3 comments/ 46503 views/ 7 favorites Suits By: sr71plt It was a steamy, smoke-filled night at Hernando's, and I and the other two guys had been dancing to the music on the small stage for twenty minutes. I was already down to the ten-gallon hat, the pinto pony vest, the cowboy boots, and the low-slung belt and six-gun holsters with the even lower slung eight-inch gun swinging in between and nothing else on when I felt the hand on the ankle of one of my boots. The dude clinging to my boot looked cooler than a cucumber despite the heat and the indoor smog and even though he was wearing a suit—a finely tailored Brooks Brothers navy blue pinstripe silk suit that was cut close to his well-cut body. He looked like money all over. His pale blue dress shirt was as finely and closely cut to the perfect curves and bulges of his body as his suit was, and the gold studs in his shirt cuffs and his Rolex watch sparkled in beams from the strobing lights overhead. He was flashing a set of ultrawhite, perfectly capped teeth at me in a full-lipped, sensuous mouth. He also was flashing a fifty-dollar bill. Having gotten my attention by grabbing my boot as I was undulating on the stage above him, stroking myself off, not far from giving the crowd the thrill it had come to see, he yelled up to me through the loud music and the din of cat calls and stale suggestions. "You fuck me? More of this if it's good for me." Fifty dollars? His tie alone was worth four times that. An insult. I was having offers twice that high thrown at me by the plumbers and electricians sitting all around him. I crouched down and shot my load across the nice lapels of his $800 Brooks Brothers suit, and then I went home that night and fucked my bass-voiced boyfriend until he warbled soprano. And I did it for free. Three nights later I was at my other evening job, the more humbling one, as a car hop at the Honeywell Hotel. They made me wear a monkey suit there; I much prefer my cowboy outfit at Hernando's. It had been air conditioned and I was watched when I wore that one. I liked being watched; I was built to be watched. Here at Honeywells I was invisible; just part of the service in getting into and out of the hotel in a jiff. But at least here I got to jockey Porsche Boxsters—at least as far as the parking lot over in the shadows beside and behind the hotel. I was contemplating being invisible when a honey of a silver Maserati Quattoporte drove up to the entrance and out stepped . . . the suit from Hernando's. At least he was still noticing me. He picked up on who I was right off, and I was afraid he might take a swing at me for messing up his Brooks Brothers—but he didn't. He was all flashy smiles and knowing looks. And he had been slumming the other night. Tonight he was wearing a lustrous brown Armani suit, easily worth three times what the blue pinstripe the other night had been worth, and he had on an ochre silk shirt under that, a flashy silk tie, and diamond cufflinks. All just as expensively and closely cut as the suit of the other night was. The man was dripping money. It was almost like I could walk along behind him and pick up gold coins as he shot them out of his ass like a bunny with diarrhea. Two hours later he reappeared through the hotel entrance. Another one of the car hops reached for his ticket, but he held off from giving it to the guy and looked around until he spotted me. He walked over, flashing that big, "see what I've got and you don't" smile at me and handed me the ticket. But he also had $200 in folded fifties in the hand holding the ticket, and he wouldn't let loose of either of those or my hand as he said in a husky whisper, "Shall we up the ante?" I was going off duty then anyway. And two hundred bucks meant a lot to me—obviously far more than it meant to him. When I drove the Maserati around, I didn't get out of the driver's seat; I just leaned over and flipped open the passenger seat door. This was a signal to him, a gauntlet, so to speak. If we were going to do this thing, I was going to do the driving. I liked the idea of the $200, but if he thought he was going to get off as cheaply as that, he was mistaken. Tonight was going to cost him a whole hell lot more than $200. He got in the passenger side without hesitation, and I fisted the stick shift and he fisted my stick as I drove him into the parking lot and back to the corner where I had my Chevy van parked. I clicked open the sliding side door to the van, and the suit got in without hesitation and whistled in appreciation. I had it outfitted for love. Smoked windows; floor, sides, and ceiling covered in padded sapphire blue velour; straps anchored strategically here and there, and an easily accessible sound system with speakers embedded all around. And that stool. He'd be introduced to the stool later. I told him to take off his shoes in my home—just like they do in the Orient. And while he docilely did that, I climbed into the van, stripped off the hated car jockey's uniform, clicked the side door shut, and turned on the sound system. I selected Lebanese music with a good strong beat and a tortured-voice singer singing in a manner that would disguise most any yowling coming from inside the van. I planned on there being some yowling. First thing I did was tie up the dude's right wrist to a strap in the ceiling of the van, a little behind the front seat. I didn't want him going anywhere or getting the notion he was going to be in charge. He hunched there, in his Armani suit, his free hand searching between my thighs. I stripped the Rolex from his left wrist and, after entertaining him with how well balanced it was when I hung it on my hard cock and spun it around for him, I tossed it into one of his shoes. I didn't want the reminder of money ticking away while I worked here. Then I got his fist off my cock, where he had found a mushroom cap silver stud that flashed in the overhead bulb just as brightly as his diamond cufflinks did, and strapped his left wrist up to the