The Playboy's Proposition (23 page)

Then another hand began lightly pinching my stretched labia,
and another hand passed a finger over my thrumming clit.

I gasped, shuddered, ready to ...

Michael said, “No coming, Sweet. Not until I say.”

I groaned and fought down the wave that threatened to drown
me.

Michael said, “That’s something else we’ve been working on,
Kamun. Her self control. Oh, and of course we’ve been working on this.”

And then his finger was suddenly removed from my pussy, and
he was pressing that finger against the puckered entry to my asshole.

Oh no. I couldn’t help it. I groaned aloud, but softly,
“Hellll nooo.”

Michael landed a quick swat on my ass. “That’s not a
lady-like thing to say.” But he laughed after he said it.

He added, “As you can see, there’s still a lot of work to be
done with her, but I’m okay with that. I’m happy to give her all the additional
lessons she needs.”

And with that, using a finger still wet from my own
moisture, he began to push his finger into my asshole.

I gritted my teeth, hating every new quarter-inch he gained
inside me.

Michael pulled out of me and said, “Can you reach the tube
of lube on that table behind you?”

I heard a rustle, the flip of a cap, then a cold dollop of
lubricant landed on my asshole. Michael began pushing the stuff inside my hole,
while Kamun dug back into my pussy.

I whimpered and moaned. Moaned and whimpered. The dreadful
contrast of it was maddening. The pleasure of what Kamun was doing to my pussy.
The discomfort of Michael worming his finger past my sphincter.

Once Michael was all the way inside me, he pushed hard
against my ass a few times, then began a smooth slide in and out of me.

My face flushed when I thought of how it must look back
there. Two men fingering me at the same time, different fingers in different
holes. It was a sexy sight in my mind, and did plenty to lessen the distraction
that had been caused by Michael’s assault on my most private hole of all.

Michael said, his voice a lower pitch now, what I knew meant
that he was becoming more aroused, “Join me, Kamun. This hole could use some
stretching.”

I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying “hell no” again.

There was no slow entry this time. Kamun simply pushed his
finger against my taut flesh, paused for a second, then in one smooth motion,
drove his finger inside me as far as it would go.

I cried out.

But then there were fingers in my pussy again. Who they
belonged to, I had no way of knowing. It was all a blur, a smear of rising
tension. Everything running together.

I strained to push myself back against them, wiggled my hips
and panted. Moaned. When a touch fell on my clitoris, I knew I was gone. Knew
there would be no stopping it this time.

Michael said, “Don’t come.”

I fought to obey him, fought to tamp down the pressure that
was threatening to burst out of me.

A soft circle around my clit. Unknown fingers pumping in and
out of my pussy, harder and harder. Both men’s fingers stretching the muscles
circling my asshole, pulling outward, then sliding in and out together.

I threw my head up. I couldn’t stop what was coming.

But they could.

In an instant, all the fingers were gone, every invasion
ended, what had been filled was empty. What had been touched now throbbed
alone.

I panted. Dared a look backwards. The men were just standing
there, breathing hard, looking at my ass. I wanted to cry out, “What the hell
is wrong with you? Get back to work!”

But of course, I knew better than to do that. Instead, I
settled for a long, and regrettably needy-sounding, moan.

Michael glanced at me, slapped my ass and said, “Eyes up
front!”

I quickly turned away.

Michael said, “I don’t know about you, Kamun, but I sure
could use a beer right now. What do you say? Shall we grab a quick one?”

Kamun said, “I can always use a beer.”

And just like that, they walked out of the room.

I thought my head might explode, either that or my throbbing
pussy would. The need inside me was like a physical presence. I was throbbing,
aching to be filled again.

Bastards!

Of all the low down, dirty ...

Then I couldn’t help but smile. I finally got it.

This was Michael’s little reminder of our first time
together, when he left me wanting, didn’t fuck me, because I’d let go of that
damned bar after he’d warned me not to.

For all that I was frustrated as hell, and still kind of wanted
to call him nasty names, I was kind of touched that Michael remembered our
first meeting so well, was going through all of this to remind me of it, too.

