Who am I kidding, he thinks, it’s a bloody conspiracy.
With the biggest, proudest boner he’d ever had, James stands at the bow waiting patiently for it to subside.
* * *
“You’re drunk,” she says in that way. That way that makes James want to scream in rage and fury and ask, “So fucking what?” but he doesn’t. He just lets his shoulders dip that little bit lower and stares at the point where her eyebrows have pulled together. “You know how I feel about you drinking in the daytime.”
“I know how you feel about everything,” he says, inaudibly sucking breath over his teeth.
“I beg your pardon?” Lizzie obviously heard him say or imply something at least. She blushes. “Oh, never mind,” she says breezily, waving to the drinks waiter.
James is confused as the waiter asks what madam would like to drink.
“Two whiskey sodas, please,” she says in the stiff way of somebody not used to ordering alcohol. “You’ll drink that, won’t you, dear?” she asks him with a smile that James realises is fishing for reassurance.
“Yes, yes, that would be fine. Thank you—no ice.”
The waiter leaves and Lizzie sits primly in her chair, actually looking pleased with herself. James wonders if it is the effects of the alcohol he had earlier and he is still drunk.
“To what do we owe this pleasure?” he asks, trying to sound gracious so as not to scare her off by questioning the gesture.
“Well, if we’re resorting to drinking in the daytime, we might as well do it together.”
He sighs. She can’t help herself. There it is. The subtle icy blast, letting him know she’s got his number. He looks out to sea. Oh, well, he thinks, at least if I get any drunker, it might be easier to ignore. He catches a glimpse of her checking her nails, almost as an alternative to wringing her hands and he thinks for a second he can see remorse in the tiny act.
“Come on,” he encourages. “Let’s just try to relax a little.”
He watches as her hackles rise, then almost witnesses the internal battle as she forces them back down with a smile.
“Yes, let’s,” she says and he can see genuine relief in her face. He reaches out to take her hand and she sits back in her chair, pulling herself clear of the table just in time for the waiter to come and put the drinks down between them.
“Will that be all?”
“Yes, for now, thank you.” James changes the aim of his grip to the glass and picks it up. He wonders if the waiter realises how many times he is the excuse for lack of contact between strained couples.
Chapter Six
Lizzie is burning. There’s another two days to fill on this claustrophobic bloody ship. A feigned migraine keeps her to the cabin while James is out, undoubtedly playing poker with the staff. Lizzie shivers, remembering what she went through in the very same room. He might be able to still smell her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she thrashes her head from side to side, trying to dispel the images and guilt that haunt her. Thinking about it, she has always had these feelings only now, at least, she has something concrete to attribute them to. Before, the guilt stemmed from her discontent with her perfectly adequate life—a life that most women would be crying out for. Now, though, there is the sailor. The sailor and her soiled knickers still balled up and hidden under the bed. The horror of her guilt makes her flip and twist inside and she could scratch off her flesh if it didn’t leave a mark. Unable to settle or find peace, Lizzie scuttles off the bed and reaches underneath until her fingertips find the cold limp fabric. It is still damp and Lizzie recoils.
Up on deck the breeze is cool and Lizzie pulls her headscarf tighter. At least her hair has been well tended. Hairdressers were always looking for passengers to groom and Lizzie finds it the one place where she can relax and get away from herself. If only for the length of a pinup. She moves in closer to the balustrade and leans on it, cupping herself around the opening of her cardigan as she pulls out the peach knickers. Quickly looking over her shoulders, she drops the guilt-ridden article and it flutters and falls far too slowly. Walking away briskly before it lands in the foaming waves, Lizzie has the disturbing image of the wind catching the knickers and depositing them in some old man’s lap on the lower deck. She can’t bear it and keeps heading on without checking. Too late now.
