Number Fourteen

"Naughty, naughty little whore," he says, ugly words but the voice sweet and intoxicating. "Naughty little whores get spanked, don't they, Marianne?" He unbuckles his belt, pulls it out of its loops. Doubles it in his fist and snaps it. Her body reacts with more fear, and more trickles of wetness at her center. "On your knees. Face away."

She turns, awkwardly, made clumsy by the twin rush of adrenaline and desire. The desk is hard under her knees. She feels open and exposed, waiting for the smack of that leather belt. It doesn't come. In the moment of waiting, the sound of his zipper is loud. She can't stand it; she moans. "Cheeky monkey," he says, and now his voice is a little shaky too. "You beautiful, naughty girl. I'll split you open with my prick, won't I?"

"Please," she begs, unable to say anything else, and sways her hips toward him.

She can hear him inhale. "Fuck," he says between his teeth, and then suddenly there's a rattling noise. She looks over her shoulder at him to see that he's no longer holding the belt, and she licks her lips slowly, caressing them with her tongue. He steps up close to her and smacks her on the arse, one cheek and then the other, hard enough to sting briefly. "I'll split you open," he says again, and then she can feel him, feel the blunt tip of him, against her sex. "Damme, luv, you're drippin' wet."

She sways her hips back toward him again, and they both moan as he buries his shaft deep inside her and starts to move, steady and getting gradually faster. She can't stop moaning at the feel of his cock inside her, stiff and filling her up. She wants to touch herself, but she can't get her balance. Doesn't matter, he's reaching around to rub at her little pearl. It doesn't take long before she shatters around him, panting for breath and unable to keep from collapsing on the desk.

"Oh, come on, luv, we're not nearly done," he says into her ear. "I was wrong, you're a good girl, aren't you?" he says, and simply picks her up, only to drop her right onto her settee. "Good at this, you sweet little slut." And now she's getting a good look at him, that hard thick pole jutting out from the slim-cut dark suit. The sight makes her want to climax again, and she reaches down. He grabs her hand and flings it away, and smacks her on the hip. "Ah-ah-ah, no. My job." And he leans down and swipes his tongue right up her split valley. She cries out. He keeps doing it, same motion over and over, with one hand toying at her nipple. She reaches for that hard shaft of his, and he lets her. There's a big bead of moisture right at the tip, and when she swirls it around with her finger, he moans low, right over her center of pleasure.

"I'm a good girl, I am," she pants.

"Oh, you are," he says, without moving his mouth away. The vibrations feel incredible, and her hand involuntarily tightens on him. "Shit, you're so juicy. I can't take much more of this," he says, and the Cockney accent is nearly gone. "I have to fuck you. So juicy," he says, and stands up, ignoring her cry of frustration. He takes off his suit trousers and then she can see that he is wearing no underwear at all.

"Please," she says, aware that she's done practically nothing but beg him to service her since he first put his hands on her. She doesn't care, she doesn't care. She might wind up dead, but at least she'll have this first. "What's your name?"

"Reggie." He kicks off socks and shoes, naked below the waist.

"No, it's not."

He yanks at his narrow dark tie. His hands are elegant and well-kept, for a gangster. He strips off the suit jacket and white shirt, flinging them on the floor behind him as she strokes herself and waits for his mouth again.

"I'm Ronnie." He grins at her, his eyes still mirror-dark in the dim evening light. He's beautiful head to toe, chiseled muscles and hairy chest and sensuous mouth. She can't tear her eyes from him, as he gives himself a slow tug or two.

"Don't be ridiculous. What are you really called?" He laughs and settles between her legs again, rubbing her with his fingers. "You have to tell me. You're touching me like this, and I don't know what to call you."

"I don't have to tell you anything, ducks, and you know it."

"Please?"

"Freddie Jackson."

He's still lying. "Freddie?"

"Yes, luv?"

"Fuck me."

"Nah, nah, your fanny's too delicious. Gotta eat my fill yet," he said, and bends to his work. She squirms with desire, but he's being too gentle, and she growls in frustration. His head comes up alertly, and he grabs for her breasts. "Naughty girl, you're gettin' a bit too comfortable," he says, and his cock flexes a little. "That gun over there, I can go get it, if that'll encourage you to be prop'ly respectful."

