The Vegas Job

Tia attached it to the text to Mr. Brown, which read, "I'm in your room; come up now with your wife. After I fuck her while you watch, we'll have a threesome. If you're not here within 15 minutes, this video will go viral on the internet." The message and gif would constitute extortion of a most vile type. A most criminal type. Sufficient to void the prenup.

After Tia had retrieved the hidden camera and planted it in Bart's toy bag, she pressed his fingertips against the two small bottles of pills she'd brought, and put them next to the camera. One contained Viagra, the other Ambien. When they were discovered during the inevitable investigation, the only logical assumption would be that, in preparation for kinky fun, Bart had mistakenly taken the wrong pills.

After cleaning, twice, all the surfaces in the room she even might have touched, she texted Cat. When her assistant replied that she was on the 8th floor and had the security camera blinded, Tia double checked everything. She truly wanted to wash her face in the bathroom, but room 8533 had to appear as though she had never been present.

Under interrogation Bart would undoubtedly swear that some mystery woman had been with him, and had set him up. But, though he'd been seen having dinner with a stunning beauty, they had not left together. His past history with various dominatrix madams in Vegas would prove decisive. A known perv taking his debauchery to the next level would be a far more reasonable and convenient explanation for the lurid scene in room 8533, and the authorities would wrap up the case posthaste.

Satisfied with her cleaning efforts, she gave a heavy, shuddering sigh and hit send on the text to Mr. Brown. Tia mentally thanked Bart for revealing his true, vile nature just in time, tossed his phone on the bed, and left. As she walked down the hall, Tia removed the hairnet and surgical gloves, dropped them in her bag, retrieved and put on her skeleton key pendant, pulled her hat low over her face, and stepped into the elevator.

Both women kept their heads low as they descended, their large brimmed hats hiding their faces from the security camera. As she mused about what a total snafu the mission had been, Tia could see Cat's eyes on her and noted her puzzled look. Tia knew that her face was flushed - she could feel the warmth in her cheeks - and forced a smile. Though they wouldn't talk until safely away, her small nod communicated "mission accomplished" to her assistant.

Just before they arrived the women's phones buzzed. A warning from Anne. As the elevator doors parted, they lowered their heads further and split up, walking rapidly to either side of Mr. Brown and the two burly security guards. He'd acted quickly and was headed for room 8533. Tia, Anne and Cat had to disappear.

The taxi dropped them at the Bellagio. It was perhaps an unnecessary precaution, but if the cops took Bart's alibi seriously enough to investigate, and someone had seen a woman matching his description of Tia leaving Caesar's, a red herring dead end couldn't hurt.

Once in their rented, nondescript Honda Tia gave the women an overview of the mission. She totally omitted one aspect of what had transpired and tried to keep her voice even. However, feeling like she was about to explode inside, she knew that her employees, her colleagues, really her friends, would hear the tension in her voice.

Once at the Mirage, they split up. Anne and Cat hit the bar to celebrate, and Tia made for the elevators. Though she dearly wanted to get to her room to begin unwinding, Tia took time to stop in the ladies room before going up. She had to wash her face.

As she scrubbed away every last trace of Bart's semen, Tia tried using a yoga breathing technique to calm herself, to still the pent-up frustration, anger, and the gnawing sexual arousal still coursing through her.

Frustration at how the mission had gone so wrong. How she'd continually had to improvise to remain in control, but how Bart had seemed able to counter her efforts, foiling her at every step.

Still scrubbing, Tia's anger flared anew at how it was all her fault. How she hadn't asked Alice the critical question about whether Bart took sleeping pills and just arrogantly plowed ahead without a backup plan. How, to insure that Bart didn't leave, she had to endure all he did to her. How, despite her professionalism and expending every ounce of willpower, she could not help but become ever more stimulated. How it became a race between the drugs in him and the mounting arousal in her. How she had almost climaxed.

Her anger morphed into consternation at realizing how badly she had actually wanted to come, to get relief, even to Bart's fingers. At how a part of her had relished making Bart ejaculate, and had not been able to suppress the sick, triumphant thrill when his semen splashed on her face.

