Nessie Larke

Since then, we'd taken on rather active roles in each other's sex lives. We'd gone from casually kinky sex to a formal dynamic pretty quick. (I'll spare you all the details of our negotiations. suffice to say, Henry made the decisions in our relationship, and I loved that.) And part of that - one of my favorite parts - was our agreement that whenever he wanted to, Henry could summon me to his apartment for sex.

It sounds a little weird maybe, but getting a text or a phonecall and having to drop everything to show up at his apartment (or, once, his car in a secluded corner of his work parking lot) is fucking hot.

In fact, pretty much the second I got his text, I went from relaxed and relieved to finally be done with a week that had, frankly, been hell, to literally squirming in my bathtub, fighting to resist the urge to touch myself. There was no official rule against me doing so, but Henry preferred I wait until he could watch.

Ten minutes should be long enough to drain the tub and put a robe on. You can let yourself in.

Of course I had known my half-assed protest wouldn't change his mind, but it certainly was more fun when he got insistent.

A robe? You want me to walk to your place in a robe.

Not that it was much of a distance. Maybe 20 feet across our units' shared lawn. I'd done it in skimpier outfits than my bathrobe.

You're welcome to do it naked if you'd prefer.

That made me laugh harder than it should have.

Fine. I'll be there in ten.

I'd barely had time to pull the plug before my phone vibrated again.

Five. And then, just a few seconds later, I was feeling more generous before you started talking back.

I wait until I have my robe on and am ready to dart across the lawn before I send my reply: That wasn't talking back. You'll know when I start talking back.

It's the closest to being a brat I'll ever get, but it has the intended effect.

Now, Violet. And don't think for a second I won't punish you, no matter how many times you insist you're innocent.

I don't text back to tell him I'm looking forward to it or that I wouldn't have it any other way, but we both know that's the case.

I've slipped into his apartment within a minute, and stopped short in his entryway. From there, I can see into his living room. He's rearranged. His favorite armchair has been pulled out of it's usual spot to stand only a few feet from the coffee table, facing it as if the chair was a throne at the head of a king's table. On the coffee table - its bright pink color garish and out of place surrounded by the warm neutrals of his furniture - stood a dildo. My dildo. Suction-cupped to the table's surface.

The set-up wasn't unfamiliar, but it was unexpected.

Where are you? I texted when I realized I couldn't hear him moving around. He almost always met me at the door.

Oh, I'm not home. Came his surprising answer. I left a toy for you.

I see that.

I know what he wants me to do with it, I just don't understand why.

Do you need step-by-step instructions, or can you figure it out?

I can actually hear the mockery that would be in his voice were he to say this out-loud.

I can figure it out, I assure him. But may I ask why? If you're not here to watch, I mean.

You may ask, but it's not really any concern of yours, so I probably won't bother to explain.

I'll genuinely never understand why being told I don't need to know his reasoning behind a task or command instantly sends me to my knees, metaphorically. He tells me it's none of my business why he wants something done, and I turn into a pile of very compliant mush.

I understand, I tell him.

Good girl. Another phrase that sends me into a tailspin of arousal and submission. Now get started. I'll be home eventually.

Yes, Henry.

Before I can set about my task, he sends another text.

Also, you won't be needing that robe.

Of course, I text back, immediately sliding the fleece garment from my shoulders.

It doesn't feel strange to be naked in Henry's living room. I spend most of my time at Henry's apartment naked. It does, however, feel weird to be there alone. For a second, I'm almost tempted to snoop. But I can't even begin to imagine the punishment if I got caught. So, instead, I do exactly what I know Henry expects.

Carefully, I climb onto the coffee table, facing Henry's chair. The last time I did this, he was sitting there, the absolute epitome of calm and relaxed. I had been shaking, my skin gone blotchy in embarrassment even as I ached for it. I hadn't been able to meet his eyes then, not until he ordered me too. This time, alone in the apartment, I am shaking just as hard. Instead of his eyes, it's his chair I keep trying to avoid. This time, I'm even more wet than before.

Wet enough, in fact, that I've already dripped onto the table.

