Fantasies R Us, page 12
Madame Amour folded her arms across her chest. “It sounds to me like de girl did not get what she paid for.”
Ninety-Nine faced Madame Amour. “She requested the Cinderella fairytale. She got the Cinderella.”
“If she got de Cinderella as she requested, she and her Prince Charming would have spent the rest of their time in a palace making love.”
Ninety-Nine’s holographic mouth remained as pleasantly lifted at the corners as ever, but her words cut through the room like a machete. “Do you not value your employment with Fantasies R Us, dresser?”
Jayne gaped at the holographic fantasy facilitator. She was threatening Madame Amour. It hadn’t occurred to Jayne that a hologram could threaten.
Because a hologram couldn’t. But whoever spoke through the hologram could and right now that person was threatening the only ally she had at Fantasies R Us.
“Look here,” Jayne demanded, invading Ninety-Nine’s projected space and looking squarely into a lens of the uppermost ball. “Your dresser is assisting me, your client. Is that not what your employees are supposed to do?”
“One moment, please,” Ninety-Nine intoned, then closed her eyes and went still.
* * * * *
“The woman has less than an hour left,” muttered the owner of Fantasies R Us, straightening from the control panel overlooking the bank of monitors. Jayne’s face filled the center screen. “She has fifty-three minutes to be precise. We are not going to set up another venue for a fifty-three minute fantasy.”
Tech Con Op Kalli, having made room for her boss at the control panel remained slumped back in her ergonomically designed chair, arms crossed over her chest. “What do you propose we do with her, Wolfgang?”
“Tell her it’s like visiting a shrink. You pay for a full hour but you don’t get one.”
“We can’t tell her that. She’s entitled to her full fantasy period.”
“What’s she going to do if we don’t give it to her, sue?”
“She could.”
“She hasn’t the income to afford a full week here, let alone a lawyer. Besides, look at her.” On the center screen, Jayne glanced nervously in the direction of the dresser. “She’s a mouse. Tell her she’s lucky we went to the trouble of accommodating a weekend fantasy.”
“We accommodated her,” muttered Kalli, “because we were desperate for the business. Then there’s that little number you pulled on her.”
“She knows nothing about that,” snapped Schmuck. “And she’s never going to know. Just tell her it’s over and she has to leave…or perhaps you’d like to join that blasted dresser in the unemployment lines.”
Kalli sighed and reached for the button controlling Ninety-Nine. But before she could put the hologram back into play, the control center door burst open and a bare-chested man stormed in, the image of the holographic receptionist who’d attempted to block his entry crackling in his wake.
“She doesn’t know, does she?” he demanded.
“Now, now Mr. Vanderbilt, take it easy,” Wolfgang Schmuck simpered, intercepting the client midway between the control console and the door, hands defensively raised. “We’ll have you back in your fantasy in a blink.”
“And her?” Michael Vanderbilt demanded, backing the company owner into the control panel. “Will she be informed that I’m real? That I’m not a cyborg?”
“Who?” Schmuck squeaked, his playing dumb adding fuel to Michael’s already boiling temper.
Behind Schmuck, the Tech Con Op rolled her eyes at the bank of monitors. Michael scanned them, stopping when he found Jayne’s bewildered face framed in one of them. Then he turned his attention fully back to Fantasies R Us’ owner and growled in his most menacing tone, “You know who.”
Wolfgang winced. “The woman wanted to lose her virginity and you wanted a virgin. It was a perfect match.”
“You sent her in believing she would have a fantasy with a safe cyborg,” Michael said through clenched teeth.
The owner straightened his tie, dusted off his sleeve and huffed, “Do you know how hard it is to find a real virgin of legal age these days?”
“She should have been told. She should have been given the choice.”
“She shouldn’t have had to pay,” muttered the Tech Con Op.
Michael’s face jerked at the operator. “She paid?”
“She most certainly did not,” huffed Schmuck, curling a lip at the Tech Con Op.
“Guess I won’t be seeing any performance bonus this year,” simpered the operator.
“She did say something about a weekend being all she could afford,” Michael said, his eyes narrowing on the man who seemed to have lost any interest in meeting his client’s gaze. “How about it, Schmuck? Did she pay?”
“I, ah, er—”
Michael grabbed Schmuck by the lapels of his expensive suit. “You collected from both of us?”
Schmuck shrugged best he could while hanging from two fists. “You both got what you wanted.”
“For which I paid a very hefty fee,” Michael growled.
Wolfgang attempted a solicitous smile. “She was quite satisfied with you.”
“She should have been told the truth about this fantasy.” Michael threw the man back against the control panel before he succumbed to his wish to choke the life from him. “Damn it, she doesn’t even have a week-long fantasy and that doesn’t work for my fantasy.”
“We’ll find you another virgin.”
Michael raised a dubious eyebrow at Schmuck. “Suddenly virgins of legal age are not so hard to come by?”
The owner flushed. “I’m sure we can find—”
Michael slammed a fist down on the console beside the man. “No. The deal was I would have a week to initiate a virgin properly to the pleasures of the body. I haven’t finished with her.”
“B-but she thinks her fantasy is done.”
