Sweet Sinclair (Masters of the Castle) (13 page)

“Is this my pussy?” He slapped, hardly more than a flick of his fingers, rubbed until there wasn’t a force on the planet strong enough to hold her hips in place, then he slapped again.

“Yes, Sir! Oh!”

“Yes, Sir, what?”

“Yes, Sir, this is your pussy!”

He laughed, a low chuckle that thrilled its way through her. “What do you want, sweetness? Hmm? Do you want to be my little cock whore tonight?”

He thrust twin fingers up inside her, sinking them all the way to his palm, flicking them rapidly back and forth until her legs were scissoring and the pressure building inside her felt like a dam on the verge of colossal failure.

“Yes. Please, yes!”

He pulled steady back on her hair, forcing her
back to bow while his pistoning fingers thrust faster and harder. “Tell me what you want. Beg for it.”

She knew exactly what she wanted and so did he. Oh but, having to ask for it? Her face flushed hot, but her pussy spasmed, tightening around his fingers, bursting with sparks of pleasure that he
r embarrassment only heightened.

“P-please let me be your cock whore,” she stammered, horribly ashamed at just how hot she found it having to say such a thing. Her ass was burning, her pussy was sopping, and here she was, spreading her legs so wide that she could feel the strain in the inner slopes of her thighs. Her whole body bounced to the forceful thrusts of his hand.

“If I want a parrot, I’ll buy one.” He wrenched his fingers out of her and began to spank her again. The heat flared and she arched up onto the very tips of her toes, gasping at every jolt and slap.

“Please,” she gasped, tiny threads of orgasmic delight beginning to snap inside her. “P-please fuck me!”

“I am fucking you. Try again.”

God, he was so merciless. Her pussy spasmed all over again, her clit and womb pulsing in fiery tandem.

“I—I—”

Abruptly, Parker released her. “Don’t move.”

Sinclair couldn’t hold still. She lay against the counter, now so hot against her skin that she could just as well have been lying bent over a stove. She sweat, tiny little beads that tickled hot against her nape, trickled down the backs of her legs, and along her spine before pooling in the very small of her back.

Plastic tore, catching her attention. She twisted her head back, looking through a curtain of her own hair just as she felt the cool plop of thick liquid falling into the crack of her hot backside. His fingers followed, smearing without preamble until he had thoroughly coated her anal entrance.

That kind of embarrassment took it to a whole new level when Parker leaned over far enough to see her face and, looking directly into her eyes the whole time, pushed to lodge the tip of one finger into a place no man had ever put his finger before.

Sinclair panted. It would have been so easy to protest, but just as she was opening her mouth, he began to thrust, soft, probing motions that did everything but hurt. She closed her eyes, her clutching hands sliding over steel without encountering anything by which to grip it. She meant to say “no” or “wait” or maybe only a feeble “I’m not so sure about this,” except that what came out was nothing less than the most wanton moan of pleasure.

“What do you want?” he coaxed.

“More,” she pleaded, unable to verbalize any better than that. Her hips began to rock, trying to ride each prodding nudge of his finger, to sink him in just a little bit further than he seemed inclined to go. “Please!”

“Be specific.” He took his hands away again. A moment later, the rustle of cardboard and plastic had her twisting around to see what she already knew he was doing. “Do you want to ride my cock?”

He stood less than four feet away, penis standing high and thick, while he selected the smallest of the anal plugs. No bigger or thicker really than his thumb, she stared while he thoroughly slicked the bulbous end with more gel. She caught her breath, turning quickly to face the other way when he came back to her, swatting her bottom
cheeks once before prizing them apart. She tensed. It was impossible not to, not when she felt the cool artificial tip take up its place where his finger had been just moments before.

“Do you remember your safe
word?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good. Arch your hips.” He wrapped his free arm around her waist, reaching down under her belly to cup between her legs again. “Since you refuse to tell me what I want to hear—yes, Master, please fuck me with your cock until I am a limp puddle of orgasmic delight—I’m not going to fuck you at all. You can fuck yourself, instead. Come on. Push your hips back. I want this all the way inside you right now.”

Her hips twitched, tucking slightly inward when he found her clit. Her breath caught all over again. She mewed, the only sound she made before she shifted, pushing back just enough to feel herself begin to open on the plug. It was an odd feeling. Not painful really, but expanding pressure.

“P-please,” she whispered, but that was all, and she honestly didn’t know whether she meant ‘please, I don’t want to’ or ‘please, help me do more’.

