But the collar that held Jenna’s head in place prevented her from seeing that moment of violation. Instead, she consented herself with looking into Gustav’s eyes, seeing the cruelty that she had so craved as he prepared to take her.
Gustav smiled as his cock hovered between the swollen lips of Jenna’s sex. “What’s this?” He reached out and seized the locket from the tangled mass of her hair, pulling free a few strands as he did. Jenna cried out, feeling panic seize her.
“Still wearing your locket, my dear?” asked Gustav, yanking the chain unceremoniously so that it snapped. His cockhead rubbing at Jenna’s entrance drove her mind into swirls of hunger, so that she could barely comprehend what was happening. Gustav popped open the locket and smiled. “I see you’ve replaced me,” he said, deftly prying the photo of
Lewis out of the locket. “But you haven’t replaced your key.” He held up the tiny key and smiled as Jenna’s panic raged in her mind, battling with the hunger for Gustav’s cock.
“Could this be the key to that diary you keep by your bed?” he asked. “Certainly your husband would be scandalized if he knew what was inside. Or do you think he already knows?”
Gustav leaned forward, reaching under the divan—which made his cock rub more firmly against her sex. Jenna moaned and strove to lift her hips, sought desperately to push his cockhead further against her clitoris. But Gustav had found what he wanted, and as he brought it from its hiding place under the divan, he drew back, denying Jenna what she so desperately wanted. Instead, he held up a black leather-bound book, with her gold-embossed name on the cover. She panicked as Gustav smiled down at her.
“Wh-where did you get that?” she asked.
“From where you’ve always kept it,” said Gustav, bringing the diary down between Jenna’s spread thighs. “Next to the bed where you so faithfully service your husband, when what you want is to be a whore, bound and spread to a table, fucked just like this.”
Gustav drew the diary back and brought it down on Jenna’s sex, the heavy book sending a thud through her body as he spanked her. His next blows landed, glancing, first on one thigh and then on the other, causing a sting rather than a thud, and Jenna yelped as Gustav chuckled. Three more blows landed in rapid succession on Jenna’s sex, and the weight of them brought the ache of her clitoris back to life. Gustav leaned forward, shoving the book under the small of Jenna’s back, and as he did so, his cock met her sex again, drowning all her fear in the hunger to be fucked.
The metal lock on the book drove into Jenna’s flesh as Gustav rested his body heavily upon her.
“Please,” she asked. “Where did you get my diary?”
“Come, dear,” sighed Gustav as he brought his lips to her tits, encircling her nipples with a rough bite. “It’s useless without the locket. Oh, I seem to have gotten that, as well. It seems all your secrets are soon to be on display.”
Jenna moaned as Gustav’s mammoth cockhead spread her lips, violating her. With one smooth motion, Gustav took her cunt, not even pausing as he felt how tight she was. Jenna felt her body stretching to accommodate him, that first hint of discomfort giving way to shudders of pleasure.
Gustav’s cock sank fully into her, opening up her sex with the savage thrusts that had burned in Jenna’s memory from the last time she’d tasted them. Moaning, Jenna writhed against the divan as Gustav tucked the key under the hood of her clitoris, pressing its sharp edges against her. The feel of cold metal at her most sensitive spot was enough to drive Jenna toward her third orgasm, making her squirm and gasp as the pleasure reached the breaking point inside her. But one further violation would be visited upon her before she was allowed to come, and it was not one to which she was accustomed.
She felt Gustav’s powerful thrusts stroking deep into her in the rhythm that spelled his imminent climax. But even through the haze of unbridled pleasure, she could feel the pressure at her rear entrance, Gustav’s free hand parting her cheeks forcefully as another circlet of cold metal violated her. It was the locket. Gustav shoved it forcefully into Jenna’s back door, making her cry out in dismay as he took, with her most treasured possession, that entrance he had never used in all their months of secret meetings. Jenna felt her ass opening up for the locket, as Gustav’s cock pounded ruthlessly into her. She lifted her hips until the metal band around her waist drove painfully into her belly, savaging her with each violent thrust of her body.
Gustav came, his heat spilling deep inside her as he
laughed. The familiar feeling of that hot seed drove Jenna to her climax, her cries drowning out what she would have done well to listen for—the door of the parlor, opening.
