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Please, Master(3)

By:Opal Carew



Fuck, she was turned on. She was having a sex dream.

His cock was so hard, it ached. She pushed her lovely ass against him again.

“Master, please fuck me.” Her voice was soft and needy.

He stroked her damp folds, wanting to push inside her so bad. He grasped his cock and slid it over her slick flesh, to her soft murmurs of approval, then he gently and slowly pushed inside her, groaning softly at the feel of her warm, wet passage gripping him snuggly.

He teased her nipples as he glided deeper. She sighed softly.

Once he was all the way inside, delighting in the feel of her all around him, he gripped her hips, holding her snug to him, reveling in being joined so intimately to the woman he loved.

She pressed her head back against his shoulder. “Please, I need you.”

Ah, fuck. Her words sent joy pounding through him.

He drew back, then eased into her again. Her slick passage squeezed him in an erotic stroke as he pulled away and then glided deep again. So hot. So tight.

“Oh, yes. Yes,” she whimpered.

He picked up speed, filling her hot passage with his hard-as-rock cock. His heart pounded. His head spun as he fucked this wonderful, sexy woman.

Her breathing—fast and erratic—echoed his own. Now he was thrusting into her like a jackhammer. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.

“Oh, God...” The last word ended on a squeak, and she sucked in air. Then she moaned.

God, she was starting to come.

He found her clit and stroked it while he pounded into her. Her soft moans grew higher pitched as she arched her back, pushing her pussy tighter to him, her head resting back on his shoulder.

Then she wailed and he exploded inside her, erupting like an angry, pent-up volcano.

They slumped together, breathing rapidly. She took his wrists and wrapped his arms around her and snuggled back against him.

He pressed his lips to her neck.

“I love you, Mr. Grant,” she murmured softly.



Something was wrong. His body stiffened behind her and...Had she just told Mr. Grant she loved him? That was bad. He wouldn't like that… but… Confusion coiled through her.

He pulled away and the haze of sleep dissipated.

Where was she? She glanced around the room, barely seeing anything by the ghostly moonlight.

Then it hit her.

Oh, God. She wasn't in Mr. Grant's bedroom. Mr. Grant had… Her heart contracted. She didn't belong to him anymore.

She turned to glance over her shoulder.

Mr. King's piercing blue eyes locked on her confused ones for a second…

Then he pushed away, his big cock sliding from her body. He said nothing as he got out of bed and strode from the room.



The rest of the night, Sylvia barely slept. Mr. King didn't come back, and she wondered if she should go to her room to give him space, but that might be exactly the wrong thing to do. He might take that as even more of a rejection.

Because clearly he'd found her professing her love for another man a huge rejection.

Her heart ached. She hated that she'd hurt him.

Her eyelids fluttered open to sunlight and she realized she had finally dozed off. Mr. King was standing by the bed, staring at her. His presence must have been what had woken her.

“Here, put this on,” he said as he dropped something on the bed.

It looked like a leather and chain harness.

“Be downstairs in ten minutes.” He turned and strode away.

She pushed herself from the bed and rushed through her morning routine, then donned the harness. The leather straps hugged her body and the chains cascaded in gentle arches under them. Her breasts were completely bare, surround by the leather straps, and her pussy and behind were exposed, too.

She walked down the stairs. Mr. King was waiting for her in the living room, a stern expression on his face.

“Mr. King… Erik… I'm so sorry—”

“Silence.” His harsh tone stopped her words flat. “Kneel in front of me.”

She knelt and, in a very business-like fashion, he took her wrists and wrapped a leather band around each one.

Then he held up a collar. On the front the word 'slave' was spelled out in metal letters. He pushed her long, dark hair out of the way and fastened it around her neck.

He stood up. “Now let's go.”

Her eyes widened. “We're going out. But...”

“Put on your coat. You'll be fine,” he said tersely.

She found her coat, which suddenly didn't feel long enough. She stepped into the black pumps sitting at the entrance, then followed him out to the car.

She glanced his way every few minutes, intimidated by his stern expression. This wasn't just him being the authoritative Master. He was upset with her.

He pulled up in front of an elegant, high rise hotel. The doorman opened the car door for her and she carefully held her coat together as she got out of the car, not wanting to flash everything she had at the man and passersby.

