Own Me Wholly! Read online

  He holds me, not at all awkward. “I'm sorry,” he whispers. “I push too hard. I always do that."

  "No,” I don't want him to bear anymore guilt than he might already. “It's obvious, we are connecting. I just, I just can't right now."

  "I know.” He kisses my neck. “I'll stop."

  He doesn't stop. His hand slips inside my shorts and into my pussy. I sigh against him, I encourage, I move, I writhe.

  "Yes,” his voice is husky, I feel his confidence grow, like his hard on. “It is right. You do need it."

  I come for him, just like that, a hot and helpless little slut, climaxing at the wrong time, the wrong place with the wrong man, and then before you know it we are into it too deep, me over the kitchen table, my breasts squashed, face down, the juices dripping down my leg wanton and blatant.

  It all happens so fast; he strips his clothes off. He tells me my body is talking to him, I need to let him do this to me, to show me what can happen between us. I ask if he has protection, at least? Yes, there's a condom in the pocket of his jeans, he swears it's a coincidence, and I guess it is, he only met me last night.

  I'm still spasming from before as he enters me, his cock just as hard as I imagined it would be, watching him pleasure himself.

  "Oh, god ... yes ... no...” I am so fucked up.

  He puts a hand on my back to steady me and I want to rebel—this is too intimate for my liking, much more so than fucking.

  This is relationship stuff, communicating needs and trying to gauge mine.

  This ... will ... not ... end ... well.

  I push my ass up in protest. He takes my hips and takes control. His cock retracts half way and then fills me again. My muscles conspire; they turn complete traitors, contracting, cooperatively, greedily around him.

  My whole body is tensing and releasing, a billion times a second, it's happening, I'm going to climax again.

  His cock is moving like lightning. I hear the grunts of pure animal joy, pure male.

  I make one final effort to hold back, silly little woman that I am. He senses the resistance and slaps my ass. Just one time, just hard enough to open the floodgates and I explode all over him, all around him, all through him.

  Brian releases his own pent up orgasm simultaneously, filling the tip of the condom. He is hot like fire, he pulses and I catch myself wishing I could just take his come inside me ... letting him brand me and mark me ... that would make things interesting wouldn't it?

  I push him off me as quickly as I can. I still feel him in me; my ass tingles and is warm where he laid his hand. I am so in over my head. “This can't happen again, is that clear?"

  "Not unless you want it, too."

  "I don't want it to,” I insist. “And wipe that look off your face."

  "What look?"

  "That ‘I just fucked an older woman and I can do it again any time I like,’ look."

  "Not unless you want me to,” he repeats.

  "I don't,” I say right back. “Not ever."

  "There isn't a problem then,” he pads off to the bathroom.

  "I'm serious,” I call out, shaking and twitching all over.

  "What the fuck is that?” I demand as he comes back out with something in his hand.

  My body gives way. I know exactly what it is ... one of my washcloths ... damp and warm ... and, oh, god I am seeing Thomas. That's what he does. He's the kind of man who will always get the towel, you see, the kind of Daddy who will sit next to baby girl and gently wipe her clean with warm, soapy water after every encounter asking her questions, how does she feel and did she come enough times because that's his rule, baby girl comes first and often.

  I back up, right against the sink. “What are you doing?"

  "What does it look like I'm doing, girl?"

  A hot knife sears my stomach. “I'm not your girl."

  "I didn't say you were.” He kneels at my feet, orders me to stop squirming. “Just kind of came out, you know, the word was on the tip of my tongue, like a song lyric."

  I gasp as he touches me.

  I am so afraid I will flash back to Thomas and have a major freak out session, but it isn't remotely like that.

  Brian's hands, it seems, have a life all their own.

  I'm not soothed or centered like with Daddy, I'm pushed all sideways, edgy, squirmy, aroused all over again, against my will, but not against my will. “Don't ... Brian..."

  Pretty much that's all I seem to say lately, isn't it? Don't Brian. Not sure if he's a man or a puppy. A little of both, I guess.

