Carole Remy: Twelve Nights

$120,000 + Expenses

Rich man wants companion for 12 nights. Attractive normal female. Never married. No children. Over 30 years old. No prostitutes. Reply to box 74716.

Angel examined her reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator. Shoulder length auburn hair, every gilded strand in curled place. Eyes jade green to match earrings. She held up her hand. The red-tipped nails contrasted nicely with the sheer ink black slip dress. She slid a hand across the fragile macramé-knotted skimmer that barely hid her mounded breasts. Men loved knots. Her lacy black panties showed just enough, she noted as her hand slid down a flat stomach. She cupped and squeezed her mound of Venus gently in passing. Time to get to work.

The elevator doors opened and she stepped onto a plush oriental carpet. Her fuck-me high heels sank into the luxuriant wool and one ankle twisted.

“Shit,” she murmured as she righted herself. She rotated her ankle, then stepped on confidently.

Angel’s eyes flicked sideways as she approached the door to suite 1027. The room was the last in the hall and the elevator several yards and a heavy fire door away. She slicked her hands once again down already smooth sides and lifted her hand to knock. The door opened.

“Come on in, honey.”

Angel lowered her hand and smiled. The man was older and balding. They usually were. He wore a white dress shirt, no tie and dark gray pants. His belly paunched over a braided leather belt. Mushy thighs, Angel thought, and smiled harder.

The man reached his hand toward Angel’s arm and she let herself be drawn into the room. Standard hotel-expensive. King size bed. Midnight blue bedspread. Matching sofa with red accent pillows. Card-size table and two padded armchairs. Armoire with entertainment. Small bar fridge. Probably a jacuzzi in the bathroom. She noted the expensive shoes aligned beside the dresser. A precise man, despite the paunch.

She reached up to touch the man’s cheek.

“Are you ready to have a good time?” Her voice was husky and moist.

Angel’s hand slid down to cup the man’s crotch. He was limp and she squeezed gently.

“What’s your name, honey?” she asked.

“You can call me Captain.”

The man lifted Angel’s hand from his crotch and squeezed it in his own.

“Three hundred bucks an hour, right?” he asked.

Angel nodded.

“No rush.” The man grinned. “There’s a thousand dollars in my briefcase for you if you make me happy, sweetheart.”

Three hours.

“My name’s Angel.”

“You’re very pretty, Angel.”

“Thank you. Would you like me to strip for you?”

“You let me decide what I want and when, girlie,” the man’s voice coarsened then smoothed as he continued. “I’ll let you know.”

“That’s fine,” Angel agreed.

She tugged gently to release her hand but the man held it firmly and led her to the table. He bent her wrist to seat her. Too late she saw the handcuff that dangled from one arm of the chair. She swung her free arm toward the man’s face, but he blocked her fist with his forearm and wrenched her other wrist down to the chair arm.

“Go ahead,” he grunted. “I like a little fight.”

Angel lifted her foot to kick his shin. She heard the click of the handcuff as her foot swung awkwardly past the man’s sidestepping leg. Her motion threw her across the chair and she cried out as the handcuff bit into the flesh of her wrist. The man righted her in the chair, then swung back his hand and slapped her across the cheek. The back of her head hit the chair and bounced forward. The same hand that slapped her then cradled her chin gently and turned her head from side to side.

“A red mark from my fingers, but no bruising,” the man said. “Behave yourself or it’ll go worse for you.”

“I am going to leave,” Angel stood slowly and grabbed the chair in both hands. She held the chair in front of her like a lion tamer.

“I don’t think so,” the man taunted.

He put both hands on a bottom strut of the chair and jerked it forward. His force snapped the chair out of Angel’s hands and the handcuff bit again deep into her wrist. She looked down at the trickle of blood that ran toward her matching fingertips. She started to cry.

“I told you, girlie…”

“My name is Angel,” she interrupted.

The man twitched the chair and fresh blood trickled down Angel’s wrist.

“Girlie, you do what I say and I won’t hurt you.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

“Say, ‘Yes, sir, Captain.’”

“Yes, sir, Captain.” The words were a thread that bound her to him as securely as the handcuffs.

He righted the chair.

“Sit down,” he commanded. Angel sat.

“Now the rule is very simple,” he explained. “You don’t hurt me, and I don’t hurt you.”

“Yes,…” she began.

“Maybe,” he interrupted and laughed. “Are you scared?”

“Yes,” she paused, “sir, Captain.”

“Good. Feel my cock. Gently.” Angel reached her unbound hand forward and patted the bulge in his pants. “Thought I couldn’t get it up, huh?”

Angel lifted watery eyes.

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Let’s see your titties, Angel. How do you get that dress off?”

“Over my head.”

“Well, go ahead.”

The captain stood inches in front of Angel as she twisted in the chair, trying to bring her left shoulder down to her handcuffed right hand. At last she grasped the macramé skimmer and stretched it out to pass beneath her elbow. Once her arm was free, she slid the knotted garment over her head and down to rest against the bound wrist. She glanced up then at the captain and found his eyes eagerly probing the sheer fabric that barely shadowed her breasts.

“Lift your arm,” he commanded.

Angel raised her unbound limb and closed her eyes as the Captain stroked her underarm. She flinched automatically away from even the gentle touch.

“Hold still.” His voice was calmer now, as though he spoke to a skittish animal.

Angel forced her nerve endings to relax as he ran first the pads and then the nails of his fingers up and down her smooth armpit.

“Stand up.”

Angel shifted her weight forward and held her arm aloft as she tipped onto her feet. She could not stand erect, but hunched toward the handcuffed wrist. The man grasped the slip dress at the hem and pulled it slowly inside out as he raised it across her body. The silk slid over exercise-taut curves and the heat of the man’s fingers reached out through the sheer fabric toward Angel’s skin. At last the dress lay puddled on the arm of the chair. Angel watched as her blood stained the black silk to a shiny gloss.

“Bend over the chair.” The man’s voice was hoarse.

Angel stood, placed a hand on each arm of the chair and bent at the waist. Now at least she knew what to expect. She heard the snick of a zipper sliding down. Maybe he would be quick. She knelt forward to rest her knees on the padded front edge of the seat.

“Spread your knees.”

“My panties.”

“Take them off.”

Angel crouched and wiggled as she stripped off the black lace one-handed. She started to step out of her shoes.

“Leave them on.”

Angel resumed her position and spread her knees as far apart as the chair would allow. She ducked her head and rounded her back, lifting her hips in invitation.

“You like to butt-fuck, girlie?”

“I don’t do that,” Angel protested. “Didn’t the secretary…”

“I guess the connection wasn’t too good,” he laughed. “Don’t you tense up now.”