“There are some more dresses in a fitting room ready for you to model for me,” he grinned. “I think you’ll like what I’ve picked out.”
“Just show me the way,” she replied enthusiastically, and the saleswoman, who introduced herself as Victoria, led her to the back of the store.
“Mr. Sinclair, are we late?” Amaranth inquired, stepping up to him.
“No, not at all. I arrived early. Canceled some things. I’d much rather be here. I think I’ve got this covered, but would you please have Parker take you to Harrods and buy some bags. You know what she’ll need. Pick up a variety, evening, tote, purses, various colors. We can return the ones she doesn’t care for.”
“Very well, Mr. Sinclair, if you’re sure you don’t need me.”
“Yes, quite sure, and there will be a delivery of packages addressed to Miss Somers this afternoon. Please put them in the Salon next to our living room, and they are not to be opened.”
“Yes, Mr. Sinclair. I’ll see to it.”
“Thank you, Amaranth.”
Belle called, interrupting their dialogue, exiting the dressing room in the sexy, sleeveless blue dress. Simon turned and walked towards her.
“That’s a definite yes,” he exclaimed. “Your first description was right, it’s a ‘wow,’ especially on you.”
Amaranth felt her skin crawl. Hurrying out of the store she climbed into the car, ordering Parker to take her to Harrods.
Our living room? He’s referring to his suite as ours? This must not continue, she fumed. Canceling appointments to look at dresses? No, this won’t do at all. Tomorrow night your downfall will begin you little tramp. Two Ambien in your drink before you head out to Lord and Lady Bardwell’s and you’ll make a complete fool of yourself. Simon will be embarrassed, but needs must. Everyone will think you’re drunk and unreliable, and that’s just for starters. By the time I’m finished with you, he’ll send you packing. A week, two, at the most, and you’ll be history.
The thought of Belle falling all over herself at the Bardwell’s dinner party, sent a surge of pleasurable power through her veins, and by the time the car pulled up to Harrods, she felt much better. Putting her scheme into action would be child’s play, and she was looking forward to all the other dirty tricks she was about to bestow on the annoying Belle.
In the expensive boutique Simon had found a black cocktail dress adorned with scattered sequins, and though falling loose around her body it was tailored to flatter the figure, and he gave his approval to the sales girl.
“Can I talk to you for a minute,” Belle asked softly, gesturing toward the fitting room.
“Sure,” he smiled, and followed her inside the large, beautifully appointed, private dressing area.
“Is there something the matter?” he asked, closing the door behind him.
“These clothes are stunning, and gorgeous, but they’re so expensive. I mean, this is a lot of money,” she declared.
“Belle, we’ve had this conversation before, and I–”
“I know, I know,” she interrupted.
“Are you going to let me finish?” he inquired calmly.
“Simon, it just feels–”
“Apparently not,” he sighed, fixing her with a stern gaze. “Do you remember a certain conversation we had, on a certain couch, in a certain hotel?”
“Yes,” she sighed, dropping her eyes, a submissive rush washing over her.
“And do you remember me telling you how much I enjoy doing this?”
“Yes,” she nodded.
“Do you also remember promising me we would not to have this conversation again?”
“Yes,” she whimpered, dropping her forehead against his chest.
“So what do you have to say to me?”
“I’m sorry, Sir,” she whispered, heart fluttering. Lifting her eyes she looked up at him, and added, “Please will you punish me.”
“I will, and I must, right here. Please take off the dress, and not another word.”
A deep burn spread across her face, and slipping off the dress, she placed it back on its hanger.
“And your underwear,” he continued.
She paused, feeling almost embarrassed stripping completely in the bright light of the fitting room, but did so quickly, and stood before him entirely naked.
“Turn around, put your elbows on the wall and shut your eyes.”
“Sir, the noise?” she whispered, alarmed that his spanking hand would be heard by Victoria and anyone else wandering around the intimate boutique.
“There will be no noise, not unless you cry out, and you won’t, will you, Belle?”
“No, Sir,” she replied, a thousand butterflies beginning their dance.
Reaching into the inside of his jacket, he retrieved a folded piece of wood. Flicking it open, he snapped the two halves together, creating a twelve inch stick.
“Elbows,” he commanded, and turning to face the wall, Belle pressed her forearms above her head and arched her back.
“Bottom out further, please,” he said firmly.
She scooted out her feet, and felt the tiny cane rest on the middle of her seat cheeks.
‘This will be quick and effective, and next time you find yourself in a fitting room I’m sure you will remember it,” he breathed in her ear. “Buying you beautiful clothes makes me happy. You wish to please me, do you not?”
“Yes, Sir, and I’m grateful,” she whispered.
Stepping back, he swished the small, thin rod upon her left cheek, delivering three quick strokes, and she grit her teeth as the hot sting pierced her backside.
“Do we finally understand each other? Will I have to address this issue again?”
“Yes, Sir, and no, Sir,” she gasped.
“Make sure of it,” he declared, and repeated the three rapid, silent strokes on her right side.
She heard the subtle snap as he closed his baton, then the brush of his suit as he moved against her.
“You’re so beautiful,” he crooned in her ear, “especially in that blue dress.”
