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At dinner yesterday, Whitney asked if I enjoy beingpakhan, and in truth, I didn’t know how to respond. I’ve never given a second thought to whether it’s what I want to do. The responsibility was thrust upon me so suddenly, I barely had time to wrap my mind around the job–let alone process whether I might like it. Now, I suppose I might have time to figure that out.
But more than that, I’m drawn to the thought of spending my time uncovering what Whitney wants and desires. Nothing feels better than making a girl come on my cock, and my night with Whitney tops them all. I can sense the fight within her, the ferocity that would make her more fun to handle than all of the women who so willingly bend and mold to my desires.
Whitney will suit my needs far better than the girls I found before because she’s going to challenge me. And I love a good challenge. Before I can let my thoughts run away with me once more, I turn off the cascade of hot water running over my body and step from the shower. Grabbing a towel, I roughly dry myself and wrap it around my waist before heading into my room to pick an outfit for tonight.
Seeing as I won’t even be picking Whitney up until ten, there won’t be time for dinner. We’ll be heading straight to the club, so I dress more casually this time. Jeans and a T-shirt. Combing my wet curls into place, I then add a touch of cologne and give my appearance a cursory glance before heading toward the door.
Tonight is about showing Whitney the kind of fun she might have as my woman. I know I’ll need to take it a bit easy on her, considering she’ll be sore from last night and she’s not yet ready forallI have in store for her. But I’m curious to see how many gears we can shift through.
8
WHITNEY
Saturated with the stench of fry grease and more than exhausted after another day on my feet following the night I had with Ilya, my body’s begging me to simply take a shower and fall into bed. I don’t know how I’m supposed to meet up with Ilya in an hour when my pussy is still sore from my first time, and I’m slightly dreading being penetrated again so soon when it hurts to even walk. But I don’t dare call him to cancel. I suspect that if I do, there won’t be a second chance, and I’m not ready to throw in the towel before I really know what this deal is going to entail.
That being said, my brain has been incessantly warring back and forth over the morality of accepting Ilya’s offer. I’m still struggling with the concept of selling myself in exchange for education but trying to keep an open mind. And I can’t stop thinking about the fact that Ilya is so much older than me.Falling prey to an older man who’s offered to take care of me? To handle all my financial needs?It screams daddy issues, and Ihatethe thought of succumbing to that overplayed excuse.Still, what does it say about me that I find an older man so attractive?
Hopefully, it’s just the fact that I find tall, muscular men with Russian accents sexy as fuck–which I do without a doubt. It definitely doesn’t hurt that I can’t stop thinking about my first time and how good Ilya made me feel. If all sex feels that good, the price of my education seems far less steep than I had originally thought. Especially now that I don’t have something as monumental as my virginity to lose over it.
Mom’s picked up an extra shift at the diner–again–so the apartment is empty as I step inside and immediately begin to strip, ridding myself of the grubby uniform as I make a beeline for the shower. I wish I had time to let the water warm, but I don’t. Instead, I grind my teeth and step beneath the frigid rain as I stoop for the shampoo.
I’m soaped and rinsed in five minutes and gratefully removing myself from the lukewarm flow to wrap myself in a terry-cloth towel. Blow drying my hair as quickly as I can, I do my best to style it into my classic wispy pixie cut, then head out to the main room to collect my clothes on the way to my bedroom.
I throw on a leather miniskirt and white crop top, not bothering with tights this time, seeing as I’m sure Ilya will just have me take them off. Cramming my feet inside my combat boots, I leave them unlaced for the same reason. Then I head back into the bathroom to do my makeup.
I’m ready in record time, impressed when I glance at the clock and still have five minutes to spare. I haven’t had time to eat tonight, but whatever. I’ll have plenty of time to make up for that once I decide whether or not I’m going to sell my soul to a Russian mob boss or refuse his offer and live in squalor one more semester before my dream comes crumbling down around my ears.
In place of dinner, I pop two Advil to try and alleviate a bit of my discomfort, swallowing them dry before I head toward the door.
The gentle purr of Ilya’s blue Lamborghini greets me as soon as I walk through the front door of our apartment building, which surprises me because it means he’s early–and he’s been waiting. The passenger-side door opens for me, and I slide inside without waiting for an invitation.
“I would have come up to get you, but from what you said yesterday, I assumed you would prefer I did not,” he says by way of greeting.
“A man who listens. You’re a rare breed,” I observe dryly, flashing him a cheeky smile.
Ilya releases a snort as the door closes behind me, and his attention shifts to the road as he puts his sleek car in gear.
“Thank you,” I add, to show it does actually matter that he’s considering what I’ve told him. Though my mom happens to be at work tonight, I would far rather not have to explain an older Russian gentleman showing up on our doorstep.
“Don’t thank me just yet,” he warns with a dark smile, flashing me a side-eye that makes my stomach twist nervously.
I've learned not to bother asking where we are going, assuming he’ll respond with the same vague nonanswer as he gave me the first time he picked me up. Instead, I observe him more carefully tonight. He looks more relaxed tonight–not just in his dress, though he’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt that shows off his impressive biceps and shoulders rather than the suit he wore yesterday. Something in the set of his jaw, the easy way his head tilts, tells me today is a better day than yesterday was. But I can’t find the nerve to ask him about it.
In minutes, we pull up in front of Tanya’s once again, and I know for sure that we’re cutting straight to the chase tonight. I wonder if that’s simply because of my schedule or if it might not be a larger implication of Ilya’s preference for a direct style of communication. If that’s what he likes, then I’m all for it.
This time, I’m armored with a better sense of confidence than I was last night. Though I’m nervous about having sex again when my body’s still feeling the residual effects of last night, I understand better what I’m in for. And strangely, I trust Ilya to know how far he can push my body after experiencing how well he played with it before.
I have the mildest sense of deja vu as he tosses his keys to the same valet and places his hand on the small of my back to guide me through the club. But this time, he doesn’t bother taking me to the bar for a drink. Instead, he leads me down the hall to the same room as before.
Daring to take in my surroundings fully this time, I’m mesmerized by the number of odd contraptions that all look like various tools to chain someone up, strap them down, or otherwise incapacitate them for the pleasure of another. But I don’t have much time to think about all the possibilities before the door clicks shut behind me once again.
“You are a pretty little pet, aren’t you?” Ilya says behind me, his voice dropping impossibly low as he transitions into his more menacing Dom persona.
I recognize the shift this time, and the hair on the back of my neck rises, belatedly warning me of danger, as I already know what’s coming. I force his quick crash course of an explanation through my brain once more, putting my game face on as I realize that the role play has already begun. My skin tingles with a combination of anticipation and fear as I try to read into the character I’m supposed to be for him. He’s given me no warning, no time to prepare, and suddenly, I worry that I might not know how to play make believe like he wants.
Ilya stalks around me, brushing me lightly with his fingertips as if to examine my assets–like chattel. My first hint. I keep my mouth closed, assessing him as I debate whether I’m supposed to be a form of slave or an actual pet of some kind. Ilya pauses in front of me, his hand gripping my jaw as he turns my head from side to side, inspecting my features.
“A beautiful face, but will you be of any use to me?” he purrs. He pinches my chin between his finger and thumb. “Open,” he commands.