I take my time getting into position, balanced on my hands and knees, legs spread wide to either side of the bright pink toy. It's not the largest of my toys, and already I'm so aroused I know I'll have no problem taking the entire length of it in one quick thrust, but I wait. I slide my pussy lips along the shaft first, coating it with my desperation, dragging the head of it against my clit until my shaking has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with how close I am to orgasm. I try to stifle the soft moans escaping my mouth, but it seems my mouth has a mind all its own. Besides, this is what Henry wants. He doesn't want me simply fucking a toy on his coffee table, he wants me putting on a show. Whether he's here or not.

I continue like this, rocking against the toy, humping it, really, until I know just a few more strokes would send me flying over the edge. There's no official rule that I can't orgasm without Henry's permission, but I almost never do. Someday, I'll be horny enough and subby enough to beg him to make it official.

For now, I slip a hand between my legs to hold the toy in place, surprising myself at how slick the silicone has become. I think of the mess I'll be by the time Henry gets home - weak and panting in a puddle of my own arousal, hair still wet and clinging to my back and shoulders and cheeks, dazed, slackjawed, drooling, - and my pussy actually twitches in anticipation.

I slide down the toy without resistance, crying out to the empty room at the fullness. I twitch a second time, tightening around the dildo inside me.

I want to lift one hand from the table and run my fingers over my nipples, pinching and tugging , but I remember last time, can almost see Henry leaning forward in his chair, yanking my hand away, using his own to twist my nipple until I'd begged him to let go. Scolding me for dividing my attention. This time, my hands stay fixed on the table as I begin to move. Within minutes, I've forgotten all about the preceding week, able to think only of the plastic cock between my legs.

I don't hear the door behind me open. I don’t know how long it's been since I started. I'm too lost in the feeling. I often tell Henry he makes my brain turn to mush when we play. This is a new level. Even when he speaks, it takes me a long moment to process that he's home.

"You're doing very well," He says, coming to stand between me and his chair. I'm not too proud to admit my eyes latch on to the subtle bulge in his pants, almost perfectly at eye level, his cock far more desirable than the fake one I'm still fucking myself with.

I don't say anything to his praise, not really. All that comes out of my mouth is ragged breathing interspersed with quiet little whimpers I can't suppress.

Fortunately, he doesn't expect me to say anything.

He does, however, cup his hand beneath my chin, forcing me to look up at him. He loves eye contact. I love him touching me. When he runs his thumb along my lips, I don't hesitate, I open my mouth and suck at the tip. He rewards me with a quiet sigh of pleasure, but he doesn't let me suck for long. Instead, he pulls away, brushes aside some of the hair clinging to my face and the corner of my mouth. I try to catch his fingers in my mouth in between thrusts, but he just laughs. He puts his hand beneath my chin again, this time running his knuckles down my throat, across one collarbone, down my breast until he can pinch my nipple between them. My rhythm stutters, but doesn't stop. Each gentle tug on my nipple pulls a whine from my throat. I can't arch my back any further, but I try, desperate to feel more than just these knuckles, more than just these gentle touches. He steps away again. I manage to scrape enough brain cells together to say "Please" to begin to beg for more. Before I get any further, he shushes me, but he does reach forward to tug on my other nipple a few times. It's not enough.

Henry steps further away. My hopes he might sit in his chair or, even better, might drag me into his chair with him, are dashed.

"Keep going," He says, as if I would stop without his say-so. And then he disappears from my line of sight, leaving me once again to fuck a dildo on his coffee table for the benefit of an empty chair.

I listen as he moves through the apartment, trying to follow his path so I know what to expect next. He goes down the hall, I assume towards his bedroom, because I hear the sound of clothing hitting the floor. Next, his dresser drawer opens. And once again my hopes he's about to pull me off this toy and replace it with his cock are dashed.

I miss his return to the main living area. No doubt because, somehow, my disappointment has driven my arousal even higher. If I could orgasm from penetration alone, I can't imagine how many orgasms I would have had by now. Instead, I'm riding so close to the edge I'm almost ready to cry.

Ice hits a glass, followed by liquid. When he reappears, he's dressed casually: dark jeans and a green shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his forearms. He knows I have a thing for the way his muscles flex in his forearms. He hasn't bothered to button and zip his pants. They hang low on his hips, revealing bare skin. I can smell the whiskey in his glass when he finally sits down.

