Girlfriend By The Hour

Girlfriend By The Hour

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

When Imogen accidentally interviews to be the social companion of Andre Lachlan, she never imagines what the job will entail.

Summary

When Imogen accidentally interviews to be the social companion of Andre Lachlan, she never imagines what the job will entail.

Chapter24 (v.1) - The Shower

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: June 07, 2015

Reads: 1032

Comments: 1

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: June 07, 2015

A A A

A A A

It started with a choice: a shower, a washing of Imogen's hair, and a quiet evening in front of the computer. Also, the punishment their next time in Hell, which Andre promised would be severe because menstruation excused only so much crazy before it became downright reckless.

The other choice: a shower, a training exercise, a washing of Imogen's hair, and a quiet evening in front of the computer in which Andre would not identify himself or offer any hacks. Also, their next visit to Hell would be much more pleasurable.

Imogen scrutinized his face as he laid out her options, but he gave nothing away. He refused to give any specifics on this training, either.

"Amanda warned me about your choices," she muttered while she debated.

"Oh? When was this?"

Imogen shrugged. "We talk."

Andre didn't look pleased about this. "I feel like the ex and the current anything should never talk, not when it's women. What did she tell you?"

"That there are no good choices with you. Either way, I'm going to lose. And she told me she wished she could have smuggled a weighted coin into your pocket. Not really sure what she meant there."

The devil danced on Andre's grin. "You will. Now choose."

"Fine. For the sake of my raid tonight I'll choose training."

"Excellent, I'll go draw you a bath."

Imogen stomped after him down the hall. "Andre, I told you no baths! It's in the contract!"

"Don't worry, I'll start draining it when you get in." He opened the door for her.

"That doesn't even make sense," she grumbled as she walked in and flipped the light switch.

Andre dimmed them and lit some candles. The warmth of the natural light reflecting off the cool blue tiles gave the Ocean an ethereal glow.

"Mood lighting? Good God. Now that I've agreed to this, will you tell me what I've gotten myself into?"

"Not quite yet." Andre turned the faucet on and let the water run over his hand until he was satisfied with the temperature. "Go on, clothes off," he said sternly, as if she should have known.

Imogen's cheeks lit up. "Not with you here!"

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Lady stuff. Don’t be a dick."

He chuckled and kissed her forehead on his way out. "Three minutes. You, in that tub. And I saw you eying the bubble bath. No."

She sighed and waited for the door to close before following his instructions, her cheeks burning the entire time. When Andre returned, she wrapped her arms around her knees and pulled them up to her chest. Even that was embarrassing. She must have looked like a shy teenager when she really wanted to look sexy and suave and ready for anything.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Imogen," Andre said gruffly. "Not in here. Now lay back and relax."

She succeeded in his first request, less so in his second. She opened her eyes only long enough to see Andre, shirtless and lean and smooth, reach up and pull the showerhead down. "Put your legs up on the sides of the tub."

Imogen swallowed hard as she did so, attempting to casually bring her knees together and managing a completely awkward pose from it.

He knelt down on the floor next to her. "You know that's not how I want you. Now, have you ever pleasured yourself with a showerhead before?"

Imogen's eyes flew open. "What? No!"

"Don't act so chaste. I suppose I should have known."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Imogen didn't know why his comment irked her so much—yes, she was so chaste she'd never even considered this sort of thing—but she was really proud of herself for the giant skip she'd taken right over a tame, normal relationship to bondage. Why should he have known she'd never tried this?

Andre flipped the water to the shower and fiddled with the head, adjusting it to a setting that sounded forceful. "Spread your legs, Ima."

"What are you going to do?"

"What do you think? It's going to be intense at first, and then I'm going to let the tub drain. Then it's going to get even more intense."

He wasn't lying. The moment the jet hit her, even buffered by the still bathwater, she bucked and curled at the same time, her knees collapsing together as she shoved Andre's hand away. A yelp snagged in her throat, nearly choking her.

"The fuck?” she screeched. “Absolutely not!"

"You picked this."

"Absolutely, positively not, Lachlan! I don't know what the fuck that was, but absolutely not."

Andre laughed boldly. "This is exactly why we're doing this." He fiddled with the setting, finding one that was focused but less powerful. "You're way too sensitive."

"Am not," she pouted with a scowl while Andre urged her knees apart.

It was still an overpowering sensation, but Imogen pressed her elbows against the walls of the tub and willed herself to stay together. It wasn't painful this time, and despite one hand holding the showerhead and the other spreading her to better expose her to the jet, Andre managed to position himself to kiss her knee gently. He pressed his cheek against it and let out a contented sigh, and Imogen mimicked the sound. After the initial shock, it wasn't so bad after all.

Then he murmured, "Step 2," and released the drain.

Imogen opened her eyes to find that despite the nuzzling at her knee, every one of Andre's muscles was engaged. His eyes burned into her, studying every flicker of response in her face.

