Collette goes to Las Vegas
- 5 months ago
- 28 min read
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I’d never flown first class before, and it showed when I got there. I was still in my pale blue sundress and ivory sandals from that morning, and my hair was in desperate need of a brushing. I was glad I’d stashed a green cardigan with blue embroidered flowers in my carry-on. I slipped it on and felt slightly less conspicuous. Everyone else in first class was dressed to impress. The sky waitress stowed my bag and delivered champagne. I put my earbuds in, sat back, and worked on my mile-high buzz, so I could ignore my crushing anxiety.
The airport was huge, so I was concerned I’d miss my ride or something. Then, I saw him. It was like the movies: a good looking, middle-aged man in a perfect black suit with a driver’s hat held a sign with my name printed on it. “Ms. Hemming?”
“I’ll take your bags. I am Mr. Patron. Follow me, please.” He took the bags and led the way. He was silent for the walk. I knew the car he brought me to was a Bentley, but I didn’t know what sort. “The controls for the seats provide cooling or warming, and there’s a massage option if you are so inclined. The control panel is on your left.”
“Thank you, Mr. Patron.”
He started the car up and asked, “First time in town?”
“Are you visiting Las Vegas for business or pleasure?”
I smiled. “A little of both, I hope.”
“Would you like some music, Ms. Hemming?”
A moment later, some classical piece heavy on violins filled the car. Mr. Patron air-conducted his imaginary orchestra with his fingers. I set the seat to cooling because it was September in Las Vegas. I imagined that even the nighttime weather was hot. We drove by the Hard Rock Café and a few other notable hotels. Finally, we drove into the city center property near the Aria and pulled up to the Mandarin Oriental.
He parked and got out at the drop off area. I took a deep breath as he opened my door. Here I was. Not backing out now. I steeled my spine and watched my bags get transferred by Mr. Patron to the bagman at the front of the hotel. Then, they disappeared, and I was worried, but I figured they had a system. The lobby was bathed in reds and golds and dark wood. It was oddly reminiscent of Dalia’s style, but Asian instead of European. I approached the concierge desk but was interrupted by a now-hatless Mr. Patron. “Ms. Hemming, you have been deceived.”
“I am Mr. Charles Winthrop. Come with me, please.”
Well, that was weird.
We went through a few halls and then to the elevator situated away from the main bank of elevators. It delivered us to a well-appointed hallway. He slipped his key card into the door and it opened. “Have a seat.”
The suite made me even more uncomfortable than First Class. Everything was as posh as I could fathom. A retro bar to my right and sumptuous living room in front of me. I sat on the couch, which faced two corresponding armchairs, and beyond the living room was the Vegas skyline. As cities go, this one was pretty, in a stark, manmade way. Winthrop stepped behind the bar. “What would you like to drink? I gave my butler the night off, so that we might get to know one another without intrusion.”
I took that all in, let it roll around my mind for a flash, and remembered he asked what I wanted to drink. “Gin and Tonic, please.”
“On its way. How was your flight?”
“Nice, of course, I was in First Class, but you knew that. Why did you play driver with me?” I was curious and mildly annoyed, but I kept telling myself Dalia set this all up, so it can’t be bad, right?
“I wanted to know how you treat a servant.”
I let my irritation slip into my voice. “Did I pass?”
“I wasn’t testing you. I was gathering information. Here we are,” he said and handed me my cocktail.
I sipped it. To his credit, the man poured a hell of a G & T. It looked as though he was drinking the same.
“To your liking?”
I nodded. He sat in one of the chairs across from me. “So, is this what you do with all your trainees? Play games to find out if they’re jerks? Then what?”
“You have many questions, which is understandable,” he took a sip of his cocktail, “Take your clothes off.”
“Take your clothes off.”
I laughed. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“I believe you’ll find I have no sense of humor, Ms. Hemming.”
“I did not fly across the country to strip for some billionaire who plays stupid games. That’s not why you flew me out here, and Dalia did not sign me up for stripper classes.”
He sipped again and thought about my answer. “Good. Defiant, smart. Follows orders when a benefit is perceived, questions them when a benefit is unclear. Ms. Hemming, I will train you, provided you are up to the challenge. Beginning tomorrow, your alarm will go off at 4, you will eat no breakfast, you will go straight to the gym, you will ask for Drew. Take a shower afterward. You will then go to the day spa to get every bit of body hair below your lower eyelashes waxed off as needed, then get a 90-minute Swedish massage. You will return to the suite, order a fruit plate from Sebastian, and eat it. This is all to be completed by 10 am. Then, we will proceed with our training schedule, which will vary from moment to moment. No coffee, no colas, no cigarettes, no red meat. All of these things sour bodily fluids. You are to follow my instructions every day, and I will know if you do not comply. There are eyes everywhere. Where there are no eyes, there are monitored cameras. Compliance will be rewarded. Do you agree to these terms?”
