Isobel's Surprise

by Maggie Carpenter

  Pulse racing Isobel dropped the pages on the floor, and stretching out on the couch she slipped down her sweats, placing her fingers urgently against her sex as she relived the scene she’d just read.

  God, Patrick, I can feel you, I can see you reaching for me, pulling me over your knee. I can feel the soft wool fabric of your trousers, the sting of your smack, and your hand reaching between my legs, ooooh....

  The orgasm rippled through her with Patrick’s handsome figure shining in her mind’s eye; he was standing at the blackboard, his arms crossed, his blue eyes dazzling her.

  “It has to be you,” she mumbled, and closing her eyes she surrendered to the tingling, drifting bliss of her afterglow.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Coming out of her happy, dozy state she ambled to the bathroom to splash some water on her face then returned to her desk. The sound of the rain had always inspired her to write, and typing, THREE DARK HOURS, she let her mind wander.

  I want to write an answer that chapter, to that mysterious man, whoever he is. I feel so connected to what he wrote, connected to him. I feel as if I know him. Can I write something like that and hand it to Patrick? Shit...talk about rolling the dice. Am I brave enough to do this?

  Just write. Write and let it flow. If you chicken out you can write something else. It’s only Friday.

  Good plan. Yes, I have to do this. It’s in me and I know I won’t rest until I do.

  Dropping her hands to the keyboard Isobel’s fingers began to move.

  She has imagined it many times, but that’s all she’s been able to do, imagine it. She has yet to feel the whisper of satin as a blindfold floats across her eyes, the cotton cord being laced around her body, or the fur of the leather shackles ticking her skin before being buckled closed.

  There have been times when she’s mocked her boyfriends, been difficult or petulant, praying they would scold her, then take it that one step further and yank her across their knees, but her attempts at provocation have only been met with confused stares.

  She knows why, she knows the man she seeks is unique. He is a man who has the confidence to be exactly who he is without apology or pretense, a man who relishes a woman and her body, and lovingly accepts her surrender.

  Sitting back Isobel read her words and felt her heart pumping in her chest. It was true, all of it, and the crease of concentration crossed her brow as she continued.

  There are lost hours in her life, hours that are filled with clear visions of dark, erotic encounters. In the early hours of the morning, void of sleep, the inky stillness surrounds her, and her decadent demons come out to play.

  At such times she closes her eyes and watches him wander towards her, the warm, sultry smile on his face unable to hide the intensity burning in his eyes. He holds his blindfold in one hand, a pair of cuffs in the other.

  “This will take three hours,” he purrs as he sits next to her, “give or take a minute or two.”

  “How do you know?” she squeaks.

  That’s about how long it will take me to devour you, to mark your skin, to listen to all your lovely utterances of pain and pleasure, then, sweet girl, deliver you to the pinnacle so you can fly through subspace.

  “Three hours? That sounds like a long time,” she quivers. “How can I-?”

  “Enough,” he interrupts, placing a finger across her lips. “From this moment the only sounds I want to hear are your moans and gasps, unless you are so overcome you feel the need to use your caution word. Tell me again, what is it?”

  “Orange,” she whispers, feeling the oversized butterflies perform a polka.

  “Correct,” he smiles. “If you say anything else you know I will spank you. Yes, I’m going to spank you anyway, but if you disobey me, whether you mean to or not, I will land my hand upon your bottom with a series of stinging smacks. Do you understand?”

  Swallowing hard she nods her head; her pulse is racing and she can’t think...not about anything except what’s coming.

  “Good. Close your eyes.”

  The simple instruction is enough to make the butterflies shift from a polka into a wild dance, and as the soft satin surrounds her eyes and sends her into darkness, his words echo through her brain.

  That’s about how long it will take me to devour you, to mark your skin...

  “I adore the corset you’ve chosen,” he croons as he places the shackles around her wrists. “Red is a very sensual color. A tad obvious perhaps, but for tonight it’s quite perfect.”

