La Ceinture Read online

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  512 Forest Lake Drive

  Warner Robins, Georgia 31093

  La Ceinture

  Copyright © 2007 by Michèle de Lully

  Cover by Scott Carpenter

  ISBN: 1-59998-510-1

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: June 2007

  La Ceinture

  Michèle de Lully

  Dedication

  For S.C. La Ceinture

  Chapter One

  She sold him the belt without ever actually touching it. That should have been a clue, but at the time she thought nothing of it. He held the tag out for scanning, and when she reached for a bag, he shook his head.

  “I’ll wear it out,” he said with a wink. Ripping the price tag off, he began to thread the belt through the empty loops of his jeans, although the pants were tight enough that he did not really need a belt.

  She stared, watching the tongue snake through the loops, fascinated, and the way he drew it closed with a jerk and clasped the buckle made something inside her twist and flip.

  When it became obvious that she was staring, he kept talking. “Damnedest thing about the old one. Someone stole it out of my trousers while I was swimming on the beach,” He was clearly wondering what was wrong with her.

  So was she, for that matter. What had come over her? He was tall and nice looking, broad across the shoulders, with rough, tanned hands, but surely she’d seen men put on belts before.

  “It looks good on you,” she said, flustered. The dark silver buckle and smooth black leather gleamed under the store lights. With an act of will, she forced her eyes up from his waist.

  “Thank you.” His smile was warm and friendly as he signed the credit slip and handed it to her. There wasn’t any electric feeling when his fingers brushed hers, like she had hoped for, but the sight of him walking away pulled at her, locked her eyes to the belt around his waist.

  “Sir,” she called after him, startling herself.

  “Yes?” He turned back, polite and helpful. As he walked towards her, he unconsciously reached down to adjust the belt, one thumb tugging at it.

  Incredibly, her knees went weak, and she spoke without thinking. “Your copy.” She handed him the slip of paper.

  “That’s okay,” he said affably. “You can keep it.”

  He was going to leave again. She had to do something, quickly. “Someone could find it. Get your address from it.” Even while she spoke, a part of her marveled at how stupid she sounded.

  “Little good that would do them.” He laughed. “I practically live at Jackie’s, and anybody can find me there.”

  He almost reached for the paper, to take it anyway, but his thumb was still caught in the belt. He didn’t seem to notice, but just stood there, looking at her. She wanted him to take the paper, to rescue her from this bizarre scenario she had constructed, but he would not be moved.

  “Okay.” Meekly, she began folding the paper into a tiny square.

  Something hard glinted in his eyes then, something that had not been there before, and his lips made a sly, silent grin that was almost invisible. Without speaking, he sauntered away, and she stared after him, the paper crumpling in her unaware hands.

  Another customer, a fussy middle-aged man, plopped a stack of clothing on the counter. Shaking her head to clear it, she went back to work, setting the crumpled paper aside.

  An hour later she had nothing to do again. Curious, she wandered out into the aisles, to where the belts hung from racks. Searching through them, she could not find the style he had bought, a simple, plain strip of thick black leather, without designs or frills. Gaudy, fancy cuts, crisscrossed strips, bold studs, yes, by the yard, but simple and plain, not a one.

  Going back to the cash register, she found the ball of paper and smoothed it out. There was a stock number on it, one she did not recognize. Returning to the belt display, she searched the labels, but there was no rack that matched. Where had he found it?

  The computer was no help. It listed the item as discontinued, out of stock, and unavailable. No picture, not even a description. But while she was at the computer, she had a different idea.

  Jackie’s. The search engine returned a pub on the rougher side of town, where construction workers and car mechanics hung out. With surprise, she discovered she was relieved that it was a bar, and not a woman’s name. Why would it matter to her?

  She was still wondering that as she punched out for the day. The wonder turned to amazement as she stepped into the restroom, and slid her panties out from under her skirt, hiding them in her purse. With a little more effort, her brassiere followed.

  It was just a mid-week break, she told herself. A short Tuesday night out. A few drinks at a pub and a little flirting with a good-looking man who was polite enough not to ruin it, not to take it too far into something she didn’t want. Taking off her underwear would make it more fun, make her feel racy and exciting, and no one else would even know. Then she would go home and do what she needed to, alone in the dark. Unless the batteries were dead. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually used the thing.

  Chapter Two

  Jackie’s was crowded and noisy, even at six o’clock. But of course, construction workers started early and they’d already been drinking for hours now. She got plenty of looks as she worked her way to the bar, but shrugged them off with practiced disdain. She wasn’t interested in these blue-collar louts, and she could project that with just a twitch of her hair, or merely by the way she walked. Rejecting men before they could even speak to her was a defensive skill she had mastered long ago.

