Midnight Ch. 02

"Another thing," he went on. "If you want it slow and romantic and sensual, if you want kissing, I'm not your guy."

"You don't like to kiss?"

"Kissing to me means there's some sort of connection between two people," he went on. "I'm not looking for a connection, just hot, kinky, sweaty sex. Kissing would be for my girlfriend. And I don't plan on having one of those."

There was a coldness to his voice now, but she again reminded herself not to worry. She could protect herself, handle herself, if she had to. She feared no one. But she also valued forthrightness, so . . .

"Well, I do like to kiss," she said. "And it doesn't necessarily mean there has to be a connection. I mean, kissing could just be a part of the play. I think kissing is sexy."

He pushed his plate away, took a sip of water. "Really? I don't. You know what's sexy? You lying on my bed, your hands bound together behind your back, your dress on the floor, your bra-encased tits heaving as I slap that tight ass of yours. That's what's sexy, Jennifer. Now before you go bolting to the door, understand one thing. I'm no brute. I'm not into forcing anything onto anybody. So like I said, you need to be cool with this. But if you are . . . you're going to be handsomely rewarded."

He talked a big game. She was wondering if he could really back it up. Kinky she could handle. Spanking, even. He was basically challenging her. Was she up for it? You bet she was.

"Let's go," she said. "I'm ready."

He licked his lips. "You're my kind of girl," he said.

♣

He led her to his suite—a top-floor pad overlooking downtown and the river. The rent was exorbitant beyond belief, but then, you got what you paid for. Besides, it was worth it—conveniently located, no lawn to maintain. And the women all loved it, those fortunate enough to be brought back here, that is.

He closed and locked the door, flicked on a switch.

"Well, what do you think of my private abode, fair lady?" he asked.

She looked around, no doubt taking note of the bare walls, the lack of furnishings.

"Well . . . it's simple," she said. He smiled. She was cute.

"I'm not into home decorating," he said. "Unless it pertains to the job. Like this." He led her to his glass coffee table. Sprawled on top were photos of Midnight—nothing great. Just dark shots of her swinging through the city at night, shot by a few lucky photographers who then sold their pictures to the highest bidder—and usually the highest bidder was Julian P. Covington.

She didn't say anything, but he thought she looked uneasy.

"These constitute just the proverbial tip of the iceberg," he said. "Most of the shots I have are on my PC. You know, this is a digital age we live in. Took me some time to get used to that. Child of the '80s. Getting old."

She cleared her throat. "I hope you don't mind my saying this," she said. "But you're kind of obsessive. Well, not kind of. You are obsessive. Is Midnight all you think about, Julian?"

If she had meant that as an insult, he hadn't taken it as such. Damn right he was obsessive. You had to be, in his line of work. He imagined Midnight herself must be obsessive, too. Anyone who did the things she did, must be. Two of a kind. God, he wanted to fuck her. Dominate her. But for now, he'd gladly settle for the hard body he was with.

"Not all I think about," he said. "I think about other things every now and then. You know, like how to bring a woman to the edge, just to the edge, make her want more, make her beg. I'm a well-rounded guy, Jennifer. Real Renaissance man."

She raised her eyebrows. "I'm sure you are."

He'd had enough. The time for talk was over. He wanted to get down to business.

"Take off your dress," he ordered.

Her head snapped back, as if she were slapped. "Excuse me?"

"Look. I told you already, I'm dominant, didn't I? So if you want to play with me, you have to be able to handle that. Earlier, you acted like you could handle me, Jennifer. Situation too much for you, now that you're here? Feeling insecure? Like maybe you don't have what it takes? If so, you know where the hall is."

He was being an ass, he knew that. But it was all a part of the feeling-out process. If someone wanted to have fun with him, she would need to be able to tolerate, even embrace, his antics. Usually, if a woman stayed in his apartment for more than five minutes, after she had endured his initial barrage and hadn't been scared off, he had her. If she couldn't deal with him, she usually left right away.

"But if you're as ready as you said you were back at the restaurant, then strip. Right now."

"Right here? In your living room?"

"Right here." He looked at his wristwatch. "I'll time you, Jennifer. You have four seconds to do as you're told. If you don't start removing your clothes in that span, you're out of here. If you do, well, then, lucky you, girl. You'd have made the right decision. But make it. Or get lost."

She hesitated for a second, a look of defiance in her eyes. But then she reached up, pulled the thin silk straps over her shoulders, let her dress fall to the floor in one easy motion.

