Just the Sex:
A COLLECTION OF EROTIC SHORTS
I agreed to be his wife.
The agreement was clear:
1. Sex
2. Photo ops
3. No romance
The sex was easy. Everything else, hard.
The following scenes were taken from The Dumont Diaries, a full-length erotic romance.
dance.
strip.
suck me.
The first night he came in to the strip club, I had been mid-dance when Rick’s hand gripped my shoulder. I glanced over, my eyes sharp, and my irritated look turned into a question. Rick never interrupts when we are with a client.
He leaned over, catching the glazed eyes of my client. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need to borrow Candy. Consider the first half of the dance to be on the house.” His hand pulled at my arm, not allowing me an option, and I stumbled off of the man, my heels catching as I hopped and skipped to keep up with him.
“What the hell? Is everything okay?” I hissed at him, narrowly missing the sharp edge of a table as he drug me along.
“We have a high roller, up in VIP. He saw you, wants you, up there.”
“A high roller?” I fought the urge to laugh. The guy probably asked for sparkling water and Rick thought he was fancy. Our club was an establishment for truckers and minivan driving dads; anybody with any taste or money took their plane to Orlando or South Florida if they wanted girls.
“Yes, this guy is loaded. He already ordered a bottle of champagne – you know that bottle of Dom we keep in the back? Plus, he has private security and came in a limo.” Rick was moving fast, his hand incessantly pushing on my lower back, his words practically panting with excitement.
I allowed myself a small sliver of excitement. This guy did sound loaded. Maybe this night would be different. Maybe I would actually meet someone worth meeting, someone who didn’t try to haggle over the price of a lap dance, or who would try and cop a free feel. Rick pulled back the curtain that enclosed the VIP section and I stepped through the curtain and had my first glimpse of him.
There are people that bring elegance to any environment. Our VIP room definitely needed some elegance, built with functionality and economy in mind: worn black couches surrounding a small stage, black curtains on ceiling tracks that could be pulled around the couches, dividing the room into four private spaces, each with a view of the pole. This man sat on a center couch, leaning back, his arms draped out and across the couch, his feet crossed casually at the ankles, a lit cigar glowing from his right hand. Behind the couch, two men stood, their features hid by the shadows, their silhouetted builds impressive. Between them, the cigar smoke drifted across the man’s face, and blue eyes glowed at me, a smug smile widening as I approached.
I masked my apprehension, holding my posture straight, tits out, stomach in, a smile across my face. I walked directly to him and stopped before him. “You asked for me?”
He brought the cigar to his lips, taking a slow drag on it, his eyes raking up and down my body unapologetically. His eyes flitted to the pole, then back to my face.
“Dance.”
I turned slowly to the pole, feeling the absence of Rick, the emptiness of the room. It was odd that we were alone, that no one else was in this space. Even the bouncer had left, leaving me alone with the three men. The house music was piped through this space, a DMX song playing. I strode up to the stage, gripping the pole with one hand and doing a slow spin as I exhaled, releasing my stress and apprehension in one slow breath. You are okay. You are beautiful. You will be fine. I rolled my neck, repeating the mantra, my long hair sliding over my skin as my head moved. I wished for the lights, the bright lights that hid everything from me. Then I took another breath and moved, gripping the pole and swinging my body up and out into the air, a swirling motion that spun the room out of focus, allowing me a brief, short moment of invisibility.
I am reckless on a pole, trusting my legs and arms in a way certain to cause damage. It is a lover I hate and I ride it relentlessly, caressing it in a sensual way that leaves nothing to the imagination. The beat moved through me and I got lost in its strength, pulsating against steel, spinning away only to return to it, my heels a blur of clear sparkle, my thoughts lost in the movement.
My bra was the first victim. One quick unclasp, the release of heavy breasts as I spun slowly downward, my legs suspending my body upside down above the hard floor. One outward fling, and sparkles and black sequins became airborne and joyful in their flight. I kept my panties on, the thin fabric the only thing between me and the pole.
When the song ended, I was panting, my eyes finally moving traveling across the floor and then up to his. Sometimes the most terrifying thing is eye contact. It certainly was at that moment, when I was exposed, bare and gasping, on the stage before him. He had the cigar in his mouth and want in his eyes. It was a look I was accustomed to, conditioned to. But on this man the look was different. Hungry and possessive, he ate me with his stare, with the blatant desire that he made no attempt to hide.
“Come here,” he commanded.
I moved carefully, down the steps on the stage, my sky-high stilettos wobbling slightly on their downward descent. Then I was before him. I watched as his hand moved, adjusting himself, the hard line of his cock outline in his pants. He glanced at it, and then at me. “Suck me.”
I hesitated, the look in his eyes intoxicating, vivid blue that commanded me. Then I was on my knees, my hands working the leather of his belt, the zipper of his pants. Then his cock was in my mouth, my wet lips sliding over rock hard thickness. Behind him, motionless and silent, the two bodyguards stood, their eyes forward and hands clasped.
