Dark Secret Love Read Free

he fucked me for hours. With me riding him, my back on the wall, legs around his waist, the lace of my thong pushed to the side. Then with me bent over the edge of his thrift-store sofa, gritting my teeth as he slammed against me. Never slowing down. Never needing to pause.
    Slut.
    He spanked me with those great big mitts of his. Spanked me because he liked the sound and the feel and the way I got wetter with each stroke. He knew enough to pull me over his lap, to put me in the proper pose, to hiss the statements that would take me where I needed to go.
    “Bad girl, showing up after midnight to get fucked.”
    “Yes, Robert.”
    “You know what I ought to do to you, don’t you?”
    He was sex incarnate. And although I could tell that he loved the dainty finery of the lingerie, he couldn’t be gentle with the pieces. He was always rough, needing to pull at the lace rather than waste precious time working the buttons to get the corset off. Tearing the panties with his paws, leaving the whole new outfit in tatters.
    I flashed on Byron, passed out on his bed, half a world away in Hollywood, not dreaming I could be this deviant. No inkling at all that I could be this bad.
    “Such a slut … Tell me what you need … Come on, girl. Say it.”
    I stayed all night with Robert. Or all that was left of the night. I didn’t mind that it was already February 15thby the time he’d clocked out of work. Didn’t mind that Cupid had left the building. I got precisely what I wanted on Valentine’s Day. The perfect gift for the perfect slut.
    One rainy night soon after, I found myself unexpectedly engaged in a threesome with a sultry female vocalist and her dark-haired, dark-eyed roommate, an up-and-coming soap-opera star who boasted the mournful look of a young Dean Martin. These were friends from the paper, and throughout the evening, various acquaintances wandered through our lair. Someone wanted clothing advice for a gig he was playing. Another needed to borrow cash. Despite what you might have heard, I was a willing participant. I was tipsy but not drunk. I wasn’t entirely nude (at least not while others were present)—I had on Ava’s gold satin robe. This wasn’t my first ménage (although the previous one had been with two guys, and Playboy’s advisor calls that a “gang bang” rather than a ménage à trois). The upshot is that although I never told Byron everything that happened (about how Charlie cradled my face in his hands while he fucked me, about how he crooned “Oh my girls, my sweet girls” as Ava and I took turns licking his cock clean), Byron thought he had me all figured out. Or had himself all figured out. I think he truly believed I joined in the sexfest to get him to notice me. Not true at all. You would have joined in, too.
    Ava was this stunning green-eyed blonde, and I looked up to her. Eight years my senior, she seemed so worldly. Sure, she worked two other jobs while trying to further her music career, but she made everything look so easy. Effortless. She dated handsome, older men who gave her gifts, and she fucked young actors who fueled her libido. Charlie was one of them. He looked like the movie star helater became. Beside the way they looked, they wanted me. Charlie thought my naïveté was charming. He couldn’t wait to demolish my inhibitions. What he and Ava—what most people, in fact—didn’t understand was that I didn’t have many inhibitions.
    There’s a difference between being shy and being pure.
    Mystery is everything. The Monday after the infamous ménage, Byron arrived at the office at 8:30 and asked me what had happened. When I shrugged and said simply that I’d spent the weekend with Ava, he insisted that I move in with him. For no sane reason, I did, effectively saying goodbye to good sex and hello to nearly three years of the worst sort of submission.
    The submission of the soul.
    From Byron’s extremely arrogant manner, from the precise way he dressed and spoke and