The bastard wasn't placid at all, he was just manipulating her with happy gurbles.

She tensed up immediately. Her hips attempted to take control by lifting up closer to the showerhead, but with her legs over the sides, she was pinned in place. Of course.

He twisted enough that he could push his elbow down against her pelvis. "Sing," he commanded.

"What?"

"The music. Sing along with it."

She hadn't even noticed it playing before, possibly because it was the worst song imaginable. "This is rap."

Andre nodded. "That's the point. You know every word to this song. Don't even play you don't."

He was right. She took a deep breath and jumped into it, struggling with the words and mumbling vaguely through the lines she couldn't remember, but doing a decent job.

Until Andre switched back to the first setting. The next words came out on a squeal. Andre pushed his chest down on her knee to keep it from folding. "I don't think Sir Mix-A-Lot has ever sounded so sexy," he said by way of compliment, but he was definitely frustrated at how much effort he had to put into keeping her in place.

Imogen whimpered as her top lip curled back. This wasn't as unpleasant as the first time, and the pinnacle was right there if she could just get closer to the jet.

"Sing!"

She tried, but the words faded before she could get them out. She was so close, and his command was distracting her.

"There's a bottle right above you. Read it to me."

She looked up and saw it there on the ledge next to her. Her eyes crossed briefly before they narrowed in on the writing.

It was in French.

"Fuck, what?"

"Sound it out."

"Eau...eau...oh God. Oh God."

"Dammit, Ima!" Andre sounded genuinely pissed. "Don't come."

He tried to hold her down, but her head dropped down to the bottom of the tub and her entire body arched against him. There was no stopping her.

"Don't you dare come, Imogen. I command you not to come."

Her breathing took on Lamaze levels of frenzy.

"Look at me. Listen to me. Don't fucking--"

She cried out on the mind-reeling orgasm. She barely missed Andre's nose as her foot kicked off the edge of the tub and knocked the showerhead out of his hand. She curled up then thrust back into the air again as the waves crashed through her. She reached for his hand, his arm, his anything, but he frustratingly stayed out of reach.

"Fucking hell, Ima."

"That was, oh God, that was incredible."

"You failed that lesson miserably."

Her hand fell to her heaving chest. "Why haven't we done that before? Why haven't we done that every time?"

"Because you have no control over yourself whatsoever."

She sank down into the afterglow. "I'm totally in control," she murmured.

"You're not. You never are. It's fine in Heaven, but it's borderline dangerous in Hell. You probably just messed up your neck with that move."

She grinned lazily. "Mmm, you'll just have to massage it for me then."

"I will not."

"Yes you will."

His indignant grumble told her she was right.

"Why would I want to control that? It was awesome."

He huffed in irritation. "You'll last longer, for one."

"I can have more than one orgasm."

"Yeah, but the moment you stop having orgasms you go catatonic."

She curled onto her side. "Totally not true," she said as her eyes grew heavy.

"You're falling asleep now. In the bottom of an empty bathtub."

"Shh, naptime."

~..~

Andre wasn’t sure how to rate his little experiment.

He’d gotten to watch her face while she came, which he hadn’t actually seen since their first time in Hell. That time it had been awesome for less than a minute before she terrified him with her panic attack. Since nothing quite matched the rush he felt in observing that moment when every guard broke down and she was enslaved by his manipulations, that part was pretty much perfect.

Other than that, it was fun but counterproductive. He’d introduced Imogen to a new toy, but she missed the point of it. He couldn’t believe he was having a problem with his girlf—submissive—coming too fast, but sweet Christ. It was going to take a lot of work to get Imogen up to his level. She was nowhere near ready to handle half of what she’d agreed to. Now he couldn’t even wash her hair—she’d changed her mind on the bath but the moment he’d joined her in the tub she’d leaned back against him. He could rest his chin on the rats’ nest left from her orgasmic back bend but couldn’t comb it away.

He’d controlled himself well, at least, but he hadn’t really tested himself thoroughly. If he thought about Imogen on her knees in front of him, licking her bottom lip as she contemplated his erection, he didn’t know if his control would hold. And he definitely couldn’t think about that now while she was in cuddle mode, either. That would be—

Oh, goddammit.

Imogen sat up and glanced back at him but didn’t look like annoyed. Instead she turned around, subconsciously covered her breasts with one arm, and said, “Sit back on your heels for me, okay?”

“Why?”

She stared him dead in the eye, feigning confidence, but her blush made her a horrible poker player. “Because I don’t want to drown, silly.”

Andre understood immediately and scowled. Part of him—most of him—absolutely wanted to fuck her mouth. Just ram his cock right in there until she choked on it. Hair pulling, coming in her throat, pulling out in time for the last couple squirts to land on her face and tits, the works. He wasn’t going to do anything of the sort—not her first time, at least—but the thought was definitely there.