* * *
Something catches James’ attention as he stands at the stern for a break in his morning walk. Usually it’s the sight of seagulls or the occasional dolphin that captures his attention but this time, there’s something floating past. The lolling of the waves unfurl the item and James begins to make out the distinct shape of women’s panties bobbing on the surf. The colour seems dark yet familiar and he has a sudden flashback to his drunken stroll past the poker room. He’d almost forgotten about that. The sight of the knickers and the memory have awakened movement in his crotch and he shuffles, trying to dissuade any further rising. He pulls himself straight and scans the deck behind, looking for a distraction. There’s Lizzie, striding off as only she can. Efficient even in leisure. Her migraine must have subsided, thinks James, as he makes to catch up with her. Perhaps they will lunch together today after all.
* * *
Lizzie is trying her very best to be sociable at dinner. She has drunk more wine than is ladylike and can see that James is also a little inebriated. His eyes sparkle when he laughs at the waiter’s jokes and Lizzie realises she hasn’t seen that for a long time. There is less than two days to go before they disembark in Canada and Lizzie is almost excited at what adventures they might find there. Knowing you have a home and business to come back to if things don’t work is a safety net she is grateful for. It should give them a few years together to explore this world and find themselves again. Lizzie has worked hard on ignoring the ache and twinge in her spirit whenever she thinks of the sailor. If she sees him, she turns on her heel and flees. If he passes before she notices, she looks away avoiding eye contact but inhales deeply, his evocative scent raising the hairs at her neck. Denial. It is the only way she can cope with her guilt and confusion. When James and she make love, she simply closes her eyes tight to block out the images of the sailor’s large frame standing behind her and slapping her briskly on her behind. In her fantasies, the hand lingers, a fingertip hooks and dips into her heat. When she comes, she shakes herself free from the image, her juices are flowing and it is James on top grunting away until he spills himself into her.
“Coffee?” James’ voice is merry and Lizzie smiles. “You were miles away. I’m asking if you would like coffee.”
Lizzie nods and James signals to the waiter.
It is the oddest sensation, observes Lizzie as she stirs sugar into the cup, to be so disconnected from the present. She kicks off her shoes and starts to rub her stockinged toes up and under James’ trouser leg to his ankle. He is startled and shuffles his chair back until he realises what is going on. A blush rises from his neck and he smiles at her, reaching out to take her hand. It is a relief to have her icy fingers engulfed in his body warmth and she positively feels the transference taking place.
I’ll suck you dry, she thinks and bows her head over their entwined hands, kissing his knuckles gently.
“I need you to…” she begins but can’t find the strength.
James leans in, cupping her hand in his tighter.
“What do you need me to do? You know I’ll do anything for you, Lizzie. You need only ask.” His voice tears at her.
This is the moment, she knows it. Now or never. Images of the sailor’s handprints on her ass, and James calling her a slut sear through her mind and she is wet. And hot. Her flesh pulls the heat from James’ fingers and draws it in to meet the burning that is rising from within. Her cheeks are glowing, she can feel them. She lifts her face to look at the man she loves.
“I need you to discipline me.”
James looks horrified and Lizzie sags, trying to keep her gaze fixed on his. Just when she thinks he’s going to let go of her hand, he squeeze
s tighter and pulls it to his chest over the table.
“What do you mean?” he asks, but Lizzie sees a knowledge in his eyes.
“I need you to discipline me,” are the only words she can find and she drops her gaze, pleading silently with all her body for him to understand.
* * *
Turmoil blasts through James as he squeezes his wife’s burning hand. She is trembling and he’s never felt such heat emanating from her. She is flushed; a ruby glow of life has risen throughout her. She looks beautiful. This is the Lizzie of old. The days before she cooled. But he’s a gentleman. How could he discipline his delicate wife? The sailor’s hand on the woman’s peachy bottom comes into his mind and his cock throbs in his trousers. Does she mean that? Does she want him to hit her?
