one large sitting room
and a hallway in the back connecting to the two bedrooms and bath. She hardly got to
see any of it for as soon as they were inside in the darkness he turned to her again and
pulled her coat halfway down her shoulders, held it there and pushed the fabric behind
her so that her arms were trapped in the sleeves and she was again helpless against
him. Whatever those feelings were he’d mentioned earlier, they involved binding her,
holding her so that she was defenseless before him and she loved it. All she could do
was stand there and shudder as his lips found her mouth, then slid along her face and
down her throat. She felt utterly taken, consumed by his passion for her.
He let go of her and stepped slowly away. “Don’t move.”
“Where are you going?” she asked breathlessly.
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“Just don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
He left her standing near the front door with her coat hanging from her arms like a
cape and he turned and disappeared into the back of the loft. He returned in only a
moment, his jacket and coat gone, pulling black leather gloves over his hands. He
turned her around and pulled off her coat and threw it aside, but when Helene went to
turn back to face him he stopped her. He placed one hand over her mouth and pulled
her back against him and Helene heard a sharp mechanical click. He raised his hand
and she saw that he held a knife, a wickedly shining piece of steel that he pressed
against her throat so that the flat part chilled her skin. Her eyes went wide with sudden
fear.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered in her ear. “You know that, don’t you?”
Very cautiously, Helene nodded her head, though why she trusted this man she
couldn’t say, any more than she could say why the taste of the leather glove over her
mouth and the feel of the cold steel excited her so much. The smooth flat of the knife
pressed against her neck, the hard bar of his cock prodded her ass through her skirt. She
felt herself gush with helpless acquiescence.
Slowly he withdrew the knife and she felt the cold hardness linger like a kiss upon
her skin. He was breathing hard and she could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest
as he held her against him. As his hand came away she could see the knife now, the
blade maybe four inches long, leaf-shaped and symmetric, bright, cold silver in the
dimness.
“You and I, we’re the same,” he said softly. “We like things like this, intense and on
the edge. We like playing in the fire.”
Helene breathed deeply through her nose, thrilling to the fear in her body. She was
able to open her mouth enough to stick out her tongue and lick the leather that covered
her lips and the acrid taste intoxicated her. She felt her nipples harden within her bra at
the thought of her own helplessness. She loved the idea of the knife. She wanted him to
force her to do whatever he wanted.
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He held the knife loosely as he cupped her breast, then moved his fingers so he
could feel her nipple through her bra. He was getting used to her by now and he could
recognize her signs of arousal. He knew where to look.
“You like it like this,” he said. “You like to be treated like this, to be taken and
fucked by a man who’ll do anything to have you. That’s why you’re so excited, isn’t it?
You know I’m going to strip your clothes off you and tie you up, then lay you down on
the bed and fuck you good and hard. You know I’m going to make you suck my cock
too, don’t you, Helene? You know I’m going to put my big cock in your pretty mouth
and you’re going to show me what a hot little thing you are.”
Helene kept both hands at her sides balled into fists, wanting to touch him but
knowing that he wouldn’t let her interfere with what he had planned for her. He took
the knife in his hand again and she watched as he very carefully inserted the blade
beneath the top button on her blouse. He moved it until he caught the thread against
the edge and then he gave a little flick.
The button popped free and skittered across the bare wooden floor. Her blouse
parted under the insistent pressure of her breasts, showing the tops of the full mounds
in their brief, gauzy bra, swollen with excitement. She could feel his breath in her ear as
he slid the knife down to the next button, right between her breasts and he cut that one
away too.
She looked down to see the silver blade of the knife sliding against her warm flesh.
He was destroying a favorite blouse but she hardly cared about that. The feel of that
cold blade gliding against her skin was wickedly entrancing. He was careful to keep the
sharp edge away from her skin, but even so, the pressure of steel against skin was
enough to make her legs tremble with wild and delicious fear.
He held her like that, with his hand over her mouth, and he cut the buttons of her
blouse one by one, slowly, deliberately. When he finished he increased his grip, telling
her to hold very still. She felt the blade slide up between her breasts and beneath her
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bra, then he turned it and with a quick flick he sliced the bra in two. He pulled the
ruined blouse from her skirt then turned her around.
The knife was back at her throat now, his other gloved hand holding her hair. He
pushed her down, slowly, inexorably down to her knees, though he hardly had to use
force. Helene’s legs were like water and she had to reach out and dig her nails into his
trousers to keep her balance as she sank down, eyes closed, almost afraid to look. She
heard the harsh rasp of his zipper and the metallic clink of his belt as he opened it, and
she felt the subtle movement in the air as he dropped his pants. She could sense the
maleness of his lust, feel it like heat on her lips. Maybe it was the scent of him or the feel
of his heat on her cheeks, but she could sense the urgency of his cock reaching for her.
She lifted her face and looked up at him and saw the wild intensity in his eyes, his jaw
clenched hard. She knew what he wanted.
She felt herself melting and she opened her mouth and leaned forward, letting his
swollen hardness slide over her lips. That spear of urgent flesh slid into her mouth,
impossibly hot and throbbing with masculine potency and desire for her.
It was his need that did it, the savage desire she felt from him. It was unlike
anything she’d ever felt from anyone else and it made her achingly weak and
compliant. She wanted to be good to him. She knew that she was the cause of his need
and she wanted desperately to give him what he wanted, what he was so determined to
take. She opened her mouth wide and sucked hungrily on his cock, leaning forward
until she felt the brush of his hair against her nose and the dull head of his phallus
nudging against the back of her throat.
“Oh, yes!” he groaned in breathless pleasure. “You hot little tease!”
