Jennifer's Eggnog Read online

  “You like that, baby? I’m not doing it too hard?”

  She gasped anew as Ray reached and wrapped his big hand around hers, squeezing it tighter to his cock. “Hard as you fucking like, darling,” he said with a breathy grin, shunting her hand briskly up and down, so that they wanked his pole as one. “There, isn’t it nice to do things together, babe?” His voice was full of playful lust. “Having fun yet?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.” Oh God. She wasn’t sure which she felt more—benevolent or slutty—but she was having, she thought with a flash of guilt, the most tremendous fun of her life. Her voice shook with excitement and she could hardly keep the smile from creeping onto her lips in response to his boldness.

  “Do it on your own,” he told her, releasing his grip. “Hard like that. I want to feel you do it.”

  Excerpt from Daniella Bound

  For Daniella all was darkness. The sleep mask he had slipped over her eyes encased her in velvet black. Every other sense was heightened.

  The soft whirring of the fan and rustle of his clothing, as he crossed his legs perhaps, or shifted in his seat. The scent of honeysuckle through the open window and the sharp tang of cologne whenever he drew close. The prickle of cooling sweat on her exposed skin every time the fanned air brushed her. And the tautness of knotted bonds around both her wrists and her ankles. Hell, she almost felt his eyes on her. They were patrolling her body for sure, calm and alert. Enjoying her. Consuming her.

  But more intense than all was the soft, insistent buzz between her legs, a sensation over which he had complete control. He had plucked her panty crotch aside to insert the slim vibrator lovingly inside her, and those panties, the one garment he had left her wearing, held it in place as it burred and fizzed. Currents of maddening sensation emanated from her loins to all quarters of her body, pricking her nipples, electrifying her spine so she writhed, her sweat‐soaked back and bottom slipping against the smoothly varnished chair. The buzz increased, sensation building, her pussy clutching the vibrating pencil within, so that her panties and thighs were drenched by the steady flow of responsive juice. Her head tilted against the back of the chair, breath ragged, as the tension in her body curved upwards into an exponential spike.

  And then it stopped. The buzzing within her ceased utterly. Her body stiffened for a moment, before she crumpled into lethargy, satisfaction cruelly denied her. How many times was that—four, five—he had brought her to the brink of screaming, flailing orgasm, only to flick the switch on his remote and cut off the throbbing supply? Her head drooped and she hung there panting, hands working fruitlessly against the tough, nylon bindings—not to effect an escape, just to liberate her fingers so she could finish off manually what the vibrator had failed to achieve. Her pussy spasmed, aching and unrelieved. How could he know? How could he read her that minutely, bringing her so close but no more?

  “I’ll leave you there till you pee yourself, sweetheart,” he had told her gently, stroking her hair, “and I really don’t want to have to mop up after you.” Bastard. Bastard.

  The only hope was to be silent and patient. To sit there sweating on the hottest damn day of the summer, cunt‐juice and perspiration pooling about her thighs in the concave seat. Serving as his entertainment, as he sat opposite her in his own chair—the fan next to him, while she stewed in the heat. “I’ve got a few calls to make and stuff to check on my laptop,” he had told her, having deftly secured her hands to the back of the chair. “It’s all very tedious. You’ll be something nice to look at while I attend to it all.”

  And calls he had made indeed, sitting the other side of the living‐room from her, doing bloody business. Dressed to impress in the heat of an August day for God's sake, like it mattered—since he'd obviously wanted her blindfolded from the start. Occasionally he'd rise to strut about her chair, so close that the silk of his shirt brushed her skin. Then he'd return to his seat, chatting to business contacts and sipping audibly from a glass; his sophisticated choice of drink seemed now a galling affectation. And meanwhile his other hand played her body with the pressure of one finger. Toying, sexy bastard.

  He was making her hate how much she wanted him …