Buy Me, Sir(31)

"Trust me." My voice is a rasp. A desperate rasp.

And she nods. She fucking nods.

"Don't fight," I insist.

"I won't," she whispers.

And she doesn't. Not when I pin my weight on one elbow, not when my hand slides around her throat and grips tight.

Her eyes are just inches from mine, my breath on her face as hers stops.

"Trust me," I repeat.

Her chest strains, her mouth open as she struggles to take a breath, but  she doesn't stop me, not even as she gasps for breath, over and over,  she makes no move to stop me whatsoever.

And fuck, how I fucking fuck her.

I fuck her like a man fucking possessed, her body shunting under me as I keep my grip tight around her pretty neck.

She splutters, her eyes flashing involuntary panic, squirming just a little as she strains for breath that won't come.

I kiss her. Plunging my tongue inside her breathless mouth as she chokes for me.

She should fight, but she doesn't. Her hands grip my shoulders, her  fingers digging in so tight, and I know she's struggling against the  panic, struggling to let this be.

Her eyes are scared and raw, welling up with tears as she battles the urge to wrestle her way free.

And it's beautiful.

It's fucking beautiful.

I wait. Steady. So fucking steady.

I feel her going there, watch her so intently as she calms.

She smiles as she reaches the other side of panic, the quiet place I know so well.

"Trust me," I breathe, and she blinks. The tears flow.

I know she feels herself slipping, I know the pull of the void. Her  fingers loosen their grip on my shoulders. Her eyes flutter, holding  onto mine.

And then, in those final moments of consciousness, she strokes my face.  Her thumb sweeps my cheekbone with a tenderness that defies reason,  defies everything.

I count down from five, savouring the way she's slipping away from me.

And then I let her go.

She comes back in a heartbeat, gulping in a long rasp of air as her eyes  come back to focus. I'm still inside her as she splutters, still inside  her as she turns her head to the side and coughs and gasps and gulps  until her breathing returns to normal.

I stroke the hair from her forehead, then tip her face to mine.

"Ok?" I ask.

The girl underneath me smiles, and then she giggles.

It's the most beautiful sound in the world.

"Do it again," she says.



Melissa



I want to die in his arms. I want his eyes to be the last thing I see. His beautiful voice the last thing I ever hear.

But not tonight.

I'm euphoric, giddy as my breath returns to normal, and he smiles at me. He actually smiles.

I don't think he realises he's doing it, the lines at his eyes crinkling as he brushes the hair from my forehead.

"Ok?" he asks.

I smile back, because I am. I really am ok. Better than ok.

I giggle because this is crazy. This shouldn't be good, but it is. It's so good I can't stop grinning.

"Do it again," I say.

He's still inside me, and I love how it feels. I love how all of this feels.

"Soon," he tells me, and then he kisses me.

I love how he kisses me.

I love how he breathes into my mouth as he pushes in deep.

I love the way I've made him so horny. I've definitely made him horny.

It's different when he fucks me this time, frantic and desperate, his skin clammy under my fingers as I hold his face to mine.

"Please … " I ask, and I don't know what I'm asking for.

He does, because he gives it to me. Deep thrusts that make me cry out noises that don't sound like me.

I hold him so tight, my lips on his as he shudders and moans, and he's  so close, his eyes right in mine, as I feel him lose control.

He tenses. Grunts. And I feel it. I feel him come.

I made him come.

It's only when he stops that I realise how sore I am. How tender my pussy feels.

It's only when he pulls away and pulls me up with him that I realise I've bled over the perfect white bedding.

Horror. I'm so horrified I try to wipe it away with my fingers, but the pink stain just smears worse.

"I'm so sorry … " I tell him. "I'm really, really sorry, sir."

My eyes are wide and scared as they meet his, because I don't want him to be angry. I don't want to disappoint him.         

     



 

But he's not angry.

His eyes are dark, but they're not angry at all.

He stares so weirdly, and my heart races, because I think he knows. I think he knows who I really am.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," he tells me.

But he's still staring. Still thinking.

I'm burning up. My cheeks on fire as I bluster a smile.

