When the room door closes behind us, I don’t know what to do. Me, who’s always known what to do, and what I want. But I love the sense of uncertainty, the excitement of the unknown.
“Kneel on the bed, Willa, facing the bed head.” His voice isn’t cold or hard or bossy, just soft and shot through with real power. I hurry to obey, not stopping to ask if I should undress or anything. Clambering onto the bed, I feel my heart thud, thud, thudding in my chest, and the beat of it echoes between my legs.
He moves to stand beside the bed, next to me, and I feel so wound up, so agitated I can’t even look at him. I just kneel up, eyes closed, my breath already coming in ragged gasps, and I jump a mile when he takes my jacket by the lapels and peels it off me, leaving me in my blouse and skirt. With a slow gentle stroke across my shoulders he calms me, then pushes down until I’m resting on my elbows, my back dished. My bottom is pushed up, presented to him, displayed with my skirt stretched tight across it.
“Forward, baby,” he instructs, helping me by tossing aside the mounds of pillows and edging me into position. Automatically I grab on to the brass rails and he fondles my hair approvingly. A moment later he’s fastening my wrists to the bed head with the silk sash of my kimono, which I laid across the duvet earlier.
Involuntarily, I moan, my sex aching already, and we’ve hardly yet begun.
“Shush, Willa, you must be quiet and good.” He speaks with gentleness, but there’s steel there, and power beneath the words.
Reaching beneath me, he pushes up my blouse in a bunch above my breasts, then reaches into the cups of my bra to ease them out of it. They feel swollen and heavy, aggravated by their own weight now they’re freed from clothing and support. James’s fingertips brush each nipple lightly and I have to bite my lips to keep myself from crying out.
Watching my face in profile, James sees this, and he touches my nipples again, more lingeringly this time. He takes one between his finger and thumb, delicately twisting and forcing the suppressed cry from me. Just the way he did back in the music room. He knows my vulnerabilities now, and he’s exquisitely ruthless. He pinches again and I groan, shaking my hips.
“Would it be easier if I gagged you?”
Would what be easier? I don’t know what “it” is. But the effort of keeping silent, of not being as “quiet and good” as he wants me to, is exhausting. I nod my head as he continues to beleaguer my nipples with little twists and squeezes.
“Good girl. That’s a sensible choice,” he whispers in my ear, bending over me and brushing a kiss against the back of my neck. A second later, he bounds from the bed and then returns with a soft silk scarf of mine that was draped across the back of a chair. His warm fingers part my lips, then my teeth, handling me like a stockman would a prize mare, and he slips the silk into my mouth, then ties the ends at the back of my head.
“Good...very good,” he murmurs again, then folds back the panels of my shirt and tucks them into the waistband of my skirt so that my breasts in my pushed-down bra are more exposed. “Look!” He gestures to the large mirror to one side of the room, and I see myself.
I’m kneeling, bound and gagged with my breasts rudely exposed and my nipples erect and ruddy. But my eyes are like stars, wide and glittering with dark, dilated pupils. I look like a model in a fetish photo. A totem of submission, yet an object of strange beauty.
I moan again, behind my gag, excited anew by my own reflected image.
“I love you, Willa.”
The words should seem ludicrous, incongruous in this situation, but they are perfectly apposite. I glance at James’s reflection too, and his tanned face is aglow as if he too is in awe of my transformation. He’s all power, all control, but the love is there in him.
And lust too. At his groin his erection is massive in his jeans. Moving over me again, his hands settle on my bottom, sliding the cloth of my skirt in circles over the skin and flesh beneath. A faint echo of my earlier spanking whispers in the muscles there, but it’s slight, almost nothing. My heart lurches at the thought of what might very soon replace that. Between my legs, I feel more liquid ooze, warm and slippery.
James slides my skirt up, exposing my silky panties. One hand curves around from the back, cupping my crotch and pressing the narrow strand of fabric between my thighs against my weeping pussy. Wetting his fingers as he dabs lightly at my clit and I groan again, free to now that the sound is muffled by yet more wet silk.