  She bought a pint, because she didn’t want to be standing around looking unoccupied. Then she put a dent in it, drinking it a third of the way down to establish that she had been here a while, and was perfectly fine on her own. Now sufficiently entrenched, she let herself look around the room, trying to ignore the slightly dizzy feeling from the quick intake of alcohol and its heady fumes.

  He was at a large table at the end of the room. Not the center of attention, but a comfortable fixture in a group of men and women, laughing and joking with them. Just watching him, at ease with his friends, made her feel his simple decency.

  Then she glimpsed the belt, a dark band around his waist, and caught her breath. Under his gentle movements were hard muscles, under his soft flannel shirt and blue jeans was a strip of tough leather, bound by a steel buckle. The contrast fascinated her.

  Her breasts agreed. The thin silk of her blouse utterly failed to conceal the nipples that suddenly stood out, sharp points that would not fail to draw every man’s eye. She cursed herself for having taken off her brassiere. There was only one man she wanted looking at her, and she didn’t want him looking there. She certainly didn’t want her body betraying her, revealing feelings or desires she hadn’t decided to have.

  But it was too late to change her mind now. He was making his way to the bar, an empty pitcher in his hand, buying a new round for his mates. She watched his face as his gaze ran up her body, his eyebrows crinkled in admiration. When he
met her eyes, he grinned.

  “Hello again,” he said. She waited for him to say something catty, to force her to acknowledge that she had sought him out, but he just stood there and smiled.

  “Hello,” she said, frustrated at her inability to predict or manipulate him. Why couldn’t he act like a normal man? He wasn’t even staring at her breasts, despite the way her nipples strained for attention.

  But she was staring at his waist, her mind drawn to the flat, black leather, a sensation like falling into a murky well of unfathomable depth.

  “Does it still look good on me?”

  She fought off a blush, and cast about for a way out of the conversational hole she had fallen into. “Where did you find it? There weren’t any more on the rack. I couldn’t even find a place for it.”

  He shrugged, unconcerned. “It was just the first plain one I saw. Do you want to join us for a drink?” The pitcher was full now, and he was paying the bartender. Soon he would walk away again, and she could not bear the thought.

  “All right.” She followed him across the room, her eyes fixed on the belt, ignoring his broad back and tight buttocks.

  His friends included her in the festivities without question, extending her the friendliness that radiated from him. She made small talk and wondered what she was doing there. To keep her distance from the group, she found herself drinking more than she had intended. Just when she realized she should start taking it easy, the party broke up.

  “Early day tomorrow,” he explained to her. “For all of us.” They were pouring concrete for a road, or a building, or something. She hadn’t really paid much attention to their laborer’s talk. Mostly she had concentrated on not staring at the belt. Several times she had become bored, and thought about leaving, but then her eyes would glimpse it again, and she would remain.

  “Did you track down my address, detective?” he asked her on the way out, smiling.

  She cut off his flirtation instantly, reflexively. “No.” But in the brief silence that followed, she surprised herself by saying, “Is it close? I could use a cup of coffee before I try to drive.”

  He grinned. “Yes, it’s quite close.” They walked across the street together, not holding hands, but still a pair instead of two individuals.

  “Welcome to my humble abode.” With a laugh, he unlocked the front door of a multi-story townhouse. They climbed three flights to the top floor, and she found herself in a small apartment with a huge bay window facing out across the tavern.

  The apartment was sparsely furnished, but not barren, and reasonably neat and clean, although mostly from disuse. The rumpled bed in front of the main window was the surest sign that anyone actually lived there. Drawn to its disheveled covers and comfortably disarrayed pillows, she found that the apartment towered over the tavern, and the window looked out over the sea. She stared at the nighttime ocean, the gentle stars competing with the rigging of an occasional ship, the dock lights hard and silent.

  “I rented it for the view.” He came out of the kitchen with cups of instant coffee. “But I should move now, I suppose.”

  She should have asked why, but that was too much like interest, too much like caring. “Why do your friends call you chief?” she asked instead. The cup was still cool in her hands, not yet warmed by the heat of the coffee.

  “Habit.” He put his arm around her, looking out to sea and drinking his own coffee.

  This was what she was here for, wasn’t it? Why she had tracked him down at the pub. Why she had left her underwear in her purse. Why she had come up to his apartment and immediately run to his bedroom. Then why did she feel so distant, so uninvolved?

  Like she always did.

  Disappointed again, she began making up an exit strategy. She started to shrug his arm off, lowering her eyes demurely from the hypnotic vision of the bay, but then her gaze fell on the belt, and she stopped in mid-action.

  The buckle gleamed faintly, reflecting the lights that shimmered off the sea. It called to her with a pull she could not understand or name.

  He could not fail to see. “You really like this belt, don’t you?” Putting down his coffee, he began to take it off.

  The sight made her knees weak, and she had to turn away.

