Sweetest Mistress Read online

  Sweetest Mistress

  Skye Warren

  Copyright 2011 by Skye Warren

  Sweetest Mistress is an erotic story featuring explicit sex and pain, graphic language and situations of questionable consent. Not for anyone under the age of 18 or who is uncomfortable with the subject matter.

  Chapter One

  She was out of my league. That was my first thought as the door swung open. A black dress clung to her curves, backlit by the foyer light. I got the impression of glossy dark hair, ruby lips, and wide eyes before my mind glossed the whole image with a haze of lust.

  Not for the likes of me. If she were a nine, I was a paltry four. Men like me were lucky if a woman like her came into the office to get her taxes done. I’d talk to her about deductibles and investments during the day, and then jerk off to the curve of breast bared by her blouse or the hint of thigh that sloped steep into her skirt.

  The whole thing was pointless, hopeless, but I’d give it my best try. When Justin Verlander threw you a pitch, the least you could do was swing.

  I hadn’t spoken, which was stupid. “Hi,” I said, even more stupidly. “I’m Wyle. You know that, sorry. Who else would show up at eight o’clock on Saturday night?”

  Ugh, why had I said that? I’d only meant that we had a date, but what you didn’t do was ask a hot girl about what other guys came to her apartment.

  She laughed, a tinkle of a sound. “Hey. I’m Melissa. You probably know that, too.”

  “I’d hoped so.” I tried to laugh, too. “Should we go?”

  “Of course.” She turned back to grab her coat and purse, showing me even more curvy backside before following me out to my car.

  The low sound of her voice, the way she glanced down as she spoke, her whole soft, curvy pose turned me on, which was even more inappropriate when I thought about what she must be thinking. Her stance probably wasn’t shyness, but revulsion. Or it could have been annoyance, more charitably. Nothing approaching the instant lust I felt for her.

  She was probably thinking up all the things she’d tell Joanna about never setting her up on blind dates again. I was thinking Joanna would get a dozen roses tomorrow regardless of how this date turned out, just for the kindness of thinking I had a shot with her. But then, mothers could be blind that way, even step-mothers.

  I drove her to the restaurant, trying to ignore the slim lines of her thighs on my seat. I dated enough. Maybe even more than I should. But I liked sex, and hookups didn’t come easily to me for multiple reasons, so I dated. But the thighs that sat on that seat were never so slim or as long as those.

  I put my hand on the small of her back as we entered the restaurant. Just that small touch and I wanted to drive her back home right now. But what was I thinking? If I drove her home – when I drove her home – nothing would happen. Assuming she would ever put out for me, which I doubted, she’d make me work for it with multiple dates, at least. I wouldn’t mind. That was standard operating procedure, so I had to get my mind out of the gutter.

  We sat down and looked through the menus.

  I set mine down. “Have you decided?”

  “I’m thinking of the porterhouse.”

  Damn. It had been ages since a woman had ordered something other than a salad or maybe fish. Definitely not steak. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it was kind of a turn on.

  Her lips curled slightly. “You’re surprised I’m not ordering a salad?”

  “Of course not,” I lied.

  “Oh, I’ve heard it all before. But I say if you’re going to eat, you might as well eat.”

  “I agree completely. You don’t have to worry about that with me.” That was for damn sure. If she could eat like that and maintain those curves…well, ruining them in any way would be a crime. “Joanna said you’d just moved to the area.”

  “Yes.” She paused. “Well, I lived here before, but moved away for college.”

  I gulped. Exactly how young was she? And how could I ask that without getting kicked in the balls? “Why did you decide to move back?”

  “Oh, I worked out there for a few years after I graduated, but Detroit is my hometown.”

  “I like it here, too,” I said, sparing her a wry smile. Detroit wasn’t the kind of city that you loved, really, but it was home. “Lived here all my life.”

  “I know.”