“Do you agree?”
I’d miss bacon, but I had to find out what this man knew. Dalia sent me all the way to Las Vegas from Florida for a reason. I relented, “Agreed.”
“Excellent,” he stood, “your belongings are in your room, that’s the door on your left. My side of the suite is t here,” he pointed to the right of the bar. He went on, “If you need anything in the middle of the night, do not hesitate to call the hotel and ask for it. Goodnight.”
My room was a mix of oriental design and art deco class, like the rest of the suite. My bags sat on a chair in the corner of the room. I unpacked and washed up in my bathroom. I put my hands on either side of the sink and stared at myself in the mirror. What in the hell was I doing here?
I was going to let this man order me around, for what? To learn how to control my skills, as Dalia put it. I still didn’t understand what she meant by that. But, Simon had said I was “built for this” and all I needed was some training. I trusted both of them, way more than I probably should have. Winthrop was who Dalia recommended and regardless of whether or not I should trust her, the fact was that I did trust her. I turned out the light and went into the bedroom. I slipped under the smooth sheets, nestled into the pillow, and zonked out.
It had been a long, weird day, and I slept hard. I dreamt of the previous night’s fun with Simon, and I woke up in the middle of an orgasm at 3. Sure enough, the alarm went off an hour later. I had become accustomed to waking up at 2 pm, and the time difference was not helping my bad case of dragon ass. But, I threw on whatever clothes were the least formal and found my way to the gym and asked for Drew.
“You’re wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt to work out?” he balked. Drew was an incredibly well-built African American man. Jet black skin that shined, shaved head, and smirk.
“Sorry, I was told to bring a bunch of nice clothes. No one said anything about exercise.”
“That’s because it should always be assumed. Come on, the spa girls can hook you up.” He walked me to the spa end of the building, and there was a shop with all sorts of clothes for yoga, robes, and spandex things I didn’t understand. They were so small, but the spa girls assured me they’d fit. To my surprise, they were right.
“Much better, let’s get started.” Drew took me through several exercises to evaluate what I needed. I was stronger than either of us expected, but the elliptical was pure bullshit. He was determined to find me a good conditioning routine, but until then, he recommended swimming. I liked Drew: he wasn’t stodgy like Winthrop and he worked with me, instead of making me feel like I was being judged for every little thing I did.
By the end of the session, I was starving.
But I dutifully went to the spa, where I was given cucumber water (yay food!), and my skin was assaulted by wax and tweezers. Then, I got my massage. 90 minutes with Phil, and I was a formless mess. I barely made it back to the suite in time for our schedule. Then I met Sebastian, the butler.
He was in the kitchen when I arrived. “Please take a seat in the dining room,” he said. I collapsed into a chair and waited. I was hangry and wiped out, but then the prettiest man I had ever seen brought me a large fruit plate with yogurt dip and a large water with mint in it. I was so happy because food and pretty, and that was the most information my brain could take in at the moment. “My name is Sebastian,” the perfect pretty man said.
As I gobbled down ripe melon and juicy grapes, I was able to gather my thoughts about him. Probably 6’ 4” or more, no idea about weight, but he was very muscled and wore a crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled up, with a gray tweed vest and matching dress slacks. I watched his muscles with every movement.
He was of Asian descent and had dark blue eyes. Giant, meaty forearms, and I saw the end of a black tattoo poking out slightly from the edge of the rolled sleeve on his left arm. His black hair was buzzed short. As my blood sugar crept back up, I realized I had been staring at him as he went about his business in the kitchen. He queried, “Hard work out?”
“Yes, Drew is a slave driver.”
“He will keep you on your toes,” he smiled. It was an electric, winning smile. What the hell was he doing as a butler?
“Story of my life,” I mumbled.
“Nothing. I hope to learn a lot from Drew. I want to know what I’m doing when I go to the gym.”
“It is critical to understand what to do in the gym, so you do not hurt yourself or others, and so you get the best results. Like the rest of life, methodology makes the difference.”
“Indeed. When should I be expecting Winthrop?”
