by Jenesi Ash
Immediately though, I’m drifting into fantasy.
In my mind I’m back in the little sitting room, and this time the phone stays silent. And the marquess bares my bottom and starts to caress, caress, caress it, then lands a blow.
I slap myself again, trying to recreate the feeling. It bloody hurts, but I do it again, moaning, “My lord…”
I slap and slap and moan and moan, and suddenly I just have to play with my clitoris. I’m so turned on imagining him spanking me that my wet sex aches.
Within a few seconds I come, softly crying his name, seeing his face.
The next day, I worry. What’s going to happen? Is anything going to happen? Or has the marquess quite sensibly decided to dismiss our stolen interlude as an aberration. Something of no consequence. It must be bred in his blue English blood to dally with underlings for his pleasure without a second thought.
I certainly don’t see him for the next couple of days, and the cleaning, dusting and polishing goes on without incident. I work cheerfully with the rest of the team, as if nothing has happened.
But then, after a long day, when the others are all off to the pub, I slip back to my room to change, and find a little note upon my mat.
I’m sorry we were so rudely interrupted, it says in a fine, almost copperplate handwriting. Would you care to join me in the small sitting room at seven o’clock this evening? I feel that there’s much we could explore there in the furtherance of your education and the pursuit of mutual pleasure.
It’s finished off with a single word.
Christian.
Christian? Who’s Christian?
Then it dawns on me. Duh! The marquess is just a normal person in that, at least.
He has a first name.
I wonder if he’ll want me to call him Christian? Somehow it doesn’t seem right or respectful. Especially in view of what we’re almost certain to be doing. It’ll definitely be “My lord” or “Your Lordship,” or just sobs and moans of pain and pleasure in equal amounts.
At seven o’clock, I’m staring at the door to the little sitting room. It was half in my mind not to turn up, to try to pretend that what happened beyond that slab of oak never happened. But doing that would be to miss…well…the chance of a lifetime. I might never meet a man again who’s into the things that the marquess is, and I might go through life having perfectly ordinary, perfectly satisfactory sex, but still wondering what it would have been like to try the extraordinary kind with spanking and strange mind games.
I knock as firmly as I can on the door, and immediately that deep, clear voice calls out, “Enter!” from within. Crikey, he already sounds like a stern schoolmaster summoning his tardy pupil.
I tremble.
But there’s nothing fearsome or intimidating when I step into the room and close the door behind me. It’s cozy and welcoming, with a nice little fire burning in the grate to ward off the unseasonal damp chill. The thick curtains are drawn, and soft lamps emit a friendly golden glow that flatters the fine old furniture and makes it gleam.
It flatters the marquess, too, not that he needs it. He looks stunning.
He’s all in black again, as ever. Tight black jeans embrace his long legs and the splendid lean musculature of his thighs and his backside. As he rises to his feet from the depths of one of the armchairs, I imagine, for a fleeting second, spanking him.
Blood fills my cheeks in a raging blush, and I falter and hang back. A huge waft of guilt rushes through me at even thinking that. I open my mouth, but I can’t speak, and he smiles at me.
“Come on in, Rose. Would you like a drink?” I notice that he has a glass with something clear and icy set on a little table beside his chair. Vodka? Water? Gin? Who knows…?
“Um…er…yes.” I flick my glance to the sideboard and a few bottles, but I can’t seem to compute what’s there so I just say, “Whatever you’re having…please.”
“Good choice…and do sit down.” He gestures like a Renaissance courtier toward a free chair by the fire and watches me as I make my way there; I’m terrified I’ll trip or something, despite the fact my heels aren’t high or spindly.
I take my seat and watch him mix my drink, swiftly combining clear spirit, ice, mixer and a sliver of lemon. He prepares the concoction perfectly, despite the fact that he’s studying me intently almost all the time.
I’ve dressed carefully.
Jeans are awkward to wriggle out of, especially if you’ve got a curvy bottom like mine, so I’ve chosen a soft, full summer skirt that almost sweeps the floor. A miniskirt would be too obvious, not ladylike, and as I’m here with an aristocrat, I’m compelled to make an effort to be worthy of him.
