No Price Too High: Bound for the Long Carnal Night

NO PRICE TOO HIGH: Clash of Wills – Lance and Alexxi Meet
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Alexxie felt a bit of disgust at Dion’s public groping of his wife, but diplomatically adverted her eyes to the man he had indicated. To her amusement he was not some middle-aged lecher with two chins and an even fatter wallet, but a very handsome – if obviously cocky – professional.

Lance watched Maya and Dion move off toward the staircase far across the barroom. He chuckled to himself watching the salacious couple, both equally lechers and both equally demonstrative in the most bawdy manner. It would have been cute were Dion not such an obvious prickly pear. Yet, the man knew his clientele and his business. He had told Lance almost exactly what he sought: “a Dom who will either give you one hell of a fight as you subdue her – or prove herself worthy to be your mistress.”

He waved over the waiter, who was burdened with a large tray of empty glasses and bottles, and ordered another Glenfiditch. He watched the patrons as they busied themselves with cloistered meetings and negotiations with the various house whores. It was indeed a singular establishment of this sort.

Alexxi continued to size up her potential “date.” College educated, if she were any judge, perhaps 33, though she suspected he might lie about it, and (she discovered as she sauntered over lazily, intercepting the waiter bringing over his fresh drink and grabbing a martini off the tray that had been destined for a different table) he had very hard eyes. The waiter glared at her but didn’t say a word as he turned back to fetch another.

Setting the glass down before him without the benefit of a napkin, the martini glass stem held between the long fingers of her right hand with the back of her glove toward him, she took a long moment to look him over, her gaze lingering luridly here and there before she sought his gaze. “I am bored,” she announced as if it was his fault and she was surprised he had not already begun to do something about it.

Lance looked up and widened his eyes. So, here she was. In an instant, he knew he’d done quite well to accept Maya’s invitation. The perfect storm, he could tell without even thinking, stood before him across the table. Looking no doubt far taller than she was in whatever adorned her feet, the svelte skin-tight clad beauty exuded the brash confidence and biting sass that had eluded him in his many escapades into “the lifestyle” of kink and BDSM.

She was dressed as if en route to a high society fund-raiser dinner in a form fitting dark brocaded sheath of a formal gown that flared at the bottom, smothering the floor. Her arms were sheathed as well in long gloves that reached well past her elbows. Her dark sultry eyes brooded over everything, and her petulant lips were drawn almost in a sneer, just this side of cruel, but poised to cross over at the slightest provocation. A “v”-cut bodice slit served as an arrow point down to her ample, sexy bosom, exposed only fleetingly and tauntingly. He had the distinct impression that the bodice design was a test. The eye that followed it to oogle her breasts might before long feel the poke of her fingers.

“Dion thought you might be fit to entertain me.” She let out a petulant sigh, and with a slow blink shrugged as if this were costing her a great deal to say, “Oh, and thank you for the drink.”

“Haaa!” Lance laughed. “I believe it is I who will be entertained by you,” he retorted, motioning for her to sit.

She plucked the toothpick out of the glass, twirled it between her gloved hands, and then took a step closer to him as if about to offer the olive to him, turning it back and forth slowly.

When she bent over to sit down, the olive was a spare foot from his face – an offering and a potential weapon. He could submissively taken it from her with his teeth, flinch away, steal it from her and eat it, or even offer it back. For that matter he could slap it out of her hand and order her off, or even ignore it entirely to try and look down the bodice of her gown. She could learn so much about him by his response…

Lance laughed silently inside, eyeing what he took to be a “Trojan” olive intended to tempt, and test.

He ignored the olive and averted her bodice, capturing her eyes with his. “I am Lance,” he announced. Reaching for her wrist and the olive, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist gently, and waved the waiter over at the same time. He leaned to the waiter and quickly whispered something. Pulling a wadded $5 bill from his black jeans, he pressed it into the waiter’s hand. “Don’t hesitate to rush,” he instructed him.