The breathy excitement in his voice thrilled her. He reached down and took thick
handfuls of her rich hair and its silkiness in his fingers was like the slickness of her
mouth sliding over his cock. Helene fell into an erotic trance. Her blouse was open and
her breasts hung free of the confines of her cut bra. She already felt ravaged by his
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desire and she put her hands up tentatively and felt the muscles of his thighs, like cords
of steel. His whole body was hard for her, muscles rigid with the need for release.
He began to fuck her, holding her hair in his hands and pumping into her saliva-
slick mouth. He thrust so hard that he knocked her off her knees and onto her bottom so
that she was forced to sit beneath him, her skirt up around her thighs. From here she
could hardly maintain contact and she had to reach up and take him in her hand and
pull him down so she could get the head in her mouth. She sat there in the shelter of his
powerful legs, head thrown back, nursing at his hard cock, masturbating him into her
sucking mouth.
“Get up,” he said. He reached down and took hold of her arm and pulled her to her
feet, then pressed her back against the wall. Helene was nearly delirious with need and
she forgot all about the injunction of not touching. He’d already debased her, cutting off
her clothes and fucking her mouth, treating her like his personal property. What more
did she have to lose?
She grabbed on to him as he leaned against her and dug her nails into his shoulders
as his hand went under her skirt. The sexy panties she’d worn just in case she might see
him today were now nothing more than an impediment and he shoved them aside, his
fingers pushing up brutally inside her. Helene groaned in masochistic pleasure. It was
terrible the way he used her, the way he treated her so callously and yet it made her
wild for more. She reached down and pulled her skirt up, then spread her thighs and
thrust her hips out to give herself more fully to him. His fingers hurt her. They felt
wonderful.
He pulled the torn blouse down over her shoulders, then her bra. She kissed him
feverishly and he had to pull back from her as his hands went to the waist of her skirt.
“Where the fuck is the zipper on this thing?”
“In the back. In the back,” she gasped.
“Take it off. Your panties too.”
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He stepped back from her to give her room. Her hands were shaking as she found
the clasp at the back of her skirt and opened it, then pulled down the zipper and slid
her skirt down her legs. Her slip followed and then her panties. She held on to the
doorknob as she stepped out of them, then stood there, uncertain and expectant,
dressed only in her shoes.
Despite her burning need for him she was naked now and very self-conscious.
Aside from his jacket, he was still fully dressed and her nakedness seemed just another
sign of her shame and subservience to this man. His pants were down around his
thighs, his cock gleaming with her own saliva, another sign of her degradation. She
stood before him as naked as a slave awaiting his orders, hoping desperately that he
liked what he saw.
For a moment she flashed back to herself at work, the way she’d been before she’d
met him. She briefly remembered what it was like to be her normal self, to wield power
over others, to have her advice and opinions sought out by her peers. And yet with that
memory came a feeling of coldness and distance, of a woman who kept within herself,
and that was so very far removed from what she felt now, alive all over, naked and
exposed and aching to feel his furious male need unleashed on her again.
“Just like when we met,” he said. “Remember? I had you undress for me. You still
love it, don’t you?”
Helene stood there trying to keep from panting with lust, too impatient to answer.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked.
“Lean against the door and don’t move, just like before. Just wait for me. I have to
get something.”
She did as he said, still tasting his cock in her mouth, the male musk of him. He
went into the back and came out directly carrying a thin riding crop and a bunch of
rope. Helene felt her stomach tighten with a palpable jolt so hard she felt herself
squeeze out a rivulet of moisture. Had it really come to this? To ropes and whips? Had
she really fallen so far?
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He bound her wrists quickly behind her back. Already it was becoming familiar to
her, like a game she knew they would play and yet a game that thrilled her with its
precise ritual—now even more so, since he held that whip under his arm as he tied her
and she knew what was coming. He was taking possession of her again, taking over her
body and once her wrists were tied it was as if her nakedness didn’t matter anymore.
Her nakedness was his now, just as her body was his, to play with, to do with as he
wanted.
He made her lean against the door facing him with her legs apart and he stood over
her, his gloved hands all over her body. Helene stood there with her eyes closed
enduring his touch, thrilling to the indignity of being caressed and used like this. The
more callously and harshly he used her, the more excited she became.
This was not what she’d expected to happen. When she’d gone to meet him for
lunch she’d expected some tenderness, some attempt to put their relationship on a level
that was more than just sexual, but now that hardly seemed to matter. This was enough.
He’d told her that what he did to her was an expression of what he felt and that was
more than enough—this feeling of helplessness, this frisson of fear she felt with him, her
vulnerability and nakedness and her consuming arousal.
“No,” she said. “No!” as he pushed the tip of the crop against the insides of her
knees, making her part her thighs even more.
She didn’t know precisely what was coming, but she knew she was about to cross
some line—some last barrier was about to fall. He was going to use the whip on her. He
was going to cement his dominance and her submission and she was going to go from
being a lover to being something else. She was going to cross that line from being the
victim to being the accomplice and it frightened her.
Daniel stopped then. He left her leaning back on her bound wrists against the door
with her legs spread and he began to undress. He loosened his tie and removed it,
dropped his trousers and took them off, then began to unbutton his shirt. As he did so
he watched her and he seemed to be reading her mind.
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“Have you ever been whipped?” he asked her.
She shook her head no, trying to keep her eyes from the massive bulge in his shorts.
“Of course not. You’ve never done any of this, have you?” he asked. “All of this,
everything we’ve done since that first day is new to you, isn’t it?”
He unbuttoned his cuffs and slipped his shirt off.
“You must be so confused. You never had any idea you were like this, did you?”
She wanted to object. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t like this—that she was
nothing of the kind. Again, she thought back to her office persona—the person she
knew herself to be—but she couldn’t hold on to that feeling. She liked this version of
herself better. She liked seeing the lust in his eyes when he looked at her. She liked the
way he took her and used her and she liked the way he stripped down for action with
her. She liked the way her nakedness seemed to bring out the animal in him and she
loved the sight of his rampant hardness. His cock looked like it would tear through the
front of his shorts.
