by R. K. Lilley
“How much would you like to know?”
He mulled it over, his eyes enigmatic, his big hand rubbing and kneading at my inner thigh. “Give me all of it.”
“I know how to get myself ready for you. Or how to . . . compensate in the event that I want something . . . like that . . . and you don’t feel like tending to me.” The words were a jumbled mess and I could barely look at him after I said them.
He stared. “Are you saying that they taught you how to masturbate?”
I couldn’t look at him, and my whole body felt flushed with embarrassment and something else. Something warm and shameful. “Among other things, yes. With my own hands, and with toys, though I couldn’t put anything but my own fingers inside of myself. Of course I had to keep the proof intact until our wedding night.”
“Of course,” he agreed with utter sarcasm. “So what did you learn? About your own pleasure. Where do you like to be touched?”
“The usual places.”
His brows rose. “Be more specific, please.”
I wanted to sink into the floor, but I didn’t hesitate. This was a test, and I had studied hard for it. “My breasts, nipples, and clit, of course. My inner thigh—”
“Like where I’m rubbing right now?” he interrupted, squeezing my leg.
I sucked in a sharp breath. “Yes.”
“Keep going. Where else?”
I had to clear my throat before I found my voice again. “That spot you’re hitting, all the way up to my groin. And my back is particularly sensitive. My nape, shoulders, and the spot where my shoulders meet my neck.”
“You touched your own back?” There was a bite to the question.
“A masseuse was brought in to find all of the spots I couldn’t easily reach.”
“Who was it?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“The masseuse. I’d like a name.”
Something in his voice caused the strangest bit of dread to creep up my spine, but I answered promptly. “Thomas. I don’t know his surname.”
“I see,” he said hotly.
“What do you see?” I asked.
“They had another man put his hands on you to get you ready for me. I don’t see how that would help you pleasure yourself, and I certainly never agreed to it.” Temper, temper. “But continue. What else do you think is expected of you?”
“When you come to the—our bed, I’ll lie on my back, put my heels on the mattress, and spread my legs for you. I’ll offer to suck you off. I was also instructed that, whether it hurts or feels good, I’m to endeavor to keep a pleasant expression on my face. If prompted, I’ll talk while you’re doing it. I was told that you like dirty talk when you’re inside a woman.”
“My God. I know I’ve said it before, but I’ll repeat, they didn’t miss a trick, did they?” His question was incredulous and crisp with a bitter edge.
I got the distinct impression that he found the notion as distasteful as I did.
“They were very thorough,” I reassured him. I had no doubts that if they thought I’d somehow disparaged their efforts, they’d make me pay for it.
“I wanted them to make sure you understood what to expect from me, but I didn’t realize they’d be quite so . . . zealous about it. Well, at least you won’t harbor any illusions about this arrangement.”
“I will not,” I said succinctly.
He was silent for a time, then, “You said you’d offer to suck me off. Did they teach you how to do that too?”
“Of course.”
“Of course,” he repeated slowly and sardonically. “Tell me what they taught my obedient little wife.”
The alcohol was helping. I wasn’t sure I could have managed any of the words without it, but a cursed blush still crept back up my cheeks as I spoke, “I don’t excel at deep throating . . . I have a gag reflex . . . so I’ve learned to suck hard and use my hands a lot . . . with a very firm grip . . . to make up for the shortcoming. I’m told this can be just as satisfying for you if I do it right.”
“And what exactly did you learn on?” he asked, and there was a cut to each word. “They didn’t bring in a real cock to teach you, I hope,” he drawled and I could hear something ugly under his quiet voice.
Why is this making him angry? I wondered.
“No, of course not,” I answered finally, then listed off the various objects I’d practiced sucking on for his benefit.
I was too self-conscious to steal even one quick glance at him.
He fingered the edge of my panties. “Don’t worry, wife. Tonight is our first date, and mandated though it is, I feel like tending to you.”
I squirmed, looking around. He wouldn’t. Not in public. Would he?
“No one can see my hand,” he assured me, voice pitched very low. “I’m going to get you off. Right. Here.”
A bone deep shudder seeped into me. Not a shudder of revulsion either. It was one of delight. What was wrong with me? My eyes shot to his. My cheeks were flushed. I was well and truly scandalized. “But we’re in public.”
“We are,” he agreed. “This is a very crowded place, and it’s getting more packed by the second. You’re going to have to behave yourself. Contain your reactions. Keep very quiet. Do you think you can do all of that?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea.”
“Are you telling me they didn’t train you for this?” I thought he might have actually been teasing me, but I was too alarmed to try to figure it out.
“They didn’t.”
“Well, try your best, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Give me your mouth again,” he coaxed in his deep, cold voice.
I did and I couldn’t stifle my gasp as his finger pushed past my panties and reached the lips of my sex. It was disorienting. And arousing. He rubbed me there, his touch feather light, his lips firm and warm and delicious against mine.
One of my hands gripped the table, the other holding onto the lapel of his jacket as I sucked at his mouth, hyperaware of every minuscule movement of his hand beneath the table.