A wave of fear swims over her, leaving desire behind it. "Please, Mr. Jackson."

"All right then," he says, and hops off her again, padding the five steps from settee to desk and coming back with the gun in his hand. Even naked, he looks well capable of mayhem and destruction with that gun, and she moans, unable for a moment to speak.

"I meant – please fuck me, Mr. Jackson," she says when her voice comes back. He's still standing there over her holding the gun with one hand and stroking himself with the other. She squirms impatiently on the settee. "Please." She needs him on her side, not merely taking his pleasure and then offing her without a second thought, and to do that she needs to please him.

"With my gun, eh?"

She shudders. "No. No, not that, please no."

"No, hmm?" He sets the gun down, out of her reach. "I should tell you, my name's not really Freddie. It's Al Capone."

A flash of anger lights her up, and she raises her head to glare at him. He's ignoring her desperate need, and he wants to bandy nonsense talk now? "No, it's not!"

"No?" He grins again and she glares harder. "Would you buy Luca Brasi?"

"You're not even remotely Italian," she says scathingly.

"Alfred, then," he says. "You can still call me Freddie, though, luv. You can scream it while I drive you mad with my gun."

Is he really thinking about it? She shudders again as another wave of desire and fear sweeps her. "Please, not the gun."

"No, this gun," he says, giving himself another long stroke, and the teasing leaves his face. He tugs her about on the settee with those strong arms, positioning her where he can slide that long thick cock inside her. They both moan again, and he starts to move inside her, using his weight and their closeness to increase the contact between them. She can't help it, she keeps moaning at the delicious friction. They grind their bodies together, the tension winding tighter and tighter inside her, and she does actually scream when she comes this time, the high-pitched rhythmic cries of a woman finding her climax.

He pulls out and she half-sits, reaching for him. He shakes his head and smacks her on the hip, squeezing his cock and rolling his head on his shoulders to release tension. "No, li'l bird, we're not nearly done," he says, his voice a raspy growl so sensual that her eyes roll back in her head. "On your knees again. Arse in the air," he orders.

She does it, feeling bare and vulnerable and so aroused that it won't take much to bring her again. Then he's upon her, spreading her thighs with his hands and pressing inside, tapping her with enough force to make the settee squeak and jiggle. "That's it," he says approvingly, "take it, take this fuckin' you need so bad, you naughty girl." He smacks each cheek again and then reaches under her arms to knead at her breasts. "Christ, you have the sweetest tits. Perfect handfuls." She moans. "Faster, did you say, luv?"

"Slower," she says, to be contrary.

"Nah. It's what I say, not what you want, dearie." And for several minutes he speeds up, to a tempo that has her quivering with need. She feels filled, reamed out, but it's not really getting to that good spot inside. She cants her hips back, to try to change the angle. He slaps her arse again. "Nah, you greedy slut, I'm in charge here."

"You're in charge," she gasps out.

"Too right." But he's breathless too, and he pulls out again, making her cry out with frustration. In the next minute, perched there on the settee with her privates in the air and her face in the throw pillow, unable to move because of his grip like iron on her hips, she feels a cold hard presence there at the entrance of her sex, and she nearly faints with fright. It's the pistol, it has to be. "I think the lady protests too much," he says, panting. "I think you want this. I think you want it in you." She tries to squirm away, but he won't let her.

The cold pressure moves closer to her soft opening, and she starts to panic. This is too much. She looks at the persimmon-colored velvet cushion, its proximity to her nose making it blur in her vision, and she blurts one word. "Orange!"

He freezes, and now she can feel the cold metal sliding away. "You're a mad bint," he says, with an oddly tender note in his voice, and runs his hands over her arse again. "So beautiful. What a beautiful sweet cunt you've got, love, tight and so wet. You're such a cock-greedy little whore, sweetheart."

She is. It's true. "Yes," she admits.

"Say that out loud, then." One hand leaves her hip to guide his cock to her entrance. It's almost as hard as the gun, but satiny-soft and warm, and she moans, wriggling her hips toward it. "Say it, luv. Say, 'I love your cock. I want it in me.' Say it."

"Oh, God, I love your cock," she cries out, in relief. This, she can manage. "I love it, I want your big hard cock in me. Please."

