Three hisses in my ear. “Under the bed. Go! Don’t even breathe, okay? He won’t stay too long. ’Specially not in this mood.”
I hustle toward the bedroom, slide under the bed, make myself as small as possible. Arms under my chest, cheek to the dusty hardwood. Barely breathing.
I hear the door open. Hear that deep, gravelly voice. “Three. Good morning.”
“Caleb.” Three sounds . . . breathy. “I’m fine. How are you?”
“Not well. There’s been . . . a problem. It’s got me distracted, I’m afraid.” Footsteps on the hardwood, and I see shiny expensive tan leather shoes, khaki slacks. “Perhaps we should reschedule your assessment for tomorrow. I’m not sure I can focus at the moment.”
“But . . . Miss Lisa told me I’ve finally got my first Escort gig tomorrow, but only if I pass this assessment.” Three sounds genuinely disappointed. “Unless you think there’s a chance I might fail . . .”
“I think there’s very little risk of that, Three. Your progress has been remarkable.”
“You don’t think I could . . . help you with your mood?” Three’s voice goes low, sultry, rife with suggestion. “I know I can’t fix nothin’—”
“Three.” It’s a warning.
“Sorry, Caleb. I meant, fix anything.” I see feminine bare feet framed between larger shod ones. Three lifts up on her toes. A silence that speaks of something happening I can’t see. A kiss perhaps. Sounds, too quiet to interpret. “I could distract you from your . . . distractions, you know?”
I clench my teeth and breathe shallowly, slowly. They are moving closer, Three walking forward toward the bed, the Italian leather dress shoes walking backward.
It seems Three shall be assessed.
The bed above me dips under weight. Springs squeak. The shoes are inches from my face. Three’s feet shuffle, and then one knee touches the floor, the other. A belt buckle jingles, zipper sounds. The khaki slacks droop around ankles, and I get a glimpse of familiar hairy calves. Wet sounds. A male groan. Quiet, faint gagging.
“Very good, Three.” This, delivered through clenched teeth. “Mmmm. More tongue, more movement of your whole head. Don’t just suck. Alternate using your hands, your lips, and your tongue. Yes, like that.” A growl, as Three obviously demonstrates a particular . . . technique, I suppose.
My gut twists. Feelings I don’t dare examine rage within me.
Sucking, gagging, male grunts and groans, sighs. It goes on for longer than I would think possible. The sounds taper off for a moment or two, and then resume, silence, a female gag accompanied by a male groan.
“Are you ready, Three?” Low, thickly voiced, teeth clenched, breathless. “I’m going to come. I’ll let you decide where you want me to come.”
Gagging. Gulping. A long, guttural male groan. Sigh. Three’s weight shifts backward as she sits on her heels, one hand planted on the floor. There’s come on her hand, white smears across her knuckles. Apparently she didn’t elect to swallow it all.
A moment of silence.
“Very, very good, Three.” An extended sigh, and the weight on the bed shifts backward. “Next time, I would like you to take it all on your face. I don’t personally find pleasure in that, but others do, and you need to be prepared for how it will feel.”
“Yes, Caleb.” Why does she sound so eager?
“Now . . . I want you to tell me the truth, all right? Penalty free for this answer, regardless of what you say. Our last session together, did you fake your orgasm?”
A hesitation. And then Three’s voice, pitched low, embarrassed. “Yes—no. Well, sort of. I mean . . . I exaggerated it, some. I did come, but not as—as hard as I might have made it seem.”
“Why?”
“Because I—I wanted you to think . . . I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“The truth, Three. Now.”
“I wanted to come. But it’s just . . . I can’t, very often.” Her voice is tiny. So delicate. Mortified. “I’ve tried. On my own, and with you, and before I became an apprentice. My whole life, it’s just . . . it’s hard for me to come. And when I do, it’s just not very—hard, I guess. I still enjoy things, when you do them to me, I mean. I enjoy them a lot. But I just can’t come every time, or not as . . . as intensely as I feel like you expect me to.”
“First, a warning. Do not fake it, or exaggerate. Never again, no matter what, do you understand?”
“Yes, Caleb.”
“Now stand up and put your hands on the bed.”
“But you said penalty free!” A panicked protest.
“I’m not punishing you for your answer, Three, I’m punishing you for faking. I told you at the very start not to ever lie, fake, or pretend. Not about anything. I require absolute truth in all situations.” A softening of the voice. “And this punishment won’t be going on your program record. This is between us. So you understand that I’m serious.”
“But . . . Caleb, I—I understand. Okay? I won’t fake again, I swear!”
“Three. Stand up, now. Put your hands on the bed, now.” Slow, deliberate, precise, calm.
Three stands up, twists in place; I can see her knees shaking. The Italian leather shoes slide forward, and I see the pants rise, hear the buckle of the belt. The bed dips very slightly, and Three’s feet are spread shoulder width apart. I watch as the hem of Three’s shift rises up out of view.
Smack! Hand on flesh.
Smack! Again.
Three cries out. There is pain in that cry, very real pain. But there is also . . . arousal.
Smack!
Smack!
The sounds of spanking increase, punctuated by Three’s cries of pain and increasing sexual arousal. My gut is churning. Some part of me is . . . not as horrified by this as I should be. Three is enjoying this. Doing this voluntarily. Three could leave at will. As the spanking continues, cries of pain gradually become entirely erotic cries of need. Bare feet shuffle on the floor, knees dip, bent body pushing back into the blows, into the touch.
I wonder if there is only the spanking, or if something else is happening. Fingers as well, perhaps, moving inside her privates? From the way Three is moaning and whimpering, I assume so.
I can see how this might be intensely arousing. I feel dirty for eavesdropping on this, and dirtier still for feeling curious, and jealous. But some part of me is finding a dark voyeuristic pleasure in it. I am sick, this is sick.
But I cannot get away from it.
I hear Three orgasm. The wail of release is shrill, and loud, and to my ear, genuine.
The white shift is tossed aside, to the floor. Pants drape around ankles. Three cries out. The bed shifts, dips, and is rocked sideways by a forceful thrust. Three is bent over the bed, male feet lined up behind. The sounds of sex are loud, and fast. Three whimpers with each fleshy slap of skin against skin, and then as the tempo increases, the whimpers become cries, and then grunts, and I can tell from the movement of Three’s bare feet when accepting the thrusts turns to active participation, pushing back into them.
Male grunt of release, slapping of body on body slows and stops, and Three is breathless, moaning, emitting high-pitched whimpers.
I’m damp between my thighs, aroused, and sick with guilt and shame and confusion.
A moment of silence, then, neither person moving or speaking. And then I see trousers slide up, hear a belt buckle, fabric rustling. I can picture strong hands tucking a pristine white shirt into the slacks, tugging it to blouse just so, stuffing fingers into hip pockets so they don’t bulge or fold. A familiar ritual of re-dressing, adjusting; Three will still be naked, of course. Artfully posed, probably, to look sated, glutted, content, drowsy.
I know the pose all too well, having assumed it myself a million times.
“Was that exaggerated, Three?” Arrogant, and assured.