It was without a doubt the most intense climax Gustav’s cock had ever given her, and therefore the most powerful release of Jenna’s young life. But even in the midst of her passion, Lady Jennifer heard the heavy footsteps, the glass crunching under booted feet. She saw the shadow over her only an instant before a firm hand seized her tear-stained face and a fresh cock violated her mouth.
This cock, familiar in its own way, opened up Jenna’s throat anew and stifled the cries of orgasm before she had finished coming. Confusion overtaking her, along with the sudden and inexplicable hunger for this stranger’s cock, she strained to get a view of him. But within a dozen or two dozen thrusts, she knew who it must be. Perhaps it was the taste of his cock, which she had experienced many times while feigning a lack of oral skill; perhaps it was the scent of his sex, which surrounded her and suffused her world as she swallowed him again and again, his thrusts proving more violent, even, than Gustav’s.
Or, more likely, it was the taste of his seed, which exploded down her throat as a familiar groan sounded overhead, but rough this time where it had always before been tender. The taste of that seed was ripe, more pungent than Gustav’s, less bewitching. And yet, where she had always before spit it out into a handkerchief—with whatever delicacy a Lady can muster after giving her husband a halfhearted blow job—she now gulped it hungrily, and would have done so even if his pounding thrusts had not forced her husband’s cockhead so deep into her throat that no enthusiasm was needed on Lady Jennifer’s part to swallow every drop of his seed.
Gustav drew his softening cock out of Jenna’s sex and wiped it unceremoniously on her sweat-moist thighs.
As Jenna looked up, she felt shame suffusing her, knowing that those cold eyes that regarded her were eyes she’d looked into many times, thinking she had the upper hand. Now, Lewis knew everything—or he soon would.
Shivering with the aftereffects of her orgasm, Jenna felt a flood of relief. Lewis regarded her with the rough contempt she had come to know only in Gustav’s eyes. And yet, she knew it was hers forevermore.
“You make quite a pretty picture, Lady Jennifer,” growled Lewis. “A whore with ruined lipstick and tear-stained cheeks. Much prettier than the virginal maiden you’ve pretended to be.”
Gustav reached under Jenna, removing the diary from where it rested beneath the small of her back.
“What do you say, cousin?” he asked, fitting the key into the lock on the diary, even as the locket itself remained deep inside Jenna’s aching back door, broken gold chain dangling out to tickle her rear cheeks. “Shall we end our three-year charade? You’ve certainly earned your slave, enduring her little pretense of virtue for so long.”
“C-cousin?” asked Jenna.
“Oh, many generations back,” laughed Lewis. “The Braeburns and the Partridges are related, all right—but my branch has long since lost its title. It’s a sordid story I’ll be sure to tell you after we know every filthy story
you
have to tell. But I suspect your stories are even
more
sordid than anything the Braeburns have been able to conjure.”
“So, cousin, what’s it to be with your innocent bride, now that she knows the score? Shall we leave her bound while we read her confessions?”
Jenna pulled firmly against her bonds, as if to reassure herself that there was no way she could escape. Looking up into her husband’s eyes, she saw the familiar look that she’d seen so many times in Gustav’s eyes—the mixture of contempt and
approval that could only be seen in a man who wanted exactly what Jenna had to offer.
Jenna felt her fear giving way to release, as Lewis caressed her sweat-soaked hair.
“I think my wife has a better suggestion,” he growled. “Don’t you, Jenna?”
Jenna took a deep breath and nodded as best she was able with the metal collar still restraining her.
“I’ll read them to you,” she said breathlessly.
Gustav disappeared from between her thighs; in an instant, Jenna heard the whirring of the divan and the click of the metal restraints retracting from around her neck, wrists, thighs, waist, and ankles.
Her husband helped her up.
She walked on unsteady legs to the armchair where Gustav sat, as Lewis took his place on the divan. The locket remained lodged deep in her ass, but Jenna knew it was not her place to remove it.
That privilege belonged to her husband, now.
Jenna looked at the floor, for once not feigning shyness. Gustav held out the diary, and when Jenna accepted it, he handed her the key.
“By all means,” said Gustav. “Entertain us.”
Her hands shaking, Jenna fitted the key into the lock.