On my top half I’ve got a little buttoned camisole, pink to match the skirt, and a light cotton cardigan over that, to keep out the chills. My shoes are low-heeled and quite pretty, and underneath I’m wearing my best and sexiest underwear.
I aim to please….
The marquess comes across and hands me my drink, then retreats to his own chair. There’s a moment of silence, tense for me, but apparently totally relaxed for him, and I snatch the opportunity to feast my eyes on his gorgeousness.
He sits so elegantly, even though he’s totally at ease. Long legs out in front of him, booted feet crossed.
Boots? Hell, yes! They do something visceral inside me. They make me shudder and my sex clench and seem to twist and flutter with their connotations of masterfulness. They’re old and soft and well polished and not all that tall, but all the same, I almost feel faint just looking at them.
And I get mostly the same feeling from the rest of him.
He’s got the most exquisite black silk shirt on, full of sleeve and so fluid it seems to float on his body. The collar’s fastened up for the moment, but I have the most intense urge to crawl on my hands and knees across the room and rip it open so I can kiss his throat and his chest and suck his nipples.
And not just his nipples.
His thick, black hair is shiny with a fresh-washed satin sheen and his fine-boned face has the delicious gleam of a recent shave.
Bless him, he’s made as much of an effort for me as I have for him. Another reason to worship and adore him.
I take a mouthful of my drink. It is gin, as I mostly suspected, and it’s a strong one with very little tonic. The balsamic kick of the uncompromising spirit almost makes me cough, but I’m glad of its heat as the first hit settles in my stomach.
“So…here we are,” the marquess says pleasantly, eyeing me over the rim of his own glass. As he takes a long swallow, his throat undulates, pale and sensuous.
“Yes…er…here we are,” is all I can manage in reply. The gathering tension in my gut renders me all but speechless.
“Have you been thinking about what happened here the other day?”
I nod, dumbstruck now with intense lust. I don’t know whether I want him to spank me or fuck me…probably both. But I want whatever’s on offer as soon as I can get it.
“So how do you feel about being spanked a little? Does that interest you?” His lips are sculpted, but somehow also soft and sensual, and when they curve into a little smile, the way they are doing now, they make me want to wriggle and touch my sex to soothe its aching. So much for wearing my best knickers. They must already be saturated with juice, I’m so turned on.
“I think we could enjoy ourselves together, you and I,” he continues. “I’m not offering eternal love and devotion, but we can share a little pleasure and perhaps expand your horizons in a way that doesn’t involve flying thousands of miles.”
Those crazy notions caper around my mind again, taunting me with the prospect of what he isn’t offering rather than what he is.
“Rose?” he queries, swirling his glass in the face of my continued dumbstruck silence.
I want it. Oh, how I want it. And even just the mutual pleasure if I can’t have the other thing. But I’m scared. I feel as if I’m stuck between reality and some kind of weird dream. I still can�
��t speak, but I take another swig of my gin.
The marquess frowns. It’s not a cross frown, just a sad little frown, sort of regretful. “I’m sorry. I’ve come on too strong, haven’t I?” He tips his head to one side, his dark hair sliding across his shoulders as he lets out a sigh. “Look, don’t worry about it. Don’t think any more about it. Just finish your gin and we’ll say no more about it. It was wrong of me to ask.”
I don’t know whether I’m relieved or disappointed. I felt so close to him for a moment, and God, I wanted it all so much. My heart thudding, I swig down my gin and get to my feet on wobbly legs.
The marquess rises immediately, perfect manners second nature to him. He comes forward as if to escort me to the door, and does so as I make my way toward it, my heart sinking at my own craven lack of daring.
With one hand on the door handle, he touches my face. The contact is so gentle yet so meaningful, I feel quite faint.
