Twenty-One Ch. 01

"After you." Still polite to a fault.

Brooke held up her chin, clutched her purse and walked into the golden mirrored cage as demurely as she could manage. She wondered how long her companion would retain his show of gentlemanliness.

Precisely, it transpired, until the elevator doors had closed behind them. Gavin spun her around before she had properly taken in her surroundings and pushed her roughly up against one of the reflecting walls. She took in a great gasp of air as his massive frame pinned her relatively slight form, his face an inch from hers and one massive hand reaching around to grasp her ass-cheek.

"Floor eighteen," he said, having stabbed one of the buttons on the panel. "How many dirty things do you think I can do to you between here and there, in the event that we don't acquire any company along the way?"

Brooke gulped. She sensed some kind of answer was required. Or maybe the question was rhetorical. "I don't know. A ... A few?"

"Oh, quite a few."

He cupped her cheek firmly, fingers digging into the crevice above her thigh. "My time management is excellent. Suck my fingers." He pressed them against her lips, three broad but smooth and carefully manicured fingers of his free hand. She parted her lips and let them slide over her tongue, filling her mouth, as he watched in close proximity. Her mouth closed around the digits and she sucked, salivating around the clean slightly salty taste of him. It was so intimate and invasive along with his crushing bodily presence that she buckled a little at the knees. "That's it, Brooke. Now undo the flies of my trousers. That's 'pants' to you. Find out what's waiting."

She insinuated a hand between their bodies, compelled by some understated power in his voice. Jesus, he was bulging fit to split a seam, like whatever in there was bursting to free itself. Her fingers scrabbled against the buttons, each one of which strained under pressure. As they popped loose she felt the give underneath, and her heart, as she went searching inside his pants, thudded in her chest. Her palm fitted around his cotton-etched shaft, but only just.

What a thick trunk, massive like his ego. Her hand drew back warily, but he shoved his fingers deeper into her mouth and she grabbed back in scared response, clutching him. Oh god, that was a whole lot of cock to fit inside any girl and no conscience to restrain it. This throbbing beast plundered brides on their wedding day, so what mercy would it show her? You're in one shitload of trouble, girl, and you fucking know it! She searched upwards to explore the full extent of her trouble and her head went light before she found the end.

"Going to be a tight squeeze fitting it all inside you," he breathed, reading her thought. Her mouth watered helplessly around his fingers. That right hand of his had made its way between her cheeks, drawing up the skirt of her mini-dress so he could brush the curves of her fish-netted cleft. "I hope that tight twenty-one-year-old cunny is getting nice and ready." His fingers slid wetly from her mouth leaving her lips parted in astonishment as his hand dived. She was still caressing his shaft as he plucked up her dress at the front and grabbed underneath. His fingers found the crotch of her tights and tangled themselves in the netting, before tugging downward sharply.

"I always figure these are made to rip." He rolled the R in accompaniment to the snapping of threads as the crotch of her garment was torn out. Brooke gasped once at the ripping and again when he clasped a hand to her thong and let one finger slide to the wetness beneath. "And yes, here we have one slutty little pussy," he proclaimed softly, fingertip skating a silky back-and-forth path on her labia. "All primed to take me to the hilt." His middle finger popped inside and she gave a start, throat releasing a breathy squeak. His gaze almost seared her eyeballs as that finger stroked gently inside her.

"You going to be a good girl for me, Brooke?"

She could only mouth the response. "Yes."

"You going to do every damn thing I tell you?"

"Uh-huh." Her pussy was weeping all over his hand.

"That's what I like to hear. Now suck on those again. They'll taste better this time."

He'd withdrawn his hand from between her legs and now he shoved the same fingers as before to her lips. She slurped them up dutifully, her own tang spreading over her taste-buds. The elevator, she realised, was slowing, but as it turned had not quite reached their floor.

"Keep the taste on your tongue," he said, retracting his fingers and adjusting the flies of his pants. "And pull that skirt back down. We don't want anyone mistaking you for a filthy little fuckslut." He winked at her and she tugged the hem of her dress back, face burning with a crazed blur of emotions as the doors slid apart.

