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Authors: Harlem Dae
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directly towards my window.
I nibbled my bottom lip, tried to create a little more space for my cock by shifting the crotch of my jeans.
Zara handled this big brute like he was an object, a slave, something to toy with.
Why was he allowing it?
Getting paid, I supposed. To be in the show. No wonder he wore a hood; he must be mortified that a slip of a girl could beat him and keep him on his hands and knees.
I let out a shaky breath. Wondered why the thought of being in his position made my stomach clench and my bollocks retract. It wasn’t like I would ever be kneeling before her, bare-arsed and submissive.
I shoved my hand through my hair; my brow was a little sweaty. When would Zara get those hot-pants off and put the dildo to good use? Would she make her victim pleasure her?
A glut of something scarily like jealousy filled my stomach. I didn’t want this big, hooded man to touch her. Okay, so she wasn’t mine, but still. This thing, whatever it was, was something we were doing together. She’d asked me to be exclusive to her for a month—surely it worked both ways.
I rubbed my hand down my cheek, stubble scratching my palm. My breath caught in my throat, and if my arse cheeks had been clenched before, now they were tight enough to crush a beer can.
Fucking hell.
Because the dildo, it seemed, wasn’t for Zara’s pussy, it was for Hooded Man’s arse.
I hadn’t seen that coming.
Zara was moving the black tip around the outside of his puckered hole. I was sure I had the best view in the house, if that’s what you could call seeing another bloke’s arsehole buggered—not really my thing.
The first inch of the dildo disappeared as she stretched him open and then she began to move it in and out. I could make out every expansion and contraction, see his balls quivering, his body tensing.
Oh, God, my bollocks were boiling and my arsehole had clamped tighter. Zara was sliding the long dildo—or was it a butt plug?—almost out and then back in a little further each time. Her fingers, with long red nails, held it firm and steady, and her other hand, still soothing his buttock, stretched the curve of skin to improve her and my view of the penetration.
I stared at the scene. His head was still hanging down. I couldn’t make out his cock now but every muscle in his body appeared tense, his ribs expanding and deflating as he took short, sharp breaths.
Zara was fucking him with the toy, going so deep now it practically disappeared from view on each slide inwards. He was rocking forwards and backwards, his rhythm matching hers, clearly enjoying being touched deep inside.
I blinked, several times, my eyeballs dry. I’d been staring wide-eyed. What must be going through his mind, allowing a woman into his arse like that? He was obviously comfortable with it, though—more than comfortable, he was having a great time.
Shit, I was so hard. I needed to stroke my cock, yank out a quick climax so I’d feel calmer.
Fleetingly I considered masturbating but pushed that idea away and kept my hands firmly gripping the arms of the chair. I wouldn’t get off watching a bloke being so rudely handled by Zara—that was just too fucking weird.
Zara stood, leaving the plug in place. It was barely visible. Just a strip of black that prevented it from disappearing entirely into his body and sat against the groove of his arse cheeks.
She re-claimed the flogger, stooped then grabbed his hood in her fist, raising his still-covered face.
“You’re mine,” she said. Her voice was a little tinny through the slats above the window, but the force behind her statement hadn’t been weakened. She’d said it with absolute conviction, her tone harsh, possessive. “All mine.”
He didn’t move. “Yes, Mistress.”
“Kiss my fucking feet.” She released his head, and he dropped instantly to lavish the long, pointed toes of her boots with kisses and licks through the mouth slit of the hood.
“Jesus, he’s got it bad,” I
I nibbled my bottom lip, tried to create a little more space for my cock by shifting the crotch of my jeans.
Zara handled this big brute like he was an object, a slave, something to toy with.
Why was he allowing it?
Getting paid, I supposed. To be in the show. No wonder he wore a hood; he must be mortified that a slip of a girl could beat him and keep him on his hands and knees.
I let out a shaky breath. Wondered why the thought of being in his position made my stomach clench and my bollocks retract. It wasn’t like I would ever be kneeling before her, bare-arsed and submissive.
I shoved my hand through my hair; my brow was a little sweaty. When would Zara get those hot-pants off and put the dildo to good use? Would she make her victim pleasure her?
A glut of something scarily like jealousy filled my stomach. I didn’t want this big, hooded man to touch her. Okay, so she wasn’t mine, but still. This thing, whatever it was, was something we were doing together. She’d asked me to be exclusive to her for a month—surely it worked both ways.
I rubbed my hand down my cheek, stubble scratching my palm. My breath caught in my throat, and if my arse cheeks had been clenched before, now they were tight enough to crush a beer can.
Fucking hell.
Because the dildo, it seemed, wasn’t for Zara’s pussy, it was for Hooded Man’s arse.
I hadn’t seen that coming.
Zara was moving the black tip around the outside of his puckered hole. I was sure I had the best view in the house, if that’s what you could call seeing another bloke’s arsehole buggered—not really my thing.
The first inch of the dildo disappeared as she stretched him open and then she began to move it in and out. I could make out every expansion and contraction, see his balls quivering, his body tensing.
Oh, God, my bollocks were boiling and my arsehole had clamped tighter. Zara was sliding the long dildo—or was it a butt plug?—almost out and then back in a little further each time. Her fingers, with long red nails, held it firm and steady, and her other hand, still soothing his buttock, stretched the curve of skin to improve her and my view of the penetration.
I stared at the scene. His head was still hanging down. I couldn’t make out his cock now but every muscle in his body appeared tense, his ribs expanding and deflating as he took short, sharp breaths.
Zara was fucking him with the toy, going so deep now it practically disappeared from view on each slide inwards. He was rocking forwards and backwards, his rhythm matching hers, clearly enjoying being touched deep inside.
I blinked, several times, my eyeballs dry. I’d been staring wide-eyed. What must be going through his mind, allowing a woman into his arse like that? He was obviously comfortable with it, though—more than comfortable, he was having a great time.
Shit, I was so hard. I needed to stroke my cock, yank out a quick climax so I’d feel calmer.
Fleetingly I considered masturbating but pushed that idea away and kept my hands firmly gripping the arms of the chair. I wouldn’t get off watching a bloke being so rudely handled by Zara—that was just too fucking weird.
Zara stood, leaving the plug in place. It was barely visible. Just a strip of black that prevented it from disappearing entirely into his body and sat against the groove of his arse cheeks.
She re-claimed the flogger, stooped then grabbed his hood in her fist, raising his still-covered face.
“You’re mine,” she said. Her voice was a little tinny through the slats above the window, but the force behind her statement hadn’t been weakened. She’d said it with absolute conviction, her tone harsh, possessive. “All mine.”
He didn’t move. “Yes, Mistress.”
“Kiss my fucking feet.” She released his head, and he dropped instantly to lavish the long, pointed toes of her boots with kisses and licks through the mouth slit of the hood.
“Jesus, he’s got it bad,” I
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