How had it all happened? How had she possibly become so acutely aroused? Certainly, she got off on controlling Bart, on edging him, on winning the game of who could make the other come first. But mostly, it was that Bart's fingers had just been so knowing and skillful. Relentless. A back-and-forth had developed between them, almost like actually having sex.

The whole affair had been totally frustrating, enraging, unacceptable, yet perversely stimulating and exciting. Rejecting the strong temptation to visit one of the stalls for a quick Jilling, Tia reminded herself that, despite everything, she'd won.

As she headed towards the elevator, however, her forced smile faded as the mind-numbing, itchy arousal crept back. It felt like an octopus inside her, its tentacles squirming everywhere, their suction cups pawing and suckling at every cell in her body. She knew there was only one cure and she quickened her stride.

Once inside her room, Tia tossed the Louboutin bag aside, kicked off her stylish sandals, and only then looked at Michael.

He had flown in earlier that day and she knew he expected their usual discussion of the job. But Tia was too on edge, too conflicted about all that had happened. She needed to have the nervous, gnawing energy coursing throughout her body expunged.

Tia needed to come, not talk.

She knew he would read the tension in her body, see the edginess in her eyes, and earnestly want to help. Though Tia was at a loss as to just what it would be or how it would happen, the cure had to begin, and she walked quickly to the floor-to-ceiling picture window. Surely Michael would know.

Though the view from the 23rd floor was breathtaking, her inner turmoil was so consuming that she didn't even see the lights of the strip. Her breathing was shallow and constricted, her mind numb, her body reeling from the ravenous beast slithering within her, its arms wriggling everywhere. She sensed Michael behind her before his hands gently landed on her waist.

His touch was electric, thrilling, and she started. Michael's fingers flew from her like he'd touched a hot stove. Dismayed by his misinterpretation, Tia immediately reached back, grabbed them, and put them back on her. She needed his hands on her. And more. Much more.

Michael sighed and began caressing Tia's waist. Though his fingers felt good, something just wasn't right. Tia realized that he was doing exactly what she had always asked of him, going slowly, gently, taking infinite time in arousing her.

When they first met, Michael, who at 23 was four years younger than Tia, had been completely swept away. For him, she was THE ONE, and he simply needed to be with her. No matter what. He did everything she asked, unquestioningly. Tia liked being in charge, and realized that his total devotion to her allowed him to accept every aspect of her, even the parts - her compulsion to be in control and single-minded devotion to her career - that had ended prior relationships. At times his behavior, which verged on the obsequious, was annoying, as she had to direct everything, but his obvious love for her made things work.

Mostly.

Initially hopelessly smitten, Michael saw Tia as a true goddess, the most beautiful, sophisticated, sensual, and provocative woman imaginable. Just the idea of making love with her was enough to drive him right to the edge. When sex actually happened, the first time and often thereafter, when his idol descended from her pedestal and her velvety vagina encased and caressed his all-too-eager cock, it went off like a rocket.

Tia had coached him, lovingly but firmly, in how she needed to be aroused. Slowly, thoroughly, for long periods before she was ready for coitus. He'd proven an avid and apt pupil, and they were accustomed to long drawn-out love making sessions.

But now she needed anything but that. She needed to be purged of the ravenous physical compulsion that Bart had so expertly induced.

Tia needed an orgasm. Now.

When Michael's hands continued slow, gentle motions, she abruptly grabbed them again and pushed them to her more firmly, moving them faster.

Though she sensed Michael's confusion - this was so unlike anything she'd done before - he did follow her lead, and Tia quickly undid the buttons of her dress.

Even when it fell open, however, Michael kept his caresses on her sides and back. Building things slowly. Distressed that he was not understanding what she needed, Tia took his hands and pulled them quickly up inside her dress. To her breasts.

As the fire kindled higher inside her, now appropriately from the adoring touch of her lover, Tia melted back onto Michael.

She could feel his breath, hot on her neck as he continued stroking her. The tingles shooting from her inflamed points stoked the heat inside her, but as the blaze flared, surging, it demanded more. Tia could not suppress her annoyed sigh. Michael's fingers were far too gently just lightly brushing her nipples.

She sensed Michael's befuddlement, even chagrin at her implied correction, when Tia grasped his right hand and plunged it down. To her pussy. His touch prompted immediate delightful goose bumps, but the feeling was erased by her vexation when his fingers slid lower, to her inner thigh. Not where she'd put them.