His erection is obvious. I can't decide whether I want to climb into his lap or settle on my knees before him. Not that it matters. He'll decide what he wants eventually, but for now, he seems utterly at peace with just watching me. His eyes feel like they're scraping across my skin, leaving raw spots on all of my most sensitive parts.

I pick up my pace, encouraged when he smiles at me. I throw my all into the show I'm trying to put on, rolling my hips more dramatically, rocking back and forth harder and faster, arching my back to thrust my breasts out towards him. I make eye contact, even as my cheeks burn in embarrassment.

He takes a sip of his drink, playing the role of cool and unaffected. But I see his erection growing larger. Thank God.

"May I ask a question?" I manage to ask.

He doesn't answer right away, taking another sip, turning the ice over in his mouth as he considers.

"You may."

It takes me a second to remember what I was going to ask. "Why did you ask me to come over before you were even home?"

His voice is nonchalant. "I wanted you desperate for me the moment I walked in through the door. Did it work?"

"God yes," I say with a laugh. Before I can go into detail on just how well it's worked, he speaks again.

"Besides, it's not like you have anything better to be doing than fucking yourself on a dildo at my whim, right?"

Even as I picture my bathtub and the pint of ice cream in my fridge and the Netflix binge I had been looking forward to all week, I shake my head emphatically.

"I didn't think so," Still, he doesn't stand up. Instead, he fishes an ice cube out of his glass and leans forward. I know what's coming, but it doesn't stop me from yelping when the ice touches my nipple. I try to arch away from him without lifting my hands off the table, but he follows, his chair legs scraping against the floor as he brings it closer.

"Keep going," He orders, his voice harsher than before. I hadn't even realized I'd stopped in my attempts to get away from the ice. I hate ice. I whimper, but I start thrusting again, even as the movement presses the ice cube harder against my skin. When the cube is too small to hold, he slips it into his mouth and fishes out another. I open my mouth to protest, but he silences me with a look and presses the ice against my other nipple. I writhe against the cold. His other hand drops his glass on the table beside my knee and then tangles in my hair, using it to push and pull me back and forth on the dildo. "I said, keep going."

I'm not even sure I had stopped again, but his hand in my hair and the harshness of his voice sends me reeling.

"Please, Henry, please."

"Is the ice too much?" He asks, fake pity in his voice, pressing the ice tighter against me.

"It's all too much and not enough and fuck, please, I want you so badly. I've wanted you so badly since the moment I walked in here. Please, please, please."

"You have been very patient," He muses, "And, if I'm honest, I haven't been able to stop thinking about fucking you since I set this up this morning, well before I even sent that first text. Imagining your cunt around my cock does not make for a very productive work day."

I manage a laugh, "But hopefully a good day."

"Very good. I think I most enjoyed imagining the sounds you make. Your desperate little whines and whimpers, echoing around an empty room. Anyone but you, I might have spent more time wondering if you were phoning it in. But you, Vi, I can always count on you to put on a show. You might be incapable of doing otherwise."

Before I can even attempt a response, his hand in my hair tightens, pulling me up and off the toy. My thighs burn at the sudden change in position. His glass tumbles off the coffee table as he uses my hair to guide me, spinning me until my back is to him. Neither of us give a single fuck about the glass right now, except for a small corner of my mind that hopes he'll punish me for breaking it.

My face is pressed against the table's surface, his hand never loosening in my hair, pressing me down even as his other frees his erection, lining himself up with my entrance.

"Jesus, I don't think you've ever been this wet."

He is significantly larger than the toy I've been riding, but he slides in easily in one long, slow thrust. I'm faintly aware that I'm drooling on the table, but I can't seem to close my mouth. He is faster and rougher than I was. The entire table shakes with the force of it. Against my sternum, the dildo smears my own arousal across my skin. Later, I'll be embarrassed by the mess I'm making, and by the mess I am, but for now all I can focus on is his cock, his hands, his voice as he grunts and moans. God, I love the way he sounds.

"I did wonder if you were touching yourself."

I try to shake my head, but his grip is too tight. It doesn't matter. He's not looking for an answer.

"I pictured it both ways. You, rubbing yourself to orgasm after frantic orgasm, cumming until you're so overstimulated your cute little moans are replaced by cute little sobs. You wouldn't stop. You're such a good girl you'd keep going, even if it was really hard. And when I got home, you'd still be desperately begging me to fuck you and make you cum."

