by Ashe Barker
His hands are at my waist, and he makes no attempt to pull me in or deepen the kiss. For now, this is my show, and he lets me set the pace. I’m grateful, it gives me the space to think, to adjust, to melt into the mood. I open my lips slightly, feathering them across his mouth. He holds still, letting me explore, letting me take my time. I have no idea what constitutes ‘good’ kissing, but instinctively I open my mouth a little wider and use the tip of my tongue to stroke the seam of his lips. He responds to that signal, and I find I can slip my tongue between his lips. He tastes quite, quite wonderful, of coffee and wine, and sweet lust.
I can’t claim, genuinely, to have tasted lust previously, but I’m pretty certain this is it. I dip my tongue farther into his mouth, exploring his teeth, tangling with his tongue, loving the way his lips have opened and are now sweeping sensuously across mine as he joins in the kiss. I’m combing my fingers through the soft waves of his hair, and suddenly I’m turning toward him, standing briefly, then straddling him as I’m gripped by a desire to get closer. My loose fitting calf-length skirt is bunched around my knees now, and as I shift forward I can plainly feel his erection under me. He’s as aroused as I am, it seems. He drops his hands from my waist, but only to grasp the soft woolen fabric of my skirt and tug it backwards from under me, gathering it at the back of my waist. Now, only my underwear and his jeans separate us, and my pussy is rubbing against his solid length. I’m rocking against him, loving the friction and desperate for more. I want him to…what?
Touch me? Yes. Undress me? Yes, that too. Fuck me? Oh, please…
“Ready now, love?”
He’s pulled his lips fractionally back from mine, just enough to be able to murmur the words. I can only groan and nod, before laying my forehead against his. In a few moments I’ve gone from a blushing, more-or-less innocent girl to a voracious sex kitten. And he’s hardly laid a hand on me yet, nor anything else.
“Does the skirt stay?” He asks the question softly.
I lift my head, and he raises his hands to now frame my face. I shrug, not sure what the protocol here might be.
He smiles again, a smile of reassurance and approval, and I feel a serious urge to kiss him all over again. “I’ll want you to lose the underwear, but if you prefer, you can just lean over the table and lift your skirt for me. For now. It all comes off later, but by then you’ll be feeling a lot less inhibited. I promise.”
“I-I think I’ll keep the skirt, if that’s all right. For now.”
“Perfect. And so sexy when you lift it up to bare your gorgeous bottom for me. Am I drooling?”
I smile back, his mix of sensuality and humor just what I need. “No, not drooling. But I can tell you’re pleased to see me.”
I wriggle on his lap, and he closes his eyes in mock pain. “Have a care, sweetheart. You really don’t want me to lose my train of thought here.”
He stands, effortlessly lifting me to my feet too. His hand is outstretched, waiting for something. I’m puzzled, but he soon sets me straight.
“Your knickers, please.”
“Ah, right. Of course.” I quickly reach under my skirt and tug them down, before stepping out of them. I place them in his hand, pleased that I had the foresight to wear a pretty, lacy pair today. And my bra matches—how’s that for planning? Or dumb luck?
He nods his approval—whether at my choice of underwear or my ready compliance I’m not entirely sure—and crumples my panties before shoving them into his jeans pocket. “Ask me for them later. If you remember. Or maybe you’ll let me keep them, as a souvenir?”
In this moment I think I’d have agreed to let him keep my entire wardrobe, such as it is. He gestures with his head toward the table behind him, moving to one side to allow me to step forward.
“Bend over, lean on the table. If it’s more comfortable, you can fold your arms and lay your head on them. Or you can reach across and grip the opposite side. Just whatever feels best for you. And when you’re happy, I’d like you to reach down and lift your skirt up around your waist, please.”
I feel my courage start to desert me as the moment of truth looms. It’s now then. Or never. He sees my hesitation.
“Take your time, love. Or if you don’t want to do this, that’s fine too. But you’ve got as far as letting me have your panties, seems a shame to stop now…”
I shove any remaining doubts aside—not that I have any of real significance—along with my modesty, and I lean over the table. Christ, I’ve been waiting for this as long as I can remember and there’s no way I’m backing out. Even so, it’s harder than I imagined it might be to reach down and take the hem of my skirt, raising it up to tuck all of the fabric under my stomach. I feel the cool swish as my pale buttocks are exposed and I have to concentrate on remaining still.
