Enlightened [Sexual Magic 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) (5 page)

That’s it, slut, come hard.

Emma’s eyes flew open, and she bit her lip as she came, clenching her ass and squeezing every bit of orgasm she could from the egg inside her pussy.

Her entire body was on fire, jerking up and down, then stilled as she lay with legs spread and hips tight as the final wave washed over her.

Finally she relaxed in a heap, the remote for the egg falling from limp fingers.

It still buzzed and hammered inside her, and unbelievably she felt her body already start to respond.

No, not yet. She smacked the bed, searching for the remote, finally found it under the double-prong dildo, and sucked in a deep breath as the egg powered down, going from dazing top-speed to a pussy-wall-rattling low before finally stilling. She tugged it free and flopped back again.

Holy crap, that was good.

Mouth dry, Emma reached for her wine, greedily sucking down a long gulp.

She panted a few times, heart beating so hard against her ribs her tits jiggled with each pulse.

Emma couldn’t help but laugh.

She swept her hands between her legs, feeling the slickness of her pussy and the tender sensitivity of her clit. She knew her body well enough to realize a few quick swipes with her fingers and she’d be coming again.

She looked at the dildo, then the nipple clamps.

Did she dare?

Cherry had explained how the torsion-fed clamps worked, cautioned her to go easy in the beginning.

But a wild spirit possessed Emma now, and she grabbed both toys, settled the cock between her legs, and laid it carefully along her slit.

She wetted her fingertips and brushed them over her nipples, making the already stiff tips diamond hard.

Do it, slut. Put the clamps on your tits for me.

In her mind, a dark shadowy figure appeared. It was his words, his deep and commanding voice she heard. Always before Emma shied away from obeying, but not tonight.

Get those tits nice and hard. Good girl.

She flushed at the praise, eyes closed, falling deeper into her fantasy. Now what?

Grab your left tit in your hand, and pick up the clamp with your right.

Emma did as instructed. In the darkest part of her desires, she was without choice, she must obey. The idea made her so hot she could barely function. God, what would it be like for a real man to treat her this way? For him to taunt, tease, and force her to take his cock?

She swallowed hard, and her pussy throbbed in response.

Put that clamp on.

She blew a cold air stream over the still moist nipple, and it hardened again.

Quickly, she opened the clamp, squeezed her nipple into it, and let go.

“Oh, fuck,” she yelled, back arching with the unexpected searing pain.

Don’t take it off, slut. Breathe through the pain. Pain is pleasure. Pleasure is pain.

She panted harshly, struggling to find the balance between the agony in her tit and the pleasure in her pussy.

Now do the other one.

Emma whimpered, but again, obeyed.

This time the clamp went on with the same amount of force and pressure, but seemed to hurt less.

Good girl. That’s a good slut. Look at you, lying there, nipples clamped, legs spread, cock resting at your cunt. Your greedy pussy wants it inside, doesn’t it?

Emma nodded.

She did want the dildo inside of her. But not the double one. No, with her nipples aching and burning, sending signals of lust straight to her clit, she wanted the big one.

It was time for the suction-cup cock.

Get up. Get that cock and go into the bathroom.

She rose unsteadily, wincing as the chain attached to her clamps swayed. Each step further imparted tingles of pain and pleasure.

Stepping into the bathroom again, she faced the mirror, eyes half-closed. She twisted on the tap and moistened the bottom of the dildo, then turned and attached it to the glass shower door. It sealed with a wet, sucking sound. She wiggled it up and down, but the thing was well and truly stuck to the door.

Turn around, bend over, and get that cock inside your greedy pussy.

The anonymous voice was strong, demanding. She could not ignore it. Emma felt glorious, wanton.
This
was what she wanted. Someone to strip away the exterior niceties, to throw courtesy and tenderness to the curb and treat her like she was worth nothing more than a hole.

Emma slowly pushed her pussy—no, her cunt—back onto the thick stalk of the fake cock.

Its latex skin was cold as she speared herself, and she gasped at the chill. Gritting her teeth, she skittered her feet wider, reached down, and pulled her pussy lips apart.

Show me you want that cock.

