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Luck had deserted me, full stop. Tossing my hair off one shoulder, I watched his fingertips drum slowly and silently on the green felt of the tabletop. There was no point in looking up into his face, in confirming his faint smile while he studied my boobs. That was all right. No problem. Quite good, my boobs. But I could predict what he would suggest next — and the answer was no way. Bad enough being trapped in this city I loathed. Bad enough having lost my “shirt”, literally — well, my frock, and my panties: the lot, in fact. All of which I could bear. No pun intended. Well, I’d just have to now, wouldn’t I? To go further would be sheer stupidity.
Yet the odds had to be in my favour now, surely? Didn’t they?
‘Another hand?’ he suggested, predictably — his voice carrying that lilt of Orientals everywhere.
For the first time, I felt perspiration. On my forehead, and the palms of my hands. Wiping the latter discreetly on my naked thighs proved futile. ‘What stakes?’ Was that me? Daft! Had to be! Just say no and be done with it!
‘My five thousand remains on the table,’ his soft voice conveyed his amusement, ‘plus everything you’ve lost to date.’
I glanced up then, into his twinkling dark eyes. Greasy bugger and no mistake. Too handsome, too rich, too polite. In my experience the worst sort by a long chalk. I’d bonked worse, mind. Much worse. And Oriental men were supposed to be practised, weren’t they?… In a whole range of…What was I thinking about?! Just say no! Sipping for the champagne in my glass, secretly pleased by the steadiness of my hand, I smiled and said: ‘I don’t think that answers my question?’
Jesus, girl — but you’re pushing it! Still, no harm in seeing what he has in mind, is there? And it would buy some time, keep me from getting up and walking out of here starkers. To go where, exactly? Now that was a thought.
‘Very well.’ He snapped his fingers and one of his entourage passed a notepad into the circle of light encasing the table. I took another sip, needing the moisture, as he produced a gold pen from his inside breast pocket — and with some flourish jotted a brief note on the top page of the pad. Tearing off the sheet in question, and folding it neatly in half, he passed it via the female dealer to me.
Initially I noted the embossed letterhead on the top of the page, bearing information regarding his firm. Money this. Real vellum, embossed not printed. Face, of course. Then my eyes slid down, to his neat copperplate notation. My breath caught in my throat. Just say no! For Christ’s sake, no! My eyes flitted from his faint smile, to the wrapped bundle of cash: my ticket out of this godforsaken city. And the odds had to be casino oyna in my favour! Had to be! Collecting the detritus of my last hand, tapping the cards into a neat pile and setting them carefully to one side, I nodded and, over the pounding of my heart, and the rush of blood through my temple, said: ‘You’re on…’
I was trembling uncontrollably, both inside and out. Even my pussy muscles seemed to have caught the habit. Fortunately, after a fleeting moment of weakness, my knees had locked into place to support my weight. For whatever reason, it was vitally important to face his faint wry smile with dignity.
The female dealer, her role transformed by a nod from him — for her lord-and-master: now my lord-and-master! christ! — busied herself silently behind me. She slipped the silk bight over my head, snugging it gently to my throat. Then she took my right wrist and, folding the arm across my back, to a point an inch or so below my shoulderblade, fastened it into the padded leather of the manacles. Closing the lock with a resonant click. She repeated this quickly and efficiently with my other arm. It wasn’t especially uncomfortable. Just utterly restricting.
Panic welled, taking the form of bile. No way! He was too smooth, too smug. You can’t put yourself in this position — you can’t! But it was too late, of course. Even if I wanted to resist, what could I do with my arms manacled in such a fashion?
I felt her smooth my hair, begin to slip on the blindfold. Christ no! I’ll throw up. His smile disappeared. Everything disappeared. Cocooned in blackness, my imagination ran rampant. I had to calm myself consciously, concentrate on my own breathing — deep breaths: one, exhale, two, exhale…which was when I heard the high heels of the dealer receding, fading into the distance. Followed by the opening of the swinging door.
Alone now. The casino long since deserted. Just him and me. No! Him and me and that dreadful silent lieutenant of his… Footsteps? Yes, very quiet. Coming toward me?!…Circling… Oh christ!… Approaching from behind. Stopping. I could smell him: the mixture of cigarette smoke and cologne.
And testosterone! Oh, god.
And then the fingertips. Gentle, caressing — yet so abrupt the soft gasp escaped when he touched my hips. But who’s fingertips?
My question answered by the soft chuckle from opposite.
Not His, then. The lieutenant. Huge hands, several fingers on each hand broken previously. I could imagine how, didn’t want to think about how much flesh he’d smacked around.
