A high-class call girl. A mysterious and secretive client.
And something way deeper than your average power exchange…
Please enjoy this preview snippet from TORMENT ME, the first book in my upcoming “Rough Love” BDSM Contemporary trilogy:
There are a lot of fucking weirdos in the world. I know because some of them are my clients. Something about money and privilege turns men into perverts, and you don’t want to expose the wife to those unseemly urges. Not when you can hire a high-class call girl and meet her in an upscale hotel.
It was the W today, the one near Union Square. I crossed to the elevators and checked Henry’s email again. New client, two hours. Super asshole about privacy. Put on the blindfold before you knock on the door.
I slid a hand into my designer bag, past condoms and sex toys, to locate the black leather eye mask the client had provided. It couldn’t be a pink, fuzzy, soft blindfold, or one of those cucumber-scented spa thingies. No, it was heavy black leather, and it buckled in the back. Like I said, fucking weirdos. Here’s some news for the privacy assholes of the world: We prostitutes are as concerned about our privacy as you are. The prostitute-client relationship is a covenant. You don’t out me, I don’t out you. Let’s keep things pleasant and professional. I know how much you’re paying. To the best of my ability, I’ll treat you well.
I stopped outside a corner room on the eighth floor and double-checked the number. My stomach jumped a little. You never knew what you were going to get with new clients. Henry checked them out pretty thoroughly, but still, you never knew. Money and respectability didn’t mean you weren’t going to death-choke a whore on the eighth floor of the W Hotel.
I’d had pretty good luck the last four years, so it wasn’t that hard to pull out the blindfold–okay, let’s be honest, leather fetish mask–and strap the thing onto my eyes. Maybe he was really that concerned about privacy. Maybe he had some kinky games in mind, which might be fun. Maybe he was butt ugly. There was no way for me to find out. I couldn’t see a damn thing.
I knocked on the door and hoped he answered before someone else came strolling down the hall. What would they think of me in my pale pink, skintight, high-class-whore business suit and stilettos, with the black blindfold strapped onto my head? They’d probably think, pfft, Union Square, and go on about their business.
I heard the lock click and I felt very, very blind, since I couldn’t tell if or when the door opened, or who might be standing there to guide me inside. I jumped when he took my arm.
“Miss Kitty, I presume?” His voice was deep and lacking inflection, or maybe I was just lacking the vision to see his expression.
“Meow,” I said, flirting into the darkness. “That’s me.”
Miss Kitty. Sweet, petite, sensuously feline, but not in a pet-play kind of way. Unless the client was into it. I had long, white-blonde hair (fake, so fake) which I straightened to a bouncy shine twice a week. Unlike my hair, my size D boobs and curvy body were all natural and all real. I was a friendly, pretty, brown-eyed, bleach-blonde kitty, ready to crawl into your lap and blow your mind.
The faceless stranger pulled me into the room and collected my wrists behind me. “I’m not going to call you Miss Kitty. What’s your real name?”
And it came spitting out of my mouth. I can’t say why, except that his voice compelled me to answer–or else. “Chere.”
“Chere?”
He repeated it, like a taunt. Worse, he’d hooked my hands behind my back with, oh my fucking God, zip ties. I could hear the susurrating sound of the tiny tabs and feel the unforgiving plastic. Jesus. Zip ties. So murder-y.
“Since this is an introductory session, we should talk for a minute before we go any further,” I said in as sweet a voice as I could muster.
“Oh, I think I’m going to run this rodeo, especially considering what I’m paying to spend this ‘introductory session’ with you.”
Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Just because his voice was deep and harsh, just because he felt big and muscular against the back of me, just because I couldn’t see a thing, just because my hands were zip tied behind my back…it didn’t mean I was turning my last trick.
“Don’t struggle, or those ties are going to hurt your wrists,” he said. He picked me up and deposited me in a chair, one of those slick, padded, modern chairs they had at all the W hotels. I usually liked being manhandled, but I didn’t like it as much when I couldn’t see. The room was silent. He was still. I didn’t know if he was close to me or far away.
“Will you take the blindfold off?” I begged in my sweetest voice.
“No.” Not his sweetest voice. More like his deep, rough, mocking voice.
“Pretty please? I want to see what you look like.”
“I’ll describe myself, then. I have dark hair, piercing blue eyes, a chiseled jaw, and an 8-pack. Or maybe I have white-blond hair, high cheekbones, and a smattering of freckles.”
The latter part was describing me. He was lying, which clients always did, but I felt too powerless to be okay with it. I thought about ending the date. Henry would be angry, but panic was crowding in on my dark world. I took a shuddery breath. Maybe I was panting. My heart was beating too fast, and my brain was thinking too fast.
I felt his palm against my cheek, cool but warm. Static. Non-violent. “Calm, Chere. Be calm. I’m not a bad guy. I just like to be in control. Breathe in. Breathe out.”
“Okay,” I whispered.
“You’re not doing it.”
Sharp voice. Dominant, demanding voice. He was clearly a liar, and might machete me at any moment, so I sucked in a big breath and let it out nice and slow.
“Good girl,” he said. “It’s not like I’m going to hurt you. Or kill you. Your agent has all my information.” He chuckled. “All my bank account numbers, anyway.”
“I hate this,” I blurted out. “I hate this date so far. I want to take off the mask.”
“No, you’ll leave the mask on, and I’ll keep my identity secret. You’ll sit there and let me do things to your body, and we’ll keep it civilized. Okay?”
Civilized. More sarcasm.
“Are you still breathing?” he asked. “I paid for two hours, and I’m using two hours, whether you’re passed out or not.”
His jokes weren’t funny. His voice was too intent and too scary to be funny. I could feel him close to me but I didn’t know what he looked like. His hand ran up my leg and under my pencil skirt.
“Why are you wearing panties?” His voice was smooth now, like silk.
“It’s a thong.”
I gasped as he twisted it in his hands and ripped it off. “Which is a form of panties. Don’t talk back to me, Chere. I don’t like it.”
So that thong was history. Okay, I had a thousand of them. More pressing: this guy was terrifying me.
“I think we should talk about what you like, and what you want to do,” I said, before my courage left completely.
“Talk is cheap. Basically I want to fuck you.”
His fingers were inside me now, probing through slickness. Why was I wet when this guy was freaking scary? “Well, what kind of things do you like? I mean, what kind of fucking? What positions? Do you like toys?”
“I should have made you wear a gag in addition to the mask,” he said.
I wasn’t making any headway, trying to get this guy in line. Henry was my agent (because high-class call girls did not have “pimps”.) He was supposed to protect me from these kinds of situations.
Scary Man’s hands were rough on my pussy, but it felt good. His thumb pressed my clit, and my legs opened wider of their own accord. This was the part of the date where I was usually thinking what to do to get the client off. Right now, I wasn’t thinking about anything except that he knew his way around a clit.
Then the fingers were gone and he was gone, moving around, doing something. Rummaging. He returned and knelt in front of me. He zip tied one of my ankles to the chair before I knew his intent. I tried to save my only remaining free limb but he grabbed that ankle in his big, firm fingers and zzzip. Tied. Fuck me.
I tried to stand up and he pushed me down again. “Don’t move.”
The stern voice. The control. I wanted to hate it, but I also wanted him to finger fuck my pussy again.
“What’s your name?” I asked. “What do I call you?”
“Nothing,” he replied. “You don’t get my name.”