An older couple accompanied them for the final few floors, Gavin's frame partially blocking her view of them. The silver-haired husband's eyes kept flicking their way, like he was taking a discrete interest in what was going on, crushed as she and Gavin were in one corner of the ascending room. The Englishman's stare was impassive. Her pussy's flavour lingered on her tongue, her mind on what it would be like taking this man 'to the hilt'. It felt like she was lined up for a roller-coaster, but instinct told her this ride would last much longer.

Oh Christ, what have I done? I should have stayed with the girls ...

Then the doors parted noiselessly and they were exiting onto floor eighteen, leaving the couple to think what they liked. Gavin's hand was on the small of her back propelling gently, insistently, guiding her down the long corridor even as her legs threatened to give way. Blue-and-gold patterned carpets, pristine white-lacquered doorways; the setting was peripheral to her main preoccupation. Fucked silly. That's the phrase people use, right? I'm going to be fucked silly all night long. Oh my god. Oh my sweet god.

"Here we are." They were standing at the door to his room, that semi-fastened pants crotch still bursting with male potential as he reached for his key-card. "And to answer the question that's currently burning in your mind," he said, stony features creasing into a smile, "everything you imagine, and then some. How do you feel, Brooke?"

"I'm ..." The question took her unawares and she fumbled for the bravado that had deserted her. "... A little nervous I guess."

"Clever girl," he said amiably. "But don't worry, I have that meeting to consider. I'll need some sleep, though not a lot." The door clicked unlocked and he swung it open. He flicked a switch on the inside panel to throw his room into ambient relief. "After you, my dear."

On another occasion Brooke might have been impressed by the suite. Its ornate French-Renaissance styling would have appealed to her vague taste for the historical. She'd have shed her heels and scrunched toes into the plush carpeting, while running hands over thick velvet drapes, drinking in Manhattan's neon cityscape and revelling in the contrast of umpteenth century with twenty-first. Tonight, however, it made a limited impression on her. With the crotch ripped out of her tights and the erectile boner of brides shutting the door behind her, what matter if it was the Plaza or a by-the-hour motel?

"Wow, nice room," she managed weakly, staring around at the gorgeous trappings. She turned as she spoke and he grappled her to him, expunging all the breath from her lungs so sudden was the motion.

"Bit fussy for my tastes," he said, groin pressing against her soft belly. "But when in NYC ... Besides, it's a grand backdrop for a birthday debauching, don't you think?"

Brooke couldn't think of a great deal beyond her companion's rampant maleness and all the hard bulk he had to put behind it. 'Debauching' was such a curious word to use, yet one in keeping with their faux-historical surroundings, rich as it was with connotations of bodices ripped asunder in the French court. A romantic notion in at least one sense of that word; as Gavin's massive frame pressed against her, there was little romance and much raw desire.

"I guess so," she said, the last of her affected boldness evaporating to reveal the scared girl beneath.

"Good." He pushed her back from him to pass an appraising stare over her body. "Then let's get those fucking tights off."

He didn't wait for her to respond—a man of action, this Bond-esque Englishman. While she simply stood there, he yanked up her dress, seized hold of her tights' already sundered strands and tore apart, shredding the garment completely. Brooke stared and squealed, hands clenching in panic, as he bared her thighs and legs with ruthless efficiency. "See how much fun this is?" he said, jaw tense with enjoyment. He ripped down as far as he could, till her tights were a ruin of threads around her knees. "Come on, Brooke, get your heels off. I know it's your birthday, but do I have to do everything myself?"

"What? Oh ... yes ..." She kicked off her heels, instinctively apologetic but not sure why. Gavin resumed his operation and she raised one foot at a time to let him strip the tights from her feet, clutching his shoulder lest she tumble.

"There, that's better." He arose and smiled at her, stroking her face as though calmed utterly by divesting her of the scant leggings. "Couldn't have you in anything ripped, now could we?" He lifted her body to meet his and she was tiptoe in her bare feet, being kissed with a restrained passion, his fingers strumming the pinned strands of her hair. Firm practised lips undulated on hers, tongue-tip stroking hers playfully; her fears by some miracle were assuaged and she linked arms around his neck, clinging to him and kissing back.

Their mouths were united till she lost sense of time, partly due to the cocktails, but as much from her awakened sense of being a lover to this wicked man. Maybe there was something about her to which he was drawn. Something deep inside with which no other woman had connected. Christ knew what it was; perhaps he was stilled by the vulnerability he'd seen in her as the tights came off and it had brought him back to the lost love of his boyhood. She'd found the tenderness within the savage beast. How joyous.