How can I get so excited? It’s not the sex we had before. It’s not the sex I’ve ever even thought of before. And yet it’s real. It’s true. And it’s full of love. On James’s part, and mine too. I want to pleasure him in these strange ways, as he pleasures me.
Making a low, masculine sound of approval, he pulls my knickers down to just above my knees. Then taking me by the thighs, he sets them apart, stretching the flimsy garment like a bridge. A great wave of my aroused odor rises up and envelops us.
“Gorgeous,” growls James, breathing it in. He inserts two fingers into my pussy and I squeal behind my gag, it’s so sudden and electrifying. My clit throbs and I beg silently for him to fondle it.
“Not yet, baby,” he breathes into my ear as if he’s read my mind. His fingers are still lodged inside me and he parts them to stretch and stimulate me.
I start to move frantically, shaking my hips apart to try to get some ease.
“Steady...steady...” He puts his free hand on the small of my back, pressing hard to keep me still while he plays around inside me. Tears of delicious, aching frustration form in my eyes. “I’m going to beat you now,” he says with perfect, quiet gentleness. “It’ll hurt quite a lot, but you’ll thank me for it afterward.”
I don’t know whether he means I’ll thank him for it because in some perverse way I’ll like it, or whether me thanking him is just a part of the ritual. Maybe it’s both. But I’ll know soon, as he withdraws his fingers, steps from the bed and fetches my wooden hairbrush from where I’ve left it on the dressing table.
Then, with no further word, he begins to spank my bottom with it.
It hurts! Oh, God, how it hurts! He wasn’t wrong about that. The spanks resonate hugely, throughout my body, like a solid bar of fire impacting on the tender skin of my bottom, smack, smack, smack. Relentless...I shout and I curse behind my gag. I start to hurl my hips about, not avoiding the blows, just reacting to them, translating their energy into movement.
Within moments, my entire bottom feels like molten lava, and my pussy is dripping and drooling, my honey trickling down my legs I’m so aroused. My clit feels as if it’s swollen, enormous and throbbing. If I could just touch it, I know I’d come immediately.
But I can’t touch it, and the sumptuous torment goes on and on. Flexing my back in a concave dip, I push my bottom up to entice and encourage my own punishment, and at the same time rub my nipples against the duvet. My love permits this, but the smacks get harder as a consequence. I wiggle like some kind of she-beast, widening my legs as much as I can within the hobble of my knickers. My tears are falling, but I feel glorified, exalted.
James agrees.
“Oh, Willa, you’re magnificent,” he gasps, voice rough with exertion. “You’re a wonder, my love... Now I need to see you come!”
Abruptly, he stops spanking, but doesn’t abandon the brush. Instead, he reverses his grip on it, and pushes the handle, warm from his hand, into my pussy. My channel clenches down hard, already rippling, and when he reaches beneath me, to stroke my clit, I break into pieces. Not literally of course, but in every other way that counts. Great, heart-stopping waves of the most intense pleasure I’ve ever known sweep through me. I seem to come in every cell, in every atom, as my pussy grabs at the handle. It seems to go on for hours and yet I know it’s only moments.
“Oh, hell!” cries James, and then he’s off the bed, leaving me with the brush still sticking out of me, and still coming, while he kicks off his boots, pulls a condom out of his pocket, then swiftly and efficiently shucks off his j
eans and rolls on the rubber. A second later, the brush goes skidding across the carpet and his rampant cock replaces it inside me. When he shoves hard, and in desperation, I ascend again and soar to fine new heights of rapture. Especially when he reaches around and caresses me, the delicacy and precision of his fingers on my clitoris quite at odds with the ferocious grip he has on my hip, and the way his body batters against my tingling bottom.
Of course, pretty soon, it’s all too much. Too much for me, as I collapse into a protoplasmic blob of overloaded nerves and orgasmic pleasure messages. Too much for him, as he shouts harshly and incoherently, and climaxes hard in a prolonged, jerking frenzy.