He soon had my measure, no matter how I tried. Tracing the very bottom of my buttocks, where they start to round up, uncovered a decidedly ticklish spot canlı casino — the gasp virtually ripped from me. Earning me another chuckle from the bastard opposite. Up my flanks… my armpits producing another involuntary jerk. I was chewing hard on my lower lip, tasted the tang of blood. Relentlessly, he went on, describing narrow arcs down my front, reaching the inside of my pelvic ridge… then brushing the edge of my pubic thatch while I was still in the throes of the last quiver. Always bushy me. Bane of my existence. First girl in my class with hair, so all the boys wanted to peek — kept at me. Should’ve charged them for the privilege. If I’d known then what I knew now… More to the point, he had them all now — or very nearly all — knew how to make me react with a mere touch.
The tone changed then. A large muscular hand grasping my forearm, steadying me so his feet could push mine apart. The hand moving me forward from the waist, bending me until I was resting on the table. I squeezed my eyes shut — ludicrous, of course, but irresistible. The huge broken-fingered hands supple, also irresistible, parting my buttocks, slipping through between my thighs…Hesitating…Some signal, perhaps?
Then the inevitable. Up inside, exploring. Finding me moist. Humiliating! I’d been trying to ignore that reaction ever since I peeled off my panties. Now it was uppermost in my mind. Now just moist…wet! Positively oozing. The digit removed with a quiet sucking noise. The humiliation compounded when he wiped the moisture — my moisture! — on my own buttocks.
The soft grunt to indicate I was ready.
The lights from overhead were incredibly hot.
The sole consolation the cool of the felt against my burning forehead…
Try as I might, it was impossible not to react. The organ grinder now, of course — not the monkey. Grunting emphatically with each thrust, his hands freely exploring, caressing my boobs, fondling my rock-hard hypersensitive nipples, my trembling belly, plucking at my pubic thatch. His perspiration mingling with mine. I endeavoured to think clinically. This should cost him five hundred, minimum. And that without the blindfold and restraints. I should’ve simply put myself on the market, rather than trying to get-rich-quick… But I couldn’t help it, found myself absorbing his thrusting his erection, moving to sink him deeper and deeper and deeper into my warm moist shimmering centre…
It wouldn’t do. Never. Just wouldn’t! I couldn’t beat him there, couldn’t bear to give him that satisfaction… yet it was happening, the wave building, the tremors starting. He tightened then, groaning, rigid against and inside me. Oh, thank god!-thank god!-thank god!… kaçak casino but any thought was short-lived, the waving cresting, crashing down, a long hard oh so much-needed spasm, illuminating the darkness behind the blindfold in a series of strobes and meteors…
No afterglow. Strictly business. Did I mention “clinical”? The rustle of fabric, of clothes being repaired and-or replaced. A hand — the monkey: complete with a handkerchief? some form of cloth at any rate — wiping between my buttocks and thighs. Perfunctory. Straightening me up, at a sharp snap of the fingers. Turning me by the shoulders. A breeze against my skin. Another rustle: closer, softer. A coat of some sort settling across my shoulders, clinging to my sweat-dampened shoulders and tush. No, not a coat. A cape. A lace being tied at my throat. Only the one? And the cape?-was it floorlength? It brushed my calves. Was it even fully closed?-at the front? But there were footsteps in front, brisk. More beside me. A strong arm guiding me by an elbow clasped gently through the fabric. Silk? Satin? Something like that. Through the swing door, onto a surface chill against my bare feet. Down three steps, carefully — fragile cargo? Now there’s a laugh. Along an even colder surface. Rough. Concrete?
A door swung open, cool early morning air gushing in, wafting my cape apart — caressing me. Oh god. Outside. And the sensation was delicious. A car idling nearby. Cold wet cobbles underfoot. Hustled across the short gap, assisted gallantly yet quickly into the rear seat. A second body sliding in beside me. The organ grinder. A third body, heaving the car under the bulk — the lieutenant then — settling in opposite. The car door closed. Solid. Expensive. Rolls? Bentley?
Didn’t matter. The organ grinder had taken residence on the corner of my cape, pulling it apart. The car pulled out smoothly.
Breathless, still quivering slightly from the bonking, I tried to take stock in the inky darkness. Thighs damp, feet damp, flesh damp: all from different sources. Blindfolded. Manacled, and therefore completely helpless — any orifice available. In a car heading god knows where.
And excited. Aroused. Bloody daft, but there it is! I had to resist the urge to chuckle. Was startled when the organ grinder did. Then the soft, lilting voice said: ‘Rather fun, isn’t it?’
‘Easy for you to say,’ I replied, trying for a curt tone.
He merely chuckled again. ‘Good. I fancy a challenge. Rest assured you will confess the truth, however. 48 hours is a very long time to remain recalcitrant.’
He was quite right, of course. Settling back, as comfortably as possible, I inhaled deeply. In the warmth of the car, the air positively reeked of sex. My sex, his sex — all of it intermingled, wafting about. Quite exciting, actually…
But I wasn’t going to tell him that! Oh no! He was going to have that little confession from my lips…
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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