His eyes are on me, caressing me. I know it. I’m conscious that he’s behind me, not two feet away, and my bottom is bared for him to slap. Oh. My. God.
He speaks at last. “Very pretty. And very pale. I think we can make your bottom go a very sweet shade of pink, Miss Fischer. First though…”
He steps forward, and now he’s directly behind me. I flinch as he caresses my bottom briefly, but still I don’t move from my position. He leans over me, his hands on the table, on either side of my shoulders. My head is turned to one side, and I can feel his breath, warm on my upturned cheek. He leans in to nuzzle my ear, clearly in no hurry to get started. Unlike me.
“If you develop a real fondness for this sort of activity, Miss Fischer, then we’ll need to have a proper discussion about safe words. On this occasion though, when you’ve had enough, you need only say so. Just say ‘enough’ or ‘stop’, and that’ll be it. I’m going to keep it light, at least at first, but if it’s too much you just tell me.”
“And what if I want you to hit me harder?”
He chuckles. “Well then, Miss Fischer, you tell me that too. Are you ready?”
I nod and close my eyes. He stands, and my bottom clenches in anticipation. Something tells me this is going to be good.
“You can stop this with a word, whenever you want to. But as an extra failsafe, I want you to count. After each spank, you say the number. When you stop counting, I stop spanking. And if I think you’ve had enough, I’ll stop anyway, whatever you might say or not say. Fair enough?”
Cain’s tone is deep, sensuous, and he’s stroking my bottom as he explains the ‘rules’ to me. I’m trying to concentrate, but he’s very skilled at distracting my attention. I don’t answer him, and it seems that’s not good enough.
“Miss Fischer, are you listening to me?” The hand caressing my bottom stills, and he’s somehow managed to make sure his fingers have slipped into the furrow between my buttocks. I shift, not sure what I actually want him to do now, at this moment. I want the spanking, but my pussy is almost throbbing with anticipation. Maybe if he were to just touch me…
“Miss Fischer. I want you to count. Okay?” He taps my left buttock lightly with his fingertips, but it’s enough to focus my attention, bring me back to the matter in hand, so to speak.
“I, yes. Yes, I’ll count.”
“Excellent.”
He straightens, and I relax, expecting him to resume his massage. Then I scream as the first slap lands, sharp and hard on my right buttock. There’s a resounding slap as the blow falls, and instinctively I start to stand up. His hand is on the small of my back, not forcing me down but reminding me I should stay in place.
He murmurs in my ear once more. “You’re doing so well, and now you know what to expect. You will love this, I promise, and I’ll make it good for you. Just trust me and let yourself relax into it. Was that too hard, love?”
I gasp, catch my breath, then, “No, no it was fine. Really nice, in fact. It was just—the sound, I suppose…”
“Nice? That’s what we like to hear. So, that’s number one, then? Shall I continue?”
“Yes. Yes, please.” And, trusting him completely, I settle in to enjoy my first
experience of erotic spanking.
“Two.”
Slap. “Three.”
Slap. “Four.”
Slap. “Five.”
I’m breathing in deeply between each blow, and out as each slap lands. Cain is painting a pattern across my buttocks, alternating between each side and placing each spank just below the one before it. Knowing where each slap is to land makes it easier, although my buttocks are still clenching sharply with each new stroke. I’m not making any other sound apart from counting out loud. Not yet anyway. This is painful, as I expected it would be, the discomfort radiating sharply with each slap. But the sensation is incredibly good too, and the pain is nowhere near enough to make me want to stop. I imagine I could lie like this for ever, just absorbing the tingling, stinging blows, drowning in sensation. It’s sort of liberating, something forbidden, but I’m doing it anyway. And absolutely loving it as this man—a man I hardly know—leaves his palm prints all over my bottom. And very soon, he’ll fuck me. I hope.
“Nine.”