His lips broke contact with hers and he traced her cheekbone with his fingertips. She smiled into those hard features, looking beyond the hardness to the glint of humanity in his eyes.

"Did you like your birthday kiss?"

"Yes. Yes I did, very much."

He laughed. "Well just wait till you're taking your birthday fuck. You won't know which damn planet this is. Now get your heels back on and keep them on. Lose everything else."

The steel in his voice shocked her. Whatever she'd thought she saw in his eyes was gone. "You want me to ..."

"Strip," he told her, "to your birthday suit. Heels on. Do it."

She fumbled her way back into her shoes, clutching his torso to sustain her balance. Even then she didn't quite know how to go about the next bit. "How would you like me to ..."

"Slowly. Would some music help?"

She looked into his eyes and grasped for any concession he had on offer. "Yes. Yes, I'd like that."

"Come with me." He led her from the sitting area where he'd enjoyed the tight-ripping interlude, through a moulded archway to the bedroom. Clicking on the lamps either side of the regally carved bedhead, he found the control for the suite's entertainment system and spent a few moments flicking through the digital read-out on the wall-mounted television screen. She looked on, timid and helpless. "Got it," he said with a degree of satisfaction. "You know this one?"

Feist's Inside and Out. "Yeah, I like it." Though somehow she felt the slinky tune would never sound the same to her again. It was something to sway to, something on which to focus as she took off all her clothes for this man. He sat down on the edge of the bed, relaxed and expectant, the dark bulged cotton of his shorts showing through partially unbuttoned flies.

She moved to the music in front of him, her body striving to remember what it had done so easily on countless dance floors. He propped himself on the covers and considered her. Cool jazz helped relieve her of her stumbling, that and the task of unfastening her dress at the back. No dice—her fingers felt way too clumsy. Hesitantly, with some unaccountable need to please, she brought herself to the V of his parted legs and turned about. "Would you ...?"

"My pleasure."

He unclasped her deftly and drew the zipper downwards, a long, slow movement. She imagined his eyes following the smooth valley of her spine as he unzipped her, all the way down to the curve of her butt, where her thong began its plunge. When she made to move away and continue her dance, he stopped her. "Turn around. Take the dress off here." She shifted to face him, heart fluttering at his casual upward gaze, those eyes calmly awaiting her exposure.

She eased the single strap from her untattooed right shoulder and was amazed at how much, despite all her anxiety, she wanted to strip for this man. It didn't matter to her whether or not he deserved it—she simply hoped his cock would swell harder at the sight of her. The thought stayed as she let the bodice's padding part from her breasts. James McFerrin had gazed in awe and gratitude anytime she let him see her firm, ample C-cups; it was enough that Gavin's stare softened a little in appreciation. Her nipples, she knew, were rosy in the light and hard for him. She found the courage to peel off the dress completely and step out of it, displaying herself for him in thong and heels.

"Keep dancing," he said, before her self-consciousness could kick in again. She swayed her hips to the smooth groove and palmed her tits for him, soaking her thong anew when his hand moved to his crotch and began a casual stroke. "I like this version," he told her, and she didn't catch his meaning for a moment. "Bee Gees sang it originally, but this is the one they were playing the night I took Clarissa to my club. She remarked on it."

"Who's Clarissa?" Brooke closed her palms to tug on her aching nipples. She didn't want him talking about other girls, however many he'd fucked.

"She stripped for me as well," he told her, "for me and an audience of over a hundred, in a bathtub on a stage. She hadn't expected to, but she was unfortunately compromised and I made her do it, all those eyes on her naked ass. You, however, get to strip for me alone. So turn around and take your panties off. Don't rush it."

Goddamn. Mr English Stud—he thought all his big-talk about what he got other women to do would shock and appal her, that it would knock her off balance, make her knees quake with anxiety even as she creamed her thong. And he was right on every fucking count.