He drew his mouth away just far enough to speak. “You’re wet,” he pointed out, his tone full of something warm and addictive, and started kissing me again.
Abruptly he jammed a finger into wet me. I gasped into his mouth.
He held it deep inside me, stroking at the most addictive spot. With a whisper soft touch, his thumb started softly toying with my clit.
“You’re not as cold and dispassionate as you appear,” he remarked with ironic dispassion.
I didn’t respond with words. I couldn’t. His actions were monopolizing all of my oxygen. I panted against him like a bitch in heat.
He spoke into my mouth, his voice rumbling low and rich, at last showing the weakness of his desire. “You’re not cold at all. You’re burning up, and tight enough to hug my finger. Do you have any idea what that does to my dick?”
I was still incapable of answering. Liquid heat flooded me. He’d started pumping in and out of me with concise, measured strokes. He kept his thumb against my clit, the pressure against it ebbing and flowing with every measured drive of his hand.
He stroked his tongue into my mouth. Instinctively I sucked at it. He worked it in and out until it was fucking into me just like his finger.
With a sexy little groan, he plunged a second finger into me and started stroking at that spot deep inside of me again.
By then I didn’t care that we were in public. I didn’t care if anyone noticed what was happening under the table. I wrapped both arms around his neck and drew desperately at his mouth.
He fucked me with his relentless fingers, working in a steady rhythm until I felt my eyes rolling up in my head, the whole world going fuzzy as my climax took me in heavy, melting waves.
He kept his fingers deep inside of me, pulling back from our kiss to watch my face.
My eyes opened, and it was a struggle, but I made myself meet his gaze as I came down from my sensuous high. My sex was stil
l rippling around his fingers.
It was quite gratifying to see his hard face go a little slack with desire.
“Good girl,” he murmured in a hoarse voice. “Sometime very soon I’m going to taste you. I’m going to bury my face in your pussy and memorize every last little dip of you with my tongue.”
He caught himself, features hardening again almost instantly into their normal cold, stoic mask.
It didn’t matter. I’d seen it. He wasn’t as immune to me as he’d pretended to be all night. The realization made me bold.
He started tugging his fingers out of me. The delicious drag of them made me squirm as I said, “Is that all?” It felt like I was blushing from head to toe, but I was proud of myself for getting the words out.
He studied my face, his nostrils flaring. “You know what? I don’t think so. We’re not taking it that far tonight. The last time we fucked it didn’t turn out too well, if you’ll recall. It was obligatory, thanks to my controlling father. I think I’ll train you better before we try that again.”
I blushed harder, but for different reasons. Was that the reason I hadn’t seen him for a month? Was I flattering myself to assume that he even needed to have a reason not to see me?
I made myself meet his eyes and speak clearly. “It was my first time. And I’d never had that much to drink. I wasn’t sick because of that.”
He almost had his fingers out of me, but at that he pumped them back in to the hilt. “Well, that’s a relief.”
I gasped, ready to go all over again. “Please,” I whimpered.
He took my mouth briefly, his fingers dragging free of me. He spoke against my lips, but his words did not match the softness of his touch. “Show’s over. It’s time to go. Put yourself together. Straighten your dress. Once your legs are steady, go to the bathroom and fix your hair and makeup. And for God’s sake,” he continued harshly, “try to wipe that fuck me look off your face.”
I pulled away from him with deliberate slowness. It was an effort not to flat out recoil.
There was a knot of sick tension in my stomach as I did as he’d instructed, putting my dress to rights, grabbing my bag, and walking with as much dignity as I could muster to the restroom.
My mind was spinning with the way he went hot and cold on me with every step I took away from him, his last words echoing in my mind. Talk about mood swings.
I took my time in the powder room, smoothing out my hair, touching up my makeup.
I wondered what went through his head. I wondered if I really wanted to know. He probably just found me foolish and irritating. It was a chore for him to even pretend to go on a date with me. And the one time we’d had sex . . .well, that hadn’t endeared me to him much.
I exited the restroom with an optimistic mind toward turning it all around. There wasn’t much I could do about his affections or lack thereof, but the attraction between us was so real and visceral that it had its own pulse. We could at least make that one thing between us live up to the potential that was obvious to even no-experience practically still a virgin me.
Or at the very least, we could work toward making it an upgrade from our wedding night.
I was determined that this time when he left me, it would be with better memories than watching me rushing to the toilet and throwing my guts up right after he finished.
When I returned to the table, he was scowling at his phone.
“Something wrong?” I asked, sliding back into the booth beside him.
He instantly put his phone away, features smoothing into neutrality. “No. Are you ready to go?”
I nodded, rising again.
He didn’t touch me as we moved through the crowded back dining room to the more crowded lounge. Even when we made the short trip from the front door to the backseat of a limo, there was no contact at all.
I thought that was odd. If this was all for show, why was he being so visibly distant in such a public place?
I studied him as the car started moving and realized that, going by his demeanor and expression, he was deeply upset about something. I wanted to ask him again if something was wrong, but made myself refrain. He’d made it very clear that he didn’t care for those kinds of questions from me.