His fingers had slid between her sex, probing, exploring, seeking out her secret spot.
“That dress will be your sucking dress,” he purred. “Whenever I tell you to put it on, you’ll know it means you will be sucking my cock.”
“Oooohhh,” she moaned, her voice hushed, as his finger plunged into her.
“I will finish making my selections, and then I have to return to the office for a short while. You will go home, shower, and put on that blue dress and wait for me in our living room. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir,” she panted.
“No more conversation about my buying you things, ever, correct?”
“Yes, Sir. Correct, Sir.”
“Stay exactly as you are and count to ten, then you may try on the last two dresses. Your bottom will be stinging for some time. I trust it will serve you well.”
Withdrawing his hand, he silently left the room, and ten-seconds later, when Belle opened her eyes and turned around to find him gone, she had to sit gingerly on the small couch to catch her breath. Her bottom was certainly scorched, and her pussy was certainly hungry, and she thought there was no-one in the city who could possibly be as happy as she was at that moment.
Returning to the house, Amaranth had the collection of designer bags taken up to Simon’s living room for perusal. As she was arranging their display, she received word that a large number of packages had arrived addressed to Belle Somers. Instructing Henry, the butler, to have them sent up to the salon next to the living room, she unlocked the hallway doors to allow entry. A few minutes later the two footmen arrived and carried them in, placing them side by side on the couches, coffee table and sideboard.
Hurrying back to the living room, she finished unpacking and arranging the handbags, and was about to return to her office when curiosity came calling. Wandering back to the doorway leading to the salon, she peered inside and counted exactly thirty boxes. They weren’t large, each b
eing about the size of a shirt box. Intrigued, she ambled in and scanned the labels. The packages had originated from several different high-end, lingerie retailers.
A throbbing invaded her temples as the green-eyed monster took hold. Determined to view at least some of the contents, she sought out those boxes that were not well sealed. Finding only two, she carefully moved aside the tissue paper of one, finding a silver and black corset with long garters. It was sleek and elegant, with underwires designed to lift and show the bust. Grimacing, she closed it back up and turned to the second. She was mortified to discover a bright purple transparent gown with matching lace panties.
Whorish clothes for a whore. That’s what you are, little Miss Yank. A whore. An American whore who is sleeping with my fiancé, seducing him with your conniving, cunning, sexual heat.
Rage gripped her, and furious, she began to pace! She wanted to steal them, to rip them to shreds with the very sharp, very large scissors in her office.
I have to control myself, I must control myself, she mumbled repeatedly.
She finally managed to unclench her fists and gain control of her breathing. Squaring her shoulders, she turned her attention to closing the packages she’d opened. She had just finished taping up the second box when she heard a noise. Spinning around she could hear Belle’s voice, and hurried silently out the door to the hallway.
Running back to her office, fury fueling her escape, she burst into the room. Hurriedly she retrieved her secret bottle of Chivas Regal Royal Salute from its hiding place, and poured a large splash into her historic crystal goblet. It was a rare piece of glassware from the 17th-century, and virtually priceless.
This indulgence she reserved for supremely special occasions, the last such drink having been downed when she had been invited to live at the house. She had been sure it was a sign, an omen, that her extreme patience was about to pay off, that Simon wanted her there so they could become closer. This was the first time the extravagance was being used to chill a tempest burning within her.
Carrying the drink to her window, gazing upon the green grass upon which she would one day be married, she raised her glass.
To you my love. Worry not, I will remove your rose-colored glasses and you will see the truth of her, and finally of me.
In one swill, she downed the fifty-year-old liquor.
It wasn’t until Belle had finished studying the handbags, loving them all except one, a dark green, crocodile, hobo bag that was too green, too big and too ostentatious, that she noticed the door to the adjoining room was open. Wandering forward she peered inside, and was astonished to see the endless array of boxes. Curious she entered, and staring down at the labels she discovered they were all addressed to her.
“My gosh,” she said out loud. “Now what?”
Shaking her head, her bottom reminding her she could not debate the endless array of gifts from her hero, she moved away, closing the door behind her, suspecting she was not supposed to have happened upon them. Time was ticking by and she still had to shower and change into her blue dress, the only dress she had personally brought with her from the boutique, the remainder being delivered. Hurrying into her bathroom, she turned on the faucets and began to ready herself for Simon’s return.
It took her forty-five minutes before she was happy with her appearance, wanting her makeup and hair to be flawless, and waiting nervously in her blue dress, surrounded by the bags Amaranth had placed around the room, she considered opening up the cocktail bar Simon had shown her. It was behind one of the bookcases, and with a simple push it would swing open, revealing the full wet bar. Simon had told her it was in honor of the 1960s film with Steve McQueen and Faye Dunaway, The Thomas Crown Affair.
“The best kissing scene ever in a movie,” he had told her, “and that bar? Loved that bar in his study. I loved the film, period.”
Belle had wanted to tell him that the film was her all-time favorite, but didn’t want him to think she was saying so just to endear herself to him, so had stayed quiet, but in retrospect she wished she had shared her thoughts.
In bed, as we’re going to sleep, I’ll tell him, she promised herself.