She manoeuvred herself about between his legs to provide him a bulls-eye view of her ass. Compelled somehow to give this bastard her very best, she thrust out her rear in all its gym-worked pertness, gripped her tiny thong two-handed and pushed. Her breath caught in her throat. The sexy tune was still playing and it felt so right, to peel the narrow strand free of her butt-crack and show it all off to him, every girly secret she had. Shit-scary, but oh so very good. God, she was glad she'd had that pre-birthday waxing.

Taking care not to stumble, she disentangled the panties from her high-heeled ankles and, pinching them between finger and thumb, dropped them daintily off to the side. A girl could retain a touch of the demure even when naked with a stranger, right? She focused on the music and attempted a sexy flourish, bending into a crouch and shimmying her ass for him, brushing it against the loosened trappings of his crotch. So damned dangerous, her delicate lady-zones lingering in such proximity to his bulged maleness. It was testament to how much she suddenly wanted to please him. He could do anything he wanted, any moment he wanted, but she pressed herself to him nonetheless. Then he shifted his body, hands clapping to her cheeks so firmly that she squealed.

"Bend over. Spread your legs and grab your ankles. Do it."

He retained his possessive hold on her rump as she bent and spread, hands reaching lower than she could recall since high school gym class to grasp her ankles. Back then she had been subject to the wolf-whistles of some leering jocks. Today only Gavin was party to her stretch, but he had the added bonus of looking on her splayed wet sex at close range. She gripped the straps of her shoes and wondered momentarily what was next.

Then she felt it. Thumbs parting her cleft even further, so that the blade of his tongue could access her parted cunt-lips, teasing up and down. He searched between her forked thighs and found her clit with ease, tongue-tip flicking with hummingbird fervour, while she emitted disbelieving breathy moans. Electricity surged from her erotic centre through her entire body, resolving her nipples to hard peaks. His mouth ascended once more, a slick journey to her welcoming hole; on arrival he plunged inside her, hands grappling her butt-flesh as he writhed and flexed his muscle against her cunt-walls. His lips were sealed to hers, mouth surging with a controlled hunger, fingers prising her cheeks further apart so he could feast on her.

"Oh-oh-oh my god ..." She was panting with embarrassed ecstasy, wide open before him and at the mercy of that experienced mouth. Her cunt was pulsing under his assault like a ripe fruit squeezed to bursting. But for the command to clutch her own ankles she'd have rubbed herself into a stupor. She fought to absorb the wild sensation so she wouldn't collapse, but before she could gain any mental traction he blew her mind completely. Hands shifted subtly, tongue slithered out and upwards, and suddenly he was thrusting into her anus, poking and licking concertedly while his mouth undulated about her tight rosebud.

The mortification was eye-watering, but her cunt was trickling too with sheer excitement at this most intimate invasion. He reached around with both hands and clasped the soft flesh of her groin, pulling her to him and tongue-fucking her ass so that her face burned with sweet shame. The bastard was doing it to shock her, she knew, to amplify her sense of exposure, and it was working so damn well. All she could do was cling on to her laced-up ankles, yelping and squealing as her head swam. Oh fuck, oh fuck, what's he doing to me? God I'm so close ...

When his tongue retreated and he let her go, she almost fell over and he had to catch her again by the thighs. "Come on, stand up, straight. Focus." She was reeling from near-orgasm, but somehow his voice rescued her and she found the resources to straighten herself. What now? What the hell next?

"Go get your tights. I might need them. Take it slowly, I want a good long look at that ass." His plans for the tights and his preoccupation with her rump—those two thoughts tussled for supremacy in her mind. Then came the rustle of his clothes as he stripped them off, and images of how he might look naked joined the melee. She set off nonetheless, giddiness severely compromising her attempted catwalk poise. High-heels and buckling knees made it a balancing act of supreme difficulty, but no doubt he would be entertained by the increased shake of her ass.

She'd wobbled her way from the bedroom area when he gave his next instruction. "Stop." She halted mid-stride. It did not even occur to her to turn around unless he bade her to do so. No college boy could ever have commanded her the way this man did, or put her in her place for her presumption like she needed. She was a brat, she knew, and brats needed punishing. See, James? This is my come-uppance. This is what I deserve for leading you on. "Get down on the floor," Gavin told her. "I want you to crawl the rest of the way." Of course he did. Without hesitation she obeyed. It gave her cunt-drizzling pleasure to drop to the carpet and crawl for him, that and a shot of adrenalized fear.