He came over to her and took her hair again. He bent her face back for his kiss and
as he did, he ran the tip of the whip up the insides of her legs. He let it toy with her
pussy and Helene sucked his tongue hungrily into her mouth, daring him now to use
the whip on her, daring him to take what was his.
The first blow spanked against her naked cunt and Helene jerked sharply. He
stepped back to gain some room and she was able to look down and see the whip land
again against the swollen lips of her pussy and a sharp, pre-orgasmic thrill spiked
through her body, draining all the fight out of her. It was so glorious and so obscene.
He began to whip her, bringing the whip up smartly against her sex as he held her head
back and kissed her, loving her mouth and punishing her pussy. Helene, her hands tied
behind her, spread her legs and gave herself over to this dual ravishment, each slap
against her naked flesh driving her higher in her lust.
He whipped her and kissed her, the tip of the leather crop growing dark and slick
with her own nectar of arousal. With every blow of the whip she groaned and sucked
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his tongue, inviting more, for she knew that she was being whipped because of his own
wild need for her. It was his desire that made him do it, his need to possess her and so it
was something she deserved.
When at last he stopped, she was trembling, hanging on the precipice of an
unimaginable orgasm. Quickly he dropped the whip and stripped off his shorts. He
reached down and slid his forearms between her legs then picked her up, pressing his
palms against the door so that she hung with her legs over his arms, straddling them.
She was open and spread, just inches above his straining cock and slowly, awkwardly
he lowered her, sliding his hands down and pushing his hips forward at the same time
until the blunt head of his shaft parted her wet, baby-soft labia and began to work its
way inside her.
His strength was incredible as he held her like that, letting her slowly sink down
onto his cock. She was as helpless as a child in his arms, unable to stop his maddening
penetration, unable to keep him out even if she’d wanted to and all she could do was
kiss blindly at his face, urging him to hurry and fill her before her orgasm took her but
it was too late. The pressure of his hardness inside her, the way her own weight made
her clit press down against his rigid stalk brought her own wicked pleasure bubbling
up through her body. She fought against it, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of
making her come so quickly and easily but it was no use and she cried out though teeth
clenched in denial as his conquering manhood forced her to surrender her pleasure to
him.
Her orgasm and the spasms of release that racked her body seemed to satisfy him
momentarily and he held her nailed against the door on his cock as she sobbed and
shook through her climax. Then he pulled his cock carefully from her, as if it had
become fused to her, and lowered her gently to her feet.
“On the couch,” he said. He took her arm and pulled her toward the sofa. He
turned her around and pushed her down on her back. “Spread.”
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Her body was still shaking, her nerves were raw and hypersensitive from her
orgasm and she could hardly control her muscles but Daniel took her ankles in his
hands and forced her knees up against her chest.
“Wait,” she said. “Give me a second to catch my breath— Oh God!”
He gave her nothing. He rammed himself deep into her still-trembling pussy, riding
roughshod over her quivering nerve endings and filling her with his massive shaft
again. He was incredibly hard and he fucked her savagely, knocking the breath from
her body, intent on nothing but getting his own selfish pleasure from her, and Helene,
after a moment of discomfort, gave herself to him. She could scarcely refuse. Her wrists
were tied behind her back and he kept his hands behind her knees, keeping them
pressed against her breasts as his hips slammed into her and he grunted in feverish
bestial pleasure.
She loved his violence. She loved it because she knew that she was the cause, that
his savagery was an expression of his need for her and all his rough male power and
strength were channeled into driving his maleness into her, beating her with it just as
he’d beat her with the whip, assaulting her femininity and making her yield it up to
him, everything she had.
When he came, he reared up off her body, holding himself above her on his strong
arms and she watched his own surrender on his anguished face as she felt his cock
throb inside her, giving himself to her as well, spending all that fury into her in those
few, precious warm spurts.
* * * * *
Afterwards came the tenderness. He was no crueler than she was and so there was
no way to avoid the intimacy that such transforming sex brought about between them.
After he untied her arms he took her in his arms, still catching his breath after his
orgasm. Helene, battered from his lust and full of satisfaction, pressed herself against
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him, hiding in the shelter of his encircling arms. Now at last she got to touch him, got to
kiss and taste his skin and try to tell him what he meant to her.
“You never called work,” he said.
“No, I didn’t. I will, I will. Just not now. In a minute.”
For the present she was fascinated by his lower lip, the turn of his nostrils, the
bridge of his nose. She sent her fingers to explore him and then pulled them back,
uncertain.
He smiled. “It’s okay. You can touch if you want.”
She wanted to ask him who he was and how he knew so much about her, how he
knew just what she wanted, but for now his profile was enough for her.
“You’ll stay?” he asked. “You don’t have to go back.”
“If you want me to. If that’s all right with you.”
He laughed and heaved himself up on his elbow and looked down at her.
“You’re not my slave, you know. It’s not like that.”
She hadn’t known. She still wasn’t sure what to make of this relationship or what
they were to each other. For now all it was was a feeling inside, a feeling of total
satisfaction when she looked at his face and a feeling that all she had given him had
hardly been enough.
He sat up and looked at her. They were both still naked and the afternoon light
outside his bedroom window gave her the luxurious feeling of playing hooky from
work. He ran his hand down her body then he stopped at her thighs, which were
marked by raised welts from the whipping. He touched them gingerly, his face
clouding with concern.
“It’s all right,” she said. “They don’t hurt.”
He moved out from under her and down the sofa, then bent and kissed her thighs.
To Helene it was like she’d been struck again, the same ferocious lash of desire.
“Oh no!” she whispered. “Don’t!”