He stroked her clit, expertly stoking the flames and waiting patiently, circling her clit with his slippery fingertips until she moaned, dropped her head down onto one arm until, with a sigh of mixed pleasure, embarrassment and defeat, began to rock. He held the plug still, letting her do all the work. She nosed it in and out in numerous half starts before working up enough courage to ease all the way back. With a slippery pop, it invaded at the widest part and then it was seated as far as it would go.

Parker pressed with two fingers, making sure it was well in place before rewarding her with a single fond caress. He went back to his bag and there was another rip of plastic wrapping. When she twisted back to look, he was rolling a lubricated condom down the length of his straining cock.

“All right, sweetness,” he said, giving her a swat as he stepped into place behind her aga
in. The heat of his hand glided down the entire length of her back, from her neck to her hips, following the crack of her ass all the way over her bottom and down between her legs. He slicked his fingers up and down her slit while she moaned, lost for a moment in the sheer pleasure of being touched, and right there, by him. “If you want my cock, you’re going to have to take it.”

With a final pat, his fingers vanished only to be replaced a moment later by something bigger—hot, smooth, round—it stroked up and down along her slit just like his fingers had. She moaned all over again. Her head fell back, her eyes closed and her hips rocking, trying to maneuver to catch him on each up and down slide and take him inside her.

“Take it,” he coaxed, holding himself steady with one hand and urging her to impale herself with his other. He alternated between lightly slapping her ass and then rubbing to soothe what didn’t even hurt anymore. It was all just varying degrees of sensual pleasure, all of which were now centered and focused directly wherever he touched her. “There you go,” he said, and they both sighed when she finally caught him, pushing to sink all the way down his length. “There’s a good girl.” He caught her hips between his hands, guiding her. “Ride my cock. Show me how much you want this. Come on, ride.”

Sinclair moved, awkwardly, experimentally, at first. “Oo-oh!” All she felt was good. He was filling her up, stretching her in the most erotic way, this position and angle touching places inside her that made her whole sex shiver.

Experimental rocking became languid hip rolls and then enthusiastic bouncing.

“Oh!” Less of a gasp and more of a cry, she couldn’t stop moving now. She reached down between her own legs just for the tactile pleasure of touching him—the inside of his thighs, the smooth, heavy sack of his balls as they rocked forward with each backwards push to slap at her swollen pussy lips. And that felt good too. Breathtakingly good. Breathtakingly, heart-
palpitatingly, sex-strokingly, squeezingly, spasming, hot and hard friction beyond her ability to keep moving to, good. “Oo-o-oh!”

His fingers dug into her hips, no longer guiding now but gripping. When her strokes faltered, the pleasure so intense that her muscles seized, he began to thrust. He caught her wrists, pulling her hands behind her back, gripping them firmly in one hand while he caught a fistful of her hair with his other.

Sinclair shouted when he pulled back, lifting her chest off the counter. She loved it. She loved his grip in her hair, the feel of her hands being pinned behind her, the pounding thrusts that were building hard and fast, slapping up against her buttocks, making her breasts slap the countertop. She loved feeling imprisoned by him. She loved being taken by him.

She loved him.

Sinclair came, arching and straining, shouting and panting and yielding over and over again because he wasn’t stopping. He was battering her, driving her farther and farther over the counter, until she was lying flat upon it, slick and sweaty and squeaking every few thrusts when he yanked back on her arms to slam up into her with glorious ferocity. He owned her body. He owned her soul. He pulled her up off the counter by her collar, releasing her hands to wrap his arm around her waist and shifting his other grip from her hair to her neck. He embraced her, holding her tightly to him, his thrusts slowing, deepening, becoming less like fucking and more like something intimate and sincere.

“Say my name,” he whispered, his ragged breath hot against her ear.

“Master Parker… Master Parker…” It became her mantra, the one solid thing—besides him—that she could latch onto when he found her clit with his slick, stroking fingers and the next orgasm hit her like a Mack semi speeding down the highway. She didn’t mean to cry; it was just one more thing in what was rapidly becoming a list of things she just couldn’t stop.

She totally burned the toast. The last time she’d burned a meal, she’d been twelve and distracted by cartoons, but the very next morning, standing in Parker’s apartment kitchen, Sinclair burned the toast.

It wasn’t her fault, really. How could she be expected to keep her mind on paltry things like temperature or time when she was backed up against the wall with one leg hooked over Parker’s shoulder, her hands clinging to both the counter and fridge, while every thought in her head scattered to the clouds and beyond with
each tender lash of his tongue?

