She threw the paper on the floor and pulled apart the box and then the requisite wrapping paper.
Her delight plummeted. Wrinkling her nose, she picked up the garment and held it between her thumbs and forefingers. “What in the name of creation is it?"
"A French maid's outfit."
She scowled at him. “I thought it was a gift for me."
He tutted. “Meghan, Meghan, Meghan."
"What?"
"Don't you remember?"
Remember what?
Then she did. Her eyes widened. Last time he was home on R&R, they'd been sitting in front of their bedroom fireplace, sharing a bottle of merlot. She'd fancied herself as a parlour-maid as they were talking. If she didn't polish the silver for the banquet table just so, master would become very angry indeed.
He'd remembered?
And not only that, he'd acted upon her fantasy.
"I believe you have some silver to polish."
With that, he turned on his heel, executing a precise, military pivot before leaving the room.
Holding the white satin apron against her chest, she dragged in a deep gulp of air. They'd only been kidding that night. She'd never expected him to take her seriously.
Clearly, though, he expected her to take their private joke seriously.
She heard the front door slam. Giving her time to polish the silver?
She'd lost her equilibrium somewhere between the bathroom and the bedroom. And her husband hadn't even so much as copped a feel, leaving her sexually frustrated.
The way she figured it, she had two choices. She could go along, exploring the outer edges of her own fantasy. Or she could refuse. He wouldn't put up a fuss, she knew. He'd still make love to her.
She looked at the rest of outfit. Could it be any skimpier?
A black dress lay nestled in the box between layers of tissue paper. The apron, then, she presumed, would be tied over the dress. A cap for her hair had thoughtfully been included, along with fishnet stockings.
The outfit represented the collision point between her fantasy and his, obviously.
Hers was about being the centre of all his attention.
His was visual.
Men. They were so shallow. Always about the visual.
She didn't have to do it; but he'd appreciate it if she did.
Dropping the apron, she pulled out the dress.
It was as short and tight as she feared. It was doubtful something that low-cut could contain her boobs. She'd be bursting out the sides as well as the top, which, she supposed, was the reason he'd selected that particular size. It wasn't an accident. Her husband was military through and through. He understood, better than most, the precision of measurements.
She dug through the rest of the box. No feather duster. Of course not. That would have been trite. Instead, he'd included a bottle of silver polishing compound along with a fresh cloth.
Thoughtful, wasn't he?
Something shiny over by the closet door captured her attention. Another box!
Dropping the dress, she rushed towards the second gift.
With equal measures of excitement and dread, she shredded the wrap and yanked off the box top.
She exhaled.
Shoes.
Tall, fuck-me-and-hope-I-don't-fall-down-the-stairs-and-break-my-bloody-neck shoes. What else would they have been?
There was a note tucked in beneath one of the straps.
I hope you get as much pleasure from making this a reality as I am.
Suddenly, she felt very shallow. He'd gone to a lot of effort, and she was being petulant.
So, he'd delayed sex instead of taking her in the heat of the moment. The wait might make it even more worthwhile.
Her heart added a few extra beats as she looked at the outfit again, seeing it, and herself, through his eyes instead of her own.
Right, then. On with it.
She uncinched the tie at her waist and let the robe fall to the carpeted floor.
The black dress was a tight squeeze. And to be cheeky, she didn't put on either a brassiere or her knickers. A wrong turn and a breast would pop right out. She was sure she could figure out a way to make that happen at the right moment.
The stockings were ridiculously difficult to squeeze into and her shoes pitched her forward. She took a look in the cheval mirror.
She had to give her husband marks for foresight. The shoes lengthened her calves; the cut of the skirt drew attention away from her arse and put it on her breasts. Well. Well.
She was getting into this. Her pussy, which had been dry, moistened again.
Imagine Alan's shock when he lifted her dress and realised she wasn't wearing any knickers. That would make everything well worth it.
With a grin, she grabbed the polish and cloth. She had to carry them in one hand so she could hang on to the banister while going down the stairs.
She wasn't even making a half-hearted effort to polish a candlestick when the door slammed.
She froze, her hand curled around a candlestick when she heard the distinctive, commanding sound of his footfall.
"You've been seeing to your duties, have you?"
Chapter Two
Her heart was suddenly pounding. “Oh, yes I have, sir."
"And all of the silver is polished, is it, lass?"
She slowly turned to face him, her mouth wide. She held the candlestick protectively against her middle.
She watched as he looked at her, up and down. His gaze lingered on the swell of her bosom and she saw raw approval there. When he looked at her again, his eyes had narrowed, and his trousers were distended from his arousal. She was glad she decided to go along with him. She'd have missed that expression on his face, otherwise. “I've been working on my task, sir, really I have."
"So I can safely assume that's the final candlestick, then? That you've finished the rest of them?” He lazed against the doorjamb, like the lord of the manor himself.
He'd rolled back his sleeves, exposing his forearms. His skin was tanned from the amount of time he spent overseas. The white of his shirt made him look darker. Did he have any idea how sexy he was and how crazy he drove her? Probably. That's why he'd rolled back his sleeves in the first place. That's why he'd opened the top two buttons of his shirt in an oh-so-touch-me-way.
