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His by Contract by Ava Sinclair – Sample

Chapter One

I don’t remember leaving the window open. It’s the curtains flowing in the morning breeze that get my attention. The air catches them and they softly rise and fall.

I put the bag of groceries on the counter and walk over to the window, feeling nervous. It was warm last night and I opened the window briefly because the kitchen was warm. But I’m sure I shut it again before I went to bed.

I look outside. I’ve a small yard behind my condo with a brick patio and an outdoor brick stove I tell myself I’ll use in the summer. The grass—freshly laid sod in an almost unreal shade of green—looks undisturbed. The single tree, a maple, is just coming into leaf. The chimes my secretary gave me as a housewarming gift make a pleasant noise from where they hang on the branch.

Nothing looks to be amiss. I shut the window, and just as it closes I feel the hand go over my mouth.

“Don’t fucking move.” His arm is strong and tight across my chest. I lower my gaze to see a brawny bicep straining against the fabric of a blue work shirt. “Don’t move,” he says again. “And don’t scream. If you scream, I’ll hurt you. Understand?”

I nod, whimpering. The hand moves away from my mouth.

“Keep your eyes to the front,” he says. “Don’t you dare look back.”

“The police are on their way,” I say, my voice shaking.

“No, they’re not,” he says. “I cased this place all week. You had the security people out yesterday for an estimate. There’s not even an alarm. And you forgot to lock your back gate. It wasn’t hard to get in.”

“Don’t hurt me,” I say.

“Oh, I’m not going to hurt you, honey. In fact, we’re going to have a little fun.”

I whimper again. He’s told me not to look, but I turn my head just enough to see his chest. It’s broad, and I can tell he’s tall and a lot bigger than me. I can tell I don’t have a chance.

He reaches in front of me and closes the curtain. Then he spins me around and walks me to the low dining room table. I see his hand reaching forward to pat it. It’s a large hand.

“Sturdy,” he says. “This will do.” He bends me over, and I can’t believe this is happening.

“Don’t,” I say. “I’m a good girl. Please don’t.”

“I like good girls,” he says. “Good girls are the sweetest girls. Why do you think I chose this neighborhood? It’s the best place to hunt. It’s full of good girls, respectable girls, professional girls. Girls too busy with their careers to date.” He leans down, his weight pressing against my back, his mouth hot against my ear. “Admit it. You’re horny as fuck.”


“Little liar,” he says. “I bet you have a dildo in the drawer of your bedside table.”

“So what if I do? What business is that of… ow!”

He starts smacking my ass hard through my thin nylon running shorts. The heat builds in my ass and my eyes sting with unshed tears.

“Watch your mouth,” he says. “You’re hardly in any position to smart off.”

“Let me go,” I plead. “If you let me go I promise not to call the police.”

He’s quiet. Is he considering my bargain? I hold my breath.

“I tell you what,” he says. “I’m going to pull your shorts and panties down and feel your pussy. If it’s a dry pussy, I’ll leave. If it’s hot and slick and ready, I’m going to fuck it hard.”

I begin to struggle. Another blow from his hand impacts my ass and he growls at me to stay still. He tells me he has all day, and has no problem spanking me into submission. I don’t move.

He pulls my shorts down. The panties come next. “Spread those legs,” he orders. “You said you were a good girl, so let’s see if you’re telling the truth.”

I groan in shame, because I know I’m fucked, or I’m about to be. I know what he’ll find when he touches me. His fingers delve into my slit. His laugh is deep.

“You lied. You’re not a good girl. You’re a bad girl with a hot, wet pussy.”

“No…” I close my eyes, ashamed. This man has snuck into my house, bent me over my own kitchen table, and is about to ram his cock into me. And he won’t be going in dry because I can feel my own arousal building even as he unzips his fly. And I know he’s right. I’m a bad, bad girl.

He tells me to say it. He tells me to say I’m a bad girl.

“Please,” I whimper. “Don’t make me say it.”

I feel him rub the head of his cock against my clit.

“Say it,” he says. He lands an open-handed slap to my ass that ends with a squeeze. “Say it.”

“I’m a bad girl,” I say.

“And what does this bad girl want? What does she fantasize about every night in her lonely bed with her dildo?”

“I want to be fucked,” I admit tearfully. “I want to be fucked hard.”

He shoves into me so hard that I gasp. All it takes is one thrust; I’m so wet and slick. He’s huge. I moan at the sensation of being filled. He starts to thrust, taking me hard and fast. I glance back and see that his pants and boxers are down to his knees. His balls slap against my pussy.

“How bad are you?” he asks. “Are you so bad that a stranger can make you come?”

“No…” I start to say, but I’m already there. I cry out, my hand flying to steady myself. I hit the bag of produce I brought home and it falls over. Oranges roll out and fall to the floor. I’ll always remember the smell of oranges and sex when I think of this day.

And I’ll think of it many, many times.

I come with a cry.

“That’s it. That’s it,” he says, and I feel him tense, feel spurts of hot cum flooding into me. He holds me fast by the hips, making me take it all, emptying into me. Afterwards the room is silent save for the sounds of our breathing.

He steps back. I hear the jingle of his belt as he pulls up his pants. I stand slowly, fuck-drunk and dazed. I pull my panties and shorts up and slowly turn to face him. He’s smiling at me as he tucks his slowly wilting cock back into his jeans. I shake my head and manage a grin.

“Where the hell,” I ask, “did you find a chambray shirt?”

He winks. “You like it? I thought it was a realistic touch. And if you must know, there’s a thrift store on the corner. It was a buck.”

There’s still a name tag attached. Fred. If poor Fred only knew.

“I put your key back in the cookie jar on the counter.”

“Thanks,” I say. “At least this time you remembered. Last time you took it home and had to come back and let me in.”

“I did that on purpose,” he said. “I’m fine coming by twice in one day, even if once isn’t a surprise.” He walks over to me. “So, were you scared?”

“A little,” I admit.

He tips my chin up. “You weren’t too scared. That was definitely a welcoming pussy. I hope you’re not that friendly to anyone else. Remember. You belong to me.”

“Like a lawyer’s going to forget an agreement,” I say.

“Good girl,” he says. “Remember, I can come to you as a stranger anytime, anywhere.”

“I know,” I say, turning to pour myself a glass of water. “You don’t need to remind me. That one was my fantasy, too.”

He smiles down at me, and for a moment I think he’s about to say something but instead he turns away. “I wish I could stay, but I have a meeting this morning.”

I don’t ask what kind of meeting. It’s none of my business, and he doesn’t ask me what I’m doing either. We don’t have that kind of relationship. We get together when he decides. Lately it’s becoming more frequent, but I don’t read anything into it.

“Enjoy the rest of your Sunday,” he says, and leans down to pick up the oranges. “Mind if I take one?”

“Not at all,” I reply.

“Thanks.” He winks. “Watch for my email in the morning.”

“I will.”

He leaves by the back door. I watch him walk through the little courtyard and out the back gate. I remind myself to get the security people over, and to get a lock for the gate, which leads to an alley. What just happened was consensual, a game, another experience in an unusual arrangement. But if it had been a real stranger? Fuck, I don’t even want to think about it. All I want to think about right now is how much better I feel starting my day with an orgasm.

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