And there was that other part of him which rejected it no matter how she wanted to do it. He couldn’t explain it except to say that, for whatever reason, it felt dirty in the worst way possible. Which was insane, considering everything else they’d done. He had every intention of sitting back on his heels for her, but when he looked in her eyes, he couldn’t. She looked too…

The blush, the instinctive modesty, the candid eagerness. She looked innocent.

He rubbed her cheek. “No, Ima.”

She grinned and placed her hand on Andre’s chest. “You know how sometimes you mess up and want to make amends, but the other person won’t let you? Like, when you find a pack of coconut bars in the break room and you assume your boyfriend was surprising you with a tasty treat because who the hell else eats them, and you eat, like, half of them, but then it turns out they’re Stu’s?”

As she talked, her hand slid further down. Despite the fact that she’d just dug her fingers into his pubic hair, she continued telling her story just as though they were chatting in the café on the ground floor of the office building. No knowing smile, no playful tone, no innuendo whatsoever.

She tugged on the neatly groomed mat. Andre squirmed.

“So then you try to give Stu a five for the cookies but he won’t take it? But you feel really bad about it so you end up having to go all the way over to the Whole Foods in Buckhead to buy him a pack of the goddamn cookies so you can sneak them into his desk?”

She curled her fingers around the base of his shaft and pushed her thumb up the top ridge with just enough force to make Andre do something he’d regret. And she knew. She tilted her head as her eyelids drooped and looked up at him through long, pale eyelashes.

“Take the five, Andre. I don’t want to sneak into your desk.”

“What exact—“ he started, but his voice came out in the wrong octave. He coughed and cleared his throat. “What exactly do you mean by ‘sneaking into my desk’?”

“Well, I know where you sleep and when you sleep, and I’ve slept with you enough times to know that at some point you will be ready for, mmm, cookies, whether you want them or not.” She slid her hand all the way up to the head and flicked the tip. “Or you could have cookies now.”

Yeah, definitely cookies now. A massive discussion about boundaries later, cookies now. And milk. Couldn’t have cookies without milk.

He reached around Imogen to turn the shower back on.

“What are you doing?” she squealed, attempting unsuccessfully to dodge the jet of cool water.

He stood up and adjusted the shower head. “Trying to figure out how to wash your hair while you give me cookies, obviously. There, I think this will work.”

“No way! You’re totally gonna screw up my hair.”

He guided her onto her knees and poured some shampoo onto her head. “Listen, missy, I know I’ve been a bit lax since our last time in Hell, but I call the shots here. If you can’t remember that, you’re going to have to start calling me Master again. And if that doesn’t work, I’m going to start calling you some extremely derogatory things. Trust me when I say ‘slave’ is the most polite of them. Is that what you want?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes wide.

This was exactly why he didn’t want this from her yet. That innocence was charming and adorable but came with a fragile shell. But he couldn’t refuse her now. Letting her do what she wanted now would give her some much-needed confidence later. He’d have to walk her through it—he was sure that her first handling of him had been beginner’s luck—but he’d have plenty of opportunities to praise her. This was a good thing.

“Don’t be sorry about that. Be sorry about what your apology did to my cock,” which was still hard but not at nearly so proud an angle. “So kiss it and make it feel better.”

She gave it a sweet peck on the tip, which perked it up a little, and he gathered her hair up to lather it. This would be a good experience. He’d let her explore and get comfortable with his body, and he’d get her hair clean and soft.

His plan failed immediately. What seemed like timid, naïve fumblings by Imogen—a taste of the droplet of cum beading on the tip, a dip into the hidden fold beneath the head, a flick of her finger between his testicles—turned out to be a deceptively skilled masterpiece, like an experimental jazz number that started as random notes on a piano and ended with a complete mindtrip. Andre didn't even notice how far from himself her ministrations had dragged his brain until he was suddenly back to himself again. He blinked and looked down to find she'd stopped curling her tongue around his girth and rolling his sack in her fingers.

She was glaring at him meaningfully.

He relaxed his hand from the death grip it had on the roots of her hair.

"Go on," he said calmly, not trusting his voice to say anything more.

She ran kisses down his shaft, sucking ever so gently each time. Years of practice, of training himself to remain together until he told himself he was ready, were pushed to the limit. She wasn't the first girl to test him this particular way, but she was different.

Damaged.

She wouldn't say it and he would never force her to. In fact, her silence proved her trust. She wasn’t warning him away with any guilt trips, and she wasn’t pandering for affection with tangible reminders of her fragility. She may have been more difficult to handle because she allowed him to toe some lines which he couldn’t see to back away from, but she knew how to stop him and didn’t. She wanted him to push those limits.

