Women in Lust (2 page)

“But not quite fabulous enough,” he growls, pursing his lips, fighting that sunny, sexy “let’s get it on” smile of his. “Spit it out. What do you want? What dark and depraved perversion do you think about when you’re already having bloody good sex to start with?”

I would point out to him that he has a very high opinion of himself, but now’s not the moment. Especially as I hold that high opinion also.

“Well, you see…it’s like this. I sort of like men to spank me. It’s a ‘thing’ of mine, you know?”

His eyes widen. He chews his lip. He looks perplexed. Oh, give the man an Oscar! But he can’t disguise the merriment in his eyes.

“Good lord, you are a wicked little pervert, aren’t you?”

“But I do like ordinary shagging too, honest! It’s just that I like spanking as well.”

“I see.” He’s killing himself here. I swear he’s dying to burst out laughing.

“Perhaps I’d better go.” Throwing myself into my penitent role, I start to slide out of bed, ready to feign a search for my scattered clothes.

But he stops me with a firm hand on my wrist. “Oh, no, you don’t! I think we need to get to the bottom of this.” He has to turn away then, and I can see his broad shoulders shaking. “I’m going to get a bottle of wine. And then we’ll discuss it properly. No messing about.”

Then he strides naked across the room, stalking toward the door, his gorgeous cock swinging. It’s a bit perky again. More than perky.

A few minutes later, after I’ve rushed to the bathroom and tidied my hair, I sneak back into the bedroom, and he’s already returned.

But he’s not in bed. Chin resting on his steepled fingers, he’s sitting in the armchair, dressed again. Well, sort of. He’s wearing his black jeans, but his chest and his feet are still bare. Whether by accident or design, he’s managed to make himself even more magnificent than ever. He’s the man of my dreams, literally and figuratively, and covering up his gorgeous goods only makes me feel more vulnerable by contrast.

“So, spanking, eh? There’s a thing,” he says, his voice level. He takes a measured sip of red wine from the glass that he’s set on the bedside table at his elbow, and as he’s staring at me, his smooth brow crinkles in a little manufactured frown.

I feel awkward, unsure of myself. This is all so real, all of sudden. Do I get back into bed? Or just sit on the edge of it? I feel off balance, standing here naked while he’s sitting, clothed, and calmly drinking his wine.

He doesn’t seem to have poured a glass for me.

“Yes…sorry. It’s just a kink of mine. I can’t help it.”

His fine eyes narrow. Is he cross because I haven’t shared this with him sooner? I start to feel shakier than ever, even though my pussy is already swimming.

“I never said there was anything wrong with it.”

I’m starting to feel more and more disorientated, but in a good way. When I begin to edge toward the bed, he makes a little quirk of his lips that’s so perfect it almost stops my heart. So I hover, feeling giddy, out of my depth.

He draws in a deep breath, sets aside his glass and stretches. “So, I suppose we could try a bit of this spanking. Give it a whirl.”

My heart thuds madly. I feel a new rush of hot honey between my legs. If he really is what I suddenly suspect he is, I’ve hit the mother lode here.

He’s Mister Perfectamundo. Everything I’ve ever wanted and a whole lot more.

“So, how does it go? What do you usually do?” He clasps his hands loosely in front of him, his head tipped slightly on one side, the glow from the lamp shining on his sleek dark hair.

“All sorts of things. Sometimes the man spanks me over his knee. Sometimes I lie across the bed, on my face, and he punishes me.”

“What with? His hand? Or something else?”

We really are getting in deep here. Sliding through layers and layers. My heart flutters like a bat on crack. “Yes, sometimes his hand. Sometimes something like a belt, or even a leather slipper. Sometimes, um, toys.”

“Toys?”

“Something like a spanking paddle…or a ruler…or even a riding crop.”

Now, for some reason, I find it hard to look at him. His gaze is like a laser, sweeping over me.

“Fascinating.” He pauses, a long slow beat. “But how do
you
want to start? What do you think is the best way to begin?”

My eyes are cast down. I stare at the carpet. But in my mind I can see his strong legs, his experienced thighs spread just the precisely right amount, his lap—with a growing bulge beneath the dark denim of his jeans. He’s
become
his mirror self from my dungeon fantasy.