  “I’m sorry.” He laughed, misunderstanding. “I didn’t mean to imply… I was just going to show it to you.”

  She was too confused by her inner turmoil to respond. Standing there, with her back to him, it was only natural that he should playfully snap the belt across her buttocks, trying to get her attention. “Hey there,” he said, chuckling.

  It was only a slap, hardly more than a tickle, but the sensation arced through her spine like an electric shock, making her entire body twitch. Instantly she felt wetness between her thighs, and was stunned with the speed of her response.

  Squeezing her legs together, reacting to the warmth in her groin, she unconsciously thrust her buttocks out slightly, unmistakably inviting another slap.

  This time it was more solid, and she moaned. Her backside tingled with the unfamiliar contact, but the feeling gained warmth as it moved through her, sparking a fire in her groin. The flames spread to her thighs, licked up to her breasts. Her brain simmered in the heat and stopped functioning.

  “You like that.” His voice changed, lower and deeper than it had been, husky with the hint of menace. “Lie down, then, so you can get a proper whipping.” He had been holding the belt loosely, now he doubled it, for a more secure grip.

  She was still paralyzed with vertigo, events spinning out of control. But not out of his control. Gently he pushed on her shoulder, and she fell forward onto the bed, unable to resist in any way, her attention focused solely on the possibility that the belt might return at any instant.

  Her coffee cup clattered to the floor, forgotten, spilling its steaming contents across the polished wood.

  “Naughty girl. You’ll pay for that.” He reached out and drew her skirt up to her waist, exposing her bare buttocks. She trembled, knowing what he would see, but still unable to resist, mesmerized by a strange and burning desire.

  “Very naughty girl,” he said when he saw her nakedness. With one strong hand, he grabbed a butt-cheek and squeezed it. When she didn’t respond, he moved his hand away, and struck with the belt.

  “Ow!” she yipped like a small, startled dog. But then his hand came back, fondling her, massaging away the sting, and this time she pressed her bottom up into his grasp.

  The belt struck the other cheek, and she moaned again. He stroked that one with his hand, but then the comforting grip went away, and in the bare air she knew what came next. She moaned this time before it even struck. The blows came with increasing frequency and force, his curing hand spending less and less time in its ministrations as his own excitement rose.

  When the sting from the last blow was still sharp even while the next one was coming, she cried out in desperation, saying anything that would avert the punishment.

  “Fuck me!”

  She heard his pants fall, felt him looming over her, and then he was inside. Easily, because she was sopping wet, drenched and eager. No part of her held back this time, no internal dialogue nattered at her consciousness. Instead, she felt his belly smacking into the welts on her bottom as he drove into her over and over, and the fire created was greater than the one in her loins.

  Her brain, still shut down from the inferno below her waist, drifted aimlessly and helplessly into an orgasm so overwhelming that she lost track of time and space. Only after she returned did she realize that he had finished too, leaning over her with his hands on the bed, breathing like a racehorse after a Triple-Crown derby.

  Consciousness reasserted itself. Lying there under a strange man, dripping with his semen, her buttocks still stinging from his lashes, she gathered her distance around her like a cloak.

  “I have to go.”

  He fell to one side, still spent, lying on the bed watching her.

  Standing, she rearranged her clothes
, fumbled with her purse.

  “I’m sorry about the coffee.”

  But he did not speak, only watched her through the shadows the dark room left on his face. Though his body and cock lay limp and drained, a deep and feral hunger stared out at her from the hollows of his eyes.

  The belt lay underneath him, the tip peaking out, and the sight aroused in her a way even his naked groin did not. Not trusting herself to speak, she walked to the door, let herself out, and started down the stairs. By the second flight, she was running, all the way out of the townhouse and to her car, locking herself inside and collapsing into heaving sobs.

  Even through the tears, she could feel the warmth of the welts on her bottom pressed into the seat of the car, and her vagina responded with the memory of him inside her, longing for more.

  With a shriek of frustration, she started the car. Still in control enough to not squeal the tires, she followed the roads into traffic and city lights, heading home. Resolutely she kept her hands on the steering wheel, where they could not creep unbidden to her neglected and lonely clitoris.

  Chapter Three

  All the next day she was angry. Furious with herself for the previous night, at having put herself in such a position, but most of all, at her body’s betrayal by giving in to orgasm. And furious with him. She pretended it was his fault, that he was some kind of beastly monster who had taken advantage of her, beaten and raped her like a drunken lout.

  Except she knew it wasn’t true. Every rude customer who came to her cash register made her remember his gentle politeness. Every overweight man buying a pair of pants a size too small made her remember his lean body, every soft pair of hands brought back his rough calluses, the stigma of honest labor. She had never told him to stop, never tried to leave. The only words she had uttered were the short and commanding, “Fuck me”. What a difference a single word made, what a reversal of meaning “me” had on the phrase, instead of “you”.