  She holds her breath as the cuffs are buckled, then she feels a two sided snap lock her wrists together; the fit is secure but not so tight as to be uncomfortable.

  “Stand up. I’m going to guide you forward.”

  As he walks her across the room, the room her fantasy has created for her, a room that reeks of who he is, the vision consumes her, and the bedroom in which she lays no longer exists.

  “Lean forward and feel the bench.”

  His arm is across her stomach supporting her, and when her hands touch the cool spongy vinyl she opens her fingers allowing her palms to take her weight.

  “Good, now I’m going to warm your bottom,” he declares, his voice no longer soft or tender but firm and resolute.

  Gritting her teeth she waits for the first slap, and when it lands with an unexpected softness she realizes she’s been holding her breath. Exhaling, allowing the nervous tension to evaporate, she moans quietly as his hand fondles her cheek. She wiggles, an involuntary movement caused by her apprehension, and he accepts the unintended invitation, slapping his palm smartly, staining her pale skin with the print of his palm.

  Now the gritting of her teeth becomes her silent defense against his spanking hand and her need to cry out. As his palm continues its unceasing assault she longs to beg him to pause, if only for a moment, but his edict had been clear; she was not to speak unless it was to call out her caution.

  When he stops it’s almost a shock, and as his gentle caress fondles away the sting, other fingers slip between her legs. They tickle and tease, torment and explore, and as she feels her body respond she bleats and wriggles, a testament to her growing need.

  Dropping her head in her hands Isobel sighed; it was all so real. In her bed she would lose herself in the images, her fingers urgently sending her forward to her moment.

  God, I want this so badly. How will Patrick react when he reads this? If he ignores it, if he doesn’t take my words as an invitation at least I will have tried.

  Lifting her arms above her head she stretched, then closed her eyes to listen to the constant pattering of the splashing rain.

  Surely the man who can offer me such salacious pleasure must be somewhere in the world. The man who wrote that chapter exists! How difficult it must be for him, seeing this woman all the time but unable to act on it, especially when he’s sure she feels the same. How do I know that Patrick is like that? Maybe he’s not, maybe it’s just wishful thinking.

  Feeling the call of the computer she opened her eyes, and calling back her vision she sent her fingers to work.

  She is bent at the waist, a spreader bar attached to her ankles forcing her legs apart. Her hands grip a bar, a chain lacing her cuffs to the thick, polished pole, and a sense of helplessness is fueling her growing ache. She wants more, so much more, and she knows he will provide the more, yet she fears it as much as she desires it.

  A trail of narrow leather tongues slide across her backside, a warning, a promise, a calculating clue. It lifts, then lands, the tendrils marking her skin with soft pink stripes. The next lash is harder, the next harder still, and he pauses to inspect the tapestry. His tickling fingertip traces the lines, then stepping back he begins the flogger’s pirouette, swishing it across her skin with regular rhythmic lashes.

  It is a heavy, thudding pain, not like the sharp sting of his hand, and imitating a series of small earthquakes it vibrates through her body.

  “Pet,” he whispers his mouth unexpectedly at her ear. “You are so beautif
ul.”

  She aches to speak, she aches for his arms, she aches for a long, warm embrace, she aches for his cock, she aches for all of him and for all he wants to give her.

  “Your lovely ass is hot and red, it has the most gorgeous glow, but I think your pussy might be jealous. Nod your head if you think your pussy might be jealous.”

  Fervently she nods, feeling the muscles of her thighs constrict and release, but when he steps away she worries what type of attention he might have in store; it’s only a moment later that she finds out.

  A handful of tongues, feeling lighter than the ones that had landed upon her backside, flips across her exposed lips. Her cunt is an open target, and hissing the thin leather fingers upwards, then down, then upwards again, he delivers the scintillating sting. The dazzling sparks rocket through her loins, and as the powerful orgasm looms ever closer she finds herself lost in a plethora of sensation.