  I froze with my wine glass mid-air. Her eyes lowered, veiling those soft brown eyes with thick lashes

  “Oh,” I said. “Joanna must have told you about me.”

  “She did,” was all she said, her lashes still lowered.

  We talked about the city, some of the restaurants we had been to, the Tigers, the urge to hibernate that set in too early in the evenings as we moved out of fall and into winter. We talked about her work and how she’d gotten a job as an account manager at a local ad agency. I talked a little about my job and the small financial planning firm that I owned, how it had done well. Even commiserated about a recent setback – the loss of an account.

  She was full of interest and sympathy. The only time she seemed reserved was when we broached the topics of her childhood, and I soon learned to avoid it. If it was a nasty time, no need to bring up bad memories.

  After dinner, I drove her home feeling full of accomplishment. We’d had a good date. I should expect something along the lines of, “This was nice. I’ll call you,” and then to never see her again. But even as I told myself that, my pulse quickened in anticipation. Because there was always the chance that she wanted to see me again. And if there was a chance of that, then there was a chance of a kiss tonight. And if there was a chance of that, well, then there was a chance of everything. Hope springs fucking eternal.

  I pulled to a stop in front of her place – slowly, slowly, just to drag it out.

  “I had a great time,” I said. “I’d really like to see you again.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  That didn’t sound good.

  I tried to give her an out. “Well, listen, I’ll just leave you my number and –”

  “Do you want to come in for coffee?” she rushed out in a whoosh of a breath.

  Coffee. Coffee meaning sex, right? My dick perked up, well-versed in the coffee-sex synonymy. That’s what coffee means, but did she know that? She was awfully young, no matter her few years of working after college or her fancy new job title.

  “Yes,” I said cautiously. “I’d love to.”

  “Great,” she breathed. Her brown eyes blinked delightedly, as if her sole goal in life were to serve me coffee. I fucking hoped not.

  Melissa led me into her apartment, a cozy place, though small and full. But then, she’d only recently moved in. I stood in the middle of the living room, taking it in. I felt her presence behind me and turned.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking stricken as she came out of the kitchen. “I don’t actually have coffee. I’m more of a tea person, myself, so I don’t keep it. And when I asked, well, I wasn’t thinking about it.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I didn’t really want coffee anyway. Tea is fine.” The first part of was the truth. I didn’t care about coffee one bit. The second was a lie. I had no desire to drink tea, but I’d do it.

  “Okay, perfect,” she said, then hurried back into the kitchen.

  She returned a few minutes later with two steaming teacups. I took a sip and struggled not to gag.

  “Too sweet?” she asked.

  “No,” I choked out. It was too tea.

  “Oh, here,” she said, taking the cup from my hand. “You don’t have to drink it.”

  “No,” I protested half-heartedly. “I can drink it.”

  “Bother.” She waved her hand. “I don’t care about the tea. If you want something to drink, I hav
e soda or water or something. That’s not even why I asked you inside.”

  My body tensed. “Why did you ask me inside?”

  “Well, I… I suppose I wanted to…”

  Say it, say it. “Yes?”

  “To sleep with you.”

  Fucking score.

  “Yes. Let’s,” I said quickly, decisively, so she couldn’t change her mind. “Where’s the bedroom?”

  She glanced toward the hallway, and already I had grabbed her hand and dragged her inside. But then we were there, standing beside a bed with the door closed. She’d agreed to sex with me – no, she’d asked for sex with me, basically. And I had to calm down. Because if I didn’t calm down, I would screw this up.

  I took deep breaths.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Fine.”

  I had to do something. Don’t screw this up.

  I pulled her in close and placed a light kiss on her lips. Her lips slipped open, and I deepened the kiss. She tasted like wine and smelled like woman.

  But still, I wasn’t quite catching my breath. The kissing wasn’t helping.

  “I want to do this right,” I said. “Just tell me what I need to do this right.”

  “Are you asking what I like?”

