2. Rhaim

2

RHAIM

S even spanks in, and there was a strong chance I was going to hell.

I'd always assumed that if there was one, I was, because where the hell else—pun intended—would have me?

But the longer this went on—and I wanted it to last a very, very long time, far longer than I'd asked the others in line behind me for permission—the more certain I became.

I'd started slowly, rubbing her between blows, my callused hands taking their fill of her beautiful half-moon curves, sliding over the mere millimeters of cheap fabric that kept me from her skin.

Then she'd pitched her hips up higher, practically begging me for violence, and I felt myself inclined to give it to her...and I knew she'd let me, if I asked her right.

I sank back into the throne a little bit and jutted my hips forward, contemplating the perfection of her ass, as the shine of her costume was being slowly dulled by my handprints.

"You do realize you're the most perfect girl here, don't you?" I said, stroking a hand across her lower back.

I felt her whole body tense—her stomach muscles against my thigh, her arms straighten against the ground. I even heard her give a little gasp.

"There I was, sitting all by myself at the bar, wondering what I was going to do with the rest of my night," I said, as rhythmically as possible, like I was charming a snake, and I moved my hands from stroking to palming, kneading the places on her I'd already hit, that I was sure were sore. "And then you came in, and I knew."

That...wasn't precisely accurate. But we were in a scene, and I was well aware it was what she wanted to hear.

"You did?" she said softly, twisting her head back quickly to look at me over her shoulder.

Lucifer was handing me his business card.

Beelzebub was opening a gate.

"I did," I lied, and somewhere in the distance I heard Astaroth throwing away a key. "You were meant for my hand from the moment I saw you," I said, running one of my forefingers down the seam stretched against her crack. The action made her close her eyes and shudder, and it was all I could do not to evilly laugh. "Can I spank you harder, Lia?" I used her name because I hoped she would know it was a genuine request, but as soon as her eyes opened, and before she could rationally answer, I switched tactics like the asshole I was doomed to be. "Do you think you can take it for Daddy?"

She twisted more fully toward me at that, panting harder than the pain required. "I can take anything," she breathed.

And in that moment . . . I wanted to give it to her.

It'd never occurred to me that perhaps I was the one who needed a safe word.

"You don't mean that," I told her in a low growl. "We discussed this."

Her eyes blazed and she shook her head. "Don't tell me what I don't mean."

"Then maybe you do need punishing after all," I threatened.

"There's nothing you can do that can hurt me," she proclaimed, and I quite literally felt her insubordination as she physically braced for whatever onslaught she was taunting.

But I was older than her, and wiser than her, and extraordinarily used to getting my way.

"No?" I asked her rhetorically—and then roughly slid my hand between her thighs.

Her whole body tensed as she gasped.

"Technically this is within the priorly arranged touching zone," I said, twisting my wrist to gain a little freedom—enough space to run the pads of my first two fingers against the fabric trapped against her pussy.

She took a long and shuddering inhale, before protesting, "You wouldn't."

"You clearly don't know me," I said, leaning over, to look her directly in her eyes. "I absolutely would."

It was nothing to find her clit—I highly doubted she was wearing underwear—and once I was there, the only thing that would stop me would be her saying the name of an overrated car brand. I traced lightly against it, getting her used to the idea of me touching her intimately—and the expression on her oval-shaped face was an exquisite combination of turned on and betrayal.

"Are you okay?" I asked her softly.

Me asking made her melt against me and she quickly nodded. "I think so," she said, then nervously added, "You're not really mad?"

Daddy issues indeed. "How could I be?" I told her, then gave her my best impression of a warmhearted grin as I stilled my hand. "When everyone here is going to watch the prettiest girl in this room come for me?"

Her gaze lingered on mine, as she bit her full lower lip and then slowly released it as her thighs squeezed to pull my fingers in.