So if this was what she wanted to do, he would let her. He would let her continue with that look of fierce concentration, as though this was the most important thing in the world and not a blow job he hadn't expected much out of. And if afterward she said she never wanted to do it again, even if it was the most incredible orgasm he'd ever had, he would never ask it of her. If she wanted to spend every night curled up on the sofa, he'd be happy as long as she was curled up in his arms.

Fuck. This was bad.

He squeezed her neck lightly, and she looked up. Her teeth brushed against him, nearly forcing from his mouth words he absolutely meant—words he couldn't say for exactly that reason. She'd laugh them off as another bit of pleasure gibberish like her own, and it would crush him.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to focus on rinsing the soap from her hair. She continued with her sweet, indulgent licks and gentle massage, and he adjusted to it by allowing the rumble in his throat free.

"Such a good girl," he murmured. Always the smart one, she swiped some suds from where they slid down her breasts before wrapping her hand around the base of his shaft. She didn't tug on him like someone less experienced would, instead using a lighter grip and the soap to slide up and down in a slow even motion. "Fuck, such a good girl."

He thought he was steady enough to condition her hair, only to nearly drop the bottle on her head when she lifted his sack to her lips. She pulled his left testicle into her mouth and his hips involuntarily slammed forward.

"Stop," he growled.

She sealed her lips and pulled on him.

There was nothing involuntary about the way he yanked her hair back. He bit back his apology and said, "We are not equals in here. When I say stop, you stop."

He bent down so he could kiss her trembling lips. "You're killing me, Ima. I won't be able to braid your hair if I don't condition it, and how can I condition if I get cum all over it? So let me finish before you finish me."

She nodded and took his cock in her mouth, but only the head. She continued to stroke him, but it was a delicate motion that simply kept him warm. Her other hand she rested on his thigh.

"Much better," he praised. He worked the rinse in and ran his fingers through the tangles carefully, easing them free. She didn't see him smile as he thought of his promise that nothing sexual happened during hair care—this one was all her. And once he was satisfied that he'd rinsed the conditioner away, he said, "Now you may continue."

Her efficiency was unprecedented. One hand reached behind to squeeze his ass as the other gripped his sack. Without hesitation she swallowed his cock, drawing it so far down her throat her nose brushed his pelvis. His eyes flew open in surprise, and he had every intention of easing her away and telling her not to hurt herself, but then her tongue coiled around the shaft.

Holy fuck.

He pulled out just enough that he could thrust into her again. She met his motion, bobbing her head at a pace urging him on. He wanted to hold back—fuck, why was he always so rough with her?—but she was the one forcing him too far. She was the one setting the grinding pace, she was the one moaning with each thrust, driving him insane with the vibration on his cock alone.

He felt it, the build-up, the pressure, he saw the brick wall ahead, and there was no way to stop in time. And he had to; this wasn’t right at all. It didn’t matter that she was the one making this rough. Her dark blonde hair may as well have been the burnished halo of a fallen angel desperate to do anything to get home, even if meant pleasing the devil.

“Stop!” he roared.

She did, but as she eased back slightly she squeezed his sack. Logically he knew this wasn’t how it worked, but that squeeze forced everything to move, and he was the one who thrust deep down her throat one last time to shoot his seed straight down into her belly.

He tried to stop her when she pulled back again, but he didn’t have the coordination mid-orgasm. His cock popped up into the air, spurting sticky, white cum onto her cheek and dribbling the last of it on her breast. With the build-up released, the shaft softened some, but only enough that it pointed directly at Imogen, stupidly thinking it could handle more.

Andre certainly couldn’t right now—apparently his penis forgot he was solidly in his thirties. He leaned back against the wall and slid down into the tub, where Imogen waited to wrap her arms around him.

He smiled sedately and kissed the tip of her nose as he swiped her cheek clean and rinsed it away in the bath water.

She pouted.

“Sorry I yelled,” he murmured, although now he kind of wanted to curl up in a dry bath tub, too. “That was…more intense than I expected.” It was the truth as much as it was a lie.

Her past wasn’t his business, only her future. It had just been the worst possible time to realize his suspicions were truth. So he guided her head down to his chest and wrapped his legs around her while it still seemed like cuddling more than protection.

“No, I just…” she began, her voice raw. He could feel her muscles ripple as she struggled, like always, to talk about what they did. “It’s okay if you don’t want to kiss me after that. I get it.”

For one horrible second he thought she was implying she was a lesser, dirty thing, a street corner hooker. But then he realized it was much simpler—what her mouth now tasted of—and he laughed. “Jesus, come here.”

He pulled her back to his lips, wanting to kiss her deeply but holding back, instead using his tongue to show he didn’t mind tasting himself on her. He caressed her tongue, savoring the mingling of their unique flavors.

“Like salted caramel,” he praised when they again parted.

She crinkled her nose and curled up happily.

He patted her hair, only to roll his eyes and curse. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“I got jizz in your hair.”


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