The Secret Journey (24 page)

"Have you ever been fucked in the ass?" he
asked, in the same conversational tone he'd used to ask for coffee.
I couldn't find the words to answer, and so just shook my head.
No.

"It's going to hurt. It's supposed to."

His finger was pressing in, lubricating me
with my own juices. I closed my eyes, freeing myself from his
hypnotism or whatever it was, but it didn't make a difference. His
finger in my ass had me paralyzed, probing me like that. It was
uncomfortable and humiliating, but I couldn't summon the will to
stop him. He was undoing his fly, and then I felt the swollen head
of his cock pressing in right where his finger had opened me, so
stiff, so hot. I was panting. He slid right into me, and it did
hurt, not so much as I’d feared. I felt very full, but also very
turned on.

"You're going to take it up the ass every
week, to keep you in your place." His voice wasn't quite so relaxed
now, it held an edge. My eyes flew open to find his gaze in the
mirror. His eyes weren't kind anymore, they were steely,
determined. His hands went to my hips and he began to thrust into
me, taking me, claiming me as his in a way I'd never had done
before. All I could do was hang on to the edge of the table. His
cock swelled further, stretching me, penetrating me deeper,
transforming me. If I were going to save myself from being his
slave I had to do it now. I summoned all my will power to tell him
to stop, but what came out of my mouth was a grunt that sounded
closer to "More!" than anything else. He got harder at that, and I
knew his orgasm would be huge, flooding my abused rectum with his
sperm. If he came in my ass I'd be lost for sure, reshaped into his
anal slut to use whenever he wanted to.

I had to stop him! I formed the word "Stop"
in my mind, ran it over my lips, took a deep breath, but this time
what I said was, "Harder! Please!" He did as I asked, even as my
shocked brain tried to figure out how those words came out. I tried
to say stop again, and this time heard myself begging. "Do it hard!
Make it hurt!" That was all it took. I felt him swell further, felt
his fingers digging into my hips as he came, pumping his sperm deep
into my ass. His shoulders flexed, muscles tensed hard in the
mirror. I could feel him throbbing so deep inside, see the pain and
pleasure in my face right before my own climax hit.

I never did figure out where those words came
from, but now I say them every week when he ass-fucks me. And also
when I've been bad and he uses his belt.

Part Eleven

Do you know what I miss,
honey? I miss
hearing your voice, I miss your touch, I miss the thousand tiny
intimacies a day that lovers exchange. I miss the look in your eyes
when I look at you, the look that says, “I’m yours and you’re
mine.” I miss that easy intimacy, and I miss knowing the way you
feel about me.

Which is strange when you think about it,
because you haven’t seen me, haven’t met me, and I haven’t met you.
And yet it isn’t so strange, because we have lived in each other’s
fantasies for years now, we have been there always in each other’s
awareness, and if we haven’t known each other’s names that hasn’t
dimmed the desire, not one little bit. And now, honey, we have
names. I call you honey, and let me tell you what “honey” means to
me. It means sticky and sweet and natural. Honey is thick and rich
and nourishing, honey is simple, straightforward and honest. Honey
is rare and desirable, and like a bear who withstands a thousand
stings for a taste of heaven, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my
honey.

Honey
– hear it, it’s magical, isn’t
it? Honey is the perfect name for you, not your common name, not
what your family or your friends call you, honey is just for me.
Honey, hmmm, honey. I do miss you, honey.

And you, you know my name, from the cover of
this book, but you don’t use it. You call me Sir, of course you do.
“Yes sir, please fuck me.” “Yes sir, please whip me.” “Yes sir,
please hold me.” “Yes sir, I miss you too.” And you do miss me,
when we’re apart. Do you wish I were there with you, close enough
to touch, to feel, to taste? You do, I know you do, because here
you are, so far along in our journey together. We’re so close,
honey, and yet so far. And this book, seventy five thousand words
squeezed from my soul, this book is my love letter written to you
and cast into the world, in the certain knowledge that it will find
its way into your hands.