“Mr. Winthrop should be arriving at any moment.”
“Do you like being his butler?”
“Can you elaborate?”
“The work is never the same, so I don’t get bored. I am well-compensated, in fact I could retire in two years, if I desired. And the perks are unparalleled.”
He shot me a smile that made my knees weak.
The previous 24 hours had been the strangest of my life, and I was not prepared to flirt this early in the morning. The glint in the butler’s eye sent zap to my panties. He smiled professionally when his boss entered the dining room.
“Sebastian, have you taken care of our guest?”
“Good,” Sebastian brought Winthrop a newspaper, which he read at the table. Rude. “I threw out your clothes while you were away this morning, so-”
“What the hell?”
“-our first order of business today will be to establish you a proper wardrobe.”
I glared at him. Well, I glared at him through his newspaper. “I require an explanation, Winthrop.”
From behind the newspaper, he calmly said, “Get used to disappointment.”
I got up from the table, went to my room, and slammed the door. Who the fuck did he think he was? I went into the closet and drawers, and like he said, everything was gone. Motherfucker.
A knock at the door, and I heard Sebastian say, “Ms. Hemming, may I come in?”
“Sure, it’s not like I have any privacy in here.”
“If I may intercede on Mr. Winthrop’s behalf: he disposed of your clothing because he believed they were ill-suited to someone of your position. His ways are intrusive, but efficient. He has no interest in making you uncomfortable in your new surroundings, and you were obviously awkward when you arrived. He knew by the way you pulled at the edges of your sweater. Your trainer phoned to let us know you had no exercise clothing. The solution, per Mr. Winthrop, was to eliminate the problem by removing the offending garments and replacing them with a wardrobe befitting you. Today, you will be going on a shopping spree, and you get to do this because he thinks highly of you. In his way, he is complimenting you.”
Sebastian’s kind expression confused me, because I wanted to stay mad. It was a challenge since he was the prettiest man I’d ever seen, but I was determined. I pouted, “He should have asked, is that too hard?”
“Begging your pardon, do you ask to compliment someone, or do you just do it?”
“No, I just do it. Sebastian, you are very good at kissing your boss’ ass and making excuses for his presumptuous behavior.”
“Thank you, Ms. Hemming. You are skilled at being hurtful. Excuse me.” Sebastian left the room and closed the door behind him.
I thought about what Sebastian said. Okay, so Winthrop’s ham-fisted attempt to compliment me pissed me off. But his intention was to be nice. Or something. And the butler called me out for being rude. And I had no clothes, save for the jeans and t-shirt I’d worn to the gym.
This was one of the weirder Mondays I’d ever had, and it was only 10:30. Super. I changed out of the sweaty spandex thing from the spa shop and back into my last outfit. I didn’t have a lot of options, aside from the robe I’d gotten from the spa. I found Sebastian and apologized.
He raised his hand to stop me and said there was no need to apologize, as I was reacting to a confusing situation. He was frustratingly mellow. I wondered if that was an Asian thing, and then wondered if I was a tad racist for wondering if it was his Asian-ness which kept him mellow. Winthrop was in the den at his computer when I found him. “I’m sorry I didn’t react well to you throwing out the nicest pieces of clothing I owned.”
“It is of no consequence. Are you ready to go?” His dismissive tone fit his silver-fox good looks.
Winthrop’s assistant/driver, Sabrina, took us to Nordstrom. We had an appointment with a fleet of personal shoppers. They looked at him: his beige linen suit, loafers, and a dapper haircut. Then, they looked at me: a white t-shirt, blue jeans, and red hair still shabby from my shower.
They instantly knew who they were shopping for, what my sizes were, and what would look good on me, but Winthrop gave them instructions for a young, classic wardrobe including some proper attire for any occasion. We had a seat in the armchairs, while 8 people scurried around and shopped for me. One of the women brought a tray of charcuterie, a bottle of Dom Perignon, and two champagne flutes.
“Thank you, Betty,” Winthrop said.
She was a tiny blond thing with a nice figure in a red skirt and a pink silk blouse. “You’re quite welcome, Mr. Winthrop. Is there anything else I can get you?” she kept her eyes down the whole time she spoke.
“No, thank you, Betty.”
Her nipples visibly hardened under her blouse in response, when he said her name.