I drag in a breath with all the effort I would have to exert if
the atmosphere had turned to water, or to gel. “I…I think I’d like you to spank me across your knee, if that’s all right?”

“Yes, I think that would be okay.” His voice is neutral, serene, soft. And yet humming with subliminal power. “But isn’t there some kind of ceremony, a form of words at least? Don’t you think it would be a good idea, maybe, to call me ‘Master’ or something?”

That thud in my heart picks up speed. I feel as if I’m in the middle of a vortex. “Y-yes, Master.”

“Well, let’s get started, shall we?”

Eyes still down, I pad across to him, and he offers a hand to help me go across him and assume the age-old position. His thighs feel firm and solid beneath the rough denim, his feet perfectly planted, everything in balance. As I go over, I feel safe. He won’t let me fall.

As he adjusts his position slightly, and I adjust mine, his hand settles on the small of my back to steady me.

“You have a beautiful bottom, slave,” he purrs quietly, with just a microsecond of artistic hesitation. That warm hand of his brushes my bare cheeks—first one, then the other. And then it moves again, stroking lightly, burning hot. I suppress a pathetic mewl when one finger traverses the length of my bottom crease.

“So, these men who spank you… Do they just play at it, or do they really spank you hard?”

“Yes. Sometimes quite hard.” The words are difficult to get out. I can barely breathe.

“And do you like that?” He touches my anus and I squeak. Which he seems to ignore as a regrettable aberration.

“Yes! No! Sort of!” I can’t see his face, but my imagination presents me with him smiling. Supreme. A happy god, playing with me in ways other than physical. But when he speaks, he
still imbues his voice with that thread of theatrical doubt.

“Well, I’ll have to see what I can do then. Wouldn’t want to disappoint you after all this hard, serious spanking you’ve had in the past.”

I open my mouth to protest that it isn’t all that much, but then, out of the blue, his first smack lands and it just takes my words away.

It’s not a heavy slap, but not light, either. It hurts. And it isn’t by luck or blind intuition it’s landed right on the crown of one bottom cheek. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and has done all along.

“That’s amazing,” he says, sounding strangely awestruck.

That
is
amazing,
I think, just struck.

He’s hit me in the perfect place and with the perfect weight. Like Pavlov’s dog, my body responds. My pussy ripples in anticipation of more, more, more and my lubrication starts to seep down onto his jeans. Unable to control myself, I wriggle and rub myself against him.

“Are you supposed to do that?” His voice is mildly questioning, but there’s nothing unsure about the way his fingertips trace the hot hand-shaped mark they’ve just created. And there’s nothing tentative about the way he slaps me again, on the other cheek this time.

I squeal, already out of control in a way I’ve never been before. But of course, I’ve never been with a master this experienced.

How on earth has it taken me this long to realize that fact?

“I’ll bet you’re not supposed to do that, either,” he remarks, sounding joyful, as if he’s really enjoying getting into the swing of things. His arm certainly is, because he’s slapping steadily now. If I had brain cells left over to ponder such matters, I’d wonder what on earth I’d done to deserve this bounty, a man
with a perfect natural gift for corporal punishment and a beautifully honed skill. But I have very little brainpower available at the moment, nothing left over from the writhing, the whimpering and the blatant and desperate way I massage my crotch against his hard thigh.

He smacks and smacks. I squirrel around and sob. And what happens eventually is almost inevitable, I suppose.

It all gets too much for me, and hitching myself up a bit, I sneak a hand beneath myself and slither fingers into my pussy. While he’s still spanking me, I find my clit and rub it feverishly.

After that, I’m a lost cause, and within seconds, I climax hard. Very hard. Almost too hard. I jackknife on his knee, almost fall off, but he holds me tight. My pleasure soars as his fingers press my tender redness.

I fall back into my body again as a sniveling, glowing, still-pulsing, incredibly happy mess. As I half slide and half fall in a guided fashion to the carpet at his feet, he reaches into his pocket and then hands me a handkerchief.

