Erotica about Naughty Secrets
"Secret Mercy," a Dirty Martini short story by Giselle Renard
It happens when we fear there’s nothing remarkable about us: we allow our secrets to make us special. With our secrets, we set ourselves apart from the crowd. And when the secrets we’re hiding are known by all, or when we realize our misdeeds are so commonplace our secrets aren’t even all that remarkable, we set out to make new secrets. They make us feel important, unique. And the more insidious our secrets, the more distinctive we feel.
At nineteen, Mercedes thought she was the only woman in the civilized world leading a life of opulent vulgarity. By twenty-three, she’d realized she wasn’t the first girl to sleep with a married man. Nor, even, was she the first young thing to screw a guy in his fifties. It happened all the time. She saw these couples on the street: the girl in the summer dress clinging to the arm of the silver fox in Dockers shorts, forgiving him the hideous sock-sandal combination.
But I was in love with Simon, she repeated to herself, like a mantra meditation. That girl with the blue shimmer eye shadow is only after that old guy’s money, and he can only get it up for that tight slab of veal. Isn’t it funny how something can be perfectly acceptable when you do it, but a terrible atrocity when other people do?
Not that Mercedes thought all that much about Simon anymore. On some unconfirmed date next spring or maybe summer, she’d be marrying Anwar: young, energetic and NOT already married to somebody else. Simon could weave his own twisted way through life, because she was taken. Okay, so Anwar wasn’t always the generous, slow-going lover Simon had been, but he would learn. She’d have years to teach him. Years and years and years…
It wasn’t only men who thought about sex every three seconds. And, really, how could anybody survive the wait at the passport office without imagining a lover’s hand squeezing her ass as he left a trail of kisses down her neck, pioneering through the buttons of her blouse until his tongue was buried in her bra, searching for those straining buds…
"Mercedes," whispered that baritone from long ago. "Mercy, I said your name three times. Where were you?"
Was it really him? Her heart leapt like an ambitious goldfish, and before she knew it, her hand lay across her chest, trying to keep it in the bowl. "I was thinking about you, of course, Simon…"
Mercedes always was hopeless with deceit. Not because she couldn’t deal out total bull. She could. Mercedes simply preferred devastating honesty over a honey-glazed pack of lies. And, anyway, it was Simon’s mouth she’d imagined on a self-guided tour of her body. His pink lips broke into a wide smile. He seemed flustered, but Holy Allegory, did he ever look good! How many years since they’d…
"What are you doing here?"
Shivering like a naked Chihuahua, Mercedes slipped on her suit of sarcastic armour. "Well, I came in for pancakes, but then I realized this was a passport office, so I figured I’d get my passport renewed instead."
"Me too," he replied under strained laughter.
In the prickly silence that followed, Mercedes weighed her options: go home unscathed to her fiancé, or fuck her ex-lover’s brains out in the bathroom of a passport office?
"They’re calling your number, Mercy," Simon was saying.
"What? Oh. Right."
"Will you wait for me?" Simon asked.
"You still married?"
"Yep," he replied, eyeing his toes.
"Remember how I said five years ago I was done waiting for you?" Mercy taunted, though her tone didn’t betray that she was teasing. She softened a little. "We’ll see."
Of course she waited for him. It was Simon, sexy Simon, four-time winner of the lovemaking World Cup. "Gosh, I’m nervous," he admitted, joining her in the sterile government hallway.
"Gosh? You’re such a five-year-old, Simon." She liked saying his name. "I’m getting married, you know."
He stared at the blank wall. Either he didn’t hear her or he was so hurt he couldn’t speak.
"I know."
Removing his glasses, Simon rubbed his eyes. Maybe he was crying. But who was he to be so wounded? He was the one who broke her heart! No way she would feel sorry for him now. No way. Too late.
"Can we speak in private?"
Concealing her shiver of excitement at the thought of being alone with Simon, Mercedes asked, "Where?"
Like a lab rat, he looked in every direction for a way out of this government maze. Flustered, he stormed down the hallway and up a staircase. Mercedes held her skirts, hopping the stairs by twos. Had she ever seen Simon so distressed? His energy was spinning like some kind of lust tornado.
Resource conservation. No lights illuminated on the disused floor. As she followed, Simon peeked into every room he passed. He must have found one that pleased him, because he went in. Manoeuvring his way around piles of chairs and disused office furniture, he made his way to the window overlooking Northern Willowdale.
"I don’t want you to be offended," he said -- an ominous beginning to any conversation -- as Mercedes closed the door. She climbed over a desk, wanting to throw her legs around his waist, but settling on standing at his knees as he sat on the cooling vent.
"Offended by what?"
"What would I give to have you back in my life? That’s what I’ve been asking myself since we broke up. I’m miserable without you, Mercy. Now that you’re getting married, I’ve realized what a fool I was to let you slip away. I want make you an offer…"
"Why? What’s the offer?" she asked, riding her hands along his muscular thighs.
"Oh, I can’t say it. You’re going to hate me."
"Just tell me."
Fishing his writing pad and pen from the front pocket of his shirt, he scrawling a figure. "I asked myself if your value translated into an actual dollar amount and I decided on this."