He whistled. "Damn. Your naked pics were hot, but you're even better in person." He approached her, touched her stomach, rubbing her abdomen with firm, circular strokes. "That's a six-pack any guy would die for."

She blushed, said nothing.

"What'd you do to get a body like this, Jennifer?"

"Work like hell," she said. "What else?"

She was up for the challenge, this one. He could sense it. She had a strength to her, a pride. Good. He loved a contest.

"What would you say if I told you that in oh, maybe twenty minutes from now, I'll have you begging . . . not requesting, not wanting, not asking . . . but begging for me to fuck you. You'll be so at my mercy that you will do anything I say just so you can feel the pleasure of my cock deep inside your pussy. What would you say if I told you that?"

He noticed that her breathing was already growing more rapid. She might put up a good front, but he was getting to her. This one wasn't used to being dominated, that was obvious. Well, that was okay. She had come to the right teacher.

"I say, all you've done since we met is tell me how incredible you are," she said. "But so far, you haven't done anything to back that up. So you'll forgive me if I have my doubts."

"C'mon," he said. "Bedroom."

He grabbed her by the hair, and in an eyeblink, she swatted his hand away. It was such a lightning-quick maneuver, he had hardly had a chance to react. What's more, she packed a wallop. His hand throbbed where she'd struck him.

"I'm sorry," she said immediately. "I . . . I didn't expect you to grab me like that. I . . ."

"It's okay," he said, massaging his sore hand. "You're quite an athlete, aren't you, Jennifer? What, do you think you're Midnight or something, moving like that?"

He laughed, and so did she. But she was tight. He could see it in the way she stiffened her shoulders. He imagined she was still a little nervous about all of this, and perhaps she was embarrassed over the way she had struck him. Or perhaps . . . perhaps she was hiding something. Something big. He knew all about hiding things, after all. He was something of an expert at the art. She showed all the signs.

But no. He was always so ready to jump to conclusions, make impulse judgments. He needed to, in his profession. He usually didn't have time to get to know the people he wrote about—he relied on his instincts, his gut. But there was no reason to be suspicious with this woman. She was just a horny girl, superbly shaped and athletic with great reflexes, yes, but still, just a horny girl taken aback by his masculinity and aggressiveness. Who wouldn't be? He'd break her in.

"Now, just to lay down the ground rules one last time, Jennifer," he said. "If you don't want to play by my guidelines, no one is forcing you. Look, I'm not going to hurt you or harm you. I won't lie. I play rough. It may sting a little when I give you the hard spanking you know you want. But I won't do anything to physically harm you. You can trust me. Hell, I'm Julian P. Covington, hot-shot reporter for the Herald. Do you really think I'd destroy my career by hurting you and having you then drag my name through the mud? Relax, babe. But know this. From this point on, you do as your told until your dress is back on. Then we're equals again. But in the bedroom, you're mine. Got it?"

"Yes, sir!" she said, and gave a mock salute. Indeed, breaking her in would be a treat.

"Now get that tight little ass of yours into my bedroom," he told her.

She was breathing faster, faster, as he swung his ping pong paddle and slammed it into her butt. "Uhh," she said. He smiled. She'd been at his mercy for just ten minutes, but she was already fully aroused. He'd probed beneath her panties a minute ago, and she was sopping.

He had her facedown on the bed. She was gagged and her hands were tied behind her back. She had resisted slightly at first, showing real reluctance to being bound and gagged, but she relented. And soon, very soon, he would remove the gag. But not just yet.

He brought the paddle down again, and she squirmed, that perfect body of hers jerking and writhing. She was panting into her gag. He loved the fact that she was wearing a G-string. The vixen. That had made things easier. Her full ass cheeks were exposed, and by now very red. But he had tired of the thin piece of fabric. It was time to remove it.

He reached forward, slapped her ass with his bare hand, and violently yanked her panties down. Fully naked from the waist down, she was without a doubt the most perfect female form he had ever laid eyes on.

"Dear God, don't you ever splurge, Jennifer?" he teased. "Not a fucking ounce of fat on you. You need to live a little, baby. Eat that piece of cake sometimes."

He may have teased her, but he admired her perfect form. She wasn't skinny—not by a long shot. She was beautifully toned, solid, her legs taut pistons, sinewy, and wonderfully long. Every picture he'd seen of Midnight suggested that she was tall, too. It was easy, looking at the sculpted body before him, to pretend that he really had Midnight right now, that it was Midnight, not just some girl named Jennifer, who was tied up on his bed, sopping wet, waiting for him to fuck her.