  "Don't be so uptight.” He dabs here and there then changes tactics. The cloth is replaced with his tongue. “It's okay,” he tells me as he licks my pussy. “To be my girl for a little while, when I'm inside you. If it's what I feel."

  "It's not about your feelings,” I protest, not ready to deal with my own. “You can't be that selfish, Brian."

  His ministrations make a mockery of my statement. What is selfish about a man giving oral sex to a girl—a woman, I mean?

  I orgasm for him, just how he wants, quaking waves, two in one, rivulets of liquid pleasure from reserves I don't even know I have, but I'm shaking my head no the whole time because I'm torn, torn nearly in two ... it's not fair ... I want to be baby girl, I want to be having this with Daddy...

  I start to cry.

  There isn't any comforting me or reasoning with me and Brian respects this, to his credit. He heeds me as I tell him to just go, please, just don't be here anymore, don't touch me, or remind me or try to be nice to me. He pulls his clothes back on and walks out the door, with a remarkable grace under the circumstances. He moves, quiet as a cat, I think he doesn't want to do anything to make me feel worse, but he couldn't possibly understand how low I've sunk.

  I curl naked on the tile.

  I just fucked the father's son. Am I mistress to both of them now? I never even ask if Brian was attached to anyone. It's not like Thomas and I were exclusive, I mean he was married and since Thomas I have had a few dates, but right now, I should be keeping myself for him. Shouldn't I?

  God, I haven't changed at all. Daddy, I don't see it, all that you saw in me. I'm a whore and a slut. The same eighteen-year-old girl who spread her virgin legs for beers at Jimmy Campo's trailer, who let herself be his piece on the side when his wife wasn't looking, until Frankie came along, gung ho to be my first real boyfriend, with his motorcycle and his temper. I did what he told me so I wouldn't get hit and then I did what his cousin told me and his cousin's brother.

  Sometimes all three of them told me at once what to do and they were big men, not very sensitive men, who didn't care how sore a girl got taking cocks up inside her pussy or between her jaws hour after hour. I didn't mind; I wanted to be good, wanted to be drunk and high and right. Things went good for a year or so; I made a super little poker game prize until the night they got a little too wasted and started fighting over me.

  A broken jaw landed me in the hospital and from there back home with my parents which was a hundred fucking times worse, so it was off to a one year business school in Albany and then work with the state, which you'd think would put me in a whole lot better milieu but I managed to find mother fuckers there, too, just a higher pay grade. Franklin liked to dress me up in gunny sax dresses that he said I didn't deserve, the little snot. Wish he would have had the balls to hit me, the mama's boy, instead of taking down my self-esteem, one petty insult at a time.

  Some of the others along the way were more dramatic, bodies passed out on my floor at all hours of the day and night, heads I had to hold up over the toilet while they puked up their love for me, and a couple of fist holes in my cardboard box apartment.

  A thrill a fucking minute. I finally learned to switch to married men, who were easier on my furniture. Left the state, went to work for private industry, found some decent bosses, one or two of them would buy me flowers and even go more than five minutes fucking me so I could have a chance to come, too.

  I actually lived to m
y thirtieth birthday, surprise, surprise and by then I was pretty hard—cynical, a lost cause. No one got inside me anymore. I lived alone, mentally and physically and I liked it.

  Daddy has this theory, none of this is my fault, I'm not a bad person, it all goes back to childhood, that big block of life with V for Victim stamped on my forehead that I try to block out.

  It's not a “V” I want. It's the scarlet letter “A". That's right, I want some men to come in here right now and stand in a circle around me and pray with hypocritical bitter scorn, just like Grandpa used to pray over his children, one of whom grew up to be my devil of a biological daddy, who lost the right to that title a long, long time ago.

  Yes, I want them to pray for me, spit on me and call me slut. I want them to make me roll on my back and lift my pussy up to them. I want them to have black robes, like judges, I want them to make me crawl underneath, naked, and suck off their cocks. I want them to force me to make them hard so they can fuck me on the floor on all fours, like a little bitch.