"Such a good girl," I praised her, sitting back up. She gave me one last longing look, and then braced one hand on the ground and clutched the other against my calf. I pushed my hand in deeper, for better leverage as I stroked her, and her thighs parted to let me.

I ran a figure-eight pattern over her clit, before pulling it between my first two fingers in a gentle V, feeling her rock against me. I had no idea how much time had passed, but if anyone else in line complained before I got her off, I would kill them personally.

"So beautiful, so passionate," I crooned on. "So smart to pick me," I added, and felt her laugh. She pushed her knees a little wider, giving me more space, and I rubbed my thumb against her pussy, which made her moan. "Did you like that?" I asked, so quietly she probably couldn't hear—but she might have felt the soothing rumble of my voice. I circled her entrance, pressing hard against the fabric that separated us, while working against her clit with my fingertips and knuckles. "Is my little girl going to come for me?" I asked more loudly.

Her hand around my calf grabbed tighter, and her hips rose in response, grinding against my hand, and riding up and down the shaft of my trapped cock, too.

I had sudden visions of what I would do to her if no one else was there. I would stay on the throne of course, but I would rip her out of her silly catsuit, wind my palm with her long hair, and make her ride me. I would come in her pussy, her mouth, and her ass, and after I'd satisfied myself with every hole, I'd stripe her tits with my cum just because I could.

She gave a needy whine, pulling me back from my reverie.

"Mmmm," I purred, leaning forward to capture her hips between my lap and my chest as I put my elbow between her knees, and turned my hand into a fist, so I could bring all the muscles of my forearm to bear, rocking against her pussy's edges with the knuckle of my thumb, feeling the muscles of her cunt quiver with anticipation. "Does my little girl need me?"

She was panting harder now, it was easy to see the movement of her ribcage beneath her catsuit's shine. "Yes," she hissed.

I changed angles and took a long moment to just trace the folds of her pussy and stroke at her clit, and no matter where my fingers went, her hungry hips chased me. I would've laughed, were I not so breathlessly hard. "Yes what?" I asked.

"Yes, sir," she begged, arching into me. Her entire body was tense, her toes pointed far harder than her precipitously high heels required. I could tell she was on a cliff; all she needed was to be pushed over.

And for this one instance, this singular moment in time, I was a man who could not resist temptation. I ground into her pussy and rubbed her clit roughly.

"Yes...what?" I asked again, more meaningfully, and the second she realized what I was giving her permission to do her fingers clawed me, her hips hitched up, and I came as close as I could to fully fucking her with my hand.

"Yes—yes— Daddy ," she cried out, arching against me, coming beautifully, the muscles of her stomach pulling tight against my thigh in waves as her orgasm hit her, passed through, and then roiled back again. She kept crying out as she came, making pleasing, helpless sounds, absolutely lost in the moment, utterly forgetting that we were in the middle of a crowd.

"Mmm, good, so good," I promised her, stroking her back as I followed her through, my hand riding each of her spasms. "What a good girl," I swore, petting her until she stilled. "You needed that, didn't you?" I kindly asked, like I was doing everything for her sake, like she hadn't just given me enough material to jerk off without porn for the rest of the year.

Her hips slowly sank, and she released me to reach for the ground with both hands, pushing herself up, to collapse to the ground on the other side, sliding off of me to scattered applause.

I watched the realization that we weren't alone flood her, as her lips parted with surprise, but she didn't take her eyes off of me.

"Are you all right?" I asked her, and she nodded.

"A little lightheaded," she said, bowing briefly down so her blood pressure could even out, all fears about her catsuit's seams forgotten. One sleeve had rolled up, exposing a simple gray-shaded moth tattooed on her inner wrist, as delicate as she was.

"Yeah, you came pretty hard," I told her, as she attempted to gather herself, and I realized I liked her just like that.

Wrecked by me, and kneeling.

And because unlike certain people, I hadn't gotten the chance to come—which apparently meant that all of my sensible blood was in my cock—there was nothing left to check the urge to say so.

