Taboo Unchained

My name is Lucas Carter, and I am a fucking God.

I slide my hand down my cock, gripping the base of my shaft with sure fingers. A smirk lingers on my lips as I work my body like a machine. I know what gets me off – oh, who am I kidding? I know what gets everyone off – so it doesn't take long to milk pre-cum onto my fingers.

The blonde lying across my bed watches me with hungry eyes, sliding her tongue across her full lips. They're already swollen from my ministrations, bruised by my kisses. Marked. Sealed. Stamped with my name.

I smile.

“Tell me you want this,” I command, watching as her gaze rakes down my body, begging silently for me to fuck her, to slide my cock into her folds and own her. Little does she know, I already do. I don't need to touch a woman to possess her; I can reel in souls with a simple look, a light touch, a well-timed smile. It's not magic. This, this is simple biology.

“I want your penis,” she says, and I cringe, releasing my dick and stalking across the room towards her. She cowers back, but I don't touch her. Lucas Carter never hits women – not unless they want him to. I do not believe Mrs. Braxton ordered that particular service. From the corner of the room, I hear her husband shift uncomfortably. I've already asked him twice to keep his mouth shut. I don't do men, but I do allow them to watch, provided they keep quiet.

“My … penis?” I ask, trying not to grit my teeth. Mrs. Braxton has pushed me to the edge of my sanity today. She's attractive, much more so than my other clients, but she has a bad habit of dulling my excitement with her squeaky clean little mouth. Not even the bright red of her lipstick is helping. “This is not a sexual education class, Clarice. This is not your mother's living room. If you're going to refer to my body, you're going to use the words that I choose.” I pause and stand up straight, sliding my sticky fingers back down my shaft. Pleasure pricks my body, helping to soothe my ire. “Now. Repeat after me.” I pause, watching as Clarice's pink nipples stand at sharp attention. Her stomach muscles tighten as she sucks in a deep breath. “Dick.”

I take a step closer, letting my eyes soak in her rounded curves and the sweep of her pale hair across the white linens. Her blue eyes break from mine for just a split second, sliding over towards the corner where her husband sits. I reach my fingers out and grab her chin, guiding her attention back to my face. Make no mistake here: Mr. and Mrs. Braxton may be my clients, but I am the one in charge.

“Say. It.” If there's one thing I hate more than the mollification of genitalia, it's having to repeat myself. My hand tightens on my cock. Clarice swallows hard as her eyes flutter and her lips part softly.

“Dick,” she whimpers, and the smile returns to my face. I trail my fingertips down her throat, watching the jumping pulse of her heart as I drag my hand towards her full breasts.

“Cock.” The word jumps sharply off my tongue at the same moment I clamp my fingertips on Clarice's taut, pink nipples. She groans deeply, relaxing back onto the bed and spreading her legs wide for me, opening up that pretty pink pussy like a flower in bloom. I ignore the slight murmur of Mr. Braxton's moans from the corner by gritting my teeth. We're not even through the first course yet and already the buffoon is gasping and spilling his seed into his own hand. More than likely, he'll retreat to one of the other nineteen bedrooms in this sprawling monstrosity of a home and fall asleep, leaving me to deal with his wife alone. Not that I'm complaining – I much prefer it that way – but I can only imagine what kind of a man would be comfortable leaving his pride and joy to find solace in another man's arms. More often than not, my clients' husbands know nothing about what goes on behind closed doors. If anyone asks, I'm simply the 'interior designer'.

“Cock,” Clarice moans, letting her head fall back and bending her legs at the knees. The head of my dick presses tight against her opening, sliding slick cum over her heat. But I don't enter her. I'm not here to pummel her pussy and roll away satisfied. If Mrs. Braxton simply wanted a stallion to ride, there are a hundred other men in this city that she could've called for a fraction of the price. My phone only rings when there are darker desires to satisfy, cravings that delve much deeper than simple sex.

I pull away and let my smile morph into a grin.

“No, please,” Clarice whimpers, much like she always does. “I need it. Just … have sex with me, please.” My mouth twitches and my hands clench tight at my sides. She can't even say fuck. After all these sessions, all these dirty romps, these forays into the depths of darkness, and she can't say the Goddamn F-word.

“Fuck,” I snap, sliding my withering cock back into the confines of my slacks. Clarice sits up quickly, brushing her French tipped nails through her blonde hair. Trophy wife. The term was coined to describe this woman, this twenty-something beach bunny married to a fifty year old man. Disgusting. I have had it for today. Clarice has had me over before – she knows better than to piss me off. “Fuck me, Clarice. We have had this discussion.” My dick is soft now, flaccid and useless. “So I'm going home.”