“I don’t care what she thinks. All you need to know is that I have the means to make this screw-up of yours very messy for you.”
Michael jabbed a finger at the screen framing Jayne’s face. “I want her and only her.”
* * * * *
Ninety-Nine shimmered back to life, a magnanimous smile lifting across her holographic lips. “To make up for our grievous mistakes, we at Fantasies R Us are prepared to offer you the remainder of the week at no additional cost.”
Jayne’s heart jerked against her ribs. “A whole week? Really?”
She looked to Madame Amour for assurance that she’d heard right. The dressmaker nodded. A smile stretched across Jayne’s mouth until her cheeks hurt. All the frustration, the anxiety and the disappointment vanished. She was getting a whole week with Michael.
A whole week!
“There is only one condition,” said the holographic fantasy facilitator.
* * * * *
Jayne woke on a bed of soft moss, sunlight teasing her eyes open through a canopy of tree branches. A warm breeze wafted over her and the lush scent of tropical flowers filled her nose. She sat up and stretched in her cocoon of green, the skimpy leather dress she wore buttery-soft against her skin. She was distinctly aware of the absence of underwear and, with an unabashed grin, surveyed her new world from the platform built into the treetops.
Fantasies R Us had put a provision on her return to her fantasy. Actually, there’d turned out to be two conditions. The first had been she needed to provide a more detailed accounting of what she wanted in her fantasy. No problem there. With Madame Amour’s help, she came up with more than enough scenarios to occupy her for the remainder of the week, with specific orders that there be no more surprise visits from groups of men with lustful intentions.
The second provision, Fantasies R Us’ holographic facilitator had informed, was a deal-breaker. Jayne either accepted it or the fantasy was over.
Jayne lifted her face toward the rustle of activity making its way through the trees toward her. She smiled as the deal-breaking provision dropped from a vine onto the platform beside her wearing nothing more than a scant leather loincloth. As much as she loved a man in a poet’s shirt, a man without any shirt was even better.
“Michael.”
He thumped his chest and shook his head. “Me Tarzan.” Then he poked her in her breastbone. “You Jayne.”
She laughed with pure delight as much for their new fantasy game as her relief. She’d nearly lost him. No sweet goodbyes. No closure. Maybe that worked for a cyborg but not for a flesh and blood woman—not for her.
He grinned, pulled her against him and kissed her long and deep. His tongue swept the inside of her mouth, sparring with her tongue and tickling the roof of her mouth. Delight melted into desire—hot, molten, heart-scorching desire.
His hands strayed down her back, warm and urgent through her thin hide dress. They slid under the ragged hemline and stroked her bare bottom, making her hum with pleasure when his fingers slipped into her crack. The hum spread through her body. She would never get enough of this man. Breathless, flushed and as hot and wet as a rain forest between her legs, she demanded, “Take me, wild man. Take me the way a man raised by apes would take a woman.”
Without a single word, he turned her away from him, bent her over and shoved the skirt of her dress up over her hips. She parted her legs and raised her butt, presenting herself to him. An instant later, he was inside her. One, long, unrelenting stroke in, then out, then in again, possessing, dominating…primal. This wasn’t love. This was lust, base and feral. It burned through her, devouring her with single-minded purpose.
He bent over her back and growled, “Bend your knees.”
She complied without question. His next stroke pressed hard against her G-spot. Oh yes. Steadying herself against the tree trunk, she bent further, increasing the angle—the pressure.
A rumble of approval vibrated from her Tarzan’s throat and he nipped her shoulder. Pushing the dress further up her back, he captured her swaying breasts, pinched, rolled and twisted their nipples until she didn’t know which were harder, her nipples or the cock he hammered into her pussy.
She tipped her butt higher still, begging for more contact—more friction. He kept one hand servicing her nipples, but the other he moved down to the nest of curls between her legs. His fingers slid into her slit and brushed her clit.
She bucked back against him. He groaned and closed his thumb and forefinger on her clit. Again she bucked against him, but this time with a more measured, more controlled movement. She was rewarded with the long, slow glide of his cock.
His fingers released her clit as he reversed the slide of his cock. She wriggled against him, urgent with her need. The head of his cock hesitated at the mouth of her pussy. She went still, afraid the slightest movement would cause him to slip out of her—afraid she’d lose the torturous tingle of the nerve endings stretched around him.
A squeak of yearning escaped her and he drove himself back into her. Short, rhythmic thrusts that bumped and rubbed against her G-spot while his fingers teased nipple and clit.
The scream built in her throat with each thrust, each pinch. Every nerve ending in her body shuddered beneath the sensation surging through her. The intensity built to a near unbearable level, but still she was unable to cry out—unable to let go of her sanity. She was like a pressure cooker without a release valve.
He bit down her on the shoulder, not hard enough to break skin but hard enough to complete the circuit of pleasure erupting through her. She threw her head back and released the scream from her throat.
She screamed until every ounce of oxygen drained from her lungs, until darkness took her. When she came to, they were on their knees, still linked together. And she was still convulsing around him. His arms held her tight to his chest as she came down from her orgasm, his lips pressed to her shoulder, his body wrapped around hers—inside hers.
