by Jenesi Ash
I hold on. My body clamps down on him again and again. Time passes.
Eventually, the tumult ebbs and I flush with shame and a strange, tangled happiness as I regain the ability to stand up straight.
The marquess’s strong, straight digit is still inside me.
And it stays there, his hand cupping my mound, as he speaks to me.
“You have so much to learn, sweet Rose, so much to learn.” He looks into my face, his beautiful brown eyes gleaming with sex, yet somehow almost regretful. “And we have so little time, you and I, don’t we? Just a week or two.”
What the hell is he talking about? I could stand here forever, possessed by him, my sex his plaything.
And then I remember that all this is temporary. There’s my dream job of a lifetime waiting for me in the Caribbean in a few weeks, and I’ll be thousands of miles away from the marquess and his hand, his eyes, his body.
The shock must show on my face because he smiles kindly. “Don’t worry, my dear. All the more reason to make the most of things while we can.” His finger crooks inside me and finds a sweet spot, forcing me to grunt aloud, flex my knees and bear down. “Usually, I start with a little pain before the pleasure. But in your case, I couldn’t resist handling your delightful pussy and making you come.”
He flexes his finger a little more.
I cry out, “Oh, God!” and come again.
It’s quick. It’s hard. It satisfies, yet primes me for more. But instead of either working me to more orgasms, or just pushing me down on the rug, unzipping and thrusting into me, the marquess withdraws his finger, suddenly and shockingly, and offers it to me.
My head whirling, I wonder what he means, but then it dawns on me that he wants me to clean it off.
My face flaming, I suck my own musk from his warm skin as more flows between my legs to quickly replace it.
I feel bereft when he withdraws the digit and then dries it methodically with his perfectly laundered handkerchief.
“And now to business,” he says briskly, as if implying that I’ve deliberately kept him from it with my orgasms. “I think I’d like to bind you. Are you okay with that?”
Speechless, I nod like an idiot as he reaches down the side of his chair and pulls out a length of soft, silky cord. I feel it slide over my hip and flank as he turns me to face away from him, and then, bringing my hands behind me, he fastens them at the wrist.
I think that this is it, but suddenly he produces another length of cord and, pulling my arms back tighter, he winds it around my elbows, drawing them together.
Twice bound like this, I start to sweat even harder. While not really painful, the position is uncomfortable, and what’s more, it forces my breasts to rise and become more prominent, vulnerable and presented.
When he spins me around again, I feel almost faint as he leans forward and slowly licks and sucks each of my nipples. His silky hair swings and slides against the skin of my midriff and the scent of an expensive man’s shampoo fills my nostrils.
As he torments me with his tongue, I feel his fingers at my thong. He plucks at the lace and elastic and tugs the thing up tight into the division of my sex lips. When the sodden cloth is pressing hard on my clit, he reaches around behind me, working beneath my shackled wrists, and makes a little knot somehow at the small of my back, to keep it taut.
He licks at me a moment or two more, then leans back, almost indolent in his great chair as he cocks his head to one side and regards his handiwork.
I feel like a firecracker in a bottle, an explosion of sexual energy and need contained by my bonds. I’m desperate to come again, but I’m reaching and yearning for more than just simple gratification. The marquess smiles as if he understands me completely.
“And now we really begin,” he says softly, taking me by the waist and pushing me from between his knees. Then, settling himself more comfortably in the chair, and setting his booted feet more squarely on the floor, he nods to me, his eyes dancing with lights and a subtle smile on his handsome face.
I know what he’s indicating. That I should assume the position.
It’s difficult to settle elegantly across his lap with my hands tied, but I do the best I can, not wanting to disgrace myself. Even so, he has to more or less grapple me into place, setting me at precisely the right angle and elevation and disposing my limbs and torso in the optimum position to present my bottom to his hand.
I wait for the first spank. The first real one…the tap the other day was nothing, I suspect.
But it doesn’t come yet.