As he ignored the threat of the tooth-picked olive, Alexxi met his gaze with a raised brow, looking as if she were re-estimating his worth. Settling beside him with her arm on the back of the chair so that she was half facing him, her knee not even a centimeter from touching his thigh, she stirred the olive into the drink idly, waiting for him to start to show off. He looked like a player after all, and had artfully dodged either being rude or submitting to being fed by her hand from an object that she could have stabbed him with.

That made them one all by her scorekeeping. Not a bad start at all.

Lance could see from the barely noticeable shift of her pupils and the arch of her full brows that her mind was locked fast on him and his moves, processing, assessing, considering, planning. Behind those eyes that both enticed, and warned off, he knew lay a stealth and a purpose and a delicious threat he'd not encountered before. The nape of his neck bristled, electric with the hot tingle of the tasty unknown, and his stomach quivered with the elevator-ride feel of just anticipating it!

She was outrageously fucking sexy from head to toe and from surface to whatever intent simmered behind those eyes! The duel was on, and he ALMOST gave not a damn who would win! Almost….yet, he couldn't throw in the towel this early. Or miscalculate so she could grab it away from him. She wasn't going to beg him to tie her up and have his
way with her and roll over and crane her neck out to be slapped with the slave's collar. But then, neither was he! What a find!

She had shifted sideways in her chair, and he chuckled silently at what she both accomplished, and gave up, in so doing. On the one hand, she confronted him directly, physically, her knee and leg -- to him the most powerfully seductive part of the
the female anatomy -- a hair's width away from his. On the other hand, her position opened her up to him, rendering her as vulnerable as a flailing fencer. WHICH was it her intention to be?

He returned his attentions to her. “You must tell me your name as well.”

She intentionally did not give him her name. That would be part of the sport. If he got it out of her, she’d have to give him another point.

“You know,” he continued distractedly, not registering any tangible rise as she sidled up to him, “the olive is a most interesting fruit.” He inched his fingers up toward her hand and gazed from her eyes to the olive and back and forth. “And, it is a fruit, you know. Most people think it’s a vegetable, but it isn’t. It’s borne of a tree, just as apples, plums, pears, oranges.

“This pimento stuffed into it, however, is a vegetable, he said, pointing to the wrinkled pimento quartered inside the pit hole. “ It’s a peeled red bell pepper that has been brined and sliced small and thin. Remarkable idea, this unholy union of fruit and vegetable.”

Making her eyes widen slightly as he gave his brief dissertation on olives and pimentos, she tried to decide how best to proceed. It was a fortunate portent that he was self-assured and intelligent. Outsmarting most men was like stealing candy from a baby.

The waiter arrived and placed a glistening, clear, brim-full martini in front of Lance. A delicate pigs-tail twist of lemon peel floated on the surface. “Dry Beefeater martini for the gentleman,” the waiter said.

Lance released her wrist and leaned back. She plopped the olive back into her drink.

“The martini and my single malt scotch are my favorite drinks,” he explained. “I rarely mix spirits like this in a single sitting, but my appetite for this pure libation has been whetted. I prefer my martinis with a twist – a nice twinge of citrus rather than the caustic salty bite of the olive. I would be happy to let you sample my twist – I could use your toothpick to spear it.” He looked at her straight-faced, and raised the martini to his lips.

She pulled the olive back out of her drink. Patient and intrigued, she watched him, and not the drink under discussion, as he attempted to play her own game against her. “I have always preferred salty myself,” she answered him, her gaze seeking to hold his, her smile so small that it showed more as challenge than humor, tone low and thick with the innuendo.

He followed her almost subliminal eye movements with slight shifts of his own and told her, "Yes, a crunchy, coarse-salted twisted pretzel tastes awfully good with a lime-infused Corona beer. Citrus and salt, sweet and sour, soft and coarse, hot and cold,” his fingers trailed up her forearm and hand and fingers to encircle the toothpick and nudge the butt of the olive…" those opposites are great together, aren't they?" He dropped his hand away from her Trojan olive.

