“Goddammit, Tony,” she said as she recovered, “that was fucking amazing.”
“Thanks,” he said bashfully. “I, uh, had lots of practice.”
“That cunt was an idiot to let you go. I tell you what, you were such a good boy, I’m going to give you a little reward.”
“You’re going to give me a blowjob?” He sounded surprised—and with good reason.
She laughed. “Of course not, dummy. But we can do something a little more… mutual.” She pushed Anthony so hard he landed flat on his back, then savagely tore his gym shorts off, underwear along with them. Evidently you weren’t so reluctant after all, Tony boy—hard-ons don’t lie. It was a nice one, too—bigger than the lean boy had a right to, almost too big for his body.
“Aw, and here I thought you weren’t enjoying yourself,” she said, giving it a few gentle strokes, smirking at it twitching in her hand.
“I’m not,” he insisted. “It just happened.”
“Shh, you’ll ruin the moment, sweetie.” Pleased she wouldn’t need to take further action to get him ready, she climbed aboard, and proceeded to ride him like he was a horse in need of breaking.
Mindful that it may well be the last fucking she’d be doing for a week, Ashley dove in. Sure, she might get some action on break, depending on whether DJ was too distracted by his home-town bitches, and whether she felt like indulging him, but with DJ, she was getting fucked. Not fucking. Not the same at all.
She cut loose—as loose as she dared anyway. She wanted to scream, to throw open the door and let the world watch. Instead, she settled for throwing her hair, clawing lines into his chest, twisting his nipples until he yelled and forced her off of them.
Then she twisted them again. After all, it was more fun when they fought back. Then sex wasn’t just exhilirating; it was a game that could be won.
Ashley Vandoren liked to win.
There was little enough for Tony to do but lie back and take it; he closed his eyes and pretended he was enduring and not enjoying, probably just to harsh her mellow. No doubt he was picturing his little Marissa fucking him. That wouldn’t do at all.
“Say my name,” she said.
“What?” he groaned as she twisted again, slapping her hands away.
“Say my fucking name—tell me who you’re fucking, Tony! Is it Marissa?”
“No,” he groaned as her pussy squeezed around his member.
“So then tell me—who are you fucking, Tony boy?”
He paused for a few breaths, but as her pincer-like grip started to reach for his chest again, he quickly called out. “Ashley!”
“Say it! Say who you’re fucking!” she hissed, keeping her voice as low as she could.
“I’m fucking Ashley!” he said.
One would think that if DJ were going to overhear them, catch her in her act of betrayal, the sound of a young man shouting “I’m fucking Ashley” not two hundred feet from his home would be the catalyst.
It was not. DJ remained ignorant of her transgression—right up until he opened the door not a minute later, for reasons entirely unrelated to the events transpiring.
“Hey, Anthony, how are… you holding… up…” Anthony’s RA was standing in the doorway looking concerned—at first. His words trailed off as his concern died at the sight of his girlfriend impaled on his resident’s cock.
Ashley froze. Well, shit.
Emily knelt in the corner with her head lowered, her usual position and posture when she wanted to remain unobtrusive. She became like another piece of furniture—silent, still, not something one would notice unless one were looking for it. Good girls didn’t try to make things about them. They waited until they could be of use.
It had been a great night for Emily.
DJ had excused himself to go check on one of his residents—something she could only do with her own once in a very great while when she had no obligations with sir and mistress, and really, any more none of them wanted anything to do with their weird kinky slut of an RA anyway. Her job was a very different one now, but much more important. Her very soul was at stake, after all.
Soon after DJ had left, she’d heard the shouts echoing down the hall, and while neither of them had said precisely what had happened, everyone was aware. “How could you” and “it’s not what you think” and “I thought you loved me” and “please just talk to me” only meant one thing.
He’d slamming the door behind him when he returned, glowering at the universe as Ashley pleaded for him to let her in. He hadn’t. He waited until she gave up, then grabbed his jacket and keys and left without a word. Part of her hoped he’d be in such a state that he’d drive his car off a bridge in despair, or get killed running a red light he was too angry to stop for.
Most of her despised herself for thinking such things.
Ashley had texted Emily, demanding she come to her, no doubt intending to coerce her into helping her out of this somehow. Emily had been out the door and halfway down the hall before she’d caught herself; obeying Ashley’s every command had become such a part of her these past months, she’d almost forgotten she only did it to atone for her feelings towards DJ. So much of her behavior now was run on auto-pilot, it was difficult to remember how to act when she had to decide things for herself.
She went back to his room, silenced her phone, and waited.
It was easy to pass the time; she spent much of it lazily pleasuring herself in the desk chair, masturbating to the thought of what DJ might do to Ashley. It was a fantasy she had often, though much more vivid in light of tonight’s goings-on. Being a good girl and trying to work past her contempt for DJ didn’t mean she couldn’t hate his super-bitch of a girlfriend.
She pictured him shaving off Ashley’s mane of frizzy red hair then having her get electrolysis; making her tattoo “whore” on her forehead—no, branding it, branding was sexier; putting her naked in the stocks and letting anyone who wanted to fuck her as much as they wanted and watching her get pregnant and fat with a baby whose father could be any of a thousand people; making her go up to each person she’d lashed out at and let them take their revenge on her anyway they wanted. They spat on her and hit her and raped her and whipped her with Emily’s collar and oh GOD YES FUCKING YES HURT THE BITCH
Emily came.
She’d come to accept that she’d become a freak, in all manner of ways. Months of 24/7 servitude had done things to her, things she worried she’d never undo, even if she someday redeemed her filthy soul and was able to return to a normal life. She hadn’t come to enjoy her subservience, but she had come to get a sexual thrill out of it. She figured it was something like a drug addict, getting a thrill out of each fix even as they were aware of how worthless their life had become because of it. Conditioning, probably; the commands she was given were often sexual, after all.
Other things were sexual now, too. Chores and errands were sexual, even when she hadn’t been commanded to do them. (Though when she was, it was hotter.) Sometimes she got so wet while picking up groceries for sir and mistress that it soaked through her clothes.
Humiliation. Every time her former friends and co-workers looked at her with disgust in their eyes, or amusement, or lust, she got a little hornier. She’d bumped into a guy she’d worked with at her old job who’d asked her out a few times and taken the rejection really hard; when they met, she’d been wearing a black vinyl micro mini dress, her slave collar, five-inch spike heels, and her usual look of shame about the whole thing. “I knew you were a fucking tramp,” he’d said. That had turned her on, and later, made her cry a little.