by Kitty Thomas
Gabe went to a refrigerator across the room and opened the freezer. He took out a piece of ice that had been frozen into a phallic shape and had a stick attached at the end to hold onto. He returned and sat next to her while she whimpered and writhed.
He slid the ice inside her, slowly pumping in and out. She was so hot inside that it started melting on contact. She couldn’t be bothered by how freezing cold it was, because it was penetration and contact, and though she wasn’t going to come like this, it was almost as though it could scratch the smallest amount of the urgent itch.
He withdrew the ice and disposed of it across the room. When he returned this time, he had a thin metal dildo and lube. He didn’t need lube. She was dripping wet and needy. Anything would slide in and out of that hole with ease.
But then she realized it wasn’t meant for that hole. If she wasn’t half-mad from arousal, she might have tried to squirm away or plead with him. She might have been more scared. But in this heightened state, it sounded exciting.
“The one virgin hole,” he said with a nearly demonic glee. “Get on your hands and knees and offer that stunning ass to me.”
Julie scrambled onto her hands and knees while Gabe coated the anal toy with lube.
“Relax,” he said. Then he inched the toy inside her ass.
Julie found herself pushing against it, seeking deeper penetration. She quickly discovered that the effects of the cream made any touch or penetration in that general area feel like a welcome balm to soothe the ache the smallest amount.
He started to slowly fuck her with the toy, and she moved with it.
“Good girl. Remember you’re on camera. Perform for me. Moan. Really sell it.”
She’d forgotten for a moment about the camera. Gabe was sitting slightly to the side of her, giving the camera a clear unobstructed view of her ass and pussy.
He moved his other hand between her legs and dipped a finger inside her. “You love having your ass fucked. I’ve never seen you this wet.”
All she could do was moan as the toy slid in deeper. Finally he stopped and the distraction was gone. The only thing left was the throbbing need between her legs.
“All right,” he said. “You have my permission to beg.”
“Really?” She was so grateful she didn’t have the chance to consider that maybe he wanted her to beg but might leave her unfulfilled still. And yet, every time his cock was inside her mouth or her cunt, she felt fulfilled. Every time she knelt at his feet in anticipation of the next thing she felt fulfilled. Every time the flogger came down. Every toy that penetrated her. Every thing he did. Every look. Every caress. Every shower together. All of it was fulfilling.
And yet.
“Well? I’m waiting.” Gabe sat in a nearby chair, his legs open, inviting her to kneel between them.
She climbed off the bed and crawled to him. She rubbed her cheek against the bulge in his jeans like a cat begging affection. “Please, Master, please let me come.”
He reached down and squeezed her nipple painfully hard. “Cry for me and beg again.”
The tears came easily. “Please let me come, please, I beg you.”
He chuckled. “Good girl.”
Gabe led her to the back of the room. There was a bondage bed back there, basically a high flat table of sorts that was black leather padded and had various metal attachment rings all around the perimeter.
There was a spot in the middle of the table that had a raised platform with a large attached metal dildo.
“I think you know where I want you,” Gabe said. He went to get the camera and set it up again to capture the new location.
Julie got up on the bondage bed and straddled the artificial cock. She sank down on it while Gabe went to take a toy out of one of the large boxes in the room. He pressed a button on the side of the bed and the dildo started to fuck her. She dug her fingers into the leather of the bondage bed, bracing herself against the onslaught. The longer the fucking went on, the more insanely wet she became.
And though she was sure that the cream should be wearing off by now, the effects only seemed to get stronger. Gabe got on the bed behind her and pushed a button on the side of the toy he’d brought with him. It was a small round thing with a handle, and it was vibrating.
Gabe pressed the hard vibrating ball against her clit and massaged it around in a circular motion. It felt slippery from her arousal.
“Now let yourself go, and come for your master.”
All at once that thing that kept building inside her started to race to a crescendo. The pressure built and built until she thought it was going to kill her, and then it burst and exploded into the most intense pleasure she’d ever felt. It went on and on in wave after wave as she gripped the leather harder. A scream tore from her and then morphed into a deep, guttural moan. But Gabe still moved the small vibrating ball around her clit, and the attachment on the bed still fucked her.
Finally, her arms wouldn’t hold her anymore, and she fell forward. Gabe turned the toy off and pressed the button on the bed to make it stop, then he gathered her up in his arms and held her. He pressed kisses along her neck and face and then whispered in her ear, “You should have been grateful for the way things were. By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll be begging me not to make you come anymore.”
But she knew she would only beg if he gave her permission.
BOOK FOUR: Pretty Lies
Prologue
The elevator door opened with a sharp ding, delivering Anton Volikov back to the mansion’s entryway. This was his second tour of the property.
Empty, the place echoed at an almost painful volume. It was five floors if you counted the two underground basement areas which could easily be turned into dungeons.
There were two towers: one on the west side and one on the east. Just beyond the entry hall was a large dining area and industrial kitchen. The site had a pool and space for a large gym, as well as a place that could be turned into a spa. And there was a library. And offices on the first floor. And play rooms—or rooms they would turn into play rooms. The possibilities were staggering.
