Cries of Penance (4 page)

“Beautiful, intel igent women who want to be ready for sex on a moment’s notice wear stockings.”

I lick her sensitive flesh softly, noting her sigh. Of relief? Of pleasure? I suck and lick and tease the pink nub of her sex, making her knees shake.

“I can’t do this, not standing,” she says.

I pul my mouth away. “This?”

“This,” she implores. “I won’t orgasm.”

I smile, pushing a finger inside her. “Sure you wil . Pretend you’re a man.

Pretend I’m giving you the best head you’ve ever had. Shoot your load for me.”

“I’m not a man.”

“You’re going to be President of the United States. I suggest you grow a pair between now and then.”

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She laughs though I’ve obviously shocked her with my crudity. I go back to teasing her clit, pul ing the nub in and out of between my lips. She drops her head back and meets my rhythm with her hips. I slide two more fingers into her moistness, pushing deep to stroke her g-spot. Her moans tel me I’m on the right path.

I stroke harder, deeper. Her wetness makes a slushing sound as I pump her, and I can feel her need build as a thick tension envelopes us. Her clit grows thicker, harder. Her hips meet the rhythm of my fingers, pushing against me as her vagina clinches tight. Her fingers wrap into my hair, making fists as her back arches, and although I feel she is straining to not scream as her orgasm washes over her, I show her no mercy and continue licking, sucking, and tugging at her flesh until she folds over me, gasping my name and begging me to stop.

I release her clit and meet her gaze. “As long as we’ve reached an agreement about your schedule and my duties.”

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Cries of Penance – Roxy Harte

“I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing.”

Anais Nin

Chapter 3
Nikos

San Francisco

I’m a sex addict, among my many other addictions. I drink too much, smoke too much, chase adrenaline too much, and in Shanghai, enjoyed opium entirely too much…but in the absence of mind altering drugs, I am more than content with sex.

At Lewd Larry’s I have landed in a sexual playground.

I can hardly believe my brother left me stranded here, but then again this is exactly where I should be. Work. Sleep. Stay out of trouble. That seems to be the order of the day and an impossible one to obey because I am surrounded by hundreds of beautiful women. Trouble seems inevitable. Especial y when my gaze returns again and again to the one I’ve been told is off limits and she won’t give me the time of day. Morgana. I’ve been trying to get her attention for two months now.

Seeing her duck out a back door, I toss my bar towel on the counter and tel the other bartender, “I’m taking five.”

He doesn’t argue. I’ve intimidated him from the moment we were first introduced. Our dress code is shirtless and my tattoos take center stage, tattoos now riddled with scars. He has a hard time meeting my eyes, and I don’t mind that so much. No one knows my story here, and it isn’t because they don’t 32

Cries of Penance – Roxy Harte

wonder, I can tel by their glances everyone wants to ask. They don’t because there is a code of privacy here that I don’t completely understand but am grateful for.

I find Morgana standing behind the building, huddled against the chil , smoking a cigarette. She spares me only a quick glance before turning her back to me. I light up, an excuse for being outside I suppose, but thankful for the kick of nicotine just the same.

We’re standing under a canopy, but it is drizzling and the wind carries an icy dampness. It’s too damn cold. I back closer toward the brick wal and notice she does the same. Her voice is soft and it is only belatedly I realize she is talking on the phone. “I’m bored out of my fucking mind. Please tel me there is something happening somewhere tonight!”

It seems absurd anyone could be bored at Lewd Larry’s, but then I just as quickly remember from what I have been told that she has been here much longer than I. After a few more months I’l probably be just as blasé.

Today she is wearing black boots that cover her knee and a crème-colored latex corset dress that barely covers the curve of her ass.

She clicks her cel closed and takes a long drag off her cigarette. I start a conversation with the second topic opener that comes to mind, fal ing right after, let me fuck you senseless and before I could give your evening a few exciting possibilities. “You have no pet.”