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But it was obvious that his kiss stirred him as well and he stretched himself out on
the couch and began to kiss and lick her thighs, making her stomach jump in an
alarming manner, and faster than she would have thought possible she went from her
drowsy sense of satisfaction to a raging, fiery need. She reached down and grabbed his
hair, whether to stop him or egg him on she wasn’t sure, and he grabbed her wrists and
pulled them away. He held them tightly and got up on his knees.
“I love that about you,” he said. “How hot you get. It drives me wild!”
Helene flushed with embarrassment and pride. He held her wrists down against
the sofa as he made her open her legs and she was forced to lie there as he licked her—
long, teasing swipes on the tops of her thighs, then the insides—soft kisses and nibbles
against her swelling sex and Helene let herself go, let herself be swept away by his
passion for her. She arched her back sharply and waited for the pleasure of her next
orgasm.
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Chapter Four
Work, life, and the crowds of people in the street as she walks to work in her
sensible business suit. Helene’s normal existence, now seen through the lens of her
newly aroused passions and the wonder of what she feels when she’s with him and
when she’s alone with her memories of him. He’s made her new, he’s made her a
wonder to herself—her sensations and her emotions, the shameful things she does in
his presence, the greedy and wonderfully selfish things he does to her.
She stands at the curb waiting for the light to change. She’s showered, perfumed,
and her makeup is perfect—smooth and hardly visible, making her look delicate and
flawlessly composed. Her clothes are new and fresh. Her skirt is smooth and tight
across her thighs and her jacket hangs over her shoulders and breasts with just the right
amount of cling, the fabric expensive enough so that she’s aware of its weight and
caress as she turns to glance in a store window or stop for a light.
And yet within her clothes Helene feels her body like a new and exquisite
instrument tuned to some vital current that accompanies her constantly these days. She
has the ability to recall the feel of his body on her at any time, the hunger of his mouth
on her breasts or neck, the flat pain where he slapped her ass. Her body is like the earth
plowed up and turned over fresh by his desire. She feels permanently marked, branded
with his identity and his need for her. Her skin is as alive as fresh scar tissue.
As she steps off the curb, she holds her head erect. She stands straighter now than
she used to, the posture of a woman with pride, a woman aware of a secret strength
within her. The tops of her stockings grip her thighs high up where the skin is soft and
sensitive and caress her with every step. Her skirt draws tight against the muscles of
her legs and she feels the way the fabric slides across her bottom, translated through the
smoothness of her slip. She is naked beneath the slip and she’s aware of that too.
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It’s a wonder to her how her submission to this man has made her so proud and
sure of herself, but that’s what it is. She has been places with him that most women
never go and never dream of going. She has been tested and emerged triumphant and
she feels her triumph every time he takes her in his arms and crushes her to his body,
losing himself in his desire for her, unleashing his violent need for her. She’s
experienced the feeling of being entirely female for him, of being entirely vulnerable
and accepting to him, and by giving herself she’s gained a measure of self-possession
that amazes her.
At work she’s crisp and efficient and no longer agonizes over decisions or situations
that would have suffocated her with worry and anxiety only brief weeks before. She has
a new perspective on things and realizes that her work is only a small part—a very
small part—of who she really is. “Janey, Paul, that’s enough for now,” she says now,
sitting in her office, holding her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, trying to keep
her voice from shaking. “Write up the notes for the proposal and get them to me as
soon as they’re done. And close the door on the way out.”
“Business?” he asks over the phone.
“Yes. Nothing important. I’ve missed you.”
She hears his smile over the line and feels it like a caress. She’s immediately aware
of her body.
“Yes,” he says. “I’ve missed you too. I’m missing you right now, Helene. I need
you.”
She closes her eyes and smiles. His words are like a breath that blows upon the little
smoldering fire that are her feelings for him, a fire that always burns, that now flares
with sudden flame. She feels herself glow in the warmth of that fire.
“Did you dress as I said?”
“Yes. Nothing on but my slip. Underneath, I mean.”
“And stockings?”
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“Yes.”
“Open your blouse.”
She can’t repress a smile. He’s so bad. “Daniel, I’m at work.”
“Is there anyone else there with you?”
She looks at the empty chairs and at the closed door. “No. I’m alone now.”
“Then open your blouse.”
It’s a game and she knows she doesn’t have to play, but his wicked request excites
her. She lifts her fingers and idly strokes the bare skin between her breasts where the
lapels of her blouse fold open, the place where she puts her perfume. Her finger just
touches the soft top of her breast.
“All right,” she lies. “It’s open. Just the top button.”
“No. The top three, Helene. I want you to touch yourself.”
For a moment she feels as if he’s somehow caught her in her lie but then she realizes
that he can’t possibly know what she’s doing.
“All right. Wait.”
Although she’s only playing with him, she feels her body suddenly come to life, her
nipples begin to stiffen. It’s so wicked to be doing this at work with the sounds of her
coworkers right outside her door. She slides her finger along the smooth slope of her
breast, the part she’s watched him run his mouth over so many times as she stood there
for him, her wrists tied behind her. She can again feel his selfish pleasure, the
greediness of his mouth against her flesh.
“Are you doing it? Are you touching yourself?”
“Yes,” she lies, but already her body is betraying her, responding to his voice on the
line. She may think that she’s fooling him by not doing as he says, but she’s already
aroused, and not from her touch. Rather it’s the realization that he can make her do
what he wants her to. She’s already lost.
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“Touch yourself,” he says thickly. “Not your nipples. I want you to draw circles
around your nipples with your finger. With your fingernail. You know what I mean.
The way I do with my tongue.”
Helene feels the hairs on the base of her neck prickle. Her door is closed but still,
this is where she works. She can feel his passion and need for her, feel it like heat from
the phone, licking at her. She’s already lost, so why not?
She switches the phone to her left hand and opens the top buttons of her blouse.
“Hold the phone up near your face,” he says. “I can’t hear you.”
