The Parlour (VDB #1) (5 page)

Her hands suddenly wrapped around his neck and drew him closer – so close. She always needed him close. She hardly allowed any separation between the three of them in these moments. Her tongue swirled beautifully, slowly, almost to the point of him only feeling her. She really was angelic – as saintly as a woman could be with two men buried inside her, anyway.

“You should go,” Alexander said quietly behind her as Pascal felt his cock grinding against him again. He raised a brow at the feeling and broke away from her mouth. He’d fucking stay here if that was happening again. He’d stay in this car for the rest of his life and kneel down forever for another chance at the bliss that was consuming him. She moaned again and dropped her fingers to her clit, working them over and over until her breathing came out panted and shallow. “You’ve had your prize, Pascal. Go to work.” The bastard growled. He very nearly came again, instantly. Instead, he found the man’s eyes and watched the smirk of a sadist taunting him with something he wouldn’t have again. “Go.”

“Bastard,” he snarled, pulling out of her and watching Sir lift her and push his cock into her cunt. That was even more sadistic. The very idea that their come would be together was enough to drive him insane. “Fine,” he snapped, tucking his cock away and straightening his suit. Fucking man. Where was Ruebin? Or anything? Something was going to get a beating.

He opened the door and tried not to listen to her fucking grunting. He’d find something else to fuck after he’d cleansed himself. Or maybe he wouldn’t.

Maybe he’d fuck their scent away in something else. Or maybe he wouldn’t.

Having had a very nice shower and a cup of tea, I’ve actually entered the sanctuary of the walk in wardrobe. It’s filled with luxury goods, nothing that I’ve ever been able to afford before. They’re the type of clothes you find in high-end designer boutiques and the small couture shops of 5
th
Avenue. I can only assume Roxanne does all the shopping, or maybe these clothes have been left here by the previous occupant. There’s not much to tell me anyone has ever been here before, but I can smell expensive perfume, and it’s not Roxanne’s, so it must belong to someone else. It’s also not the same as any of the new, unopened bottles on the dressing table.

My fingers glide along the array of materials as I wonder what I’m going to be doing for the rest of the day. Someone’s coming to get me and take me somewhere. I’ve no idea what that might involve, apart from making me more elegant, apparently. I didn’t think I did a bad job on my own really, but I suppose if I’m entering the world of sex workers then maybe there’s a look I need to get on. What does that look like? If it’s anything like the woman I passed in the hall earlier then yes, I’m going to need to work on it. I may not be unattractive, but sultry and pouty I’m not. I’m neat, tidy, pressed, everything in place and a place for everything. Letting go of one’s abandon has never been a forte of mine.

Dropping the towel to the floor, I search for something elegant, or more elegant than normal for me, at least. A grey shift dress catches my attention so I pull it out and go in search of shoes and a bag. Not that I have anything to put in my bag, only a small picture of my father and a few old pieces of jewellery that my mother left me, which are hidden in the lining of my small rucksack. I sold the rest. The rucksack that sits looking at me from the corner of the room only holds a few tatty old jumpers, a pair of jeans, some underwear, maybe some t shirts. Nothing at all really. My passport is tucked in the lining, too. I don’t know why I bothered to keep that. It isn’t like I was ever going to make enough money on the streets to get home, is it? Maybe one day.

Sitting at the dressing table in the bedroom, I start the application of my make- up – precise strokes to get the eyeliner in place, feathered brushes across my lashes to create that big eye thing that ladies require, and then a slight rush of green across my lids to match the light green-grey of my eyes. Perfect. Not slutty, but not boring either. Pretty, really. I pick up the nude lipstick and slather it on so that my too thin lips look as full as I can make them. Then, after a final teasing of my dull brown hair, I pin it into place and slide the dress on. It fits well. It’s a little on the large slide around my boobs, but not bad considering it’s not even mine. Shoes, however, are a problem. Most of the shoes here are a seven and I’m a five. There is one pair of long, cream boots with lacing up the front so I slip them on and tighten them as much as I can. Colour? For God’s sake, even I know I need a bit of colour to brighten up this grey, cream combination. I’ll look like part of the snow storm if I go out there like this. I snatch a burnt orange shawl and throw it around my shoulders. Yes, better. It even has hints of grey in it. There’s also a long grey wool coat to stave off the depths of fucking winter, and a fur hat.

Okay, I guess I’m ready. And waiting for Vixon, whoever she is.