ceiling. I unbelted and unzipped him, and peeled the Armani trousers and Calvin Klein briefs off his legs. And I wasn't delicate about it. I heard a rip and so did he, but neither one of us showed that we cared. I was moving with determination and he was already wide-eyed and giving little panting sounds and murmured moanings. He had seen my eight inches in full erection already. He knew what I was packing for him. He was crouched there on his knees now, panting, in fine silk socks held up with braces under his knees and above his well-muscled calves, but still fully decked out in suit coat, shirt, and tie. I crouched between his spread knees, letting my cock snake up under the tail of his shirt and bedevil his navel while our lips were heavily engaged in a sloppy kiss. I unbuttoned the two middle buttons of his shirt, just enough so that I could spread the expensive, rustling silk and expose a puffed up nipple. Then I lowered my head and pushed his tie aside with my chin and worked his nipple through the opening of his shirt with my tongue and teeth. He was moaning for me. Begging to be fucked. I raised his legs, one at a time, and tied them to straps in the ceiling toward the back of the van. He was trussed up now and hanging like a deer over a campfire, face up to the ceiling. I threw a leg over his belly and put my hands on the back of the front seat on either side of his head and clicked my silver cock stud against his white teeth until he opened for me and gave me head. He gave me good head, moaning and groaning all of the time at the length and width and hardness of me. This is what he was paying for. This is what he was going to get. When I was bored with this, I pulled my cock out of his mouth and threw my leg back over him. He watched in eye-silted lust and interest as I opened a side glove compartment and took out a handful of condom packets. I opened a packet and rolled a condom onto my cock. Then I extracted a leather-studded cock ring and wrapped that around the base of my cock. The last item I pulled out of the compartment was a small bottle of KY. All the time he was whimpering for me, begging for me to get inside him. He did look a little concerned then, though, when I reached up and undid the cuffs on his shirt on both sides and extracted his diamond cufflinks and then tied them with string to my cock ring. I was chuckling about him getting his money's worth out of this fuck. But he didn't seem all that amused. He probably thought I was going to take my time and open him up real well for the fuck. But he was wrong there. I soaked down my cock with the KY and squirted enough into his hole for it to be beneficial for me. But then I was rimming him with my bulbous mushroom cap and pressuring his hole and making little forced entries and pulling back a little and then worrying the tight, unready hole again. And then, when I'd gotten the cap all the way in, I just thrust in and bottomed with one lunge. And he yowled to the velour ceiling, hitting a high A even stronger and truer than the Lebanese musician was doing on the background music. And he continued to yowl, first in pain and then in consuming desire, as I picked up the beat of the music and fucked him and fucked and fucked him. As I fucked him, I bunched up that silk ochre-colored shirt of his in my fists and literally ripped it off his body, pulling the shreds of it from underneath his tie and the brown Armani suit coat. The dude didn't seem to care; he was swinging his body against my plunging cock with the beat of the music and warbling right along with the Lebanese singer. He came in great spoutings long before I did. Sometime during the fucking, I felt the diamond cufflinks come loose and work themselves up the dude's passage with the thrustings of my cock. The dude gave little yipping sounds at this added fiber to his ass's diet, but he made no objection. He wasn't objecting to anything now except to the possibility that I might stop stroking his ass. I almost went on a laughing jag mid fuck at the image of how he'd be shitting diamonds for the next day or so. Thinking about that being close to the meaning of being filthy rich. When I was spent, I leaned into him and encircled his torso with my arms and felt the fast beating of his heart next to mine through the shredded ochre silk until he had calmed down and I had started to reload. He was sighing and whispering endearments to me, telling me how good I was and hoping I wasn't finished taking him. I wasn't finished. Not by a long shot. This wasn't nearly expensive enough of a fuck for this dude yet. I released both his legs and arms, but I immediately turned him and reattached his wrists to straps at the base of the front seat on either side. He didn't object. He was licking his lips. I was giving him exactly what he was seeking from me. I pulled over a low, velour-covered stool with a hole in the seat and forced the dude down on top of it on his lower belly. His cock and balls were poked through the hole and he found that he was encased in a sleeve around his cock and sacks around his balls, which were the business end of a cock milking machine. I strapped his hips to the stool so he couldn't extract his cock and then turned on the machine. The machine started to slowly contract the sleeve around his cock and undulate over it, teasing his cock to engorge and discharge. And the sacks around his balls also contracted and squeezed in a fascinating rhythm. He seemed to like this, and began moaning almost immediately. He'd maybe have second thoughts after he'd shot off the first time and found the machine wasn't satisfied with that. I crouched up where he could see me and changed the spent condom for a fresh one and lathered it down with KY. And then I was behind him, making him push his knees wide, his butt waving in the air. I straddled him, my thighs on either side of his waist, above his stretched thighs, my hands on his shoulder blades. And then I reared my hips back and thrust my