As the last spasm faded to a dull throb, they collapsed as one onto the mossy bed. Jayne’s last thought as she drifted off to sleep in Michael’s arms was if Fantasies R Us hadn’t given him back to her, it would have been a deal-breaker for her.
Chapter Ten
She kept The Tarzan and Jane scenario an extra day, trading off a day as Romeo and Juliet. Animal sex easily won out over teenage angsty romance. Besides, cloistered away by the lush jungle, she could forget about the outside world, the real world waiting for her return. It was just him and her…and the animals.
Her Tarzan had shown her the world from the back of an elephant, his arms securely around her making her feel safe and his hard body pressed to her back just plain making her feel. He’d introduced her to the king of beasts, allowing her to stroke the lion’s massive head and tangle her fingers through his full mane…then use the same techniques on him. On the other hand, the chimps were pests and the lack of modern plumbing had her ready to give up the back to nature scenario by the end of day two.
They spent day four playing out their version of the classic love-triangle movie, Casablanca. Illicit sex aside, sending the cuckolded husband off to Paris while her Ilsa stayed with Michael’s Rick reminded her too much of how she was going to have to say goodbye to Michael in too few days.
By day five, she was more than ready for the fun scenario of a husband and wife sleuth team ala the early nineteen-eighties’ television days. But set in a feather factory, the scene turned out to be more slapstick than romantic romp. Shots taken at them by the bad guy didn’t ricochet harmlessly off walls and the warehouse shelves. No. Every shot fired at them tore through down-filled pillows and comforters or bales of feathers, turning the scene into a blizzard of down. By the time the crime was solved and they’d captured the villain, she and Michael looked like two giant molting turkeys. No husband and wife sleuth team of television or movie ever looked more ridiculous.
But after they stripped off their feather-covered clothes, Michael had shown her just how much fun feathers could be. First, he tied her hands to the bedposts with silk scarves. Then he began his torture.
He started with his eyes, raking them the length of her naked body. A week ago, she’d have wanted to cross her arms over her exposed body. Heck, she had. But now she gloried in the hungry way his eyes explored her. To be so wanted, so desired made her wet between her legs.
Their gazes met and held. A devilish smile crept across his lips and he twirled a long-spined feather between his fingers. “I have just one more detail to tend to before I proceed.”
He trailed the feather down between her breast and across her belly, making her squirm. Such sweet torture. But he dropped the feather on her abdomen and left it there.
Dangling another silk scarf over her, he wagged his eyebrows. “The detail.”
Her eyes widened in anticipation and she had to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from grinning. “What are you going to do with that scarf?”
“Lift your head.”
“Please don’t blindfold me, master,” she said in mock horror.
His smile twitched as he leaned closer over her, the scarf stretched between his hands. “Lift your head, slave.”
She did as ordered and he tied the scarf over her eyes. The cool fabric warmed to her skin, became one with her as had the scarves binding her wrists to the bedposts. Yet they were alien, depriving her of sight and the sense of touch.
Wrong. She could still feel, just not with her hands. Every inch of her skin devoured sensation. The erotic slip of the silk bindings across her wrists and eyelids. The plush heat of the velvet bedcover warming her back. The cool air whispering over her nipples and pussy. She spread her legs, drawing the coolness against her wet lips.
“Not yet, slave,” Michael commanded. “I will tell you when you may open your legs.”
She groaned and pressed her thighs together, squeezing out the titillating cool air.
“Please, master.”
The mattress dipped beneath her, the air stirred across her flesh and his knuckles grazed her abdomen. She gasped as though he’d branded her. He sucked in a breath as though the contact had been as scorching for him, her sense of hearing having kicked into overdrive.
“Close your legs,” he growled.
She pressed her legs together, realizing she’d let them fall apart. She pressed them tight, wishing it was his hand pushing into her, knowing it soon would be. She’d heard in his voice a yearning that echoed hers.
She allowed herself a small smile and her sharpened sense of smell took in the musky scent of their lust—of him. He smelled wonderful. Yet he wore no perfume other than that of their lovemaking.
Something tickled her cheek. Startled, she jerked away.
“Fight me, slave, and I will have to punish you.”
“And what would my punishment be?” she asked almost eagerly, instantly back in game form.
“Perhaps you need a good spanking.”
He traced her profile with the feather. She made herself hold still this time even though she wanted to rise to the light touch. He stroked her lips, teased them until they were engorged with molten blood. She nipped at the feathery spine but her teeth caught only air.
“Tsk, tsk,” he scolded. “Such antics could get you a lashing.”
“I think I would prefer the spanking, master.” At least then I would feel your hand against my flesh.
“You think? Slaves don’t think. Slaves obey.” Harsh as he spoke the words, she heard their underlying tease.
“Dutifully noted, master,” she responded with proper submissiveness.
He tapped the tip of the quill against her chin then trailed it down her throat into the valley between her breasts. She tingled with anticipation. Where next would he touch her with his instrument of torture?
He circled one breast then the other. Over and over, he traced the figure eight pattern around her breasts until she squirmed for more. A low, throaty laugh rumbled from him and he withdrew the feather from her flesh.