Emma sank backward, filling herself entirely with the dildo, groaning deeply as it bumped hard along her cervix.

She squeezed her muscles around the base of it.

Now fuck it, slut. Fuck that cock hard.

She moved forward, dropping her hands to her knees, moaning as her fingers brushed the nipple chains. With sharp motions, she slid up and down on the dildo, breath coming in harsh, dragging gasps.

“Oh God, fuck, fuck, damn.” Words tumbled from her with each upward stroke.

It felt fantastic and invasive. The latex cock dragged at her tender pussy, pulling on the skin with almost greedy need.

Harder. Pound that pussy.

She moved faster, hips jerking in a non-rhythm. Her pussy was alive with sensation. Each vein and bump and the cut head of the dick inside her seared into her skin.

Her juices lubed the dildo, making her movements easier and more grasping.

Do you want to come, slut?

“Yesssss,” she hissed.

You know you do. All sluts want to come. Fuck your clit.

Emma clenched and contracted, fingers moving to stroke and circle her clit. As soon as she touched the oversensitive flesh, her lower body exploded, and she started coming hard.

Take the nipple clamps off. Now!

While her orgasm roared through her, Emma continued fucking the plastic dick, reached up, and released both clamps at once.

“
Fuck
!” she yelled as the blood rushed back into them, pricking her skin with unbelievable pain followed immediately by another ultra-strong orgasm and incredible pleasure. Her hips whipped hard and fast, short, erratic pulls that had the circumcised head of the dick popping in her pussy with ferocity. The sensation kept her coming.

Finally, nipples sore, pussy exhausted, and body drenched in sweat, Emma pulled herself from the dildo, groaning as it reluctantly released from her body.

She took a step and stumbled, grabbing for the vanity’s edge. Damn. Her weak legs shook hard with the aftereffects.

Sinking onto the floor, she leaned back, staring in amazement at the dildo protruding so obscenely from the shower door.

“Damn,” she said, “that was fucking amazing.”

The dildo remained silent, glistening in the soft light of her bathroom bulbs.

Emma shook her head, rose unsteadily, and patted the slick dick. “After that, I think I’ll call you Lorenzo.”

Still giggling at herself, Emma half walked, half stumbled into the bedroom. She gulped another long, grateful splash of wine, then collapsed facedown on the bed.

She squinted at the bedside clock and smiled.

Only eight thirty and already she’d had more orgasms than in the previous week.

This was going to be a fun weekend. She wasn’t going to let anything interrupt it.

* * * *

Monday evening, Griff parked his car in front of the row of two-story apartment buildings indicated on the address Clarissa had provided. The brick building was half-covered in ivy that crept up the walls in an ordered, well-trimmed diamond pattern. The shutters were real wood, painted glossy black, and the balconies sported intricate wrought iron.

“Classy joint,” Mason said.

Griff nodded and slammed the door shut. He checked his watch. Almost seven p.m. “She should be home by now.”

Also in the portfolio had been a brief overview of Emma’s occupation—graphic artist at an up-and-coming ad agency—her habits, known likes and dislikes, friends, what kind of car she drove, and where she shopped.

All part and parcel of being selected by the Council for a sexual intervention, but Griff often felt uncomfortable with all the information gleaned. Almost as if he was a stalker by proxy. None of their clients ever complained, though.

He tugged up the collar of his leather bomber jacket, the bite of the wind cold and tinged with frozen mist.

They headed up the sidewalk and toward her building. Each stairwell was protected from the elements, and likely unwelcome solicitors, by a heavy wooden door. A small metal speaker system was embedded in the wall beside the door, each occupant’s last name listed next to a small buzzer.

He found Emma’s name and pressed the button. “Charles?” Through the static of the intercom, the female voice was wary and taut.

The door opened, and a blond man pushed out between them, a dark look on his face.

Griff ignored him and bent lower to the speaker. “Emma Haskins?”

“I got the door, let’s go. She’s in apartment 214,” Mason said.

Griff looked over his shoulder and caught the sudden, odd stillness of the man who’d barreled through them.

The man stared at them for a moment, then smiled and nodded before moving along the sidewalk.