sheathed cock inside him and pumped hard and fast. He was singing a loud duet again with the Lebanese singer to the heavy beat of the music. I tore the coat off his back while I was fucking him and the stool was milking him, and I put it in front of his face and tore the lining out. He didn't care. He was going over the moon with what I and the stool were doing to him. I pulled the expensive silk necktie around his neck to his back and used it as reins as I did a bull bucking rodeo exhibit on his buttocks. I could feel the diamond cufflinks churning around inside him and he could too. I could tell that by the screams of passion he was making. The Lebanese singer was reaching a climax in his yowling and so were the dude and I. The dude shuddered and came, and then moaned as he discovered that the stool wasn't finished with him. And then I gave a cowboy whoop and came as well. After a second and then a third ride, and continuous attention from the stool, I was finished with him. I turned off the stool and untied him and he just huddled there in thank-you whimpers. As a parting gesture, I untied his necktie, rolled the spent condom off my dick, and wiped my dick and then his asshole with the silk tie and stuffed it in his mouth. His gaze told me that he was still in love. It didn't seem like anything I was going to do was going to tell this guy where he could stuff all his money, as far as I was concerned. Still, I figured when the semen had drained out of his eyes, he'd come to his senses and survey the damage I had done to all his expensive stuff and get a little mad. I put my car jockey duds back on and made sure he could see where I was leaving the keys to his Maserati. And then I left him there, in the back of my Chevy van, and walked back over to the entrance of the hotel. Within minutes a studly black guy gave me a ticket and a look, and, when I'd driven around his shiny black Mercedes CLS55 AMG, we were driving off to his up-town penthouse apartment, where I fucked him silly and he fed me breakfast, begged for and received my bone a second time, and then brought me back to the hotel for my now-deserted Chevy van. Two days later, I was dancing on the stage of Hernando's when I felt a fist wrap around the ankle of my boot. There, gazing up at me with love-struck eyes was the suit, now outfitted in a black sharkskin $3,000-plus Valentino, diamond cufflinks cleaned and polished and gleaming in beams from the overhead strobe lights—holding a wad of hundred-dollar bills in his other fist. Wanting me again. Suits and Ties Crack. The sound slices like a steel blade through the chatter of the conference room. Heads whip around, staring at me, while I stare at the broken glass of water. The glass of water I was supposed to bring. "Well don't just stand there, clean the bloody thing up." I bend down, black pencil skirt riding up slightly as I gingerly pick up the delicate shards of glass. I glimpse my face, flushed bright red, reflected in the glass. To say my first week as an assistant at Rowle-Huntington LLP was not going well would be an understatement. "I'm so sorry sir, I didn't mean to, I tripped over the carpe-" "Tales of your incompetence to not interest me Miss Rose. Clean it up, and do not disturb me again." Mr. Rowle. The iciness in his tone matched is matched by the colour of his pity less eyes. I nod and quickly dispose of the shards in the garbage, and scurry out of the conference room. My first week, and I managed to embarrass myself in front of every attorney on our firm's biggest case, not to mention opposing counsel. I rush to the bathroom hoping to find solace. I can hear the other assistants already snickering and laughing outside. Martha is already taking bets on when I would be fired. If I were her, I would bet on today, 100:1. I look up at myself in the mirror, and two dark brown, almond shaped pools, peer back at me. I imagine how stupid I must have looked in the conference room. Water stains dot my light cream silk blouse, creating tiny translucent peepholes to the black lace lingerie and perky breasts beneath. Wait, could Mr. Rowle have seen through my shirt? I shake my head at such an inappropriate thought, surely not. "I am a smart, confident, successful woman." I dab dry my blouse with paper towels, and give myself one last look in the mirror as I stride out of the bathroom. I'm relieved to find that the office is quiet once more. Settling down in my chair I bury myself in my work, and let my mind be distracted from the day's incident. Soon my head is abuzz with legal briefs, memos, meetings, and court dates. At 5, everyone begins to pack up and chatter about evening plans. I stand up from my chair and stretch my arms up towards the ceiling with a yawn, skirt brushing my thighs as it lifts slightly. "Ahem." I swivel around to find myself staring at a steel grey tie, then a white collar, then ice blue eyes. "Do not leave Miss Rose, I have something to discuss with you in my office." The snickers and whispering start again as I sit down and a small sigh escapes my lips. Great job Rose, this was probably the best job got and you just had to go screw it up didn't you. I mentally prepare myself for my dismissal, well if Mr. Rowle was going to fire me I was going to give him a piece of my mind. Time trickles by, a slow stream of minutes that quickly turns into half an hour, and then a full hour. By 6:30 I was getting antsy, one black stiletto hanging off my restless, stocking covered leg. I glance into Mr. Rowle's office and I see him concentrating on the papers on his desk. He would be handsome if he weren't such an arrogant ass. His body is toned, broad shouldered under his fitted suit, and his eyes, mmm his eyes...He looks up and my dazed expression meets his piercing gaze. "Oh shit." I quickly pretend to be busy on my computer as I hear the sliding glass door open and his heavy footsteps behind me. "Miss Rose, my office." He has had me waiting so long, the floor is nearly empty now. Thank god, I