I leaned down to take her chin in my hand again and raise it, making her look up.

"If we ever play again, I'd want you to lick my shoes and worship me."

Her eyes went wide, and she nodded slowly—and as my own blood redistributed itself, I let her go.

"You were brilliant, Lia," I said, hopefully summoning both of us back to reality with the sound of her name. I stood and offered her my hand. She took it, standing upright shakily, and I carefully moved us away, making sure she didn't trip on the step down, pulling us to a darkened corner of the room before releasing her. "How do you feel?"

She patted her herself with her hands like she was unfamiliar with her body. "Dizzy," she said, "but good."

I made eye contact with a circulating server who came over with two flutes of champagne, and took both, offering one over to her.

"These are on my tab, seeing as I don't believe you actually have one. But thank you for an excellent scene," I said, and made our glasses clink. "You should probably take some Aleve tonight, and sit on an ice pack in the morning."

She stared at the glass and its contents like they were alien things, and then she looked at me. "Did you have a good time?"

"Yes. Of course. I only do things I enjoy," I said, brushing her question away.

She nodded her head and smiled at me. "Then...can we talk?"

And here it came. The part of the evening where she would try to make plans with me, to create some nebulous future out of nothing more than sheer endorphins. I cursed silently. "No. You are not mine, nor do I want you." Lia blinked, rocking back on her heels.

I'd been in this exact same situation a hundred times before, and learned that abruptness verging on rudeness was the only cure.

"I say a lot of things in a scene, and I'm willing to suffer a fair amount of carpal tunnel to get a girl off," I admitted, before taking a sip of my drink and giving her a look of pity. "But somewhere out there I suspect you have an actual father, and I suggest you get over him."

Little Lia stood much straighter as her sudden shame sobered her up.

And then she threw her drink at me.

I laughed half a second after the cold champagne hit my face, licking away a trail of bubbly alcohol and blotting it off with my tie before it could reach my eyes.

"That's too bad," I said, polishing my own glass off with a grin. "It was very expensive. You would've liked it."

"Fuck you," she said.

"You almost did," I taunted, and watched her nostrils flare and her eyes burn. She was so spirited—no wonder I wanted to break her.

Not for any dire purpose— no —for the same reason people pulled apart daisies.

Just because I could.

Because it was the only thing I was good at.

"Get home safely, little girl—it's probably past your curfew," I said, taking her empty glass from her as she sputtered, putting both our glasses on a nearby table. "And think fondly of me tomorrow, when you see my handprints on your ass."

I gave her a low wave, then turned around, walking to the coat check to collect my coat, my phone, and summon an Uber.

Did I fuck my hand that night?

Yes.

Fuck yes.

I spent half the ride home hard. Luckily my coat hid it from the doorman. I was tempted to stroke myself in the elevator, but remembered they had cameras in time—so I made it to my own door, first, until it was locked behind me, and I'd stumbled to my couch.

I should've taken pity on my dry cleaners, but they were used to me, and besides, they were already going to be getting out champagne. It didn't matter, I'd pay them a fucking hazmat fee—I just needed to stroke myself to completion, imagining myself buried inside her cunt.

Because I'd already wanted to blow tonight, it didn't take long at all—just remembering the perfect curves of her ass and her wriggling body and—I was gasping and groaning in moments, covering myself with my own cum.

I rocked my head back like the rest of my body was a traitor—because it was. I had only the most tenuous connection to it: I punished it in the gym, I forgot to feed it for days at a time, and I worked straight through for weeks without enough sleep.

And then here it was tonight, making demands—already getting hard again, like it'd never heard of a refractory period.

"She's not even here," I complained. But it was like my body didn't know that—not when, if I breathed in deeply enough, I could convince myself I could still smell her hair.

"Fuck," I cursed, and the rest of me agreed.

I let my hands do what they wanted to, closing my eyes, and this time, I imagined her riding me.