  “Yes,” I breathed. It was a scary proposition. A girl like her, practically slumming with me. It could be something bad. That would explain why she’d wanted me. I’d be desperate enough to do it. But I had a suspicion that if she wanted me to shove food in her orifices while chanting satanic rituals, I’d ask if she preferred bananas or zucchini. That’s how much I wanted to fuck her.

  “I want you to tell me what to do,” she said, her voice impossibly lower. “I like it when you…do what you like with me. I want to please you.”

  Ah, fuck. This was worse than I’d hoped.

  It wasn’t just that this wasn’t my thing. I mean, it wasn’t, but what did that matter so long as I got to fuck her? And my dick was on board, telling me to bend her over and just do it. Take her at her word.

  But that wasn’t what she was really asking me. When a woman said she wanted you to take control, that she wanted you to tell her what to do, it meant she wanted you to figure out what she liked and tell her to do that.

  It also likely meant she’d be passive, lying there like a lump of warm pillows, which wasn’t that hot to me. Though I wasn’t worried about that with her. She could actually lie there and still do it for me.

  But I wanted this to end with some semblance of success – a faked orgasm didn’t count – and even more, I wanted to be able to do it again. That meant I had to get this right.

  “Take off your dress,” I said.

  She reached down to the buckle of her shoes, those high-heeled, black patent, fuck her shoes.

  “Leave them on,” I said.

  She straightened and lifted the hem of her dress. Up and up she lifted the slinky fabric, exposing creamy thighs, slashing lines of thin black panties, a long stomach, full breasts. And finally it was up and off, leaving her hair a tousled, sultry mess of perfection.

  I took a long look, adjusted myself, then circled her slowly. I feigned an aura of control, of mastery, as if I were surveying what was mine, deciding what horribly sensuous torture to apply next. What I was really doing was memorizing every curve, every shadow, every mole, for every wank session for the rest of my life. I was also methodically rejecting every suggestion I came up with.

  Nothing I wanted to do to her was something she wanted me to do to her. That was the hell of control, it was all backward, with the girl wanting to be dominated, but only exactly how she wanted it. She had all the control, really, at least the way it played out in the bedrooms I’d been in.

  I didn’t mind the subservience of it, that I was the one submitting to her needs. That part was actually hot as hell. I minded the uncertainty. If a woman could just tell a man what she wanted, what she really wanted him to do, this all would be so much simpler.

  Her breathing was coming faster, I noticed. Being watched turned her on. That I could work with.

  “Touch yourself,” I said. “Over your bra.”

  Her fingers skated up her stomach to cup her lace-covered breasts. She stroked herself, ran her fingers up to the top slopes and then around the curve underneath. Her nipples pebbled visibly into the lace, begging for more attention.

  “Your nipples. Pinch them.”

  She enclosed each nipple between her thumb and forefinger and squeezed. A slight catch in her breath and a subtle jerk of her hips rewarded me. I wanted more.

  “Harder,” I said.

  Her fingers tightened. A blush spread across her chest all the way up to her cheeks. Arousal or embarrassment, maybe. Or pain. How hard was she pinching? Not any harder than she liked, I thought. I’d have to remember that. But for now I had to see.

  “Unhook your bra,” I said. “But hold it there.”

  She cocked her head, uncertain, but her hands reached back. A quick flex and it was undone, the curved fabric tipping forward from her breasts.

  “There,” I said. “Keep them there.”

  Her hands remained behind her back, holding up the ends of her bra. I stepped closer and her eyes widened. Impossibly wide. Deceptively innocent.

  Finally I touched her. A brush against her nipple with the back of my hand. She sucked in a breath, changing the contours of her breasts, her stomach. I ran my hand down across the lace onto her smooth stomach. The skin there was soft. I placed both my hands around her waist and squeezed. They followed the flare of her hips and her thighs. I cupped her over the sheer black fabric between her legs.