can still maintain a shred of dignity when I'm fired. I trail behind him, head down, as I rehearse my speech in my head. "Sit down, and close the door." I slide the glass door shut with a clink. How apropos, I muse, glass started this whole thing and now it will seal my fate. I start on my tirade. "Mr. Rowle I would just like to say, although this firm is a pleasure to work at I feel your behav-" "Do you know the company dress code?" His comment throws me off, I was expecting something else, and my carefully rehearsed lines go out the window. "W-why yes of course, though since we are a Silicon Valley-based firm the dress code hasn't been enforced in some time..." "So, because a rule is not enforced means one should not obey? Miss Rose, may I remind you that you are a new employee and should be treading carefully particularly regarding company policies." "I'm sorry Mr. Rowle, I didn't realize it was so serious." My voice is a trembling mixture of nerves, fear, and anger. "Do you realize how incredibly distracting your attire is to male employees? Especially after your little water glass performance this morning, incredibly insolent!" "I-I just.." "You just what Miss Rose? Stand up. I am going to make clear your violations of the dress code." Unable to speak, I slowly stand up from my chair. "Your skirt is much too short, for example. When you bend over like so," he pushes me down, bent over the smooth mahogany of his desk. "I can see your skirt riding up." I gasp in surprise, and struggle, futile against his tightening grip "And these stockings are absolutely unacceptable," he says, tracing his finger along the black lace tops, "in any office environment." My body tenses at his touch, I can't believe this is happening. "Please Mr. Rowle, this won't happen again, now if I could please go on my way home, I'm supposed to meet a date tonight." He ignores my poor excuse. "You will address me as Sir while you are in this room. Now, if you want to keep your job you must remove your inappropriate attire. I will let you go now, but I can just as easily overpower you again, so don't think about doing anything stupid." He releases me from his steel grip, and I straighten up and turn to look at him, tall and broad shouldered. His eyes are now glued to my bottom and stocking tops. My eyes widen in horror. "Excuse me?" "Excuse me, what." "Excuse me, sir. This is completely unacceptable, I-I will report this to HR, I will file a complaint, I will-" "You will do no such thing. Particularly since I have already filled the paperwork to have you fired. In fact it is sitting there right there on my desk" He motions his hand lazily. ",and need I remind you that should you threaten to sue, you are in the presence of the best attorney on the market." He smirks. "I must say Miss Rose, it is a shame, because you are not a terribly incompetent employee. If I were in a better mood, this could all disappear." I bite my lip in frustration, trying to think the situation through my cloudy mind. "What do you want, sir?" "For you to disprove your insubordination, Miss Rose." I feel his gaze move like a burning brand over my body. "I am offering you a chance to redeem yourself to me, in exchange for your job. The question is, what are you willing to do to keep it?" My body betrays me, palms perspiring, stomach somersaulting, face flushing. I can't tell if I'm disgusted or excited at the rabbit hole I am about to fall into. I close my eyes and brace myself, he's right, I have no choice. "Anything, sir." "Anything?" "Yes sir, anything." And I know I will regret my words. A smile slowly spreads across his face, white teeth flashing like a hungry wolf, and I was its prey. "Take off your skirt." My hands are shaking. Against every fibre of my body protesting, I slowly unzip my skirt and the fabric pools round my ankles. "Remove your blouse." I pull at the bow tie knot, blouse coming undone in a whisper of silk, as it joins my skirt on the floor. I am flushing again in embarrassment and humiliation. Here I was, standing in my black lace lingerie, in front of a man I had known for less than a week. "Bend over." I press my face against the cool wood and glass desk. Glass is how I feel right now, exposed and fragile. What was he going to do with me? What was I willing to do with him? My lace clad buttocks quiver in anticipation of what is to come. "Your insubordination cannot go unpunished Miss Rose." Smack. He spanks me hard, the impact lights my nerves on fire. I did not expect that, and my surprise renders me speechless. I whimper, in pain, in pleasure. "I am a firm believer in corporal punishment." He slaps my ass again, harder. The sharp pain followed by a slow burn. I can feel my pussy begin to moisten, I shake my head, there's no way I could be enjoying this. "Your panties please, Miss Rose." "Y-Yes sir." Off slips the smooth fabric, and joins my skirt and blouse on the floor. "Are you enjoying this Miss Rose? You are so willing and compliant" "Please, I just want to get this over with" Smack. "Please, sir Miss Rose. I hope your sexual prowess is more formidable than your lying. Your pussy is dripping and swollen in arousal." I take a deep breath in. Fuck. What's wrong with me? How could I be turned on from this sick man and this embarrassment? I close my eyes, and try to ignore the throbbing between my legs. I will prove my resolve to this man. "Miss Rose, I am going to spank you properly now, and you are to count down from 10, understood?" "Yes sir." Smack. "10." I muffle my whimper, I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing my pain. Smack. Smack. Smack. "9, 8, 7." I gasp after each number. The burning sensation in my buttocks is incessant, and I feel my resolve melting. Slap! "6." I'm panting, my breath coming in short gasps. He is beginning to hit harder now, his firm hand on my ass. Buttocks burning, cunt wetting and body aching. Slap! Slap! Slap! "5, 4, 3!" My voice sounds strange, shrill and pleading. The pain consumes me, I