  The licks conclude, but his hand unexpectedly replaces the stinging cuts to cup and soothe, and she hears her moans like an echo, bouncing back at her from faraway hills. His fondling fingers slither inside her hot, wet chasm, artfully moving, causing waves of need, making her to wriggle and squirm in her binds.

  “You can rest a moment before your next surprise,” he breathes. “Would you like some water? Just nod or shake your head, remember, no speaking.”

  Nodding fervently, she listens to his heavy steps take him away, then the distant sounds of a refrigerator door, then his return. Everything is sharp, as if the sounds have been magnified. A straw taps at her lips, and parting them she takes in the plastic tube, sucking gratefully.

  “Don’t you do that well? My cock will be in your mouth before this is all over. You can think about that.”

  The icy water wakens her from the altered state in which she’d been floating, and she sighs heavily, relishing the respite. It is, however, short-lived; his hands gripping her cheeks causes her to gasp.

  “Time to explore,” he says, his voice carrying a husky tone, and to her shock her cheeks are spread.

  Her cry of startled surprise brings a hard swat on her hot, smarting bottom.

  “Too loud. You can groan and moan all you want, but none of that shrieking.”

  Clutching the bar she takes a deep breath as she suffers through the flood of deep embarrassment.

  “Relax, I promise it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. This is needed, this is to show you that you really do belong to me, but more importantly, that you have truly surrendered.”

  Isobel’s heart was racing. Her imaginings had never taken her to this point, and knowing where her fantasy was taking her she rose from the desk and walked to the window. Dare she write something so lewd, so lascivious, and hand it to Patrick? It was one thing to write about bondage and spanking, but this?

  It was in the chapter Brad had me read. Maybe it’s more common than I think, maybe it’s a norm in the Dominant-submissive world. Maybe I should just let the story take me there. I can always edit it out later.

  She stood for a moment, reaching for courage, then compelled to continue she hurried back to the glowing computer screen.

  She tenses at the thought of what might be next. He’d used the word explore. Did he mean to explore her most private of parts? When the dollop of something cold touches, her fear is realized.

  “This will help,” he says smoothly, “and it will also help if you just accept. Once you’ve accepted, the intrusion it will become stunningly pleasurable.”

  She doesn’t believe that for a minute. How could something so gross become stunningly pleasurable? Does she have a choice? She knows it’s surrender or speak her word, and she doesn’t want to do the latter, so taking a long, deep breath she exhales, consciously releasing the tension.

  “That’s better,” he says softly. “Now then, let’s see how well you do.”

  What she thinks is his finger tickles before attempting entry, and clenching her teeth, gulping back her shame and humiliation, she does her best not to refuse.

  “Good, just breathe, I think this will help.”

  An unexpected, deep buzzing ripples through her sex; a tantalizing vibrator has been placed against her clit, and she sinks gratefully into the scintillating sensation.

  “I can’t keep it there very long, it will make you come and you can’t come just yet,” he declares, “but I’ll let you feel the magic for a little while.

  She quivers as his finger starts to slide into her anus; the vibrator is not just a distraction but an instrument of intense pleasure, and though she is horrified at her body’s response, it dictates that the intruder at her back door is now welcome.

  “There, you see,” he sighs, “look how easy that was.”

  Shuddering with the intoxicating sensations, she moans loudly, moving her pelvis in a perverted plea for his cock.

  “I know what you want, and you were so good you will have your reward.”

  Isobel paused, reading the words, and a heavy frown crossed her brow.

  Why am I writing this? Is this really what I want? All of this?

  Don’t worry, it’s just a fantasy, keep writing.

  The intruder is slowly withdrawn, then she feels his fingers releasing the spreader bar, but even as it is pulled from between her legs she waits for permission before moving. Moments later her wrists are freed from the pole, and he gently raises her up.