I glanced toward the front of the long cabin. The partition was up. I didn’t even know who was driving. Was it his regular driver? Did he have a regular driver? I assumed he did, since I’d been assigned one, but it was only a guess. I knew next to nothing about his day to day life.
“Let’s find out what you’ve learned,” he broke the silence. The words were so unexpected that I didn’t respond at first. I only stared at him. He motioned me closer until we were nearly touching.
Abruptly he opened his slacks, pushing them down to expose the thick, heavily veined length of his shaft. Without another word, he cupped the back of my head and pushed it down.
I was shocked but I caught on quick. I took him in my mouth. I rubbed my lips around his thick tip. It felt like velvet. I eased him slowly deeper. He was larger and harder than I was expecting. No wonder it had hurt so much our first time.
I cupped him in both hands, caressing him from root to tip. I liked the feel of him, warm and eager and overwhelming.
He groaned. The sound made me want to purr.
I took him deeper, inching my lips up his silky length, laving him with my tongue as I worked him deeper. It was heady, the taste of him, the feel of him rearing against the roof of my mouth. I liked it. I was already primed from what he’d done to me in the restaurant, but I knew innately that performing this act would have turned me on on its own.
Well wasn’t that some ironic icing on my precariously arranged cake?
I didn’t realize I’d paused midway down his length until I felt him move under me. His hips churned. He held my head still, his erection thrusting up at me impatiently.
With a hungry moan, I took him as deep down my throat as he would go. I started moving on him, my head bobbing slowly up and down, my hands gripping, sliding, stroking, getting mixed up in my saliva until it was a smooth glide. My hands worked his base while my mouth sucked and stroked at him from mid-shaft to tip. I worked into a well-balanced rhythm, sucking him as deep as I could and jacking at him firmly with my hand. I was so involved that a few times my lips met my own hands and I was caught off guard at the contact.
I paused when he gripped my hair suddenly, rolling my eyes to glance up into his face.
Holy shit. I actually liked the half-crazed look in his eyes, the way the skin around his cheekbones was taut with strain, his telling grip.
“Fuck,” he muttered. And that wasn’t all. He was making these delicious noises, raw, little keens escaping from the back of his throat. The noises were harsh and male and I loved them. “Damn it. Suck it harder.”
I tried my best with genuine interest and enthusiasm. So far his fingers and my mouth were far more enjoyable than the act of sex itself. Who knew?
His climax was a lot more interesting, quick, and messy than I was prepared for. I knew the mechanics but those did not take into account how my own musings and reactions would distract me from the job at hand. It was an easy enough mouthful to swallow, but somehow half of it ended up on me, running down my chin, my neck, my collarbone, and deep into my cleavage.
I lifted my head when his hand in my hair went slack.
His eyes were running over me, over the spots where I’d spilled his cum on myself. “Did any of it manage to make it into your mouth?” he asked, breathing hard. I would have answered, but as he spoke he was fingering the shoulders of my top, pushing them aside and down my arms. It was a revealing dress. Just that easy, I was topless. He stared at me some more, his breath slowing eventually but not by much. He fondled me.
I looked down at his hand on me. The sight made me squirm in my seat. My nipples were hard, his cum was all over my skin, and his hand looked and felt so good on me that I couldn’t stop staring at it.
“Fuck,” he said roughly. “Fuck.�
�
Abruptly he took his hand away, pulling my straps back onto my shoulders, folding me back into my dress.
“Was that okay?” It took a few minutes and lot of my courage to work up to asking that question.
He put himself away and didn’t look at me once. He didn’t speak for an unbearable length of time. He seemed to be gathering himself for something, and I doubted that would bode well for me.
“Do you want me to be honest?” he asked in a dead voice, his eyes trained out the window at the swiftly passing buildings. He didn’t wait for me to answer. “I feel I was misled about your skill level. All that training, I thought you’d be better with your mouth.”
It felt like I’d been slapped. My eyes stung and I had to blink rapidly and look away to hide it. It was the unexpectedness of the assault that made it hurt so bad, I told myself. I was completely unprepared for such brutal directness.
“Apparently,” he continued ruthlessly, “practice means nothing if you don’t have the right tools. We’ll have to work on that.”
I felt my jaw set stubbornly. “If you insist. Would you like to do it now or do you need more time to recover?”
He was staring at me now. It wasn’t a good stare. There wasn’t even a hint of friendliness in the curve of his mouth or the glint of his eyes. “Why’d you do it?”
I stared back.
“Why would you sell yourself to someone who doesn’t even like you?” he added.
“Not all of us get to be born rich,” I told him. Simple and bitter like one of his drinks.
“You sold your virginity. Your hymen had a price tag. This is certainly a first for me.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the only virgin I’ve ever broken in and had to train, and the only woman I’ve ever had to pay to fuck me.”
Shock robbed me of all response. All I could do was stare at him.
“So I guess you could say you’re my first whore, and I’m your first John.”
“John’s don’t buy the cow,” I was angry enough to point out.
His pretty mouth twisted and it was ugly. He parted his lips to say something horrible in response but his phone rang, distracting him, thank God.