He said little, lying back on the couch and watching me. When he was close, I felt his hands, firm on the back of my head, pulling himself deeper into my mouth. He groaned as his cock twitched against my tongue, hot wetness filling my mouth, his hand tilting back my head, his eyes capturing mine as he finished, intense blue orbs of possession. Then his eyes closed and his head dropped back, his cock pumping one final release into my mouth.
His bodyguards paid me, stepping forward and helping me to my feet, placing a fold of crisp bills into my hand. Then they left, a trio of gone, and I was alone in the dimly lit room.
“Touch yourself.”
“They can see us.”
“You like that?”
“Your cock. Now. Please.”
The tour of Nathan’s home concludes at the guest house, stepping inside an unnecessary movement since its entire interior is shown through the glass walls that make up three of its four walls. He points out the galley kitchen, the studio apartment, complete with a living room area, fireplace, walk-in closet and deluxe bath. He seems particular interested in my opinion, and I nod politely, a smile pasted on my features. “It is beautiful. You have a wonderful home.”
Then, we return, back to the majestic home’s great room, my eyes flickering over the two bodyguards, who now frame the door, their eyes following us as his body guides me towards the kitchen.
“Stop.” Nathan’s voice, commanding behind me.
I stop, standing before a large dining table, it surface smooth and, like everything else, glass. I feel his hand on my back, sliding upward and then the release as my top is undone. I turn to face him, his eyes meeting mine as he reaches back and unties the strings around my neck, his fingers trailing over my skin as he pulls the final piece that holds my top in place. I wet my lips, unsure of my words, not wanting to say what I need to say.
“We haven’t discussed money yet.”
“That didn’t stop you from sucking my cock.” He doesn’t smile.
I hesitate, feeling the fabric
slide against my nipples as my top falls at my feet. “I don’t normally do this,” I whisper.
“What, leave the club?”
“No. Full sex. That isn’t something I do with clients.” And not something I am going to do for free. No matter how big your house is. My body argued with my mind, physically pulled to the man, wanting to reach forward right now and take his cock into my hand. My mind understood the reality of my situation; my body was consumed with lust.
His eyes bore into mine, blue depths with flecks of domination in them, his olive skin bending as he speaks. “Ten grand.”
I return his stare, wetting my lips as I feel his hands slide down my sides, feel them dip beneath the lace of my panties. Ten thousand dollars. A figure I can’t turn down. Not that, at this stage in the game, turning him down is an option. “Okay.” I whisper.
He yanks outward, the quick motion startling me, a ripping sound heard, and then I am naked, feeling a tickle of lace as the ruined cloth that was my panties drops to the ground between my heels, my eyes passing over his shoulder and alighting on the two men who stand at attention, watching us.
“Your men,” I whisper, feeling the strength of his hands as they move over my body, gentle and caressing, my breasts the current object of their focus. His fingers spread, running lightly over my nipples, which stand to attention under his touch.
“They stay.”
“But…” my voice weak. “They can see us.”
His hands still and he steps forward, till my face is tilted up to his. “That’s the point. I thought you, of all people, wouldn’t be shy.”
I shut my mouth, hold my smartass response, don’t ask the questions that are burning on my lips. Why do you need protection? Why do they have to watch us? I think of the money to distract me, picture crisp dollar bills so I won’t have to think about the two men, their eyes following our movement. The men have already seen me give him head, this isn’t much different.
But honestly, sex is different. It’s why I don’t have sex at the club. I’ve gotten to the point where hand and blowjobs are as casual to me as dancing, though the aftermath plays havoc on my self-esteem. Sex has always been that one line I won’t cross, proof to myself that I am not ruined, that I am still pure in some fucked-up form.
He leans forward and kisses me, and I suddenly don’t need the image of dollar bills to distract my mind. Everything floods the moment his lips touch mine.
Soft, sweet lips. Not what I expect from this commanding man. He brushes my lips softly, my lips parting for him, immediately wanting more. A groan slips from my mouth before I have a chance to capture it. His hands move up through my hair, gripping and pulling its strands. He tastes me, spreading my lips gently with his and dipping his tongue inside. I respond eagerly, my body taking over my mind, shoving it aside forcefully as a wave of arousal hits me. His touch turns harder, his mouth more demanding and he moves me backward, my heels skittering over tile, till the edge of the table is against me.
His hands grip my ass, squeezing it roughly, one hand on each cheek and lifts me easily, setting me on the table, the surface cool against my skin.
“Lay down,” he bites out against my mouth, taking one, last, torturous sweep of my mouth before he pulls off, stepping back and watching me.
I grip the glass top, sliding backward until my elbows are resting on the glass. I watch him, watch as he unbuttons his sleeves. He breathes hard, his eyes glued to mine and walks towards me, stopping a foot from the table.
