Mad About the Boy: Extract

035234001001_SS500_SCLZZZZZZZ_The engine is purring, and so am I, as I cruise down Brighton seafront past endless empty souvenir shops and tacky little out of season emporia.

I’m clocking all the dark and dirty side streets that lead away from the sea. They all look deliciously shadow-shady this late in the afternoon, which is nice, because deliciously shadow-shady is the roughly theme I’m going for right now. And it’s not just the street planning that’s going along with my mood theme, even the elements are playing ball.

The sky has been the colour of milk all day, but that’s leeching away now. Everything’s losing its high contrast edge as the dark begins to roll in. (Mind you, at this time of year sometimes it seems to start to get dark at lunchtime.) The day is starting to slide over the horizon, and it looks like the world has gone from pure, high-contrast black and white to a million shades of grey.

As I pass one of the taller buildings on the seafront, The Palace Hotel suddenly looms into view, sort of ghostly in the late afternoon wash, looking rather like a very mysterious, (and very gigantic) wedding cake. Just before I reach it I take a left, nipping down the little side street that leads to The Palace’s underground car park, mirror-signal-manoeuvre-ing with all the Highway-Code-esque precision I can muster, and I begin to prepare myself for something special.

I have to grip the steering wheel extra tightly to stop my hands from shaking as I guide the swanky hire car into the subterranean darkness and find myself a space. But somehow, despite my rather preoccupied state, I park quite neatly, without hashing it up.

Moments later I am positioned in the hotel lobby, scanning it for my quarry. And it doesn’t take long to spot him. Because I’m dressed as a business woman and he’s is dressed like he’s doing business.

He’s alone. Perhaps not quite lurking under a lamppost, but at least leaning up against the bar in a pose that might as well be a for sale sign flashing above his head. He’s all tight jeans, tight top, tighter arse. It’s all on show and he can’t hide what he is.

Because today he’s for sale. Today he’s a whore. Today’s my birthday and he’s practically gift wrapped.

He looks so out of place – although though I know this really is his territory – whereas I blend in perfectly. So, I don’t approach him straight away. I give myself plenty of looking-time.

He catches me looking and seems pleased about it, acknowledging my attention with an amazing smile. Teeth so much whiter than they ought to be in the inadequate halogens of the hotel lobby; reddish lips that seem swollen – sore – from pouting. It’s clear he’s displaying himself, showing off his wares and trying to make a sale, and I take my time as I peruse them, staring at his slightly over-long, strawberry-blonde hair, his skimpy mesh top that hides nothing, and his denim clad crotch. His jeans are so tight. It actually looks like he has an erection. Maybe he does. It is his job after all. Maybe he can just get one, if he needs to. And it turns me on to think that he is hard as I look at him right now. As I inspect him.

I let myself dwell, for as long as I want to, on the fact that I can have him. I can pay him and I can have him. Right now. And at this moment, that thought turns me on more than anything.

Then, after an ice age, I finally glide over to him and take up a new position, floating on the bar stool at his hip. When I speak to him he lolls against the bar for a moment, not replying, sucking his tongue and continuing his posing in his incredibly tight jeans and fishnet t-shirt. He’s so stunning, I don’t even feel annoyed about the time he’s taking to answer. I simply wait, with a single raised quizzical eyebrow for punctuation, and enjoy the sight. I could easily stay here all day. I have such a great view; it isn’t warm in here, the big glass entrance doors opening and closing create enough whippy cold air in the lobby that I can clearly see the effect the cold is having on his tightly erect little nipples. And I want to know whether he’ll moan with arousal or cry out in pain when I bite them – I really don’t know which I’d prefer.

Eventually, though, he answers my question – the only possible question, with a, ‘Yeah, alright.’

As I stand up he links his arm into mine. I inhale sharply and hope to every God there ever was, through my current heady daze, that I can still remember how to put one foot in front of another – at least for long enough to get me to the lift.

One or two people turn to give us odd looks as we cross the lobby – we do make a notable couple I suppose – although we’d probably have got away with it without any kind of mortifying embarrassment if my companion hadn’t chosen to lean out of the lift as the doors slid closed and shout, ‘What, haven’t you ever seen Pretty Woman?’ Which I have to confess is funny, but only in a totally mortifying sort of a way.

As we ascend, floor after floor, I try to think of something to say. It takes me a worryingly long time to come up with, ‘What’s your name?’

‘What would you like it to be, lady?’ is the reply, topped with a wink and a flirtatious grin.

Which makes me cringe a bit, so I just respond with a sigh. A sigh and then smile though, because, hey, he’s still pretty.

