needed air.
He had another need at the moment though. A raging need. His cock was heavy and throbbing. When Tess and her date disappeared up the stairs of the dank basement, Jared scanned the club, hunting for a suitable replacement.
Oh, there were plenty of pretty slaves and subs simpering from table to table, several tied to the manacles on the wall, squirming, offered up by their Masters for the entertainment of the other Doms. The waitress was flirty—Jared couldn’t count the times her hand had crept to his thigh as she served him this evening. Her lowered lashes marked her as a viable prospect.
But somehow she wasn’t. She wasn’t a viable prospect. None of them were. None of them even pinged his interest.
He wanted Tess. His mind, and his cock, were fixed on that prospect. No, he wouldn’t be lashing out his frustration on any second-rate substitute tonight. Tonight it would be him with his cock in his fist, thinking of Tess, her large bluer-than-blue eyes, her soft creamy complexion, her lips, wide and poised to suckle his weeping rod.
But tomorrow…
Tomorrow he would have her.
* * * * *
She couldn’t believe she’d done it.
Tess focused on her computer screen, desperately trying to pretend she was working. Marla was due in soon—she scheduled her day like a Nazi with OCD—and Tess always tried to look busy when her boss arrived. It was best to begin the day without a nasty scene. But it was difficult because her mind was a roiling turmoil.
Marla Mittlebank was a harsh taskmistress—not surprising of an heiress who always got her way. She did not suffer fools or incompetence in her staff. Usually this wasn’t a problem for Tess, who had no purpose in life but pleasing her boss—no husband who demanded her time, no children like some of the other staff, no family, not even a cat. She had her job, the occasionally exciting, usually monotonous, position as the assistant to one of the most successful online magazine publishers in the industry.
The position was perfect for her as an aspiring writer. Mittlebank published a series of e-publications, most dealing with sex and sexuality targeted to various niche markets. And while they were niche markets, they were very healthy niche markets. Marla firmly believed most people lived a great portion of their lives in secret and judging from the soaring subscription rates, she was right.
Bondage, shoe fetishes, food sex, immobility, exhibitionism and voyeurism, infantilism, forniphilia, troilism—they all sold. And well. Marla was well on her way to making back the fortune her sleazy ex-husband Derek had stolen.
And though she was a mere executive assistant, Tess lived and breathed for the day Marla would turn to her and demand—with the crisp precision at which she excelled—that Tess compose a feature article. She’d already written several in anticipation of such a request, and had thoroughly enjoyed the research.
Especially last night…
Her heart stuttered at the recollection. When she and her friend Billy strolled into the hottest BDSM club in the city—just to check it out—she’d never expected to see Jared there. And her reaction to seeing him sitting at the bar, looking dominant and superior…wow. She hadn’t expected that either.
She’d always fantasized about submission. It was one of the things she thought about when pleasuring herself under the covers at night. She collected photos of women in bondage with nipple clamps gouging into their breasts, with palm prints clear on their asses. But she’d never tried it. Never wanted to try it. Not really.
She didn’t quite understand her fascination. As a foster child shuttled from pillar to post most of her life, her independence was the thing she valued the most. She’d built herself a life from the rubble and, having learned early it was foolish to depend on anyone else, she didn’t. The thought of putting herself at someone’s mercy frightened her to death.
Of course,
He had another need at the moment though. A raging need. His cock was heavy and throbbing. When Tess and her date disappeared up the stairs of the dank basement, Jared scanned the club, hunting for a suitable replacement.
Oh, there were plenty of pretty slaves and subs simpering from table to table, several tied to the manacles on the wall, squirming, offered up by their Masters for the entertainment of the other Doms. The waitress was flirty—Jared couldn’t count the times her hand had crept to his thigh as she served him this evening. Her lowered lashes marked her as a viable prospect.
But somehow she wasn’t. She wasn’t a viable prospect. None of them were. None of them even pinged his interest.
He wanted Tess. His mind, and his cock, were fixed on that prospect. No, he wouldn’t be lashing out his frustration on any second-rate substitute tonight. Tonight it would be him with his cock in his fist, thinking of Tess, her large bluer-than-blue eyes, her soft creamy complexion, her lips, wide and poised to suckle his weeping rod.
But tomorrow…
Tomorrow he would have her.
* * * * *
She couldn’t believe she’d done it.
Tess focused on her computer screen, desperately trying to pretend she was working. Marla was due in soon—she scheduled her day like a Nazi with OCD—and Tess always tried to look busy when her boss arrived. It was best to begin the day without a nasty scene. But it was difficult because her mind was a roiling turmoil.
Marla Mittlebank was a harsh taskmistress—not surprising of an heiress who always got her way. She did not suffer fools or incompetence in her staff. Usually this wasn’t a problem for Tess, who had no purpose in life but pleasing her boss—no husband who demanded her time, no children like some of the other staff, no family, not even a cat. She had her job, the occasionally exciting, usually monotonous, position as the assistant to one of the most successful online magazine publishers in the industry.
The position was perfect for her as an aspiring writer. Mittlebank published a series of e-publications, most dealing with sex and sexuality targeted to various niche markets. And while they were niche markets, they were very healthy niche markets. Marla firmly believed most people lived a great portion of their lives in secret and judging from the soaring subscription rates, she was right.
Bondage, shoe fetishes, food sex, immobility, exhibitionism and voyeurism, infantilism, forniphilia, troilism—they all sold. And well. Marla was well on her way to making back the fortune her sleazy ex-husband Derek had stolen.
And though she was a mere executive assistant, Tess lived and breathed for the day Marla would turn to her and demand—with the crisp precision at which she excelled—that Tess compose a feature article. She’d already written several in anticipation of such a request, and had thoroughly enjoyed the research.
Especially last night…
Her heart stuttered at the recollection. When she and her friend Billy strolled into the hottest BDSM club in the city—just to check it out—she’d never expected to see Jared there. And her reaction to seeing him sitting at the bar, looking dominant and superior…wow. She hadn’t expected that either.
She’d always fantasized about submission. It was one of the things she thought about when pleasuring herself under the covers at night. She collected photos of women in bondage with nipple clamps gouging into their breasts, with palm prints clear on their asses. But she’d never tried it. Never wanted to try it. Not really.
She didn’t quite understand her fascination. As a foster child shuttled from pillar to post most of her life, her independence was the thing she valued the most. She’d built herself a life from the rubble and, having learned early it was foolish to depend on anyone else, she didn’t. The thought of putting herself at someone’s mercy frightened her to death.
Of course,
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