She hadn’t got a lick of sleep all night. Again, not her fault. They’d worked in the kitchen until nearly three in the morning,
and then they’d gone to bed. Exhausted, they hadn’t even played around. Cuddled up against his side, they’d talked until the horizon turned grey. Thank God for his alarm, otherwise she never would have been up and functioning early enough to get to the store on time.

Parker drove her and while they didn’t talk much at all, the entire way there, he held her hand upon his knee. Sometimes he patted, sometimes he squeezed her fingers. Now and then, he glanced over at her and smiled; it was the kind of morning after that made a girl feel special.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t a feeling that lasted out the day. It didn’t even last out the hour.

Parker dropped her off at the curb, leaned over and kissed her goodbye in a way that made her toes curl. She actually felt a pang of loss when he reached in under her hair and around her neck and removed his collar. “See you in a couple hours.”

She got out of the car smiling, waved goodbye while he pulled away from the curb, and dug her store keys out of her pocket. She was so happy and exhausted and distracted by whether or not she could still see his taillights, that she had them in the lock and was twisting before she noticed the plain white envelope taped to the glass over the closed sign.

Unlocking the door, she paused to take the envelope down and withdrew the sin
gle sheet of paper inside. That was when her world fell apart.

The letter was from Charlie, notifying her that her lease was terminating and giving her thirty days to remove herself from the premises. She read it three times, just trying to get the words to make sense, before a sharp screech of tires just behind her made her turn around. It was Parker again, returning to the curb in fast reverse. He got out, already beckoning her to him as he opened the passenger door.

“Get in,” he said, calm, quiet, but tense.

Her head swimming, hardly able to think beyond the shock of the eviction, she held up the note for him to see. “I’m being evicted.”

A tic of tight muscle jumped along his jaw. “Lock the door, Sinclair.” He held out his hand, beckoning with insistence. “You don’t need to work today. Let’s go.”

She obeyed, shutting and locking the door—her store, Maybe’s Candy, her dream—and went to him. The heat of his hand passed across the small of her back as he helped her into the car and shut the door after her. She didn’t see why he’d come back at all until after they’d pulled back out again. He tried to do a three-point turn to go back the way they’d come, but she still saw into the side parking lot where she’d left her car overnight. The tires had been cut and the car thoroughly keyed. Giant gushing penises and the word “Slut” had been scrawled all over it in bright red, dripping paint. Sinclair stared at that until she couldn’t see her car anymore. After that, she stared fixedly at the dash, her face as hot as a furnace and her stomach rolling.

Two miles out of town, Parker got his car yanked over onto the soft shoulder barely in time for her to stumble out far enough to throw up. She fell apart—waving her hands and sobbing, spitting to clear the taste of coffee and bile from her mouth, with absolutely no idea of what the hell she was supposed to do now. She didn’t know Parker had even got out of his car until his arms were around her and she was being crushed against his chest.

“It’ll be okay,” he said. “I promise it’ll be okay.”

But it wouldn’t; how could it be? She had just lost everything—her store, her dream, her livelihood. No, it was not going to be okay. Nothing ever would again.

* * * * *

Maybe’s Candy’s first—and last—candy catering party was, if the response of the guests was anything by which to judge, a raging success. Over the course of nine hours and in three distinctive, well-organized waves, nine hundred people in full period costume—be it Victorian, Roman, Gorean, Little and even super heroes (not to mention one or two villains)—came and went. There was lots of laughter, bright music and rambunctious dancing in the middle ballroom, a great deal more laughter and games played in the far ballroom, and enough constant traffic drifting towards her candy buffet to keep Sinclair busy all night long. Even with Parker there to help her, she was moving constantly, keeping the candy tables fully stocked and clean.

The chocolate fountain was a big hit. They almost ran out of skewers, but Parker sent a runner to the nearest Walmart and they returned with every box the store had in stock. It was just enough to get them through.

“Oh my God, this is so good!” declared one woman with her mouth full of truffle. “Where can I get more of these? I want to take a whole box home with me!”

“I want to swim naked in a vat full of this filling,” her companion agreed. “What is this? Raspberry?”

“Mine tastes like champagne.”

“That’s it,” the companion said, and began looking around. “I’m making me a sign: Will give head for truffles. I’ll set up business by the door and grab everyone’s chocolates as they walk in.”

“Look at the cookies!” someone else laughed, pointing. “They look like spanked bottoms! Aw, can you get me one?”

“The cookie,” the gentleman beside her asked, “or the spanked bottom? Either way, I assure you the answer is yes.”

And the s’mores buffet brought out the kid in everyone, even those who weren’t dressed as Littles.

