Page 84 of Beautiful Liar

He leaves immediately. Only the possibility that there could be hidden cameras in the bathroom stops me from removing the blindfold the moment the bathroom door shuts. Five minutes go by before I hear a soft click.

“You can take the blindfold off now.”

I release the clasp and blink in the thankfully low light of the beautifully decorated bathroom. I stare at the blindfold, a million more question piling on the ones already crowding my brain, but one punches through.

The possibility that Q isn’t doing this for himself.

That all this has been staged for someone else’s benefit scrambles my brain.

The soothing water of the Jacuzzi begins to work on my overused muscles. I toss the blindfold on the vanity and relax in the water, then I weigh the pros and cons of tonight in my mind.

Pro. He fucks hard and he is borderline insatiable. But he’s not a sadist. He seems to be considerate and cares about my comfort.

Con. He’s not a sadist. But the potential is there.

I pick up a sponge and wash myself. When I touch myself between the legs, my breath shudders out and my mind loops back to the final fucking.

That brief exhibition of a darker character lurking in the shadows scared the crap out of me. My instincts warned me to tread carefully with Q. I ignore that warning at my own peril.

I linger in the bath until the water turns cool. The temptation to warm it up again and linger for a while longer is strong. But I’m worn out and can’t risk falling asleep in the bath.

Although…he might be watching. And what, he’ll come save me? What if watching me drown in the bath is part of this bizarre deal?

The macabre thought and the full knowledge that Q has me twisting in a quagmire of confusion sends me out of the bath.

My eye on the prize is what I need to concentrate on. I’ve made it through performance one.

Only nine more to go.

Despite that thought planted firmly in my mind, I still stagger to a stop when I re-enter the bedroom.

Because sitting on the bed is a small open case.

Inside it, ten stacks of ten thousand dollars arranged neatly in the case.

Performance one.

One hundred thousand dollars.

For sex with a man whose face I still haven’t seen.

***

Q

I watch her sleep from one of the large monitors gracing my living room. I wonder if she always sleeps in the nude or if she’s choosing to do so tonight because she’s sore. I resisted the temptation to turn on the monitor in her bedroom until the need got too strong to deny. The reason for resisting in the first place escaped me the moment I flipped the switch. Wait. No. It was because I was torn between either watching her, or waking her up and summoning her back to the bedroom in the south wing.

Tonight was…

I take a sip of whiskey as I contemplate, but an accurate description fails to come to me.

I can’t describe how tonight went.

One thing is painfully evident though. I’ll be repeating the experience tomorrow, whether she’s sore or not. Because, fuck it, she’s as addictive as the black hole I’ve spent the last ten years feeding.

I relax in the armchair, wrap my hand around the raging hard-on that shows no signs of abating and squeeze myself.

What the fuck? The volcanic arousal that engulfs me is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Hell, the last time I staged a performance, I was forced to resort to a little blue pill halfway through the week, such was my lack of pleasure in the whole thing. I get the distinct feeling I won’t be needing any such enhancer this time around. Unless it is to ensure the pleasure already fully present achieves its maximum benefit.

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