“But I didn’t say anything,” she answers, caressing herself with two fingers.
“I know that. I want to hear you breathe.”
She smiles again and holds the phone to her nose up so he can hear her breathing,
already getting deeper as her finger finds the soft margin around her areola and scrapes
against it. Her nipple rises to the invitation, telling her of her body’s own willingness to
do as he says.
“Are you doing it? You are, aren’t you? I can hear it in your breath.”
“Yes,” she breathes. “Yes, I’m doing it.”
“Is it getting stiff?” he asks. “Are your nipples getting hard, Helene?”
“Yes,” she says, not lying now. “You know they are.”
“Good. Now get up and pull your skirt up around your thighs.”
“Daniel, really!”
She loves saying his name. The way it rolls on her tongue is exquisite. “It’s
lunchtime and everyone’s walking around. Someone could come in.”
“No one’s coming in. Besides, you’re behind your desk, aren’t you? No one can see.
Do it.”
“Darling, I can’t!” she protests. “You know how I get! People will know.”
“You said they leave you alone at lunch. You’re just stalling, being selfish. I need
you to do this for me, Helene. I need to know you’re all mine.”
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She looks nervously at the door, gauging the sounds outside. Playing with her
breasts for him was one thing, but this is something else. Still, she’s already come to
work without any underwear and why had she done that if she hadn’t been expecting
something like this? Fear fights with her growing arousal.
“Wait,” she says.
She puts the phone down and rolls her chair away from the desk. With her eyes
locked on the door she grasps her skirt and slip and pulls them up over her thighs,
gathering the fabric up until she can feel the cool air against the bare flesh where her
stockings end. She sits back down, feeling the leather of her chair against the backs of
her legs and she rolls herself in tight against the desk.
“All right?” he asks. “Did you do it?”
“Yes.”
He laughs, not maliciously but with pleasure.
“But you have to tell me,” she asks. “Are you… I mean, are you—?”
“Am I masturbating? Yes. I have my cock in my hand right now, Helene, and it’s
hard. It’s so hard for you it hurts and I’m thinking of what a good little slave you are
and I’m beating off, sliding my hand up and down my hard cock, pulling the skin back
and forth.”
“Oh my God,” she gasps, closing her eyes. She can clearly see his massive cock in
his hand, the head a wild, angry pink, a drop of lubricant gathering on the tip.
“I need you to come for me, Helene. I need you to come so I can come. That’s why I
need you to play with your pussy. I need for you to come with me.”
“I don’t know if I can,” she says. “There are people around.”
“I need for you to try, Helene. You don’t want me to just waste it, do you? Is that
what you want? Should I just hang up and go beat off over the toilet?”
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“No, no, darling.” She bites her lip, thinking what a waste that would be, his fierce,
beautiful orgasm gone for nothing. “That’s not what I want. All right, but please hurry.
Someone might come in.”
“Then do it now. Touch yourself. Touch your pussy.”
Helene reaches down between her legs and delicately strokes her naked labia.
They’re compressed in a tight little pout, but already she can feel her pussy filling with
blood and beginning to open like a flower.
She looks around the room—the familiar filing cabinets, the sofa and coffee table
strewn with layouts from this morning’s meeting, the pictures on the wall. She feels her
skirt and slip, bunched high around her hips, the bare skin of her thighs and cunt
exposed to the dark office air beneath her desk. She thinks of her coworkers heading out
for lunch while she stays behind masturbating for his voice on the phone, giving him
pleasure and her shame and disbelief at her own lewdness is like a fire. The feel of her
fingers on her cunt in these surroundings is wildly incongruous. She starts breathing
faster. She lifts the phone so the speaker can catch the sound of her breath starting to
rasp between her open lips.
“Yes,” he says. “That’s it. Play with your pussy! That’s my pussy, isn’t it? I own it, it
belongs to me. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if someone came in. Then they’d know how
you are with me, what you’re really like, how you beg me for it. Would you like that?
Would you like for them to know?”
“No,” she moans. “It’s just for you. I only do it for you.”
“Yes,” he says. “You do it for me. You’ll do anything for me, won’t you, Helene?
Even masturbate in your office like this.”
“Yes,” she says. There’s a little rising catch in her voice as she releases the word, a
little sob of excitement. Her fingers start pressing harder and now she feels the sticky
wetness between her lips. He shames her as he always does and her shame feels good,
like surrender. Her pussy is starting to ache, a hungry want she feels throughout her
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body but mostly in her breasts and pussy, her lips and even in her fingers sliding in the
open furrow of her distended sex.
“I want you to put a finger inside,” he says. “See if you’re wet and tell me. And
hold the phone up. I want to hear you when you fuck yourself.”
A little groan escapes her throat as she slides a fingertip between her labia and
inserts it into her pussy.
“Yes,” she says. Her voice is ragged and trembling. “I’m wet. A little. Is that good?”
“Yes it’s good. I love it when you’re wet, when you can’t control yourself. I love it
when you get all hot and excited like this.”
Her mind is filled with the image of him looking at her the way he does, his jaw set,
that look of anger and contempt in his eyes that communicates his lust. It’s a look that
always thrills her and it’s the look she always associates with him—either looking like
he’s so aroused that he’s ready to strike her, or with his head thrown back in rapture as
he ejaculates for her, giving her his pleasure.
The thought of him ejaculating makes her shudder anew and in her excitement she
forgets her role as his plaything.
“Are you close?” she asks. She has an image of him with his big cock in his hand,
pumping it as he listens to her, picturing her as she is now playing the tramp for him,
and she wants so badly to make it good for him. “Are you getting ready, my darling?”
“Am I close to coming? Is that what you want to know?” he asks.
“Yes!”
She can hear the wicked smile in his voice as he asks her, “Is that what you want,
Helene? Do you want me to come now while you play with yourself?”
“Yes! Please.”