I drop the coat onto the sofa while making my way back over to the kettle, and immediately trip up the stairs. Heels have been somewhat lacking in the last year. Trainers and jeans have been my normal attire, not that I like either much. They were just all I had left, and they were warm. There’s no denying I’ve felt increasingly better since I got here, and not just because of the heat and food. I enjoy nice clothes, heels and shopping. I’m a girl for God’s sake. I’ve never understood the need for women to wear jeans and trainers all the time. Why would they all want to look like men? When I had a small amount of savings, I’d go into somewhere cheap and buy dozens of outfits, then mix and match them as much as I could. I regularly scoured thrift shops and charity outlets hoping for a bargain, maybe some old designer throw off that the upper class had got bored of. I even found an old
Gucci
suit once and wore it to the office. Nobody noticed, but I felt kind of nice in it, like I’d arrived somewhere I’d never been before. Unfortunately, I sold that, too. Some woman on the streets offered me twenty bucks for it. Twenty bucks goes a long way when you haven’t eaten for three days. That money lasted me quite a while, and what good was a black
Gucci
suit going to do me when I only had trainers on my feet?

I flick the kettle on again and cast my gaze around the room as it boils. Home, apparently. What I’m going to have to do to keep it, I do not know. I’m not even sure I really believe that all this kinky crap really exists. It must do, I suppose. But if the submissive garbage is anything to go by, the type of stuff I saw when those books were out, then I’m not sure I’m going to fit that bill. There is nothing pouty or breathy about me. I don’t caress anything, certainly not with a feather light touch. I’ve only begged a few times, and not because it’s in my nature to do so. I had to in order to survive, that’s all. I’m particular in what I need when it comes to sex. Precise, maybe. You could call me a ‘get the job done’ kind of girl, I suppose. I’m very happy to have a night of passion with someone, but there’s nothing ethereal about the experience. It’s just an act of orgasm, getting myself to the moment as quickly as possible really, because, let’s be honest, most men are crap at understanding what goes where, or what it’s for. And the majority of them have no brains either, which is a definite turn off. There’s a word for someone turned on by intelligence. Sapiosexual. That’s always been me. You can put the fittest, most attractive man in the world in front of me, but if he opens his mouth and rubbish comes out of it, I’m out of there. Yet, in the same respect, you stand a man in front of me that’s not all that hot, and you load him with a PhD in astrophysics, and I’m a melting pot of bliss. I don’t care a shit for astrophysics, haven’t got a clue, but if he uses long words or recites the fucking dictionary at me rather than saying, ‘Yeah, cool,’ I’m his. I still haven’t found one that knows how to use his dick properly, though. In fact, before I ended up on the streets, I’d pretty much given up hope that men like that existed. Most are useless in the bedroom. I seem to have spent my life telling them what they need to do to get me to orgasm. I normally just did it myself in the end.

Mind you, I‘m not sure I’m supposed to care about what I need from sex given this situation, am I? I’m certain it’s all about what they need. Hopefully, I’ll at least get an orgasm out of the experience at some point. It’s not like I’ve got any fucking choice, is it? God, what have I gotten myself into?

Teabag in, and a quick stir of my sweet black tea, and I cross over to the window again to watch the world go by. That woman’s out there again, flinging her washing around and still smiling. What’s she got to be so happy about? I bet she’s got two point four children and a husband who adores her. She’s probably got a nice car, too, living the dream. The damn dream I came here for.

Not that I’ll ever get it.

“Lilah!” A voice comes screaming through the door behind me. My body spins in shock at the noise.

“Hold on,” I reply, floundering across to the door and trying not to throw tea all over myself as I trip in the heels again. I unlock and open it to find a mass of red hair looking at me. She’s wearing overly heavy make-up, and some sort of blue leather outfit, which I can only describe as atrocious, if not sexy, in a strange sense of the word. She smiles and barges her way past me. This definitely isn’t a woman who knows anything about the word finesse.

“Lovey, do not make me shout again. I get pissed when I have to shout.”

I’m not even sure why she shouted in the first place.

“Perhaps you should have just knocked then. That’s what normal people do.” The slap that reverberates off the side of my face has me stumbling backwards in defence.

“You ever speak to me like that again and I’ll do worse than slap you.” She snarls. “And don’t behave like such a weak fucker either. These boys aren’t going to pay for that shit.”

My body recoils away from her until I’m backed up to the sofa and still clinging onto my cheek. Fuck, that hurt. And what the hell does she mean about looking like a weak fucker? She’s just slapped me for God’s sake. What am I supposed to do? Hit her back? I’m fairly certain she just told me to never speak to her sarcastically again, let alone attack her.

