Chapter 8 - Zach
Zach
Before my eyes is a sight I can never un-see. I suspect Cal’s use of the word banquette was indeed a double entendre, because the construction is an enormous, plush, waist-high ottoman-type thing over which several women are draped in a row.
A quick count tells me there are six of them, all standing, all bent forward at the waist so their torsos lie along the leather surface, and all blindfolded, their wrists shackled to a line of what look like hooks.
They’re clothed, most of them in short dresses or skirts, their feet planted wide.
And over the slender thighs of the woman nearest to us cascade the same silky black tassels that had me so enthralled in the bar.
Maddy.
Her face is turned towards us, her cheek resting on the ottoman’s surface, her beautiful eyes hidden behind a black sleep mask and her lips, or what I can see of them behind her outstretched arm, slightly parted in an unmistakable expression of arousal and contentment.
That’s not all. There’s a man—a lot older than us—sauntering up and down the line of women.
His swagger is arrogant, proprietary, and it gets my hackles up immediately.
He stops behind a woman two down from Maddy and slides her dress up over her arse, revealing two perfect orbs of bare flesh intersected by a scrap of black lace.
I watch with a mess of emotions churning inside me as he pulls the lace and snaps it back against her pussy with force. She wiggles her bottom at him, wanting more, and he smiles and bends over, whispering something to her as his hand disappears between her legs, and she bucks against him.
Holy fucking Christ. I’m torn between watching this guy toying with his thong-clad plaything and being unable to take my gaze away from Maddy. She’s waiting patiently, but for what?
For him?
‘Who the fuck is he?’ I mutter to Cal.
‘Pascal,’ he replies. ‘Don’t know his surname. Bit of a prick, but the women fucking love him. He loves nothing more than to line them up like this and get them all worked up.’
‘Will he fuck them all?’ I wonder aloud, my internal filter having clearly broken the moment I laid eyes on this spectacle.
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ I sense Cal shrug beside me. ‘He’ll get his friends involved. The banquette is a free-for-all situation too, you know. If you wanted to have a crack at anyone in particular, my lips are sealed. I never saw anything. In fact, duty calls.’
I watch in awe and horror as my mate passes Maddy and makes his way to the other end of the line, sinking to his knees and flipping up the little skirt of a blonde before burying his face between her legs.
Holy fuck.
I am in way over my head.
I need to get out of here. Now.
But I’m rooted to the spot, unable to leave, or move, or act.
This Pascal guy straightens up, runs his fingers over the thong of the woman he’s just been fingering, and moves towards me.
He’s got to stop at the woman next to Maddy. He’s got to.
He doesn’t.
He ignores her except for a cursory swipe at her arse and settles behind Maddy. He pushes her skirt up, and those tassels flutter and tangle and brush over her flawless skin as he does, revealing just her bare, heavenly bottom.
My cock, which has been throbbing, jerks so violently I swear it’ll have my zip imprinted on it.
She’s not wearing any fucking pants.
Has she just taken them off? Or was she bare all evening as she crossed and uncrossed her legs in front of me, Sharon Stone style, at the bar?
The guy rubs at her bottom appraisingly like she’s a fucking prize cow and slides one thick finger inside her as I watch in utter horror.
Jealousy and arousal sear through me, rendering my poor, blood-deprived brain practically useless.
There’s a tingling sensation all over my body, like I’m being set alight from inside, while one sole thought consumes me.
The same thought I had as I left the bar.
What would she feel like?
Another thought finds its way in. A wish, a mantra.
Walk the fuck away from her, you cunt.
I’m vaguely aware of other guys and a woman closing in, circling their prey like vultures, and who can blame them?
Because one of them in particular is irresistible.
Her allure is powerful in the office, and it’s powerful when we go out for team drinks and she’s all dolled up.
But right now, bare and bent over with her pussy quivering around some dickwad’s intruding finger, she is every fucking thing I’ve ever wanted.
She is nirvana.
He rolls his finger around inside her. It would appear I’ve been edging closer.
From my new vantage point, I have the dubious honour of being able to see his other hand clench hard against the flesh of her cheek, his thumb grazing the rim of that tight hole right above where his other hand is buried.
He raises a casual, entitled hand and spanks her bare flesh.