Fire and Ice
Rachel Kramer Bussel
Her hair is in pigtails, short ones that look beyond adorable. On an older girl, this wouldn’t work, but on this twenty-two year old they strike the right balance between cuteness and flirtation. She looks just young enough that I get a slight chill, wondering if the six years between us signal my (or her) utter corruption. But she is an adult and she sits surveying the party crowd, cigarette in hand. She’s the cohost of the party but looks as if she’s waiting for it to be over so she can crawl into bed with her smoke and her stare. While she’s waiting, I check her out surreptitiously. I know she’s mature enough to do justice to my fantasies, the ones she clearly wants to provoke with her short black denim skirt, patterned fishnets, and skimpy V-necked white T-shirt with black bra peeking out underneath, perfectly trashy. Her intense stare darts out from the mess of disheveled hair she constantly pushes from her face, the better to hide from the world, though really she is the type of girl who desperately wants to be seen. You don’t dress like that to be ignored.
We’ve met before, but you could call us strangers and
totally get away with it. I know enough details to find her the most fascinating girl in the room, a bundle of contradictions I’m dying to unravel. Otherwise, this party doesn’t have much going for it; what had seemed like a fun night out has devolved into a crowd full of strangers, tired drinks, canned music: fun-by-numbers, but it’s still better than watching the same old videos at home. And she makes it worth every idle minute of sipping my drink and trying to look lost in thought or at least casually busy. I stick around, knowing she’s the kind of girl who likes to be kept waiting, even if
she
doesn’t know it yet.
Her skirt falls to mid-thigh, which immediately makes me want to get under it. She’s looking around with that calm, icy assurance that belies her years, but it’s not that typical New York swagger, that do-I-have-somewhere-else-to-be/is-there-anyone-important-here-for-me-to-talk-to? look. I wonder where she culled her party guests, or maybe they’re all her roommate’s because nobody’s paying her any attention, abiding the invisible
Steer Clear
on her forehead. I can sense the hesitancy as she takes each drag, fingers shaking infinitesimally, not wanting to admit to anything but her self-imposed bravado. That bravado is what I long to crack. In my head, I press my hand up against her eager cunt; make her buckle underneath me, claw at the wall, drop her cigarette and her façade as she succumbs to what she truly wants.
Looking at her all cool and calm, a vision comes to me—her, naked, on her hands and knees on a bed, her clit sparkling with the silver sparkling hoop surely dangling from its hood, her wetness so palpable I can feel it before I even touch it. Me, ready to fuck her, my hands tingling with arousal, my pussy jumping like it’s been touched by a violet wand. I squirm as I fight off the urge to touch myself, to do anything to offset the almost agonizing arousal that has overtaken me with this fantasy, and with that surge I know that I’ll have to overcome
any lingering nerves and go up to her. Just as I begin to stride toward her, I see her walking toward me, and I fix my gaze on her, not smiling, not frowning, not giving anything away.
She halts in front of me, so close we are almost touching, and holds her cigarette up to my lips for a puff. Normally, I’m not a smoker and can’t stand the smell, but from her the tobacco is somehow erotically charged, and I inhale and then slowly let it out, plucking the cigarette from her fingers and stubbing it out before pulling her head in for a kiss. Her lips are soft and hot and moist, and I slowly, sensually devour her mouth. I could spend all day like this, and instead of the frantic groping I’d anticipated, I move slowly, my tongue gently parting her lips and deliberately teasing and tickling, coating her teeth and then moving back to her tongue and luscious lips. Being so close to her mouth is making my pussy spasm again, hurrying me along when I would prefer to take my time. Her skin is hot, almost burning up, and I know that her pussy will be too. I tease her, toying with her tongue, sliding it between my teeth, biting her lips, small, sharp nibbles that leave her wanting more. I want her to pant for me, beg for me, lose all sense of control as she squirms in her stockings, no longer giving a damn what any of the overgrown hipsters here think about her.
Memories of her surface, in that magically convenient way they do, coaxed forth not with the deepest of thought but by the logic of the unconscious. I recall other parties, restaurants, where I’ve seen her idly playing with the candles, her finger darting into the flame, flirting with the heat to get to the wax, which she swirls around her finger, poking it into the wet, warm morass and then coating her hands with its flaky whiteness. I observed this for a while, the casual way she didn’t flinch as she poked at the wax, her utter concentration as she went about her solitary task. I have never even been able to draw my finger through the palest part of the
flame, the heat scaring me off even though I know it will not actually burn me if I move quickly enough. Just the hint of that danger excites me, and I know exactly what I will do to her once I get her alone.