My orgasm was long, hard and insanely good—visions filling my head, my eyes opening intermittently, seeing faces, hearing words, knowing that a room was watching—the knowledge stretching out the orgasm, and I was close to sobbing when it ended, my body collapsed against him, legs useless.
I sagged in his arms, my thighs wet, body quaking. I had just come, in front of this whole room, men staring, my breasts hanging out, my panties ripped and tossed on the floor. I should have felt like a slut, a dirty whore. But instead I felt liberated, aroused. It was an interesting discovery, to know that I liked being dirty. I wanted to be stared at, pointed to, to have men lining up to fuck me. Inside, I felt a release of some tie, some leash undone, and I knew my descent into sexual awareness was just now starting. I wasn’t sure if I could ever tie it back into orderly place.
Eleven
Kate watched the hooded man as he stood in front of the brunette beauty. She slumped against the wall in front of him, her legs shaking, small breasts heaving. Her scream had broken through Kate’s mental block and caused her to look over, to see his fingers inside her, his mouth at her ear. Her face a masked vision of orgasmic pleasure.
The image caused Kate to tighten, aroused despite herself, and Mr. Gunter groaned, feeling her body twitch. His hands on her breasts, squeezing and pinching them, moved downward, and Kate winced, shutting her eyes tightly. “No,” she said softly, too softly, and he laughed above her. “No!” She said it louder, pushing on his shoulder, and began to cry a bit in spite of herself, her body shaking and tears beginning the path down her face. She tightened her eyes, and willed herself to be strong.
When she heard it, loud and clear despite the noisy room, she froze, body stiff and rigid. The sound of him unzipping his pants, the rustle of clothing as he pulled out his cock. She glanced down, whimpering slightly, his thin, stubby dick already hard, sticking out like a dagger from his body. He was leaning over, his hands at her opening, preparing it for his bareness, and then he was gone. She blinked her tear-filled eyes, and saw the hooded man.
He had Mr. Gunter by the throat and was pressing him back, against a column at the entrance to the room. He whispered something in Mr. Gunter’s ear, something that made the old man’s eyes go wide in response. Kate sat up, pulling the sheer dress quickly down and standing, the room spinning briefly from the sudden movement. She sat, willing the room to still and searching for the strength to be able to go over, stop him, fix this. Whatever the big man was doing, he had to stop, had to leave Mr. Gunter alone. She couldn’t go back to Russia. Couldn’t go back to her family.
The brunette, beautiful, her eyes still glazed in euphoric pleasure, her skin flushed, sat down next to her, taking her hand. “I tried to stop him,” she whispered. “When he saw your face...” There was a loud crack and they both looked up. The big man stood over Mr. Gunter, his hand bloody, Mr. Gunter limp on the floor. A redheaded lady appeared and spoke urgently with the hooded man. The brunette put her arm around Kate and gripped her tightly. “Don’t worry,” she whispered.
They carried Mr. Gunter away. Kate saw him move, in their arms, and wondered what was going to happen now. The big man appeared in front of her, his eyes dark, and Kate felt a curl below her stomach, a tightening in her body. He bent, a question in his eyes, and when she nodded, he picked her up, cradling her small body against his. He carried her through the party and out the back doors.
* * *
BRAD CARRIED THE blonde, her head curled into his chest, her hand gripping his large biceps. She was Russian, from the sound of her accent. He took her outside, down the side of the pool, and headed to a pool house at the end. I opened the door for him, and we walked inside miniature opulence. The pool house was a baby version of the mansion, identical in style and appointments. There were two bedrooms, and he laid her on the bed in the smaller room. I hung back, not sure what was going to happen next.
Brad’s earlier words, his muttered threat to pleasure the Russian, now, in the elegant light of the bedroom, seemed as insane as the bloodied man that they had carried away. So much had changed in that one instant. He had been standing before me, my eyes struggling to focus, legs trying to stand. Then a sound had come from behind us, a cry. Out of place, asexual in tone. Brad had frozen, his eyes meeting mine, face hardening below his hood, a coldness coming over his entire being. Who he became, in that instance, was almost scary. It was a hardened Brad, the light gone from his eyes, his hands turning unintentionally rough. He had lifted me, helping me find my balance, ensuring that I could stand on my own. Then he had turned, taking in the scene in one glance, as did I. Then he was gone, a blur of movement, violence and protection.
What I had envisioned during the throes of my orgasm, the images of Brad and the Russian that had taken the fire of my arousal and doused it with gasoline, wasn’t this. Wasn’t her lying damaged on the bed, him as her protector. I had actually wanted him to be with her, wanted to see how I felt when his hands touched her skin, when his lips brushed hers, the feeling of possessiveness when I watched his cock claim her tight body. I had, as ridiculous as it sounds, embraced the opportunity to watch him, to feel that competitive drive as it warped my arousal into new levels. But this, his concern, her vulnerability, was too personal, and I felt the evil tendrils of jealousy snake into my mind. He could fuck her, but he couldn’t care. My psyche wouldn’t allow that, despite the compassion I felt for her.
Lying back on the bed, she stared up at him, confused and wary. He started to speak, his words muffled, then reached up and pulled off the mask.
* * *
KATE INHALED INVOLUNTARILY. The black fabric pulled away to reveal an Italian god. He had olive skin and a thick head of black hair. Strong, handsome features, he would have been too beautiful if it weren’t for the overwhelming strength of his features. The man smelled intoxicating, and reeked of masculinity and sex. He spoke, his voice deep and gruff.
“Beverly said you can stay here. Get some rest. In the morning she will help, find you a new place to stay. It will be okay. Are you Russian?” His voice had gentled but was still dangerous to her, to any clear thoughts in her head.
She nodded. “My visa is almost expired.” Her voice sounded weak, broken, and she hated her stilted English.
He nodded. “That’s fine. Don’t worry.” He brushed his hands lightly, almost accidentally, over her as he pulled a blanket over her body. She pushed herself up, grabbing his shoulder, a question in her eyes, and he shook his head.
“I’m not here for that. I was just trying to help.” He pushed her gently down, his fingers caressing her almost imperceptibly and she inhaled, his touch sending desire in hot streaks throughout her body. He turned, his strong silhouette filling the doorway, and closed the door gently, sending the room into darkness. She lay back and stared at the ceiling, her thoughts jumbled and fighting for attention.
Twelve
We spoke in hushed tones, in the second bedroom of the pool house. Beverly had joined us, hanging up her cell as she entered the room. I paced, worried. “Is that man okay? Did you really need to punch him? Are the police being called?” I asked rapidly.
He leaned back against a dresser, his arms crossed, looking impossibly sexy despite his bloody knuckles. “Julia, everything is fine. That scumbag will be fine, and will not press charges.” His wry tone calmed me down somewhat, but my nerves were still on edge. “Beverly, can you assist her in the morning? Get her clothes and breakfast, give her a ride?”
Beverly straightened, fixing Brad with a glare. “I’m not tossing her out like a lost puppy. She can stay her indefinitely. The guesthouse is available. I can always use someone to help out around the house.”
“If you need my help...”
Beverly waved off Brad’s offer. “Stop that, Brad. You’re a guest!