“I would be happy to let you sample my twist – I could use that toothpick you’re holding to spear it.” He looked at her straight-faced, and raised the martini to his lips.

Though she had absolutely no desire to eat a curl of citrus peel, she pulled the olive from the toothpick with her teeth, then held it up as if for him to take, the point up and the fuzzy plastic end peeking out between her fingers. Jutting her chin up a bit at him, she also held the olive, orange red pimento distended somewhat vulgarly from the center of the concentric rings of the olive, teeth, and lips.

Which would he choose: the toothpick or the juicy fruit it had come on?

“Why, uhm, sorry, I guess I didn't hear your name." He put his glass down and just looked at her, his expression benign and pleasant, his eyes fiery and mischievous. He gave a sufficient gap for her reply. "Well, uhm, gotta call you something," he said, his tone just somewhere between scolding and mocking, his deep resonant timbre magnified by his drop in volume. "So, I shall call you ‘lass’ for now."

Another pause as he leaned forward, waved a hand over hers in a flourish, and dipped with his thumb and forefinger down to the offered toothpick. Fixing her gaze with a slight lean closer to her, he said, "May I just borrow this for a second, lass?" Not waiting for a reply, he scooped the pick away, and slowly swung it back to his drink. He flicked his wrist downward and speared the lemon peel with the pick, withdrawing it and shaking the gin off the peel. He held it in front of her. “Now, are you sure you don’t want to try this, lass? A martini with BOTH an olive and a twist is very de rigueur overseas, you know!”

And, he winked at her.

Alexxi withdrew the offer of the olive when he asked her name again, giving him a look that could have melted glass. He did not wish to play then? Well, she was not being paid enough for entertaining the men down here. Peeved at his refusal, she gave him a second glare and dramatically swallowed the large olive whole the instant his hand closed over the toothpick, then picked up his martini twist and used it to wash down the fruit.

"Haaaa!" Lance laughed boisterously. "I must say that you have some ballz, here!" He reached for her unfinished martini and filled his mouth with it, swirling it about before swallowing it. "I see you prefer your martys not at all dry. Fuck! The vermouth in yours would kill a horse. But, then, you appropriated this drink from the waiter, did you not? Tsk tsk. So ill-mannered!" He glared at her with a sly smile.

"You did well to swallow that olive," he said slowly, with the hint of a snicker hugging the corners of his mouth, his voice glazed with mockery. He licked at the martini juice on his lips slowly, curling and furling the strong, flexible tip of his tongue up over his top lip, then lapping lazily across the bottom one. "Otherwise," he pressed his thigh now against her inviting knee, "I'd have plucked it from that sassy mouth of yours, and helped myself to whatever else tasty I might have found inside."

Leaning into him so that he could get a look down her bodice and a good whiff of her perfume, she whispered against his cheek. "Let me know if you decide you want to play, little one." It was a taunt - a last chance for him to make an effort. Oh, it was a pity, for he smelled delicious and she'd bet he had strong grip.

He glanced enough of her luscious pert orbs when she leaned forward with the bottoms of his eyes to appreciate this "gift" from Maya and Dion without her knowing he'd looked. He pushed his face closer into hers and arrested her eyes with a piercing, blazing stare. He dropped his big hand on top of hers, and twined his fingers tightly around hers, wrestling them into helpless submission, balling them into a compact fist within his, squeezing just enough to suggest the discomfort that would follow if he squeezed harder.

He turned in his chair so that the back of it was to one side of him, just as she was sitting on her chair, and leaned now into her, knees to knees. He slowly pushed her trapped hand and arm back … back … back … his grip iron, yet only mildly punishing, until her hand was well pinned to the small of her back.