She pivots and I see that the front of her dress is split to al ow her strapped on dildo to protrude through the flaps. It is the same color as the dress. Meeting my gaze, she tosses her cigarette to the ground and grinds it under the toe of her 33

Cries of Penance – Roxy Harte

boot. I can see the thought drift through her eyes that she should ignore my comment altogether, but then I bend to pick up the discarded butt and put it in the proper receptacle. My action may or may not have been responsible when she answers, “I prefer to not be burdened.”

I pass her my half-spent cigarette and she takes it, wrinkling her nose. “I favor menthol.” She takes a long drag. “But I’l smoke clove if that’s al that’s available.”

She starts to hand it back but I gesture for her to keep it and pul out another for myself. Lighting it, I inhale. My words are smoky as I request, “Make me your puppy.”

She looks me up and down before snarling, “You are not suitable.”

I snicker, seeing her gaze lingers just below the waistband of my black slacks.

Hey, I can’t help that I’m hard as a rock and wel -hung.

“I would be, if you trained me.”

Gaze stil focused in the general vicinity of my obvious erection, she catches herself licking her lips and bites down, trapping her lower lip between her teeth.

Holding my cigarette between my lips, I drop to my hands and knees, batting my lashes and wagging an imaginary tail. I’m surprised when she laughs. It strikes me suddenly how young she is. It isn’t noticeable at first glance. Her fabulous body, the protruding dildo, the four-inch heels that leave her barely five feet tal , al noticed, her confidence, definitely. But as she steps back laughing, stumbling into the brick at her back, I notice her face, the heaviness of her makeup and the youth she tries to hide.

“You don’t want owned.”

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I assure her I do, my aching dick attesting to the fact even though it’s not visible.

“I do, Mistress. I real y do.” My cigarette bobs between my lips.

“You real y don’t want me for a Master.” She bends at the waist, giving me a glorious view of breasts trapped behind her latex corset. How had I not noticed before that the material isn’t completely opaque? Her nipples are both larger and darker than I would have imagined.

“Please,” I beg, not understanding myself why this woman captivates me so or why I am so wil ing to sel my soul into servitude to her for a single night wrapped in her nakedness.

She slaps me. Hard. Making my cigarette go flying. It lands in a puddle. The flame of her handprint flares across my cheek, waking up a violent desire to grab her…pin her…fuck her until she screams…but I don’t do any of those things.

“You don’t deserve to be my puppy. You’re rude and insolent. And—”

My gaze col ides with hers and I immediately recognize the signs of lust. Her eyes are dilated, her chest flushed. She licks her lips again.

Watching her breasts heave behind al that stiff, unyielding latex, I’d bet my sizable bank account that her pussy is dripping wet.

Seeing the direction of my gaze, she slaps me again before pivoting on her heel, prepared to go back inside. I stand quickly, pressing my length along her back as she tries to open the door. She’s so fucking tiny, I have to bend to whisper into her ear. “Just admit you want me to fuck you already.”

She gasps. It is obvious she isn’t used to disrespect.

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“If nothing else, training me would give you a way to al eviate your boredom tonight.” I rub my rough chin against her smooth cheek and then I back away, giving her space. I’m not surprised when she pul s open the door and storms inside. I am left assuming it wil only be a matter of minutes before I’m reported to security.

I am surprised when the door opens a bare crack and she demands, “When your shift is over, report to the Puppy Pound.”

* * * *

Puppy Pound? What did I expect? It’s on the public level, a way for the vanil a folk to pretend to be kinky and perhaps get a smal dose of what humiliation feels like. Vanil a, but definitely not PG. As soon as I check myself in I am told to strip down to my underwear. A wide leather col ar and heavy chain are secured around my neck, and then I am locked inside a kennel cage barely big enough to fold my arms and legs into. For about a minute I am amused, but then two large dog bowls are put in the cage with me, one fil ed with foul smel ing tuna salad and the other water. I gag.

Then I realize I am on display, mundanes walk by the cages, pointing and laughing, discussing which puppy they should adopt for the night. What was I thinking?

Two hours later Lewd Larry’s closes and I am faced with the reality of Morgana’s game. Humiliate me by making me believe I had a chance.

The pound guard hoses out al of the kennels but mine.

“You can let me out now.”