Walking across the room, she pushed the bookcase, marveling at how easily it swung open. Searching through the drink bottles she could find no vodka, so opened up the refrigerator freezer. There it was, vanilla vodka, her favorite drink. Pulling out the icy bottle she poured herself a shot, and had just downed it when Simon walked in.
“What do we have here?” he smiled looking across at her, then at the many bags on display.
“I think they’re called handbags,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye.
“You look absolutely stunning,” he grinned, closing the door and locking it. “Move across to the windows.”
Grateful that she’d been able to have her tranquilizer, she walked across the room, feeling his eyes upon her, and stood by the windows. They were paned, and stood three feet from the floor, stopping a foot below the high ceiling. As she turned to face him he flicked off the lights, and the smooth, dusky light created by the setting sun, bathed the room in a soft, milky haze.
“Stay there, exactly where you are,” he said firmly, and disappeared into his bedroom.
Belle could hear the distant sound of his shower, and instinctively licked her lips. The waiting seemed interminable, and when he finally appeared, a towel around his waist, droplets of water glistening against the smattering of chest hair, she felt a gush of wetness between her legs, and an overwhelming need to run to him, to lick each trickle individually, working her way up to his full, delicious lips.
Simon heard it all; her thoughts of ardor, her ache, her yearning, and he felt it all; her love, her devotion and her soft, gentle spirit. Against the panes of glass, the sinking sun dancing a golden aura around her, she appeared to be an Angel, a sweet, pure Angel sent to fill his heart and his life.
Moving slowly forward, dropping the towel as he did, he watched in wonder as she fell silently to her knees, dropped her eyes, and placed her hands behind her back. It was what he was about to instruct her to do, but she had heard him, just as clearly as he had heard her many musings just moments before.
Touching his hands to her hair he pulled away the clips that kept it fastened away from her face. As the long locks fell free, he wrapped the tendrils around his fingers, guiding her down upon his waiting cock.
Silence fell gracefully around them. Simon’s gaze drifted through the window, out across the city lights, seeing them taking life as darkness crept stealthily over the metropolis. Her lips were raking his shaft, shooting sparks through his loins, and he suddenly experienced an abundance of omnipotence.
Was it because a woman such as Belle had bestowed upon him her most precious gift? This beautiful, enchanting, brilliant, strong woman was now his submissive? Sincere and true, no fakery or falseness in her surrender?
Was it because he had reached business heights about which he’d only dreamed as a young entrepreneur? Heights that equaled the scaling of Mt. Everest? Heights that only a rare few ever reached?
Or was it because his heart had heard a knock on its door, and before he even knew it had happened, that door had opened and something truly wondrous had entered, permeating the empty space with its mystical magic.
Her lips slithered over him with no assistance from her hands, as was his intent. This was training, though she didn’t know it. He was teaching her to keep him locked in her mouth as she sucked. It took muscle strength, a strength that would take time for her to achieve. This, the first such training, needed to be kept short so she did not overuse her jaw muscles and become sore.
Shifting his gaze from the blackening city to the gorgeous girl below him, he slowed her pace until she was still, his member buried in her mouth, then gathered her hair into one hand.
“Remember our last afternoon? We were in the house, on the bed, and you confessed your fantasy to me? You’re going to please me that way again, but you must keep your
hands behind you,” he instructed, and continuing to clutch her hair in one hand, he moved the other to the base of his shaft.
“Slowly,” he breathed, surrendering to the divine feel of her full, moist lips. “Focus on the head,” he crooned.
Following his instructions, she circled his bulbous mountaintop, drawing him in and circling.
“Yes, my dear girl, that’s it exactly. I’m going to come now, take it all in,” he breathed, then shuddered and groaned as his creamy essence surged its way up and out, landing on her tongue.
Lapping and swallowing, she gently washed him, then tenderly held him with her lips as she waited for his next edict.
“You are a very good girl,” he sighed. “You may release me, and crawl to the couch and wait.”
Keeping her eyes lowered, she scrabbled across the rich rug to the overstuffed sofa, taking up her position, kneeling before it.
Simon walked back into his bedroom and donned his robe, returning to her with a bottle of water for them each, and sat on the couch in front of her.
“Look at me,” he said softly.
Lifting her eyes, she stared into his, and felt a well of emotion.
“Sir,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
Of all the words she could have uttered, there was none that would have pleased him more.
“Come here, my sweetheart,” he smiled opening his arms.
Crawling into his lap, crushing the dress as she curled into him, she sighed contentedly.
Night completed its meandering entrance, and darkness washed the room. She’d been dozing against him, as he had rested his head on the back of the enveloping couch, his arms cradling her. Blinking his eyes open, he saw a light dusting of rain against the window, the patter so soft as to be the dancing of tiny sparrows. She stirred, moved and shifted, finally sitting up.
Reaching for the untouched water bottles, he opened one for her, then took one for himself.
“Mmmm, thank you. I am thirsty, and hungry,” she remarked, drinking a large swallow.
“Before we decide about dinner a shower is in order, and I think a reward for a special young lady.”
The British Billionaire Bachelor, Act Two Page 4