“You’ve done that a hundred times before, you sly brute, haven’t you?” I accuse him from my lowly position as my brain clicks back into operating mode and I start to grin. “All that BS about making me tell you what my fantasies are… You’ve known all along. You could read the signs, couldn’t you? Why didn’t you tell me you were into exactly the same thing as me?”

He cups my face, makes me look up at him. His eyes are radiant with knowledge and mischief and power, utterly entrancing, although there’s a base part of me that’s more interested in his enormous erection and is dying to check that out.

“I suppose I should say sorry for stringing you along,” he says softly, the stroke of his finger beneath my chin an elegant
counterpoint to the throbbing in my bottom and in my pussy, “but a master doesn’t usually apologize, does he?”

The M-word makes the pulsation between my legs deeper, hotter—even though it’s barely minutes since I came. “No, but you still could have told me,” I persist, wondering and hoping that if I provoke him enough he might do more.

“Indeed…indeed I could.” His beautiful eyes glitter with excitement, danger, desire and dominance, holding me utterly as he goes on to remind me of the party where we met, and how he sought me out. I’d wondered why he, this peach of a man, had selected me when there were much sexier girls on the prowl. I’m pretty enough, but I know I’m a quiet bloomer.

“You’re right. I
could
—I can—read you. I could tell you shared my interests…it’s patently obvious from the way you carry yourself.” I shudder at the thought of me beaming out those secret signals, an open book to a
cognoscento
like Terrence. “So I decided to see how long it would take for you to admit it.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! You devious bastard!”

“Tut tut…naughty, naughty,” he chides, but the look in his eyes makes me wetter and warmer than ever, “Why so cross? It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Part of the game? The dance?”

I want to maintain my mega-defiance act, play at being aggrieved, but the greater part of me, the truer part of me is thrilled, light-headed. He
is
my ideal, and I can’t believe my luck.

“Um…yes, I suppose,” I answer with a last mulish flicker.

“Finally, she admits it. I should punish you for being so obstinate, shouldn’t I?”

My heart lurches. Can my steaming bottom take it? So soon? When I’m so red, so sore? But my sex lurches, too, gathering itself and readying. I almost come, without a touch, at the thought of more.

“Yes, Master,” I whisper, lowering my head in acknowledgment, and starting to shuffle into position in order to get up and across his knee again.

“Oh no, Vickie…not that. Well, not right at the moment.” He adjusts his own position now, conveying an eloquent message, and gilding it with a gentle but still delightfully devilish smile.

Oh, yummy
, I think, reaching out to lower his zipper.

I
know he’s there, because I can smell him. It’s that cherry lip gloss he knows I like, though god knows where he’s put it. On his lips? Too conventional. On his nipples? They’re small and perky and would look delicious coated in something slippery, but I doubt it.

I’m betting on his cock; undoubtedly on his cock. And while I’m lying here blindfolded and largely helpless, he’s going to make me taste it—that cherry-scented, cherry-flavored curve of flesh.

I can just picture him now, getting closer, with it bobbing between his thighs. His breath is unsteady, though his resolve seems to be holding, and every now and then I can hear him, moving in close.

There’s just that hint of
too
close, like maybe he can’t quite help himself.

I think that sets me off more than the blindfold—that sense of his bucking arousal, trying to lunge at me. How it excites
him to the point of teeth baring and flushed cheeks, to think of me cut off like this: entirely unable to tell what he’s going to do next; not sure which body part he’s touching me with.

Is that his finger, trailing over the curve of my hip? I’m spread out on the bed, legs wide to show off my already glistening pussy, so there’s plenty for him to go after. But he chooses just that tiny innocuous spot, with the edge of something light and small.

And then I feel something moist and sudden, against the squeamish inside of my right elbow.

Of course, the rational part of me tells me it’s his tongue, but my mind has long since stopped playing in that ball pool. I think of things jellied and weird—wild sex toys that self-lubricate, alien fingers getting ready to probe.

Before long it goes away again, and all I can do is cry for more. I don’t care if it
is
an alien finger. I
want
to be probed. My skin feels so hot and tight, I’m sure he could just peel it right off my body if he wanted to, and between my legs is a taut, waiting sensation.