On one hand the thought repulses him but on the other, his cock is straining to the memory of the spanking scene. He remembers Lizzie asking him to fuck her. Fuck. She wanted fucked. Not made love to. She doesn’t want a gentle man. An uneasy thought about the sailor and Lizzie begins to sprout in the corner of his mind and he quickly dispels it, chasing it from his brain. James has been the perfect gentleman and it’s never been what she wants or needs.
He pushes his chair back and slides out to standing, bringing Lizzie with him.
“I think we need to discuss this further in privacy,” he says in what he hopes comes out as a commanding voice.
Lizzie looks like a thousand bricks have been lifted from her shoulders and James is amazed at the transformation this simple phrase has elicited.
* * *
Lizzie trots behind her husband, heat and lust pouring from her every cell. She is high, high and unsure of what is to occur, but by the way he looked at her and that voice he used, she is hopeful it will be more than a stern talking to.
Just spank me and fuck me, spank me and fuck me, she repeats like a mantra while her thighs rub together with the sticky heat of herself.
In the cabin, James practically throws her onto the bed face down, skirts flying up over her rear. He’ll see. There’s no denying it now, she thinks and undulates her pelvis, grinding into the sheets while spreading her legs. She’s even daring enough to put her hand under herself and pull the crotch of her knickers to the side and splay her wanton cunt.
“Fuck, Lizzie,” James says with a ragged breath. “You are my filthy little whore, aren’t you?”
Lizzie tenses her buttocks and pushes two fingers into herself as he comes closer.
“Say it.” He kneels at the side of the bed. “Say you’re my whore.”
Chills race up and down Lizzie’s entire body, every nerve ending battling with heat and cold, like mini orgasms all over her. She is thrilled beyond belief and when she opens her mouth to utter the words, a hard sharp thwack on her buttock beats her to it.
“I said, ‘say you’re my whore.’”
Lizzie is gasping and breathless, her pussy clutching at her own fingers, juices pouring out all over herself and the bed.
“I’m your…” But the sharp blow comes again, ringing over Lizzie’s flesh, making her squeal in sheer blissful agony.
“Not good enough.” His voice has a growl to it that she’s never heard and her lust builds another notch. “Try again.”
“I…”
Thwack.
“And again.”
“I’m you’re…”
Thwack.
“Say it all!”
Lizzie’s buttocks are burning, and each stroke sends shooting spears of pain to her nipples and clitoris. Raising her ass off the bed, she kneels with her head down, ruddy buttocks in the air, fingers still rammed into her clutching hungry hole. She feels so fulfilled in this moment yet so empty.
“I’m you’re whore, I’m you’re whore.” The words cause her clit to peak and well and she tries to get some pressure from the heel of her hand to rub it. Get some relief from her craving.
“Yes, you’re mine. All mine.”
She turns to see him rise to standing; the sound of the belt sliding free from its loops makes her groan. She wants him to slide the leather along her wet slit until she soaks it with her desire. The buckle chinks and she closes her eyes, thrilled and terrified at what might be coming next.
He simply lays the belt over her upturned ass and continues to undress, leaving her in a state of utter liquefying sensations. She can’t even feel who she is anymore. The distinction between Lizzie and desire are blurred and she feels crazed with lust. The static leather belt just lying on her back has her growling in frustration through gritted teeth. She twitches as she hears his trousers fall to the floor and the belt buckle unfurls and touches her skin. She shivers at the feel of the cold metal and rolls her hips a little to get it to move around. It is all getting unbearable. She feels like a cat in heat, yowling and prowling, begging for someone, something to plug this gap, fill her gaping need.
“Fuck me, James, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” she begs into the pillow, tearing at it with her free hand while the other thrusts in and out, still not giving the relief she so badly needs.
Her knees are split wide and the bed dips where James clambers on, cock in hand, she imagines, ready to take her.
“Yes, yes, I’ll fuck you. But it will be on my command, not yours.”
His voice is perfect. The words even more so. They make a path from her ears right to her nipples and she rubs her swollen breasts into the sheets to build the sensation.