I can’t figure out this man. Or rather, I can’t figure out how I feel about this man. He is cold to the point of being an asshole. A demander instead of an asker – expecting me to perform as instructed. But that is what I am – a hired orgasm-deliverer. Pleases and thank yous are not required, only appreciated. But despite his cold exterior, I am drawn to him, insanely attracted to him. Maybe it is the money, maybe it’s as simple as that. More likely it is that face, those blue eyes set under thick brows, a mess of dark hair that begs to have me run my hands through it, a strong jaw and kissable soft lips. Lips he happens to know exactly how to use.
My thoughts abandon me as his fingers undo his buttons, inch after inch of chest falling victim to my eyes. In his suit he commanded respect with his strong words and unyielding eyes. Without a shirt he has my full attention, a perfect build unveiled as his shirt falls to the floor. I pull my eyes from his chest and return to his face, seeing the set of his jaw, the intensity of his eyes. Then there is the yank of a zipper, and my eyes drop.
He is magnificent, every line and muscle defined, framing a package that makes my mouth and sex water. This is the organ that I have already experienced, the one that has kept me awake at night and ended many self-pleasure sessions. I swallow as he strides over and stops before me, his eyes studying me carefully, his hand reaching out and pressing me back, ‘til I lay flat before him on top of the table.
His hands touch my legs, lifting them and tugging them outward, until I am spread wide before him. He bends, his hands on my ankle, his fingers unstrapping my heel, a loud thud sounding when the platform stiletto hits the floor. Then he moves to the other shoe, my foot lifting under his hand when it is free. He grabs an ankle in each hand and places my feet flat on the table, knees pointing to the ceiling.
“Touch yourself,” he rasps, stepping back and watching me, his hand settling on and gripping his cock, which juts out, swollen and hard. The knowledge that I caused that reaction, that his touch on my skin aroused him, is powerful; the vision of him stroking his cock is carnal in its exquisiteness.
I close my eyes and attempt to relax. Attempt to ignore my open legs, the view on display for the three men in the room. I touch myself tentatively, my finger sliding up and down the slit of my sex, gentle strokes that tease the sensitive skin.
“Is that what you like?” I flinch at his voice, which is closer than I expected, right beside me. I open my eyes and turn to the sound, seeing him above me, his eyes on my moving hand, his own hand moving up and down his delicious shaft.
I nodded. “Initially, yes.”
“Keep going.”
I close my eyes again, my fingers never pausing in their travels, moisture collecting between my lips, my fingers grazing liquid as they move slowly and leisurely over the edge of my sanity. I allow one finger to dip in, to test my readiness, and drag some of that moisture higher, to the sensitive bud that is my pleasure center, circling the skin gently. I release a low moan, the building pleasure too great to contain, and arch my back, lifting slightly off the table as my fingers dance lightly through a torturous tease.
My pussy is beginning to respond, to flex and pant, saliva dripping from its eager lips. I can feel my clit taking attention, hardening beneath my gentle swipes, each circle moving a little closer. I am a sadistic bitch when it comes to masturbation, and my body loves me for it. I give until it wants and then I withdraw, coaxing my arousal out only to deny it. It isn’t until it begs, isn’t until it screams for mercy that I will allow it release, the explosion sweeter and more intense the longer I fuck with its mind.
I am reminded of my situation by teeth. Gentle scrapes of teeth against my nipples, first one, and then the other. He covers my nipples, sucking them into the heat of his mouth, his tongue dancing over the rough path of his teeth, my hand reaching up and grabbing his head, gripping that delicious mess of hair and bringing his head harder on my breasts, the sensation too incredible not to savor.
He grips my wrist roughly, yanking my hand off of his head and shoving it back between my legs, his message clear. I moan in frustration, stopping the sound when his mouth returns, visiting my other breast, the combination of soft mouth and hard teeth driving me wild.
“I’m close,” I gasp, my sex contracting and screaming for release, my clit one swipe away from explosion. His mouth moves between my breasts, his fingers replacing his tongue, dragging slowly and softly over my nipples, gentle and light enough to make them arch for more. His mouth, that incredible, hot
machine of ecstasy, moves, traveling into the curves of my neck, and all I can think about is how it would feel between my legs.
“Come,” he orders, his mouth lifting off my skin, one of his hands gripping my face and turning it to his, his blue eyes capturing mine and holding me hostage. “Come,” he repeats, need blatant in his taunt, strong face.
I try to keep the eye contact, try to give him what I think he wants, but it is too strong – that final moment that my clit has been waiting for, that perfect swipe across its swollen surface has my eyes rolling back, my world temporarily going black, his green eyes disappearing from sight as my back arches and I explode in
one.
perfect.
moment.
***
I am weak, drained, my body losing all muscle function as the last tendrils of pleasure gently fades away, aftershocks twitching my body. I should be doing something sexy, like sucking or jacking or fucking that beautiful cock. But instead I am lying on the hard ass table and celebrating the incredibleness that is that orgasm.
“Get up and get on the bed in the Master. I’m going to fuck the hell out of you.” His voice is hoarse with need, hard breaths in between the sentences, the order almost a plead despite the command in his tone.