She wanted him already and he was still the entire distance of the room away.
Alan Denton was enjoying himself, as well. No doubt. He hadn't so much as cracked a smile, but there was an intensity in his gaze, as if his irises had sharpened like cut glass. He often looked that way before they had sex. Her tummy responded with a flurry of butterflies.
Lowering her eyes, she licked her lip. “Well, you see sir, it's like this..."
He folded his arms.
"Actually, it's rather complicated, really it is.” She looked up.
"Meghan? Did you finish all the other candlesticks?"
"No, sir.” She rubbed the toe of her shoe on the dining room's hardwood floor. “I haven't done a thing.” She lowered her head again; otherwise he'd see she was ready to launch herself into his arms, wrap her legs around his waist and beg him to bury himself inside her.
"What happens to maids who don't perform their duties satisfactorily?"
She could hardly believe this was happening. He'd remembered everything she'd said to him that night, every detail. That meant she knew exactly where this was going. Had she ever endured such an exquisitely long few minutes? “I dunno, sir."
"Oh.” He took a couple of steps towards her. “I think you do."
He lifted her chin with his forefinger.
"Sir?” Her mouth was so dry she could barely force out the word.
"Parlour-maids who are derelict in their duties are sacked."
"Oh, sir! Please not that. Anything but that.” She grabbed him around the wrist. “Please. Have a care and take pity on me. I've nowhere else to go."
Would their relationship be as intense, she wondered, without the li
fe-or-death edge that military life had brought to it? Would they get so caught up in the day-to-day details of their lives that they'd forget to keep things interesting? Would their passion have faded from neglect? Each time she saw him, Meghan knew it might be the last. She would never take this, or him, for granted.
"What do you suggest then, Meghan?"
"Ohhh, sir. Punish me instead.” She bravely tipped back her head. “I have it coming to me, truly I do. Just don't put me out on the streets."
"Right, then."
"You'll not be sacking me, sir?"
"Turn around, if you please."
"Please, sir?” She licked her lower lip, and she wasn't entirely in character anymore. She wanted whatever he had in store for her. “Whatever's going to happen to me?"
"Pull back that chair from the table. No. A side chair."
One without arms.
She let go of his wrist and turned away, mouth dry, hands all but shaking. She put down the candlestick, hardly surprised when it jostled. Then she pulled out the chair he'd indicated. He sat in it and she took a nervous step away.
"Over my knee if you please."
Her husband's gaze brooked no argument.
Dragging her feet, literally, she crossed to him, then lay across his lap.
"What happens to naughty girls?"
She couldn't wait until he pulled up her dress and saw her bare bum. He'd be the one speechless within the next few seconds.
She felt his large, callused fingertips at the hem of her skirt.
"This dress ... It looks better on you than I imagined it would.” He took a breath. “And these shoes?” He swore.
His approval made every painful second worth it.
He stroked the backs of her thighs. His touch, so far from her cunt, made her wet.
Suddenly, he flipped up the dress.
Alan cursed, softly, but not so innocently. “You really are a naughty girl."
He was right. She was naughty. Terribly naughty. She parted her legs a little, hoping his fingers would delve in there. And they did.
"God, Meg, you're wet."
She squirmed and wiggled, trying to rub her clit against his thigh. They weren't in character anymore; rather, they were two people crazy about each other who loved to fuck and to push the edges.
He brought his hand down on her arse.
She froze.
She thought they weren't in character.
"What do you have to say for yourself?"
When she didn't answer immediately, he spanked her again.
"Girl?"
"Yum?"
He laughed. “You're being punished."
"Oh. Please, sir! No more!"
He spanked her harder this time, his hand burning into her skin.
"Well, maybe just one more."
"You're liking this far too much."
She was. She definitely was. He smacked her a final time, then plunged his hand between her legs, shoving a couple of fingers into her sopping pussy. “Fuck me now,” she said. She couldn't wait for the bedroom. She'd waited months as it was.
"Ride me."
It took some fancy manoeuvring to get her into position, facing him, and for him to get his trousers unzipped enough to set his cock free.
"I like you without knickers,” he said.
"And I like it when your cock fills my hot pussy."
He held his shaft until she started to lower herself on it.
Meghan shuddered. He groaned.
Having him inside her after their months apart was amazing, as if her pussy was made for his cock.
He reached between them and rubbed her clit, roughly. The sensation, combined, with the erotic feel of his cock and the stinging burn on her arse cheeks made her come.
Clenching her muscles, constricting her thighs, digging her hands into his hair, she came, screaming his name...
It was only seconds later that his thigh muscles tightened beneath her legs where she straddled him. He dug his fingers into the soft flesh of her buttocks. Jerking, thrusting, he forced himself deeper and deeper.
"Meg!” He shot his load into her, pulsing with life and with energy.
Blinking, she opened her eyes to focus ... On the blinking cursor.
