Page 37 of Shame

“I’m not interested in your whores, Luci. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He rounds the desk and moves toward the door.

Salvatore spins his chair, turning his back on me. “You’re missing out, Reed.”

Eric flips him off without looking at him and disappears. I have to hide the smile. Cool guy. Wish I could flip this fucker off too.

When he turns to me again, my stomach churns. He stands and walks over to the couch where I sit, slow measured strides, then he sits next to me.

“Suck my cock. Listening to these whimpering cunts gives me tension.”

I unbuckle his belt, pull down the zipper and lower the waistband of his briefs, pulling out his soft cock, which starts to swell as I take it in my hand.

“Show me what you’re made of, whore.”

I give him a glare and take him in my mouth, showing him exactly what I can do. With my hand around his base, stroking him, I give him a stellar blowjob, hoping I can exhaust his appetite for me early and maybe get away easier this time.

Salvatore grabs a large chunk of hair at my nape and begins to thrust in my throat. His other hand finds my breasts and squeezes them so hard I buck to instinctively try to get away. His hand continues along my stomach and slides in between my legs, shoving several fingers inside me, thrusting as he buries his cock in my throat, staying there longer each time. He finds my clit and begins stroking it, circling it, dipping inside me and then my clit again. It’s brutal and at the same time he knows exactly what he’s doing because my body starts responding, an ache building along the insides of my thighs, in my pussy, in my lower stomach. Fuck him! I do not want to come with a customer, and especially not this monster.

My throat is raw, and I wince every time he pushes his length to the hilt, praying to God he’ll come soon. When he suddenly doesn’t let go, holding me down with his hand in my hair in a vice grip, I panic. I can’t get any air and as he keeps holding me, my whole body begins to tingle and buzz from the increasing lack of oxygen. My chest heaves with my desperate, pointless attempts to breathe. He keeps massaging my clit and my body suddenly can’t tell the difference between pleasure and the raw panic that keeps increasing. Everything cramps up in me, I beat at him with no result, he doesn’t let go, and then I explode in a pulsing, aching catharsis. As my pussy clenches in an orgasm that ravages my insides, black dots begin to appear before my eyes and my head is spinning.

I’m a rag when he lets me go, lifting my head off his cock by my hair. I pull in a long, life-giving breath and then I cough violently.

My pussy tingles, still spasming, his fingers still pushing in and out.

Saliva dribbles on my cheek, but no cum. I look at his rock-hard cock and realize he didn’t come.

“You’re a fucking dick,” I rasp and try to push up.

He rips me up by my hair so I’m facing him. I scream from the pain and grab his hands, trying to relieve the pressure on my scalp.

“I know.” He smirks and pulls his fingers out of my pussy, pushing them between my lips. “Clean me. Make it look hot.”

Hot is not an option. Tears and snot dribble over my cheeks and lips as I lick and suck his fingers until he’s satisfied. He pats me on the cheek, little smacks, not very lovingly, then releases me. I dart up and run to the bathroom, emptying my stomach in the toilet. I thought I was going to die. For real. I felt darkness closing in before he finally let me breathe, and I know he would do it if he wanted. I look at the window, wondering if I can open it, climb out, and just run. Then I remember his guards, the wall, the gates and slump on the floor, new tears falling.

I promised myself I wasn’t going to cry from fear, but Salvatore takes fear to heights I haven’t experienced before.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Carmen

On trembling legs, I make my way back out, stopping at the edge of the carpet. Salvatore sits on the couch still, properly zipped up, looking impeccable, typing something on his phone.

“Get over here,” he says without looking up.

I force my legs to move, feeling as if they’re filled with lead.

“On your hands and knees.”

I fall down, like a dog, submissive to her master, or just plain scared of the abuse that will follow if she doesn’t obey. I wait. He keeps typing without acknowledging me. Finally, he stands and pats the outside of his thigh.

“Come.”

I begin to rise, and he grips my neck, hard, and pushes me down.

“Did I tell you to stand?”

“No, sir,” I say and look at my hands, wincing from the pain in my nape.

“Good girl. Now come. For the rest of the night I don’t want to hear one single word from you. You may scream. That’s all right. Now, let’s go join the party.”

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