“Yes, this is Emma Haskins,” came the tinny voice. “Who’s there?”

He didn’t want to scare her by suddenly appearing on her doorstep. “My name is Griffin King, Miss Haskins. I’d like to speak to you about your friend, Joel.” It was a calculated gamble, and he hoped she wouldn’t press for details until they were face to face.

“Joel? Is he okay? Oh, wait, here.” The door’s buzz echoed in the hallway.

“Smooth,” Mason commented with a chuckle. He loped his way toward the redwood staircase. He moved with the elegance of an aristocrat coupled with the lithe speed of an athlete.

His body was solid, lean, muscled, and made for pain. Griff felt a familiar surge of need welling. Despite the Council’s undisguised attempt at matchmaking and the odd happening with Emma’s picture, he was going to treat her as the assignment she was…but knew he was going to enjoy the hell out of himself.

Just as he crested the landing, a door swung open down the hall, and Emma popped out, worry on her face, telephone in hand. The concern crumpled into a frown followed by suspicion, and she started to duck back into the apartment.

“Wait, Emma,” Mason called out and was on her in two long, space-eating strides. He propped his shoulder against her doorframe and looked down at her, patented grin in place. “Thanks for buzzing us up. Got a minute?”

Griff held out his hand. “Miss Haskins, I’m Griffin King.”

She looked at him warily, but the tension seemed to have lessened, her shoulders and back less stiff than just a moment ago. She accepted his handshake, and he was pleased to find hers strong and sure.

Being submissive didn’t mean being a wimp or pushover.

In person, Emma Haskins was girl-next-door beautiful. The sharp point of her elfin face and uptilted, generous mouth added a perpetual good humor to her aura. Her luscious chocolate-brown hair looked soft as mink. Her wide green eyes, dark with suspicion and wariness, sized them both up.

“Are you police officers? Can I see some ID?” Her tone was as firm as her handshake.

He shook his head, dug into his pocket, and pulled out her quarters, though he kept them concealed in his palm. “No, we’re not cops. We’re something a little different than that.”

Mason leaned in and winked. “Though your safety is our number-one concern.”

Griff chuckled, and Emma looked even more confused. “You mentioned Joel?”

“Miss Haskins, could we go inside and discuss this?”

She hesitated. She was a smart cookie. No way was she going to let them in without a little more incentive.

He leaned a bit closer and raised his hand. “Thursday night you said you were ready to listen.”

“Listen?”

Griff opened his fingers, showing the coins. “We are here to help you find your true desires, to explore and expand your boundaries. Just as you wished.”

Color suffused her sweet face, and her mouth opened and shut like a gasping fish. “But, how, what? Oh, God, did Joel put you up to this?”

Griff nodded behind her. “May we come in?”

Emma fell back into the apartment and gave a jerky nod. “Please.”

The door shut behind them. “I can’t believe he did this to me,” she whispered.

Griff studied her as she stood, forehead against the door, muttering low. She really was a cute, little thing. The top of her head just reached his shoulder, and that might be because her chocolate hair was piled into a haphazard, fuzzy knot. She had a sweet figure, too. More lush and curvy than he’d been expecting. She was exquisitely proportionate with large, full breasts that pushed against her emerald sweater, a softly rounded tummy, and hips that flared into strong legs encased in jeans.

Griff stirred. Like Mason, Emma Haskins gave every appearance of being perfectly built for punishment, pain, and discipline.

She finally swung around and stared at them in turn. “So, uh, what exactly did Joel tell you? And why are there two of you?”

“Double your pleasure,” Mason said with a wink.

“Why don’t we sit down and discuss this, Miss Haskins?”

At that moment, she seemed to shake off her lingering surprise and gave them a more natural smile, though her eyes roved over them rapidly. “Yes, of course. Would you care for something to drink?”

“Not right now, thank you.”

“All right. The living room is just down this hall and to the left.”

Griff took his time moving through the hallway, taking in the framed black-and-white photographs hanging from black ribbons on chrome hooks. Some were architectural shots of buildings, a few were stunning, honest portraits that tugged at his gut, and a few were abstract pieces of interesting angles and lines.

“Did you take these?” he asked.