He shrugs, noting my lack of interest in this particular game and changes tack. ‘Rex,’ he says. ‘It’s Rex.’

‘I’m Sophie, Sophie Taylor,’ I reply. And then, with introductions over, I have to force myself to stop stealing glimpses at his long body – languid and sprawling against the lift’s carpeted wall, for the last part of the short journey.

After six floors of heart palpitations and furtive glances at my most recent purchase, the doors whisper open and we leave the lift.

In the corridor I find I’m still watching him – so blatantly. He pauses and leans against the flock wallpaper, posing quickly under a brass uplighter – giving me a freebie, just a taster of what I’m about to receive. I look at him forever.

The corridor seems so quiet. There’s no sigh of life and every surface seems to be covered with some kind of sound-sucking plush material, be it deep carpet or lustrous wallpaper. The deafening hush makes me feel a bit like I’m in church, the thought of which makes everything seem even naughtier. I suppress the urge to sample my purchase right here in the hallway – scolding myself that I’ve paid good money for a room.

When we reach my door, I fumble briefly with the card-key thingy and, with only minimal under-breath swearing, manage to get the door open.

‘Well this is nice,’ Rex drawls, as he saunters past me, heading straight for the bed and draping himself across it, with an air of someone who knows exactly how to drape themselves across furniture for maximum effect. I find myself staring again at his outfit: the tight jeans and the semi transparent top. God, he looks so unbelievably, edibly good. I still can’t get over the fact he’s all mine. That, right now at least, I own him. I can feel myself getting wetter at the sight of him.

‘So what do you want me to do? What do you want?’ he says, after a few moments, pulling himself into a slouchy half-sitting position and propping himself on an elbow.

I freeze for a sec. Mouth suddenly bone-dry with arousal.

He flickers a tongue over his top lip. ‘I’ll do anything you want, Sophie. I’m all yours and you can have me. You can do anything you want to me. Things you can’t do with anyone else. Perhaps there are things you would like me to do to you. Some powerful women like to lose control, would you like that? Would you like me to control you, Sophie?’

And that makes me smile, because he’s so near and yet so far.

With a couple of quick movements, I pick up my oversized handbag and then empty its contents onto the bed next to Rex. A whole heap of black and silver hardware spills out. ‘Actually,’ I say, as Rex’s features contort a little, registering the fact I’ve just tipped the contents of an Anne Summers back-room onto the duvet. ‘I was thinking more the exact opposite.’

He looks at me, then looks at my little collection on the bed a while longer. His expression is strange. I can only guess that he is trying to weigh up whether I am a mad murderer or someone he can trust not to go too far while he is utterly vulnerable. I try my best to look sane – kinky, but sane.

‘Okay,’ he says, after a while, ‘you’re the boss. Tying me up’ll cost you extra though.’

‘Fine,’ I say, having to squeeze out the word because that little pronouncement he just made about tying him up costing extra, has turned me on so much, so fast, I can feel my knees start to shake.

But what’s even better than that though, even more limb liquefying, is his reaction. He actually almost hid it. Almost, but I can tell from the tiniest flicker behind his eyes that just the thought of being restrained is really turning him on. He likes it; and I love it when they like it.

The first thing I ask him to do is strip. I don’t really want to – his super seedy whore clothes turn me on so much – but they’d only get in the way later. He slides off the bed and stands right in front of me, not more than a foot away.

‘Why don’t you take my clothes off for me?’ he says, his voice sounding darker and huskier than it did before.

I shake my head. (He needs to know who’s in charge here.) ‘I said, “strip”.’ I whisper, feeling the blood pounding so hard through my whole body, as I push the order on him, that I can barely hear myself think.

He shrugs and pulls the flimsy fishnet thing over his head. His chest is small, but just defined enough, and a pretty little criss-cross of sandy coloured hair shades and emphasises his musculature – accentuating the positive.

I reach out and touch his chest, gently. And then I can’t stop myself, I grab one taut rosy nipple in each hand, pull him towards me, and kiss him, hard.

He gasps into my mouth, squirming and moaning as I twist his nipples viciously. I like the way he struggles: not enough to break away from me, but enough to let me know that I’m making him uncomfortable.

It feels indescribably good to kiss a whore – it always does – my brain keeps on telling me that I own him, that I can do anything I want to him. And I love this. I really love this. This is as good as it gets!

After a long and very satisfying kiss, I finally release him, very reluctantly, so he can take off his trousers and underwear. I stand and watch him, looking at his body hyper-possessively, like it’s my property – which it is. He has very long, newborn-Bambi, legs. They seem kind of pale and vulnerable. Pretty. Picture perfect.