  I want each of them to shove my mouth over them and force me to slurp them into erections and then I want them to pull me off their cocks by the hair and slap me in the face and tell me to stop being such a fucking little whore and move on to the next cock. I want to say thank you, I enjoy it and will you put a collar on me, please, with the word cunt stenciled on it?

  Damn it, how did I get here? I never felt this kind of guilt, because no one I've ever been involved has been better than me. Thomas didn't deserve this. The stress ... of an affair ... the stress of me.

  I take a spatula from the drawer, I'm in some kind of trance, I whack my ass as best I can, a double jointed self, standing outside myself ... I can't do it, can't bring myself down like I need.

  I've never craved the pain so much, never gone to the edge like this. My dark dreams on the verge of reality. I stuff my hand in my pussy; I come hard, teeth gritted on the floor. I fuck my entire hand's worth of fingers, up to the knuckle. I tug on my nipple, twisting it, nothing nice or sweet.

  Good god, am I turning into a masochist?

  It's an orgasm between breaths ... feels like an invasion, coming from outside me ... I'm alone but not alone. No way to describe it, no way to measure the time, to identify the interval. I only know I'm different afterwards. Something's shaken free and I don't know how to put it back in place.

  I need to take a shower; I need to think about work. There are things to be done. For Thomas’ company. Our company, he likes to call it, though I don't have a nickel put into it. He corrects me if I tell people I work for him.

  "You work with me, Caroline."

  "Actually my best work is underneath you,” I tease, naming his favorite position, with me as his special toy, to maneuver up and down, my tits free for him to suckle, my body totally in his control as he orders me to look him in the eye.

  "Come, baby girl. Now."

  I'm numb as I head for the shower. Ordinarily by this time I would have talked to Thomas on the phone, maybe e-mailed him. We'd have talked about all sorts of things, from account transfers to what we're each going to wear to what we should do for lunch, assuming it's an office day for him and not a meeting day.

  Office days are the best because we can play. Fridays are cool because they are jean days. We are like little children, counting off on the calendar all week. Other days are nice, too, because I wear my skirts.

  I might just be standing on our back balcony, looking out over the stucco wall and he will come along, while I'm smoking and put his hand on my ass. He will feel to see if I have panties on.

  If I do that he is liable to tell me to take them off. That's embarrassing if I'm denied permission to go and do it in the bathroom. Nothing like pulling down your underwear outside and handing it to your boss, stucco wall or no.

  At one point I thought I would outsmart him by wearing none. As ‘punishment’ he laid his hands on my bare ass and discretely masturbated me, right there on the spot. I had to look straight down to the sidewalk, acting like nothing was happening even while he was making me come.

  Time disappears on me as the water sluices down over my terribly overstimulated body. I just want to escape; I don't even want to feel sexy, just calm. The trouble is, it's like Brian is still here, crowding me. His hands are palpable shadows, touching me. I slap them away. I am not very effective. I keep seeing that look. So frigging cute, in an exasperating way.

  I've had you and I will again anytime I want.

  Well you won't, buster, because you won't be seeing me. At least not alone.

  The shadow hands take my breasts from behind ... or is he making me touch myself?

  "Want to bet?” I hear him whisper.

  Brian, stop.

  My mantra...

  A hand goes to my pussy, his, mine, who gives a fuck?

  Speaking of fucking ... here goes the soap. Over my clit, down to my slit.

  Fuck yourself with it, Caroline, show me what a pathetic slut you really are...

  I slide to the floor of the tub ... and go at it for real.

  The clock shows forty minutes have passed when I finally get out of the shower. My fingers look like prunes.

  Monica calls me while I'm driving over to the office, twenty minutes after that. I answer in a panic that catches her off guard.

  "What is it? Is there a change?"

  "Thomas is fine, I'm just checking to see if you've been to the bank yet."

  The bank ... yes ... I need to go first thing ... I'd nearly forgotten...

