Page 1 of Their Master

Chapter 1

Abead of sweat ran down Smith’s forehead and into his eye, but his hips, which snapped out a brutal rhythm, didn’t stutter or falter.

Beneath him, the whore grunted, her body experiencing the involuntary contractions that heralded an orgasm. Her fourth, by his count.

Smith smirked and fucked her faster, pressing the ball of his thumb against her swollen bud.

She whimpered. “I’m—I’m—ahhh—”

Her tight sheath rippled around his shaft, squeezing his cock hard enough to hurt, but he didn’t let up. Smith had told her—as he always told the whores he paid, male or female—to alert him when a climax was imminent. She’d not articulated the words, but he’d give her a pass.

This time.

And therewouldbe a next time, he decided as he pumped into her slender body so vigorously that every muscle beneath her passion-flushed skin flexed as she struggled to absorb his savage thrusts.

Her eyes were tight with pain at the depth of penetration and Smith could feel his crown bumping against something inside her, a phenomenon he’d experienced with some women in the past.

Indeed, it had occurred the very first time he’d had sexual relations with a woman. He’d been sixteen years old and had chosen an older prostitute named Yvette, well-known for her patience with male virgins. Yvette had screamed like she was being murdered when he’d thrust inside her, weeping and causing an embarrassing scene, accusing him of puncturing her womb.

Even all these years later Smith could recall his mortification.

He’d stayed away from women for years after that, taking only male sexual partners for fear of repeating that disturbing episode. Not until he’d been a more secure man in his twenties had he taken a female lover. Fortunately, his second time had been nothing like the first. Indeed, it had been exactly the opposite. His cock had encountered the same soft barrier as before, but he’d driven the woman to ecstasy rather than tears.

After two such contradictory experiences Smith had sought out a doctor with knowledge of the female reproductive system.

The old doctor had roared with laughter at Smith’s naïve question. “You are not entering the womb—that would be impossible, even if you are endowed with a prick well above average. You are nudging something called the cervix. Cervical stimulation can provide pain, pleasure, or even both, depending on the depth and tilt of a woman’s pelvis.”

“How can a man tell such things? So that he might avoid the wrong women.”

“You can’t. At least not from a woman’s outward appearance. If you engage the services of an experienced working woman,shewill know her own tolerances.”

And so Smith always asked whores before engaging them, even though he knew the question—are you sure you can you take my longer than average cock?—made him sound like an arrogant idiot. It was worth sounding like an arse to avoid a wailing woman.

The whore beneath him, Moira, had intrigued him with her response.

“I have occasionally experienced pain,” she’d admitted in her cool, dignified way. Smith had been ready to dismiss her, but then she’d said, “And I liked it.” She’d smiled at him, the expression turning her rather plain, wholesome features into something wickedly alluring and sensual.

If that hadn’t been enough to titillate him, she’d added, “The deeper and harder, the better.”

Well.

How could he possibly resistthat?

And so Smith had been giving it to her deep and hard for at least half an hour.

She would be getting sore—no matter how much pain she claimed to like— and he was gritting his jaws hard enough to crack his teeth. It was time; his ballocks were heavy and aching to spend.

Smith doubled his efforts, digging his fingers into her pale flesh hard enough to leave bruises. For the next week or more, she would remember tonight whenever she looked at her body, and she would think ofhim.

Of this.

Of now.

He smiled fiercely as the last of her orgasm echoed through her body, and then he stopped thinking entirely and surrendered to pure sensation.

∞∞∞

Moira Dunsmuir watched her client from beneath lowered lashes as he lay face-up on the bed, his eyes closed, his striking features slack. His olive skin was glazed with sweat, the taut V of his abdomen flexing with each breath. His body—free of any hair except the thick, dark thatch on his head—was as hard as iron.

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