And when he’s finally naked, he doesn’t even need to be told to get on the bed and spread himself for me.

I follow quickly and fasten him down. I wrap his wrists and ankles each in a neat black leather cuff and then rope them to the bedposts. I can’t resist pulling the ropes very tight, to show off his long limbs and tight hard body. And when I’m finally done I look at him and sigh for what seems like the hundredth time since I picked him up. Even prettier now.

‘Well,’ I say, taking a step back to get the full effect, ‘shall I sort out payment now? It’ll make things easier later.’

He turns his head to see me better, the ropes are so tight he can barely lift it off the pillows. ‘Huh?’ he says, ‘okay.’

I notice then that he’s hard. I’m not sure exactly when he got hard, probably when I tied him down. I remember back in the lobby where I picked him up, and thinking he had an erection then and wondering how ‘real’ it was. Again, I can’t help wondering how much is genuine arousal and how much is all part of the service. Either way, the fact he’s hard right now is pretty hot.

I take my handbag from the floor by the bed and pull out a pile of notes. They feel scrunchy and a little warm in my fist. There’s something sexy about money. Not sexy like I want to roll around and have sex in it. Or even that I’m particularly materialistic – not by today’s standards anyway – but there’s something about money in this situation, just the holding of it, that does it for me. It’s the power I suppose. He wants it. I’ve got it. And that means I can have what I want from him in return. That’s even prettier than the way his sharp hipbones jut out from under his translucent whey-pale skin.

I climb up on the bed and kneel next to his helpless body. Gently, I brush the notes against his cheek, before putting them down on the bedside table. I shiver a little as I do this. I love it when I use real hard cash. When I bring the very literal money I am paying up close to the very literal man I am paying for. To me that really cements what I am doing. Paying for sex. Paying for power. Paying for him.

I leave the money where I’ll be able to see it all the time. And I let myself shiver a bit with excitement, because it’s my birthday.

Lifting up my handbag again – which is starting to seem a bit Mary-Poppins-esque in its resourcefulness – I rummage in the depths of its torn lining for a minute and find a last little item, one that I didn’t tip out in the confetti swirl of glittering bondage gear earlier. Little silver chain – little crocodile teeth. Nipple clamps – they haven’t been far from my mind since I glimpsed his tightly straining buds through the mesh of his shirt back down in the bar.

Some mouths are just made to be kissed, some arses are just made to be spanked, and some nipples…well.

His eyes go a little wide when he sees them, but not too wide. He doesn’t patronise me. I know he’s seen it all before. I slide them up his downy chest once or twice, before I snap both sets of teeth home together, harsh, almost brutal. I feel myself flood with warmth as my sadistic side takes hold. And then it feels like I’m overheating as I hear his cry of pain turn to a moan of outright pleasure. Wow-wee. Boiling point.

He likes the pain. Did I mention that I love it so much when they like the pain?

I slide down his body slightly, until I am straddling his hard cock. I rub against it a little and feel it move with me. So perfect. Then I move a little further down his body.

I can see his erection close up now. It’s such a pretty, pretty thing. His pubic hair is sandy coloured and soft, and such a contrast to the hard, red-tipped erection that juts out from it, taut against his firm abdomen.

I lower my head and take his cock in my mouth.

He tastes amazing. He makes me think of sour cherries. I swirl him with my tongue and let the pretty blushing head pop in and out of my wet, greedy mouth. I take him and suck him over and over: sometimes so full and deep that my world fills with pheromones and tickly hair; and sometimes soft and light and teasing, so he keens with frustration and strains in his bondage.

I could do this forever.

Well, almost.

I reach up under my long brown skirt and fiddle my knickers off, trying to be elegant, failing, and distracting him from my lack of strip-tease skills with some more languorous cock sucking. Once I’m naked beneath my skirt, I let his cock slide out of my mouth, scoot up his body a little, and slide myself down.

Now I move slowly. I know he’s on the edge from my merciless blow job, and I don’t want this to end too soon. I lean down and press my mouth to his. My lips are dirty with his arousal and I want him to taste it too.

And he likes that too. He sucks the taste of himself from my lips like he’s starving for it.

I start to move a little faster. He gasps. And that gasp is what finally does it. I’m close now. Close enough that I can break into a sprint for the finish.

I lean close into him again, missing his mouth this time to press my lips against his ear.

‘Whore,’ I say softly, liking the way the word feels on my breath.

And I don’t even know which of us starts to come first.

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