“Mmmm…”
It’s a low, contemplative sound, and as he utters it, the marquess gently cups my bottom cheek, testing its resilience. The feeling is entirely different this time; his fingers on my bare skin feel like traveling points of electricity, sparking me and goading me as they rove. He grips me harder and I have this sense of some kind of computer in his brain calculating, calculating. How hard to hit. How high to lift his hand for the downstroke. How many slaps is optimum.
“Ready?” he asks, to my surprise. I’d expected him to just take what he wanted. He’s in charge, after all.
And yet, is he? I bet if I said “no,” even now, he’d immediately desist and help me restore my clothing to decency and propriety. But no way would I do that. I want what I want, and it’s what he wants, too.
“Yes,” I whisper, barely able to hear my own breathy voice over the bashing and thudding of my heart.
“Good girl.”
And then he spanks me.
Oh, dear God! It hurts! It hurts so much!
What a shock! I’d expected a tingle, a little burn…something that’s as much pleasure as pain.
Bloody hell, how wrong can you be?
It’s like he’s slapped me with a solid hunk of wood rather than his strong, but only human, hand. For a moment, both mind and bottom are numbed by it, but then sensation whirls in like a hurricane, I shout out loud—something indistinguishable—and my left buttock feels like it’s on fire.
And that’s just one blow.
As more and more land, I realize in astonishment that in that first shot, he was actually holding back….
Slap! Slap! Slap!
Spank! Spank! Spank!
The whole of my rear is very quickly an inferno, and the heat sinks like lava into the channel of my sex, reigniting the desire, the grinding longing I felt before my orgasms, and rendering it slight and inconsequential.
I know I should be quiet and still and obedient. I know I should just accept my punishment like a good little girl. Instinct tells me that a master appreciates that in a supplicant. Perfect poise. The perfect ability to absorb the punishment with grace and decorum.
But me, I’m rocking and wriggling about, struggling against my bonds, plaguing my own clit with my wild pony bucking and jerking that makes my pulled-tight thong press and rub against it.
I feel as if I’m going out of my mind, and yet I know, in some still-sane part of it, that I’ve never been happier in my life. Despite the pain and the strangeness and the sheer, unadulterated kink of what’s happening to me, I know that this is where I should be and who I should be with.
The marquess lands a particularly sharp blow, and I let out a gulping, anguished cry. But it’s not from the impact, or the raging fire in my bottom cheeks.
No, what pains me the most is that in two weeks I’ll be thousands of miles away from the hand that’s spanking me.
Still squirming about, my backside still in torment, still almost about to orgasm, I begin to cry piteously, completely out of control and racked by raw, illogical heartache.
As if he were plugged right into my psyche on the deepest level, the marquess stops spanking me immediately.
Strong and sure, he turns me over as if I were as light as a feather across his lap. I gasp as my sore bottom rubs against his denim jeans, but he takes the exhalation into his own mouth as he swoops down to kiss my very breath.
With his tongue still in my
mouth, he unfastens my hands and elbows, then, with a swift, sharp jerk that snaps the lace like a cobweb, he wrenches the thong from between my legs and replaces it with his fingertips. His gentle fingertips that love me to a swift, sweet, pain-stealing orgasm.
I moan into his kiss, pleasure sluicing through my loins, rising through my body and my soul and soothing my aching heart. He touches me so tenderly, coaxing me to the peak again and again. As I twist beneath his touch, I realize, distantly, that I’m clinging on to him for the dearest life, yanking at his dark shirt and digging my nails into his back, perhaps inflicting a tiny percentage of the pain I’ve just experienced.
Finally, we both lapse into silence and stillness. He holds me. I hold him. We’re two breathless survivors of a whirlwind.
How long we sit like this, I have no real idea. My entire world is his strength, his scent, his sure, steady breathing and the beat of his heart in his chest where I huddle against it. After a while, though, another physical factor begins to impress itself on me.
I’m on the marquess’s lap, and in the cradle of that lap there’s the hard knot of an erection.