forget all resistance. In this room is only the sound and sensation of his hand on my ass. Slap! "2!" I let out a cry, my body pleading for the torture to end. Slap! "1." He runs his calloused hands over my smooth bottom, gently caressing my cheeks. "Very good Miss Rose." Hands wandering across my thighs, my ass, my legs, my back. He leans in next to me and begins to whisper in my ear. "There must be a reason you dress like this, do you enjoy the attention? You get off on knowing how hard it is to stare at your ass all day in your tight little skirt and black stockings?" He grabs my tender ass, squeezing hard, and I gasp. "You think just because you're new that people will treat you special? That you can prance around the office in your fucking see-through blouse and stockings, untouchable." His fingers inch closer to my pussy, and I feel a slow trail of my own juices running down my leg. I am literally dripping in anticipation. "No sir, I just like the way it looks." Another lie. "Bullshit." His fingers are caressing my pussy lips now, running up and down my soaking slit. I stifle a moan, his fingers are dexterous and thick, knowing exactly where to probe and tease me. He runs two fingers along my pussy lips, stroking softly, coaxing moan after moan from my mouth. "I saw you looking at me, I bet you've been dreaming about this all day haven't you. Bent over my desk while I fuck you." "No sir." I whimper again as he rubs my clit, my body betraying my words, as my juices coat his hand. He lightly pinches my button and I let out another cry, it feels so good. "You act like such a good girl, working late all the time, but really you're just a filthy, horny little slut." He sticks two fingers inside my hole and I moan loudly, finally finding some fulfillment after all his teasing and torture. He slaps my ass again, and the pain only amplifies the pleasure, and continues to slowly slide his thick fingers in and out of my throbbing pussy. "You're enjoying this aren't you little slut?" His fingers move in and out of my cunt, fucking me. The building pressure is unbearable as he pushes up again my G-spot, my moans filling the office, echoing in ecstasy. "No sir, please, stop, no more." The words mean nothing, my whimpers and cries of pleasure reveal me. "I fucking love it when you beg, it gets me so hard." He touches my clit again, slow circles that has my mind running in loops. It feels so good. Oh my god, his fingers are rubbing my cunt. I feel so dirty. Oh god. A aching pressure builds in my pussy and I know that I won't be able to hold on for much longer. I'm so close to cumming. "Please, oh god, please sir, if you don't stop I'm going to cum." He responds by thrusting his fingers harder into me, fucking me faster and faster, thumb circling my engorged clit, I'm losing my mind. I need to cum, I need to cum. I need to be released from this torture. "Oh my god, I'm going to cum." Suddenly, he pulls fingers from my soaking, throbbing, pussy. I cry out in frustration, my orgasm denied. "You can cum when I tell you to." He shoves his fingers into my mouth. I suck without thinking, my pussy begging and aching for release, my mind blank with pleasure. I can only think of one thing, I need him to fuck me. As if reading my mind, he shifts behind me and unzips his trousers. "I'm going to fuck your tight little cunt until you beg me to cum." "Oh god, please, sir." I manage to choke out, am I protesting or pleading? Eyes closed, I feel him rub the head of his thick cock up against my dripping pussy, teasing me, torturing me with it. I need it so badly, I want him to fuck me hard and make me cum. I want his cock to fill me up and release me from this torture. "Beg for it, slut." "Please sir, please I need you to fuck me." "Beg harder." My pride goes out the door, I can't take it anymore, the tension is agonizing and my body demands release from sweet suffering. I am so close to orgasm and he is the only one who can provide it. "Please sir, please fuck me, I want you to fuck me so badly. I need your cock inside me." His cock pierces into my cunt, filling me up with his hard shaft. His cock is the biggest I've ever had and reaches every crevice inside my tight, warm pussy. I gasp from his size, every inch of me is filled up. "Fuck, your pussy feels so good wrapped around my cock, such a good, tight little cunt." I moan in ecstasy, body shaking, legs trembling from sheer pleasure and intensity as he grabs my hair and slowly fucks me. Easing his huge cock in and out of me, every movement slow and deliberate as I stretch to accommodate him. I can feel every inch of him enter me, in and out, the feeling is amazing. "Oh god, oh god, oh god." Every thrust into me brings a new wave of pleasure as my mind soars away, drifting on a cloud of pure ecstasy. He fucks me harder, egged on by my moans and cries of pleasure. His hard cock in and out of my dripping wet pussy, juices trickling down my thighs and on to the floor. "Do you like that? Do you like me fucking you with my cock, slut?" He pulls me up by my hair, his arms gripping around my neck as he fucks me harder and faster, reaching one hand down to touch my clit. The pressure begins building again, more intense and urgent then before as I feel my orgasm closing in. "Oh my fucking god. Oh god, oh fuck, oh fuck." I'm lost for words, a melting puddle of pleasure and incoherent moans. "God your pussy feels so nice and tight, who knew you were such a good little whore." His thrusting is non-stop now, a continuous rhythm that is building to climax. "Such. A. good. Little. Slut" every word punctuated by another thrust, his breaths are short and quick. "Fuuck, I'm going to cum, I'm going to cum inside your little cunt." He pounds me harder and faster still, fingers swirling around my clitoris, and I feel the pressure in my pussy reaching a breaking point. "Please, I need to cum, please." I'm begging, his hard cock filling me up and my pussy crying for release. "Please what? Beg, slut, beg