The shoppers came back with racks full of everything from evening gowns to khakis to lingerie. “Ms. Hemming, please try on what you like, disregard what you don’t, and make some selections. I will be back in an hour or so.” Betty bit her lip in the back of the crowd. Winthrop walked away with her. I overheard one of the shopper ladies say to another, “Take the lingerie back. He only likes Agent Provocateur for his women.” I was ‘his women’?
The next three hours I lived out my Pretty Woman shopping fantasy. True to his word, Winthrop was back in an hour and appeared spiffy as ever. Betty came around too, slightly disheveled, but pleased. The shoppers never brought up cost or anything which might have dissuaded a selection. It seemed uncouth to ask, but it had to have been tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes. Some were sent to the hotel; the rest were sent to my home in Florida. As we left, I smiled, “Thank you.”
He appeared confused. “Ms. Hemming, I cannot have you beside me in public in the garments you owned previously. None of us can have you at the Club dressed like a child. This is a business purchase,” he coldly stared at the road ahead.
His icy answer didn’t line up with the facts. “Then why did you send some of the clothes to my house?”
“You are ravishing in them, and I could not let you leave without them,” He said matter-of-factly. I didn’t know what to say to that.
The next stop was Agent Provocateur, and Sabrina joined us. Though the store was fully staffed, she was there to fetch and hold things, which struck me odd. Sabrina was a micro brunette with long, stick-straight hair. She wore a driver’s uniform and no makeup. She was helpful, found sizes for me, and clasped things that were hard for me to reach. The staff of the store gave Winthrop carte blanche to handle his business, and it did not seem like the first time they’d done this.
“Sabrina,” Winthrop said, “help Ms. Hemming into the black suspender set on the wall.”
“Right away, Mr. Winthrop.” She retrieved my sizes and got in the dressing room with me. Then Winthrop joined us and closed the door.
“Hey!” I put my right arm across my boobs and my left hand over my box.
“Sabrina, pin her.”
She grabbed my arms and pinned them to the wall over my head. I struggled, but I had to admit, I was really turned on. Sabrina was quite strong.
“Is everything alright in there?” a shop-girl asked. Both Winthrop and Sabrina looked at me, heads tilted, eyebrows raised.
“Everything’s fine. Just got scraped by a bra hook.”
“Okay, well I see your entourage has left you to fend for yourself, so if need any help, my name is Judy. Just give a holler, I’ll be listening for you.”
“Thanks, Judy.” My heart pounded in my chest.
Quietly, Winthrop said, “Sabrina, kiss Ms. Hemming.”
Her lips were soft, and she tasted like chocolate chip cookies.
He ordered, “Stop.”
Sabrina was an inch from my face.
Then, Winthrop took both of my hands in one of his and continued to pin me.
Sabrina stood more upright as she let go of my arms and slowly smiled.
He ordered, “Begin.”
She dropped to her knees and started to lick my pussy.
I looked at him, he looked at me, then put his left forefinger to his lips, and said, “Shh. Spread your legs more, Sabrina has a job to do.”
I opened my hips more, and Sabrina wrapped her arms around them and controlled how I moved on her face. I struggled to stay quiet, but she made silence difficult. A moan escaped my lips, so he put his left hand over my mouth.
He quietly demanded, “Silent as the grave, Ms. Hemming.”
Sabrina pressed two fingers into my wet slit, and her teeth nipped at my clit. My knees buckled with every nibble, but Winthrop was much stronger than he seemed and kept me on my feet with his restraining hand. I figured the sooner I came, the sooner this was over, so I concentrated. He still had his hand on my mouth, so I pressed my nostrils against it to limit my breathing.
He took this to mean he should pinch my nose shut, which he did. I locked my eyes on his, and he stared into me. He let go of my nose long enough to take a deep breath and re-pinched it when I’d inflated my lungs. I sweated and shook, and I knew this girl was about to make me come in a public place, but none of that unnerved me like the look in Winthrop’s shade-colored eyes.
It was like he was furious because he wanted something from me, and I hadn’t given it to him yet. He released my nose, but kept my mouth covered. Sabrina moved her hand and teeth in time with my ragged breathing, and Winthrop came close to my face. I felt like he was reading a book of all my sins. I wanted to peel my skin off and run away. He leaned in, held my gaze, and said, “Come.” An orgasm ripped through me like lightning. I did my best to be quiet, but it was impossible. Winthrop held my hands in place, and kept his other hand on my mouth, as I grunted into it. Someone turned the store music up louder. Finally, I was done.
Winthrop let go and Sabrina stood shiny-faced in front of me. “Sabrina, clean all this up. Make the purchases and have them sent to the hotel. Both of you meet me at the car.” He left us in the dressing room.
