Three #2
My legs are trembling. I’d be on the floor if he wasn’t holding me up with his hand in my hair and his cock inside me. I’m barely conscious that I’ve gripped the wrist of the hand between my legs. Maybe I’m pulling it against me, silently begging him not to stop touching me.
I let go like I’ve been burned.
His grip on my braid tightens, forcing my back to arch more, and the arm over my hip pulls me against him.
The rhythm of his strokes changes; he’s staying deeper within me, thrusting hard.
My every nerve ending is awake, from my nipples out in the cold of the night, to the tingle in my scalp where my hair pulls, to my clit sending waves of pleasure through my whole body.
Deep in my pussy, his cock swells as he grunts with exertion, then shoots his hot jets of cum.
I don’t know that my orgasm ever truly abated, but that sensation pushes it higher, and I cry out as I clench down on him.
His arm hooks me against him, my ass pressing into his hips, my back against his silky shirt, the buttons rubbing my spine.
We’re touching almost everywhere we can be as we both ride out the pleasure of our releases.
For a moment, I forget where I am, or what’s happened. It’s like we’re in bed, lovers together, basking in the afterglow of some of the best sex I’ve ever had.
For a moment.
And then reality comes crashing back. We’re on a terrace. I hate this man. My dress is ruined, my bra useless, there’s a room with a hundred people behind a door, and my pussy is full of his cum.
Is this his final, sadistic punishment?
How could I have let this happen?
But even through my post-orgasmic fog, the answer to that is crystal clear: I never had a choice.
He slips out of me, his supporting arm taken away, and I slump over the table, my legs not steady enough to support my weight. I can’t feel him anymore; he’s stepped away.
There’s a brief delay, then my panties land on the wood beside my head, stained with his cum. I glance over my shoulder, and he’s tucking himself into his boxers. He readjusts his clothing, fastening his belt, and slicks back his already perfect hair.
His gaze falls to my ass, still raised up, because I haven’t summoned the strength to stand.
I struggle to rise, not wanting him to look at me like that when he’s fully dressed, but he’s on me in two quick paces.
One hand lands between my shoulder blades, pinning me back down, and the other slaps into my ass, drawing another pained gasp from me.
Is he going to spank me again? After all this?
But he doesn’t. Instead, he slides two fingers between my labia, probing my entrance, making me aware of how sore and sensitive I am. Then his hand comes around, fingers glistening in the dim light, held before my face.
“Lick.”
I turn my head away, pressing my lips together. I’ve done everything he asks; isn’t that enough?
His hand finds its usual grip on my braid, and he shakes my head. “Lick.”
Reluctantly, I open my mouth. He doesn’t wait but pushes his fingers in, rubbing them over my tongue. I taste his cum again, mixed with mine, the combined essence of his use of me.
“Next time we meet, I trust you’ll be more prudent with your choice of insults.”
There won’t be a next time.
Understatement of the century.
I nod jerkily, as much as his grip on my hair will allow.
“I’m not going to let you keep the hairs you took from Steven Serranto.”
Fuck. After all this? That’s just not fair. I glare up at him.
“Instead,” he continues, “I will ensure he never bothers you nor your sister again.”
Yeah? How is he going to do that?
He pauses, holding my gaze, eyes in shadow yet no less intense for all that. “You have my word.”
That promise lands with a certainty I have no business feeling for a man I met an hour ago and hate with every fiber of my being, yet somehow I know—I know—that neither Lucy nor I will ever have to worry about Serranto again.
I meet his eyes, dark pools gleaming with reflected light, and nod my understanding and acceptance. Perhaps even my thanks.
No, not that. He doesn’t deserve it.
He releases me, stepping away, and I struggle to push myself upright as he retrieves my clutch from the ground near the door.
There’s nothing I can do as he unzips it, removing the tissue I so carefully wrapped the stolen hairs in, pushing it into his pocket.
Then he sweeps up the jacket that I knelt on, and sets them both on a table.
“I’ll have Haynes drive you home,” he says, collecting his own jacket and shrugging it back on.
I straighten, leaning against the edge of the table, my legs still shaky. “Haynes?” I ask, as I try to pull my dress up to cover my breasts. It won’t stay without the straps, and the bra is useless.
“My man inside the door. When you’re ready, he’ll take you.”
He stands there, watching me, expectant.
“Thank you.” It’s a common courtesy, but the words feel like they’ve been clawed from my throat.
He inclines his head, slowly, then turns on his heel and walks to the door. I watch him leave.
But he pauses with one hand on the handle, looking back at me. “Good night, Amelia. I won’t bother telling you to have sweet dreams of me, because we both know you will.”
Then he opens the door and steps through, my retort still forming.
Bastard.
Yeah, that’s what I would’ve said.
Except I’m never going to insult that man again.
Or see him. I’ll run the other way first, as fast as I can.
His cum chooses that moment to trickle down my inner thigh, and I grimace. My panties are ruined, torn and damp, but they can serve one more purpose. I use them to wipe myself clean, then deposit them in a convenient trash can.
Tears come, then. Humiliation, shame, shock—I don’t even know which feeling wins.
I sob as I pull on the tuxedo jacket he’s left me. It’s too large, but I wear it anyway; it’s either that or walk back through the gala with my breasts on display.
There’s no point buttoning it, the gap will be down to my navel. I overlap the two sides, pinning my dress beneath it as best I can. I’m certain I look ridiculous, but there’s no other fucking choice.
I wipe the tears from my eyes, pick up my clutch, brace myself for more seconds than I care to admit, then lift my chin, square my shoulders, and reach for the door handle.
The man inside is waiting, hands clasped behind his back.
Just let him fucking make a comment. Just one. I’ll claw his eyes out.
“Are you ready to leave?” His accent is distinctly British.
“Yes.”
His eyes stay carefully on my face. “Do you require any assistance?”
“No.” I pause. “Thank you.”
So maybe I’ve learned some basic politeness.
He nods, then gestures down the hallway that leads back into the gallery. “After you.”
There are walks of shame, and then there’s what I did. Head high, shoulders back, eyes straight ahead. Wearing a jacket that clearly isn’t mine, accompanied by a man without one. My arm tucked firmly around my stomach, pinning the two sides closed, my other hand holding my dress.
I can’t imagine how I look. Face flushed, hair in disarray, makeup smudged. My ass tingling from Van Wyk’s spanking, my pussy and throat aching from his rough use of me.
The room goes quiet, silence rippling out as I walk by, or maybe I’m imagining it, because I can’t hear a damn thing save for my pulse drumming in my ears.
I make no effort to look for Van Wyk. I know I won’t keep my composure if I see him. Fortunately, there’s no sign of Serranto either.
It’s only eighty feet across the room, but it feels eighty times as much, each step a torture. Finally, finally, we reach the exit, Haynes behind me. He calls the elevator, looking completely unruffled, like he takes out Van Wyk’s trash on a regular basis.
Except that’s not possible. If Van Wyk is to be believed, he hasn’t fucked anyone since his late wife.
And I do believe him. I don’t know why, but I do.
Which leaves only one question unanswered: Why me?
Haynes presses the button for the lower lobby, sees me into a sleek black Maybach, and drives me home.