  I glanced up at her face. Her lids not as wide now, almost low. It didn’t matter. It was all sexy as hell. Her arms shook from their position, but I left her that way. I liked her spread open like this, unable to stop me from seeing her, not shying away from my touch.

  Chapter Two

  It was an illusion, of course. She could move if she wanted to. And it wasn’t like I’d even get annoyed or leave or anything insane like that. It was a nice illusion, though, that I had the power and that she wanted me.

  “Do you want to let go?” I asked.

  “I want what you want.”

  Damn.

  She smiled slightly. “You don’t believe me?”

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  “Let’s try this. Just try doing what you want and I’ll stop you if I don’t like it.”

  It was an awful, wonderful idea. It was wonderful because how could that not be any man’s fantasy? A beautiful woman who’d do anything you wanted. And not just passively, but actively trembling, sighing, everything.

  So it wasn’t mine. It was still damn good.

  But it had to be a trick of some sort, because a beautiful woman didn’t just agree to do this for a man like me on the first date. Whatever defense mechanisms built into my brain to protect me from this had dissolved. It didn’t matter that I’d probably end up feeling like a fool at the end of this game, I had to play it out.

  “Take off your bra and panties,” I said.

  She did.

  “Touch yourself. There.”

  She slid two fingers down into her slit. They dipped into her and slid back up to her clit.

  “Your nipples. With the other hand.”

  Her other hand went to her nipple, toying and pinching. It was already darkened from her earlier abuse. Now she gasped at the sensation, probably sensitive, but she didn’t stop.

  Already this was a fucking wet dream, but I wasn’t done, not even close.

  “Taste yourself.”

  She removed her fingers from clit and sucked them into her mouth. Though her head dipped from embarrassment, she never removed her gaze from mine. God, they drove me crazy, those eyes. Dark but luminous. Even though I knew it had to be the wrong thing, she had told me, she had given me permission to do the wrong thing, and I needed it so badly.

  “On your knees. Hands behind your
back,” I said.

  She gracefully dropped down to her knees where she’d stood and clasped her hands behind her. Her breasts jutted out proudly.

  I undressed myself, feeling her eyes on me. If she balked now, I just might go insane, so I had to hope that my body was something she could live with, if not exactly drool over.

  I stepped to her and palmed her breast. Then I guided my cock to her red lips, smearing the drop on the tip all over her mouth. Dirtying her. It felt wrong.

  “Open,” I said.

  She opened her mouth and my cock slipped inside. Holy fucking Christ, the heat. The wetness. I hit the back of her throat and managed to pull back. But then there it was again, and again. She gagged, but I was losing it. It was all I could do not to push harder.

  She’d tell me to stop if I didn’t cool it. And then I’d have to stop completely and lose all this. I managed to slow my thrusts so that they were somewhat steady, somewhat shallower. It was still too much, still more than I had ever dared to push on another woman, but watching my cock slide into her swollen red lips shattered my control. Hell, I’d fucked some pussies with more finesse, more care than I fucked her mouth.

  The top of her mouth was massaging the head of my cock, almost enough to bring me to my knees, but I locked them straight. As her tongue slithered along the underside, my thighs vibrated, threatening to give way despite myself.

  “Your hands,” I gasped. “My balls.”

  And she did. Christ, yes. Her hands cupped my balls, gently, lightly probing, and yes, even farther back. I spread my stance, inviting her deeper, and she took my invitation, rubbing her hand along the seam and back, back.

  That she could take what was I giving her, the long, hard thrusts into her mouth was amazing. That she could participate, too – massaging my balls, swirling her tongue, moaning little vibrations up my cock – was a fucking miracle.

  And suddenly her eyes were too much. Big and brown and so much woman, and why was I treating her this way? She’d been nothing but nice, nothing but accommodating. I’d treated some of the bitches I’d dated nicer than I was treating her. I didn’t want to think about it, but I also didn’t want to stop.