He smoothed his dark suit and pivoted toward the only other person in the cavernous space. “And how many rooms did you say the house has, Phyllis?”
The real estate agent blushed every time he spoke her name. It was the accent.
Phyllis appeared to be in her fifties and was dressed in a suit the color of raspberry sorbet. She pushed a set of reading glasses up her nose as she consulted her clipboard again. She should have had it memorized by now for all the times she’d nervously glanced at it. “Forty-three, but not all of them are bedrooms.”
“Does that count the bathrooms?” Anton asked.
“No, sir.”
“And how many of the bedrooms have private bathrooms?”
“Nearly all of them, though many of the bathrooms are rather small, I’m afraid.”
“What did the previous owner use the place for?” He couldn’t imagine it was the same sordid use he and his friends had for it. At the same time, he couldn’t imagine any other use for it so far off the beaten path.
Phyllis lowered her voice as if there might be listening devices. And there would be—once Brian got his surveillance equipment set up.
“The previous owner was this eccentric billionaire. He built the place to be a murder mystery party hotel, where all the guests played the game. That’s why it was so out of the way—to add to the creepiness.”
It was out of the way all right. Anton hadn’t believed it when Lindsay had told him about this place. It had seemed almost too good to be true. The large white house sat on two hundred acres of land. It was surrounded by trees. A very long, private road led up to the house. The guys had planned to buy land and build, but here it was, all wrapped up for them already. Why fix what hadn’t been broken? Or build what already somehow miraculously existed?
“What happened? I don’t remember a murder mystery hotel.” They may be a few hours outsi
de the city, but surely he would have heard about something like this.
“The owner died just before it was finished. That was the part I wanted to tell you. There are a few rooms on the fifth floor as well as the towers that, unfortunately, aren’t completed yet, but they don’t need much work. I’m sorry, what did you say you were you planning to use the property for?”
He hadn’t said.
“I like my space and privacy. And the price is right. I was told you would be discreet.”
“Oh, yes, sir, of course,” she said. “It’s been impossible to move. Nobody has the same vision for it or any vision for it. It just has no appeal to the right buyers, and the family is desperate to unload it and get whatever they can.”
She was babbling. She was desperate to unload it, too, which worked for him. But Anton still wasn’t sure if she’d be a loose end. Maybe it would be better to build. Safer. Quieter. No. Phyllis was independent—no agency. And from what Brian had dug up on her, she’d done deals with several unsavory characters in the past.
“Is the family local to the area?” Anton asked. Brian would wire them up with heavy surveillance spanning all edges of the property, and they’d put up an invisible perimeter fence, but it would still be best if no one remained close by who might get curious and want to spy on the new eccentric owner. It helped that it was so far from anything. Even before one reached the impossibly long private road that led to the house, it was still in the middle of nowhere.
“The family is on the other side of the country. They thought this place was a crackpot idea from the start and wanted nothing to do with it. Between you and me, I think they just want to forget it was ever built,” Phyllis said. “They’re old money. It’s embarrassing to them.”
“Who else knows about this place? I don’t want nosy locals showing up at my gate.”
“Well, he was pretty hush hush about the project. He didn’t want anyone to know about it until he was ready to open. Obviously, there were builders and such, but beyond that he was very secretive. He was a very weird guy. The family said he wouldn’t let anybody know the location and forced workers to sign non-disclosure agreements. Some say he even blindfolded them before driving them in.”
Anton rolled his eyes. “Now you’re just screwing with me. I’ve been in this country since I was sixteen. I may still have the accent but I’m as American as you. I’m not that easy to fool.” He hated how even speaking like the locals, the accent made some treat him as if he didn’t understand things.
“No, I swear it’s true! Hand to God,” Phyllis insisted. Then she started to babble again, no doubt afraid she’d lose her only hope of a sale. “So anyway, nobody really knows about it, and the few who might, have forgotten and don’t know how exactly to get here anyway. The family was so embarrassed by the project that they wouldn’t go through an agency. It’s been off the books while I worked on a list of people to approach. You weren’t on the list, so how did you find out about it?”
“I have some interesting connections,” Anton said.
“Clearly.”
He was sure Phyllis would have questioned him further if she wasn’t so eager for the nice fat commission check that would come with the unlikely sale of the isolated mansion.
“Is it going to be a problem that I’m putting the purchase through my corporation?” Anton asked. Just another layer of privacy. It wasn’t as if they could completely wipe the house off the map, but he could make it as hard as possible for people to find out anything about the buyer. He would be using a separate corporation the guys had set up—unconnected to the spa he owned in the city.
“Oh, no problem at all. I’ve handled a lot of large estate purchases bought through corporations,” she said.
Anton nodded. Black and White Industries had been the most nondescript and innocuous name they could all come up with. They’d hidden their own identities behind multiple layers of contacts—many nonexistent in reality. And nobody’s real name was on anything. It had taken some doing, but then, Anton knew a lot of interesting people. As far as Phyllis knew, Anton’s name was Alexander Aristov. And that was what he would sign on the paperwork.