me to cum." "Please, sir, please let me cum." "You want to cum? Fucking cum for me, slut." His words are my saviour, and the waves of my orgasm wash over me, adrift in an ocean of pleasure. My pussy squeezes hard on his cock and I feel him groan as it milks him of his cum. I feel his hot cum spurt inside me, my body shaking uncontrollably as I orgasm, cunt clamping down on his cock over and over again. "Fuck." He pulls his cock out from inside me, and I already know what to do. I kneel before him, a slave before a king, and lick every drop of cum from his cock like mana from heaven. "Good girl." I look up. My eyes meet his, earthy brown and icy blue, and I know I am his. Suits in Sweaters "I came here to get picked up." Even though she couldn't meet his eyes, Stef knew, could feel it with her entire body, that this guy was glaring at her. Like he was mad. Like he didn't realize how much such an admission could work in his favour. Stef was suddenly thankful for all the gin and tonics she had had that night. Otherwise, she doubted she'd still be in her seat at the bar, looking up at this guy like it was nothing, saying those words to him like it was something she did all the time. Stef did not talk to men like this. Men like this did not talk to her. "No, you didn't." His voice was low and scratchy but completely clear over the din of the club. Stef sat back a little bit. His amber eyes were too intense - way too cold for such a warm colour. He sounded almost annoyed, and she could see a faint pulsing in the corner of his impeccably sharp jawline. She waited for him to continue but he remained quiet, looking at her intently. He moved only to brush off some suspiciously underaged, over-eager kid who was trying to squeeze behind him up to the bar. She watched him flick the kid away like it was nothing, and she felt her own spiky burst of irritation. Stef had come here with a plan, and she intended to go through with that plan. All of her life she had been told, by herself most of all, that she didn't go after the things she wanted. Not hard enough, anyway. And here she was, looking unbelievable, being unbelievably forward, and this asshole shot her down with three words. Stef was not pleased. "Yes, I really did. Can't you tell? Is this dress not tight enough? A man like you looks like he'd know how to tell when a woman is looking to get picked up." Shit. That is not something you say to strangers. Thank god she didn't live here. In one week her placement would be over and she'd be able to go back to San Francisco, back to Piddles, back to Lula and the apartment. Back to real life. With her, she hoped, she'd bring a newfound sense of confidence, or at least a believable fake one, which she would in turn use to - she hoped - get an actual date. Stef turned back to her empty gin and tonic, looking up and down the bar for Petie. She needed something to occupy her mouth, and, now, her mind. Nerves had made her ramble - as I do, Stef thought - and she may or may not have just insulted the big, beautiful slab of a man next to her. She didn't feel too bad, though. The man really did look like he'd know all about women, especially whether or not they were willing to be seduced. She doubted he had much experience with the latter. Stef almost wanted to laugh, he was so attractive. He had everything. Tall (at least 6'4), muscular (jacked, as her niece would say), and, worst of all, those stupid broad shoulders and thick forearms she was so fond of. As close as he was, Stef had felt him stiffen at that last remark. A new type of tension wound itself around her stomach. Throughout the night Stef had been nervous. Down in this tacky hotel bar in this ridiculous makeup and these stunningly beautiful torture-chamber shoes, Stef was far from her element. What she felt right now was entirely novel, a different type of nervous. Sitting next to this huge, dangerous-looking stranger, knowing she had at least minorly offended him, Stef's anxiety shifted within her. What was once a fuzzy feeling of insecure unease jumped quickly from a place of embarrassment to one of anticipation, melting and emulsifying. Stef had to look down into the mirrored bar to be sure she wasn't blushing. "A man like me?" At least he didn't sound annoyed anymore. She registered this only dimly because as he spoke, his breath fluttered below her left ear, her hair tickling the delicate area. Get it together! The tiniest part of her, the one resistant to both alcohol and lust, was screaming at her to hold onto some semblance of dignity. This man did not matter. He was not what she was looking for tonight. Or ever, really. He was too good-looking, too aware of those good looks. This guy could ruin her. First in the good way, and then, inevitably, in the bad way. Turning to face her fully now, he leaned a thick, hairy forearm on Petie's impeccably windex-ed bar. He nudged her with his knee, the dark denim rough against the delicate skin of her upper leg, just hard enough to be purposeful. Stef fell for it. As soon as his leg touched hers, she jolted. Instinct pulled her gaze to exactly where he wanted. She stared at his thighs, bulging tightly as he perched on the tiny barstool. One of those thighs could support her entire weight, no problem. Stef was having difficulty not picturing it. Swallowing, Stef channeled every bit of sense she had into an outer shell of indifference. Men loved excited vulnerability, and that's exactly how Stef felt. Excited and vulnerable. This one looked particularly alert, though. His eyes may have softened just a little bit, but Stef knew all about men like him. They were not to be encouraged. "Tall, burly, broad-shouldered. You know!" That wasn't what she had meant to say. He didn't say anything. That little bump in his beautiful jaw, though, the stubbly one she wanted to bite, it tic'd a little, jumping once, then twice. She thought briefly about what would happen were she to lick him there. Would it still pulse? When she raised her gaze