Dar Fantasies: the Call Girl 02

Chapter 2

There's a digital snap as he takes a picture when my belt comes undone and my coat slides away, exposing my panties. I can see his hands and the camera and nothing else He doesn't hide what he's doing, even though any real call girl would leave the moment he started snapping pics. But I'm not a real call girl. I'm his toy.

"Slow down. I want to savor this."

It would be easier just to throw my clothes off, kicking them aside and showing him my body, letting my nudity be normal, nonchalant. Instead, I feel heat in my cheeks and tightness chest as I slowly drop the belt, letting the coat hang open. It still covers my nipples, but that feels weirdly more exposed as he takes more pictures.

"Let it slide from your shoulders, slowly, as you turn. No, don't look at me. You know better than that."

I hadn't realized how much I'd kept my eyes down before he mentioned it. Even without the blinding light, I'm falling into a role I somehow know without instructions. He might have power over me, but I won't surrender that easily. I spy in the mirror, but the light only allows a silhouette of a man. He might be a bit shorter than typical, pretty average build.

"God, that ass. The first time I came looking at your photos, it was because of your ass. And that photo of you with the tail in." He chuckles. "That's when I knew this had to happen. No, don't try to peak at me in the mirror. You'll get to look soon enough. Hold that pose."

I look at the floor. My heart is racing, but from what? I'm not horny, but there's desire on the edge of the anxiety twisting in my belly, tingling in my legs and arms.

"Put your arms behind your back. Hold them at the elbows. And give me some of that special arch your husband likes so much."

If he hadn't said "your husband," this wouldn't feel like such a betrayal. My nerves are going wild. Guilt, worry...and desire. I take the position slowly, breathing slowly, trying to dissipate all of it.

"You know you're here for the night, Madeline. What's off-limits?"

I want to say my ass. I like butt toys. I love them when I'm in a filthy mood, knowing how much seeing a disk of metal between my asscheeks turn you on. But actual anal sex stops being fun after a few minutes. I'd almost rather rim this bastard than have him put his cock in my ass. But I don't say anything. The moment I define it as off-limits, he'll prove he has no limits and take my ass extra hard. If this fuck finds out I've never let you have my ass...

He chuckles again. "What's off-limits?"

"Nothing."

He stands up and closes in, the shutter clicking as he moves. I flinch as I see his shoes—expensive leather dress shoes, the kind only lawyers and old money wear anymore—right behind me. I close my eyes, stomach tight, my skin tingling with nerves as I anticipate his hand on my ass.

But he doesn't touch me. He doesn't lean close to my ear. But he lowers his voice. "You know this game, don't you, Madeline?"

I nod. Then say, "Yes" with a trembling voice.

"Why am I asking you questions?"

"I don't know," I lie.

He knows it's a lie. "Yes you do. Why?"

"To make me anticipate...to fear...to worry...about what you're going to do."

"So close. Why?"

"To make me complicit."

My eyes are closed, the rushing of blood in my ears almost louder than the faint hum of the building's mechanicals and wind on the windows, but I hear him smile. Feel it in my fingers and toes, on the back of my neck.

I jump when his finger strokes my spine, from just under my neck down to my tailbone. "Yes. You're going to be a willing participate, Madeline. You're going to beg me to take you."

I don't give him the satisfaction of denying it. He wants me to struggle first.

His finger traces back up my spine, goosebumps following it.

The fabric on his suit jacket brushes against me and then I feel his breath on my neck. "I own what I want and what I want is what I can't have. Can I have you?"

I don't answer, since both answers give him what he wants.

His finger dances along my back, towards the sides of my abdomen. Touched right, my belly can be my most intense erogenous zone, the tension between ticklish and pleasure so intense. Like pain, I think, for people who love that.

"Can I have you? I'm asking nicely."

"No."

"Will I?"

His touch is light as a spider as it traces down my side to my hip.

I swallow hard. I came here know he'd fuck me. But he wants more than that. "Yes."

"What will I?"

"Fuck me. Everywhere."

He steps away and laughs. "Catch." Something hits me softly and falls to the floor. A bottle. "I grew up with nothing, Madeline. I'm not going to accept anything less than everything. Go down the hall and put oil on. I love you shiny. Don't miss anyplace you think you'll regret having slick later."

The door down the hall opens to a bathroom. Minimalist, luxurious. The kind of place whose subtle scent and perfectly chosen details whispers power and wealth in your ear. I sit on the toilet—not

a

toilet: there are two—and pull off my boots.

His voice appears next to my ear. "There's a shower if you want it."

Startled, I look for him, but he's not there.

He chuckles. "It's amazing what audio engineers can do these days. It's almost as good as what those future people have."

A cold flush runs down my spine. His voice is light, but the threat is there. Do what he wants or he'll sick the government on us. Or do what he wants

then

he'll sick the government on us. Did he call the CIA the moment I stepped into the limo? Or was that two hour limit how much time it would take for them to get there, so you're already in some unofficial, super-illegal custody nobody ever leaves as our house is searched for future tech?

"And, yes, there are cameras everywhere. I want to see how you prepare for me. For what you think tonight will involve."

I shiver. I can't fight him. He knows I have to play along.

"Take you time, Madeline. But don't try to waste mine. You're preparing for me..."

I scan the wall, trying to spot cameras. It's dark enough that they could be hiding anywhere.

"And you," he whispers in my ear a moment later.

I shiver again. The sense of him being everywhere is terrifying...and something else. I fold the tops of my boots down, feeling the leather. They're expensive boots, specialty fetish items hand-crafted from cordovan leather in Germany. Something you and I took our time commissioning. Something that always excites you. the boots I wore while I fucked Noëmie. That was something we discussed and agreed upon. A exploration of a side of me I only discovered after we married and that you were comfortable enough to let me indulge. But I've never been fucked in them, except by you. And now this man is going to fuck me like a sex toy, use me however it wants. He's going to take pictures of me like you do, in a room full of things you designed so I remember you as he caresses me and shoves his cock into me.