Almost every time he walked past her throughout the day, Parker paused to give her a kiss on the forehead, and Sinclair smiled until it felt as if her face would crack from the strain. She served that seemingly endless stream of hungry guests, laughing and chatting, offering up napkins and small dishes of taste after taste after cookie after snack, until her feet were screaming by the end of it, her arms felt like lead weights, and the small of her back ached in ways two all-day Aleve couldn’t even begin to touch.

At some point just before the doors closed behind the very last guest, Master Marshall drifted past her table with a smiling noblewoman hanging on his arm. “Well done,” he complimented her. “I am very glad we were able to do business together.”

And Sinclair thanked him, holding onto her smile with all stubbornness she possessed, because it simply wasn’t done for candy caterers to crawl off in the midst of their own events to cry in corners. That would come later, after the party wound down and what little candy remained was packed back up again.

“Don’t worry about this,” Parker told her, waving off the mess. Little Maids with big garbage bags were already circling the tables to help clean up. “Come on.” He wrapped his arm around her, tucking her safely up against his side. “How long has it been since you’ve had a good night’s sleep?”

Not since this whole thing had started, and yet…

“I don’t want to go home.” If it were possible to finish out her life without ever returning to Granger, Sinclair would have been perfectly happy never seeing any of them again. Not Casey or Charlie or any of the hundreds of people she’d grown up with who she’d thought were so friendly.

“Unless it’s what you wanted, I wasn’t going to take you to your home.”

The look she gave him must have been truly pathetic; he kissed her forehead again, before he led her out of the ballrooms. He took her upstairs. Under any other circumstance, it would have tickled her to pieces to see so many of her gift bags still in people’s hands, being passed around, traded and enjoyed.

“I’m glad they liked my candies.”

“I don’t think ‘like’ is strong enough for how much they enjoyed your chocolates.” When they reached his door, Parker held it open for her. “Are you hungry? Do you want something to drink?”

“Yes, to both.” She gravitated immediately to the nearest kitchen chair. He had a bar that separated his kitchen from his living space and stools set up along one side. She slid onto one, bracing her elbows on the table so she could watch while he opened his fridge.

“We have our choice of… peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or… grilled cheese. Don’t laugh. I make a mean PB and J.”

“Peanut butter and jelly sounds wonderful.” She bent down under the lip of the counter long enough to slip out of her shoes, rub the soles of both feet and when she came up again, he was just setting a glass of milk on the counter in front of her.

He was smiling, but his eyes were serious. She didn’t for a second try to pretend she didn’t know where the conversation was about to go. Her stomach tightened, and all the misery she had worked so hard to swallow throughout the party came flooding right to the surface of her. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“I know,” he said, pulling out what he needed for the sandwiches. “We’re going to anyway. What’s your next plan of attack?”

Cupping the glass just so she’d have something with which to occupy her, she offered a one shoulder shrug. “I don’t know. At the moment, moving someplace really remote and hiding out for a few years sounds very good. But financially, I’ve sunk everything I had into my store. The check for the party will cover moving costs and, you know, maybe I can set up shop somewhere else. This… this might be a good thing for me.”

Except that moving meant leaving Parker, and when that realization hit her, it felt like a full-force punch to the chest. But there was no help for it. This wasn’t something that could be fixed by moving one town over. Gossip had a way of following one and starting all the bad stuff over again. If she dared to stay in the area, she would never be able to start over because she could never escape her ruined reputation.

“Do you need help packing?” Parker pretended to be engrossed in the sandwiches he was making so he didn’t have to look at her.

“No.” Sinclair shook her head. “The last few days were…
nothing like what I thought dating you would be like.” When he smiled, so did she, and for the first time all night, it didn’t feel quite so brittle, even when she had to follow that admission up with, “But I don’t want to make you responsible for my mess.”

He paused a moment before placing each sandwich on a plate and passing one across the counter to her. “The past few days have been really good for me too. Sweetness, I’m not ready to let you go. So, burden me. Let me be responsible, at least for some of it. We’ll put our heads together and maybe between the two of us, we’ll come up with a solution that won’t involve my having to chase you from state to state like some lovelorn psychopath. Either way, I don’t think we should settle on any firm plans until we’ve had at least one good night’s sleep. Eat your sandwich. Let’s go to bed before we both pass out.”

He was right, and she knew it, but one good night’s sleep wasn’t going to fix today.

Taking a bite of her sandwich, she stared at her plate and chewed. He was right about something else too. He did make a mean PB and J.