When we got to the Bentley, I got into the backseat with Winthrop. I couldn’t look at him. I never wanted to see that look in his eyes again. I glanced over a few times, but he hardly seemed to notice me, too busy on his phone. We headed back to the hotel when he told Sabrina to take him to his favorite lunch place. She adjusted course to the new directions, and I wondered what sort of place we were going to. I hadn’t changed into any of my new clothes, so I knew I’d be out of my element since I was still in my t-shirt and jeans. The Bentley slowed, and Sabrina asked, “Eat in or drive-thru?” I looked around and saw an In and Out.
“Drive-thru, my usual order. The same for Ms. Hemming, and get whatever you want, Sabrina.”
“I don’t get to order my food?”
“You’re from Florida, you don’t know what’s good here.”
Fair enough, I thought.
Sabrina ordered 3 Double-Doubles, Animal Style, 3 orders of fries, and 3 shakes, one of each flavor.
“That’s all against your rules,” I pointed out. Stupidly.
“What’s life without whimsy?” he said. The look in his eyes wasn’t scary anymore. In fact, he appeared downright amused. I wondered if I was his source of amusement.
We ate in the car at Winthrop’s insistence. I spent most of the time worrying whether I’d spill my strawberry shake or the drippy, delicious, life-affirming burger. It was 6 o’clock when I was back in my room and surrounded by lots of beautiful clothes. Some were hung carefully in the closet, others perfectly folded in the drawers.
A midnight blue deep v fit-and-flare dress was draped over the chair in the corner along with a pair of gray suede Prada kitten heels and a note which read, “At 8 o’clock, put these on. You’re off until then. Make use of your time.” I moved the shoes and picked up the dress to examine it. In all the shopping commotion, I didn’t remember picking this one. Then I realized there were some scraps of lace on the chair. He had Sebastian select my lingerie for the evening. Sure, why not.
When I laid down for an afternoon nap, I couldn’t sleep. My brain swirled on what was to come. I must have dozed off though because at 7:45 there was a knock at the door, and it woke me. “Yes?”
“Ms. Hemming,” Sebastian projected through the door, “I believe you are to be getting dressed now.”
“I have prepared a gin and tonic for you. I can leave it by the door if you’d prefer.”
“Come in, Sebastian.”
He opened the door and averted his eyes.
“I have a sheet over me, it’s fine. Drink, pretty please.”
He looked down at me and delivered the cocktail to my hand.
“Thank you, Sebastian.”
“Of course, Ms. Hemming.”
I took a swig and closed my eyes. It was even better than the one Winthrop had made for me. “It’s perfect.”
“Very good, ma’am.” He stood and stared at me.
“Is there something else?”
He realized I’d spoke and shook from his thoughts, “No, sorry. I’ll go.”
“What is it?”
“Ms. Hemming, I must have been lost in thought. Please excuse me.” Sebastian scurried out the door as gracefully as he could.
Huh. I let his weirdness go so I could focus on my evening. The red lacy lingerie turned out to be crotchless, and I wondered if that boded well for the evening. I dressed quickly and nervously but didn't wobble in the kitten heels, so that was a plus. I went into the living room and found Winthrop. “Ready?” he asked.
I nodded, utterly uncertain what I was getting ready for.
His night driver/assistant was a blonde woman he referred to as Steve, who drove us for nearly an hour outside of town to a building, which could best be described as a giant white warehouse. Winthrop knocked on the door and said, “Ivory hunters should be shot.”
Someone responded with, “But, they live for the game.”
Winthrop said, “Not for long.”
The large metal door slid open to reveal an Asian tableau. Low tables with couches for seating. Tatami mats under the tables, and small Japanese lanterns on top. The lighting was low, but women with painted faces in kimonos stood by each table, waiting on the patrons. There were bamboo room dividers toward the back to block off the kitchen. The man at the door smiled, gave a half bow, and led us to our table. Winthrop told me to sit on his right side, and our geisha poured ice-cold sake into little white cups. We each took a cup, and I said, “Kanpai!” drank the whole cup.
Winthrop did the same, and asked, “Why do you know how to toast in Japanese?”
“I know many things, Winthrop.”
“For tonight, you must call me Charles. We will be meeting with some business associates of mine. You will use your best manners. Feel free to whip out any other Japanese you know, but only if it is respectful.”
“That was the extent of my Japanese library.”