“Sorry, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Why? What...” Why the hell am I saying I’m sorry? She’s just attacked me! “In fact, no. Fuck off. Why did you just slap me?”

“Better,” she says as she taps her foot and stares at my body. Up and down, she gazes, repeatedly, as if she’s sizing me up, or maybe getting the measure of me. “You’ve never done anything like this before, I assume.” She’s right there.

“Nope, and why the hell did you just slap me?”

“Rule one, no matter what they ask for or how absurd it might seem, you say, ‘Yes, Sir’. You even batt your fucking eyelashes at them if you like. You do not, and I’ll repeat this for you, lovey, you DO NOT have your own sarcastic comeback, or any form of disrespect.”

“You didn’t knock. I was just–”

“Honey, some of ‘em ain’t gonna knock and ask permission. They ain’t gonna do a damn thing you expect. Your job will be to expect that, to be ready, pliable. You get me?” she says, now smiling again and walking towards me. “And actually, I did knock. Twice.” Did she?

“Oh…” My response is stupendous as I rub at my cheek and frown a little. “I didn’t hear. Sorry.”

“Okay. Let’s start again then, shall we? I’m Vixon, and I’m going to be training you a little. I’m a Domme and proud of it. I’ve been in this lifestyle since I was fifteen, runaway brat and all that. I’m from England, like you, but I’ve lived here for near on twelve years. I currently have two subs, Jackson and Monty, both utterly useless and a waste of my time. That’s a Domme’s way of saying I love them, kind of. Questions? Now’s your chance, lovey.”

“I haven’t a clue what I’m supposed to ask.”

“Hmm, last chance?”

“Okay, what’s expected of me?”

“Here,” she says as she throws a manual at me. “That there is the rule book for Dominants and submissives. It’s a base point really. We all have our differences. Learn the words, terms, how you should appear, what you should say. When you’ve done a few rounds with me, we’ll switch you onto someone else, maybe a man with a little more ferocity than me. Then we’ll know what you can handle, what you like and don’t like.”

“You mean I get a choice?”

“Course you do. There’s no point putting you near a sadist if you can’t handle the pain he’ll put you through. In the same respect, there’s no point putting you with a Dom who’s all sweetness and light if you like it rougher, is there? What do you like, Lilah?”

Jesus! Subtle, she is not.

“Intelligence.” I might as well be honest. She bursts out laughing and claps her hands as if something’s hilarious. I’m not sure that it is, but at least she’s not slapping me again.

“Oh, we’re gonna get on like a house on fire. You ready?” she asks as she turns and heads for the door again. I get the distinct impression that means I don’t have a choice about whether I’m ready or not, just that I have to be.

“Okay,” I reply as I grab my coat, swing it around my shoulders and shove the hat on my head. “As I’ll ever be, I suppose.”

~

Five hours later and we’ve shopped our arses off. Apparently I need more clothes than the ones already in the wardrobe. I certainly do need more shoes. I’ve also had some auburn highlights put in my hair, which has been chopped into a shorter bob, and a facial, leg wax, crotch wax, eyebrow threading, some kind of body scrub, which rejuvenates my pores, and to top it off, my nails have grown, quite substantially. They are also a very elegant grey to match my dress, which I’m supposed to bin the moment we get back because it’s baggy.
Okay.

We’ve been in this car for the last twenty minutes, battling the downtown traffic, and we still don’t seem to be getting anywhere. Jacob, the chauffeur driving us, is the original guy who found me. He says there’s been a crash somewhere, so Vixon is on the phone with Roxanne telling her we’ll be late. She’s been quite the bundle of fun really. Nice, even. She seems like a decent person, if a bit strange. But she does have this aura about her that makes you want to follow her, or maybe do as she asks. She reminds me of Mr. Nockson at my old job. He had that about him, too. Like you didn’t really want to do what he said, but you couldn’t help but do it anyway, maybe waiting for a pat on the head like a good little girl or some rubbish. He was two managers above me and never noticed me at all, but every now and then I’d need to get his signature for some case. He’d always smile politely, but he had something about him that just said, ‘be careful’. You know, like a warning of some description. Vixon’s got that, too. She’s dressed in leather at the moment, which rather highlights her sinister appearance, but I think she’d still have it if she was in fluffy pyjamas.

“’Kay, Rox,” she says, sucking an olive off a stick and then mixing the other around her martini. I’ve not been allowed a drink. I have a training session to get back to, which doesn’t include drink apparently. “Yeah, I’ll meet you in there.” And with that, she switches off the phone and looks me over again. “You okay, Lilah James?”