And how do you feel about me, honey? How do
you feel about the way I make you feel? I want you to tell me, I
want you to write me a letter, a long letter, an intimate letter. I
want to know what I do for you, I want to know how much you want
me, I want to know how I’ve captured you like no-one else ever has.
Write me, honey, and tell me those secrets you can’t tell your mom
or your dad or your best friend. Write me, honey, and let me know
that you’re out there, that you’re as real as I am. Write me and
show me who you are, my sweet honey, unique in all the world. I
don’t need eloquence and poetry, I just need you, just as you are,
your words, your thoughts, your feelings, your life.

Tell me where you work and tell me how you
play. Tell me where you're going, where you’ve been, and what you
need, and what you dream. I want to know you, honey. I want to know
everything there is to know about you, and only you can tell me,
and the only way to do that is to write.

Don’t get pen and paper yet, honey. I want
you to lie back and remember first, lie back and think about what
it was like the first time we were together. Were you shocked by my
directness? I think you were, because where else have you read
anything like this? Shocked by it, but intrigued as well, and then
aroused. You do need directness, you need to know exactly where you
stand, and with me you always know, which isn’t to say I don’t
surprise you every time you turn the page. Think back to that first
time you stepped through our door, set foot on our journey.

Remember the way my words washed over you,
the way they swept away the rest of the world to leave you and I
alone together between these sheets. Remember the rush, remember
the blush, as you first realized exactly what I was doing, and then
understood that there was nothing you would do, nothing you
could
do to stop it. Remember how your heart beat faster,
remember how you were swept away. You couldn’t wait to be alone
with me, could you?

And now I’m your secret lover, always there
at the back of your mind, in that secret place deep inside your
mind, where everything is true. It’s amazing how fast that
happened, but it did. Remember it all, honey, remember it all so
you can tell me about it. Show me with words what you show me with
your body. Show me with words what I am to you, what I do to you.
Don’t edit, don’t compose, don’t make them fine and eloquent, just
make them real, make them true, let them spill across the page.
Show me your heart, show me your passion.

Show me all of you. Write now.

The Buyer

I noticed her
on Monday,
coming through the lobby of my
office tower, dressed in expensive style, hips swinging in time to
the
click-clack
of her
designer shoes,
her purse riding her right hip, her briefcase in her left hand. I
met her gaze and held it as she passed. Does she work here? It
doesn’t matter. I’m on my way out as she comes in, my day too full
to devote time to any woman, no matter how beautiful.

I noticed her on Wednesday, I'm
coming in, she's going out, and this time I watched how she carried
herself, shoulders square, head up, moving with a purposeful
stride. I had a purchase to plan and by the time it was over and
done I had forgotten her again.

On Friday, early morning, she
reminds me, coming in when I was, and I hold the door for her.

She doesn’t go through, she
stops, eyes challenging. “You don’t have to open the door because
I’m a woman, you know.”

“I didn’t.” I stay where I am,
keep the door wide.

“No?” She raises an eyebrow.
“Then why are you holding it open?”

“Because I’m a gentleman.”

“Touche.” She gives me half a
smile and goes through, and we walk towards the waiting elevators.
“You’re here very early.”

“I’m always here early.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a buyer.” I push the button
for my floor, and she pushes the button for hers.

“What do you buy?” The doors
close and we start up.

I shrug. “Anything I can sell
for a profit.”

“Such as?”

“Companies, mostly.”

“Leveraged buyouts?”

I nod. “Usually.”

She smiles at that, reaches into
her purse, takes out her wallet, gives me her card. “Let me know if
you need some help.”

I read it. I’ve heard her name
before, and her credentials are impressive. “Perhaps I can use
you.” I take out my own wallet, give her my card. “Come by my
office and we’ll see.”

“What time?”

“Seven, tonight.”

“Do you always work late,
too?”

“Always.”

She nods, smiles, as the
elevator stops and the doors open for her floor. “Well, I’ll see
you then.”