He was eye to eye with her, compelling her to hold his gaze, daring her to turn away. He reached to her tightly-sheathed curving hip with his free hand, and slid it up to the deep bay of her waist, wrapping his long, powerful fingers as far as they could reach around toward her back. He pulled his feet back into his chair, lowering his knees; he insistently pulled with his hands locked to her waist and to her arm behind her back, sliding her forward off her chair and rotating her at the same time until she slipped smoothly onto his lap. She had no choice. He installed her deftly, her long legs draped over the tops of his thighs, her tight bum deep between them high up next to his groin, her side pressed into his chest. He drew her pinned arm up over his shoulder and dropped his arm across her tightly-gowned thighs, strapping them down upon his. His other hand slipped from her hip, and he pushed it between them, its back resting on his right thigh, the palm open and cupped under her supple right ass cheek. Their faces grazed, ear to ear.

So, there was some fire left in this stallion after all, Alexxi thought, arching her back slightly into him, so that her nose stroked up his, her open lips grazing the corner of his mouth. She pressed some of her weight into his hand, her moan more one of pleasure than submission as she leaned into him. She thought he needed encouragement just yet – perhaps more than she had thought at first. He did not trust her enough to let her lead… and that was fine. If she played her cards right then she had all night.

Her body felt all the more lithe, and charged with more energy and strength than her svelte form had revealed when she had joined him. Her scent enveloped him with an uncanny subtlety that both pleasured, and seduced. It was the scent of fresh outdoors perfumed with the lightest dash of heathers and magnolia. Not cloying or sweet, but subdued and exotic. Her arm on his shoulder seemed both a tender grace and a symbol of capture. He could in that instant have been toppled from the chair, her luscious body writhed down upon his, demanding the worship it deserved – which he would give willingly without fight.

At the same time, she was his booty, plundered from her chair and lashed to his lap, enslaved to the manhood beneath, to be used or abused as his fancy might dictate. His arousal was quick and decisive. Her weight upon and down into his slightly parted legs felt like a vessel of lust waiting to launch. His erection stuffed the tight brocade of her gown up into the heated crevice between her buns. He wriggled just enough to convince her that she wasn't perched on his jeans studs alone.

If Dion had not told her that he was looking for a strong woman for the night, Alexxi would have gladly relaxed against him, raining kisses on the bare skin of his neck and jaw and temple as she waited for him to decide it was time for them to move to a more private locale. His hands were strong, fingers digging into her flesh to feel the muscles beneath, and years of training had her body responding to the feel of his breath caressing her neck, chest, and the hollow between her breasts – not to mention the long bulge he had situated her on. He could be a very fun playmate, though she instinctively knew she would feel the marks of his touch for a few days to come.

"Now, we are going to stop playing THIS game and start playing MINE!" he rasped, his voice low, controlled, demanding, and quite definitely menacing. "I am not going to pay you as handsomely as I believe you may be worth without having your name. Tell me your name, now!" He squeezed her bum sharply with his open hand beneath it, digging his blunt nails through her gown into her taut flesh. At the same time, he turned his head into hers and claimed her sensitive sharp jaw line with his lips, running a soft, wet sortie along the length of it. He lipped her at her jaw line and expressed a barely audible soft hum … mmmmmm. He willed an invading chorus of euphonic vibrations along the bone and up to her inner ear. Would she succumb to his assaults? What could she tolerate?

"Tell me who it is that I am going to teach some manners to," he demanded, lifting his lips away from her jaw.

"Ooo," Alexxi inhaled sharply against his ear, then dropped her head so that it almost rested against the shoulder of his sleeveless muscle shirt. Dominating by force or by pain seemed so crude, for all he was really doing was encouraging her to lie to him. Eventually, she would certainly tell him the name she worked under, if only so that he would be able to ask for her again; but that was a pleasure she would grant him at a more intimate moment. With a small, mewling sound, she pressed her face against his neck, her free hand draped around his arm so that the fingers of her gloved hand clung to his shoulder from behind. There was just enough space between them so that the velvet at the front of her gown was not being crushed; her breasts heaving as if in pain with every small exhale against his throat. "Queen, slave, virgin, whore… What do you want me to be?" Her nose was slightly stroking the tender backside of his earlobe, voice so soft that it was only her careful enunciation that allowed it to carry over the din of the club.

