Page 21 of Hired Help

My throat resents every moment his fingers are away, and I give a soft moan of encouragement as they rest against my windpipe again. “Could you press harder?”

“With which hand?” he teases, using one hand like a puppet, making me spread my pussy lips wide, the other tightening until there’s a steady pressure. “Is that good?”

And if it was Harrison asking, I’d say yes. I’d say perfect.

But because I’m paying, I find the courage to ask for more.

“Harder,” I say as the woman on the screen has her head dragged back, her partner’s hand fisted in her hair. When my breath rasps in my throat, I flex the knuckles of the hand he’s holding, so he understands where I want attention. “Give me more.”

And he forces my fingers to go to work. He slides one into my entrance, a tease that he repeats until I buck against myself to ease it deeper. The rub on the welcoming piece of flesh isn’t enough and I push back, moving to circle my clit instead.

“Try this,” he says, spreading my fingers and pushing until my middle one is buried inside me, up to the second knuckle. “Now use the heel of your palm.”

The sensation is strange, not just the different positions but him guiding me, the idea I’m not completely in control of where my fingers are pressing makes the familiar, strange. It makes my own movements unpredictable. Exciting.

All that before I turn my concentration to the screen.

The woman is on her knees, her partner dropping lube onto her arse, then spreading it deep inside her with his forefinger. When he replaces it with his cock, she gasps and pants in a higher pitch than before, her face twisting as her body resists him. As he forces himself into her.

And I know it’s fake. Or not fake but also not real, not the way it looks. But the idea that the man holding me, guiding me, could at any moment do something just as forbidden, just as painful, sets my nerves on fire.

His fingers close harder around my throat, and I wonder how I’m meant to tap when my fingers are buried deep in my pussy… the idea I can’t stop anything sending a fresh jolt of arousal into my core.

It takes half a minute to remember I have a second hand.

There’s pressure on my lower back. His cock growing hard against me. “Grind on me,” I order him, and he grips me harder with the hand at my crotch, driving my finger deeper inside me, increasing the friction against my clit as he obeys, shoving himself against me, jerking his body in time with mine.

The woman on the screen begs for the man to stop and he doesn’t, he keeps going, his stroke increasing in force, in speed, a punishment for daring to ask.

“Do you want me to do that?” he whispers in my ear. “Do you want me to fuck your arse? Do you want me to use you any way I want while you beg for me to stop?”

His voice is so rough, it makes my nerves sing.

“Yes,” I murmur, tensing a little because I don’t know if I’m meant to be answering. But it’s met with a low growl of encouragement, easing my fears.

“Do you want me to take off my belt and use it on you? Would you like stripes crisscrossing your tender flesh until you can’t sit without a burn of pain?”

His body arches harder against mine, breathing so ragged he sounds on the edge of losing complete control.

My own desire soars in response, driving my finger deeper, hand pressing harder, my body thrusting back against his, my free hand moving to cover the one at my throat, encouraging it to tighten as the groans of protest on the screen become sharper, the shrillness increasing in tandem with the pain.

Then his finger no longer guides mine, it joins in, the thickness stretching me, increasing the friction while he grinds on me from below and forces me to grind against myself.

“Should I just flip you over and shove my cock into your arse while you’ve still got your fingers jammed in your cunt and keep going and going until you can’t bear the pain and you’re begging like a whiny little brat who doesn’t know when to keep her mouth shut, hm?”

It’s not just the words, it’s the tone, menacingly low, and the roughness, like his vocal cords are thickening at the same rate as his cock, the latter feeling big as a log, ramming against my buttocks and lower back. I respond to the crack in his throat as he spits words at me, like he’s losing it, his control snapping. Respond to the thought that he might soon grow sick of talking and startdoingand there’s not a damn thing I could do to stop him.

He could fuck me raw, fuck me ragged, then leave me in pieces while he rewards himself with my fee.

His fingers jam farther into me, mine barely present in comparison.

The actress on the television mutters, “Come, won’t you please come,” while the actor grows rougher.

There is a flutter of disappointment as his hand leaves my throat, then his fingers are fumbling at the opening to my blouse, sliding inside my bra, squeezing my breast in his hand, then pinching my nipple with such force, it’s like he’s set off an explosion in my tits. Another of his brutish fingers shoves inside me, the skin so much rougher than mine, there’s more delicious friction than I know what to do with.

Tingles explode when he pants in my ear, taking the lobe into his mouth and biting it between his teeth, sending a sharp bolt of pain to meet the one from my nipple, the two of them entwining together before rushing straight to my cunt, throbbing in my clit, my entrance now sopping wet as his fingers increase their pace, rubbing, thrusting, caressing, pounding into and against me.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he rumbles as my thighs squeeze together, crushing our joined hands. “You spread those legs wide for me unless I tell you different.”

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