He took another look around the entry hall. He had a good feeling about this place. “Get the papers together. I’m ready to move on this.”
Phyllis’s face broke into a huge smile. “Fantastic.”
43
One Week Later
The truth was a malleable and ever-changing thing to Annette Waincott. She couldn’t help it really. It wasn’t malicious. She’d just always been this way. It was so much nicer to tell a beautiful lie than a disappointing truth. The tendency had started in childhood, and when she kept getting away with it, she kept going. She had a sweet, innocent face and long, fair hair that made it hard to believe there was even one deceitful bone in her body.
The morning of July eighth had dawned much the same as any other morning, except for the pounding headache.
The alcohol had flowed too freely the night before. And the hangover...God, the hangover. Annette was never drinking again.
Possibly another lie—they blended together after a while.
She wasn’t sure if it had been vodka goggles, but the man at the club had been incredibly hot. And Jesus, that accent. He could probably kill her with that gorgeous lilting Russian accent. She hadn’t told him her name, and so he’d called her kiska, which he claimed was a term of endearment. She wasn’t sure she believed that. For all she knew he’d been calling her a slut or a bitch all night. But it had sounded so lovely rolling off his tongue either way.
She was half-surprised he wasn’t in bed with her now, but then puking on a man’s shoes wasn’t exactly foreplay. Annette sighed. Too bad she’d never been able to hold her liquor. She didn’t know his name, either. And she was quite sure she’d never see him again to learn it.
Annette stumbled out of bed and pulled all the blinds closed. Darkness. She needed darkness. And silence. And coffee.
Halfway through a bagel and a cup of coffee, the previous night began to come into sharper focus. Maybe too-sharp focus. She’d been in fine form, stringing the hot Russian along with all her kinky fantasies. If only he’d been paying for all that dirty talk in more than just drinks.
The only trouble was, she didn’t have kinky fantasies. When it came to her fantasy life, she was a blank slate for other people to write on. Where would she find the space to discover her own pleasure when everything about her was such a carefully crafted lie?
The business line rang. Was he early? Annette glanced at the clock on the wall. Nope. She was late. Ten thirty on the dot. Always so punctual. The high-rolling business suits always were. She’d no doubt been penciled in like all his other meetings. Annette imagined he locked his office door and shut the blinds for these calls while his hand slipped into his pants to touch himself to the story she spun around him like a warm, sultry cocoon.
Annette sat on a bar stool and answered, fighting past the hangover to put a sexy purr in her voice “Hello, Stan.”
“Jessica, I missed you.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. It’s only been two days.”
“Why can’t we meet?”
She sighed. It was going to be a banner day if the wheedling was already starting.
Clients always wanted this. To meet. She shouldn’t complain. After all, the phone sex business wasn’t what it used to be. She was lucky to have the clients she had. Men wanted cam girls now, but the game was a man always wanted more. If you gave him voice, he wanted your pussy on cam. If you gave him that, he wanted your face. And almost always they wanted to meet and fuck you for real. But she wasn’t a prostitute. Phone sex was just a fantasy. Just another beautiful lie—one she was good at. She’d always believed one should go with their strengths.
“Stan...”
“Take your panties off,” he said, his voice gruff.
Okay, that was more like it. Maybe she wouldn’t have to have the same tired argument after all. Annette t
ook out a bottle of dark red polish and began painting her nails—not exactly the best smell to go with a hangover, but she had to do something to pass the time.
“Are they off?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, making her voice more breathy while she painted her pinky with the dark red color. “I’ve been wet all morning thinking about you, waiting to talk to you.” She let out a theatric whimper. Then her voice turned conspiratorial. “I found a cucumber in the fridge. Do you want me to fuck myself with it?”
A chuckle. “You dirty little slut. Yes. Fuck yourself hard. Hold the phone down there so I can hear how wet you are.”
Annette put the lid back on the bottle of polish and pressed a button on the CD player at the edge of the counter, skipping to track three. She held the phone next to the speaker. Who knew if that girl was fucking herself with something or if she was faking, too. Either way, it sounded real. As did the moaning.
She let Stan have about a minute of this before she turned the CD player off and put the phone back to her ear.
“Come on, Jessica. Meet me. I make a lot of money. I could make you comfortable and happy. And I’d give you all the dick-shaped produce you wanted to pound that sweet little pussy with.”
Annette made a few fake sex noises, trying to distract him and get the call back on course. She would have dragged it out with a much longer tease to make more money if she hadn’t needed to get him away from the meeting-in-person talk. The company she worked for preferred they keep the callers on as long as possible. Girls who met and exceeded time quotas regularly got end-of-the-month bonuses. Those bonus checks really helped pay the bills.
“Please,” he said. His breath had gone deeper, heavier. She might not really be doing anything she told him she was doing, but Stan was. He was about to come. “I need to meet you.”