“Then ask me. Go ahead and tell me what you want me to do.”
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It’s too much. Helene’s head is back against the chair, her fingers working hotly at
her pussy, her eyes closed then opening to dart a swift glance at her office door. She
can’t bring herself to say it, not here, not in the place she works.
“What, Helene? Ask me! Say it!”
It’s like diving into cold water—or water that’s boiling hot. She takes the plunge. “I
want you to come for me. I want you to come while I play with myself for you.”
There’s a slow, easy laugh from his end and she knows that he has himself under
complete control. He always has himself under control, making her beg and plead,
always under control until he gets to that point where he lets go and unleashes the full
fury of his lust upon her. The thought of him in his need couples with the image of her
own obscene acquiescence and immediately sends her excitement up to the very edge of
orgasm.
“How do you want it, Helene? Do you want me to pump it real slow? Or should I
do it fast, like I do when I come in your mouth? You know, like when you’re on your
knees, watching me. The way you whine in your throat, begging me to give it to you.”
She knows what he means. She whines like that now, overcome with desire to taste
him, to feel his male hardness between her lips, taste his salty musk on her tongue. She
puts her middle finger and ring finger together and slides them into her pussy while
she flicks at her clit with her forefinger. Her door is paper-thin. Someone might come by
at any minute to ask her to go to lunch and then what would they see?
She doesn’t care. She’s his now, using her own hand to deliver herself to him over
the phone. Her pleasure is lewd and obscene, degrading in its way, but it’s a
degradation that thrills her, the humiliation of showing her need.
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
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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!”
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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.
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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.
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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
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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.
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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
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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.
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She thinks for a moment that maybe he’ll just take her like that, a way to celebrate
their new bond, but no. He brings her to the bed and makes her lie down on her back.
He reaches into the nightstand where he keeps her cuffs and anklets and she lies there
as he buckles them in place.
“On your knees, Helene. Facing me.”
She gets up on her knees, her arms at her sides, and Daniel takes her right wrist and
clips the cuff to the ring in her right anklet, pulling her back upright and erect. He does
the same on the other side so she is forced to kneel on the bed like an Indian captive.
Daniel picks up the crop.
If the feel of his clothes against her naked body was like one dream, this is like
another. She knows immediately how to act and what she’s supposed to do, as if she’s
been in this position all her life. She has no choice to do anything else.
He touches her with the whip, rubbing the tip across her cheek and down over her
chest, her breast, along her ribs and up her back, finally lifting her hair with it and
caressing the back of her neck, right at the base of her skull. The leather is wicked and
cold, and its touch is dangerously intimate, like the nose of a snake, learning her skin,
the topography of her body. Helene is excited from his kiss and her own vulnerability.
Her fear is not that she’ll be hurt, but that she’ll fail to please him. If the cost of his
pleasure is her own pain, she’s more than willing.
“I won’t hurt you,” he says, as if reading her mind. “You know that’s not the point.
You also know you only have to tell me to stop and I will. This isn’t for me as much as it
is for you. You know that, Helene, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
Down over her cheek again and across her lips.
“Kiss it,” he says, pressing the head of the whip to her lips. “I have to know you
want it. It’s no good unless you want it.”
She does more than just kiss it. She opens her mouth and extends her tongue and
licks it as if it were his cock, with the same gentleness and fervent hunger. The leather is
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acrid and tastes of polish, as earthy and masculine as he is, and the tip seems to tremble
against her lips as he himself does when her mouth closes on him.
He’s used a whip on her before of course, but it had always been desultory, an
afterthought. It had never been the focus of what they did as it was now. It had never
been the bond that tied them together, but now it was. The whip is a part of him and a
part of her too. She realizes that now.
Down over her face, between her breasts then beneath them, lifting first one than
the other as they rise and fall with the heaving of her chest. The slick tip slides over her
nipples giving her chills. Her eyes are closed, waiting, following the trail of the whip
with every bit of concentration she has. A quick shudder makes her pull at her bonds
but her wrists are securely attached to her ankles.
“Here,” he says softly and the whip unexpectedly slaps down softly against an
engorged nipple, startling her with the suddenness of the blow. There’s no pain, but
she’s shocked at the richness of the sensation, intimate in a manner she’d never
imagined. The whip takes possession of her entire consciousness. She’s never been so
aware of her breasts as symbols of her femininity.
Helene gasps and he whips the other nipple, making her breasts glow with sexual
fullness and pressure. She wants to hide them but at the same time something forces her
to arch her back more, bringing her shoulders together behind her and thrusting them
out toward the blow.
Another slap and Helene groans, throwing her head back and biting her lip, giving
herself to him. Her body’s flooded with warmth and she feels her pussy throb with
aching emptiness. She’s never felt anything like this—the feeling of being used and of
giving so much of herself—and as she waits for the next blow she hears Daniel groan,
overcome with lust and desire for her. Of course she’ll let him do this to her. She’ll let
him do anything to her, anything he wants as long as she can feel his own reflected lust.
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The blows keep falling, steadily, rhythmically, and she writhes, fighting with
herself to keep still or to present him with new targets, to take the blows on the crowns
of her nipples or around their supersensitive edges. All the while she’s aware of his
excitement, of his barely contained desire for her. She can feel his urgency in each kiss
of the whip and his own arousal inflames her and leaves her wanting more and more.
“Do you like it, Helene?” he asks. “Do you love what I do to you?!”
He pushes her down onto her side and she rolls over on the bed, feeling the hot
burn in her breasts. He pushes her over on her back and with her wrists clamped to her
ankles she’s forced to raise her knees and present her naked and defenseless sex to him.
It’s a swamp of wetness now, the ache between her legs acute. Daniel juggles the whip
in one hand while he puts the other on the inside of her knee and presses her legs apart.
Helene sees the raw hunger in his eyes and knows what’s coming.
