Exit Strategy by L. V. Lewis Read Free Book Online Page B

the private lounge, Sara sinks onto her knees into a submissive posture. After locking the door, he chooses a couple of floggers from the case of toys he’d brought with him in case the opportunity presented itself. And present itself it had.
He takes the instruments, whipping them through the air and testing their weights. These elk hide mops will do nicely and will have him where he needs to be in no time, and they are the perfect weight to create the desired amount of sting and thud for a seasoned masochist like Sara.
“Don’t just sit there. You haven’t worshipped at my feet in years. Is this how you greet your Sir?” he says with a snarl.
Sara was a humiliation whore. She loved it more than she loved being merely submissive. In fact, it was her penchant for bodily excretion play that sent him in search of someone more suitable. He had ejaculated in every crack and crevice of her body, yet she’d been insatiable, begging him to urinate on her, among other things. That memory makes the present scene rather distasteful to him, but he’s too deprived and depraved to care.
Sara scrambles over to him and kisses his size twelve custom Berlutis like she’s making love to them. Were he in his Grotto, he’d make her take off his shoes and kiss his naked feet, suck his toes, but though the carpet in the private lounge looks clean, he doesn’t plan on baring his feet on it. Sara will have to make do with the expensive leather.
He’s too impatient to allow her to slobber over his feet for long, so he nudges her chin with the butt of one of the floggers. She raises her eyes to his, and he can see the hunger for the pain he’s prepared to dole out. “Stand up. Skirt up. Feet apart. Ass out. Hands against the wall.”
She follows every order with precision almost as soon as the words are out. This is familiar to Sara. It’s what she loves. What she craves.
Tristan looks down at Sara’s derriere. The thong she’s wearing leaves her feeble assets bare. It’s not nearly as contoured and gorgeous as Keisha’s, but it will suit for now. Damn, that little vixen had gotten under his skin, but he’s about to perform a subcutaneous exorcism. He’ll get Keisha Beale out of his mind and his heart if it is the last thing he does.
Taking the floggers firmly in hand, he flagellates Sara’s bottom until it’s rosy red and his cock feels as though it’s the consistency of granite. As he completes his first Florentine flogging in over a year, he’s ready to fuck Sara until she can’t walk, but when he reaches into his pocket ... he doesn’t have a goddamned condom.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” he rasps. He’s breathing hard from the exertion of wielding the two floggers, his shoulders moving up and down as his lungs quickly expand and contract. He pulls every pocket in his pants inside out and then opens his fly so roughly that the button pops off his slacks and bounces off the wall.
“Turn around,” he barks. “Your mouth will have to do for now.” When Sara turns, he doesn’t have to make a demand. She takes him into her mouth until he hits the back of her throat. Then she devours him as though she hasn’t had a meal in days. However he is as hungry for release as she is to service him. Taking her head in his hands, he guides himself in and out, her teeth grazing him every other pass, but that’s okay because he isn’t milking this for longevity. It’s a means to an end, and that’s all.
When he spills his seed into her hot, wet mouth, she clamps on him like a vacuum and swallows it all down. Sara always had passably good oral skills, but he’d taught a hazel-eyed, caramel-skinned beauty how to eclipse her. He’s not even flaccid before he realizes he doesn’t want to fuck Sara Fielding anymore. That experience would be as lackluster and fall just as short as the inferior blow job he just had.
Sara wrangles for an invitation to his home and into his Grotto, but Tristan refuses to take the bait