I go through my day, calls and
meetings, opportunities gained and lost, and at seven PM the night
girl calls from the front desk.

“Your seven o’clock is here to
see you.”

I look up. It takes me a moment
to remember the name on her card, though her face is unforgettable.
“Send her in.”

I get up as she comes through
the door, shake her hand, usher her into the plush leather chair
across from my desk.

“Thank-you for coming in so
late.”

“We do whatever we have to do
for our clients. That’s what makes us the best.” She opens her
briefcase. “I spent some time researching your operation this
afternoon. I think there are four key areas where we can…”

I hold a hand to stop her in
mid-sentence. “I’d like to buy your jacket."

"My jacket?" Her face registers
surprise. "Why?"

"Does the reason matter?"

"I can't sell it, it's matched
to the skirt."

"Of course you can sell it. Name
a price high enough to cover a new skirt as well."

"Seriously?"

"I never joke about deals."

"Fair enough." She names a
price. It's high, but then her suit is custom tailored, and she
deserves a profit. I open a drawer, count out hundred dollar bills.
She takes them, takes off her jacket and hands it over. I write out
a receipt.
One grey designer
jacket, used, purchased at 7:10PM
. I add
the date, fill in the amount. “Sign here please.”

She laughs and takes my pen, “I
doubt you’ll get a tax deduction.”

“Probably not.”

"I hope the rest of our deal is
this easy."

"I do too." I smile and put the
jacket in the bottom drawer of my desk. "I'd like your blouse too,
please."

“
What?” She looks at me in
shock.

“I’d like you to give me your
blouse.”

Her face is suddenly hard. "I
sold the jacket, not the blouse."

"So name another price."

She stands up. “I think I should
leave.”

“If you think so.”

“Do you have any idea how
rude that is?” Her briefcase closes with a sharp
snap
. “I
thought you were a gentleman.”

“All’s fair in love and
business. How much do you want for it?”

She snorts derisively. “It’s not
for sale.”

“Everything is for sale, the
only question is price.” I start counting out hundred dollar bills.
“I’m thinking of a number. If your blouse is on my desk before I
reach it, we have a deal.” I start counting the money out, slowly,
steadily.

She looks at me, cold and
hostile. “I’m not a prostitute.”

“I’m buying your blouse, not
you.” I keep adding bills to the pile, one by one.

“Who do you think you are?” Her
voice is still angry, but she hasn’t left yet.

“It doesn’t matter who I am. It
doesn’t matter who you are. All that matters is whether we can make
a deal.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

“I have to, to do what I
do.”

She nods slowly, considering at
the growing pile of money. I'm adding to it more slowly now. “Just
the blouse?”

“Just the blouse.”

She looks at the pile. I add a
hundred and wait. After a long pause I add another. It's already
twice what I paid for her jacket. A longer pause, and then
another.

“Okay,” she says at last, and
starts undoing buttons. I stop counting and watch while she shrugs
it off. Her breasts are high and firm, well rounded beneath her
white lace bra, and her large nipples poke through the sheer fabric
in tempting outline. She tosses the blouse on my desk. “I hope
that’s worth it.” Her tone is half mocking.

“It is.” I take the blouse, dump
it into the bottom drawer of my desk, then push the stack of bills
over to her, appreciating the view. “Very nice.”

She sits down again, takes the
cash, riffles through it, and puts it in her briefcase. “I think
that was the easiest money I ever made.” She leans back, perfectly
comfortable half undressed. She's knows the power of her figure,
and she's enjoying this tangible validation of it.

“Deals only work if they’re
profitable for both sides.” I make out another receipt, and she
signs it.

"I agree, now to get back to the
key points I've..." She trails off as I start counting out another
pile of money. “What’s that for?”

“Your skirt.”

She looks at me. “You’re quite
the piece of work, aren’t you?”

I meet her gaze, still counting.
“I know what I want, I know how to get it.”

“You should know, I’m not
wearing underwear.”