She felt very self-conscious as they walked across the lobby. He stopped at the desk.

“The other gentlemen have already arrived,” the desk clerk said as he handed Mr. King a key card. He then grasped her arm and led her to the elevator. Moments later, they stood outside the double doors of a suite. She realized this was the same hotel where she'd first met Mr. King. When Mr. Grant had summoned her here to pleasure his four associates in celebration of a business deal. Mr. King had been one of those four men.

He opened the door and she stepped inside. It was the same large, luxurious suite with four beige brocade upholstered armchairs with high backs and wooden armrests arranged around one side of an oval coffee table, a plush beige couch on the other side. A large window overlooked the city below.

She stepped further into the suite and déjà vu washed through her when she saw the other three men from that previous meeting sitting in the chairs waiting for them. The men—Mr. Robertson, Mr. Jacobs, and Mr. Smith—were all as handsome as she remembered, wearing their expensive, well-tailored suits and silk ties.

“King, good to see you again.” But Mr. Robertson's gaze was locked on her.

“You, of course, remember Sylvia.”

“Of course we do.” Mr. Jacobs' familiar grin set his eyes alight. “Does this mean Grant will be joining us, too?”

“No,” Mr. King said curtly. “Sylvia is mine now.”

Mr. Robertson chuckled. “Well, I never thought he'd let her go. I wish I'd known. I would have beat whatever offer you made for her.”

Mr. King lifted an eyebrow. “It's a good thing you didn't know then, isn't it?”

Mr. Robertson laughed again. “No offense intended, King. Just be sure to let me know if you intend to part with her.” The man winked at her. “I'd be happy to take her off your hands.”

“Or is that why we're here?” Mr. Smith asked. “To bid on her? Because I'm certainly interested.”

“As am I,” said Mr. Jacobs.

Butterflies fluttered through Sylvia's stomach. Mr. King was mad at her about last night, and frustrated that she didn't return his feelings, but… would he sell her?

Mr. King waved away their comments. “Let's drop any talk of such mundane things right now. I invited you here to have a drink.” He walked behind Sylvia and reached around her and unzipped her coat, then tugged it open, baring her to them. “And enjoy a little entertainment together.”

The men's eyes widened at the sight of her essentially naked body. Mr. King pulled the coat from her shoulders.

“Gentlemen, let's move the coffee table. I think it'll just be in the way.”

In two seconds flat, the three men had moved the oval table out of the way, leaving an open space between the chairs and the couch. Mr. King gripped her shoulder and pressed her forward, guiding her to the center of the open space.

“Why don't you three sit on the couch,” he suggested as he sat down in one of the chairs.

They sat, staring at her body with hunger in their eyes.

“Turn around, Sylvia.”

She turned, slowly, her eyes downcast.

“Are you offering the same as Grant did?”

“No,” Mr. King said. At their frowns, he added, “Grant set limits. I have none.”

“You mean we can—?” Mr. Smith asked.

“Do anything you want with her,” Mr. King interjected.

Mr. Robertson laughed. “Well then. Let's get started. Come over here, Sylvia.”

“Look at her collar,” Mr. King said. “Tonight she has no name. Just call her slave. And she will call each of you Master, or Sir. Understood, slave?”

“Yes, Master.” She walked to Mr. Robertson, who sat in the middle of the couch.

“Kneel down, slave,” he said as he unzipped his pants. As she did, he pulled out his cock, which was just starting to rise. He grasped her hair, coiling it around his hand, then pulled her toward him. He pressed his cockhead to her mouth.

“Suck it.”

She opened her mouth to take him inside, but he pulled her head forward, driving his cock halfway down her throat.

“Do you like it rough, little slave? Because I want to ram my cock right up your ass so hard you'll scream. Last time, your sweet, fucking little mouth and cunt just wet my appetite for this.” His hand stroked over her ass, then squeezed.

Sylvia shivered at his words. Would Mr. King really let this man hurt her? Because the way he described what he wanted to do to her gave her no doubt the man wouldn't care if he did. In fact, maybe he wanted to hurt her.

“Hey, Robertson, don't scare her,” Mr. Jacobs said. “I don't want her all tense and nervous when I fuck her.”

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