back to his, Stef swore his eyes had narrowed a bit. Staring contests had never been a favourite of hers. "I know you know." She did know he knew and had to roll her eyes at such a disingenuous exhibition of humility. Briefly, she played with the notion that he was, indeed, fucking with her - just on an entirely different level, one she wasn't privy to. Now all she could manage was an internal eye roll. This dude was a stranger. He didn't matter at all. She leaned down the bar, trying to get Petie's attention. "Petie!" She wanted to snap her fingers, but that would be rude. She whistled instead. "Come serve your legal customers!" The bartender shot her a nod from down the bar, but continued to pour Patron for what Stef was sure were a pair of high schoolers. All she wanted was a gin and tonic. It was not an unreasonable request. Some tonic, a fair amount of gin, a lime; there was a pile of them, right there, all wedged and sliced down the middle, just sitting on the plastic cutting board. "Fucking men." The big brute next to her actually laughed, and his scent rolled off him with the movement; clean laundry and expensive whisky. She wanted to tell him that she had thought he had left, but she knew he wouldn't believe her. Stef could feel him next to her, his composure a steady presence even in the jostling, sweaty bar. He inhaled deeply, as if gathering himself. "You're done, anyway." She snorted and crossed her legs, trying to make it as clear as possible that she wasn't about to go anywhere. He laid four twenties on the bar. "I most definitely am not done. I told you, I came here for a reason." Stef jiggled the ice in her empty glass, waiting for him to leave. "It was nice meeting you, though!" Trying to inject what she hoped was the distinct tone of dismissal into her voice, Stef turned once again to peer down the bar. Fucking Petie. She squared her shoulders and sat up straight, the move pulling her dress even higher up her thighs. He would leave, she told herself, more determined than ever to find a new, non-insufferable man in this dirty club. One who wouldn't question her; one who take her home, fuck her, and leave. Someone younger, less intimidating. She needed this, and she was not about to let this hulking downer of an asshole, as hot as he was, ruin it for her. "Petie!" It came out a little bit more shrill than what she was going for. This was fucking ridiculous. Tuck needed to get the fuck out of this skeezy shit-hole of club. He was just itching to throw the girl over his shoulder and haul her out without a second glance at Petie or his tacky bar. He watched the inbred bartender hit on a couple of teenagers while some bouncer, 250 pounds of more fat than muscle, led a stumbling young woman toward the back of the club. He couldn't believe it when the Doc pulled into the parking lot of this slimy crater of a club. Looking her over for the millionth time, Pete moved his eyes from the strappy little stilts she wore on her feet to the creamy swath of thigh that extended from beneath her dress. The sparkly little scrap was shorter and tighter than anything he thought the Doc would even look at, let alone wear. It was made of some shiny, deep purple colour, and had to be at least 6 sizes smaller than the scrubs she normally wore. Tuck's favourite detail, though, was the neckline. Plunging low enough for him to easily imagine licking his way down to it's lowest point, it was also just tight enough for him to picture his tongue moving between the tailored cups that hugged her pert little tits exactly the way he wished his hands could. Shit. Tuck didn't even want to know what Gustavson would do if he could see the images cycling rapidly through his brain. His sexy little charge sat stiffly in front of him, determinedly ignoring his presence. Images of her bent over any number of objects were quickly replaced by those of castration; first flashes of the Captain gleefully cutting off his dick and then himself, hungry, homeless, cock-less, the victim of an abruptly cut-short career. Or - and this was most likely - dead in a ditch somewhere, shot dead by the Captain's goons. As unappealing as these outcomes were, Tuck's self-imposed warnings were stifled as Stef leaned over the bar. While he tried to shove away the hazy, lust-driven thoughts that were currently clouding his judgment, he was only partly successful. An image of her lithe, taut form, naked and spread out along the mirrored bar, shimmered dimly in the back of his mind. He watched her try to ignore him, her delicate shoulders tense as she fluttered a tiny hand again in Petie's direction. "He seems a little busy." Stef didn't have to look at him to know he was laughing at the way she jumped when she heard his voice. It was so close, so low and scratchy, that she swore she could feel it physically, his breath abrading her sensitive skin, her neck tingling long after his words drifted off. His twenties still sat on the bar. Stef knew that, if her night was to go as planned, she had to put an end to this immediately. Putting her hands on the edge of the bar, she grabbed the cool, mirrored exterior, bracing herself. "Look, I see what you're trying to do here. I'm very flattered - honestly - but I'm not interested. You're not my type. Not at all what I'm looking for. I'd say I was sorry, but with you looking the way you do, I really can't say I feel that bad. I'm sure you're not hurting for female attention." She had started off strong; she swore to herself that her intentions were pure. She was even looking him right in the eye when she began her little tirade. It wasn't long, though, before she began to unravel. Somewhere along "not interested" her eyes had drifted down to his broad shoulders, and, eventually, much lower. From then on she was lost, only moderately successful in her attempt not to falter, her voice breaking and stumbling before she was even halfway through. By the time she was done, her gaze had dropped completely, fixated on her lap as