Slap. “Ten.”
Slap. I pause, needing to think, to focus, then, “Eleven.”
My hesitation was only slight, but it’s enough to alert Cain.
“How’s it going, Abbie?” He pauses, slap number twelve suspended for a moment.
I mutter my response into my hair, now tangled across my face. “I’m fine. Really. Please, I want more. Don’t stop.”
“You sure? Open your eyes and look at me, Abbie.”
He sweeps my hair away from my face. I nod sharply, but my eyes remain tight shut.
“Abbie, open your eyes. Now.”
The tone is gentle, but unrelenting. He means me to obey him, and until I do nothing else is happening. Grumbling to myself, I force my eyelids to part. His face is close, his expression one of care, concern. He’s still combing his fingers lightly through my hair, and his touch is absolutely wonderful. I could drown in it.
“How many’s that, Abbie?”
I let my eyelids drift closed again, but with his free hand he shakes my shoulder firmly. “I said look at me. How many slaps is that now?”
I open my eyes again, and I’m struggling to focus. My memory seems hazy. I’m not a particularly big drinker, but this feels almost as though I might be a little bit drunk. How much wine did I have with our meal? I shake my head now, trying to clear it.
He asks me again, “How many?”
“I-I don’t know. Was it eight? Nine?”
He smiles, his lop-sided grin so sexy that my pussy is clenching. I so want him to fuck me, and soon. I’m not entirely sure what I need, but I wouldn’t mind betting he has a good idea. He doesn’t disappoint me.
“When you lose count, sweetheart, that’s a sure sign it’s time to stop. Bedtime?”
I just about manage a slight smile, but he takes that as the agreement it’s intended to be.
“Stand up, love.” With his hands on my shoulders he gently eases me back into a standing position.
I sway, and he slips his arm around my waist, then suddenly he picks me up in his arms. The fabric of my skirt tightens across my tender bottom and I draw in my breath sharply.
“Is that sore?”
“Not really…” I turn my face into his chest, burying my nose in his T-shirt in a sudden surge of probably belated embarrassment. He tightens his arms around me.
“Liar,” he murmurs into my ear. “Your bottom’s a lovely deep shade of pink. It’s got to smart. Did it feel good though?”
I nod, firmly quashing any pangs of guilt at the naughty brand of pleasure he’s so generously given me. “Yes. It was fabulous. It still is.”
He heads out into the hallway, and there’s no further conversation as he carries me upstairs. He shoulders open the door to his bedroom, and I cling onto his neck when he tries to place me on the bed. He takes the hint and lies down alongside me, responding to my need to cuddle, to just be held right now. I tighten my arms, loving the feel of his palm circling between my shoulder blades, massaging me firmly, soothing, reassuring.
I’m surprised at my reaction. I expected to feel sore probably, embarrassed definitely though I’m managing that pretty well. And maybe a little scared. I’ve been all of those in the last few minutes, but this intense emotional response, this clinginess, has taken me completely unawares. I’m hanging onto Cain as though he’s my lifeline, my anchor, my rock of sanity in a world that just now seems confused and chaotic. And he’s in no hurry to let me go. His soft voice is comforting me, though I’m in no sense distressed. He’s stable and certain and reliable. I need him, I trust him, I’m depending on him and I’m not letting him go.
Chapter Six
“Steadier now?” Cain’s husky voice penetrates my foggy consciousness and I realize I’ve been drifting in and out of sleep. I lift my head, looking around for a clock, but that takes too much energy and I flop back down again. I did see enough to know that I’m in a strange room, one that I’ve not seen before on my tour of the house. I remember that Cain said we’d be in his room later. This must be it. I’m lying in his huge double bed, by the look of things, and using his chest for a pillow. He seems not to have any objection though, as he strokes my hair back out of my eyes.
“How long…?” I mumble my question, it seems to me to have been ages since we were downstairs, in the kitchen, my bottom bared for him to obligingly spank. Wow, did I really do that? Did he?
“Half an hour.”