I start to feel hot again. My cheeks flush with shame at my own selfishness. This spanking was something he wanted to do, but it was really as much my idea as his…and I’ve had the pleasure of it—several times—and he’s had nothing in the way of sexual release.
He’s been stiff all through this strange interlude and I’ve made not the slightest offer to do anything about that. Even though he’s seen to my satisfaction…repeatedly!
I wonder how to broach the subject. He seems to be quite content for the moment just to hold me, despite the fact that he must be in a fair degree of discomfort. Something that’s dramatically illustrated when I shift my position slightly and he draws a swift, sharp breath.
“Um…Your Lordship…er…shouldn’t we do something about that?”
Not exactly eloquent, but I drive my point home by moving again, cautiously rubbing my sore bottom against the solid bulge that’s stretching his jeans.
If I’ve been expecting a positive response and an enthusiastic segue into the next delicious stage of the proceedings, I’m completely wrong. He remains silent, perfectly silent, for several long moments, and when he does utter a sound it’s a soft, regretful sigh.
“That’s a sweet offer, my lovely Rose, and I’m very tempted.” I gaze into his face and suddenly discover that he looks quite sad. “But perhaps it’s not the best idea…not really.”
“Why not?” I demand, my submissive role suddenly a thing of the past. His eyes widen, and for a moment I wonder whether I should apologize and grovel a bit, but then he smiles and shrugs, the movement of his shoulders transmitting itself to me more through his erection than anything else.
“I…” He looks away, distant for a few seconds, and then returns his gaze to me. He looks rather sad, almost wistful, and then he smiles again. “I prefer to just touch and play and give pleasure, rather than receive it.”
What?
“But…um…don’t you need to come?”
He laughs. “Of course I do. But I’ll deal with myself later, Rose.” He tips his head back, as if looking heavenward for inspiration, his night-black hair sliding away from his face with the movement. “It’s hard to explain, but basically, if I get too intimate, I want too much…and I’m not really a good prospect for relationships.” A heavy sigh lifts his chest. “I’m a widower, but I wasn’t much good as a husband. Or even a boyfriend. Too wild…too selfish…. I’ve settled down a lot now, of course—” he makes a vague gesture as if to encompass his responsibilities at the manor “—but now I’m saddled with debts and commitments, and anyone who takes me on takes all that on, as well.”
I can see what he means, but suddenly, in the midst of that thought, a bright revelation shatters the gloom.
Oh, God, even though he’s expressing his shortcomings and his wariness of relationships, the fact that he’s actually mentioned a relationship—marriage even—must mean that he feels more for me, and sees me as more than a temporary employee and a casual spanking playmate.
Mustn’t it?
“Look, please, let me…let me touch you…or maybe we can even fuck? I won’t expect more than just that. All it’ll be is a bit of pleasure with no commitments. Um…just friendship with a little bit of extra, really, nothing more.”
It’s out before I’ve really thought about it. But thinking about it, I know I do want more, despite what I say.
Even though it’s possibly the stupidest thing I’ve done in my life, even crazier than agreeing to be spanked by my temporary boss, I’ve only gone and fallen head over heels in love with the marquess, haven’t I?
And he’s right, there’s no future in it, is there? None at all…Soon I’ll be leaving for the Caribbean, to take up my chance-of-a-lifetime job.
He looks at me, and his dark eyes are still sad, but strangely yearning. It’s as if he’s just read my thoughts, and feels the same bittersweet emotions that I do.
“You’re a wonderful girl, Rose.” He touches my face, the same fingers that punished me now a tender, caressing curve. “You’re far too wonderful for me. If I take more from you, I’ll just want more than that. And more…and more…and that’s not fair of me.”
I could weep and scream. He does bloody well care!
Acting on impulse, I turn my face into his gentle hand and kiss his palm. He groans and mutters, “No!”
But I know I’ve got him. His whole body shakes finely, and beneath me, his cock jerks and seems to harden even more, if that were possible.