Not where she wanted them. Compounding her irritation, he began leisurely teasing and caressing, moving ever so slowly upward. Just as she had coached him to do for months. It felt nice, but the pleasure was obliterated by sharp pangs of urgent need. This was far too slow.

Tia impatiently snatched his hand, pulled it higher and clamped it to her vulva.

She shuddered from the thrilling jolt when Michael's fingers enfolded her pussy and she pressed them to her harder. The knots in her belly wrenched tighter as the fire built. Thinking he would surely understand, she released his hand and said, "Stroke my pussy, hard. Wrap your other arm around me and squeeze me to you."

Though his abrupt inhalation conveyed his mystification, even irritation at her constant directives, Michael complied. His left hand coddled her right breast, fingers thrumming the nipple, while his right hand began its favorite trick. His thumb and two fingers formed a V and eased down Tia's vulva, massaging her labia majora down to her frenulum. Then just one finger lightly feathered up, tracing ever-so-tenderly the juncture of her inner lips. Only to form the V and descend again. Then up and down once more. And again.

Because the technique stimulated and engorged her vestibule bulbs and outer lips, making her pussy absolutely glow, Tia had always found it wonderful. She knew that, through it, Michael was loving her sex, loving her. But her pudendum was already engorged, swollen, even overripe, and throbbing from Bart's devilish handiwork. Now, tonight, this was not right.

On the next ascent of his finger teasing up her slit, Tia shoved it deep between her labia. She gasped at the delicious flash of fire when it penetrated to the very valley of her vulva. Savoring the sparks of arousal the finger produced - Michael's finger, at last! - Tia eagerly guided its tip up and down her groove. But once she removed her hand, Michael again reverted to pattern. He parted his fingertips and began lightly massaging her inner lips, making slow love to her. Exactly as she had taught him.

Tia's moan was as much from irritation - why wasn't he catching on? - as the sensation as she drove his middle finger into her vagina. She shuddered in pleasure, then groaned in pique when he pulled out and began circling her entrance where he knew most of the nerve endings were. Desperate, needing immediate release, Tia urgently whispered, "No, Michael! Finger fuck me! Make me come! Now!"

Michael's grunt betrayed his exasperation - What was going on? - but he obediently began sliding his finger in and out of Tia's vagina, up and down, the shaft of his finger lightly brushing her clitoris. Gently, lovingly.

Far too gently, way too slowly.

Tia whimpered in dismay and flattened the shaft of his finger hard onto her clit. "No! Like this!" she snapped as she ground his finger against her. He complied, but his caresses were still too gentle, far too slow.

Tia's irritation flared to anger as she again captured his middle finger and forced on her. Why couldn't he understand?

"Michael, make me come, right now! Just do it!"

Though she knew Michael was shocked at her snarl and angered by her continual corrections, Tia didn't care. At least he complied. His fingers went faster and those of his other hand began pinching and tweaking her nipple. The fiery sparks emanating from her sex flared up, electrifying the tentacles crawling everywhere inside her. As they swirled throughout her body, Tia felt the cleansing, purgative orgasm approaching.

But it was coming on too slowly and she hissed, "Michael, for God's sake! Just do me! Faster! Harder!"

Michael froze for a second, perplexed. Then Tia could feel the reflexive aggravation in him boil over when he drove her flat against the window and his fingers leapt into overdrive, fucking her pussy madly.

The plate glass was cold against her cheek and breasts and made her nipples erect even harder, despite being squashed to the window. Though his motions were better, their consistency, their predictability caused the flame inside her to steady, plateau. It wasn't enough.

"Not like that! Go harder! Faster!"

Tia felt Michael's anger and humiliation flare at being chastised so vehemently, and he thrust her forcefully into the window and quickened his finger's pace. Tia pasted herself to the pane completely and raised her arms, surrendering to the inevitable. Welcoming it. Her moans of frustration and passion were interspersed with her constant directives, "Faster! Harder!"

Now thoroughly riled and indignant, but following orders, Michael's fingers fucked her wildly, and finally the fire roiling in her sex could no longer be contained. It swirled out from her vagina, flared up and consumed her. Completely.