“Wider,” he says. “Open up for me, pretty!” She does, spreading her thighs the way
she does when she’s ready to take his cock, but she’s never been tied like this before,
compressed into a small and helpless ball so open and vulnerable. Her breasts throb,
her nipples are painfully turgid and erect as if they’re crying out for his attention and
the lips of her sex are swollen and distended with shamefully masochistic pleasure.
He spins her around until she’s on her back on the edge of the bed and then he puts
one knee on the mattress beside her. Holding her knee in one hand, he brings the whip
down on the tender skin on the inside of her thigh.
“Oh God!” she moans. “No! No, stop!”
He glares down at her. “Is that what you want? You want me to stop? Are you
asking me to stop?”
“Yes. No. Oh God, Daniel! Please! Just fuck me!”
She can say that now without flinching the way she used to, but still she doesn’t
know what she wants. This is so lewd, so terribly cruel and obscene and yet she longs to
satisfy that glow she sees in his eyes. She wants to be everything for him, to be the
source of all his pleasure, but still something in her rebels and will not let go. She feels
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her cunt twitch hungrily as if it resents her interference. Her pussy wants this. Her body
wants this. It’s only her conscience that resists.
“No, do it! Whip me, Daniel. I want to feel it. I want you to do everything to me!”
The whip slaps down against her bare and shivering cunt, landing right above her
clit and sending a bolt of pleasure through her body. She’s terribly ashamed and yet the
pleasure is like water to a thirsting man—it’s everything she needs—to be punished for
her need, punished for her desire for this man, for her greedy lust.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” she moans with every slap of the whip. Her hips are jerking,
thrusting up to meet every blow, her thighs spread wide and straining, giving her lover
what he wants and satisfying her own unspeakable desires.
She feels the blood rushing to her face, filling her throbbing breasts, dissolving her
flesh into one raging puddle of need.
His eyes bore into her, gauging everything she feels. There’s no doubt now that she
wants this, that she’s his to use as he wishes and seeing the trickle of her own wetness
seeping from her aroused pussy, the way the muscles in her shoulders and belly clench
tight with pre-orgasmic tension, he steps away from her.
Quickly he strips off his trousers and shorts as Helene lies trembling on the bed,
knowing she’s lost. All her self-respect, her self-possession and confidence in herself,
the person she is when she gets up on the morning and goes to work, that’s all gone.
She’s his now, she belongs to him and his cruel whip and the slave collar she wears
around her neck. The bonds holding her wrists to her ankles are like the savagery of his
embrace. She can’t move. All she can do is lie there and take.
He returns to the bed and arranges her, pushing her feet up near her ass so that her
knees open up like the wings of bird in flight, her arms reaching awkwardly down for
her ankles. He places the blunt head of his engorged cock at her lips and she knows
instantly what to do. There’s nothing she wants more than to give back to him, to show
him what he makes her feel. He lifts the crop and slaps her between the legs again and
Helene opens her mouth and sucks him hungrily inside.
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Elliot Mabeuse
He has one knee on the bed with one hand tangled in her disheveled hair holding
her up so she can suck his cock. His other hand whips her pussy, spanking it with
sharp, rhythmic blows—punishing her for her femininity, for her own lewd desires. Her
knees are almost flat against the bed, which causes her to arch her back and shove her
poor shaven labia up eagerly to accept his blows. Helene’s hands twist in their bonds.
Her fingers spread wide and then claw at the bedcover beneath her looking for
purchase, looking for something to hold on to as the world dissolves around her.
She can’t fight it and there’s nothing left to fight for any longer. Her dignity is gone,
anything that separates her from him is gone. He’s going to keep on spanking her pussy
and feeding her his cock until she explodes in orgasm, until she acknowledges the
mastery he has over her and gives him her ecstasy served up on her own quivering
body. She hears him groaning and swearing under his breath as she sucks at his
pumping cock. He swears at her—calls her rude and savage names—but all she hears is
the helpless surrender in his voice, the sound of a man driven out of his mind by a
woman’s surrender—all his strength gone, all his mastery gone, stripped down to bare
sexual need, just the way she is.
“Get ready, Helene! Get ready! You’re going to make me come! Oh God, you’re
going to make me come!”
And that’s all she needs. That’s the last thing she needs to hear and she suddenly
chokes on her own scream of release, spitting his cock out convulsively and then
sucking it back in as her body rockets up toward him, toward the unrelenting hardness
of cock and whip. Her orgasm is bone-deep, soul-deep, and carrying every particle of
herself away into a heaven of sexual surrender—his, his, only his.
She feels him grow and throb on her tongue and he shudders violently and wails as
he spits his seed into her stuffed mouth. She fights to swallow and shout out her
pleasure at the same time and it comes out muffled as she chokes and gurgles on his
thick ejaculate. Her body arches, every muscle clenches tight and her thighs tremble
convulsively as her pussy reaches for the whip. Her face grows bright red as the blood
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Helene Blackmailed
rushes to the surface like steam from a fire and she opens her mouth wide, hungry for
him, reduced to no more than a receptacle for his lust.
* * * * *
Reduced to a quivering, weeping puddle of herself, he gathers her into his arms and
holds her tight as she waits for her body to become solid again, afraid to move as if she
might yet shatter or fly apart. She’s on her back, her wrists freed from her ankles but the
cuffs still in place—all her symbols of submission still in place—and he leans against
her, pressing himself against her flesh and keeping her grounded and together with his
weight. One of his arms is beneath her around her shoulders, the other hand strokes her
face and traces the outline of her lips, dips down to finger the leather collar around her
neck.
“You don’t have to wear this for me,” he says. “And I don’t have to use the whip
ever again. Not if you don’t want it. But you have to know what it does to me seeing
you like this, giving yourself to me like this. It makes me crazy, Helene. It takes me to a
place I can’t get to any other way.”