We lie in a heap for an indeterminate period, gasping and glowing and knowing, somehow, that we’ve finally come home even though this is just a simple hotel room.
* * *
Much later, we make love quietly and sweetly, and talk, just as quietly but facing many truths. He’s changed, and I’ve changed, and the new people we’ve become seem to like each other much better, besides being more in love than ever.
“So where did you learn all this stuff?” I ask him, comfortable now in being able to do so.
“Oh, I knew about it all along, but somehow there never seemed to be the right time or the right moment to tell you about it.” I feel sad, but he senses it, and cuddles me. “I should have... We could have wasted far less time.”
“And I had other priorities all the time. Bloody jobs. Promotions. All that crap that I hate now.” It feels good to admit that to myself as much as to James.
“Come and work for me instead. We’re doing well, expanding, I could do with a top-notch office manager, and I can’t think of anyone better for the job than you.”
I think about it. Not sure. Perhaps I want everything to change.
“Or if you don’t fancy that, you can always be a gardener’s assistant and come out with me on jobs.” He kisses my hair, and I have a feeling this might be the option he prefers. It seems weird to me, but it’s a change, and a seed of real curiosity germinates. “It’s physical...wheelbarrowing earth around, sweeping up leaves, planting out under my supervision.”
We’re lying like spoons, and he moves against me and brushes my sore bottom with his hip, his thigh...and his erection. I melt all over again, longing to be fucked.
“And I’m a hard taskmaster, Willa,” he breathes against my skin, cupping my bottom cheek with his hand and making me squeak. “If you don’t pull your weight, I might have to punish you. And you know what that leads to afterward, don’t you?”
I’m moving against him now, stirring the fire in my punished buttocks and the desire between my legs. Boldly, my traveling hand reaches back and grasps his penis. I think vaguely about gardens and soil and sweeping and leaves, and as we start to make love again, I look forward to learning about them. From James.
Yes, this time around, I’ll let my husband be the boss. Well, at least sometimes...
“We’ll work it out, Willa,” he purrs, and I feel him shake his head, then smile against my neck as he reads my mind.
* * * * *
TEMPTING THE NEW GUY
Alegra Verde
“Any magician worth his salt can escape from a locked cage or a pair of handcuffs.”
—Murphy, the theater owner (The Perfect Poison)
Clement Johns was a new account exec at Davies and Birch Advertising. He was from the South, born in Memphis, and he had a slow, dusky way of talking that sent shivers up my spine every time he came up behind me and said my name. Something he seemed to enjoy, because he did it at every opportunity. I’d be standing in the lunchroom, staring at the microwave, waiting for my Cup-a-Soup and he’d come up behind me. “Glory,” he’d breathe on my neck, the word tickling the soft hairs at my nape. “A lovely name for a beautiful woman,” he’d say from behind me as I bent over the copier tray to retrieve my copies. I said, “Thanks, that’s sweet of you,” the first couple of times, but that seemed to encourage him. So I started rolling my eyes at him whenever he tried to catch my eye, and when he came up behind me, I’d get my cup of soup or my copies or my supplies and make my way around the pillar that he’d become.
He was a find. Not because he looked like Jude Law, with his straight-teethed smile, the boyish look of his slightly mussed fair hair and the glow that emanated from his gaze, but because there was a definite charm to his Southern purr and his confidence was backed by substance. After earning an MBA from Stanford, he’d gone out to L.A. and bounced around from agency to agency before he went home and started his own ad firm, which focused primarily on evaluating and purchasing internet ad space. He came to Davies and Birch with a solid client list and a technical manual he’d developed that identified primary venues and established criteria for judging their potential effectiveness. The firm had hired him in at substantial cost, given him a staff of two and a small corner suite of offices. It was a sound move. The clients were impressed with the expanded markets and the projected figures looked as though the firm’s faith in Johns would be realized sooner than expected.
