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LUCINDA
I can’t move. Terror has me rooted to the spot, but it’s not terror moving my hand up and down over his cock. It’s not even his hand. He’s guiding me, but I know that even if he pulls his hand away, I won’t stop. I hold my body stock still, not knowing how to act, not wanting to show any emotion at all. It’s a mechanical thing, I tell myself. Not a big deal.
Except it is a big deal.
Everyone knows Lucinda Waldgrave as being worldly wise. As going through boyfriend after boyfriend, but I’m not the woman the media knows. I’m known as a tramp, a whore, someone who has more notches on my bedposts than most people have hot dinners. The public probably thinks this is what I do on a daily basis, but I don’t. The media know nothing about me. No one knows the truth about who I am and I can’t blame Mercier and the others for thinking I’m something I’m not. I realize that Mercier’s hand has dropped away and I’m doing this all by myself. I could stop any time I want, but I don’t. Fear of what he would do to me if I didn’t comply had me letting his hand guide me in the first place, but, I’m ashamed to admit, it’s curiosity that’s keeping me going. My cheeks are blazing with humiliation and I’ve never been more aware of myself, of what I’m doing and yet I don’t stop.
“What’s that?” I whisper, feeling the small cold spheres on the underside of his penis. Two lines of them from the base to the top.
“You’ve never seen... felt a Jacob’s ladder before?” His hand touches mine again, guiding it up the underside, touching the strange spheres that feel like metal. “What’s a Jacob’s ladder?”
He only laughs and once again I feel like I’m in a foreign place. He’s laughing at my naivety. It would be so easy to let go and run from him. I know how many steps there are to the bedroom door. I know the only obstacle between me and it is the edge of the sofa. Sure, he could run after me and do much worse, but it’s not fear pinning my feet to the ground, it’s the new found power I feel as I run my hand up and down. I like how his breathing has quickened, how he’s gripping my shoulder with one hand. I wonder if I move from his grip, if he would fall. For the first time in my entire life, I feel like I’m no longer the puppet, but the master.
“That’s good, Sinful,” he breathes out. His voice is lighter than usual, more rushed. Shame courses through my veins, not at what I’m doing, but how my own body is reacting to it. He’s not my friend, and he’s not my lover. I don’t even like him and yet my body is urging me to continue this sick charade. My body is thrumming with anticipation that I hide by remaining like stone, my hand the only part of me moving. Guilt wars with fascination as I slowly stroke up to the tip and back again, just like he showed me. I’ve never been more conflicted in my life as I find myself wanting to explore him further and yet race to my room and hide under my covers at the same time.
What I’m doing feels like breaking the rules, but no one has ever set any rules about this. No one has ever had any need to before now. What exactly do I think is going to happen to me? No one is going to pop out of the woodwork and punish me for what I’m doing, and yet it feels so undeniably wrong.
So why don’t I just stop?
Because I don’t want to.
“Hold tighter. A little faster.” I follow his instructions, trying to remain impassive as my body heats up. I tell myself it’s mortification burning inside me, but I know that’s not true. I’m enjoying this, and not just because of the control I have over him. I’m enjoying this because I’m turned on. I squeeze my thighs together to stem the heat that’s building within me. I want to turn my head, to hide, not knowing if there are any tells on my body about what’s happening within it. Can Mercier tell I’m enjoying this? I feel like there may as well be a sign on my forehead announcing it to the world, despite me doing everything to hide it. My eyes are closed, my lips set in a grim line. My body might as well be a statue for all the movement I’m doing, but inside I feel like lava is running through my veins. I can’t let him know. He’s an entitled asshole that doesn’t deserve to know the effect he’s having on me. Let him have his thrill, but I want to keep my own excitement locked away along with the shame and humiliation. This will be over soon, I tell myself. Then I can go to bed and pretend none of this night ever happened.
“Open your eyes for me, Sinful.” His voice has changed. It’s lower, more guttural. Urgent.
I let my eyelids flicker open and aim my eyes anywhere but at him.
“Look at me,” he breathes out.
“I can’t.”
“Look at me!”
I turn my eyes in his direction, seeing only blackness. Heat rushes to my face and to my core as he grabs my other shoulder and spills onto me. Sticky wetness drenches my fist as he lets out a loud grunt.
My knees shake and the feeling of power leaves me. I don’t understand how I’m supposed to feel. The myriad of emotions rushing through my body confuse me. I just want to go to bed now. To be locked back in my room, away from Mercier, away from everyone, so I can assimilate what has just happened to me.
“Good Girl, Sinful. Now, can you see me?”
I don’t know what he wants me to say. I can’t see him. I’ll never be able to see him and he knows that. I’m playing a game and I don’t know the rules. I shake my head slowly. He brings my hand up to my face and wipes his cum over my lips. When he speaks, he’s whispering in my ear. “Lick, Sinful.”
I shake my head, more forcefully this time. Hot tears pool at the corner of my eyes, although I don’t know why. I made this happen. I could have walked away, and I didn’t.
His hand tightens on my wrist, causing me to cry out. “Lick your lips, Sinful. I want you to see me.”
With tears running down my cheeks, I do as he asks, tasting him.
“Now, can you see me?”
I nod.
“That’s my girl.” He kisses my cheek just in front of my ear, wetting his own lips, this time with tears.
My mutinous heart leaps at the small gesture, adding to the humiliation. Will my own body never stop betraying me, or does it know what I want more than I do?
It hurts that I’m so starved for affection, my heart will pound for someone like Mercier. It just hurts, period.
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