her hands, entirely of their own volition, began to shred the paper napkin Petie had laid out upon her arrival. "How do I look?" He sounded more amused than anything, if not a little deeper than before, but he wasn't looking at her anymore. His ruddy brown eyes stared fixedly behind her now, his gaze narrowing again. She wondered why he was scoping out the exit. "You look like an asshole who won't take 'go the fuck away' for an answer." At the very least, her petty snap brought his attention back to her. "You're completely right. I won't." She knew he noticed the flush in her cheek and the tremble in her hand as he held her gaze. He leisurely slid off of the barstool, his knees yet again brushing her legs as he stood, stretching in front of her to his full height. Two big hands clamped possessively over her shoulders and before she could stop herself Stef shivered from heat of his grasp. "You're coming with me." His low voice had hardened. But then she watched his gaze slide away from her, back to that same point in the back of the club. She took a large mental step back, her wits returning, tempering the lust pounding in her blood. She felt it in her veins, slowly swirling through her, making her tremble. It fucked with her neurons, made her feel weird and irrational. "Nope." He still wasn't looking at her, but the grasp on her shoulders had tightened. Stef tried not to melt into him as he stood behind her, wanting desperately to prove to this stranger how much he did not effect her - as if the breathlessness in her voice was completely natural. "To be honest, you did this to yourself. Arrogance is only attractive in small doses. Nobody likes a heavy hand." His grip eased as he began to rub her shoulders, his pressure firm as big, thick fingers brushed under the thin straps of her dress. "I think you like a heavy hand, Stefanie." His fingers dipped lower. Stef caught his meaning immediately, looking up at him in what she hoped was a dry glare, desperate not to let him see the havoc he was wreaking on her. Under her dress, her nipples were hard and her panties were wet. It was taking every ounce of willpower she had not to arch her back and rub her tits against his chest while she ground her clit on the barstool. She didn't even know this man, but she decided then and there that she hated him. This is exactly what she wanted, and while she refused to let him be the one to give it to her, she found that she could not bring herself to stand up and walk away. His right hand began an ascent along her shoulder, winding up to the nape of her neck. Rough fingers glided gently over her skin, making her wonder what the sharp bite of his teeth would feel like. She felt his hand settle low at the base of her skull, fisting his hand at the nape of her neck, squeezing tightly and pulling her head back just far enough to scare her into looking right into his eyes. Tuck watched a cavalcade of emotions play plainly across Stef's beautiful face. She was intimidated, yes, and he should have felt worse for knowing it, but she was also turned on. Really turned on. He knew she was wearing underwear - he had certainly looked hard enough at her tight little ass to be absolutely sure - yet still he could smell her hot, wet pussy. She really did like a heavy hand. She actually bit her bottom lip, a sharp little incisor bearing down on the puffy red flesh as she she stared up at him. He had to bite back a smile as her eyebrows twitched, moving together as her eyes snapped wide open. While one part of him lamented the loss of her lust, the practical, task-oriented part was happy to have her full, untainted attention. "How do you know my name?" He was grateful to have had her by the hair; she definitely would have bolted otherwise. As it was she sat perfectly still, her gaze narrowed as she looked up at him, her cheeks flushed and her lips full. Her breathing stayed surprisingly even. Tuck couldn't help himself. He pulled down a little bit with the hand that was currently wrapped in what he was sure was the softest thing he had ever touched, baring her neck and resisting the urge to leave a mark on it. To anyone watching they looked like any other couple at the bar; horny and anxious to leave. He put his other hand on the side of her stomach, pushing gently and not at all failing to notice the way she shivered as he forced to her stand up. "It's written in all caps at the top of your folder. We need to go." The way his cheek rubbed roughly against her neck delayed her response a little bit, but eventually, Stef felt her alarm, already dampened by hormones and shots of Jameson, flood out of her. What followed was rage. The delicious tugging she had shamefully been enjoying had disappeared and had reappeared in the form of a giant hand wrapped around her wrist. He stood behind her, pressing her up against the bar slowly as she struggled to regain freedom for her left arm. One night! All she had wanted was one night. "Where's your jacket?" "Not that it matters, because I'm not going anywhere, but I didn't bring a jacket." Stef was tugging hard enough to pull her arm out of her socket, but he didn't appear to notice. He now had her completely sandwiched between the bar and his beautiful block of a chest. He had had his face buried in the crook of her neck while issuing his demands and fostering her now intimate acquaintance with Petie's bar, and Stef found herself suddenly missing the absence of the rough heat of his cheek on her collarbone. She was drunk and horny enough to find herself wondering briefly how much chest-hair he had when the newly tense set of his annoyingly burly shoulders had her craning her neck to see what was up. Sure enough, he was scanning the crowd behind her. Wearing a sweater, definitely a suit. "I'm not sure if my father told you, but I'm more than a file. Actually, I'm sort of a human. With rights. And the ability to make my own decisions. Like the decision to stay. And the decision for another gin and tonic. Petie!"