"One day," he said, under his breath. "One day."

He aggressively inserted his index and middle fingers into her cunt, and she squirmed at the intrusion. But beneath the gag, he heard her gasp. She was gyrating her hips, pushing back against his fingers. Horny, needy.

He pulled his fingers out of her, climbed onto the bed, finally removed her gag.

"So," he said, "have I backed up my talk so far, Jennifer? Based on how hot and slick and oily you are, I'd say I have. Wouldn't you?"

She nodded, looked away, evidently embarrassed. He grabbed her long brown hair, and she let out another gasp. He forced her to look at him.

"Tell me you want to suck my dick, Jennifer," he commanded.

She shook her head.

"Don't you want to?"

She didn't respond. Of course she wanted to. She knew it, and he knew it.

"If you don't tell me what you want, you won't get what you want," he said, and got up.

He went behind her, again licking his lips at the sight of her butt. He grabbed the paddle, smacked her! Again, again, again.

"Uhhhhhhhh," she said, and he knew she was close to cumming.

"You like that, don't you, baby?" he said, and slapped her again. "Now I'm sure you'll like my cock in your mouth even more. Tell me."

Smack, slap!

"Yes," she said.

"Yes, what, Jennifer?"

Another slap. Her ass was a bright red from the abuse.

"I want to suck your cock."

"Good girl."

♣

As she sucked him, her mind was a whirling cyclotron of contradictory thoughts. She hated this. She loved this. She hated him. She was attracted to him like she couldn't believe, and would be ashamed to admit. She couldn't believe she had allowed herself to be tied up. At first she didn't think she could go through with it. She felt too much at his mercy, too powerless, too much like that little girl frozen in fear on the couch that terrible night twenty-four years ago. But then she reminded herself. She wasn't at his mercy. She wasn't powerless. This was her choice. She could break free from his crude knot anytime she wanted. Any illusion of power he held over her was just that—an illusion. He only dominated her because she let him.

But she didn't understand. Why did she like it? Whether or not she could break free at any time was irrelevant in a way. She was enjoying his authority, had willingly succumbed to it. If she hadn't, she wouldn't be bound on his bed right now, slurping on his dick, she wouldn't allow him to pull her hair and paddle her ass. But there was something about it—something about surrendering, submitting. . . . She couldn't put her finger on it, and couldn't figure it out. Maybe it was just a relief to allow herself to be taken for a change. She was always the one in control, assessing her situation, kicking ass. She hadn't even thought she was capable of letting herself go like this. She'd never let anyone have his way with her before. She couldn't remember ever feeling this turned on.

"Suck me, suck me, Jennifer!" he commanded, and she increased her tempo, her glasses nearly falling off, wanting him to explode in her mouth, wanting to taste the warm, sticky fluid that came from his arousal.

She felt his hands in her hair again, yanking, pulling, so rough. But she didn't resist. She could have freed her hands without half trying, pushed him off of her, and immediately have him at her mercy. But she just let him pull her hair, let him fuck her mouth. And with each passing moment, her arousal grew.

And grew. And grew. . . .

♣

He was close now, very close. He increased the tempo, grabbed her head, forced his dick deeper into her throat. He felt her try to pull back, but he didn't let her. He would—he didn't want her to suffocate—but not yet. Not until she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, who was in charge.

She grunted on his dick, sucking, sucking, even as she tried to force her head back. He knew she was loving this. She was a wild one. Kinkier than he'd expected, more fun. Not just a glorious body, but a willing mind, too. Quite the combination.

Finally he let go of the pressure, and she moved her head back, took a breath even with his dick still in her mouth.

He grabbed her long hair again, pulled it hard, very hard, and forced her to look him in the eyes.

"Yes," he told her. "Good girl, Jennifer. Now you get me off. Make me cum in that pretty mouth of yours."

She was a dervish, moaning, sucking, slurping. And in no time at all, he climaxed, shooting his man-juice into her mouth. She held it there a moment, then swallowed.

"Now get me hard again, so I can fuck you," he instructed. She didn't need to be told twice. She was at him again, and he was hard in less than a minute. She was a great cocksucker—very good with her lips.

His penis fully erect, pointing up toward his belly button, he maneuvered behind her, undid the bind that held her. She collapsed onto the bed, her glasses falling off, her arms sprawled out to the side. She was soaked with her own sweat.