He's right. I wouldn't stop, and I would still beg.

"But you waited, didn't you? Sure, you'll fuck yourself on a dildo in an empty room with no one to see you, but when was the last time you came without an audience?"

I don't remember.

"It's better when you watch," I mean to say it as a matter of fact. It comes out in a truly pathetic whine. "It's better when you're inside me."

He laughs, actually manages to laugh in between panting for breath. He's getting close.

"Well, if you want to cum on my cock, you'd better get on that."

It's the only encouragement I need. My fingers fly to my clit, making frenzied circles that drive my arousal to nearly unimaginable levels. Within seconds, I am completely overcome, tremors racing up and down my spine as a second orgasm crests right behind the first and overlaps with his own. He cums inside me, and without thinking, I'm thanking him. Chanting the words "thank you" over and over again even as he slides out of me, catching me around the waist with his free arm before I collapse onto the tabletop. I am shaking with equal parts exhaustion and pleasure.

Henry guides me gently from the table to his lap. My legs are jelly, though it's hard to say how much of that is from overuse and how much is from cumming so hard. Once I'm settled against his chest, he slips two fingers into my mouth. It isn't until I instinctively start sucking on them that I realize I was still repeating the words "thank you."

Only after both of us have begun breathing normally again does he pull his hand away, moving it to my calves and the back of my thighs to begin kneading away the soreness there. Only as my leg muscles relax and the aftershocks of my orgasms fade does my brain begin to come back online.

When I ask him for the third time why he asked me to come over, he sighs. It's a small movement, the fabric of his shirt just barely rubbing against my cheek with the soft rise and fall of his chest. He's not annoyed, but he is nervous about telling me.

"I wanted to help, and I didn't know how else to do it. You had a shit week, and you were doing that thing you do, where you shut everything else out. You don't like sharing the bad stuff, and I respect that 100%. But you're also my best friend and I thought ... Well, to be honest, I thought maybe a bit of physical catharsis might help. And I asked you to come over before I got home because if it made it worse, I didn't want you to feel any pressure to keep going just because I was here."

I'm embarrassed by how well he knows me and grateful that, from where I'm curled up in his lap, I couldn't make eye contact if I wanted. "It didn't make it worse," I say softly. It's a dramatic understatement. Every bit of stress and tension I'd been holding onto all week has melted away far more effectively than any bath or netflix show could have managed.

"It wasn't too much, was it?"

"No, it was perfect. You're perfect. Thank you." In typical fashion for me, when the conversation starts to turn towards emotions, I search for anything else to talk about. "I am a little worried I ruined your coffee table, though."

Henry bursts into laughter as my checks go red. We really did make a mess of it.

"I'll buy a hundred new coffee tables if it means I get to come home from work to you fucking yourself on them. I'll order them right now. Let me get my phone,"" He acts like he's about to get up, but stops when I grab at the back of his chair. "I'll try to find someone having a sale. Maybe I can get 200 or even 300. I'm gonna have so many coffee tables."

"Stop, that's too many coffee tables," I'm laughing too hard to really get the words out.

"500 coffee tables."

"You're being ridiculous."

"You're right, 500 isn't enough. A thousand. At least. A thousand coffee tables stretching as far as the eye can see, each one with a plastic cock waving proudly in the breeze."

We're both forced to give up on the conversation for a moment by our laughter. Finally, he tells me: "When you're ready, I believe I may owe you a bath. To make up for the one I interrupted."

No one even saw his lips move where they were tucked behind her ear. But some part of Marnie's brain was convinced every single person in the aquarium knew exactly what he'd said and it sent waves of both embarassment and arousal coursing through her body. She tried to turn back to face the tank wall in an attempt to hide her pink cheeks, but David held her fast, his fingers digging into her hips.

Consciously, she knew they were staring behind her, not at her. Their eyes were trained on the coral reef, on the fish that darted in and out of it. But she still felt like she was on stage, like they were her audience. Or David's perhaps. Come to see what he might do with her.

To her.

"I want you to picture it. Your clothes in a pile on the floor out of reach, my hands on your body, your pussy dripping with desperation well before I finally push you to the floor, your face pressed against the linoleum, ass in the air like a wanton slut, my cock plunging into your cunt again and again until I am completely satisfied, with your performance and with your body."