“Don’t worry, Rose, there’ll be no hard feelings. It’s just a might-have-been.” He sounds so kind, so ineffably kind that it’s almost like a knife in my heart. “I may have lost all my money and be a poor excuse for an aristocrat, but I do try to behave like a gentleman. We’ll speak no more of this and just go back to a friendly working relationship.”
“No!”
He stares at me. The frown is a puzzled one now.
“No…I mean…yes, I am interested. Definitely. It’s just something that’s completely out of my experience…. Yes,” I repeat, aware that I’m babbling. “I’m definitely interested.”
His stern, elegant face lights up as if the sun’s just come out. He looks happy, genuinely happy, in a way that seems quite astonishing in a man so obviously worldly and experienced.
“Splendid!” He sets down his glass, and leans forward. “I’m so glad.”
Without any warning, he leans down and dusts my lips with a tiny, fleeting kiss.
“For luck. To seal our agreement.” A wry, strange smile flits across his face. It’s almost as if he’s surprised somehow, but not by me. “Come then.”
He takes my hand and leads me back toward the fireside.
When he reaches his armchair, he sits down in it, all elegant, languid grace, and draws me between his outstretched thighs. I suddenly feel very small. Like a naughty little girl, and as that registers, I realize it’s exactly what he wants me to feel. Suddenly, I’m staring at my toes, too embarrassed to look at him, even though he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Ah, now then, my Rose…” He reaches out, lifts my chin with the tip of his finger and makes me look at him. His brown eyes are electric, gleaming and wickedly dark. Just for a second his tongue tip flashes out and licks the center of his lower lip, and it’s as if in that instant someone’s thrown a switch and changed everything in the room.
We’re playing.
“So, do you normally go around prying into people’s private belongings? Or is it just me that you spy on?”
I don’t know how to answer. I don’t even know if I should answer. But he prompts me.
“Well, Rose?”
“Um…no, not normally, but I was interested. I wanted something to watch.”
“And you didn’t think to ask first?”
“No, my lord…sorry, my lord….”
His title slips perfectly off my tongue, so sweet and so dangerous in this context.
“I think I should be punished,” I add rashly, suddenly wanting to move on and get to the heart of the game.
“Really?” His voice is arch, slightly mocking, but I can still hear the joy in it. “In that case, my dear, bold Rose, I think we should oblige you, shouldn’t we?” He’s still holding my hand, and unexpectedly he brings it momentarily to his lips before releasing it.
For several long moments, he just watches me, peruses me, looks me up and down as if he’s planning something demonic, and then he says simply, “Undress.”
Oh, God, I wasn’t expecting this. I thought it might come afterward—after, I suppose, my first spanking. I’d been picturing myself across his knee, maybe with my skirt up and my knickers down…but not totally naked and exposed.
When he says, “Did you hear me, Rose?” in a soft tone of remonstration, I realize I’m just standing here dithering.
I peel off my cardigan, and to my surprise he takes it from me and places it over the arm of the chair. Nothing too frightening there. But next, it’s my little buttoned top, and I fumble with the fastenings as if I have five thumbs.
The marquess sighs softly, gently puts my hands down at my sides and then undoes the top himself, divesting me of it with precise efficiency as if he undresses clumsy women all the time. Maybe he does. Well, not necessarily clumsy ones…but who knows whom he sees when he’s not here at the manor overseeing the renovation.
Now, on top, I’m left just in my bra, and the marquess studies it, doing that little head tilt thing of his again, as if he’s grading me on the quality of my underwear. I swallow hard, wondering how my choice stands up. It’s a delicate white lace number, my best…I hope it passes muster. I hope my breasts do as well, beneath. They’re not big, but they’re perky, and right now my nipples are as pink and hard as cherry stones. Something the marquess takes note of by reaching out to squeeze one. I moan like a whore as he twists it delicately through the lace.
Lust and blood and hormones career wildly through my body. It’s as if I’ve got too much energy to fit inside my skin. I close my eyes tightly, ashamed of my own wantonness as my hips begin to weave in time with the delicate tweaking. But the marquess says, “No,” and with his free hand he cups my chin. “Look at me, Rose. Give me your feelings. Don’t deny me them.”