"Quite a workout you're having, huh, Jennifer. But then, you're used to workouts, aren't you?" He smacked her ass with the palm of his hand, as if to emphasize his words. "Lie down on your back now, and reach out behind you, toward the headboard."

She hesitated, apparently unsure what he wanted.

"I want to tie your wrists to my headboard, Jennifer, and then ravish you. Any objections?"

She put her glasses back on, and did as she was told. Moments later, she was bound, her arms stretched out behind her. He had tied the knot tight, but not too tight. No reason to be mean. He mounted her, and he loved the lust, the need in her eyes. She desperately wanted him inside of her.

"Now . . . I can assure you that I'm clean as a nun's whistle," he told her. "No diseases. How about you, Jennifer?"

She swallowed. "I'm clean," she said. "Haven't had many partners."

He chuckled. "Well, it only takes one dirty, diseased cock to infect you, doesn't it? But don't worry, I will wear my rubber anyway. Can't take any risks, now can we?"

He saw her take a sigh of relief. "Fuck, I shouldn't have tied you up yet," he said. "If you want me to fuck you, the least you can do is put my sheath on for me."

With that, he undid the knot, handed her a condom—one that smelled like tropical fruit. He hated condoms, but he couldn't risk a drop of pre-cum infiltrating her. He couldn't risk getting her pregnant. He only wished he had been smarter about such things in years past. . . .

"Put it on, Jennifer," he instructed. "But first, suck it again. I think I've deflated, just a little."

She leaned forward, took him in her mouth. She still had her bra on. He loved the way women looked in their bra. Often better than topless. But he'd seen enough of it. He needed those fine tits of hers to be freed now.

As she sucked him, he reached behind her, unhooked her bra, threw it on the floor. She didn't disappoint. Her breasts were as perfectly formed as the rest of her, and her nipples were hard and pointy. He took one between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed. Her body jerked, but she continued sucking.

"That's enough," he said. "Now put this on me."

He handed her the condom, and she encased his dick with it. Then, without being told, she lay back down, extended her arms behind her, waiting to be tied again. Who was he not to oblige?

Once she was secured back in place, he climbed on top of her. She was panting, her need, her desire, oozing through her pores. He could smell the arousal.

"What do you want, Jennifer?" He inserted his dick into her, half an inch deep, then pulled out.

She writhed beneath him. "Fuck me," she said. "God, just fuck me!"

He pushed in an inch, two inches, three. She moaned. Then he pulled out. When she looked at him with frustration, he laughed.

"Ask me nicely, and maybe I'll fuck you like you want it," he said.

Her breasts were heaving. She was beyond all reason, he knew. He reached for her, rubbed her nicely shaven mound, squeezed her clit, inserted his finger inside of her and pressed firmly against the folded grooves of her G-spot. She bucked like a wild mustang.

"Ask me nicely, Jennifer," he said.

"Please . . ."

He pressed her G-spot again, and with his other hand, he pinched her clit. "Please what?"

"Please . . . fuck me."

Now he grabbed her breasts, kneaded the soft flesh, mashing them together, pulling them apart. Then he grabbed both nipples, pulled on them, straightening them out, lengthening them, stretching them . . .

"Please, fuck me, what?" he said, and let go of her nipples. They bounced back against her tits, and he repeated the process—pinching them, pulling them, letting them snap back into place. Fun. Almost like playing with rubber bands, stretching, pulling, letting go. . . . "Address me nicely. With respect."

She was tossing her head from side to side, her eyes opening and closing behind her glasses.

"Please . . . fuck me, sir," she said.

He smiled. He knew she'd be begging for it. He had told her she'd be. He couldn't wait anymore. He needed to have her now. He pushed in halfway, and she gasped. Then he pulled out again.

"You want me to fuck you, Jennifer?" he teased. "That's true, isn't it?"

"Yes!"

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir."

If it were possible, his erection stiffened even more, and he buried himself deep inside her, to the hilt.

"Oh God, yes," she said, and her hips rose to meet his thrust.

He wasn't a soft lover. He believed in fast, furious, hard action. He thrust with power and speed, drilling into her. She was moaning, groaning, thrashing, matching his pace with a sexual energy he had rarely encountered. This woman needed a release. She must have had a lot of pent-up frustration, tension. . . Well, he always had thought of himself as a humanitarian. Never leave a woman wanting. . . .