Claire needs to forgive herself. Will doesn’t think she deserves punishment, only sympathy. But in the circumstances he finds the most sympathetic thing is to deliver the punishment she thinks she deserves.
And try to keep her aware that she’s good, really.
It’s a hot scene but it’s had to leave my blog because it’s published now, and publishers don’t like their stuff to be available for free. I’ll put up a link to where you can buy this very hot text, shortly.
Back in the taxi Roland had promised Teresa, into her ear so the driver wouldn’t hear, that her spanking would be the “can’t sit down” kind.
That was probably true, not because of pain but because sitting down would be the last thing she’d want to do when this spanking stopped. If it ever was going to stop. For now she was content to lie over his legs, tightly held, his hand landing over and over on her bare ass.
His hand was warm, comforting as well as mildly painful. Her arse felt glorious: warm, sexy, teased. She was in no hurry for this to stop. Neither was he, it seemed.
But at last he rested his hand on her arse, and she could feel her own heat, and his. She expected her skin was the brightest red colour it had ever been. She’d never felt quite so confident that a man liked what he saw, as she did just then.
He said, “All right, Teresa. That was your lesson: once you’ve started calling a man sir, it’s not safe to brat him. Not without consequences. But you’re done now. Up you get.”
But Teresa was too dazed and too bizarrely comfortable to want to move.
She watched her hair brushing on his carpet, and wondered again what colour her ass was – scarlet? crimson? somewhere around that part of the spectrum – and what it would take to get him to start again. And then, suddenly and treacherously, he pushed her and she tumbled onto that carpet.
She slid her hands under her bottom and squeezed tight, glaring up at him. He only smiled down at her. “Stand up, Teresa, and take your clothes off. All of them.”
Teresa considered defiance. But the spanking part of the evening, though it had been hot, and fun, was over. And undressing was something she’d been meaning to do anyway. So she removed silks and velvet, finally dropping the long skirt he’d pushed up to her waist, and stood facing him in just her corset, feet slightly apart, hands at her sides.
Roland regarded her gravely. He was still seated, still fully dressed. Finally he said, “You are amazingly beautiful. And completely, utterly desirable. I’m going to take that corset off before I fuck you. Because it’s more comfortable for me that way.” He looked her in the eyes.
Debbie decided not to fight on the corset issue. For now. Because when he’d claimed to want it off solely for his own comfort he’d been winding her up, and, she guessed, hoping she’d rise to the challenge. “Yes, sir.” But she didn’t take it off.
So he raised the stakes. “I don’t think I’m going to let you wear clothes in this flat again. From now on, you strip when you get in the door. Understood?”
Arethusa has been spanked long and hard over his knee, on her bottom and the backs of her thighs. Not for any fault; just for the sensuality and the emotion of it. Now she waits obediently while her Master takes a break. She stands as he told her, between the two doors that emphasise the different ways they can go, now.
The next stage will bring sharper pain than his hand; she knows that. But she doesn’t know which implement she should be preparing herself for. It will hurt, heat and mark her: that’s all she knows. In the last stage he will take her, but she doesn’t know which part of her body he will use. She’s not even sure which she hopes for. There’s something sweet about it not being her choice.
Doors are choices. They open into the future. But a submissive doesn’t choose which door opens. Arethusa waits.
Ruxana lay quieter than Nana had when I tongued her, and didn’t block my ears with her thighs. So I heard an amused feminine murmur and a stifled laugh. I frowned, though since my face was between her long, slender thighs, no one saw or noticed.
I guessed that Nana, Ruxana and I were making a show for some of the whores who I hadn’t chosen. There would be, must be, a peep hole somewhere that allowed them to watch. Then I decided that I didn’t care. I continued to pleasure Ruxana, who finally lost her relaxed posture, held my head tightly as if trying to wrench it off, and screamed to fill the room.
By the time she completed her climax, or series of climaxes, my manhood was once again standing in women’s honour and service. I rolled Ruxana over, and with gestures and a slap to her bottom encouraged her to present herself for me on her hands and knees. I admired once more that perfect bottom she had shown me when she posed naked with Nana, at the beginning of this encounter. I put my knees between hers and entered her, until that deliciously round and firm bottom pressed back firmly against me.
As I took Ruxana Nana came to stare into my eyes and press my nose between her breasts while I rode her friend. Ruxana and I were both well pleasured and well pleased with each other, and we moved slowly, unhurried, lost in the sweetness of skin against skin.
Nana sometimes pressed her breasts against my face and sometimes lowered herself to kiss my mouth. Though I was riding Ruxana, I couldn’t help wishing there was some way of taking Nana with me into Persia.
But Ruxana suddenly released her breath hard and then held her next breath, working her bottom hard against me. I only had to keep still, presenting, while she worked her way to her third climax. Her arms had collapsed and her face and breasts rested on the bed. She looked up at me, eyes half closed, smiling. She said, “Yavrucuq.”
Of course I did not know the word, but I said, “Yavrucuq” back to her, and then to Nana, and we all three laughed delightedly, pleased with ourselves for having one word in common, and that an endearment.
Nana took Ruxana’s place, and I soon found that although I was exhausted she demanded a rougher and more energetic ride than Ruxana. But when we had both spent I knew I really was exhausted beyond recovery.
I told them they were most beautiful, and if it were possible I’d take them both with me to Persia, and they listened and kissed me at random moments since nothing I said made any sense to them. Except in my tone of voice, which is part of that universal language that cannot be translated and needs no translation.
So when I rose from the bed they scrubbed me again, and kissed my manhood again, addressing me and it as yavrucuq before letting it be clothed.
They said other things to me that I no more understood that they had understood what I had said to them. But it was clear that I’d be welcome, should I ever return to Baku.
We embraced each other, and they withdrew through a door I hadn’t even noticed at the rear of the room, leaving me to return to the ante-room, where Sorouf sat with his girl, conversing and drinking something green.
(I’m afraid that’s all there is, of orientalist erotica. For now, anyway.)