She sighed, shuddering. It had been so real, so, very real.
A ping sound came from her computer.
Meghan.
Thank God for messaging.
Tell me, Meghan. Did you come?
She had; her wet pussy was a testament to that. But her husband was still half a world away.
Go on.
God, Meghan missed him. Yes. I came. And so did you.
Your pussy is hot.
And my poor bum hurts from the spanking.
Well, if you'd done your chores like you were supposed to have done, I wouldn't have needed to put you over my knee. The lesson will likely have to be repeated, I fear.
Her tummy turned over.
By the way, I really do like stupidly high shoes. Call me shallow. Call me a man. You should get some.
When he left, they'd made each other a promise, to make love, everyday, in a letter. It would be as real as they could make it. Some days, it was her turn, some days it was his. No holding back. Fantasies exposed and examined.
What a way to get to know each other more intimately.
When he came home for R&R at the end of next week, she knew she'd come apart the first time he touched her.
So, Meghan?
Yes, Alan?
You mean, Yes, sir?
Oh. In that case, Yes, sir? Even though she'd come only minutes ago, she was already feeling the low-tell-tale throb in her womb.
What do you know about our four stages of alert? I'm talking about the military here.
I'm not sure I track your meaning?
Attention, for example. At ease...
Oh. Hadn't realised that's what you called it. She frowned. She should know it. She was an officer's wife. She knew there were differences, but she truthfully hadn't paid all that much attention. It all looked very serious and official to her.
If I told you to stand at attention, could you?
Probably not. Ballet positions, that I could do. I could teach you a demi-plie. The idea of her strong, muscular lieutenant at the ballet barre, bending his knees just so ... She couldn't help herself. LOL. Sorry.
Brush up.
Brush up?
By tomorrow. Look on the Internet, ask around, whatever you need to do, but learn them. Keep in mind that the Americans do it a bit differently than we do, so make sure you're learning the right stuff.
Oh-kay.
And get your finger off your clit.
It wasn't on her ... !
Yes, it is.
He couldn't possibly know that she wasn't thinking about the military or tomorrow's letter, she was still focused on that sexy, over the knee spanking he'd given her...
Sigh. I know you, Meghan. You allowed yourself an orgasm even though you were naughty and had to be spanked for not performing your duties.
Suddenly she was horny again, her body slick in anticipation of having him inside her.
I couldn't help myself!
If you thought I worked you over tonight, just wait.
He didn't say anything else. Then an icon popped up on his screen saying Lieutenant Alan Denton, LAD, had signed off.
She glanced at his picture, which was taped to the upper right hand corner of her computer's monitor. The letters, knowing they'd been in touch everyday, helped. There were times, though, that it was a one-way letter. He'd be on a mission, unable to communicate.
Those times were the most difficult, because she never knew when, or if, she'd hear from him again. She avoided the news on those days, and her friends and parents were under strict orders not to ring her and tell her what they knew.
She knew other military wives who were compelled to know every single detail and watched the telly non-stop. But she couldn't even bear to conceive of the
idea that her husband was gone.
Meghan knew doubt and uncertainty came with the territory, that they were part and parcel of being married to a warrior, but that knowledge didn't help stop the gnawing loneliness. It wasn't about right and wrong or political views. She was proud of him, and she considered him a hero. Oh, and there was that little detail about how freaking hot and sexy his tall, lanky body looked when he was in uniform. There was something about the badges, the insignia that was a turn-on. Being a soldier's wife, she realised, was about loving your man, about the human condition more than anything else.
Some days, loneliness and emptiness seemed to claw their way through her entire being, as if it was a force she had to hold back. On those nights, more than others, she'd have to be extra-creative when writing to him. She intentionally exposed the complex layers of her inner thoughts. Writing to him had become an exercise in self-discovery, as revealing to herself as it was to him.
The constant writing was therapeutic, and, she reflected wryly, cheaper than hiring a therapist. She logged off her Internet service, then closed out her computer programs. There was a throb between her legs demanding attention.
She was still wearing a skirt from her job in the city. And like a good girl, she wore stockings and knickers every day. But the fantasy of a skirt with nothing beneath it was still gnawing at her, teasing and tantalising.
Standing, she kicked off her shoes, and then she shimmied from her stockings and knickers. Bending over, she braced the palm of her left hand on the computer desk, then used her other hand to hike up her skirt. She dipped her back and spread her legs.
Imagining her husband was there behind her, his bigger hand between her legs, his strong, fingers, squeezing, teasing, manipulating her clitoris, she rubbed herself. It felt decadent, exposing her bum like that, but it added to the sensations. She came with a small whimper, her knees trembling.
Maybe, just maybe, she'd never wear knickers again.
Chapter Three
Saucy wench.
Meghan Denton, his lovely, sexy bride of barely six months, knew how to drive him mad, and she did it every day.
She wasn't in the house when he got home. What the hell...? He'd been gone for months, serving in the Army halfway around the globe in a hot, miserable land.
Naughty Nibbles Anthology Page 19