"I'd better get, um, cleaned up a little … " I say, and head for the bathroom.



Alexander



"I'm really, really sorry, sir."

I can't stop staring at her, can't tear my eyes away from the sweet  panic in hers. The hunch of her shoulders as she frantically tries to  wipe her blood from the sheets.

As if I give a fuck about the sheets.

She's beautiful. Too much of a delight to be real.

So it can't be real. She can't be real.

She tells me she'd better get cleaned up a little, and I watch her  retreat to the bathroom. She smiles before she closes the door behind  her, and it makes me smirk to myself to think of her dithery fingers  wiping herself clean.

I plan to head in after her, but I need a moment. I've already clocked  her bag on the dresser, and I'm straight over before she can catch me in  the act.

I make sure the door is still closed before I undo the clasp and take a  look inside. A purse, which I don't open. A phone with a locked screen,  an older handset, nothing special. A lipstick, a hairbrush. A little  velvet bag, some chewing gum, and finally, slipped into the hidden  pocket, her passport.

I flip it open quickly.

Amy Leigh Randall.

Age twenty-one, just as she said on the video.

I note her address. East End, but not in too bad an area. Her photo  looks older. Her hair is longer and light brown, her face glowing  natural with barely any makeup.

I shove it back in her bag.

Amy Leigh Randall.

It's not a name I recognise. Not one that's ever crossed my path before  –  I'm good with names.

I smile to myself.

Her familiarity must be a welcome illusion, my mind playing tricks on me.

A lucky find. Fate some may say, although I don't go in for that shit.

I guess Claude just came through this time. I'll forgive him the extra charges after all.

This was the best half a million I've ever spent.

I turn the bathroom door handle.



Melissa



Alexander Henley is in the room next door.

I can't believe this is happening to me. I can't believe this is real.

I'm still bleeding, but it's not so bad. It's pale now, and mixed with …   him …  his cum …  and I didn't think it would be possible to want him any  more than I did before tonight, but I do. I want him more than ever.

I never want this to end.

I touch my neck, run my fingers where his held me tight, and I smile.

I feel so alive. Never more alive than I did when I felt myself slipping  away. Scary, and exciting, my heart pounding in my chest as he choked  off my air, and then …  peace.

Calm.

A blackness creeping in. My ears ringing.

And him.

I hope this isn't it. I hope we're not done already.

I'm wiping myself for the final time when the door opens. I clench my  thighs when he walks in, and he sees me. He sees and he tips his head.

"Feeling ok?" he asks.

"Yes, thank you," I tell him. "I feel great."

I get to my wobbly feet and flush the toilet, so aware of how naked I am under the hard lighting.

He watches everything. The way I soap my hands in the sink. The way I  shake them, then dry them on the hand towel. I watch him right back in  the mirror, burning everything to memory. The broad strength of his  shoulders. His dark nipples on his toned chest. The trail of hair over  his belly, to his cock. His cock is still hard.

I'm pretty sure that means we're not done already.

I fluff up my hair before I turn to face him, trying to strike my most  confident pose, even though I don't feel confident at all.

My skin prickles as he steps closer, tipping up my chin to examine my throat.

"No marks," he says. "Good."

I wouldn't care if there were. I wish I could find the words to say that without sounding like an idiot.

His hands rest on my shoulders, and I realise how big he is compared to me.

"You must be thirsty," he says.

I nod. "A little."

It makes him smile, and it's only fleeting but it's addictive. I love to see him smile.

"Come," he says, and takes his hands from me. "Champagne."

I follow him back through to the bedroom, hoping I'm not still dripping  pink. He tops up my glass and hands it to me, and he toasts me with my  glass of mineral water from earlier.

"To your first time, Amy."         

     



 

"To my first time, sir."

He clinks my glass, and I drink down the bubbles. It's good. The champagne is really good. I tell him so.

He examines the bottle. "You like? I'm not much for champagne myself."  He reads out the name on the bottle, some posh French word.

I shrug. "I'm not really much of a drinker …  especially not the good stuff. I normally stick to juice. Less of a hangover."