He reaches round and pulls her hand down to the bed.
“This is mine to play with, not yours.” He leans over her and hisses almost menacingly.
She can feel liquid trickle out and knows his gaze is upon her sex. Both his hands slide over her rump and up to the elastic of her knickers, hooking them and pulling the fabric down over her surely reddened cheeks.
“Yes, yes,” she says and is rewarded with a brisk slap to her exposed flesh.
“If you won’t keep quiet, I will have to do something about that…”
The mattress dips and rights itself as he leaves her rear and comes to kneel by her side, her knickers in his hand.
“In fact, I know you won’t keep quiet so I shall do something about it right now.” He grabs her hair roughly at her nape and pulls her head up while feeding her own panties into her mouth. “That should do the trick. You should be ashamed at how wet these are. So unladylike.”
He shakes his head as he retreats but she sees a glint in his eye. She can taste herself. It is erotic and shameful.
He takes his place back between her legs and without further ceremony pulls her cunt lips firmly apart. She must be a wanton gaping channel. She twists her hips to try to find some sort of modesty but he pulls harder at her flesh, fingers from each hand delving into her wet space. Oh, how thick and full it all feels. He could ram his cock in too. She could take it all.
She’s gagging on the panties he’s rammed in her mouth but she resists the temptation to pull them out. Her hands feel a little too free. She clenches them together thinking she’ll suggest restraints next time. Where is this all coming from? She is almost dizzy with the feelings, sensations, and emotions she is swimming in. Her jaw is stretched, tears and mucus stream down her cheeks but she is gleeful in this abandon. She revels in her dishevelment. She has a vision of her throat all stretched and vulnerable pressed to the mattress as he probes her upturned ass and another wave of raw need surges. She feels hot. She is glowing from the very pit of her soul and her pussy is convulsing wildly at his digits. Her body is screaming out to him to take her, own her, ravish her—use her up and claim her as his just as the sailor did.
* * *
He can’t believe what he is doing to his wife. He can’t believe how his balls ache and his cock is so straight and hard it feels like iron. His hands are raw and tingling, heated through with the beating he has just administered to his beloved. His mind is in turmoil but his body is white-hot lust—a manly greed for what is his has him gritting his teeth and squeezing at the delicate flesh
between her cheeks. His fingers are slipping and sliding in and out of her cunt and she’s bearing back onto him like a sexual wild thing. Something in the quiver of her flesh after he smacked her and the sopping moisture he’s now bathing his hands in has him thinking of the peach panties floating in the sea. The wet peach panties and the large hands of the sailor striking that woman in the poker den. A flare of heat rises from his crotch up through his chest and breaks free from him as a growl and he kneels up, his cockhead shining with excitement already as he takes aim and spears his desperate wife.
He’s swallowed up whole in her fiery clutching wet depths and they grind and moan together, swaying, or is it the ship? He leans back a little, hands on her hips and buttocks to steady himself and get a view of his cock as it thrusts and impales her beautiful cunt. He knows she wants him to reach round and press his fingertips to her clit, bring her off in a flurry of lust. But he resists. He feels it’s important somehow. For her.
“James, James, harder, please, please…” Her voice is breathless and staccato in time with the pummelling of her sweet, sweet pussy.
He begins to knead her ass cheeks. Not delicately like he would have in the past, but hard and forceful like he kneads his dough. Using all the power in his hands, wrists, forearms, biceps, shoulders, back, only now his pelvis is involved. He’s fucking her now like he’s never fucked before. It’s animal, raw and intense. His teeth are bared in a snarl and he catches his crazed expression in the cabin mirror. The scene is wild and erotic. Two animals fucking. His cock is buried in right up to his balls and he halts. Savouring the moment as the twitching begins low in his perineum. He releases her ass cheeks and leans over.
* * *
Her Stern Gentleman Page 4