“Fine. Here they come.” Charles stood and greeted a man he referred to as Toshirosan but did not address the man with him. Toshirosan was a stocky man in an expensive-looking eggplant suit. His friend was slight and in an equally nice brown suit. Both had fashion-forward haircuts, neither spoke English in front of me. Charles spoke Japanese with them.
I had no idea how to participate in the discussion, so I sat quietly. The men got tense in their words, the geisha poured more sake, and we all drank. Then, they were happy again. Suddenly, many plates of sushi came to the table. The geisha, who was in a pale pink kimono with a green obi, pulled out a weird root and a white plate with nobs on the middle of it. She used the nobs to break apart the root, then spooned the resulting mush onto the sides of our plates. The mush was a light yellow-green, and fragrant. Charles leaned to me and said, “That’s real wasabi. Be careful; it burns.”
I loved spicy food, including the wasabi I’d had before, but this was different. “I like it hot.”
His eyes almost smiled, “Then, taste it.”
I dipped my chopstick into the mush and picked up a piece of food. The wasabi had an herbal taste, then a burning quality. I shot back another sake, which the geisha kindly kept full. “It’s good.”
He smiled evil and said, “It’s good for a lot of things.”
I furrowed my brow, and he went back to his conversation with the men. They chatted, while I ate the best sushi I’d ever had. I noticed Charles put his hand on my left knee. Odd. Never been affectionate before. I kept eating, and he slid his hand up my skirt. More sake. I felt a finger slide into my crotchless panties. I coughed and hit the sake again. It was really going to my head, but it helped me relax. That finger ran a few circles around my clit, all the while, he was still deep in his discussion with the men. Multitasker. I felt a warmth right there. It built to a fire.
I cleared my throat and excused myself from the table. I straightened my dress before I stood and asked the geisha where the bathroom was. By the time I got inside, my pussy was ignited. He rubbed wasabi on me. Motherfucker.
I didn’t know if I should wash it off, or if water would spread it around. But, I was drunk, and my goodies were on fire. I poured sweat and tried to think of what to do. I found myself in the same position as the night before: Both hands on the sides of a sink and staring at myself in the mirror.
Winthrop came into the bathroom.
“What the hell?” I said.
He didn’t say a word. He grabbed a fist full of my hair in his left hand and bent me over the sink by pulling my hair forward. Winthrop ran his hand up my dress and stuck his fingers in me. He smacked my pussy hard, then fingered it some more. I cried out and began to work myself against his fingers. He pulled his fingers out and produced a dildo out of his pocket, then shoved it into me. Fuck, I was wet and burning. He pulled me back up, so I was almost standing. “Look at you. Look at what you’re doing,” he said in a low voice.
I didn’t care, I just wanted him to finish it. I grinded on the dildo, and he bent me over again and pumped it in and out of me. When he pulled out, I twitched. There was a wet popping sound, and I groaned. He washed his hands, chucked the dildo in the garbage, and said, “Clean up, I’ll see you at the table.” And he left.
Fuck that guy, I went into the handicapped stall and finished myself off. The burning seemed to subside after I came. I cleaned up, fixed my hair, and joined the table. The meeting finished shortly afterward, and we went back to Winthrop’s car. “What the hell was that, Winthrop?”
“Whimsy,” he said coldly.
“No, I’m not letting you off the hook for that one. You’re supposed to be training me, how was that training me, you didn’t even get me off!”
“You will be ready for an encounter at any given moment. It is my prerogative to allow you orgasms.”
I folded my arms and stared out the window. “Well, it’s my prerogative to help myself out, which I did when you left the room.”
“Fine. You will be punished accordingly. Steve, take a left up here. Once beyond that warehouse, park.” She followed his orders to the letter. “Keep the car running, lights on.” To me, he said, “Get out.”
“You can’t leave me here.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Get out.” He led me to the front of the car. We were underlit by the headlights, and Steve was watching us. “Bend over the hood of the car, place your hands flat on the hood over your head.”
I followed his instruction because it occurred to me that I was drunk and horny. Steve stared into my eyes the whole time. She was attractive, kind of like a Barbie Doll.
“Hold still.” He pushed my dress out of the way and proceeded to spank me harder than Simon ever had. 5 smacks and I was wet again. At 10 smacks, he stopped and told me to get back in the car. My body trembled, and I didn’t know what to say, so I did what he told me. We got back to the hotel at one, and I passed out hard.
An excerpt from The Virgin Hedonist, available on Amazon