As he lifts it away, her skin blooms the prettiest shade of pink I’ve ever seen, and she pushes against his hands.
I’m dying. I’m dead. This is too much, too excruciating. It’s the worst temptation I’ve ever known. I’m not cut out for this—not for seeing Maddy being touched, used like this, by some random fucking guy. I won’t survive it.
And then, miracle of miracles, he’s backing away from her and laughing and jerking a thumb at me.
‘She’s all yours, mate,’ he says to me. ‘Go for it.’
I’m only barely conscious of closing the empty space behind her as quickly as he vacates it, and of sinking to my knees in awe and supplication and ecstasy, and of finding myself exactly at eye level with Maddy’s sweet pink cunt.
* * *
The sight of it leaves no room for any emotion other than need. No room for pain. If my pain is a fire, this desperation in me is an oxygen vacuum. It sweeps away everything else. The past few minutes have been arousing and tormenting in equal measure.
But this? This is full-wattage, fourteen-year-old boy-level desire where nothing else on earth matters. It does, indeed, feel in this moment like we’re only here on this planet for this.
To taste.
To fuck.
No wonder the church is so terrified of sex. No wonder it’s spent millennia using fear and hellfire to warn us away from it. It’s the most powerful, intoxicating force there is. Nothing else can compete.
Her cunt is the most beautiful sight I’ve seen.
Rose pink and bare, except for a neat strip of dark hair disappearing around her front.
Her lips are delicate. Her clit is already swollen from that guy’s ham-fisted efforts, protruding from its hood like a succulent berry.
And her holes are on full display for me, the welcoming oval of her entrance wet and glistening and ready to be breached, the tight ring of muscle above it more closed up and darker in colour.
Without realising it, I’ve curled my fingers lightly around Maddy’s shapely ankles, and equally lightly I run them up her legs.
Up over velvety skin and the muscles of her calves, taut as she stands in her high, sexy heels.
My thumbs caress the delicate hollows behind her knees.
They press in further to her toned hamstrings as my hands slide up her thighs.
Fuck, these thighs. They’ve teased me most days at work, given her penchant for short skirts and fuck-me heels or boots. They’ve taunted me tonight, and now they’re mine.
Mine to stroke.
Mine to grip.
And grip I do, my thumbs reaching further around so they’re dragging up her inner thighs. And all the while, my face is mere inches from her exposed pussy and I’m drowning in her delicate, musky scent, a scent so intoxicating that I’m already high. The aroused heat pumping off her is extraordinary.
I breathe in deeply, and exhale, and my breath must be warm on her flesh, because she wriggles her arse in my face and whimpers out a please that’s loud enough for me to hear it above the music.
Jesus Christ. That arse.
I don’t touch her where she wants it. Not yet. Instead, my hands continue their exploration, my palms sliding worshipfully north, my thumbs skating just shy of the place where her skin becomes needy, sensitive pads of flesh.
My palms hit the smooth skin of her bottom.
The skin that turned so prettily pink under that arsehole’s smack.
I’ve never had a twitchy palm, but I positively ache to spank these beautiful cheeks.
To see a flush bloom across her skin, to enjoy the gratifying jerk her body makes as she begs for more.
Some of the fringing on her dress hangs over her bottom, rogue tassels dangling.
Black against tanned skin and then, where those fucking bikini bottoms were, against white.
I lazily brush them out of the way, pushing the hem of her dress higher so it’s clear of the area I want perfectly exposed for me.
I do slap her then, because the sight of her laid bare for me is too much, and because her flawless skin is a blank canvas I find myself wanting to mark.
Needing to mark.
I raise a hand and bring it down, not too hard but firmly enough to sting, and she yelps in surprise before I smooth a palm over the reddening, smarting area and press a chaste kiss to the middle of one deliciously plump cheek.
But, because I’m a man who’s been to hell and back this past year and can handle a few more minutes of torture, as well as a man petty enough to relish tormenting the woman who’s caused him so much angst, I get to my feet and bend over her so my front lies over her back, pressing my suit-trouser-clad erection against her as I bring my face down to the back of her neck.
Because in for a penny, in for a fucking pound, and I want my fill of this woman before this fleeting, carnal reprieve is dust.