Lord knew, I didn’t need reminding. My memory of everything
was solid, complete. I understood things about myself that I hadn’t even begun
to consider back then.

I knew now, that because Michael had done this to me, left
me hanging, that when I finally did orgasm tonight, it would be all the bigger,
longer and better for what had happened now. I had learned the value of delayed
gratification.

And I knew that if I were properly obedient, did everything
he asked, that he would reward me for it, and then some.

I also understood now, though I still struggled with it,
that my true job, my finest reward, came from pleasing my master. To feel the
glow inside when he held me tight, stroked my hair and told me I was good, and
beautiful and perfect.

Patience and obedience, the desire to please. All things I
didn’t have, or didn’t understand, when I first met Michael.

I deliberately began to slow my breathing. Lowered my head
onto my arms, closed my eyes. Prepared myself to wait in silence for my
master’s return.

I didn’t have long to wait. I heard footsteps on the wood
floor, lifted my head, but didn’t turn around. I didn’t have permission to turn
around, after all.

I held my breath as he approached, hoping to feel Michael’s
touch on me. Then he walked beside me, in front of me.

It wasn’t Michael, it was Kamun.

I was a bit disappointed, but it was okay.

Kamun said, “Straighten your arms. Raise your head.”

I quickly pushed myself up, bringing my back parallel to the
bench seat once more, keeping a tight hold on the bar, fearful my handhold
might slip.

Kamun held out his beer to me and said, “Here.”

I shook my head, risked a “No thank you, Sir.”

He pushed the rim of the bottle against my lips. “I wasn’t
asking if you wanted any. I meant that you should open your mouth and swallow
whatever I pour inside you.”

My stomach clenched at the fierce tone of voice. It brooked
no discussion. Okay then, Here we go. I opened my mouth.

Kamun tilted the bottle and poured some of the beer into my
mouth. When he stopped pouring, I swallowed it down quickly.

He said, “Open. Again.”

I obeyed. This time he poured even more into my mouth. When
I couldn’t hold anymore, I struggled to swallow as rapidly and as much as I
could, but it was too much, and I couldn’t get it all past the lump that was
forming in my throat.

He said, “Open.”

I did, and again there was more than I could take, the
struggle to swallow quickly enough, the cold beer running down my chin and
splattering on the wooden floor beneath me.

He laughed softly. “You’re so sloppy. Look at all the beer
you wasted. Open.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. Did as I was told.

He led the mouth of the bottle past my lips and teeth, said,
“Close your mouth. Suck and swallow.”

I tried to obey, truly tried, wrapped my lips around the
neck of the bottle and tried my hardest. But when he tilted the bottle up and
all the liquid gushed into my mouth, I couldn’t possibly swallow quickly
enough. I gulped and gulped, and even my cheeks were puffed out, filled with
beer I couldn’t swallow.

I heaved, threatened to choke. Kamun yanked the bottle out
my mouth and clamped his hand over nearly my entire lower jaw, sealing my mouth
completely shut.

His voice so bland that I felt a little twist in my stomach,
he said, “No wasting it. Swallow.”

I breathed hard through my nose, seeking to control the need
to cough, and bit by bit, eventually managed to swallow all the beer. He took
his hand away when I finished.

He walked around to one side of me, trailing a hand over my
back as he moved into my peripheral vision.

I guessed he was done with his nasty little drinking game.

I hated his little beer escapade, despised games that were
designed to be lost, to embarrass, humiliate the participant. I knew there were
those who liked that sort of thing, but I wasn’t one of them. It only made me
hold my head higher, to prove that his little game hadn’t affected me, even if
I was the only one in the room who understood the gesture.

I felt a cold trickle of liquid fall between my shoulder
blades. I shuddered as it ran a freezing trail down my spine and pooled in the
hollow at the base of my spine. Kamun licked after the flow, his tongue sliding
down my back, lapping up the small pool of beer he found at the end of the
trail.

He ran a hand over my ass, and I tensed, then dared to
speak, not able to stop myself anymore.

I asked, “Please Sir, where is my master?”