  “I’m very proud of you,” he murmurs, dropping his lips to hers and kissing her with a heady fervor.

  Falling limp against him he sweeps her up, carrying her to his bed. She knows he will make love to her until she is begging and pleading to come, she knows he will devour her breasts as ardently as he flogged her bottom, and somehow she knows barely an hour has passed.

  Can she survive two more hours in the dark, two more hours of his intense attention, two more hours of such hedonistic pleasure?

  She doesn’t know because this is all a flight of fancy. Perhaps she can’t withstand such a session, but she would like to find out.

  Laying on her bed shrouded in her aching need, she closes her eyes and allows her fingers to take her to her moment. There is no pinnacle, no subspace, no three dark hours, just the dreams of a lady-in-waiting.

  Wow, okay, that’s my twenty-five hundred words. Well, close enough anyway, and I have two days to decide if I’m going to hand it in.

  Hitting the save button, Isobel ambled into her bedroom. The words had been typed, her fantasy was alive on the page, and she fell exhausted on to her bed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  She slept until the following morning, waking to find the rain was lingering, and the soft patter against her windows sent her back to doze. Reading the lascivious chapter, then writing her own tantalizing tale had exhausted her, titillated her, and made her craving for ‘the one’ that much more intense.

  When she finally staggered from her bed, stretching and yawning, she took a long hot shower to wash away the lethargy, and feeling better she cooked herself breakfast.

  Feeling brighter and enjoying the cool wet weather she decided to light her fire, curl up on her couch and read the unpublished manuscript, grateful for the distraction.

  It was an interesting story about a man who couldn’t take the pressure of city life, so decided to buy a farm in the heartland. Over the months that followed he discovered life in the slow lane presented just as many difficulties as life in the fast lane, they were just different kinds of difficulties. It was well written and thought-provoking, but she wasn’t sure of its commercial value.

  The book had taken her mind away from her gorgeous teacher, but on Sunday, knowing she’d be back in his classroom the following night, she pulled out her short story and read it.

  Finding surprisingly little she wanted to change she sighed heavily as she printed out the titillating tale and placed it in a manila envelope which she labeled, Confidential. She had turned to walk away when, on an impulse, she removed her name and printed out a second copy, placing it in a sep
arate envelope, thinking that she might prefer to hand Patrick something that would be anonymous if it fell into another person’s hands.

  There’s still time to change it, there’s still time to write something completely different.

  No, this is a chance to show him who I really am, and I’m going to take it.

  I’m sure it will make his toes curl just as much as writing it made your toes curl.

  Who cares about having his toes curl, I want his dick to get hard and his brain to be consumed with decadent thoughts about me. I want to him grab me, bend me over the desk and...Lord, I have to stop. This is craziness.

  Yep, it is.

  Sleeping fitfully throughout the night she changed her mind twice before finally surrendering to the sandman, but when she woke in the morning she did so resolved to hand Patrick her story and let the chips fall where they may.

  Feeling weary, though she hurried to get ready she was still a few minutes late, and when she arrived at the office she discovered Brad was already there.

  “Morning,” he smiled. “Good weekend?”

  “You could say that, I guess,” she replied, thoughts of the chapter he’d given her, and her own short story buzzing through her brain.

  “When you’ve taken off your coat, grab a coffee and come on in,” he said, more an invitation than his usual curt directive.

  “Do you want one? A coffee I mean?” she asked.

  “Uh, no, I think I’ve had enough caffeine for a while.”

  “You’ve been here that long?” she asked. “You don’t usually come in until after nine on a Monday.”

  “Yeah well, stuff to do,” he mumbled retreating into his sanctuary.

  Placing her well-worn and much loved leather satchel on her desk she pulled out the envelope containing the untitled chapter, along with the manuscript about the city dweller turned farmer, and headed into his office.

  “Here you go,” she smiled placing both on the corner of his large desk.

  “Ah, good, thanks. No coffee?”