I slide off my panties, contemplating balling them up and dropping them on the ground to disrupt his fantasy. But I don't. I lay them carefully on a bench near me. They're damp, and not because I was sweating. I put the chain vest next to it, careful to let it pick up the lights and shine. On one of the sinks—there are two—is a toothbrush with a nickel-plated and some kind of animal bristle. The kind of thing that's less effective than a modern vibrating toothbrush, but that costs ten times more. Sculpted into the handle is my name. Not ten times more. A hundred times more.

And nickel. I bite my lip as I look over the rest of the counter. An art deco nickel and glass bottle with metallic text proclaiming it shampoo. A matched bottle for conditioner, facial wash, body wash, and moisturizer. All scented with bergamot, yuzus, Ceylon cinnamon, Chai spices and some subtle floral scent that probably comes from orchards that blossom only every decade. More of the conspicuous expenses. These were probably crafted by some Parisian perfumer in exchange for a Moroccan villa.

The shower is ripe with fixtures. An overhead rain shower, a dozen or more jets to shoot onto the body, a hand-held shower head...and a nickel-plated nozzle with only one likely purpose.

Nickel. I play with the controls, trying to find a setting for the body jets that will offer a massage without getting my hair wet. Nickel. Did my husband ever put it in his blog that nickel is my metal. That all of my jewelry is made of it? How our wedding bands are crafted from it? Strong and warm, but common and industrial. Something many people are allergic to wearing, so mine alone.

He's telling me he knows everything about me. Everything he needs to manipulate me and control me.

I let the body jets pound into my flesh, hotter than I would normally use, stronger, like a firm grip. Pulsing into my legs and ass, into my belly and breasts. Almost rough. Almost like he's going to handle me.

The body wash blossoms in the steamy water, new dimensions emerging like a finely crafted hotel. There's something in it that gives a hint of a tingle, a mint or eucalyptus that isn't there on the nose. My fingers catch my nipple piercing, lingering for a moment, enjoying the sensation.

He wants to control me. And I'm letting him.

I use the face wash to clean my cunt, counting on it being more gentle. The tingle is there, but just at the edge of my senses. As I clean—no explore—the jets power into my ass. My skin must glow.

I give myself a moment to close my eyes, hand on my hip, just outside the danger area. I want to come, have a sweet little orgasm, imagining you, to make it harder for this man to make me respond to him.

I shake my head. No. I want to do it because I'm nervous and excited and afraid and...anticipating what's going to happen next. So I turn the jets down to where they're hardly more than a mist and let the soap flow down my body. Is he touching himself? I know how erotic it must be to see the bubbles snake down my goose-bumped flesh as I shiver, eyes closed.

I let him have his vision. Does he have his cock out? Is he going to have a come before I return so he can make last longer as he first slides into me? My finger presses against my asshole. Where will he take me first?

Then, when I'm clean, I take the nozzle—the nozzle a bit longer than my fingers, hardly bigger around than my pinky, and I put it in my mouth. I tease it like it's a cock—his cock. I service it for a minute, cupping where the nozzle meets the hose, then pulling on my nipple ring. Am I making him come? Imagining what I could do?

When I think the tease might slide over to sameness, I press my ass against the shower wall and reach between my legs, sliding it between my cunt lips, then press it into my ass all the way to the hose. It's about as far as I like toys to go it. It doesn't feel as full or stimulating at my favorite plug, but it feels good.

I jump. The water comes on without me activating a control. Body temperature without anything in it to make me tingle.

Without meaning to, my finger traces around the edge, felling myself get fuller. I pull on my nipple. The pressure grows greater. I start to cramp, a very unsexy feeling, but my fingers keep on stimulating myself until the cramping becomes unbearable. I pull it out. The results are less disgusting as I feared, but more jets come on and whisk the remains of my bowels away before the odor reaches my nose. The perfume smell blooms again.

I contemplating turning on the jets again, just for a moment to think. The terrible mix of emotions in my body now includes guilt. Touching myself isn't a betrayal, but touching myself here and now, as I feel his presence everywhere feels worse than just fucking this man. But the controls go dark before I push any buttons.

"I'll turn off the cameras as you finish your preparations. You need time to think about what just happened and what you know is happening. You need to deny it to yourself. Gather resolve to never let another moment like that happen.

"I want you to have that time, Madeline. I want you to swear to yourself you'll resist. I don't want what is easy."

There's a click, one that's surely a digital sound pipped in for effect, and the lights around the sinks get brighter. The oil is there.

He's right. I want to deny this. I want to steel my resolve. I want to be able to tell you I didn't enjoy a minute of it, and tell you truthfully.

I oil myself. I oil myself for him, taking time to make it a good show, feeling it work into my body. There's something in it, CBD, THC, perhaps some designer psychotropic developed to make my skin feel more alive. I'm certain I could orgasm in thirty seconds with just a bit of well-placed simulation, and it would be a good come. Just one that was followed by dark waves of guilt and despair.

I taste the oil before I slide two fingers into my ass and work it deep. It has yet another layer, somebody beyond the scent. Not coconut, but silky and delicious, sweet without being sweet. I imagine this is some ancient formulation of extinct plants concocted for Cleopatra, and the recipe was lost along with heads of the men who crafted it.

I pull my fingers out, playing with the edge of my ass. I bring myself to where just a tap on my clit, a stroke or my belly or a pull on my nipple would send me over the edge. Then I stop.

I put the oil down and stare at myself in the mirror.

How do I save my soul?