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CHAPTER ONE
“The vultures are back, Chuck,” Tiger said. “Think they know something we don’t?”
Chuck squinted up at the two large birds, hunched in expectant poses on the back corner of his liquor store roof. He wiped the sweat off his brow with a forearm, his other resting on the push mower handle. “Yeah. They’re thinking, ‘Hot damn, this’ll be the day that fat bastard will drop.’ While mowing a strip of grass his wife insists on having for that spoiled poodle to take a crap.”
“Can’t fool me. You love Tiberius.” Tiger chuckled. Leaning against a rusting metal pole of his garage’s covered back patio, he lit a cigarette. The corrugated roofing provided shade from the New Orleans sun. When he and his crew were busy—which was most of the time—they grabbed a quick lunch out here on benches made of cinder blocks and planks.
Maryshka, one of his female mechanics, had stacked up old tires and put a wider piece of wood on them for a table. At the end of their long workdays it served as a place to play cards. Some of his people didn’t have much of a home to go to. His garage had the things home was supposed to provide.
Tiger was glad it offered them that. But he had another place that gave him things no other did. As he took a drag on the cigarette, he stretched his shoulders, his neck. He’d been at the club just last night, and his body still ached. Mistress Skye had worked him over in all the good ways.
Tiger didn’t attach himself to any one Mistress; he rotated sessions among several who liked the same fluid arrangement. But Skye was stuck in his head today.
He was a big man, so most women were short to him. Skye was about five and half feet. Spiky blond hair, short on one side but long on the other, the strands artfully placed to enhance her graceful throat and frame the softness of her moon-shaped face. A good body, nice curves. She wore things to the club most women didn’t. Last night it had been flowing slacks and a white, sheer blouse tied at the waist. Lace bra beneath, enough open buttons on the blouse to draw a man’s gaze to her tempting cleavage.
Chunky, new age type jewelry. She’d slipped off her heels and done the scene barefoot. Casual, yet when a sub met her gaze, he saw nothing but Mistress in the glitter of her dark eyes and the set of the lush pink mouth, as if it held all sorts of commands ready to be spoken.
But they never were. Not from that mouth.
Skye was mute.
She communicated through body language, a voice app on her phone, and something indefinable. If a sub paid attention, he’d know what she wanted. What she expected. Skye didn’t insist on the Mistress title, ma’am or anything else, but she left no doubt of what she was, as indelible as a fucking Mack truck parked on his ass.
Though he’d had sessions with her for a while, last night had been different. Probably why she was on his mind.
She’d started in a playful mood. Had him kneel on a mat, then move into a push-up with his arms fully extended. Trailed her fingers down his back, to the rise of his clenched ass. He wore only jeans. As he held the pose, she reached under him, cupped his cock and balls, rubbed against denim. She’d used her free hand to put pressure on his back, the other shifting to his abdomen, guiding him into a slow descent, his arms bending as he went down.
She stopped him inches from the ground. When his arms started to quiver, she’d moved to his head, her bare feet in view as she squatted. Her knees were spread to position her closer, taunting him with what lay between them.
He’d put his lips on the top of her foot with its daintily painted purple toenails. Then she let him go all the way down, directing his arms out straight to either side. While he lay on his erection, she stretched out on him, her soft ass in the small of his back, her body contoured to the shape of his. She braced her feet outside of his thighs, spreading her legs.
She’d stroked herself, let him feel her rise and fall as she used him as a bed, though her head tilted back over his shoulder. When she shifted it, suggesting her neck was getting tired, he risked a transgression. He brought his arms back in, lacing his hands behind his neck so she could rest her head on his biceps.
He'd relished the sound of her breathing as it became more erratic. Even lying uncomfortably on his cock, he got harder. Her desire made him ache. Other men dreamed of having a woman suck them off. His dreams were an echo in a canyon:What can I do for you, Mistress?
Whenever, however she answered, he wanted to fill that canyon up with his response.
She didn’t bring herself to climax. Instead, she got him so hot and bothered listening to her arouse herself, he had to bite back a growl of need. Then she chose a different way to torment him.
Rising, she had him turn over. Arms in the original outstretched, self-restrained position. She lay down on him again, also facing the ceiling. With the pressure of her agile, teasing toes, she had him bend his knees so she could put the soles of her feet against his thighs, toes curving over his kneecaps. Returning to the workout she’d given him at the beginning, she had him lift her upper body and hold her above him.
It took good balance, on both their parts. And trust. She gave him both, relaxing into his hands, adjusting her feet and the arch of her body to make it work. Then she started stroking herself again.
This time it was obvious she intended to take herself over. Her shoulder blades flexed against his palms, feet shifting on his thighs. When his arms started to shake, she was so close, he wouldn’t safeword, couldn’t do it. He gritted his teeth, strained, locked his muscles, and held the position until she reached peak. Until she got all the way through it, and he was sure she’d had her full measure of satisfaction.
Her harsh, erratic breaths filled up that canyon of need.
She used a two-tap signal to let him know when he could lower her. He brought her down into the cradle of his body, their torsos pressed front to back again. She pulled his sore arms around her, her hair brushing his face as she rubbed his shoulders, biceps and forearms, soothing the strain she’d put upon them.
It was an unexpectedly intimate pose, her letting him hold her like that, arms wrapped over her breasts, hands clasping her upper arms, feeling the damp heat of her smooth skin through his palms. Even as she took care of him, she was shuddering through her aftershocks, her sweet buttocks quivering against his rock-hard dick. She hadn’t taken off a single item of clothing except her shoes, and yet she felt as close to him as if she werenaked. He held her, breathed her in. Absorbed all the sensation she offered.
Something had been different. But the nice thing about aftercare was no one had to talk or analyze.
Then he discovered she wasn’t ready for aftercare.
Pushing herself out of his embrace, she turned over and straddled his abdomen. Leaning forward, her silk-covered breasts were so close to his face he had to press his lips together to keep himself from taking advantage. Especially with those undone buttons and the lace-edged valley of cleavage so close. He swore the scent of her skin was a teasing touch on his mouth.
She reached for the chain attached to a pole behind him, a hard point for restraints. She glanced at his arms, the only cue needed for him to raise them past his head. Wrapping the chain around his wrists, she manually closed his fingers over the end of the links to hold that binding in place.