"That’s it? That’s all I’m worth to you?" Mercedes shrieked when he revealed the figure. "Less than a house? Or a car? Or a good TV, even?
Simon’s cheeks went deep pink as he explained, "No, this is what I’d be willing to pay you per…"
Holy Crap, he wanted to pay her for sex! He thought she was such an incredible fuck, he’d give her cold, hard cash in exchange for something she’d done a thousand times when they were together.
"Per…?" She waited for him to say the word.
"Oh, this is stupid," Simon said, shaking his head. "You’re engaged! Forget I said anything." Mercedes grabbed hold of his wrist as he folded up his notepad.
"Are you telling me you’d pay me that much money just to fuck your brains out once in a while?"
"I wouldn’t have put it so crassly, but…well…I’d want it to be an ongoing thing. God, I hate that I’m asking this of you. I just miss you so much…"
"And you’re not expecting me to leave Anwar, just screw you on the side?" Mercedes confirmed, revelling in the wickedness of a new secret.
"Right."
The joke was on Simon – Mercedes would have done him for free. But, hey, if he wanted to throw his filthy money at her, so much the better. Today on Jerry Springer, I’m a dirty whore and my fiancé hasn’t a clue. This was bad beyond bad. Big, bad Mercedes…
Running bold hands up the man’s firm thighs, she whispered, "We’ve already wasted so many years…"
Mercedes never imagined she’d taste the sweet cherry aroma of Simon’s mouth again. And she’d forgotten the power of his tongue, how it snuck between her lips silent as a lamb and in two shakes was roaring like a lion. She fought back, rough and tough against that hot body, running ecstatic hands down his back, squeezing those disappearing traces of love handles. "Not a day goes by I don’t think about sucking your big, beautiful cock."
"Same here."
When Simon stood, turning toward the door, Mercedes clung tight to him. "Where are you going?"
"My butt’s cold from sitting on the air conditioner…" he replied, leaning against a solid oak desk.
With a smirk, she stood on her toes to kiss him again, his solid rod throbbing against her abdomen. Oh, the sweet memories of that grateful cock! Mercedes tore into Simon’s shorts like hungry cheetah, sliding to her knees on the rough carpet. Her dress kissing the floor like a Christmas tree skirt, and she dug out Simon’s hard cock. Its pink tip glossed her lips with precum. That taste, like nothing else in the world, took her back years. God, she’d missed Simon.
"Could you lick me like you used to…?" Simon requested.
Tracing circles around his cockhead with the tip of her tongue, she fondled his balls as she flicked the seam of that soft and sensitive flesh. Simon leapt, grasping the desk behind him. "Mercy, you’re incredible!"
"You get what you pay for," she purred, meeting his gaze straight on as she licked his cock like a peppermint stick. The lust in his eyes told her just how incredible she looked, tongue extended to meet his sweet meat. "What now, Simon?"
Usually, Simon would have demurred. As a paying customer, he knew what he wanted. "Suck it, Mercy. Take my cock in your mouth and suck it."
Pussy throbbing at the string of naughty words, Mercedes wrapped her hands around those tight ass cheeks. She took in Simon’s incredible, edible cock, running circles around it with her now-professional tongue. What bad behaviour for a girl engaged to somebody else! The very naughtiness of the situation made her core tingle as Simon spoke words she’d never heard from the shy guy. "I’m going to fuck your throat."
With a penis filling her mouth, Mercedes could only respond with an eager growl. Christ, he could fuck the hell out of it, make her sputter and gag, and she’d leave the room a happy hooker.
Slowly, Simon ran his smooth cock against the silky walls of her mouth. He took her head in his hands, sliding deeper inside. Mercy eased, relaxed to allow him entry. She squeezed his ass, sensing every gentle thrust of his hips as he plunged his beautiful body into her throat. How could she handle this wonderful assault? As he thrust more forcefully, gripping her scalp in his powerful palms, it felt even better, more intense, more depraved. She was completely submissive, controlled by his whims.
Mercedes knew he was about to come when he started repeating her name endlessly: "Mercy, Mercy, Mercy." With every utterance, Simon rammed her throat with that stiff cock. Rammed it hard. She gripped his fuzzy balls because she knew what that man liked.
Crying her name, tossing back his head, he came in her throat. She took the opportunity to suckle his shrinking cock until his erection dwindled down to nothing. Simon was still petting her hair when she let his penis fall from her lips. God, was she wet.
"I trust my work was satisfactory."
"Highly," Simon teased, pulling up his shorts to find his wallet.
Brushing the carpet indentations from her knees, Mercedes held out her palm like Judy Jetson as Simon counted big bills. Was it possible this financial transaction was even more exhilarating than the throat-fucking? Christ, it wasn’t often she saw the value of her sexual self in dollar bills.
She’d just let Simon fuck her throat for cold, hard cash. God…
Tucking the bills into her bra, she crawled over the solid oak desk to make her escape. Simon was calling to her, but she couldn’t turn back because of the hot tears streaming down her cheeks. Most upsetting was that she knew she’d do it again. She’d do it again and again. After all, she needed a new secret and this was a dreadful one.
Originally published November 2009