He paused, and the implication was clear. She shouldn't take for granted that she would be satisfied, too. It was unnecessary. She'd learned early in their relationship to never assume she'd get an orgasm. It was one of the first rules she'd asked for.

"It's a shame these cameras don't have microphones. I imagine your audience would enjoy hearing all your little moans and whimpers, all the ways you beg for more."

"I don't always -" His grip tightened painfully on her hip, a warning.

"We wouldn't want your debut interrupted by a punishment for being a cheeky little brat, would we?"

Marnie shook her head, although some part of her - the part of her that thrived when David took on his harshest attitude - thought that might be exactly what she wanted.

"Good. We need to save something for next time, after all."

The promise of next time sent another wave of arousal through her. Her hips twitched involuntarily, prompting a quiet chuckle from behind her. Marnie barely noticed. His words, coupled with the anticipation of what was to come tonight, had turned her thoughts into static, buzzing intensely but with no real meaning.

They had also left her absolutely soaked.

"Have you figured out why?"

He was honestly the worst. Because he always did this, always waited until she was so worked up she could hardly think straight and then started asking questions.

She struggled to focus on his question. "Why you chose here, you mean?"

"Yes."

Her eyes scanned the crowd in an attempt to bring her brain back online so she could find the answer. It didn't really help. Tonight, when they came back here for their scene, the room would be empty. The only audience left would be the security cameras. In reality, they would even be streaming to an empty room. But Marnie couldn't help picturing David's coworkers sitting there, eyes glued to the monitors. In her mental image, they even had snacks, both of them getting off to watching her and David. The only mental image readily available to replace that one was worse: she couldn't help the thought creeping in of this entire crowd being her audience. Watching her the way they were watching the fish now.

Oh.

"You want me to remember the crowd," She guessed. "Tonight, we'll be alone in the room, but you want me to remember what it feels like to have an audience."

"A happy side effect, but not my primary goal."

Marnie made a small, frustrated sound in her throat. "I don't know, I don't -" She cut herself off in realization. "The cameras. All of them, they all point here, don't they?"

That was why he'd taken the time to point out each camera in the aquarium and tell her exactly what part of which rooms they covered. She'd thought it was purely to build anticipation, it hadn't occurred to her that he might choose the location based on the cameras.

"Very clever. Out of the entire building, this is the room with the most cameras. Seven in total. And every single one of those cameras overlaps right here, right in front of the tank, right where we're standing. Seven different angles of this one spot. That camera," He pointed to the camera centered high in the back wall. It had been the first he'd pointed out when they'd walked in. "That one gives a nice wide angle of this whole front section. But that one," He pointed down, at the last one he'd shown her. This one was hidden behind a small window beneath one of the risers, only visible when the lens caught a flash of light reflected by the moving water. "That one is a close up. Captures where we're standing, plus a few feet in either direction. They installed it to do live streams of the tank after hours," He didn't miss Marnie's quiet gasp. "Not set up for that anymore. We patched it into our security system instead. Any other night, we would really just be using it as a screensaver. Not tonight, of course," He paused, letting his words sink in.

"Then again, you'll make a pretty good screensaver, too."

Another wave of arousal crashed over Marnie, dragging a quiet whimper out of her throat.

“I'd add more if I could. I don't want these cameras - or the people watching them - to miss a single thing."

Marnie was embarrassed even further by the realization that she was practically panting.

"But yes, I do hope you'll remember this moment. How it feels to look out on an audience. You won't be able to see our audience tonight, but I don't want you to forget for one second that they're there. I want you to know you're being watched, and I want you to be sure you put on a good show for them."

David let the silence linger for a moment, let his words sink in, and then he stepped back. His hands disappeared from her waist, leaving behind goosebumps.

"We should grab lunch," He announced suddenly. He slipped his hand in hers and tugged her towards the aquarium's cafe. "Quick lunch, and then I'll bring you to the security booth to meet my coworkers. They're pretty excited to see you."

The double meaning was not lost on her. Nor was his sudden return to his usual tone. That imbalance, his ability to switch so quickly and smoothly from domination and dirty talk to casual conversation compared to her inability to do the same only served to plunge her mind deeper into arousal and submission. Had he asked her to lift her dress and take her right then and there, a not very small part of her would be very tempted.