He pulls away again, and she hasn't quite moaned in frustration when she realizes he's simply flipping her to her back again. He grabs a tight handful of her hair and plunders her mouth with his, hard and sweet. She wraps her arms around him. This man... he's everything she wants. Everything she's ever wanted, everything she ever could want. "Please," she begs again, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

He holds her hips up close to him and breaches her again. It feels so good that she nearly sobs. She holds him as close to her as she can get, one arm around his back and one around his neck, her knees gripping his ribs. It starts again, the horizontal dance of man and woman, and the itch in her blood intensifies with every stroke of his hard shaft inside her. It goes on and on, and she's stretching out for completion again, needing another release, when she realizes he's talking again.

He's saying, "Oh bloody hell, I can't – ah shit, I'm gonna..." and then it turns into deep grunts of pleasure, with the hot pulse of his seed inside her, and she groans. She could just die, she's so close, she's so frustrated and she's not going to get there, he's still moving in her but he's really done – and then she feels the cold muzzle of the pistol at her temple again, even though he's still pounding away at her as if he hasn't just blown a tremendous wad. "Goodbye, luv," he pants, and cocks the hammer.

And she comes so hard that she loses consciousness.

It takes at least a few moments for her to come back to herself and realize that she's alive, lying alone on the settee in her own flat. She's still disoriented when he sits up on the rug in front of the settee and runs a hand through his hair, destroying the neat hair-tonic, slicked-back look and tousling his hair back into something more like his usual messy style.

"Fuck," he says, in deep appreciation, and leans his head on the seat of the settee. "That was so good. Jesus, woman, one of these days you're gonna kill me."

She just rolls her eyes and smiles, amazed at his skill. It had been his idea in the first place, a quirky New Year's resolution – though she'd planned this particular scenario. "It was exciting. I passed out there at the end, you know."

"I noticed," he says, and moves again, to put his head on her thigh. "I think you did me in for a couple of days there, darling."

"Oh?" She feels boneless. And content. "You do such a beautifully menacing East End gangster. We have to do this one again, it really turned me on."

"That much was clear." He kisses her hipbone. "You didn't have to safe-word me, you know. I wouldn't really have used the gun."

"I was a little panicky," she admits.

"I just figured the threat would do the trick, without my having to actually hurt you – you know, pretend-throttling you or something," he adds.

"It did do the trick, marvellously. Well done, baby. So, who were you really?" she asks, idly playing with his hair. "One of the Kray twins after all?"

He shakes his head, smiling. "Sorry 'bout that, by the way. I nearly dropped out of character then. You were driving me mad."

"Oh, it was mutual," she assures him.

"I kept dropping the cockney, too," he says ruefully.

"Didn't notice. So who were you, one of the Peaky Blinders crew?" She presses a kiss to her finger, and then to his cheek.

"That self-described sodomite Alfie Solomon," he says, "transplanted to Swinging 1960s London," and laughs again. "Thank God your imagination's as vivid as mine!"

"Oh, yeah," she agrees fervently. "Now I have to get off this sofa before I make a mess of the upholstery."

"That's what they make upholstery cleaner for," he says, the voice of reason, but she gets up and goes to the lavatory for a wash-up. He follows her, still naked, and lounges in the doorframe watching her. "I've been planning for No. 15; it's going to be fun. It'll take less setup than this, maybe. More in the way of dodging law enforcement."

"I certainly hope less in the way of uncomfortable costume," she says, making a face. "No more girdles, I beg you!"

"You can do a garter belt in future. Well, this next one does involve costume. You think you can find one of those Marilyn Monroe halter dresses with a full skirt before next Sunday?"

"Maybe. So, Marilyn, hmm?"

"Every man's wet dream. You think you can manage not to wear knickers with it... or a bra... and stand on a vent grating... when we go downtown?" He gives her a long look – half little-boy pleading and half sly sensuality.

"In public?" she exclaims, mock-outraged and already getting excited about the possibilities. "Davey Robinson, honestly, you should be ashamed of yourself!"

"Why, Mrs. Robinson," he says, and cocks that sexy eyebrow at her. But he forgoes the rest of the quote in favor of kissing her instead.