“I shouldn’t…I shouldn’t…”
“It’s all right. It’ll be ‘no strings,’” I whisper against his palm, then inscribe a little pattern, a promise, with my tongue.
“Oh, hell,” he almost snarls, and then he’s kissing me, tilting me back on his lap and going deep with tongue and lips…and heart?
I embrace him, writhing on his knee again, the discomfort of my spanked bottom forgotten. Wrapping my arms around him, I try to silently say all the things that are too difficult and irrational to say.
Like…
To be with him just a little while, I’ll pay any price, do things his way and never ask for more.
Like…
I’m prepared to take my chances on his lack of prospects and commitments.
Like…
Who needs a fucking job in the Caribbean, after all?
This last one shocks me, but just as I think it, the marquess deepens the kiss even further. His arms slide around me, holding me tight, and yet with delicacy, as if I’m precious to him.
And then, somehow, we’re on the rug, and he’s lying over me, great and dark, like a shadow that’s so paradoxical it’s also light. The light of revelation…
His hands rove over my body, exploring with reverence this time, and great emotion. And the touch is a thousand times more sexy than when we played. With a gasp, he straightens up momentarily and rips open his shirt, sending buttons flying in his impatience. Then he embraces me again, skin to skin.
His body is hot, feverish and moist, with a fine sheen of sweat that seems to conduct electricity between us. I moan, loving the communion, almost feeling that this might even be as good as sex in some mysterious way. But then my cunt flutters, reminding me I want more.
Still kissing me, the marquess deftly unbuckles his belt and then unfastens his jeans. But just as he’s about to reveal himself, and allow me to feast my eyes on that which I’ve been fantasizing about since the moment he cordially and quite impersonally welcomed me to the manor and the work team, he lets out a lurid, agonized curse.
Then says, “I don’t have a condom. I wasn’t expecting to need one.”
A part of me thinks, whoa, he really did mean all that stuff about not fucking! But another part of me gives thanks for the fact that hope always springs eternal.
“Er…I’ve got one. It’s in the pocket of my skirt.”
He give
s me a look that says he thinks I’m a saucy, forward minx, but he’s more than glad of the fact, and then he scoots gracefully across to where my skirt landed, and locates the contraceptive in my pocket.
Back close again, he hesitates, and gives me a beautiful, complex look, full of hunger, compassion, yearning again…and a strange fear. I nod. I feel just the same.
And then he reaches into his jeans and reveals himself.
Involuntarily, I make a little “ooh” sound.
He’s big. Stunning. Delicious. His cock is as handsome and patrician as his face, magnificently hard and finely sculpted. He’s circumcised and his glans is moist and stretched and shiny. I’ve never seen a prettier one, and it’s almost a shame when he swiftly robes it in latex.
I reach for him, expecting him to move between my splayed thighs. But with all the authority of his centuries-old title, he takes hold of me and moves me into his preferred position. With his arm around my waist, he scoops me up and places me on my hands and knees and moves in behind me.
It’s not what I would have chosen, but I’ll take what I can get. And I understand his reasons. This way is more impersonal, not too intimate and less dangerous to his emotions and to mine.
At least I think so, until he moves in closer, pressing his condom-clad penis against my still-tingling buttocks while he leans over me and molds his bare chest against my back so he can reach to give the side of my neck a soft kiss.
I sway against him, loving the kiss, loving his skin, loving his scent…and loving him. His weight is on one hand, and with the other he strokes me gently and soothingly, hot fingertips traveling over my breasts and my rib cage, then skimming my waist before finally settling over my sex. He cups me there, not in a sexual sense, but in a vaguely possessive way that’s almost more intimate than a blatant attempt to stimulate me.
Then his long finger divides my labia and settles on my clit.
I moan, long and low, already fluttering as he rubs in a delicate, measured rhythm. He’s trying to make me come first, I realize, and perversely I resist for a few seconds, holding out for our union. But he’s far too clever and too skilled, and I crumble, coming heavily and with an uncouth, broken cry.