Tia's entire body tensed, trembling and shaking, and loud strangled sobs were wrenched from her throat. At last getting what she needed, Tia yelled, "Finally!" as Michael drove her over the crest. She knew that the gush of her release was purging the last traces of Bart from her sex, her body. Her mind. Her soul.

Deliverance!

As she began to recover, still plastered to the picture window - she randomly hoped that anyone watching was enjoying the show - she felt Michael's hands abruptly leave her and pull her dress from her shoulders. He snatched her into his arms and tossed her on the bed.

Eyelids flickering, Tia lay still, stunned and twitching as the aftershocks from the excruciating, purgative orgasm scurried through her. She heard Michael's footsteps cross the room, the swish of her dress as he hung it on a chair, and the hiss of the drapes closing. His zipper unzipping. His discarded shoes clomping on the floor.

"Oh, so NOW he's going to fuck me," Tia thought sardonically. "Now that I've already come, am rid of the awful experience with Bart, he's finally getting it. Way too late."

However, as the seething heat from the orgasm faded to afterglow, Tia moaned in disbelief and aggravation when the diminishing tingles no longer masked the gnawing hunger still burning deep inside her. The cleansing was not complete. The beast was still famished, its feelers rearing up, spreading everywhere, clawing at her innards.

Realizing the only possible solution, Tia sat up, removed the gold chain from her neck and dropped it onto the bedside table. The skeleton key suspended on it clanged down with the finality of a guillotine's blade.

Michael had given it to her months before as a symbol of his commitment, ceding to her control of their relationship. And of his cock. Tia had been most pleased with the latter gift, as, befitting the athlete he was, it was a magnificent cock. An all-conference heavyweight wrestler in college, Michael was truly formidable at 6 feet 4. And though he trimmed down to a chiseled, rock-hard 210 pounds once he quit competing, his penis had remained the same, long, thick, and heavy, the biggest Tia had ever possessed. The key he gave to her, unlike that to any crass, perverse cock cage, was a self-imposed restraint of honor, and Michael was an honorable man. Tia's putting the key on the bedside table symbolized that she was relinquishing her control, releasing him.

She prayed he'd take the hint.

When Michael sat beside her, however, the mystification and exasperation in his voice made it obvious that he hadn't. "Tia, what in the world was that about?"

Her annoyance spiked again at having to explain. She'd used up every iota of willpower, strength and energy to battle Bart and try to control her own body. And then she'd had to direct Michael when he just didn't get it. She was exhausted, totally drained, and had nothing left. "I'm frustrated. The job went wrong, was very difficult, and..."

"And what? What just happened here?"

"I needed you to take charge and make me come. But it was like I had to tell you every single thing to do. You were oblivious, didn't understand what I needed. I was so hoping that you'd catch on..."

"But it was totally opposite of everything you've ever told me you like! I just don't understand. And why did you yell, 'Finally!'"

Tia's anger boiled over. "For God's sake, Michael! Why did I have to keep directing you? Do I always have to tell you everything? Why couldn't you figure out that I needed you to just make me come, hard and fast?" When Michael seethed in silence, Tia said, "Then, miracle of miracles, at long last you did." She paused, then drove home the final stake. "Finally!"

The anger and vehemence in her voice was matched by his. "What the fuck! I've done everything you've asked for months, done it how you wanted, even given you total control over my sex life. Now suddenly you want something completely different! And I'm supposed to just figure it out? Give me a break!" Their eyes exchanged volleys of fire as he took another breath and snarled, "What the hell do you want from me!"

The first word of Tia's incensed retort, "There's the door, asshole!" had already escaped her lips before she bit back the rest. Her mind was roiling in turmoil as all the frustrations engendered by Bart combined and compounded with her pre-existing resentment at having to direct Michael's actions, tonight and in their relationship generally. As her agitation seethed inside her, she asked herself, "Why don't I just end things? Right now, right here. If I just finish my sentence, it's done!"

But just as she glared at Michael, ready to send him packing, the insatiable slimy tentacles again slithered inside her. It felt sickening, like Bart's fingers were crawling and clawing everywhere. Tia realized that, even if things were over between them, she still needed Michael tonight to drive them away. To purge her. To fuck her.