He rubbed his ear against her stroking nose, twisting his head against it, like a cat seeking the caressing strokes of its master. He raised his hand from her legs and sought the nape of her neck with his thumb. He massaged across the breadth of her hairline, then slowly down her neck to the prominent first vertebra, then up again. He pulled his ear from her nose, leaned back in the chair so that their faces separated, and pressed the palm of his hand hard against the back of her neck. He pushed his fingers along one side of her neck, his thumb along the other, and tightened them, more than suggesting his power to control the tilt of her head. "All of those," he whispered between clenched teeth, "except the virgin." He pressed his lips up onto her chin and mouthed it gently, firmly, gently, firmly. "It would be too cruel for me to use a virgin as I am going to use you." He chuckled deep in his throat. "My Queen? My Mistress? Are you woman enough to remain nameless and take me? Dare you try to switch me? Hmmmmm?"

She let her head loll back so that her temple was against the bony peak of his shoulder and let out a laugh that was both genuine and unrestrained. "Touché, my love, but then I should have known you were not the sort of fool who hires a whore just to pretend she's a virgin." She pulled up enough that she could brush his face with her hand and his nose with hers. "Virgins are never much fun," she stated with conviction, "I'd much rather ride a man who knows what he wants." She inflected it with a hint of question that seemed to dare him to prove himself an experienced fuck. Against his ear, she finished, "So I can decide whether or not to give him everything he's ever wished for…"

"Haaaaaaaaaaa!" he laughed, his breath hissing against her cheek, his voice low, menacing. "I would twist those bold ballz offa you if you were a man! But, you aren't, and I'll settle for twisting you with my corkscrew to find out everything YOU want. Who says it might not be me riding you, hmmm? I wonder how able you'd be to ride me after I rode you anyhow! But, if you do, you're so gonna give me everything I've ever wanted! Have no doubt!"

He released his grip on her and shifted beneath her in the chair, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist and maneuvering them both until her back pressed hard into his chest and she sat on his lap, facing forward, her legs clasped between his. He licked behind one of her ears, and then bit along the outer edge playfully, lightly. "Show me a room upstairs, a dungeon. We should begin now."

Safe from his view by the position and delighted at having a lover strong enough to reposition her at will, Alexxi's spine betrayed the tingles his tongue produced. Oh, he could just do that all night; though she knew there were other parts of her body that would be demanding attention if he kept it up long. Relaxing back against him, the back of her head against his shoulder in a posture that left her entirely vulnerable to his hands, she let her head turn so that her lips rested just beneath his ear and whispered, "I think you are going to love it here."

"I already do," he whispered back, running the rounded heels of his palms up from her waist, skimming over the contours of her breasts, up to her breast bone and neck, his fingers teasing at, and finger-tip massaging her flesh for an instant. He coursed his hands back downward rapidly and let them come to rest at the inner margins of her thighs, shielded from his groping fingers only by the tightly stretched fabric of her gown.

With determination, she pushed herself to her feet, and when she was a few feet away turned to look back over her shoulder to offer him her hand, palm down. Like a socialite at a party to be seen, she led him through the crowd so that everyone that mattered knew he was hers well before she dropped his hand to let it slide up the rail as she picked her way up the stairs ahead of him, her skirt lifted dainty in the other.

He reached to her mid-way up the risers and grasped her upper arm with his hand, encircling it completely. He joined her on the riser and pushed her back up against the rail. He locked his hands, clasped tightly to her sides, on the rail, making her his prisoner within the hard bars that were his strong, muscled arms. He pressed his body up to hers, hard, insistent, unyielding, and docked his tented Levis fast against her mound. He felt the tops of her thighs quiver as his took command of them, immobilizing them where she stood.