  I'm supposed to transfer the money, so the mortgage can be paid on the office building in Atlanta. “I'm on my way now."

  "Caroline, are you okay?"

  Of course I'm not fucking okay.

  "I'll be fine. It's just ... hard."

  "I know, the girls in the Atlanta office are pretty shook up, too."

  I bristle at being lumped in with the hired help, but, damn it, I am hired help, too. I can't take this out on her.

  "What about you? How are you holding up?"

  "I'm staying busy. Doing what I can without leaving his room."

  I feel a stab of jealousy. I want to be in his room, I want to be the one who's allowed to worry officially.

  I could do it better, damn it, I hate to say that. I would wait on him, I would talk to him, I'd talk non-stop, and I would bring him out of it. I could. I fucking could.

  "And the girls, how are they coping?"

  "Oh, you know those two. They are driving me crazy and each other, but they're strong. I couldn't do it without them."

  Great, weigh them down like you did your husband.

  "I'll be by after,” I try to make it casual.

  "Just don't forget the bank. Oh, and do you think you could call my hairdresser? I have to cancel, obviously. I don't have the number on my cell, Denise should do this, I know, but she's sick today."

  "Sure, no problem.” I try not to sound curt or resentful. It's killing me.

  Sooner or later, I figure, Monica will find out. Jeezus, I don't want to fuck with Thomas’ life. I feel in the way. I don't fucking like that feeling. I despise it. It's worse than anything I ever felt when I was drinking. It might even be what started me drinking in the first place.

  I decide I am not going to the hospital today.

  Should I be getting a new sponsor—at least for the interim?

  I go to the bank.

  After that I'm stuck. How am I going to face the office? Everything there is him. He bought that building, rented out most of it, saved us a little piece, the one two room suite to make his dream come true. He picked out all the furniture, with my help. We decorated it, our newlywed pad we called it. He spoiled me rotten, let me pick out the nicest chair to sit in, the best mahogany desk.

  Sometimes he will come up to me when I least expect it and give me a massage while I'm sitting in my leather throne. He will make me tingle all over, only to return afterward to his little office next to mine in our intimate suite, never saying a word
as he leaves me peaceful and spent, bare toes luxuriating in the brand new carpeting on which I've been fucked so many times I've lost count.

  Other times he will come with very different hands, demanding hands, while I work on the computer, his fingers slipping down inside my blouse and under my bra.

  I will not resist. This surrender gives me the biggest thrill, yielding up my body for Thomas’ pleasure, being the perfect instrument, letting him use and enjoy at will.

  "Whose breasts?” he will growl in that special tone that makes me swoon as I answer, “Yours, Daddy."

  With the hugest smile I lean back giving him free reign to unbutton me.

  The armchair in Thomas’ office, the one facing his desk, by contrast is designed to give me a different kind of experience. If he ever calls me in and tells me somberly, lock the door, I know, he is going to call the shots.

  The phones are not going to be answered for a while; business will just have to wait.

  If I still have panties on by some minor miracle, they must come off.

  Gingerly, I set them on the edge of his desk. He might glance at them, pick them up with a pencil for examination, or, most delicious of all, make direct inquiries.

  I hear his voice echoing as I drive. I rub my thighs together, insatiable.

  "Are they wet, Caroline?"

  "They are damp, Sir,” I reply.

  "Is that the same as wet?"

  "No, Sir.” He won't make eye contact at this early stage, which really turns me on because he'll be making like he's busy with something else, something more important. I get hotter and hotter, the more he puts me in my place, just a girl, who's there for sex, whatever he wants, when he wants it.

  "What is your chief responsibility around this office, Caroline?"

  "I'm to be wet and ready, to submit at any time, Sir."

  He finally looks at me. My knees buckle. We're going to play that game. “And what is our agreement, Caroline, should you fail to meet your responsibility?"

  "If I'm a bad girl,” I whisper. “I must be punished."

  "Punished how?” prompts the trim-bearded ex military man, one in a million with hands that caress like velvet.