He and his crew were to take center stage at the morning staff meeting. Bruce Davies was, as usual, at the head of the long oval table and Lucas Birch at the foot. Johns was to present a list of up-and-coming sites with suggestions for how and by whom they might be best used. It was his first presentation to the staff at large. Claire, Davies’s assistant-cum-secretary, had reserved three prime center seats for Johns and his staff. The two nerdy looking guys who worked with him were fresh out of CUNY. They took two of the seats and dutifully held the one between them for their leader. But Johns, instead of assuming his position of prominence, slid in next to me as I sat on the mini sofa that rested against the wall behind Davies.
“Glooory, Glooory,” he whispered savoring the extra set of O’s as he lowered himself beside me. I thought of that scene in The Long Hot Summer. He had stretched out the O’s and crooned my name just like the randy group of teenaged boys had when they’d hidden in the bushes and called out “Euula, Euula.” A giddy Eula in the guise of a pert Lee Remick had giggled from her perch on the veranda. Her husband, Tony Franciosa, who’d been sitting there with her and other members of the family, hadn’t been tickled in the least by their antics. He’d gotten red in the face as he ran to the edge of the porch, shouting and threatening all manner of violence at the boys. “Gloory,” Clement said again close to my ear. It tickled and I laughed. Clement grinned, maybe he meant to make the connection.
Davies turned and glanced briefly at the two of us before turning to begin the meeting.
“Been looking for you,” Clement murmured as he leaned close to my ear, his warm breath whisking across my cheek.
I looked at him, eyebrows raised as if to say “I can’t imagine why.”
He grinned again and slipped a flier for an off-off-Broadway production of Tennessee Williams’s The Glass Menagerie onto my lap.
“Tonight?” he said, for my ears only. “They so rarely do the old masters up here.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“You and me,” he said, touching my chest and then his with the tip of his finger.
It made me smile, but I didn’t say anything one way or the other. Instead, I put a finger over my lips, urging him to be quiet before we drew any more attention. Bruce Davies glanced back at us again, before returning his attention to a status report from the accounting department. The report, which ended with a recommendation that a new set of limits and restrictions should be placed on company credit cards, finished to a chorus of groans as Davies nodded and said he’d consider the suggestions.
“Mr. Johns.” Bruce spoke without turning around even slightly. “The floor is yours.”
Clement stood and, smiling, began his report. However, when he found himself speaking to the back of Bruce’s head, he moved to the center of the table and stood behind the chair that his two staffers still held vacant for him. He delivered the presentation with his usual aplomb, but when he was don
e, he came back to squeeze in next to me. “Well?” he wrote on the back of the flier, and handed it to me with a pen.
“You were fine,” I wrote, feeling like we were in high school, passing notes.
“Not the presentation,” he scribbled. “The play?”
I shook my head.
“Why?” he wrote.
“Busy,” I mouthed.
“Doing what?” he wrote.
Of all the nerve. I gave him the high brow and turned my attention to Linda, the receptionist, an attractive older woman who was also charged with ordering supplies and managing repairs. She seemed to have a beef about people not signing guests in and with people expecting her to deliver their messages, when the system required that they pick them up from the desk. She was the last, and after Birch said a few words of encouragement, everyone began to file out of the room.
Bruce was instantly besieged by two account executives, so I took the opportunity to try to slip out. I made my way quickly around Johns as he bent to pick up his materials from the floor, but soon he was up and following me to the door. When I didn’t slow down, he called after me. “Wait, Glory,” he was saying from behind me when I heard Davies say, “Glory, I’d like to see you in my office.” I turned back to Davies and nodded. Clement looked at Davies, then he looked at me. I turned and kept walking, but Clement followed me out the door and down the hall.
“Hey,” he said, grabbing me by my upper arm.
I stopped and frowned up at him as I removed my arm from his grasp.
“Sorry,” he said, and looked repentant. “I just wanted to say I’m one of the good guys. Truly.” He nodded and grinned. “My momma taught me right. I’d just like to spend an evening in your company and I’ve got these tickets and...”
“I can’t,” I said, and felt kind of bad about it. He seemed so earnest, but I didn’t want to encourage him. One in-house affair was more than enough.
10 Shades of Seduction Page 8