I was relieved when he didn’t smack me or something for
daring to speak without being spoken to.

He simply said, “He had a phone call.”

I dared another question, “Will he be back soon ... Sir?”

His hand skimmed over my rear, over both cheeks, again and
again.

He answered, “He said it would only take a few minutes. Told
me to entertain myself in the meanwhile.”

Okay then. I got it. I understood. I was to let Kamun
entertain himself with me as long as my master pleased, to trust in Michael’s
wishes. Okay then. Understood, but not so easily obeyed. I knew instinctively,
that this would be difficult, trusting a near stranger simply because my master
trusted him.

I focused my thoughts. Focused on pleasing Michael. Mentally
soothed myself while Kaman rubbed my ass.

Then Kaman slid his hands over my pussy, slipped his fingers
into my folds. He stroked me there for a few seconds, then he pushed his
fingers outward, opening my slit.

I felt another cold trickle of liquid hit my asshole. I
flinched as it struck my warm flesh, shuddered as the beer rolled an icy path
down into my slit then on down to the floor. I gasped. So cold.

Then Kaman’s warm tongue lapped up my slit, licking me
clean, replacing the cold liquid with his own warm moisture.

He did it again. The tiny trickle of freezing cold running
down between my legs, raising goosebumps on my arms, then his tongue between my
labia, warming me again.

I began to enjoy this particular game, and would have liked
to play it some more, but he moved on.

He removed his fingers from my opening and pressed something
cold against my pussy. It was the side of the beer bottle. I shivered. Ice
against my heated flesh.

He began running what I presumed to be the mouth of the
bottle between my pussy lips, tilting up occasionally to pour a little beer to
ease the slide of the round rim of glass.

Up and down, up and down. Just inside my slit.

He said, “Do you know what happens to sluts who speak when
they’re not spoken to?”

I gulped. Hell. That had come out of nowhere. I said, “No,
Sir.”

He said, “This.”

And in an instant, he pushed the long neck of the bottle
into my pussy, all the way up to where the slim neck met the thick bulge of the
lower part of the bottle.

I gasped loudly. Not because it was painful. It wasn’t. It
was too narrow, too short and smooth to hurt me in that way. But it was so
cold, so hard, and I didn’t know what to make of it, having a bottle pushed
into me like that.

He said, “Disobedient sluts get fucked with beer bottles.”

And he pulled the bottle out of me, then rammed it back in.

I cried out. Not in pain. It was nothing more than some
discomfort, really. It was the idea of what he was doing to me that hurt, and
the why of it.

He began to pump the thing in and out of me. I could hear
the remaining liquid sloshing around inside the bottle, had a thought of the
beer getting foamy, expanding, knew the beer was being splashed inside of me.

So cold. So hard. So ... demeaning.

That was what I hated about it. Part of me was turned on by
the idea of being fucked by a bottle, or something else appropriately shaped
and not too big. Was it really any different than being fucked with a dildo?
No. And in a different situation, this whole thing might have been arousing.

But it wasn’t a different situation. Kamun had ensured that
by calling it a punishment, saying it was something done to sluts, and said
“slut” all dirty and low.

Like with his earlier game, I didn’t find humiliating,
demeaning actions to be sexy. They just pissed me off.

I dug down deep and pulled up my reserves to take what Kamun
was giving me, to accept my punishment with as little anger as possible. For
Michael. For my master.

I grunted in time with his thrusts, but beyond that, I took
it. I overcame.

And when he quickly tired of his punishment, and pulled the
bottle out of me a last time, I knew I had won this challenge. It built my
confidence. I felt steady, even, prepared for whatever might come next.

He pushed two fingers inside me, his touch achingly warm
after the harsh coldness of the bottle. He finger fucked me slowly and
deliberately, twisting his fingers, flexing them inside me.

I couldn’t raise any passion for it, no fresh flickering of
life in my clit, no flutters in my belly. But it wasn’t unpleasant, either. It
simply was.

Then another cold trickle of liquid ran over my asshole and
down my slit. A slight, slow and steady stream of iciness that raised new
goosebumps on my arms and made me shiver.