I screw up my eyes, still struggling to concentrate and make sense of where I am, and what’s been going on. “What happened to me? I remember you carried me upstairs. Have we…”
He laughs. “Hell, no! I like my women to be conscious, and better still—awake—when I fuck them. You were out of it for a while, that’s all. You needed a power nap. Feeling more lively now?”
I push myself into a sitting position, noting the pleasant soreness in my bottom. I didn’t dream this then, he really did spank me. And by the sound of it, I fell asleep straight after. I turn to him, puzzled.
“But, I never sleep during the day. And how could I just drop off when we were in the middle of…well, you know.”
“You mean when I was about to peel off your clothes and fuck you until you scream? Or pass out again?”
I stare at him. Is he serious? Can he really do all that?
He grins broadly, wickedly. “You look to me as though you may be requiring a demonstration, Miss Fischer.” He rolls away from me, his feet planting firmly on the carpet as he gets off the bed. He strolls across the room to the window where the curtains are still open even though it’s now dark outside. He closes them, and turns to face me.
“If you’ve quite finished snoring, I’d rather like you naked. Now.”
My clothes are exactly as they were downstairs, namely I’m fully dressed except for my knickers, which I suppose are still tucked up in Cain’s jeans pocket. I have no serious objection to undressing, especially as my head is clearing fast now. And I distinctly recall he made me some delightful promises which he has yet to deliver on. But I resent the accusation that I snore. On this matter, he will get an argument out of me.
“I do not snore!” I fold my arms across my chest as I kneel in the center of the bed, glaring at him defiantly.
He ignores my protests, and his grin is fading now. His expression has become more sensual, more purposeful than playful. The time for small talk is apparently at an end. “Naked. Now. Unless you think we should backtrack to more spanking…”
Maybe not. Not yet anyway. I’d definitely repeat the spanking if he offers, but the prospect of that fuck-fest is much more attractive just at this moment.
Which is another surprise for me. I’m not ordinarily given to bouts of uninhibited sexual expression. In fact, I’m probably the least sexually active person I know. And I’m about as far from a sex object as you can get. Without doubt, Cain Parrish could do a whole lot better than me. But me is what he’s got, at least for now, so why shouldn’t I take advan
tage of what’s on offer? Still, I can’t resist one last parting shot of defiance.
“You undress too. I want to see you naked as well.”
His smile now is pure sensuality as he strolls back toward the bed. “Of course, Miss Fischer. My pleasure.”
He removes his T-shirt first, and I can only stare. Cain Parrish is absolutely beautiful, quite magnificent. I wouldn’t normally ogle a man’s pecs, but I have to make an exception for Cain. Years of hard physical work have evidently honed his body, firmed and sculpted it. He is, in my view, quite, quite perfect. His shoulders are wide, and his muscles flex as he reaches for the button on his jeans. He has a sprinkling of chest hair, which narrows to a delectable trail leading past his waistband. His nipples are small and flat, and I experience an unfamiliar urge to lean forward and flick one with my tongue. I wonder if he’d mind?
Before I have an opportunity to talk myself out of it I’m shuffling on my knees to the edge of the bed and reaching for him. The zip on his jeans is open now. I place my hands on his waist. He stands still as I lean in toward him, and is commendably stoical when I trail the tip of my tongue across his nipples, first the left, then the right. My lips still on him, I raise my eyes to meet his, only to find his eyelids are closed. I take that as a good sign and continue to taste and tease.
“Mmm, that feels good, Abbie. My turn now. And you do still seem over-dressed…”
I peer up at him again, to find he’s watching me now. His expression is amused but determined, and this time he takes my chin in his hand and holds my face still while he leans down to kiss me. This is the first time he’s actually kissed me. Downstairs he asked me to kiss him, and although he reciprocated, I was definitely the initiator. Not now. Now he is all control, all dominance as he places his knees on the bed and presses me backwards. He eases me onto my back, his weight on his elbows, and deepens the kiss. My lips part, his tongue slides between them curling around mine. It feels wonderful, sensual and very, very intimate. I take his tongue tentatively between my teeth, and his low growl suggests I release him immediately. He is definitely not wanting me to take the initiative this time. Not in this. I’m happy to let him lead, and lie still while he continues to explore my mouth.