I open my eyes, aware that they’re swimming, but it’s not from the pain. It’s that overflow again, that wild abundance of emotion and sensation; it’s welling over in the form of sudden tears.
The marquess’s eyes are amazing—deep as the ocean, unfathomable and yet on fire. He reaches for my other nipple and as he plays with that, I wriggle anew as if my pelvis had a wicked life of its own.
“You’re willful, sweet Rose,” he purrs, tugging, tugging, first one nipple then the other. This simple punishment is far more testing than any amount of smacking or spanking, I sense, and suddenly I’m proud to be put to such a test.
The marquess’s eyes glitter as if he’s read my sudden thought, and he permits me the beneficence of a slight smile. Then he draws a deep breath and leans back in the chair, abandoning my breasts.
I feel bereft until he tells me, “Continue.”
Slipping off my bra, he gives my breasts and my rosy, swollen nipples a swift once-over, as if without covering they don’t interest him quite as much. I hesitate and he nods to indicate I should take off my skirt.
First I slip my feet out of my shoes and kick them away, then I unfasten the button and zipper of my skirt. For a moment, I clutch at it, suddenly nervous despite everything. Then I let it drop, and kick it away, standing as proudly as I can in just a very tiny G-string.
I keep my own smile inside, but elation geysers up inside me as the marquess can’t disguise his grin.
“Oh, how splendid…how splendid….” he murmurs, and that naughty pink tongue of his slips out again, touching the center of his lush lower lip. Reaching out, he runs the backs of his fingers over the little triangle of lace and over the fluffy pubic hair that peeks out on either side. Fleetingly, I wish I’d had a chance to visit a salon and get a Brazilian, then I change my mind as his fingertips coil in my floss and gently tug it. He seems to like me au naturel, and whatever the marquess likes, I like, too.
He tweaks a little harder and the tension transfers directly to my clitoris. I’m so excited I almost come; I’m so close to the edge. As it is, I let out a groan, I just can’t help myself.
The marquess pulls again, making a tiny pain, a little hurt, prick and niggle at the roots of the little curl he’s playing with. But at the same time, he reaches up with his free
hand and places his fingers across my lips.
“Now, now, Rose, you must learn to control yourself,” he reprimands quietly, but without rancor. “A good submissive is quiet and still, bearing discomfort—” he twists a little more tightly “—with perfect grace and fortitude. You have a long way to go yet, my dear, but I hope that you’ll learn.”
The tears trickle down my face. This isn’t quite what I expected, and somehow I feel reduced to some kind of wayward little girl for a moment. But this excites me, and inside, deeper than my confusion, is a brighter glow. It’s a game, and my body loves it even though my mind is still learning.
It isn’t only my tears that are trickling.
As if he, too, has detected my welling arousal, the marquess’s nostrils flare eloquently. His deep chest lifts as if he’s breathing in my foxy, fruity smell. A slow smile curves his lips and I half expect him to lick them again, savoring my aroma.
A moment later, I’m gasping, fighting for breath, desperate to obey his wishes, and at the same time on the point of shouting out and jerking my hips.
In a sly, deft, sleight-of-hand motion, the marquess has abandoned my pubic curls and slid his fingertips into my cleft beneath the lacy triangle of my underwear. One finger zeroes in like a guided missile and pushes right inside me. He presses in deep and lifts his hand, and I rise on my toes, speared and fluttering.
When he rocks the digit inside me, I grab his shoulders, almost fainting as I come. My resolution crumbles when he squashes his thumb down flat onto my clit and I groan like an animal, lost in pleasure.
Pulsing, sweating, burbling nonsense, I lose all strength as my knees turn to jelly. The marquess’s free arm snakes around my waist to hold me up, while between my legs, he both supports and manipulates me, his finger lodged inside me while his thumb presses and releases, presses and releases, presses and releases…tormenting me by lifting me to orgasm again and again.