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He ignores me, continuing to go about his business like I’m not even there, and then turns out the lights. He’s leaving me here. Bril iant. No doubt Morgana’s plan from the start. Or Garrett’s if she reported my behavior. Now, I get a night of cramped quarters to teach me a lesson, is that it?

Another hour. Two? The building is fairly quiet. An occasional security guard walks by, pretending to not see me.

With my face pressed against the wire of my cage, I doze, startling when I hear the main Puppy Pound door open. The sound of footsteps approach and I smile stupidly, recognizing the sound of Morgana’s boots. Feeling sleep drool on my chin, I wipe hastily.

“Looks like al the good puppies are already taken.” She walks by my cage without even glancing in. “Too bad for me.”

She turns around and starts to leave. Oh no you don’t. “Woof.”

“What? Did I hear a puppy?”

“Woof. Woof.”

She walks back toward my cage and bends over to peek in. “Oh,” she says distasteful y. “You are much too big. A stray. I was looking for a pedigree, something smal .” She indicates just how smal with her hands and final y meets my gaze. Hers appear hungry and I take that for a good sign. I crawl around in a semi-circle, trying to show doggie-enthusiasm, wagging my ass and feeling ridiculous doing so but thankful I at least wore my black briefs and not the tidy-whities. I bark again with lots of gusto.

“I guess you might be a good watchdog.”

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I bark, and pant, and wag. Let me out of this God damn cage and I’l show you what I’m good for.

She squats in front of my cage, the strapped on dildo bobs at her waist. It glows in the dark.

“God.”

“Puppy?”

“Woof-woof.”

“I guess I could take you home for a trial run.”

“Woof-woof.”

“But if you don’t work out, it’s right back to the Puppy Pound for you.”

“Grrrr, woof.” I shake my head, putting my whole body into it.

She unlocks the cage and I decide quite suddenly to play a little, backing into a corner and pretending to shake.

Surprised, she asks, “What’s this?” She claps her hands. “Here, puppy.”

I don’t go out. She scowls but doesn’t close the gate. She walks away, cal ing,

“Here, puppy-puppy.”

I’m not stupid. I fol ow her, crawling, my ass wagging and the chain hanging from my col ar dragging on the ground between my arms and legs. “Woof-woof.”

She leads me to the elevators and we ascend to the fourth floor. The Attic.

I’ve heard whispers al night from the vanil a customers intrigued by the infamous play area. Reservations only. The world’s most skil ed Dominants. I look at the petite girl next to me who hides behind a layer of thick makeup and a prosthetic penis. She is considered one of the world’s best.

She doesn’t look at me.

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Exiting the elevator, she leads me down a dark hal way where the mood music is laughable, overlaid with canned screams and the sound of flaying whips striking skin. She opens the door to Room Two. It is a smal room, made to look like a Victorian-age bedroom, except the room is dreary. Gray wal paper with an intricate design of faded white roses, black velvet everywhere else, curtains, chair upholstery, bedspread. She leads me by the chain to look in an oval gilded mirror. Strangely, in her ghostly-colored dress and thigh high boots she looks perfectly at home in this room.

Her lipstick is black. I hadn’t noticed in the dark Puppy Pound.

Meeting my gaze in the mirror’s reflection, her eyes widen, and I think she might just be seeing what I’m seeing…two people perfect for each other. I look away quickly, not knowing where that thought came from. I’m just here for the fuck.

“Strip for me,” she demands, but her voice is like thick honey, sensual, engaging, no threat behind the command at al .

I comply, shedding my briefs and trying to not smile. I’ve played these games before, mostly with European women, a little slap and tickle before getting down to the business of sex. Granted, I’m usual y the one in control of such games, but I’ve been known to give over control to a woman wielding a riding crop.

She drops my chain and walks to an antique bureau that is stained dark, almost black. On closer look, it is intricately carved. A quick scan of the room reveals several similar pieces, none completely alike, a macabre col ection. The tal est chest features twisted faces caught mid-scream. A low cabinet is adorned with cherubs. Another with skul s. The towering headboard of the bedstead is 39

Cries of Penance – Roxy Harte

carved in a way that it appears a flock of ravens are preparing to take flight from the wood. I can’t explain why the furniture makes my heart quicken.