Her mouth is dry and redolent with the taste of his semen, the most masculine and
sexual thing she’s ever tasted.
“I didn’t know,” she says. “I was frightened. I’m not frightened now. I didn’t
understand before.”
“I didn’t know either. I didn’t know until it just struck me as something I had to do.
You do that to me, Helene. You bring out these feelings I didn’t know I had.”
He leans back slightly so he can trace his hands down the curves of her body, down
over her breast and her side and over the smooth rise of her hip. He blows his breath
over her sweaty skin. It’s both warm and cool at the same time.
“You bring it out in me too,” she says, finally trusting her shaking limbs enough to
raise her hand and caress his face. “I mean, this isn’t the person I know, the me I’m used
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Elliot Mabeuse
to. I’m the office bitch, the woman who’s breaking through the glass ceiling. I don’t do
things like this, wear a collar and let a man whip me. I just never imagined.”
“No,” he says softly. “You are who you are. This doesn’t mean you’re one thing or
the other. This just means that with me, you give yourself entirely.”
“Yes.” She savors the thought. “I do. I give myself entirely to you. You know what
to do with me. I haven’t any idea anymore. I have no idea what’s inside me anymore. I
want to learn. I want you to teach me.”
He kisses her then with a kiss that’s like clouds on a mountain or the sun going
down into the evening sea. A kiss so gentle and so profound that it goes beyond mere
tenderness and reaches down into that deep place within her again and calls forth that
passionate stranger she knows now she hides inside. Her mouth opens and her arms go
around his back. On their own, her knees lift slightly and then fall apart and her hips
reach up for him to find his hand waiting for her, ready to take what it wants.
* * * * *
Work, life, and the crowds of people in the street as she walks to work in her
sensible business suit. Inside she’s a woman reborn, in touch with currents of life and
passion that run as deep in her as her blood. Around her neck she wears a thin silver
chain that reminds her of whom she belongs to, as if she ever needed any reminding.
Fall is coming and the sun reaches down between the downtown buildings,
painting the streets and facades of the office buildings in sheets of flat, dry light.
Automobiles honk in the congested traffic, lights change and people file by in herds,
heads down, talking about television or what goes on at work. As she walks, Helene
remembers the taste of her lover’s semen on her lips and the sound of his groans in her
ear as he gave it to her. She recalls the slap of the whip on her ass and the feel of his
fingers in his hair, his desperate need for her. Always his need.
Through the revolving door, into the elevator, standing hip to thigh with strangers,
their eyes on the floor indicator. This is her floor. This is her office.
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Helene Blackmailed
“Morning, Helene. Jeff pushed the nine o’clock meeting back to nine-fifteen…”
“Good morning, Ms. Blanchard. I left Mr. Foster’s notes on your desk.”
“The copier is down again, Helene. Janice called for service but they said—”
“Tony says he must have deleted the First Federated notes. Do you have another
copy?”
Yes. All right. Fine. Yes.
Helene walks amidst the chaos of the early morning office with a power and
serenity that only come to those who have tapped into a source of power larger than
themselves. For her it’s her sexuality, a feeling that she wears on her body like a cloak,
warm and protecting and powerful. It’s woven of the feel of her lover’s hands on her
body, the slap of the whip between her legs, the hunger in his eyes as he pulls her hair
to make her take his kiss on her open mouth. It’s the feel of losing herself in his desire
for her, of letting herself go, knowing that everything she gives will come back to her in
his savage and desperate love. It’s feeling his strength, the hardness of his arms, and
then feeling him dissolve into helpless ecstasy as he pours himself into her, holding her,
squeezing her, and moaning out her name.
She walks around her desk and slides her package into the bottom drawer. She’ll
wear it for him tonight when they meet, after they’ve gone out to dinner. She’ll feel the
anxious tremble in his hands as he unbuttons her blouse and sees what she’s wearing
and she’ll see the blaze of hunger in his eyes. Her stomach grows deliciously tight in
anticipation and she feels the memory of his touch glide over her like some gossamer
ghost.
She sits down in her chair and looks at the files on her desk. Tasks that took her
hours of agonizing indecision just weeks ago she now dispatches in a matter of minutes
with a sureness and sense of confidence that still amazes her. Confidence is easy when
you’re enveloped in such a cloak of power, when you’re bound to someone with chains
of love and intimacy that make the rest of what’s around you seem pale and
inconsequential in comparison.
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Elliot Mabeuse
She turns her chair away from her desk and looks through her window at the
building across the way, at the people going about their similar morning tasks. She
wonders how many of them are party to a relationship like hers. How many of them
have any idea of the intensity of feeling that she feels whenever she slips on her cuffs or
gets on her knees before him. There must be others. She can’t be the only one who’s felt
that storm of emotion breaking over her, who’s felt those currents of emotion that run
so unimaginably deep.
At nine-thirteen Helene picks up her files. She takes a pen and pad of paper from
her desk and walks off to her meeting, moving off alone, and yet never alone again.
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About the Author
Elliot Mabeuse is an award-winning author, critic, and porn theorist whose erotic
explorations combine depth and insight with a singularly passionate intensity. His
interest in the emotional and transformative power of sex gives his writing a unique
flavor, and results in works of literate erotica that are sensual, humane, and deeply
satisfying.
Retired from the chemical laboratory now, Doctor Mabeuse lives in Chicago where
he pursues his interests in the transcendent powers of sexuality, religion, and the
riddles of biochemistry. He can be reached at dr_mabeuse@yahoo.com
Elliot welcomes mail from readers. You can write to him c/o Ellora’s Cave
Publishing at 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502.
Also by Elliot Mabeuse
Overcoming Abigail
Discover for yourself why readers can’t get enough of the multiple award-winning
publisher Ellora’s Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC
on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you
breathless.
www.ellorascave.com
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