Two heads taller than she, he bent deeply, down to that saucy "V" cut into her bodice, and pushed his mouth into it. He lapped slowly with his hot, wet tongue, straight up from the head of her cleavage up past her breastbone and on to her neck, swaggling his tongue tightly side to side as he lapped up her body. He trailed up under her chin and suckled the tender, ticklish flesh there just to the point that he thought she might have to cry out, and then lapped up over her chin, stopping right below her lip. He pulled back slightly, within eye focus, and hovered his head above her. He whispered, his lips teasingly close to hers, his voice low, sly, threatening: "Now, I will give you one final chance to tell me what to call you. I am going to buy you for he entire night and early morning. You are going to be all mine until dawn---beyond if I choose." He pressed harder into her sex with his, and flicked his hips ever so slowly to left, then right …. "And, if I do not have a name, you will be my bitch, my whore, and my cunt for all those hours. You will never want to hear those names again when we are through. How shall it be for you?"

The best part about this job - besides bringing home over five grand for each night she worked - was that every once in a while she managed to find a guy that she would have liked to have slept with in real life, but wouldn't have. Lance was one of these - not so much on first sight, but the longer she got to know him, the more she realized that this was really gravy money.

She was going to get paid to let him lick her. How fucking good was that?

Of course, it was pointless to think of those things while she was pinned between the banister at her back and the pole in his pants. For the way he was working her over - she thought as she let her head fall back so that he would have better access to her tender neck - one might think he was the one getting paid. He wanted it bad - and if she wanted to stay in control (which she really didn't, but it apparently was his fantasy to find someone to surrender to) then she needed to let his lust linger a bit, for it would be much tastier for both of them if it aged a few hours. After all, one did not shell out the kind of dough Lance was for a quickie on the stairs. Hell, there were lots of women here who would give him that for free.

Her center of gravity lowered as she let herself melt against him, her arms winding around his neck as she molded her curves to the unyielding planes of his body. Her lips parted in response to his kisses, eyes half closed as she watched him, more interested in getting more kisses than in his threat to call her a whore all night. Alexxi was a law student. She believed in labels. She was a whore by any and every definition possible.

She hadn't intended to tell him her working name just yet, but since he was making it such an issue, it seemed somehow… ungenerous of her not to tell him. Especially since he had just practically made passionate love to her right in front of the entire club. "Alessandra," she told him, wishing she could have touched him with her hands - damn gloves. "Though I like it when you talk dirty," she was pushing into him now, gloved fingers in his wild mane of hair. "Now that I've felt your tongue on my skin, just the mention of the word makes my cunt throb and clench against the emptiness."

By her calculations he had given her a point with that very nice bit of foreplay - she'd bet most thirty-something wives would give up their vibrators for just that much pre-sex attention - and she'd reciprocated by giving him her name. But she would bet he was
burning now, probably wondering if he could get away with hiking her gown up right there and `punishing' her with his god-given endowments.

'''Alessandra'", he repeated, the S's slithering off his teeth and the soft A's cuddling his palate. A sly and crafty, seductive and caressing name, just as this magnificent creature trapped by his body was fast proving to be. "Alessandra, so, you have a name," he asserted. He looked into her eyes, pressing more urgently against her and crushing hard upon her peaked tits. "Such a sexy name. I am going to enjoy you, Alessandra. Alessandra my cunt. My hot, bitchy, whore of a cunt! I am going to have my way with you, and have you indulge my every fantasy, for hours, hours..." He dove for the hollow of her neck above her clavicle and lipped it hard and sharp. He moved his hands up to her shoulders and caressed them briefly, then released her flesh and again looked at her.

"Oooo," she moaned, her eyes darkening as her hands pulled at his neck, her breasts crushed against his lower ribs now. "I can hardly wait…" Too quickly, she recovered, her sultry words made sarcastic by the tilt of her head and the withdrawal of her hands. "Come on…" she chirped, "You are going to love it upstairs." Or at lease she would - assuming that bulge in his pants wasn't his cell phone.

"Yes," he said, slowly disengaging from his lock upon her. "Show me the surprises upstairs that Maya proffers for my use with you.

Slowly, he moved back off of her, drawing his open hands down her cheeks and shoulders and breasts, and took her hand to lead the way up the rest of the stairs.